Disclaimer:I do not own Stargate Atlantis.

Summary: In order to get some ammunition for a prank war, Sheppard sneaks into McKay's quarters…and finds something interesting. McWeir

Archive: Sure!
Rating: PG-13 to be on the safe side
Spoilers: None, really.
Pairing: McWeir

A/N: Thanks so much to Jenny, for patiently listening to my ramblings…To everyone else…this one's a little…strange. So bear with me…

John cursed as he tripped over something in the darkened room. Thank God McKay was in his lab and not in his quarters, or he'd have some explaining to do. Rubbing his knee where he'd landed, he stood up again and switched on his flashlight. McKay was an incredibly messy individual. Clothes and other things littered the floor, bed and desk. John shook his head and then hoisted the bag that held his tools to his shoulder.

Being more careful this time, he walked over to the desk and sat down before pulling out a couple of things from his bag. A slow grin spread across his face. McKay would never know what hit him.

Perhaps it was childish of him, to retaliate in this manner…but…well the astrophysicist deserved it. Really, he did. If he thought he could retain the upper hand in an all out prank war with Master Shep, then he had another think coming.

He had to work quickly though, or he'd be found out…and that was unacceptable. So, he began rummaging through McKay's stuff. He didn't want anything too private…because that would be in violation of the unspoken laws of the Prank War. However, something just juicy enough to embarrass the man without offending him was perfectly fine.

McKay had let slip on a recent mission that he kept a journal. And since all's fair in love and war…John was totally going to use McKay's words against him. He grinned when he found what he was looking for, in plain sight. Most people wouldn't think to hide their things like that…but McKay wasn't most people.

He opened the leather bound book and began idly rifling through pages. From the dates, it looked as though he'd written a little bit when he was in college…and then just stopped until Antarctica. Strange. He flipped back to the front of the diary and raised an eyebrow as a piece of paper fluttered out. Picking it up, he perused the few lines on it.

Ode to Eliza

Silently I watch
Looking from a far
Sweet lady whose face
Nothing could mar

Eyes full of knowledge
Brimming with wonder
You've stolen my heart
Taken as your plunder

Eliza you are devine
Though you'll ne'er be mine.

Signed

Anonymous

John stared at the words for several precious minutes before a slow grin pasted itself onto his face. The poem was rather cheesy, and if McKay had written it, it was absolutely perfect for what he was planning. Still grinning, he quickly pulled out a small camera and took photos of all the journal entries, then shoved the journal back to its former position before rising and leaving the room quickly.

Back in the relative safety of his own quarters, John hooked the camera up to a laptop he'd snitched under the pretense that he was going to do some reports and then extracted the journal entries and settled back to do some reading.

What will the world be coming to if I just decide not to go through with this? I mean, it's not like this class is actually needed. Damn, if I had just registered earlier! Well, it's not like I could have. I was in the hospital because of an allergic reaction. They could have left one of the language classes open, couldn't they? I mean, yeah, I'm already taking Russian and Latin--for obvious reasons--but one more couldn't hurt?

So, the poem could very likely be McKay's. In fact, it probably was. Still…John just couldn't resist reading a little more.

Well, it's time for me to go. I could be late, make a statment and all that, but I'd rather make the statement that I'm reliable. Even doing something I hate.

God, this class is going to be boring. All ready I'm ready to snooze and it's only been the first five minutes! Writing poetry. What good can that do the world? I mean, come on. What am I going to do? Go up to Stephen Hawking and say "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, it is your keyboard?" Hardly.

Oh, better go for now...at least until I've got all the handouts. People are starting to stare at me. Probably just jealous because I've found a way to escape the monotony while they're stuck listening to the professor.

Okay, the class isn't all bad. But now we've got to sit here and write some kind of crappy 'flow-of-consciousness' thing. Well, if I wrote whatever popped into my head, I don't think the professor would like it very much. Oh, and now he's writing on the board, guess my time's up. Ha, guess he realizes that most of this class doesn't have a consciousness, much less a flow to it.

Ah! Lunch! My favorite time of the day...besides dinner. And breakfast. And elevensies. Those Hobbits sure knew what they were about. Eating is a wondrous thing. What was I going to say? Oh yeah! We got put into groups of four--can you believe it? Like we're a bunch of high school kids again.

Anyway, I've been paired with two guys who are so high they laugh at every other word said, and this young woman who seems to really enjoy the class. I wasn't paying much attention, but I'm assuming we have to write stuff and then critique each others as well as our own.

Critique. Again, I really don't see the point of this class. Who cares if some rhyme scheme is perfect? Or if the personification of an owl makes an impact on the feelings of a flower? Or whatever. I certainly don't. I'd much rather discuss the relationship of protons and electrons in the atomic mass.

Oh crap. I'm late.

I am so glad I live on campus, because it means I don't have to listen to Mum and Dad complaining about how I'll never amount to anything. What do they know anyway? I make an atomic bomb in the sixth grade, and instead of supporting my obvious genius, they put me in some kind of school for deranged boys.

Right, it wasn't really for deranged boys, but most of the boys there were deranged. All I wanted to do was win the science fair. I mean, really. There's no comparison. At all.

What was my point? Well, Mum called today. Don't know how she got my number. Well, actually I do. It's in the directory. Anyway, she's begging me to come home, because I'd be better off taking after my dad's business. Greeting Cards. She wants me to run a greeting card business. Can you believe that? I've got a really high IQ and she wants me to waste my intelligence on greeting cards!

Gotta go again...working on the stupid writing assignment for Poetry. We've got to write four couplets. Oh well, physics tomorrow!

A pounding at his door made John jump, and he quickly closed the files, opening up the ones his reports were in before calling out, "Who's there?"

"Lieutenant Ford, sir," came the response, "along with Sgts Markham and Bates. We're here for the game?" The last was definitely a question, and John had to grin.

"Come on in, I could use a break from these reports." In truth, he was cursing his luck. McKay had a very compelling writing style…even if his grammar and spelling were a little off.

tbc….