TITLE: Double Jeopardy
AUTHOR: Verb (Woo!)
RATING: K+ as I use a swear word. Just the once, though - and it's comedic!
CATEGORY: Humor, with a little McShep if you turn your head the right way.
SUMMARY: Does removing a mission patch make you magically invisible?
DISCLAIMER: Not mine! Also? No Alex Trebeks were harmed in the writing of this story.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Look, another SGA story! And just weeks after a joint story goes live. I am on a roll. Which means I won't have anything until July, 2010. :) Yet again, this story is all about The Snark that is Rodney McKay, The Hair that is John Sheppard, and The Pretentious that is Alex Trebek. And it somehow became McSheppy. I blame the awesomeness that is Joe Flanigan - that man can seduce anything. You guys watch Jeopardy - you know. If not, YouTube The Colbert Report and Jeopardy - and all will become clear that this was the AU that had to be written! Major thanks to Aedammair for a lightning fast Beta and a kick in the pants to publish. Enjoy – and feel free to drop me a review with some comments.
Double Jeopardy
"Sheppard to the control room, please, Sheppard to the control room."
John froze, the donught stopped at the edge of his mouth, icing sugar starting to cling to his lips. He glanced at the clock in the large and corporately sparse room, the walls a dull shade of blue that one consultant or another had insisted created a sense of 'calm and creative flow of energies'. He had always thought it was fitting that the leftover paint had been used for the men's washroom. It was half past four - what could they possible need from him at half past four?
"Uh oh," David, a short, stocky blond and one of the studio's PAs poked John in the ribs. "Looks like His Highness needs another venti white mocha with extra caramel."
John frowned, his eyes still glued to the clock. "Then wouldn't they have called for you, David?" A few weeks after starting at Sony Pictures Studios, John had fallen into the habit of taking his breaks with the PAs. They were quick, funny, great people who had the unfortunate task of being everyone's errand boys. But they always knew the studio gossip before anyone else and could blacklist people from the Chin Chin takeout lunch day in a blink of an eye. John found it prudent to to stay in their good graces.
"Nah," Craig, the tallest man, or PA, for that matter, that John had ever met itched at his side, the belt full of electronic gear that kept him at everyone's beck and call rubbing against his skin. "It's probably just another blown lightbulb. Besides, you know that he makes us import the Tim Horton's fine grind."
"Oh, I do." David waggled his eyebrows in a manner that could only be described as lascivious. "He just prefers it when you bring it to him."
John shoved the rest of the donught into his mouth, standing and 'accidentally' smacking David upside the head in the process. Couldn't let him get to uppity - the PAs might rebel and start hiding the good coffee. "I wouldn't talk, David - we all know who's been leaving the maple leaf cookies in his dressing room."
Craig's laughter and David's much too insistent denials followed John as he made his way out of the cafeteria towards the elevators, punching the up call button and wondering if he should stop by his office for his tool belt first.
Riding up to the second floor, John contemplated his reflection in the highly polished steel of the elevator walls. He saw a tall, skinny man pushing ever closer to forty with the softening middle to prove it, in need of a shave and a decent hair cut. Running a hand through his shock of black hair that had people constantly asking if he had just stuck his finger in an electrical socket, John wondered what it was that had led him to being the head of Engineering and Electrical for a television studio in Culver City. He knew it wasn't the job title - he had made them change it from Air Conditioning and Engineering when he had signed on. Air condition was important, but he had always known people in California had their priorities mixed up.
His career in the Air Force had ended prematurely, a bullet to his leg grounding him for the last six months of what turned out to be his last tour of duty. Faced with the option of a desk job or an honourable discharge, John had collected his paperwork, moved to Nevada, and tried to figure out a way to use that dusty degree in mechanical engineering. Math had always been a fascination - and engineering had given him the opportunity to use all those theoretical skills to work on the machines he loved to fly. He figured if he couldn't fly planes anymore, he could at least work on them for those who did. Plus, Nevada, with its rolling dunes and oppressive heat were familiar, just like the places he spent so much time flying over.
After a year in Vegas working on planes that shuttled retirees and the alarmingly newlywed over the Hoover Dam, John had had enough. Of the heat, of the sand, of being surrounded by things he couldn't fly, all of it. A dinner with an old Air Force buddy on a random Thursday had him quitting and moving into the heart of TV Land, a place John ranked only a few very tiny steps above the sand and the grit of the desert in his first tour. But, with a new apartment, a new job, and a new dog, John had felt like he could finally get on with the rest of his life. Fixing things on a television stage wasn't the same as flying, but the pressure for everything to work and work right was comfortingly familiar.
The muted ding of the elevator pulled him back to reality, and he ran his fingers over the trace of stubble on his jawline as he stepped out, headed for the heavy door marked 'Control Room'. He never knew what would await him on the other side, so he braced himself to do battle with anything from a blinking light that shouldn't blink to someone's coffee split all over the sound mixer.
