13 July 2005
Stargate Atlantis
Silly

Games that geeks play.

Disclaimer: Belongs to SciFi.  Not mine.




Rodney thinks, it's not that the others don't like him. But it's never his computer that makes sex sounds when he tries to save his work. His chair isn't the one that implodes.

They like Zelenka.

Zelenka's tool box was full of almost-like-peanut butter again this morning.

It's why the man is currently sitting on the table Rodney's spread his work out on, drinking something murderously caffeinated and muttering to himself in Czech. Every so often he sketches something in a notebook. And giggles.

Jumps down, eventually, and goes looking for a screwdriver. His tools are clean by now, but they're going to smell pseudo-peanut butter for a long time. Rodney's mouth waters, but he ignores it.  He's working. He can go looking for food later.

Soonish later.

Zelenka grins like a madman. Goes back into the cupboard and comes out a couple of cables.

Rodney tells him, "If you're going by the mess, grab me a sandwich, would you?"  Goes back to work.

And, in a reasonable amount of time, he gets a sandwich, and everything smells a bit like popcorn.  Zelenka's good. There's popcorn everywhere in the third-floor labs, and absolutely none of it's in vulnerable areas.

Rodney grins at him. Because he understands. He does. He just wasn't ever an engineering student himself, so he doesn't get the same juvenile ecstasy out of complicated pranks.

He and Zelenka are halfway through the calculations for the shield's power drains when the note arrives. Just a marine carrying it, looking pissy like he's nobody's messenger boy and wants them to know it.

Zelenka reads it, scribbles a couple of characters, and hands it back.

It comes back. He adds more characters.

They're up to three rows of digits before Zelenka grins at Rodney and scrawls seven in a row.  It doesn't come back this time.

They go back to work.  Calculate lovely, graceful power-consumption curves that eventually make Rodney think about soup.

So. Food.

Rodney's just settling in with his notes and his supper when Sheppard. Not marches. Or staggers. Something in between. Over. Looks straight at Zelenka and says, "Three seven five one."

Zelenka says, "Zero five eight two zero nine."

Oh.  Oh.

Rodney knows he's smirking. He'd like to know who started this round.  Calculate pi to n decimal places, with forfeit.

Sheppard steps back. Nods.

And right there is the guy on kitchen duty. With the pie.

Which, by ceremonial right, Zelenka pushes into Sheppard's face, starting at the chin, working along his face, up his nose, solidly into his hair, and down the back of his head towards his collar. It's a bit of a reach for Zelenka, but Rodney has a feeling it's not the first time he's won one of these.

At the next morning briefing, Sheppard still smells like butterscotch custard.



jane
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