Rodney is about three minutes away from completely trashing his computer and charging the new one on the SGC, even though his bank account humps other bank accounts like bunnies while he's away in another universe saving humanity as he knew it.
It's the principle of the thing after all.
But at about three minutes to death, destruction and mayhem, there's a sloppy knock at his door. Sloppy because he can hear the attempt at rythmn and it's spectacular failed attempt.
"What?" He asks before the door is even open, only to stop when he realizes it's Sheppard, dressed in in class A's, smiling -- that's sloppy too -- leaning casually on the door frame.
"So I asked myself," Sheppard says as he pushes his way past Rodney and into the apartment, "what does one do when one receives a degree from an institute of higher education."
"Beer and sex." Rodney says automatically. Anyone who's ever spent three weeks writing a senior thesis with their brains leaking out of their ears in an effort to directly *swim* in the nearby coffee knows that.
"Yep." John nods, flipping his hat off. "That's what I figured. Here," he tosses a six pack at Rodney, who almost misses catching it completely. Only, beer, so he makes an extra effort and succeeds in saving it from a fate worse than death. Waste.
"Wait a minute," Rodney narrows his eyes, ignoreing that Sheppard is now without a jacket and the shirt manages to look rumpled and starched all at once and that it stretches nicely over his chest. "Degree?"
"Yep!" Sheppard undoes his tie. "I went to atlantis ABD."
Rodney blinks. Thinks about how unshocked he actually is and carefully puts the beer down. "Wait, have you never heard of peer review?" Because seriously, who waits to get their thesis defense over when they don't have to. He looks at Sheppard, who's now undoing his cuffs. Right. Insane idiots who like to fly.
"No way in hell was I going to make you my thesis advisor." Sheppard says now mostly unbuttoned and stalking towards him.
"Well," Rodney shrugs, swallowing nervously, "I suppose I understand. My enourmous intellect is probably pretty daun-- mmmphpp!!"
Tongue. In his mouth. Sheppard's tongue and-- wait.
Sex and beer.
Sex and beer *and* a post doctoral degree. In fact, Sheppard was probably strung out and pretty high on various chemicals, both artifical and not and really deserved sex. And Rodney, Rodney more than anyone probably understood the entire quandry. About four times over actually.
no subject
It's the principle of the thing after all.
But at about three minutes to death, destruction and mayhem, there's a sloppy knock at his door. Sloppy because he can hear the attempt at rythmn and it's spectacular failed attempt.
"What?" He asks before the door is even open, only to stop when he realizes it's Sheppard, dressed in in class A's, smiling -- that's sloppy too -- leaning casually on the door frame.
"So I asked myself," Sheppard says as he pushes his way past Rodney and into the apartment, "what does one do when one receives a degree from an institute of higher education."
"Beer and sex." Rodney says automatically. Anyone who's ever spent three weeks writing a senior thesis with their brains leaking out of their ears in an effort to directly *swim* in the nearby coffee knows that.
"Yep." John nods, flipping his hat off. "That's what I figured. Here," he tosses a six pack at Rodney, who almost misses catching it completely. Only, beer, so he makes an extra effort and succeeds in saving it from a fate worse than death. Waste.
"Wait a minute," Rodney narrows his eyes, ignoreing that Sheppard is now without a jacket and the shirt manages to look rumpled and starched all at once and that it stretches nicely over his chest. "Degree?"
"Yep!" Sheppard undoes his tie. "I went to atlantis ABD."
Rodney blinks. Thinks about how unshocked he actually is and carefully puts the beer down. "Wait, have you never heard of peer review?" Because seriously, who waits to get their thesis defense over when they don't have to. He looks at Sheppard, who's now undoing his cuffs. Right. Insane idiots who like to fly.
"No way in hell was I going to make you my thesis advisor." Sheppard says now mostly unbuttoned and stalking towards him.
"Well," Rodney shrugs, swallowing nervously, "I suppose I understand. My enourmous intellect is probably pretty daun-- mmmphpp!!"
Tongue. In his mouth. Sheppard's tongue and-- wait.
Sex and beer.
Sex and beer *and* a post doctoral degree. In fact, Sheppard was probably strung out and pretty high on various chemicals, both artifical and not and really deserved sex. And Rodney, Rodney more than anyone probably understood the entire quandry. About four times over actually.
So yeah. Sex.
But first--
He reaches for the six pack.