Summary: “A hot fighter pilot who gets all the girls? You trying to tell me something, McKay?”
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 618
Rating/Warnings: PG, rampant fluff, more BSG (old and new) references than you can shake a Cylon at
A/N: Odd piece of trivia: even after 200+ stories, this is the first one with numerals in the title. This fic is the result of 1) leiascully and coffeesuperhero 2) an unquenched desire for fluff 3) this post at face_of_joe 4) TVTropes. I seriously want a smoke now; too bad it's 30 degrees outside. Happy fluff_friday, y'all!
“And so the Goa'uld says,” Rodney had to stop talking, he was laughing so hard already, “'That's no donkey- that's my host!'”
John burst into laughter, nearly upsetting his glass when he slapped his hand against the floor. “Oh god, I can't believe Woolsey told you that joke.”
“He's got a filthy mouth once you get him started,” Rodney replied, wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye.
“Speaking of Woolsey,” John said, pulling a black and silver tube from his breast pocket. It was big enough for three of the thick cigars that he smoked on rare occasions. He pulled one out, offering it to Rodney, who shook his head, taking another sip from his whiskey- actual, honest to god Canadian Club that Jeannie had sent him, rather than the rotgut they'd been getting very used to.
Patting his pockets, John produced a guillotine cutter and used it to snip the end of the cigar off. A further search turned up a lighter, one of the big fancy torch kind that had, frankly, always scared Rodney a little.
“Shut up,” John protested, catching Rodney watching his elaborate little ritual. “It was a Christmas present.”
Rodney held up his hands. “I didn't actually say anything.”
John leaned back against the railing of the balcony and lit the cigar, puffing gently at it until the end glowed red. Rodney didn't really care for them, as a rule- he always ended up coughing and feeling like an ass- but John actually looked like he knew what he was doing. It looked good on him- but then, there wasn't much that didn't.
Rodney sat back, regarding John with a contented smile, and something clicked into place in his head. “Wow,” he laughed- and it definitely was not a giggle, even if he was feeling loose and tipsy and happy and had pretty much every right to giggle, if he wanted, “I'm frakking Starbuck.”
John gave him an amused look. “I know you've got a thing for blonde girls, but I don't think you've become one since the last time I checked.”
“Okay, first of all?” Rodney said, gesturing with one finger. “'Frakking' was the verb in that sentence, not an interjection. Second, I meant the real Starbuck.”
He looked a little disappointed. “You said you liked watching the new series.”
“Now who wants to be a blonde?” Rodney teased. “I was ten when the original series started. Not that I'm averse to looking at Kara Thrace or anything, but there will only ever be one Starbuck.” He looked down into his drink, idly swirling the amber liquid around in the bottom of the glass. “He was the first guy I ever had a crush on,” he added- he hadn't really meant to say it, but damned if it wasn't true.
John pretended to consider this. “A hot fighter pilot who gets all the girls? You trying to tell me something, McKay?”
“Only that I had to wait for you for, what, thirty years?” It came out gruffer than Rodney had intended, but he was a little shocked he'd gotten the words out at all. “Jesus, Sheppard, what the hell took you so long?”
John grinned around his cigar, looking away, like he couldn't decide whether to be more embarrassed or flattered or confused that anyone would ever think of him like that. And for that, Rodney just had to lean over and pluck that ridiculous thing out of his mouth, setting it aside so that he could kiss him without interference.
If he closed his eyes, John tasted like fumarellos.