amireal et al and meme

We're just goign to up and call this amireal day. Two stories, both rib-breakingly funny.

Coping Mechanisms, a fantastic AUish departure from post-Duet. It starts with a bang, which always pleases, and it carries on with fantastic humor. I think my favorite part of Amireal is she *does* have a sense of humor and it shows through in all her fic. She totally knows how to make me giggle in a serious story in all the right ways. Nicely long--really, she's becoming a favorite, it's like I'm guaranteed at least an hour of immersion. I'm easy like that.

And.

Where Did All the Physics Go?, which is one of those times I'm calling down a Required Reading Moment, because pretty much everyone needs to read this. It's a crossover, and I rarely like crossovers, and it's an *insane* crossover that doesn't work at all, but it just *does*, and Sheppard's ears have their own character moment, so not kidding. I'm not spoiling this--I read it completely without a clue what ti was crossing over and just--wow. It's *hysterical*, it's smart, it's funny, and oh my *God*, that was a blast.

No, seriously. It's *that good*.

I've been pretty steadily trying to think of updating my recs page, and I brought it up to semi-current, give or take about thirty storis that I couldn't find. So now that I'm no longer twitching over how many stories I've missed, I'll start actually telling people when I update.

Anyway, rec page, current enough for now, added about fifty-six stories to SGA, one Brother's Grimm. I'm pretty short on recs of *why*, but just take it for granted that these are ones I really, really loved, or really, really re-read a lot.

*****

Last night talking to hwmitzy about a proposed expedition in Vancouver, she commented that she didn't get that I could almost memorize fanfic stories and not remember conversations. Which is probably pretty true. I remember maybe ten percent of what's said or texted to me in any meaningful way. I can, however, identify by plotline about three quarters of readable fic posted in SV before 2003 and my working memory of SGA is running at about seventy percent. It's kind of weird now that she said that, because I've always taken for granted I have a bad memory, but I've never had a problem with ultra complex stories and remembering them, or being able to organize them in my head by plotline and *remember* them. It's got to be some kind of weird associative memory thing going on. I'm just wondering how it's associated exactly, and why.

Oh yes, it was a long, boring day at work. I had way too much tiem to think.

Okay, that meme, finally.

Gakked from rageprufrock:

Ask me what happens after the end of any of my stories. (Or tell me what you think.)

The only ones I won't answer are the ones I'm actually currently working on, and only then because I'm scared I'll get a fit of nervousness and erase the whole thing.

I'm thinking that this meme has passed enough people now that it won't be very noticed here. *grins* I like doing my memes when they are Very, Very Old News.

the jackalope in it's natural habitat

For those who aren't aware of the mighty jackalope.



Taken from The Jackalope.

*****

It turns out that John suffers from a traumatic childhood hunting memory. Rodney expounds on the psychological connotations of carrying childhood phobias into adulthood, but he's got no leg to stand on when John drags out his claustrophobia and waves it like a big flag of unreasonable neuroses. Point taken. Stupid point, but taken.

"And you can obviously do it," John says reasonably, completely unbloodied a few feet away, eyes fixed on the horizon, sitting far too straight to be natural. The smell has to be getting to him; the greenish cast to his skin isn't fading, and Rodney pretends hard that he doesn't care. "I'm impressed."

Rodney stares at the partially disassembled carcass with narrowed eyes. "Right. Here's a thought. Find us shelter? Unless al fresco eating and sleeping are your thing. They so aren't mine." It doubles as an excuse to send John out of sight. And this--this is going to take a while and this can only get messier. Rodney's hands are only just remembering how this goes.

John straightens, looking at him, then quickly away. "Yes." The enthusiasm is almost cute, in a way that Rodney will be damned if he'll ever admit aloud. "Shelter."

"Fire."

"Also good," John says encouragingly, regaining color at a remarkable rate. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he gets to his feet, one hand going casually to a tree to cover for the fact he's swaying on his feet. Rodney knows better than to even try to comment on it. "I'll be back. Carry on." With a salute so crisp that the air cracks with it, John wanders off at a quick pace toward a copse of trees a very convenient distance away.

"Find water!" Rodney shouts, as much for survival purposes as the fact that, oh God, he's going to need a bath after this. "Something in cool and refreshing!"

"Will do," drifts back, and Rodney stares down at the carcass blankly. If they had salt, they could store the remainder somewhere--there's no way both of them can eat all of this, and Rodney's experience with drying meat is two decades old. Of course, if they had a puddlejumper, they could go home, the really, really long way, so really, why the hell is he thinking about salt for if he's wishing for things? The Daedalus showing up unexpectedly--*that* would be useful.

Sitting back on his heels, Rodney frowns. "I really, really hate the outdoors."

*****

John's still green and picks at dinner with a marked lack of enthusiasm, but Rodney remembers this reaction from his mother and restrains himself from calling John a total girl because, well, he's still armed.

There is something to be said for dinner you dressed and cooked yourself--not something he's looking forward to doing on a daily basis or anything, but still. He's finding a kind of sad longing for vegetables, though, even the pentagon shaped ones that kept giving him flashbacks to seeing the Exorcist in sixth grade. Salt. Pepper. Maybe even something in garlic and bay leaves.

This, Rodney thinks dismally, can only lead to depression and possible severe indigestion. "Eat."

John narrow-eyes him from the other side of the fire. The jackalope rib is barely touched. "I'm not that hungry."

Rodney waves his own stripped jackalope rib. "You didn't eat breakfast, you threw up lunch, and I know for a fact that you skipped dinner last night. So don't *even*. I'm so not nursing you through starvation and then being left here *alone* to be consumed by giant antlered rabbits. It's just not happening. Eat."

"I'm sure you'll be fine." But John picks up the rib, nibbling half-heartedly, then setting it back down with a 'happy now?' expression that makes Rodney want to throw the stripped bones at him. "You know--"

Rodney doesn't like the way he says that. "Is this about the Daedalus picking us up tomorrow?"

John's hands flatten on his knees. "They don’t know where we are."

"They'll ask the priestesses."

"Who might not tell."

And Atlantis isn't known for its torture techniques. Rodney stares at the fire hard. "They'll tell."

John nods slowly, eyes flickering to the trees swaying above them. "There aren't any caves. Tomorrow, we'll look for something better." John pulls his knees up, toeing the rib aside. "Temporarily."

Rodney makes himself nod. "Temporarily."

*****

Edited to fix the jackalope picture. Stupid non-posting picture.