block patterns

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis or any associated trademarks.

Rodney is caustic, at best, when he catches Ronon scuttering around the lab and scaring his interns (Zelenka bravely fights him about this but honestly, they're nimwits at best, interns is a compliment). "What are you doing?" Rodney crosses his arms over his chest, getting in the aliens way.

Ronon has been here for a few days, sparred with Teyla and Sheppard, but not done much else. He's quiet, despite his size, and he watches more than he talks. Rodney doesn't know him, and he doesn't know what Ronon's world knew of science and experiments, and he's not about to let him stalk about unchallenged in his territory. It's not particularly charitable of him, he knows, the way that he squares his jaw and stubbornly faces Ronon's silent judgment, but he doesn't need to be. He's the cleverest person here, the only one capable of holding this ancient wonder together, and nothing he does should ruffle feathers if these people (ugh, colleagus) had any actual common sense.

Only more evidence of the Stargate program's ever falling standards, he supposes.

"I would offer my help," Ronon says, voice gruff and head tilted. "If I thought it'd be accepted."

Rodney bristles. He draws himself up taller, shoving his shoulders back and waving his hands as he says, "This is, I am—"

Ronon pats his shoulder. "Don't worry. I know you're the boss. But there's always grunt work to be done in places like this, so just tell me where to go and what to do." He eyes Rodney from top to bottom, eyes landing on his face and studying him for just a beat too long, so long that Rodney is getting ready to bristle again. But Ronon smiles, crookedly, and says, "You can supervise me as closely as you like."

Rodney's mouth snaps shut. His eyebrows furrow, and he glances around. None of the interns are paying them any attention (no doubt on purpose) but he nevertheless feels the weight of attention, and when he looks back at Ronon, he understands why. He's still being studied; Rodney has spent his entire life studying things and he knows full well what one looks like when they're in deep in the middle of trying to figure out how something ticks. Why it ticks. How one can make it tick another way, change the patterns, alter the routes, mark the difference and try it all over again.

It is singularly disconcerting to be on the receiving end of that look.

Rodney licks his lips, and Ronon's eyes track that, too.

"So where do you want me?" Ronon asks, leaning forth a little, and Rodney takes a step back before he remembers himself. He doesn't look around again; he's not interested in what the interns think of what's happening here, if they have any intelligent thoughts in their heads at all, and he's not going to give in to the urge to double-check. He's sure they don't matter, and he does not need their well-regard, only their ability to do the jobs he assigns them (which is apparently a tall order already).

"I don't have any need of another dunderhead to micromanage," Rodney says, and it feels like he says it too late. Like the pause has already revealed his hand and anyway he hates card games, he always loses at them. No good at hiding if he'd doing well or badly, his sister says. It's like taking candy from a baby, according to her.

He scowls at that thought. 

Ronon shrugs. "Then I'll hang around you for a bit, learn from the best. When you're confident I can unplug a computer or sweep the floor for trash, you can let me loose without worrying."

Rodney narrows his eyes. Ronon said that so easily, without a hint of indignation in his tone, that it's suspicious. His interns are wildly overqualified for the work they actually need to do, while also simultaneously incredibly unqualified for the work they want to do. They're no engineers, no plumbers, no electricians, and the friction is showing. In hindsight, the planning for the expedition was thinking remarkably short-term; there wasn't actually a viable long-term plan for the worst-case scenario. 

Meaning that they don't have half the workers they need to, and half the workers they have are functionally useless until they lose their pride and start unclogging toilets.

So. Well, so Rodney is in constant need of workers willing and able to do grunt work. He could use the help, and if Ronon is offering he might as well give him something nasty nobody else is willing to touch even with Rodney insulting their intelligence, their education, their families and their countries in an attempt to bamboozle them into just doing what he damn well orders for once. He's their superior, for heavens sake! (Some of the insults are just because they're annoying, though. And some because sometimes their every word makes him want to tear out his own hair. Read a damn book on your field of study for once, idiot.)

