A/N: BiteMeTechie owns Lydia Winter. (read: Goddess of Fanfiction owns/created Goddess of OCs.)

A/N2: This'll be almost completely AU, just because 1.) Lydia Winter is not a canonical character, she's not even mine for that matter, 2.) can you imagine anyone actually wanting to marry Rodney McKay? I know we all love David Hewlett, seriously, who doesn't, deep down, but could you actually live with the guy without strangling him on a regular basis? Didn't think so. And 3.) I DON'T OWN STARGATE ATLANTIS. IF I DID, RONON AND TEYLA WOULD HAVE FIVE CHILDREN BY NOW, JOHN AND ELIZABETH WOULD BE AT LEAST GOING OUT, AND LYDIA WINTER WOULD BE A CANONICAL CHARACTER.

Sheesh. It's enough to make one shake their head sadly in despair.

-shakes head sadly in despair-


I fiddle with my tie anxiously, sticking my hand into my pocket yet again to reassure myself that the small box is still there.

It's there. I gulp nervously, checking my watch for about the fifth time in as many seconds, worried sick that she isn't here yet.

But the door slides open, as if hearing my thoughts, and she steps into the room. I stride quickly towards her, my hand stretched out to welcome her, and as she smiles I have a chance to notice yet again how beautiful she is.

Her eyes, normally hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses, are free of their confinement and I can lose myself in her gaze. Her curly hair, just brushing her shoulders, bounces with the inner energy she herself contains in her slim hourglass figure.

Ack. I have got to stop waxing poetic about her, it's just Lydia for Pete's sake. I feel like a complete dork.

"Hello, you dork," she says by way of greeting, her eyes fondly sweeping the room. I bristle at the insult to my cleanliness, and I'm about to retort about her pigsty of a lab when I remember why I asked her here.

"Um, Lydia, do you want to sit down?" I motion to the chairs and table I've set up, then hurry to pull one out for her. She looks at me strangely, but then again she always looks at me strangely, and she sits down. I pour her a glass of Radek's "Chateau de Hawkeye" moonshine and wait for her to gulp half of it down before I say anything.

Gulp. She's looking at me expectantly, and suddenly the planned speech I had goes completely out of my head. I'm left with me, pure and simple. Just Rodney. I hope she likes it.

"Ahem. So, Lydia, we haven't really known each other for all that long, but I think we do enjoy each others' company, when we're not trying to kill each other that is."

A smile. Good sign. I continue.

"I think that we've even become . . friends?"

She nods. I think she doesn't want to interrupt, so I keep going.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is . . ."

I trail off. Somehow, when it comes right down to it, I'm actually more scared of these six words than I've been of anything else my entire life. God. The great Rodney McKay, scared of asking one little question. I've stood up to Wraith, Goa'uld (okay that was by proxy but I could've been there!), I've blown up galaxies, fixed rips in the space-time continuum, I've sent copies of myself back to the alternate realities they came from, I live in a floating city for cryin' out loud, and I can't ask one little question.

I sigh in annoyance, then mutter, "Oh to hell with it," draw the box out of my pocket, and toss it to her.

She's got quick reflexes, I'll give her that, and she catches it one-handed. She looks at it for a long moment, then switches her gaze to me, and I'm surprised to see a hint of . . . fear? and amazement in her eyes. She looks back at the box again, then opens it with shaking hands and gasps.

"Lydia Winter, will you marry me?" I squeak, dropping to one knee and praying to the Ancients that she doesn't kill me. She looks at the box, then slowly picks up the ring inside and looks at it in wonder. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like a goldfish out of water, a comment I keep quite to myself, thankyouverymuch, and her eyes are . . . wow I did not know that human eyelids could open that far.

"Rodney, I . . ." she stutters, then shakes her head slightly and starts over.

"How did you . . . ?"

I cut her off. "Well, I may have . . . erm . . . borrowed a certain personnel file from Dr. Weir . . . but since if you ask three different people what June's birthstone is, you'll get three different answers . . ."

I stop, seeing that she's not actually listening. She's looking at the silver ring, with its small but bright insets of moonstone, alexandrite, pearl, alexandrite, and moonstone, and her expression is confusing. Normally I can easily tell her mood, but right now her face is just a mask.

I am enlightened on the subject of her feelings, however, when she suddenly leaps from her chair and . . . there is no other word for it . . . glomps me. A glomp, for those of you unfortunate enough never to have experienced one, is a sort of tackle-hug with kisses and expressions of adoration thrown in.

I have just about enough time to lament the impending doom of my knees before I am thrown about a yard backwards, landing fairly happily between Lydia and the floor. I can't say anything about it, though, being kissed quite thoroughly as I am, but when she comes up for air I do get a final quip in, before my life is changed forever.

"I take that as a yes?"


A/N: -fights extreme inner battle with self-


Okay, I was going to keep you all in suspense about it, but I'm feeling charitable at the moment so I'll just tell you now.


There will be a fourth one-shot in this vein, entitled "The Wedding". What's it about? Er . . . I'm afraid that's classified. But I was looking through Techie's "100 Starting Lines" again and I saw the best line ever (not really but it's really good) and it gave me an idea. And you all know how I am with ideas. They can't stay in my brain too long, or I might explode. I have to write them down as fast as I can to preserve the state of blissful blondeness I've got going. So. Stay tuned!