A/N: BiteMeTechie: the awesomeness. Inventor of Lydia Winter, nemesis and sometime love interest of Doctor Rodney McKay (usually in my twisted little neuron center I like to call a brain).
A/N2: Anyway. Techie and I were exchanging reviews the other day, and somehow Fred the plot bunny snuck onto the screen and infiltrated my computer. I don't know if this'll come through right or not, but here's Fred:
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...Okay that didn't work right but anyway, he's holding the Carrot of Shipping, with which he stabbed me today, which is why I wrote this 'fic, which is why you're reading it (or not reading it as the case may be. Raise your hand if you're not reading this! Wait, no . . . Review this if you didn't read it!) Yeah. That'll work.
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I don't understand women. At all. Sure, I like them, in fact I like them a lot, particularly the difficult ones, but I do not understand them.
For instance: Major, now Colonel Samantha Carter. First she slaps me, then she insults me, then she refuses to talk to me . . . wait. Okay, bad example. Scratch that.
I do not understand women. For instance: Doctor Lydia Winter. First she makes numerous attempts on my life, then she asks me out. Does that make sense? Didn't think so.
You look lost. That's understandable; I mean my IQ is astronomically greater than yours, so I'll try to explain it in layman's terms. Here's what happened.
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After the first few times Winter tried to kill me, I think we developed a grudging sense of mutual respect, or rather, she developed a sense of respect for me. I still think she's a nutcase. We'd exchange grunts when we passed in the halls, or when one of us needed to borrow the other's notes. (I'd just like to point out that no matter what she may have told you, I did not take her notes without permission, I distinctly asked her if I could use them. Of course, she was listening to that awful din she calls music at the time, and didn't technically answer, but she was nodding her head so I assumed that meant yes.)
Keeping this in mind, you can see why it might come as a bit of a shock to me that she would come up to my lab just a few days ago - interrupting a very important bit of research, I might add - and say what she did.
"Wake up, Rodney."
Hey, it was boring research! Anyway, I was about to make a retort when she held up her hands and continued, "I don't want to fight today, I just wanted to ask you something."
I could see by her manner that she was slightly nervous about something. With Winter, that's never a good sign.
"Oh, what now Winter, did you finally blow up your speakers?" I asked her wearily, rubbing my eyes. She snorted. Which, by the way, is my line.
"No, McKay, I did not 'blow up my speakers'," she quipped, then moved closer to my desk. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, frowning slightly.
"What, Winter? I'm a busy man, you know, you can't just barge in here and expect me to give you my undivided attention." I started to rant about the lack of respect in this city, but she interrupted.
"I was just wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me on Friday," she said quietly.
Giving her my undivided attention, I said intelligently, "What!"
She rolled her eyes. Again, she's stealing my lines. "I said, would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?"
Apparently taking my unbelieving gape as a yes, she smiled and said, "Great, I'll see you here around seven o'clock then?"
Without waiting for an answer, she left.
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Now I ask you, is that rational behavior? For a normal person, yes, but for a homicidal maniac like Winter? NO! She's insane! Terminally, certifiably, and in all other ways, insane!
And there is no way that I'm going to keep that date. No way in hell.
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"Rodney, you're keeping that date," Laura Cadman says at lunch.
"WHAT! No I am not!" I squeak around a bite of my fourth power bar.
"Yes, you are," she continues, stabbing a morsel of her salad and sticking it into her mouth before continuing, ". . . because if you don't I'll tell everyone some of the stuff I learned when I was trapped in your head."
I pale.
"You wouldn't," I say without conviction. Of course she would, she's Laura Cadman for Pete's sake.
"Of course I would, Rodney, who do you think I am, Shirley Temple?"
I stare morosely at my plate of food, once a source of immense joy to me but now just a sad little pile of power bars.
"Do I have to?" I whine in a small voice. She gives me The Look.
Having every wish to retain use of my limbs, I concede. "Okay, okay, I'll do it, but why are you making me?"
She doesn't answer, but instead looks down at her salad and pushes it around aimlessly. My suspicions aroused, I narrow my eyes and ask her again.
"Why. Are. You. Making. Me. Go. Out. With. That. Thing. Cadman?"
She makes a noncommital noise, still looking at her lunch. When she glances up and I'm still staring at her warily, she shrugs and answers, "Okay, so maybe we had a bit of a bet going."
"We?" I press.
"Lydia and I did. She said there was no way in hell she was asking you out, I said oh but it'd be so much fun to mess with your head, she said something to the effect of she hates your guts but I'm right, I said good, she said but there's no way you'd go through with it, I said care to make a wager, and your fate was sealed."
I shudder. "Remind me never to piss one of you off," I mutter under my breath, but apparently along with tap-dancing, one of Cadman's hobbies is having excellent hearing.
"Oh it's too late for that, Rodney." She gets up and starts to leave. "It's waaaaaaaay too late for that."
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So all of that is why I'm standing here, in my office, in a suit and a tie for God's sake, waiting for the she-demon to show up.
Hm. 7:15.
Maybe she won't show.
Maybe it was all just a joke.
Maybe . . . oh, wonderful. Someone's knocking at the door.
I sigh angrily and wave my hand at the door device. It slides open, as does my mouth.
