It was a frustratingly nice day in Vancouver, BC, which sent distractingly warm rays of sunshine filtering through the windshield of Rodney McKay's battered Volkswagen Rabbit. He blinked away the aching tiredness in his eyes, the result of spending over 24 hours in his lab in Richmond, and felt a deep resentment towards the pleasant weather. He couldn't enjoy it, not when he was so exhausted and slightly anxious for the return to his small apartment. She would be upset with him for not coming home last night.
He pulled up into the communal driveway of his complex at last, feeling a mixture of dread and hope. On the one hand, she would chew him out. On the other, he could use the comfort of her touch right now, he was so sleepy and frustrated and she had a remarkable way of calming his nerves. He hopped out of the car, lugging his laptop from the back seat with a grunt, and got the mail. He flipped through it absently, bypassing the bills and advertisements without interest as he mounted the walk. Fumbling for his keys, he noticed the latest issue of the AAIA Journal of theoretical physics and his eyes lit up. Not that he'd really gotten around to publishing much lately, but every once in a while his name would be mentioned as one of his previous papers were cited, and he liked to cut those pages out and add them to his scrapbook. The cover of the publication was a typically cheesy 3D rendering, McKay thought depicting the erroneous gentle curve of an event horizon.
He opened the door slowly, peering in to see if anyone was home. It was a small apartment, and though he already knew he would get no response he called out her name. But she was out; of course, he thought, feeling slightly dejected. Of course she had things to do, her own life to lead, couldn't just sit around and wait for him all day. But surely she'd be home for dinner. Still feeling fairly depressed, he set about preparing two refrigerated hot dogs, setting them in the toaster for fifteen minutes. It wasn't the classiest of meals, but he hadn't bought groceries in a while.
While he waited for the food to cook, McKay grabbed a soda from the fridge and flopped onto the couch gracelessly, taking up the AAIA magazine and flipping to the cover story. His eyes scanned the abstract with initial disinterest, but as they flew over the page they grew wider with shock and indignation. Eventually he had finished the entire paper, consumed in its content while the unpleasant smell of burning hot dog filled the apartment. When he reread the final paragraph for the third time, he threw down the journal in anger, leaping up from the couch and staring down at it as though he expected it to put up a fight.
"WHAT THE HELL," he shouted, pointing accusingly at the lifeless magazine. The fire alarm started.
"What the fuck!" he dashed over to the kitchen, tripping slightly on the ottoman, and pulled he charred remains of dinner from the toaster. He burnt his hands in the process and alternated between sucking on smarting fingers and waving his arms around above him to clear the smoke from the room. The fire alarm refused to be silenced, and McKay thought it might as well be registering all the fuming he was doing himself. In an absolute rage bordering on temper tantrum, he dragged a barstool towards the blaring alarm, hopped onto it carelessly and tore the device from the ceiling, mercilessly gutting its wiring. The noise stopped, but McKay's initial momentum from the violent onslaught did not, and he toppled with the stool backwards, falling with a tremendous crash to the floor.
He felt like crying. His whole body ached from the shockwave his fall had sent through it, and his already severe headache was threatening a full on migraine. Gingerly he raised himself from the floor to assess the damage. Where to start? He limped over to the kitchen and threw out the blackened wreckage which he had hoped would be a delicious meal. His eyes then darted to the living room, where the offending magazine still lay, unharmed, as though it was gloating. Laughing at the spectacle he had just provided.
Ignoring all the other disastrous events of the past fifteen minutes, McKay hobbled back into the living room and grabbed the journal, tearing to the first page of the article he'd been reading to find the name of the author.
"This is low, this is nothing short of abject plagiarism, I will not stand for this," he mumbled murderously. The article had been discussing the possibilities of creating contained time dilation chambers using the immense power of the (entirely unavailable but still fun to think about) ZPMs to manipulate space-time itself. Rodney had been working through this exact same theory for months, had first conjured the idea years ago, had been writing emails about it to close colleagues (and his sister before she got hitched); it was HIS IDEA. FIRST.
"NEIL DEGRASSE TYSON," Rodney bellowed, seeing the smiling picture of the tele-physicist staring back at him triumphantly. Gloating.
He would not let this rest. Oh no, he would write to the editor of the magazine! He would write a VERY strongly worded letter – no. No that would come later, no first, he would write to Tyson! He would compose a perfectly scathing email, right here, right now; the pompous bastard would not get away with this larceny! He would force HIM to write the letter to the editor, a sorrowful apology, the WORLD would know his wrongdoing, straight from the horse's mouth!
"Isn't this just typical," McKay muttered, grabbing his laptop furiously and slamming himself down onto the couch, wincing as the various bruises accumulated after the fall made themselves known. He powered up the laptop violently, waiting for it to boot up. Painfully slow.
"This is just standard practice in this industry, goddamn vultures," he tapped on the mouse impatiently. "He probably thinks he can get away with it since he's American! He probably thinks anyone would believe him more than me, well well well he's got another thing coming!"
The computer finally started up, and he immediately drew up a word document to contain his oncoming rant.
"Neil Degrasse Tyson, what a quack," he mumbled as he began typing. "More like Neil de-ASS Tyson, ha ha," he snickered at his joke, wondering briefly if he should actually address the letter as such.
He heard a noise from the door. She was home, at last! Suddenly his rage melted slightly (he would save it for later) and his utter exhaustion returned full force, with an accompanying longing for her company. She would sort this out, she would calm him down, listen to him complaining without getting upset. She would understand his anger, his indignation at the crime. They were meant for each other. He tottered up from the couch and saw her as she came in.
"Hey beautiful!" he smiled.
"Meow," she said.
"I know!" he said, and limped over to her, scooping her up into his arms. "I know, I'm a mess, I'm so sorry."
She purred gently in his arms, licking his hand.
"I've had a really bad day," he said quietly, and he set her down on the top of the couch. She rubbed against his arm as he stood, feeling dizzy. He gazed at the wreck of an apartment he had made, the kitchen askew, the mangled remains of a fire alarm lying on the hallway floor. His stomach gave an audible growl and his mood depressed further. Those had been the last hot dogs, as well as the last semblance of human food in his apartment.
"This is all Tyson's fault," he told his cat bitterly, plopping down on the couch again. She hopped into his lap and kneaded his thigh painfully, but he ignored it. "You know, Steal Degrasse Tyson? Eugh, that one's not so good…"
She settled on his lap at last, purring loudly. He stroked her absent-mindedly, staring once more at the computer screen where a strongly worded email was half-written. She looked up and him.
"Meow," she said.
"What?" he jerked himself from his reverie and looked down at her. "What'd you say? You say I should order a pizza?" She squeezed her eyes. "A large pizza you say? With back bacon? Well I don't know…"
She nudged his arm with her nose affectionately.
"Alright then, if you say so," he conceded, reaching for the phone carefully so as not to disturb her. "And then I'll read you this letter, I'd like to get some feedback."
AN: Just a little drabble about when Neil Degrasse Tyson stole Rodney's idea, pre-SGA obviously.
I loved "Brain Storm" to pieces, especially since Rodney's my favorite SGA character, Tyson is my favorite tele-scientist, and Bill Nye will always have a warm spot in my heart from childhood. Anyway, also I love Rodney and his cat situations. I hope it wasn't too obvious / dumb!