Helenka, Queen of Outer Space

Title: "Inferno"
Author: helenkacan / Helena K.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: None, Gen
Rating: G
Genre: Team as Family, Family
Word Count: 1,250 words
Summary: Rodney McKay is millions of miles away in another galaxy. But, this week, he's brought back crashing down to Earth - yes, that Earth. There is nothing he can do except to reach out to family.
Time: Present day, May, 2016
Snippet of fic: Nobody, even blindfolded, would have ever mistaken Rodney for someone who exercised the trait of sentimentality. Not for things. Or places. Well, perhaps for a working chair in Antarctica again.
Disclaimer: Nostalgically mine, something I'll never abandon!

Hello, out there in the Pegasus Galaxy. I'm back and so is Santa Claus. The verdict is in from the last challenge of stargate_las and it is ... meh. Ah, well, I'm still moving on to the next round. And Santa can go have a very long rest.

Name: helenkacan
Show/Movie: Stargate Atlantis (SGA)
Story Title: Red and White
Character/Relationships: "Santa Claus", canon and original characters / Gen
Rating: G (suitable for children of all ages)
Warnings: none
Timeline: Post S5 (EatG), with Atlantis returning to Pegasus in late summer, 2009


He slumped as he shrugged off his clothing and hung it in the closet. Delivering presents stealthily over the past thirty days, in Earth time, had been the hardest job in his life but it was over, well ... everything except for the huge party tomorrow welcoming in the New Year.

With Atlantis stuck on Earth for a few short months, people were homesick for the holiday traditions they hadn't been able to observe, some for more than five years. And, then, by a sudden and weird vote of the IOA, they were expected to simply return to Pegasus, once again leaving behind most of their customs without having had a proper chance to reacquaint themselves.

He didn't think it was fair and Mr. Woolsey – bless his bureaucratic but luxury-loving heart – agreed. Between the two of them, they hatched a plan that, as far as the city's residents were concerned, was only about celebrating the return of light which, to be honest, was heavily weighted in favour of the Northern Hemisphere. Woolsey had gone on (and on and on ... and on) about the many observances that focused on light - Diwali (festival of lights), Hannukah (lighting the menorah), followed by Yule (Winter Solstice welcoming the return of the sun north of the equator), Christmas and finally Kwanzaa to finish off the month.

But he and nearly everyone else called it Christmas, its religious symbolism having been stripped away mostly and replaced by Santa Claus. Which was not a bad thing entirely, with the giving of gifts. Except that there was no way to guarantee that everybody received one ... without outside influence. Hence ... the appearance of Santa in Atlantis.

He recalled the reactions on December 1st from the first recipients who'd stumbled into the Mess, initially startled by the appearance of a lavishly decorated tree, and then surprised to see packages with their names – from "Santa" - surrounding its base. He observed flashes of hurt and envy on the faces of those around who hadn't received a gift ... until the next day when there were more boxes waiting. As the joy spread, anxiety dissipated as everyone figured out they just had to wait their turn.

Then something unusual happened. The cooks began to bake mounds of cookies, left out – presumably for Santa – and people would wander in during the night to chat, have some milk and grab a cookie or two. There were many new friendships formed as they shared the letters they'd received unexpectedly, along with their presents, written by children from around the world. If those children only knew their letters had been delivered to another Galaxy!

He made sure to stay away from any of the pools, where wagers were placed on the true identity of Santa. He didn't know if he could have maintained a poker face, but would have been curious to know what the odds were on him.

He figured one of the scientists had dragged in the whiteboard from the labs and placed it next to the tree. There were scribbled thanks to Santa from every sector.

Such as Lt. Rieger: "Thank you for the supply of wool, so that I can continue on my nefarious mission to knit everyone here a hat!" He shuddered, wondering when he would receive his.

Or Dr. Bronski: "I didn't expect to replace my broken tea service, but the new one and the splendid teas are much appreciated."

Or the bunch of Marines who thanked Santa for the hoops and basketballs. It had been high time they had something that was both entertaining and physical where many could play on teams.

Or Teyla, on behalf of her son: "Torren John is enchanted by the snow globe. I must shake it several times a day for his enjoyment." Hmmm. He wasn't sure whether Teyla was thanking him or chastising him.

Every night, someone would transcribe all of the thank-you notes onto a tablet before wiping the board clean, ready for more expressions of gratitude the next day.

Just as he was touched to see who had written their thanks, he was mystified to see who had not. There were several people, most notably someone for whom he'd gone to great lengths acquiring extremely popular souvenirs. But he knew he hadn't done it for the thanks. And he also knew that some people were private, despite their loud exteriors.

Between the random distribution of presents and the special displays of more light every day making the city glitter like a jewel, there was food. Atlantis now had fully stocked pantries and freezers with foodstuffs from all over the globe. So there were different dishes on the menu every day, ranging from latkes with real sour cream to dim sum.

Finally, he took one last look at the familiar flash of red and white in the closet before going to sleep. He had done a good job.

Epilogue:
When he was ready to leave his quarters the next day for the huge party, he didn't expect to see a familiar pair of Canadian Winter Olympic mittens outside his door, along with a note.

