Fragments of an Alternate SG:A Life

[zoetrope]

So, bored at work, I emailed 2am_optimism.

"Let's play a game," I said. "You give me an AU, and I'll write a little bit of it."

After a day and a half, thought it might entertain you guys to post the results.

They are wacky and odd and (hopefully) sexy and funny by turns. And completely unbetaed, just stream of consciousness writing at whatever came to mind after reading the prompt.

Ranging from G to NC-17 and covering topics such as (Rodney and John as...) pirates, models, and the inevitable Entourage AU... all behind the cut.




John is a wannabe actor - just dropped out from a history degree at a respectable university to pursue his dream. Rodney is the cranky, but famous, drama coach who swears he's not taking on any more students... (college!AU kind of thing)


"I'm sorry," the man smirked and crossed his arms. "If I'd wanted model-slash-actors in my class I'd have advertised in 'Anorexia Weekly'."

John was more than practised at glib charm. "Mr. McKay--"

"Doctor. Doctor McKay." Doctor McKay's chest expanded with outrage, and John winced slightly.

"Sorry, Doctor. But I think if you gave me half a chance, you'd see--"

"No, no, no. If I gave every half-wit wannabe that wandered through my doors even half a chance I'd spend my considerably shortened life with my brain dribbling out of my ears." He walked over to the doorway and opened it, making an 'after you' motion with an extra flourish.

John turned in the opposite direction, and instead walked to the end of the theatre and vaulted onto the stage.

The milling students waiting for class to start had only been paying them vague attention until then - proving to John that McKay's tantrums weren't anything new - but this made them fall gradually silent.

"To be, or not to be," John began...




Mutiny on the high seas. Rodney's been sent by the admiralty to make scientific discoveries to benefit the great British Empire (well, actually, he made such a pain of himself at the Royal Geographical Society that they used any excuse to get rid of him). John Sheppard, First mate to Captain Sumner, gets assigned to see that Rodney doesn't interfere with the running of the ship. Halfway round the world, their ship gets attacked by pirates / the French / the Kraken and John and Rodney are cast adrift, the only survivors...


The first thing John was aware of was a tightening of his throat. He coughed convulsively and then coughed again as he began to wake fully, and realise that his mouth was full of sand.

Spitting and swearing he sat up, eyes streaming from the salt water, looking around him frantically.

His gaze caught on palm trees, white sand, pale pale blue seas, McKay.

McKay. Thank God.

Still coughing, he lurched onto his hands and knees and crawled over to where the other man was sprawled, face-up on the ground. White sand clung to his cheek, glazing one side of his face, and John noticed a pink flush of burnt skin on the bridge of his nose. But at least he was breathing.

"McKay," he shook one shoulder gently.

The only response was a grumpy mumble.

"McKay, wake up you lazy bas--beast."

McKay lazily swatted his hand. "Go-way. Sleeping," he said. "Blow out that candle, will you?"

"That's the sun, McKay," it was something guaranteed to startle the scientist awake.

Blue eyes opened wide and then closed again almost as quickly.

"Ohh, my head," McKay groaned, palm cupping over his eyes. "What hit me?"

"I think that would be the ship that is littered around us on the beach." John sat back, relieved that McKay was well enough to ham up his injuries. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the other man slowly sat up, one hand lurching to protect what must be sore ribs.

****LATER****

Every few minutes McKay lurched to one side and hissed. After a while John didn't even bother to ask what kind of insect was trying to befriend him this time.

"This is hell," McKay groaned to the dark canopy of leaves above them.

John listened to the soft hush of the waves breaking, watching the stars peeping through the undergrowth. "Many people would say this was heaven, McKay."

There was a grunt. "Yes, I'm sure. Stupid people. Or poor people. Not people with any breeding."

John smiled. "I went to Eton, McKay. What counts as breeding to you, exactly?"

McKay turned onto his side. "You? You went to Eton? You went to Eton. I don't believe it."

"That's a shame."

There was a moment of silence after John's calm surety. Then Rodney spoke. "If you went to Eton, what are you doing playing deck gang with a band of men so unwashed they might as well be Pirates?"

John turned on his side as well, arms crossed against the cool wind. "What kind of tie are you wearing?" he asked after a moment. He saw Rodney blink slightly.

"I'm not."

"Hmm, and what kind of wig?"

Rodney's hand self-consciously touched his advanced widow's peak. "None."

"And which social affair did you go to tonight."

"I see."

"And where is your fiancée?"

The insects chirruped around them busily. McKay didn't speak.

