Notes: Short. The pairing is "John and Rodney are OMGsomarried"; no content warnings. SGA is not mine, and neither is the other half of the pastiche.
Summary: This ficlet is brought to you by the Ketchup Advisory Board.
DH: These are the good years for John and me. What with the bioengineered Orii plague ravaging the Pegasus galaxy, the Wraith have much more important things to worry about than destroying one mostly empty city, and since Kavanagh and Sora sent their kids back to Atlantis for fostering, and it's Radek instead of Ladon who has to defuse the atomic bombs they build under their beds, relations with the Genii have become positively peachy. John never quite got his wind back after our encounter with that virulent aphrodisiac fungal infection on M4X-GHB, so we don't go offworld much anymore, and the most dangerous thing we have to do most weeks is figure out where Lorne and Parrish will have to lie on the mission reports they send back to Earth. I'm finally getting a chance to write all those physics papers I'll never be able to publish, and John gets to fly as much as he wants, and a few days ago we had to be hosts for a diplomatic mission from prospective trading partners, and the alien priestess liked me better than John, so that was a rousing success, and I'm even willing to concede that she might not have been intentionally trying to kill me when she showed her esteem for me with tea that had citrus proteins in it, since Carson was right there with the allergy kit anyway. And then one night I found John draped flat on the bed, staring morosely at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling panel that I hadn't even known existed until his freakishly overactive ATA gene turned it on the other week. What's the matter, Colonel?
JF: Do I frighten small children, Rodney?
DH: Well, um. Huh. Why do you ask?
JF: Halling brought his granddaughters up to see the control room today, and the cute little blonde one ran away and screamed when I said hi to her.
DH: You weren't doing your scary commando-of-death thing, were you?
JF: No! Of course not! She said she was afraid of the horrible spiky monster that was eating my head.
DH: (Smothered noises, building up into loud snickers.)
JF: It's not funny, Rodney! Nobody ever reacts like that to Ronon!
DH: Well, frightening as it is, Ronon's hair can at least be explained by the laws of nature.
JF: (loud sigh) I was hoping that as I got older it'd start to go away. Like yours. That priestess who tried to poison you thought you looked distinguished. Distinguished! In another decade you'll look as magisterial as Caldwell. And I'm going to be stuck spending my whole life looking like I've been genetically engineered to be part sea urchin!
DH: Now, calm down, John. Maybe you'll never be as classically handsome as I am, but you have your own look, and it works for you. It's very ... unique.
JF: That makes me feel so much better, Rodney.
DH: Wait a minute, wait a minute, maybe I have something that can help. Try using some of this on your hair; they just brought a new batch of it on the Daedalus. That'll make it calm down and lay flat if anything can.
(rustling, squishy squirty noises)
JF: (long sniff) ... Rodney, this is ketchup.
DH: Exactly. Ketchup has natural mellowing agents that can lend peace and relaxation to even the most chaotic and out-of-control elements of life. Like that stuff growing out of your head. I swear it works - I put two spoonfuls in every cup of coffee I drink - how do you think I maintained my laid-back, easy-going personality even in the midst of constant, life-threatening crises?
JF: ... um, Rodney?
JF: Never mind.
DH: See, it's working already!
RL: These are the good years, the sky and sea are fair;
We've found a home here, a place to rest and care:
Atlantis stays with you, like Ketchup in your hair.
TH: Ketchup. For the good times.
RL: Ketchup! Ketchup!
If you're unlucky and SciFiFri is dull tonight, I may just end up finishing the sequel to this. The one that starts, A dark night, and Sateda knows how to keep its secrets. But high above the empty streets, a light burns on the twelth floor of the Lantia building, where one man is still trying to find the answers to life's persistent questions: Ronon Dex, private dick.