telesilla (telesilla) wrote in dimensions, @ 2007-10-01 01:16:00 |
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This is how they meet:
"Major John Sheppard. I'm your pilot," John shouts over the squalling wind. He holds out his hand automatically to shake, but the other guy doesn't reciprocate. After a moment of blinking, John realises it's because both the guy's hands are occupied - a giant chocolate bar in one, an apple in the other.
"Rodney McKay," the guy calls back. He doesn't even look up at John - too busy chipmunking food into his mouth.
Anyone who volunteers to live in Antarctica is a bit strange almost by definition, but spend too long in the place, and you start getting even stranger. Maybe you start talking to yourself. Maybe you stop talking. Maybe you stop bathing. Long-timers call it the Weirds. This guy has it bad, John thinks. He watches, half awed, half concerned by the speed with which the food is disappearing. It's like watching a normal person eat in fast forward. "I'm pretty sure there'll be toast or something at the next place," he says. "Eggs. Maybe cornflakes."
"This isn't my breakfast, Major," Rodney says through the chocolate. He looks up finally. "This is in case we crash - a last meal if you will."
"Well, I'm flattered," John says. He bites his lip. He wants to laugh, but he suspects that he's the straight man in this conversation. "I'll do my best to keep us in the air."
"Oh, don't take it personally." Rodney waves the apple core dismissively.
"No, hey. Completely impersonal. I mean me- Well, say the engines cut out, we're spiralling down-" John makes his hand do a little nose-dive, "maybe we're tilting, whole chopper rattling like it's gonna break apart. I'd rather have an empty stomach. But-" John drops his hand "-that's just me. You enjoy that last apple."
Rodney glares at him but it's an absent-looking glare. "I will," he says. "I did." He peers into the open helicopter door. "You got any other food in there?"
"I'll see what I can do," John says with the straightest face he can manage.