"Fine," Rodney snaps. He grabs a random piece of paper, looks at it, realizes it's nothing, and drops it. Instead of acknowledging he doesn't know what exactly to throw at Ronon to test his resolution and get some work done at the same time (best of both worlds, truly), he says, "Follow me," and stalks out of the lab. He heads to the nearest problem corner, and points at a puddle of suspicious liquid. "Clean that," he orders.

Somehow, nobody thought to get janitors in on the expedition.

Rodney has complaints.

Ronon nods, looks around for cleaning materials, and gets right to it. Rodney watches with an open mouth, eyes wide, and he blinks far too often. Surreptitiously rubs his eyes, just to double-check that his vision isn't going but no. Ronon really is cleaning up the suspicious puddle none of his interns have been willing to touch in days. It's suffered from the lack of attention, too, gotten a hold of a truly disgusting scent.

But after a while, all the projects he's got ongoing at the same time start calling his name, and Rodney vanishes back into his lab to finish up some highly sensitive work while his computers run various calculations. 

He's not expecting Ronon to come back.

"I'm done," Ronon declares, far too close, and Rodney's grip tightens on his pen. He tosses a glance over his shoulder and wrinkles his nose. Ronon is not only standing right behind him, but he's got a smell clinging to him that doesn't remind Rodney of fun things, and which he'd rather not have in his labs. He pushes lightly on Ronon and is gratified when the large man takes a step back.

"Great, you're moderately more skilled better than a toddler," Rodney grouches, crossing his arms over his chest as he turns around and leans against the counter. The fact that he needs to tilt his head back to make eye-contact is annoying, the fact that those eyes in turn seem to almost smolder at him doubly so. He's doesn't have time for dalliances, but a man like Ronon makes that conviction hard to stick to and that, too, is greatly annoying.

Rodney has work to do.

"Look you've very handsome but I'm busy," Rodney glares, mind already turning to his current problem of the hour. Sometimes they change by the minute, and those are really annoying.

Ronon rises an eyebrow. "I know," he says.

Eyes narrowing, Rodney says, "So shoo," and waves his arms in a pathetic approximation of a shooing gesture.

Ronon nods. He looks Rodney up and down again, and it feels like a personal attack, like something meant to pierce and do damage. Rodney doesn't much like the way it makes his stomach flutter; he's much too old and much too exhausted to bother with it. And anyway, they barely know each other, and Ronon is an alien from a whole other galaxy who's only been here a few days. They've barely scratched the surface of culture shock, too busy with the minutae of survival. It'd be a much unwise idea to be getting into any kind of romantic or sexual entanglements. 

But Ronon doesn't seem to share Rodney's very reasonable concerns, for he simply says, "We'll eat dinner together tonight," and Rodney is so bamboozled that he forgets to reject it. This, too, Ronon seems to take as confirmation, as he smiles and takes a step forward.

They're so close Rodney can feel Ronon's heat. It occurs to him, suddenly, how long it's been since he was in a relationship. And how easily Ronon did as he commanded even when the task was unpleasant. 

Already, Ronon is more tolerable than most of the rabble on Atlantis.

Ronon leans down, and Rodney side-steps before anything has a chance to happen. "Dinner," he babbles. "Yes, dinner sounds good. Why don't you go—" he stops and waves his hands. Ronon looks amused, and Rodney is beginning to burn red in his cheeks. They're alone in the lab, at least (a rarity these days, there are always bugs huddling around him to task for advice) so there's nobody to witness his momentary lapse in professionalism.

He glances over Ronon, as discreetly as he can, but it's evidently not discreet enough. "Dinner," Ronon agrees, smiling and it's—soft. Unbearably soft. Rodney's not used to being looked at like that. "We'll get to know each other," Ronon adds, and Rodney merely mutely nods. Ronon doesn't linger, then, leaving to do whatever it is he does, and Rodney collapses onto a chair and lays his head on the table, groaning as he hides his face in his arms.

That could have gone better.

But he has a date and—well, maybe that's alright.

THE END