"Can you believe this guy?"
John entered the darkened room to the booming voice of one Jack O'Neill, affectionally known as The Colonel, both because of the military precision with which he ran the room and the lingering style of his salt and pepper hair.
"John, John," Jack beckoned him over to his chair with a wave of his hand. "You have got to see this guy, he's a genius."
A snort sounded from O'Neill's right, originating from Samantha Carter, video editor extraordinaire and Jack's very blonde second in command. "We know - he keeps telling us how he's 'God's gift to MENSA'."
John flicked his eyes up to the wall of monitors, each and every one tuned to the same channel. All of them showed the same set from different angles, one of which was focused in on a brown haired man with a crooked mouth and a bad tie. "What are you guys talking about?"
Jack gestured wildly at the screen. "This guy! This . . ."
"Rodney McKay," Sam supplied.
"Mckay character. He's a riot!" Jack leaned forward, pressed three buttons and turned a dial, flooding the small room with sound.
"... and who do you think you are, anyway, Trudeau? Being born in Sudbury doesn't erase the two decades you've spent as a cog in the social machine that keeps Americans stupid and complacent!
Jack shook with repressed laughter. "He's been giving him shit all night for his over-annunciation of French words."
"Alex takes pride in his accurate pronunciation of other languages," Teyla, sound technician, spiritual guru, and the most intimidating woman John had ever worked with, remarked. "He sees it as a sign of respect."
John held in a snort at the image of a clearly harassed Alex Trebek behind his little podium. "It looks like he's going to throw a fit - that's not very respectful."
"He deserves it!"
Sam swiveled in her chair and glanced at a small, wiry haired man in glasses. "Just because you taught him the wrong pronunciation of the Czech words for your own personal amusement, Radek-"
Radek, assistant to the Executive Producer, snorted. "Deserves it, the over-annunciating blbec. Do you know how much hate mail I received after he shaved the mustache off?"
"That may be, Radek, but it was time for a change," Teyla gently cut in. "He felt very strongly about the decision, we spent many conversations discussing the relative merits of facial hair."
"... and where is that tech guy of yours? There is no way little miss 'My children are my inspiration' over here buzzed in before me for that 'This man pioneered the theory of relativity - and he did it without any socks' clue."
John raised an eyebrow at Jack.
"Uh, yeah, that's why you're here. He won't stop complaining about - well, everything, actually, but specifically he thinks his buzzer is broken and seriously hampering his naturally lightening quick reflexes." Jack gave a helpless little shrug. "Could you go out there and mess around with it?"
"Sure," John agreed as he shuffled his way out of the room, grabbing a screwdriver from Radek's desk. The man might have been an executive assistant, but half the time he could be found half buried in the building's power grid. "Besides, anyone who calls Trebek on his crap is someone I'd like to meet."
Jack looked relieved. "Thanks, Sheppard."
John waved his 'no problem' behind him as he closed the door and headed down the hall to the main studio. He wasn't called there often - he let his camera tech Lorne handle most of the actual recording equipment, but anything that was on stage and was used during an actual show, he handled himself.
He was greeted with a familiar almost neon-blue set, watched a visibly upset Trebek in the corner getting face powdered as Craig hovered nearby, rolling his eyes and making an unmistakeable 'kill me' motion. John threw him a grin as he headed toward a familiar figure in a finely tailored suit and red shirt combo.
"... and what's with the lowball questions? Is Trebek starting to confuse the grown up trivia with the ones you save for Celebrity shows?"
Elizabeth Weir, Executive Producer and the bureaucratically inclined former diplomat, had a sympathetic look on her face as she spoke to - or rather listened to - one Rodney McKay. The man was surprisingly pale in person, large square hands flailing about as he expressed his dislike with just about everything in sight.
"I understand, Mister McKay," Elizabeth started.
"Doctor McKay," the man snapped, blue eyes blazing with indignation.
"Doctor McKay," Elizabeth corrected. "I can assure you that we take the competitive nature of this show very seriously and as such all of the equipment used, electronic or otherwise, is subject to careful and frequent attention."
"Usually done by me, in fact," John said as he stopped to stand at Elizabeth's side.
"John," the relief was apparent on her face. "This is Doctor McKay - Doctor McKay, this is John Sheppard. We were hoping you could take a look at his buzzer?"
"Be glad to." He gestured to the main stage with a nod of his head. "Shall we?"
McKay, for all of his demonstrated pain-in-the-ass tendencies, looked almost flustered. "I ... yes, we shall." He seemed to regain his balance and set his chin in a defiant tilt, marching his way over to the little consoles the players stood behind.
Shooting a look at Elizabeth, he fell into step behind the man, and found himself staring at a truly horrible plaid sports jacket that rested on surprisingly broad shoulders.
