Stargate Atlantis: Darts

Bored

Colonel John Sheppard leant idly against the railing overlooking the gateroom, head in hands, lazily surveying the scene below. Occasionally an amused smirk would climb the side of his face or a soft chuckle would escape his lips, as if he were watching an entertaining movie.

The gateroom was in chaos. Well, it looked like chaos to the untrained observer; crates, packages, sacks overflowed the platform and surrounding area, people in a wide variety of dress moved amongst the usual marines and Atlantis residents. There was even some livestock down there - crates of things that looked like they might become chickens with some good luck and a following wind.

And in the centre of it all, the conductor on his rostrum, Major Evan Lorne. Major Lorne, who had fully understood what it meant when the harvest seasons of four planets with which Atlantis had made trade agreements for food had coincided, and had stepped forward to organise the whole thing.  He had also co-opted Teyla to gate from world to world, to liaise with the communities, which were mostly old trading partners of the Athosians.  Ronon had also gone along because he enjoyed the simple work of lifting 'heavy stuff'.

Deliveries had begun coming through the gate at first light and were scheduled to continue for at least two days.  Major Lorne was in his element, directing marines, kitchen staff, biologists and off-world inhabitants alike with consummate ease.

At the moment, however, he was dealing with a slight glitch; there had been a shortfall of a certain rootcrop and somebody was trying to make up the difference with the Pegasus chicken things. Livestock had not been part of the deal.

Sheppard watched Lorne's placating gestures and the off-worlder's wildly gesticulating hands.  He couldn't hear what they were saying but hoped Lorne was explaining they didn't have facilities for animals on Atlantis and could something else be substituted?

Then up marched Master Sergeant Marie Sanchez, who had the  responsibility for making sure nobody on Atlantis went hungry, and with a series of savage chopping, slicing and breaking motions that made Sheppard wince, proceeded to explain, with the ruthless pragmatism of an officer in charge of feeding a considerable population, why Pegasus chickens would be quite acceptable, thank you very much.  Sheppard wondered whether he should have Sanchez cleared for field missions; she looked like she'd be very effective in hand-to-hand combat.  He didn't envy the chickens and suspected they had a date with the freezer.

"How's it going?"

Sheppard turned. Colonel Samantha Carter stood beside him.

"Good, I think," he replied.

"Are those chickens?" she asked, looking over the railing.

"Kind of," he responded.  "Lorne's handling it."

"Bored?" she enquired. "You know this needs doing before we use the gate for off-world missions."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "Just not used to having downtime."

"Well, make the most of it," Sam said, heading back to her office. "I've got paperwork to do!"

John stood up straight, the harvest home no longer holding his attention.  Time to go and pester McKay.  He would swing by the mess hall first, grab something tempting and lure McKay away from his research or reconfiguring or diagnostics or whatever.

*********************************

Sheppard, entering McKay's lab bearing a tray stacked with sandwiches and desserts, was met with a resounding and strident "No!", rapidly followed by "Not now! Crucial moment! No, no, no, go away, now!"
Rodney, at the centre of a complex arrangement of monitors, handheld devices and unidentifiable equipment could barely be seen, but the waving hands and urgent barks were message enough.

Sheppard slammed the tray down on a nearby work surface, did a sharp about face and marched out. There was only one place left to go. The armoury.

**********************************

During his basic training, a very young John Sheppard had had a drill sergeant who, in no uncertain terms, had impressed upon his recruits the importance of weapons maintenance.  The over-riding message of "Check, check and check again and if you've not got anything better to do (or even if you have), check again" had sunk in to such an extent that John could strip, clean, lube and reassemble his P90 purely using the muscle memory in his hands and arms, his conscious mind taking very little part in the proceedings.  He had once read a book called 'Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance', which had turned out to have little to do with either Zen Buddhism or motorcycles.  John, sitting on a bench in the armoury, cleaning his P90, was a fair representation of 'Zen and the art of P90 maintenance'.  Teyla would have recognised the meditative calm that surrounded him.  He had stripped and reassembled the weapon four times and was about to embark on the fifth, his mind calm and clear, when from behind him came a subdued: "Sorry."

Rodney stood, sheepishly, in the doorway, tray of food, somewhat depleted, in his hands.

"Um..." he floundered. "I, erm, thought I was on the verge of a breakthrough and I... um... wasn't?" He paused, then continued, in a rush, "then I thought I was rude, erm, obnoxious and generally offensive, so... sorry."

John looked up. "OK," he said simply.

"OK, then," Rodney brightened. "Sandwich?"