TITLE: Things That Go Bump
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: PG-13
POSTED: Oct. 14, 2005
SUMMARY: It was easier for John to start getting just a little bit grumpy about the shrinking number of people who hadn't heard something go bump in the middle of a shift than to line up and shake the people who had.
AUTHOR NOTES: Spatz managed to stump me with a line from one of my fics, and asked for SGA gen team!fic. Not sure why, but I ended up all the way back at the beginning of S1, between Hide and Seek and Suspicion.
DISCLAIMER: Read

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Someone was always hearing something. They couldn't get away with seeing something because of the doors -- although there was usually at least one report a week about a shadow/silhouette/something-that-stared -- but it was easier for John to start getting just a little bit grumpy about the shrinking number of people who hadn't heard something go bump in the middle of a shift than to line up and shake the people who had.

He wasn't discounting any of the reports, of course. Even without the hell that he'd unleashed on their first day, there was always a wolf, a falling sky, an echoing thump; the one that didn't get checked was the one that would make you kiss your ass goodbye. But every report meant sending one gun and one scanner, and the people to hold them, to check things out.

McKay wasn't being at all useful. Their last "talk" on the subject had gone something like:

"I've got plenty of other things to worry about, Sheppard, like why there's been a power spike in the southeast tower every 3 hours and 41 minutes for the last day, and even more critical and less likely to be solved with you standing in my way, how to stop it from happening so we don't drain one of the naquadah generators that we don't have any more of! I'm about maxed out on worry, and I do not need to be worrying about that."

"As a matter of fact..."

"I'm not their babysitter!"

"Do you even know what 'morale' is, McKay?"

That had gotten a good, strong glare. "Not having the life sucked out of my screaming body ten horrifically painful years at a time?"

John hadn't glared back, he'd only said, "Okay, yes," but it had been close.

Three weeks in, after hearing "Nothing, sir. Again." from the third team in two hours, John gave in, and went and planted himself in front of Weir's desk.

"I thought these people were scientists."

She leaned back in her chair to examine him. Hands braced on the back of the chair in front of her desk, he did his best to project "rational and in control, but ready to snap."

Her eyes narrowed. "They are."

"Then at least a couple of them should be aware of what happens when you combine large, long, empty spaces with any nearby source of sound..." He trailed off with a tight-lipped grimace, figuring that was enough. When all she did was widen her eyes expectantly, he straightened and crossed his arms to tack on, "Like, say, footsteps."

Weir nodded and let out a small sigh. "They are some of the best minds Earth could offer."

John rolled his eyes, fairly subtly, he thought, but she tilted her head and leveled a look at him.

"Which also means some of the best imaginations," she said seriously. He could hear the something more in her voice, though. Not an excuse, and not impatience, but... "Really, we should probably be thankful that we're getting as few reports as we are."

"Huh." John examined her now, taking in the tightening of her lips, which didn't quite suppress the upward twitch. And normally he'd be and laughing right along with her, but right now he was feeling a hell of a lot of sympathy for Sumner and his ilk.

Reminding himself that she couldn't exactly threaten her extremely civilian subordinates into acting the way they should be, and that rumor was quite a powerful weapon, he pasted on a bright smile and told her, "Well, it might be more helpful if you tell them that they should be thankful I haven't thrown anyone over a balcony."

After a pause, she cleared her throat. "It might, but...I think I'll hold that particular information in reserve, Major."

Teyla was more sympathetic the next day. Since "sympathetic" seemed to be her default setting, though -- she snapped as hard as anyone else, all right, but she was damn good at making that deep breath and counting to...whatever she counted to in her head...actually work -- that wasn't much better.

"Yes, I was there when Doctor Weir told the science teams that the Wraith ability to project images is only effective when Wraith are in close proximity. She requested that I provide a personal report--"

John pointed, triumphant, and swallowed the dry bite of sandwich as quickly as he could without choking. "Exactly!"

"...but it is easy to project your own fears, and they are unused to being in a hostile environment," she finished, before raising her fork and biting into the green thing on the end that might have been a brussels sprout. John wasn't sure if they'd hitched a ride out here or were being grown in some corner by the Athosians, but he was glad to see that someone else would take happily care of them.

"Hostile in a 'being eaten' way, yeah," he agreed. "But unless they all skipped high school, 'generally hostile' should be familiar territory."

Her head came up with her eyebrows arched. "You...hunt each other in...high school?"

John blinked, and then killed that idea fast; the last thing he needed in this mix was even more cultural confusion. Not that any of her people would deliberately provoke anything, but still.

He was a last resort, but Beckett took John's suggestion of Prozac for all ("just a light dose, like, enough to keep them from running in circles") calmly enough. He only handed John a bandage.

"I don't need that," John explained, carefully holding his hands clasped behind his back. "I need you, as the expedition's guy with the key to the really good pills, to stop everyone from running my people more ragged than any of us can afford."

On a cough, Beckett replaced the bandage on the rack of supplies and then turned to face John again. "Well, Major, as that guy, my only other suggestion is that six-millimeter tubing makes for the best still."

Looking at the bland not-quite-smile on Beckett's face, John sighed.

"Thanks. Good to know."

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