"Don't try to pretend you're not Santa. I can't think of anybody else who could have accomplished all that you did, without slacking off on the job. And you got me a Canadian hockey team jersey, the best present ever, that I will wear to the labs every day we face off against the Americans."

Chuck smiled to himself. It wasn't a public thank-you, but that didn't matter. As he strolled to join the Australian hosts at their throw-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie party, he wondered whether he should warn Dr. McKay that he would be needing those very mittens next month, when the hockey arena on a lower level was ready.

But then he thought he'd keep that a surprise, too. It was much more fun that way and just another privilege of being Santa.

Okay, here we are, kiddies, in the fourth segment of stargate_las and my third entry. I'm moving on to the next round, so yay. Although my score put me in second place in the SGA category, there was one vote against me ... so I'll be very curious to read that particular judgment!

Name: helenkacan
Show/Movie: Stargate Atlantis (SGA)
Story Title: Future Perfect
Character/Relationships: Lorne, various OFCs and OMCs / Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None


Nick tried his best not to stumble, hurrying down the street into town while clutching a crumpled ten dollar bill in his hand. He'd already slipped on his cheap thin-soled shoes and fallen, scraping an elbow. But it was really important that he get to the art store before it closed. If he was lucky, Gillian would be on duty. She usually dawdled on purpose, knowing he would be coming by every Saturday.

Nick knew he was lucky to have any kind of a part-time job at the age of ten. The fact that old man Gleason had offered him work - just nosing around at the junkyard - was something any curious kid would love. He got to search through abandoned cars, picking up loose change or other objects. Mr. Gleason had asked him to be very careful if he uncovered a knife or even a gun. So far, he'd found a couple of knives he'd handed over cautiously in plastic bags. Once he'd found a twenty and couldn't believe it when Mr. Gleason told him to keep the money. And he still got paid his usual ten!

The job was just a recent thing. He'd been hanging out with his two best friends, Mike and Jack, snooping around the junkyard when he'd found a large leather portfolio filled with paintings as well as blank canvasses. He couldn't understand why someone had thrown something like that out, but he lugged it home to show his mom who'd gotten this panicked look on her face after she'd glanced at a couple of paintings. So she'd made him march right back to show her where he'd found it.

Next thing Nick knew, she was knocking on Mr. Gleason's door asking if the portfolio belonged to him. Though he looked upset, he invited them in and offered Nick a glass of juice and a cup of coffee to his mom. Nick wasn't paying too much attention to what they were talking about until he heard his name ... the one he hated.

"So, young man, I hear you like to draw."

"Yes, sir," he replied eagerly. "It's fun and I can draw on anything." That certainly was true. If there was an empty cereal box, he'd draw on the inside. The backs of corrected tests. Even scraps of paper.

"Well, I would like you to have this portfolio so you can draw or paint on proper canvas." Mr. Gleason paused, drawing a shuddering breath, before he continued softly, "My son painted these. I hope you'll find some inspiration in them."

Wow! Nick couldn't believe he was being given the portfolio outright. He'd never had something this big or important before. He pulled himself out of his daydreams, because Mr. Gleason was speaking again.

"I'm sorry I can't give you his oil paints, but they dried out some time ago. Still ... I'd like to offer you a job, so you can buy your own set. How would you like to help me here every Saturday? I need someone responsible to go through the cars, just to make sure there's nothing valuable left in them. You know, like a wallet or cigarette lighter. I'll pay you ten dollars in cash at the end of the day. So, what do you say?"

Nick was speechless. He just grinned and nodded his head with enthusiasm. Mr. Gleason ruffled his hair and chuckled. After his mom had finished her coffee, she shook hands with Mr. Gleason and they walked back home, both in a much lighter mood.

He didn't understand why Mr. Gleason was so generous until he asked his mom. She just got this sad look on her face and mentioned he'd lost his only child, the son who'd painted, in the war. Nick could understand what it was like to lose someone since his dad was gone, leaving just him and his mom. And, yeah, his pesky kid sister who was five.

Nick was happy they lived near the water. He loved to paint the ocean. He already had all the right blue and green tints, but he needed some steel grey and camelia pink and those were the two tubes he purchased from Gillian.

Even though Nick didn't have a dad, he felt lucky living with his mom and sister. Mike and Jack often mentioned how their dads were threatening to send them to a military academy in the next couple of years, supposedly to put some discipline into them. Nick couldn't understand how parents could send their kids away, especially to become soldiers. Even pretend-soldiers.

He knew his mom would never do anything like that to him. She was happy he had a hobby like art, something he was passionate about. She didn't have to worry about him getting into trouble. And, even if his mom didn't say stupid stuff like, "You're the man of the house now," Nick felt it was important for them to stick together, the three of them.

Back up in his room after dinner, he lay down on his bed. It was too late to do any work in the waning evening light, but he could stare at the paintings Mr. Gleason's son had made, mostly of trees and sky. Nick's index finger traced the letters of the name in the lower corner. J-O-N-A-H. Huh. No last name. And then he wondered how he would sign his name, thinking of what it would feel like to be famous. His whole name was way too long. And "Lorne" didn't sound artistic anyway. But, maybe, he could use the first name he hated so much. It did sound fancy, after all. Too fancy for a kid, but maybe okay for a grownup.