"That is what makes this place paradise McKay."

"Lack of society?" it was without his usual bite.

"Freedom," John smiled, and moved a little closer.



Rodney McKay, Professor of Theoretical Physics (on sabbatical) has headed off to Hawaii to do private research using the James Clerk Maxwell Telescope there. Being poor but enterprising, he hires a boat to live on, but with no prior experience of the nautical life, manages to crash into the luxury yacht of one John Sheppard, reclusive billionaire playboy.


While for Rodney it was the busty blonde in the bikini that got his attention, for John it was the gaping hole in the side of his boat.

"Hey," he said, pretty mildly he thought, for someone who was looking in the region of three thousand dollars worth of damages.

The pasty-faced man who had formerly been staring at-- er, Sandra's? boobs whitened, if possible, even further.

"Oh," he said. "I'm sure that wasn't my fault."

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "You think?" now that he thought about it the man was rather green around the gills. He prayed the guy wasn't also going to throw up on his boat and compound the tragedy.

"Well, look at this thing," the man was all outraged bluster. "It's huge. You must get people crashing into it all the time!"

"You'd be surprised how little it happens," John took a sip of his extravagantly decorated cocktail, aware of Susie? slinking away with boredom. McKay's eyes under the over-large brim of his hat and over the beak-like nose protector widened.

"Er, well, if it was my fault then of course I'll recompense, ah, I mean-- is this a very expensive boat?"

John let his eyelids droop and his smile widen. "Very."

The guy swallowed. Hard.

John shrugged. "I'm sure we can work out a deal."

***A WEEK LATER***

"You know, I realise that I probably incurred considerable cost when my boat accidentally clipped yours slightly--"

"Slightly?!"

"But I still think this is taking things a bit far." Rodney's chest puffed out and John smiled. He could only see a silhouette as the man loomed against the sun.

"You think so, do you?" John smiled lazily. "Could you move the umbrella so the sun's only on my legs and not my face?" he could hear Rodney grumbling even as he started huffily tugging at the weighted base of the sunshade.

"I'm supposed to be on holiday! Well, a working holiday. Not... playing butler for some spoiled playboy!"

"You are working, McKay."

"Yes, well, I'm pretty sure that when the McDonald-Rutter Foundation gave me the grant for my sabbatical, this wasn't the work they were envisioning."

"And I'm pretty sure most butlers don't bitch and moan as much as you do."

"No," Rodney smiled cattily. "That you get for free."

Oh, John was going to make him pay. He sat up, and casually rooted around in his beach bag. "Would you put lotion on my back?" he said, holding out the greasy tube. Rodney glared.



Rodney McKay is one of the top minds in the FBI's criminal profiling unit. With every law enforcement official in the country baffled by a string of particularly gruesome homicides along the LA coastline, Rodney McKay is the only one who has any chance of making a breakthrough by going undercover. There's only one glitch: Rodney needs to be able to surf...

"You're going undercover as a surf dude?" John didn't even bother to keep the scepticism from his face.

Rodney's arms crossed protectively over his slightly podgy stomach and John suppressed a smile.

"And why is that so unbelievable?"

John reached up and began untying the straps around his board. "How about we start with the fact that you're so pale I'd be more likely to believe you're a six hundred year old Transylvanian Count than a surfer."

"So I'll get a tan."

John turned and flicked the cuffs of Rodney's long sleeves. "You do realise that means you'll have to... disrobe for large periods of time in front of many strange people on a beach."

"I'm aware of that, yes." Rodney coughed slightly. "But lives are at stake." His back straightened so much John couldn't help but wonder if someone was actually back there, shoving a stick up his butt.

"Look, McKay, I know we're friends--"

"I'd hardly call us friends, Sheppard. Nodding acquaintances at best."

John slid his board gently down and leant it against the side of the car. "Fine, we're nodding acquaintances and neighbours and all that, but I don't think I'm the guy for this job."

Rodney paled. "You're the only person I know who can surf!"

"Wow, I've moved up to person now? Last time you spoke to me I believe I was a... what was it? Oh, yes. A grunting testosterone-led Neanderthal."

"It was very late at night, Sheppard, and you'd been making noise since--"

"It was ten thirty, McKay, not dawn. And no one else on the complex complained."

"They were all at the party!"

"You were invited too."

"Oh, like I'm going to come to a--"

"Alcohol-soaked gin palace and whorehouse?"

Rodney ran a finger along his collar. "Did I say that? I'm sure I was joking."

