Secret Santa 2017
John Sheppard ambles across the patterned carpet to the employee's door. Another time he'd stride, long legs eating up the floor, but the cold is making his bum leg stiff this week. He kinda hopes it'll just get on and snow, then at least there'll be a payoff.
He taps the four digit security code into the lock and swings into the back of the bar. Teyla smiles at him as he unravels the scarf from his neck and hangs up his parka with the other coats. He'd briefly considered asking her out until he'd found out about her skills with a pair of sticks. Now she regularly kicked his butt down at the gym.
"Good evening, John. Are you well?" she asks, collecting her own coat.
"Hey, Teyla. I'm fine. How are you and the boys?"
"Torren is growing every day and keeping Kanaan on his toes," she smiles. "I must run or I will be late."
John grins. "Break a leg," he calls after her.
"I hope I do not," she replies with an arched eyebrow and sweeps out of the door. He knows she doesn't need luck tonight – she's been rehearsing for weeks. He's got a feeling this'll be her big break, but he'll miss her when she leaves.
He sticks his head into the office/broom closet. Elizabeth hunches over the laptop, looking tired. It's nearing the end of the month, so he knows she'll be doing the books – something she hates.
"Want me to take a look at that later?" he asks.
She sits up, running a hand through her hair. It was short when she offered him the job at Atlantis, but it's grown past her shoulders now, curly and glossy. He'd really like to run his fingers through it. It's not the first time he's had an inappropriate thought about his boss.
"Thank you, John. I'd appreciate that," she says, relieved, as though he's offering a favour. Never mind that's how it's been since she discovered John's talent for figures. He hadn't mentioned his masters' degree on his resume, but she'd drawn it out of him anyway. Along with the clusterfuck that was Afghanistan. Three dead buddies and a leg that would never be good enough for anything beyond flying a desk. Not to mention the dishonourable discharge for disobeying orders.
She'd never seemed bothered by any of that – as long as he could serve drinks and keep the customers happy, Elizabeth was happy.
"Coffee?" he asks.
"I'd love one, but the machine's broken," she says, smiling. His stomach flips a little. He really needs to put a lid on those feelings.
He ducks out of the office, heading towards the pot that's always on the go.
"You'll have to wait, it's on the fritz again," snaps a strident voice.
The voice belongs to one Dr Rodney McKay, double PhD, self-declared genius and future Nobel winner, or so he tells anyone who'll listen. How he ended up teaching physics at a community college is a mystery, but John's read between the lines and it sounds like McKay fell foul of the military and got blacklisted.
McKay is currently fiddling around in the guts of the coffee machine. John groans – doesn't look like he'll get any of the free coffee tonight.
"What did you do this time, McKay?" he growls, only half meaning it.
"What, me? I didn't touch it," McKay squeaks.
John waits.
"Well, only a little bit. Elizabeth said it wasn't filtering enough water, so I offered to take a look at it," McKay admits, looking a little guilty.
"You know, it probably just needs cleaning," John begins.
McKay scoffs. "It's an inferior model – I decided to improve its efficiency for you."
"Whatever. Just have it fixed before the end of the night. Otherwise you're bankrolling the fancy stuff," John shrugs.
"Bite me," Rodney mutters, only half-listening, attention reverting to the coffee machine.
"17,137," John barks at him.
"Oh please, prime." Rodney rolls his eyes. "Shouldn't you be out front by now?"
"Going," John drawls, turning his back on McKay.
"178,902," McKay throws out.
"Not prime," John sing-songs as he heads out to the bar.
There's just a few customers out in the floor area, the office workers mostly gone home, the pre-club crowd not yet emerged. He nods a greeting to Ronon, who's working the bar with him tonight. Dreadlocked, taciturn and intimidating, Ronon wouldn't be John's first choice for the hospitality industry, but he mixes a mean cocktail and a glare from the man seems to give any would-be trouble-makers second thoughts.
Ronon rumbles "Sheppard", and goes back to his book. Something thick and dusty-looking. Ronon's studying classic literature and took the bar job to put himself through grad school.
"Another," rasps a voice at his elbow, accompanied by the slight scrape of a glass being pushed across the bar.
John forces himself not to jump, affects an easy smirk. "Coming right up," he drawls, reaching for the bottle of bourbon.
