SGA Fanfic: Simple Pleasures
Aug. 1st, 2006 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Dear SGA,
I may stray to other fandoms, but I'll always come home to you.
Much love,
Kat
Title: Simple Pleasures
Author: Mistress Kat
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2700
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Pairing/Category: Beckett/McKay, AU
Summary: Carson liked the restaurant and he absolutely loved the food. He just wasn't sure about the chef.
Author notes: Written for the notmcshep AU challenge for
flatlanddan, whose three prompts were: blue, orchid, a glass of wine. I managed to incorporate them all into the story – a fact that I’m feeling unaccountably smug about. As always, many thanks to my betas
lorellipsis and
loobilou, who whipped the story into shape.
Simple Pleasures Turning back to the dessert with a resigned, but determined, air of St. George facing the dragon, he picked up the fork with his right hand while reaching for the wine glass with his left. The generous mouthful of Cabernet Sauvignon had less to do with cleaning his palate than simply seeking extra fortitude. Fifteen minutes earlier, Since moving to About five minutes later, The restaurant was situated not far from the campus and extremely popular with the faculty. Its’ prices, whilst wholly justified, put it out of the reach of most students – a fact The place was surprisingly warm and welcoming, the interior somehow achieving a style that was both classy and unpretentious. Light wooden furniture of distantly Scandinavian design and white tablecloths were off-set with occasional swatches of colour. The strong blues and greens of the glassware echoed the more muted shades of the abstract paintings sparsely decorating the walls. On every table sat a single orchid, its exotic beauty a product of both nature and careful cultivation At first the changes had been subtle; a herby dressing on his chicken instead of a creamy one or crispy stir-fried vegetables instead of a side salad. However, gradually the difference between what it said on the menu and what He’d never complained though. The undeniable fact was that, despite the ever-increasing complexity of the dishes he was served, they were all consistently delicious. Well, no – ‘delicious’ was a woefully inadequate word for describing the food at McKay’s. The first time Now that his food was gone, he had no problem catching the attention of a passing waitress and getting the bill. After she’d returned with his credit card and the receipt However, instead of taking the right turn to the toilets, he ducked behind a flower display and counted to ten. A quick glance from between the greenery, a dash to the left and he was slipping into the kitchen through the double doors. Still dizzy from the success of his James Bond impersonation, “I wanted it heated gently, not boiled down to glue, you moron! I wouldn’t feed this to my dog, even if I had one, which I don’t because they are stupid creatures that do nothing but drool and smell bad. And yet!” The man, whose manner exceeded the reputation of the owner and the executive chef of McKay’s so spectacularly that he could only be Rodney McKay himself, held up one imperious finger. “Yet, dogs can at least follow orders. Unlike you lot.” The sweeping arch of his arm encompassed the whole kitchen and the sous-chef backed away, looking terrified and clutching a saucepan to his front like armour. However, on the edges of the drama, more and more people were ceasing their mixing and seasoning, the thwack-thwack-thwack of knives on cutting boards gradually slowing down. Oblivious to the by-play happening behind his back, McKay continued his lecture, barely pausing to draw breath. “I find it very hard to believe you all actually graduated from Le Gordon Bleu training schools! This is…” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he realised that his minions were distracted by something behind him. “What? Now I don’t even warrant your full attention anymore? And why have you stopped working? The goddamn peppers aren’t going to stuff themselves, you idio-” His tirade was cut short as he swivelled around, hands on hips, finally deciding to determine the source of the disturbance. The strangled noise that emitted from McKay’s mouth was high-pitched and resembled that of a frog being choked to death. His face, already flushed from the combination of shouting and the heat of the ovens, turned several shades darker. The sudden silence was eerie, interrupted only by bubbling and sizzling of mouth-watering dishes in various stages of preparation. McKay’s hands performed a brief uncoordinated flutter before crossing protectively over his broad chest. “Um,” he said, eyes blinking rapidly. “Erm. I’m sorry t’ disturb you.” Well, he wasn’t really – but it felt like a good place to start. “My name is Carson Beckett and I jus’ wondered if there’s any chance I could-” “You’re not supposed to be in here. You have to leave.” McKay took a step forward, chin jutting up in a way that made every hair on “No.” “No?” The man gaped like he’d