John tucked the board under his arm and walked toward his front door. "I just don't think I'm the right guy to teach you. The teacher-student relationship needs a lot of trust--"

"This is just a modified version of your girl-boy relationship talk, isn't it?"

"Not really, McKay," John opened the door and backed through it with a mysterious smile. "I'm gay."

Rodney was left open mouthed on the doorstep.


Rodney McKay, the one fashion designer who can make even Naomi Campbell cry, has gone one step too far this time, and with *the* fashion shoot of the year, if not the decade hanging over his head, (Annie Leibowitz for Vanity Fair, natch), has less than two hours to procure a suitable model, or lose his reputation for reliability and delivering the goods entirely. Will he be able to take the next even vaguely suitable person he sees and make him a star?


"No, too stupid."

"Justin Pirie?"

"Too freckled."

"Quentin."

"Too gay."

"Bruce Wick."

"Not gay enough."

Rodney didn't care even the slightest bit that all three of his assistants were sighing and making faces behind his back. He could fire them later, anyway.

"Ronon Dex."

"No, no, no. Far too big. Don't you understand? This shoot is about butch versus femme, all in one person. We need someone butch enough to appeal to the straight girls and femme enough to appeal to the straight boys. It's all about playing with misconceptions. We want someone... someone like Jonathon Rhys Meyers in Goldmine. Someone who can wear eye makeup and still look like a top..." Rodney felt his eyes glaze... "but one who'd take it so prettily on the bottom..."

He swivelled his chair back around to find them gazing at him with blank impressions.

"God save me from college graduates with as much depth as a Koi Pond," he muttered, throwing his pen down. "Just get me a coffee."

Two of them scuttled away while a third looked nervous. "Er, what kind, sir. Cappuccino, frappuccino, espresso--"

Rodney stood up, slowly. "You know what? Forget it. I'll get it myself."

It was the first time in eight years that he fetched his own coffee. He was certain that his assistants were getting stupider.

It was probably a plot Zelenka was hatching to drive him slowly and irretrievably insane, Rodney decided as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. And, great. It was raining.

Starbucks was two blocks down, and Rodney stomped all the way, envisioning the painful humiliating things he was going to do to his subordinates when he got back.

However, he forgot all that when the barista turned to him, smiled slightly, flickered his eyes up and down and drawled, "What can I get you?"

Rodney had a flash of this man, dressed in a loose, ripped T-shirt and denim miniskirt, brooding eyes lined with kohl, lips pouting, fists clenched.

"You," Rodney said. "Come with me."

The smile wiped off the guy's face. "Wait. What?"



Rodney McKay, inventor and philanthropist, is convinced the strange goings-on at McKay mansions are a plot by his dastardly family to steal his fortune. At his wit’s end, he approaches Atlantis Investigations (no job too strange or too small), for help.


"It was a trap," Rodney whispered furiously. John put his hand over McKay's mouth, feeling his lips continue to move for a moment before they were pressed together.

He felt something shoving against the back of his neck and moved carefully, dislodging a coat-hanger holding a heavy winter coat.

The slats of the door allowed little of the moonlight in, but John was well-trained enough to be able to tell that someone was sneaking around the darkened bedroom.

"Shh," he whispered into McKay's ear gently. "Wait ‘til we see what they're going for..."

There was a creak of bedsprings from the bedroom and then all went silent. John, studiously avoiding Rodney's wide eyes, ignoring the press of their bodies together, tried to see what was happening.

Rodney's hand came up, tentative, and settle on John's waist.

Not ticklish, not ticklish, not ticklish, John thought quickly, trying not to focus on the feather-light, almost teasing touch.

"Sheppard? John." Rodney was staring at him, and, as their eyes met, tilted his head to the side slightly. Fuck, John thought, responding in kind purely instinctively.

"You guys going to make out in there all night, or are you coming out?"

John jumped at the deep, rumbling voice and swore, pushing open the closet and tumbling out.

"Ronon?! What the hell--"

"I've got news. Something you need to hear." Ronon ambled over to the window and peered through the blinds.

Rodney stumbled out after him, a feather boa caught on his shoulder, and before John could even ask what on earth Rodney was doing with a feather boa, the double bed exploded.



Rodney McKay, vastly under-appreciated Mechanical Science undergraduate is sick of being the one guy without a date on a Friday night. Even Melissa Rutherford, who has buck teeth and an unfortunate breathing problem won't give him the time of day, which he considers grossly short-sighted of her considering his long term earning potential. Still, if he can't find anyone to go out with him (and frankly, there's no one he actually really considers worthy of the honour in his limited social circle anyway), he'll *make* himself someone perfect, dammit...


