A/N: -steps gingerly back into the fandom- It's been a long, long time, Stargate. I've missed you something awful. I hope the toys aren't too dusty from disuse for me to play with them anymore. Having found my own Rodney, right down to every idiosyncrasy and neuroses, I felt like wandering back in for a minute or two.

Consider this story the spiritual sequel to the McCadman companion stories "I'm Not!" and "And Neither Am I!", though reading those is far from mandatory to understand the following.



Oh, bed. Bed, I love you, bed. Bed.

Beep. Beep.


Oh, God, but I love this mattress more than life itself. I could just nev…zZzzzZzzzz…

Beep. Beep. BEEP.

Ungh. What? What could possibly be more important than the mattress with the goose down quilt and the, yawn, goose down mattress pad and my, yawn, pillow with the Mr. T pillowcase and…zzzZzzzZ.


Fumble for pillow. Place over head.

Ah, quiet. I could just…zzzZzzz.


Breathing has become difficult.

Rethink this plan. Shift pillow.


Open one bleary eye, feel eyeball roll around in socket as brain tries to make with the focusing. Glare at pillowcase. Accomplish nothing. Mr. T has no sympathy. He lies. He does not pity the foo'.

Shift pillow again. Sunlight in eye. Ow.

Glare at cheerfully beeping alarm clock.


Desperately wish had heat vision.

Fumble for alarm clock snooze button.


Miss again.

Miss a third time.

…and they let me become a Marine?

Bite one side of lower lip, stick tongue out other side…concentrate…


Ha! Never let it be said that Laura Cadman McKay isn't a crack shot!

Er…on the fourth go 'round.

Swat pillow away, roll over flat onto back, stare at ceiling through slightly filmy, sandy eyes.

Come to important realization:

Light hurts.

Rub eyes. Smack lips. Run tongue over slightly fuzzy teeth. Mouth tastes like yesterday's lint trap. Gross.


Voice is sleepy mumble like trying to talk underwater, through piece of foam rubber.

Clear throat.


No answer. Move hand to his side of the bed.

(His side of the bed. Still an alien thought somehow.)

Feel around.

Blanket, sheet, pillow…no soft, squashy, slightly fluffy Rodney middle.

Feh. Didn't need you anyway.

Wave dismissively at imaginary Rodney. Register somewhere deep down this may be sign of emerging psychosis. Dismiss as need for coffee instead.

Sit up. Watch room tilt. Blink a few times until roulette-wheel-room stops spinning.


No, shower, brush teeth, then coffee.

Stagger out of bed to bathroom. Trip over Rodney's shoe.

Go sprawling.

Land on face.

Curse louder than is strictly necessary. "Damn it, McKay."

Struggle to feet, wobble into bathroom- coldtilecoldtilecoldtile -catch glimpse of rat's nest hair in mirror.


Briefly entertain idea of pixie haircut.

Realize would look like tomato wearing a mop top wig. Disregard brilliant idea.

Stumble to shower, turn on water, strip out of pajamas. Step under water spray.


Screech, slip while trying to leap out of shower, land on ass.

Hot water's all gone.

Am now fully awake.

"Damn it, McKay."

Get to feet. Pretend am graceful. Shut off shower. Put on bathrobe, tie it angrily.

Move to sink. Am planning to brush teeth very irritably.



Look around in puzzlement. Toothbrush was on edge of sink last night…where Rodney's sinus medication is now.

Follow logical path of trajectory downward.

Toothbrush is face down in glob of hair dye in wastebasket.

"Damn it, McKay!"

Narrow eyes at reflection.

"I'm going to kill him."

Reflection shakes her head no.

"You're right. Too quick. I'm gonna torture him."

Reflection nods yes.

Putter out of bathroom, towards kitchen. Move to coffee maker. Full coffee maker. With post-it note on top.

Snatch post-it impatiently.

I made coffee. Breakfast is in the oven.

Eye coffee suspiciously. It looks like standard Rodney Sludge, but smells kind of great and-

…I don't trust it.

Turn and eye oven even more suspiciously.

Approach oven.

Am expecting to find small disaster area.

Find breakfast tray instead. Cheese and mushroom omelet, toast and slightly crispy bacon. Not too fancy, but still impressive for Mr. Runs on Power Bars.

Pull out tray.

Another post-it.

Burned myself. Gone to infirmary. Love you.

Go all warm and fuzzy inside. Smile against my will. Shake head and bite into toast.

"Damn it, McKay."