never heard the word before. Come to think of it, he probably hadn’t. Goddamn it! All he’d wanted was a meal that didn’t come out of a can, not this awkward dance of… whatever this was. “I would like a word with you, Mr. McKay, and I’m no’ leaving until I get it.” “Dr. McKay,” the other man corrected distractedly. “And you can’t. I’m too busy. I have a group of fifteen council members waiting impatiently for their mushroom risotto and-” “We got it covered, Chef,” a bright female voice called from somewhere among the throng of interested spectators. Others seemed to agree. “Yeah, you should totally go, McKay.” “Nothing to worry about – you’re on overtime already as it is.” “Besides, Zelenka will be here in half an hour. He’ll take care of the late sitting,” came the chorus of voices. McKay was seething and clearly feeling betrayed. It was, nevertheless, impossible to identify the culprits. The kitchen staff had closed ranks with long-practiced ease and was presenting a united front of bland benevolence. At the edge of the group, a man with gravity-defying brown hair and a wicked looking meat-cleaver, winked at No, it was not going at all like he’d imagined. With lips pursed into an unhappy line, McKay stripped off his white coat, bundled it up and threw it toward the nearest corner. Then he walked to the backdoor, a curt jerk of his head indicating that The door opened to the back of the restaurant and on the side of the loading bay, narrow stairs led down to the ground level. Up close, the man looked far less formidable. Perhaps it was the lack of grovelling lackeys or the way he kept worrying the frayed hem of his light blue t-shirt – the colour of which, None of these observations were at all conducive to the purpose at hand. A quick grin, there and gone almost too fast to see, flashed across McKay’s face. “But I am at a loss as to why you would…” For a few seconds McKay’s expression stayed impassive as he contemplated the possibility of playing dumb. The silence stretched on for good ten seconds before McKay sighed. “I like you.” “You don’ even know me!” McKay looked affronted. “Your name is Carson Beckett. Your credit card tells me you’re a doctor – an MD would be my first guess. You have that benevolent do-gooder air about you, which, for some reason, I find sort of appealing – even though it usually irritates the hell out of me. But if not a medical doctor, then surely something to do with life sciences. You work at the university – you just don’t seem ruthless enough for the private sector – and you’re clearly new to town.” McKay was ticking off the points on his fingers now. “Your accent totally gives away your country of origin. You’re kind and polite to the waiters and tip them too much – which tells me you have good manners and respect other people. Last week, when Alison splashed hot soup on your trousers, you didn’t make a fuss or demand compensation but instead calmed her down and ate the soup like nothing had happened. This tells me you’re a good man. You always dine alone, which tells me that you’re probably available and that you like the food in here – which tells me you have great taste.” “But?” “You mean like stew? Or bangers and mash?” McKay sneered derisively. “No. Well yes, those are nice. But I was actually talking in a more general sense.” McKay stared at him for a while, comprehension dawning. “Oh,” he said, eyes dropping down. “I’m really complicated. And difficult. Or so people tell me.” His voice had gone small and kind of sad. This was the point where McKay was watching him intently. “Th’ point is,” he repeated, a giddy mixture of anticipation and apprehension twisting somewhere low in his stomach. “I really, really liked it. A lot. So I think perhaps I should try new things more often.” He was pretty sure it was his turn to be blushing now. Rodney looked at him, looked at the hand on his forearm and again back at him. “Even if they’re complicated?” “Especially if they’re complicated.” “So...” The smile on McKay’s face looked unused and bewildered, like it didn’t get to spend much time there. It looked really good. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to ask you to dinner then?” “How about a beer? Or coffee?” McKay improvised. “You drink coffee, right? Of course you do. Or maybe we should just stay away from anything digestible? We could go for… a walk?” The way the nerve on his cheek twitched at the suggestion, told “Beer sounds good,” “Yes, excellent idea.” Rodney nodded. “I know this little place a few blocks from here. They have the best selection of imported beers. You drink that, don’t you? What am I saying? You’re practically an import yourself…” McKay’s chatter seemed more cheerful than nervous, so Night was slowly creeping over the city, the air gaining that white-soft quality it had during summer months in the North, making every movement feel like swimming through warmed milk. Somewhere between the restaurant and the bar, THE END ETA 20/08/2006: I have forwarded your well-wishes to M, who has this message to you all.
no subject
on 2006-08-06 08:58 pm (UTC)