"You are a creature made of pure evil. I hope you realise this." John lolled on Rodney's bed, one foot dangling off the side.

Rodney smiled widely. "Yes. Isn't it great?"

"More beer, master?" the femme-bot leant over him solicitously. "Or more chips?"

"Yes."

John looked vaguely sick. "Say 'please', Rodney. It's the least you can do."

"She's a robot. The word doesn't mean anything to her."

John sat up and snatched the comic out of Rodney's hands. "That's more disturbing than-- hey, you aren't going to have sex with her-- it-- are you?!"

Rodney knelt on the bed and tried to grab the comic back. "Ew, Sheppard." He felt his face heating, which was more than ridiculous. "It's a machine."

"Pretty hot machine," John eyed her cleavage as she came back in and gave Rodney his beer and chips. His expression was more wary than desirous though, and Rodney wasn't sure why that relieved him. The femme-bot plumped the cushion behind Rodney on the dorm bed before moving to stand by the door, motionless.

"She's just for show," Rodney said, leaning back against the headboard and his freshly plumped pillows, moving into John's space to read over his shoulder. "She's not my type."

John eyed him with a strange look on his face, and woah, he was close. "What's not you're type?"

Rodney gestured with a chip. "She's brunette."

John glared. "So am I."

Rolling his eyes, Rodney replied, "Yeah, and you're also a guy, Sheppard."

He was just settling in to read about Dick and Bruce's latest exploits, when he felt something wet mash against his mouth. "Ow!" he pulled back, rubbing his lips. Sheppard looked flushed and horrified. Then he leaned in and did it again, only this time is was softer, smoother, more-- nice.

"Huh," Rodney replied after half an hour, eyeing Shep's tousled hair, taught cheeks and heavy eyes. "Maybe I do like brunettes."



Rodney McKay, immigrant and enfant terrible of the Parisian art scene, would rather ingest a bottle of absinthe through his *eyeballs* than have to tutor some most likely completely talentless offspring of a benighted nouveau-riche *hat merchant*. However, this is Paris, and garrets and canvas don't come cheap...


"You said I could paint you in return for tuition," Rodney's eyes were heavy with wine and lust, watching Sheppard's lean form as he hovered in the middle of the room.

"Yes, but--" Sheppard's eyes darted to the screen, behind which were his clothes. "I thought you meant-- on a canvas, not--"

Rodney moved towards him, pressing a hand onto his shoulder and making him kneel onto the white canvas he'd spread on the floor.

"All art is experimentation," he said soothingly. He knelt beside John and lifted his paintbrush, letting the thick cerulean slide down the brush and over his hand. "You, your body, your soul, will be captured forever..." his voice drifted off as he slid the cool wet bristles slowly down the line of John's arm.

He pushed him down with his other hand until John was lying flat on the floor. He slid the brush over John's waist, his ribs, and John shuddered. "This will be the ultimate portrait. One in which the subject is the paint, is not just represented by it.

His brush had a mind of its own now, slid down over John's hips and onto his hardening cock. Rodney looked up to see John swallow in the candlelight, to see the flush high on his cheekbones. Rodney knelt over him and pushed until John turned onto his stomach.

The expanse of his skin spread out before Rodney, tantalisingly blank, stretched over his frame. This time, however, his brush remained unused and instead he trailed his tongue over the canvas. John moaned into the canvas.

"Yes," he was breathless, Rodney realised suddenly, trying to calm himself. Art came from reason, not passion. Or was it the other way around? "We will both be made immortal."

"Call it what you will," came John's muffled voice. "But I know what it really is."

Rodney trailed his nose up the skin of John's back, fitting his face into the curve of John's neck. "Oh, yes? And what is that?"

"Lust," John turned his head so that their lips brushed as he spoke. "And a little bit of hate."

Rodney closed his eyes as their mouths moved together. In this moment of weakness he admitted to himself that John may be right, except for one thing. Hate and love were two sides of the same coin.


Ari Gold finally gets over his dreams of making his retirement money from Vince (now travelling Morocco or some third world country on a road trip with Eric that looks like it's set to last for-fucking-EVER) when he signs the next big thing: John Sheppard, ex-air force pilot with a rep for being difficult to handle, with his friend (and manager - Ari rolls his eyes, girding his loins to deal with this shit yet *again*) Rodney McKay.

Did John never take off those fucking shades? "Hey, hotshot," Ari grinned, high-fiving John and grinning at the pale podgy manager-buddy of his. "How's it hanging."

