[For timespirt‘s prompt: SGA, John/Rodney – danger, ritual, infirmary]
Not for the first time, John entertained the possibility that Rodney’s claims that Carson actually practiced voodoo instead of medicine. Because really, was there any other reason to draw so much blood?
“We have to make sure you weren’t poisoned,” Dr. Biro claimed as she took away the latest offering.
“Well, I was stabbed and bled out for awhile,” John pointed out (despite his lack of audience). “Maybe it would be a good idea to leave my remaining blood where it is?” The empty room remained silent, which he took as assent. “And anyway, Rodney got nicked by the same knife, so why isn’t he in here too?”
Of course, the next day when he learned that Rodney had seized twice during the night and had almost died alone in his bedroom, he was kind of glad no one had been around to hear him.
[for trishkafibble‘s prompt: any – artifact, facsimile, factotum]
After a couple of months, Radek figured out that how any given day would go could be predicted pretty well by whether or not he got to eat his breakfast in peace. Or at all. (On average: once a week without interruptions, and at least twice where he couldn’t make it past four bites.)
He really couldn’t blame it on anyone but himself: Rodney was Rodney, and so everyone came to Radek first because they knew he’d probably say ‘yes’–or at least ‘maybe’–or would actually answer their question instead of ignoring it for six months or until some crisis forced the issue. Or refusing out of hand to work on something because it was ‘too soft science-y’.
More than one late night he’d spent staring at the ceiling over his bed, trying to imagine what it would be like to remake himself in Rodney’s image. Probably worse for his blood pressure but better for his ulcers.
But he had a small row of clay and carved wooden birds across the top of one of the cabinets in his room, and memories of grateful smiles to go with each one, so all in all he was happy enough to just be himself. Let Rodney earn his Nobel; Radek was content.
(Except when the bastard drank the last of the coffee and didn’t refill the pot.)