At The Sign Of The Happy Helg

Chapter 9

"Sit down and eat, Sheppard!" Rodney ordered.

John turned away from the window, crossed the room and sat back down at the table.  He picked up his fork and began idly pushing bacon around his plate.  Rodney tried to focus on his own breakfast.  The helg bacon was smoked, but not too salty, which was often a problem with home-cured bacon, he thought.  Tomatoes would have been nice, just fried until they were squishy, but the locals served a strange kind of chutney with their bacon, which Rodney wasn't too keen on; he was persevering with it, though, sure that it was a taste that he would acquire.  He looked up from his chutney contemplation to see John at the window again.

"They're going," John said, meaning that Ronon, Maddy and a few of the local farmers were leaving on helg-back for the main meeting-point of the hunt.

"Good," said Rodney.  "Maybe you'll sit down and eat now, because watching good bacon go to waste is more than I can stand!"

"You eat it, then."

"You know what?  I will!  Far be it from me to deny you the pleasure of martyring yourself on the altar of whichever God looks after Colonels who sulk because they can't go out and do something dangerous every day of the week!"

He picked up John's plate, slid the bacon onto his own and began to eat it with another good-sized dollop of the chutney.  John still stooped, peering out of the low window.  Rodney ignored him.  Boudicca paused in her morning's fireside grooming, looked at Rodney accusingly and then stalked away to rub against John's leg and push her furry head into his hand.  Rodney rolled his eyes.  Yet another female to fall for the patented 'wounded puppy' act, he thought, although, on reflection, Boudicca probably wouldn't think twice before devouring a wounded puppy.  He finally set down his knife and fork.  Sheppard was kneeling on the floor, Boudicca's front paws on his thighs.  She was trying to groom him and he was protesting, but obviously enjoying the attention.

Rodney heard the front door open and then the latch to the parlour door rattled and Gard entered.  He looked curiously unsure of himself and stood, glancing between John and Rodney, his cap held in his hands, revealing a mostly bald pate with a surrounding fringe of wispy gray hair.

"Mornin'" he said.

Rodney and John responded in kind and John added, "Thanks for your help yesterday."

A flicker of a smile crossed Gard's face.

"I still say you were lucky, but there's not many could've killed one o' those single-handed."

John shrugged, and his distraction earned him a lick from Boudicca which sent his normally wayward forelock springing into the air.  It made him into the human equivalent of an exclamation point, Rodney thought.

Gard approached.

"I've a favour to ask, Dr McKay," he said, uncertainly.

"Oh, really?" said Rodney, sitting back in his chair and twiddling his thumbs in a way that suggested, he thought, that he was at leisure to receive such requests, but that they wouldn't necessarily be granted.

"I find myself in need of a spot of technical know-how and thought you might be the man for the job."

"'Technical know-how'," repeated Rodney, shuddering at the phrase.  "And what, precisely, is this technical challenge that requires the accumulated knowledge and experience of an intergalactic genius such as myself?"

"Uh, well, it's my ship.  It... uh... won't go."

Ha! I knew it! Rodney thought.  Aloud, he said, "A ship that 'won't go'.  Any chance of being more specific?  Type of ship?  Nature of the 'won't go' issue?"