"Fine," John smiled. Ari gritted his teeth. That was one. One of maybe - maybe, if he was lucky - all fifteen syllables Ari would get from him this meeting.

"Mr. Gold," Rodney said.

"McKay, how was your singing lesson?"

Rodney stalled, mouth open, before snapping "What?"

"I figure you must have training to be able to talk as long as you do. Holding your breath, et cetera."

John laughed a little. "Good one."

Twelve left, Ari thought with a wince.

"So, listen, I've got this great script. Great. Best I've read in a long time... Vampire movie, hot female love interest, they're looking at Scarlett--"

"No vampires," McKay said, turning to signal the waitress. "Evian, please. And no passing tap water off, or any other rubbish. Just Evian. Room temperature, no ice."

The waitress scratched her nose with her middle finger and wandered off.

"What?" Ari lowered his voice to try and combat the urge to shout. "No vampires? Why not?"

"Too camp," John said with a grin. Eleven, ten.

Ari spread his arms. "Not these guys. Butch as the motherfucking love child of De Niro and Redford--"

"Was I not speaking English before, Mr. Gold? Would you prefer I hire someone to translate into scum-sucking waste-of-time-language for you? No vampires."

After a long moment Ari gave his most charming smile. "Sure. Fine. Ok. No vampires."

At that moment the waitress delivered one Caesar salad, one salad nicoise and one steak and fries. Rodney immediately leant over and began picking the olives out of John's salad.

"Nice." Ari muttered. "You have the manners of a rhesus monkey, McKay. You gonna pick his fleas too?"

John smiled widely. "He knows I don't like them." Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four. Fuck. Ari needed to stop wasting the little time he'd got.

"You guys are worse than an old married couple, you realise that, right?"

Rodney sniffed, ignoring him, and John winked. Huh.

"So, no vampires. I get it. I've also got a great movie about beat poets. Butch bastards, bar fights, screwing hippie chicks and writing poetry. How's that sound?"

"Interesting," McKay said, carving into his steak like a butcher in a slaughterhouse. "But it would depend on the script."

Ari turned to John, eyebrows raised.

John shrugged. "Sounds cool." three, two.

There was a long pause. "Okay then. I'll bike it over to you today."

"Great," Rodney spluttered around a mouthful of cow.

Ari laid down his fork carefully, no longer hungry.

"So, any other news?"

Rodney and John's eyes met, and Ari felt his spine stiffen. Secrets. He hated secrets. "What?"

"Nothing." Rodney said.

"Something..." Ari insisted.

John smiled. "Later," he said, standing up and throwing down his fork. One, zero.

Fuck. That was all he was getting from John today, then.

Ari had forgotten that pictures said a thousand words. John slid his sunglasses off, leant over and kissed Rodney, right on the lips.

"See you later," Rodney said, smiling. John slid his sunglasses back on and nodded at Ari, wandering out into the sunshine and hailing a cab.

"Fuck," said Ari. "And they say lightening doesn't strike gay actors twice."

Comments

[geeklite.livejournal.com]

OMG, they're all brilliant. All of them. I especially love John the actor, and Rodney the wannabe surfer. :)

[zoetrope.livejournal.com]

Thank you! The surfer is one of my faves too *g*

[2am-optimism.livejournal.com]

I don't think this can be repeated enough - today was the most fun *EVER* This was the only thing that kept me sane at work today, I swear.

*thinks up more evil scenarios*

♥

[runpunkrun]

These were fun. I think I liked the Entourage XO (Ari! counting John's syllables!) and the one where Rodney's a fashion designer the best.

[zoetrope.livejournal.com]

Thanks! The Entourage one was the last one I wrote, and it really felt like pulling teeth to get it done, so it's amusing to me that it's the one people are responding best to *g*

[serialkarma.livejournal.com]

omg, these are all awesome. Rodney in Point Break! (or close enough), John a reclusive billionaire playboy! (why does that make me giggle so much?) I think my favorite though, is the one where Rodney is the fashion designer who can make Naomi Campbell cry. I WANT that.

[zoetrope.livejournal.com]

Hee, thanks :) Aren't 2am's prompts genius?

[yin-again.livejournal.com]

Fifteen syllables! *wheeze*

These are all awesome, but the Entourage one rules!

[zoetrope.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Ari makes everything superlative *g*

[gilkurtis.livejournal.com]

"Fuck," said Ari. "And they say lightening doesn't strike gay actors twice."

Ahahaha, that last like was golden. So Ari. And "yeah!!!" to Vince and Eric going on a big gay road trip to Morocco :)