Being Rodney McKay - this was started back in 2006, and because I am a bit odd, I managed to loose bits around my computer and on thumb drives. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to send it to some friends, who inturn, sent it back to me because I managed to delete it. SO, this is a WIP, starting from pre-SGA Rising 1, to ... well however far you and my muse want it to go!

I was stepping back on good ol' US of A, America, Land of the Home and the Brave, May Amber Waves of Grain, From Sea to – anyway, I was stepping back on American soil when I realize that I may not have turned off the gas stove in my rented apartment back in Moscow. It was, however, too late to relay any sort of message since as soon as I remembered that small, yet quiet insignificant, detail, my helicopter transport that I was just on, lifted off. I look down around my feet; my bags, thankfully, are surrounding me. The Airman must have been kind enough to place them none to carefully while I was worshiping American soil. I should have gotten each of their names.

As I am trekking the tarmac, trying not to let my curses of the Military ring too loudly, I realize that I had also forgotten to forward my mail back to the states along with forgetting to turn of the gas. So, in all probability, not only would my rented apartment explode the next time Dr. Hivens struck his match near the place, but my mail would also go up in smoke. I really am glad I had asked for my last check in person. Now all I had to do is watch the 7pm news, and glance curiously at the others who would be sharing my table and make some passing comment like, "Oh that's a shame. I would hate to be the one who left the gas on," and eat… what would I eat? Hamburger. God save us all when the Russians start taking it into their minds that they can open a chain of hamburger joints.

Finally I yank the door and shoved my four pieces of luggage into the air-conditioned hanger/waiting room on another Air Force base, only this time in San Diego, California, USA. I look around at the passing and waiting airman and other people in uniforms - really they start to look alike – and suddenly know nothing had changed. I wonder if she has changed. Still the cute, dumb blonde. I think I may have spaced out (no pun intended – I crack myself up sometimes) because I am startled when I felt an urgent tap on my shoulder. I looked over to whomever was thinking they could touch me, and there she is. Living colour. Breathing and as beautiful as ever.


"Colonel," she says, cutting me off. For once I don't mind a woman cutting me off; she has this quality to her voice.

"Oh. Ok, it has a ring to it. Colonel Carter. Sam. Colonel Sam," I say as I just stand there. Suddenly the long trip, and my relative exile to Russia are made okay, as the sun seems to glow around her. Her blonde hair is chopped and curled slightly; I should tell her that she does not have to make herself pretty on my account, but no words spring to my lips. A man, who is now standing in the doorway, blocks the sun, disturbing the glow around her.

"Dr. McKay," one rather buff archeologist says from behind the blonde bombshell of my dreams.

"Dr. Jackson," I managed to say decently. He needed to move – he is blocking the light. Is he checking her out from behind? Did I really see him sweep Colonel Sam up and down before returning his rather unsettling gaze back on me? The nerve!

"Grab your bags, McKay, we have a transport waiting," Sam's melodic voice says. God I need to turn on my recorder and record that voice. It sends shock waves through lesser men; it sends the resonating joy of my superiority in brains and has a strange effect over me as I take in her beauty and other womanly qualities. I realize, quiet fully, she could also kick my ass should she know I think such things, especially toward her. Really, I am innocent. I am sure Peeping Danny has the same thoughts. I swear he gave Sam another once over glance as I, once more, trekked across the tarmac carrying my own bags. There has to be rules against such things.

We board the new transport, thank God not another helicopter, me once more left to drag, tug, push and pull my luggage on my own. Honestly, who is in charge of the service around here? I can pay 2 rubles and have my luggage hauled from one end of Russia to the other if I wish. At last some nondescript airman – aren't the all airmen? – stowed my stuff safely. He was glaring at me. I did catch him muttering about "damn civilians". Obviously he does not know in whose genius presence he stood in.

I have heard some say I am conceited. I say no; I am Dr. Rodney McKay.