"Here you go," he places the glass in front of the customer. He's one of the regulars – never seems to leave the place. Pale skinned, long white hair, and a fondness for dark leather clothing. The guy could be forty, could be eighty – it's impossible to tell. Elizabeth told John she'd more or less inherited him along with Atlantis. The guy's never shared his name, John's dubbed him 'Todd'. He's occasionally joined by a couple of equally pale buddies John calls Bob and Steve. They're creepy and other customers avoid them, but so long as they've got their drinks, they don't cause trouble. Ronon refuses to serve them, though.
Later, the place begins to fill and he's busy filling orders, chatting, even flirting a little. It's harmless and good for business, he tells himself.
Another familiar face approaches the bar, with a cute red head in tow.
"Lorne, you sly dog. Where've you been hiding this one?" he teases.
Evan Lorne - former flyboy like himself, minus the dishonourable discharge, now one of the city's finest. "You could say our eyes met over a decomposing corpse," he deadpans.
"It was all very romantic," she grins, offering a hand over the bar. "Laura Cadman."
"John Sheppard." He shakes her hand, the grip surprisingly powerful for a woman. "Let me guess, CSU?"
She throws back her head with a laugh. "Nope, plain old state police. But I used to blow things up for a living."
"Marines?"
"Got it in one," she replies, still grinning.
Lorne collects their beers from the bar and steers Laura away to a secluded corner of the bar. John half wonders if they'll hold the wedding reception there.
Another corner is occupied by a pair of semi-regulars- both lawyers. The one with glasses reminds him of the EMH from Voyager, the taller one of Assistant Director Skinner. They have companions tonight, he guesses they're clients or something. The older man has an Irish accent, the woman red hair and a grim expression. By the looks on their faces, whatever they're negotiating isn't going too well for anybody.
Almost as if she's got some sort of sixth sense, Elizabeth slips out and heads to the table. Within minutes, the tension seems to dissipate and some sort of accord seems to have been reached. She might not be much for the numbers, but she's an ace hostess and born diplomat.
She comes back to the bar, asks for a bottle of champagne and glasses.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Mr Woolsey and Mr Caldwell have just closed a very important deal. They're celebrating," she says, straight faced.
"And the champagne?"
"Entirely their idea, of course. We just happened to have a bottle available."
"That was lucky," he replies.
"Wasn't it?" she offers an enigmatic smile and returns to the party.
McKay bustles out, clutching a mug of black coffee.
"Fixed the machine," he says, lifting the mug in evidence. "But you should really talk Elizabeth into getting something better."
"If you actually paid for your coffee, maybe she could afford to."
"Hello, college professor's salary, here. Besides, between Zelenka's vodka habit and Beckett's Scotch, you should be rolling in it."
"You'd think," John says, the sarcasm lost on McKay as the man wanders off to another table.
Much later, when even Todd has been firmly escorted from the bar, muttering under his breath, John slumps in one of the seats. It's been a busy evening, he's exhausted and he's still got to cash up and go over the accounts for Elizabeth.
"Quite a night," Elizabeth says, slipping into the opposite seat. She's carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
"'Lizabeth, I've got the books to do," he begins.
"Oh go on, just the one glass, for me? So I'm not drinking alone," she grins. Wait, is she flirting? That's a new one. There's a tiny flutter of … no, it's probably heartburn, he tells himself.
"Fine, just a small one then," he agrees.
Against his better judgement, one glass becomes two, and before he knows it, they're laughing like they've know each other a lifetime instead of months.
Suddenly the jukebox starts playing.
He groans a little as he recognises the piano chords and the rasping vocals. Elizabeth however, sits up and grins.
"Oh I love this song."
John grimaces. "The Pogues? Really?"
"Oh come on, it's a classic!"
She stands up as the chorus kicks in. "Dance with me?"
Okay, she's clearly more tipsy than he realised. But to his surprise he stands up and takes her outstretched hand. Seems he's also had more than he intended. Either that, or it's seeing Elizabeth happy.
They arrange their hands and manage a sort of swaying that kind of matches the tempo. It should be awkward, but actually it feels kinda … nice.
He's never thought of Fairy-tale of New York as a particularly happy song, but maybe he can learn to like it, for Elizabeth's sake.