Shaking his head at his own mental lapse, John slid behind the consoles and popped open the control panel that housed all of the electronics.
"So you're a mechanic?" McKay's voice tried and failed to sound casual and conversational.
"I'm the mechanic," John replied as he ran his hands through the mess of wires, checking to see if anything was loose. "Head of Engineering and Electrical."
"Oh?" He sounded genuinely surprised at John's nod. "I just though that with your hair and your, well, um, that's, yeah, that's good, because I'd have been insulted if they had sent a lowly grunt. And I would have fixed it myself but Weir wouldn't let me."
"Is that so?" John as tracing the cords that plugged into the power sources, half his attention on McKay almost leaning into his personal space.
McKay made a dismissive hand motion. "Please. It would have taken me five minutes - eight, tops. I'm a highly trained doctor of physics - my day job involves a particle accelerator and twice the energy output of Niagara Falls."
"Wow. I'm terribly impressed."
Rodney seemed to perk up at John's sarcasm. "Of course you are, I'm terribly impressive." Ok, maybe he hadn't picked up on the sarcasm.
The next few minutes passe in a surprisingly awkward silence, McKay periodically moving into John's personal space then backing out as if he were unsure of something. There was nothing wrong with the buzzer as far as John could tell, so he put on his best 'I'm fixing things' face, plugging and unplugging wires at random so McKay would think he was improving the buzzer's response time. McKay just looked like he was desperately searching for something to say, and John was willing to bet that didn't happen very often.
With one last push, he fitted the panel back on the console and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Ok, McKay, you're all set."
"Oh, already?" Rodney looked almost sad.
"Yup. Good luck with the rest of the game." John patted him on the shoulder and turned to head out of the studio.
"Aren't you curious to see who wins?" McKay blurted out, stopping John in his tracks to turn around. "I mean, obviously it's going to be me, they put me up against a school teacher from Akron and a freaking elementary school librarian from Lexington, but we haven't even gotten to Double Jeopardy and the final question, which is going to be US Presidents, it's always US Presidents, despite the fact that a number of their players are Canadian and the show airs in over 25 countries, they're clearly catering to the American audience and-"
"McKay." John interrupted, suddenly worried about the man's oxygen intake.
"What?" Rodney's hands curled into fists at his sides in what John guessed was an attempt not to fidget.
"I'll hang out and watch," John, mindful of Elizabeth's raised eyebrow and Ronon, the dreadlocked camera guy, giving him a knowing grin, placed his hand on Rodney's arm. "Besides, I never miss Double Jeopardy."
Rodney stared down at his own arm, then his head snapped up and gave him an unreadable look. "Never?"
"Never." John gave Rodney's arm a squeeze and let go. "Know why?"
Rodney shook his head.
John stepped in closer and lowered his voice. "Because it's twice as dangerous."
He pulled away, slightly amused that he could get under Rodney's skin enough to cause a faint pink to stain the man's face. "Good luck."
Rodney cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks. For the buzzer and . . . everything."
"Anytime." John said as he started to walk back to the network staff reserved seats on the floor of the studio in front of the audience.
"John?"
John grinned to himself. He had always been able to read people, and for once, he was pleased to be right. He schooled his features back to neutral as he turned around. "Yeah?"
"What are you doing? Later, I mean." Rodney gestured in vague circles with his hands. "Do you have plans for dinner later or . . ."
John gave him a small smile. "Win the game by a margin of the square root of an imaginary number, and then we'll talk."
Rodney looked momentarily confused, but the crooked line of his mouth smoothed out into a smirk as he recognized John's challenge. "Deal."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the player's consoles with purpose, throwing out a thinly veiled insult regarding Trebek's role as an over glorified Jeff Probst, complete with a don't let your mustache get caught in your tribal life fire joke.
Ronon stopped John on his way over to take a seat beside Elizabeth. "Twice as dangerous?" he asked, completely deadpan.
John just shrugged. "With this guy playing, it probably will be."
Ronon let out a bark of laughter. "You know I got the whole thing on camera, right?"
John thought about Jack and the rest of the team laughing their asses off back in the control room. He shrugged again.
Ronon clapped him hard on the shoulder and turned back to his camera. John absently rubbed the patch of skin that was sure to be a bruise by morning as he slipped into the seat beside Elizabeth. He chose to ignore the look on her face that said she could read exactly what was going though his mind in English, French, Czech, and every other language in existence.
John just leaned back in his chair and watched the sarcastic man with the sharp blue eyes cut down his opponents. The schoolteacher and librarian had no defense against McKay's relentlessly methodical pace, buzzing in answer after answer, a tiny curl playing at the corner at his mouth when he glanced over at John.
John caught and held his gaze long enough to give him a smirk. Double jeopardy was dangerous, he thought, but sometimes it was worth the risk.
.: The End :.