What the hell did she do to herself!
She's wearing a . . . God how do I describe it . . . she's wearing a dress.
I mean, it's nothing special, just a . . . light blue . . . halter top . . . that shows off . . . good lord. She's built like Marilyn Monroe! That should so not be legal . . .
Uh-oh, she's looking at you funny, McKay, snap out of it.
"McKay?"
Gulp. "Uh . . . hello . . . Lydia," I say, trying to get my gaze to unstick itself and move up to her face.
"Hi . . . Rodney," she said, seeming surprised that I was there. Oh, that's right, she didn't think I'd go through with it. Cadman better make good on that promise of unlimited chocolate from the next Daedalus run, this is one of those things that could potentially scar me for life.
Lydia seems to be trying to accept this turn of events with dignity, as she gestures and says, "Shall we?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without offending her further. That would be a bad idea. Very bad. She hasn't tried to kill me in a week or so, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
I follow her to the kitchens, where apparently dear old Head Chef Alex Ramsey was in on the plot as well. She smirks and shows us to a candle-lit table set for two in the back corner. I mutter something about the puzzling lack of a violinist, but Lydia elbows me and we sit down. We start to eat in silence, giving me the chance to observe her out of her natural habitat.
Her normally bushy hair has somehow been tamed into a mass of really intense corkscrew curls, none of which do more than brush her bare shoulders . . . gulp . . . okay, Rodney, focus on the food. Ah. There we go. Food. Food is good. Food is nice. Food is our friend. Food does not have dark-chocolatey-brown eyes that no one ever sees because of those thick glasses. Wait . . . getting off-track there . . .
"So, Rodney," she says, spearing another bite of her meal. "How are you?"
Whoa. Don't think she's ever asked that before.
"I'm good, Lydia," I say, surprised to find that I actually am. "This is nice."
She nods. I take this as a good sign. She's quiet, though. That's not good.
Belatedly I realize my mistake and hasten to add, "How are you?"
She cocks an eyebrow, probably amazed that I can be polite. Come to think of it, I am too. This doesn't usually happen. Hunh.
"I'm . . . pretty good at the moment," she says cautiously.
"Good!" I say, relieved. She raises her eyebrows again and I bluff it out.
"I mean, it's good that you're feeling good, because feeling good is good . . ."
I trail off. She's . . . wow . . . she's smiling. This is new. I think I like it, too.
We finish the dinner in companiable silence, exchanging meaningless remarks for an hour before I mention comic books.
Mistake, McKay. BIG mistake.
Well, not so much, I mean she likes Catwoman, so she can't be all bad, but as soon as I said something about Batman, she got really wide-eyed and started jabbering about which publications were the best, why the Joker was a better villian than the Penguin, blah, blah, blah. Now she's talking about something called "The Lone Gunmen" (what that is, I have no idea).
Strangely enough, though, it's interesting to listen to her talk about something she really loves. Her eyes are all sparkly, an effect enhanced by her wearing contacts instead of the usual thick frames. Her hands are in constant motion, and she has this half-smile that makes her face sort of glow. Sigh.
I'm probably smiling dorkily, but for once, I don't care.
She notices me staring at her and suddenly becomes self-conscious, blushing - Lydia Winter, blushing - and looking down at her lap where she's twisting her napkin awkwardly.
"You must think I'm such a nerd," she laughs.
I hasten to assure her that, actually, I do not. When she looks through her lashes at me, I gulp and add that I think she's crazy, but not a nerd.
Seeming satisfied, she nods and rises. I do too, smiling and offering her my arm.
"May I escort you to your quarters?" I ask, aiming for gentlemanly.
Apparently it works, shocking me, but I keep my composure as she daintily places her fingers on my wrist and smiles up at me.
Wow. She's short. She can't be more than . . . five-seven. Hunh. Don't usually notice it because of those immensely-heeled boots she always wears.
I walk her out of the kitchen, ignoring the "subtle" winks coming from Chef Ramsey and her assistant Mick.
As we reach her quarters, she removes her arm from mine and turns to me.
"Rodney, I want to apologise," she says bluntly, and I'm stunned into silence for the umpteenth time this night. Interesting the effects she has on me.
I regain my faculties and stutter, "F-f-for w-what?"
She gestures towards her dress, saying, "For this, I mean, I wasn't exactly honest with you about my intentions tonight."
As I realize she's talking about the deal, I laugh and say, "Oh, is that all."
She looks at me strangely (again, for the umpteenth time that night) and says, shaking her head, "I don't follow."
I smile and make a deprecating gesture.
"If you mean about the bet with Cadman, then I should apologize too."
Hah. It was worth the entire multiple-attempted-murders just to see the look on her face.
I think that for the first (and hopefully not the last) time in my life, I, Rodney McKay, have made Lydia Winter speechless.
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A/N: Alex and Mick are Reefgirl's. Small part, I know, but credit is due. Thanks so much for letting me borrow them guys!
A/N2: Wow that was really fun to write. I should mention that this'll be a three-parter, but not consecutive timelines. This one was the first date, the next is the first kiss, the last is the proposal, but they're separate AUs. Just felt like clarifying.
A/N3: THANK YOU TECHIE YOU ARE THE COOLEST.