Having mapped out his future with the clarity and certainty only a young boy could harness, he fell asleep whispering "Evan". And knew the first thing he would do Sunday morning was to paint his unique name on the canvas of the rest of his life.

I wrote this for the first-round challenge over at stargate_las and, surprise, surprise (yay), I was in a four-way tie for first-place in the SGA category. SG-1 and SGU (with fewer entries) had one winner each.

I don't often write G-rated fic but, when I do, I really have a good time. And now I'm off to write my second fic. There are so many authors for SGA who skipped the first challenge, so I feel this will be a very long battle.

Show/Movie: Stargate Atlantis (SGA)
Story Title: Elective Sub-routines
Character/Relationships: Rodney McKay + one (surprise) character / Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None

Rodney McKay had established early on in his life – through hypotheses, trials and results – that discipline and routines were crucial components in the never-ending search for excellence.

It was, therefore, no surprise to find him here, trying to impart the validity of his life's purpose to his newest recruit who was staring at him in rapt, wide-eyed wonder. Not that it was a new experience for Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD. But flattering, nonetheless.

"No, really, really, you can't simply fritter through your time here following what others have determined should be your routines. You'll need to decide what projects you want to tackle each year and pursue them. You'll need to demonstrate steady progress and achievement. Then, you'll have to be ruthless in securing consistent lab time. How else do you think I got to be where I am today?"

Rodney proudly waved his expressive hands in the air for emphasis. "But don't worry, you have me here to guide you. You couldn't have asked for a better mentor, and not only because I'm a genius. You'll do well to observe me the most. Just don't let any of the others distract you because too many of them are – and you'll hear me say this more than once – morons."

Rodney rubbed his jaw, deep in thought as he considered the ever-growing list of potential distractions. "Of course, I'll try to spare as much time as I can, but you know the place can't get along without my brilliance and I'm a very bus--." Rodney halted, mid-word, when he heard an enormous yawn aimed in his general vicinity.

He glanced at his bed and found that Torren John's eyelids were drooping, the toddler unable to stifle his ever-increasing yawns.

"Oh. Right. I nearly forgot that you're still at the stage where nap-time is an integral part of your daily routine. Your mother is a very smart lady, though I don't understand why she was so persistent in pointing out to me that I shouldn't spend so much time talking without observing whether you'd need a nap or a bottle or ... well, you know, the other thing."

Rodney bustled over to the bed, gently rearranging TJ on his back in the centre of a plush, miniature fort constructed from towels and blankets. TJ gurgled as his arms and legs flailed about, though his movements were floppy and lethargic. Rodney found it all surprisingly hypnotic. His own eyes began to slide shut in response, though he tried to shake off the unexpected drowsiness.

Perhaps it wouldn't be the end of the world (galaxy ... solar system ... whatever) if he were to join TJ in this totally meaningless bow to many traditional child-rearing customs. Just this once, he'd change his routine ... if only to keep TJ company.

As he slid onto the bed, dimming the lights with a thought and mindful not to jostle the dozing child, Rodney whispered, "Just wait. When you're a little older, I'll eventually get your mother to understand and accept my brilliant deductive reasoning. And, if there's anything like a Grade 6 Science Fair in Pegasus, you'll be sure to be awarded the first prize."

He reached out, wanting to feel the connection he'd had with this child since its birth ... because, well, he couldn't have gotten closer unless he'd been the one actually giving birth which, despite all of the galaxy's freakiness, was not going to happen, at least not to him. He hoped.

As his fingers caressed the boy's soft hair, he thought of the changes to his own predictable routines, grimacing at certain unwelcome memories, and how they had led him through the Stargate into a reality where he was not only the smartest man, in two galaxies now (even if "Mom" – whether it was Hammond or O'Neill or Landry – liked Sam best), but also a trusted friend who could and would love and protect this child.

Though, he mused, he wouldn't object too strenuously if Teyla and Kanaan were to offer to officially acknowledge his contribution to TJ's upbringing as "Uncle" Rodney. It would be strangely comforting to hear those words, well ... whenever TJ finally emerged from the babbling stage.

Rodney played with the words, the sounds slurring on his tongue. And then he slept, a tiny smile gracing his lips.

Midway

Rodney hurried back to the other compartment, hoping for a miracle, though dreading that he was responsible for killing the man he ... he wasn't sure what ... but couldn't bear the idea that he was dead, because venting the atmosphere was the only solution.

Did he want to know for certain that John was dead?

He took a couple of steps forward and focused on the spacesuit in front of him. As he activated the light and saw the groggy, oxygen-deprived, but thankfully alive form of Sheppard within, safe again, he swore to himself that he would never do another Darth Vader impression again - when he and John were off on one of their tangents. Because the hissed sound of John's breathing was the most beautiful sound in the world.

(posted in response to neevebrody's challenge about the power of the voice; 129 words)