Stargate: Atlantis, Repli!Shep/Repli!McKay (the duplicates from "This Mortal Coil"), determination
Rodney had thought that he would have had the hardest time adjusting to the horror of being a cheap knock-off, but he actually got over it pretty quickly. He'd often been told his ego was big enough for two: turned out it was. Elizabeth had spent a few hours agonizing, and then -- realizing that she was free of both the SGC and the military -- got a gleam in her eyes and began questioning Teyla and Ronon intensely. Rodney extrapolated her lines of questioning, Ronon's keen interest, and Teyla's elaborate sketches of political power struggles, and came up with the plot of about eight million bad science fiction films.
"Elizabeth's planning space piracy," he told Sheppard, who sat in their jumper -- pseudo-jumper -- and played with his repli-weapons whenever he wasn't off patrolling or doing some other quasi-military busywork. They had another four days and two more gate-jumps planned before Elizabeth thought it would be safe to contact Atlantis and negotiate. Sheppard had agreed listlessly.
Rodney would not have thought that, of all of them, Sheppard would be the one to crack.
"I'll get her a parrot for her," Sheppard said, ending his sentence brutally before the word birthday. He continued, sullenly: "For Hanukkah."
"If we had some parrot DNA we probably could make our own," Rodney said, frowning to think. "Hey! We could make dinosaurs!"
"Yeah, that worked so well in Jurassic Park," Sheppard said, all smooth bitter anger, and Rodney saw something dark clenched in his hand.
"Hey," he said, reaching out and catching Sheppard's wrist. Sheppard sneered at him and opened his palm, dark with two bloody gouges in which Rodney fancied he saw bone. Sheppard turned his hand and one of Ronon's wicked little knives fell to the floor, splashing blood like a sacrifice. "Hey hey hey hey hey, what's wrong with you?" He grabbed Sheppard and shook him by the shoulders. He'd already accepted that physical damage to these bodies meant nothing. It was oddly liberating. But he didn't relish dealing with an indestructible and insane Lieutenant Colonel. Man. Whatever.
"Wouldn't know," Sheppard said, "seeing as how I'm not myself right now." He sagged forward inexplicably, his forehead hitting Rodney's shoulder like a stone. "I think," he said, enunciating clearly, "I've been multiplied by zero, McKay."
"You're a stupid fuck," Rodney said, vision going red -- he swore he felt the nanites surge forward to protect him against high blood pressure and aneurism. He moved one hand to the back of Sheppard's neck and shoved down with all his strength as he shifted to the side. Sheppard didn't even put up token resistance as he hit the floor with Rodney straddling his hips, though he did make a satisfying whooshing noise as all the breath went out of him. Rodney twisted one hand full of stiff, cowlicky hair and yanked Sheppard's head to the side; with the other hand he whapped him hard between the shoulders. "You can't be so shallow that these define you." He reached around to grab the insignia sewn to Sheppard's shirt, and on afterthought snatched up the knife as well, because while ripping would have been very, very satisfying, cutting was just a hell of a lot easier.
"Don't," Sheppard said, practically dislocating his own shoulder to immobilize Rodney's wrist. He smiled, faint and mocking, with the side of his face that wasn't pressed into the floor. "The clothes don't repair themselves."