Title: A Night's Broken Rest
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13 for a few bad words
Word count: ~5,000
Spoilers: Vaguely future fic! Except I haven't seen any of the new eps, so this is AU after The Return Part I.
Summary: Everyone except for a bare skeleton crew were snug in their beds, visions of dancing ZPMs or something less critically important dancing in their heads, eagerly awaiting Santa. Or, rather, Carson dressed up in a Santa suit, belly padded with pillows and Athosian goat hair taped to his face. It was going to be hilarious.
A/N: You know, for some reason I picture Christmas on Atlantis looking like that last scene in White Christmas, only without the snow and the ski lodge and the choreographed dancing. This is not a remake of White Christmas. This is my play on how Rodney would make a fabulously pissy Scrooge, except he totally loves Christmas - food and presents! - so. He can't figure out why he's being forced into a parody of A Christmas Carol. Quick, dirty, unbeta'd, so forgive any horrible errors.

A Night’s Broken Rest

Christmas was pretty much Rodney’s favorite time of year. Food, presents, more food. Seriously, what wasn’t there to love about it? Sure, the kids and the commercialism were fairly annoying, but on Atlantis. On Atlantis, there were only high spirits and extra rations and presents, which, with the lack of retail stores in Pegasus, mainly consisted of foodstuffs and black market goodies, and Rodney was practically in heaven for the entire month of December.

He was pretty sure Ager was his Secret Santa, because on Christmas Eve he ended up with a tiny, poseable Han Solo and a bagful of the Hickory Farms mint melt-aways Ager hoarded like crack cocaine. So it was either Ager or someone who wanted to piss Ager off. And since Rodney really wasn’t an ogre, and everyone knew the tiny Han Solo – and its tiny handmade cape, and no, Rodney had absolutely no idea what that was about – was Ager’s last thread on sanity, he wrapped it back up and stuffed it into the stocking in Lab 5 that had Basil Ager written on it in black magic marker right before he went to bed. He was keeping the melt-aways, though.

Sheppard was skulking around the hallway when Rodney closed up the labs behind him. Everyone except for a bare skeleton crew were snug in their beds, visions of dancing ZPMs or something less critically important dancing in their heads, eagerly awaiting Santa. Or, rather, Carson dressed up in a Santa suit, belly padded with pillows and Athosian goat hair taped to his face. It was going to be hilarious.

“Colonel,” he said. “Up late, aren’t you?”

Sheppard shrugged, a pout at the corner of his lips. Even his hair looked kind of down.

Rodney would’ve offered him a melt-away, except they were delicious and they were his.

“Get anything good?” Sheppard asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets and matching his steps to Rodney’s as they made their way towards a transporter.

Rodney shook his bag o’ mints in front of his face, grinning. “I think there’s a conspiracy to break Ager’s fragile hold on reality.”

Sheppard arched a brow.

“Well, what passes for reality,” Rodney amended, because they were living in a freaking sci-fi movie, and if he believed in any kind of god he’d think the big guy was up there somewhere with Peter, Paul, Mary and a couple of ‘bots, providing a running humorous commentary on their completely fucked-up lives.

“Cool,” Sheppard said, but it was sort of lame and his answering grin was half-assed.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Did you get Zelenka?” Rodney demanded. “Because he’s far more miserly than he looks, you know, and I spotted him wrapping up a twelve-pack of toothpicks the other day. Granted, they were the minty kind, but seriously, toothpicks? For Christmas? I know he’s still got a huge pile of funsize candy bars from Halloween, the bastard. It’s like finding out your rich uncle’s a fanatic about hygiene and sets up your entire family with electric toothbrushes, which, all right, are all around excellent and nearly unheard of back then, yes, but when you’re eight getting anything that doesn’t have to do with Super Friends or that erector set you had your eye on is practically the end of the entire worl—”

“Rodney.”

“Yes, what? Oh.” Rodney rolled his eyes.

“You’re gonna crash in about an hour from all that sugar,” Sheppard pointed out, amused.

“It’ll be worth it.” Rodney sighed, biting into another mint and wishing only slightly that it was chocolate. Chocolate would’ve been great, but he wasn’t going to be picky.

Sheppard nodded, just a dip of his head, corner of his lip pulled up. “Look, Rodney, I.”

Rodney reached for the crystals outside the transporter, shooting Sheppard a curious glance. “Yes?” he prompted.

Letting out a huff of breath, Sheppard said, “Never mind.”

Rodney hmmm’d and cocked his head, but let it go, popping another candy into his mouth. It was Christmas, after all. He would magnanimously gift Sheppard the rare occurrence of his silence.

They stepped into the small transporter, and Sheppard pressed the area that housed their living quarters, and Rodney supposed he was trying to be furtive, but the little sideways glances were starting to give him the heebies.

“No, seriously, what?” he asked, giving up any pretense of letting Sheppard off the hook, because, to be perfectly honest, silence wasn’t exactly Rodney’s forte. And it was Christmas. And Rodney was hyped up on sweet, sugary goodness.

“Nothing,” Sheppard insisted as the doors slid back open.

And then they were in the hallway by their quarters and Sheppard squeezed his arm and gave him a soft, “Merry Christmas, buddy,” before walking away.

“Try to tone down the enthusiasm, Colonel,” Rodney called after him.

“Goodnight, Rodney,” Sheppard threw over his shoulder, and Rodney couldn’t help grinning to himself, whistling The Most Wonderful Time of the Year under his breath as he slipped inside his room.

*

Rodney woke up shivering, and he tugged the covers more tightly around his body. His breath puffed visibly in front of his face, and he reached blindly for his radio, a brittle, “What the hell?” at his lips. But his radio wasn’t there. Keeping the blankets up to his chin, he struggled into a sitting position and thought on towards his lights, blinking sleep out of his eyes. And then he rubbed a palm into his socket because Peter Grodin was perched on the edge of his desk.

“Hello, Rodney,” he said.

“What—Grodin?” Rodney ventured, bewildered. Because Grodin was definitely supposed to be dead. Unless he somehow stumbled into an alternate reality in his sleep, which, while highly improbable, wasn’t totally impossible, either.

“I’ve come with a message.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s, um, great.” Rodney was pretty sure he was still asleep, dreaming, because.... Wait. “Wait, hang on, this isn’t some sort of Christmas Carol parody, is it? And I’m. I’m not Scrooge.” He waved a hand. “I’ve got Christmas spirit oozing out of my large, important brain. You are not here to tell me I’ll be visited by—”

“You will be visited by three spirits this night.”

Jesus, he sounded like a freaking recording, sitting there with his hands clasped and his face weirdly devoid of any emotion. Rodney pulled the covers over his head. “Seriously, I’m not listening. You might as well just go away.”

“The first will appear as the clock strikes twelve.”

“Go away! Sleeping!” Rodney shouted.

And then there was silence. Silence and warmth stealing back into his quarters, rolling over him in waves. He peeked out from under the covers, sighing with relief at the sight of his blessedly empty room.

He reached for his radio on the bedside table again, this time fingers grasping it almost immediately, and he hooked it over his ear, hailing Sheppard.

“What?” Sheppard asked groggily.

“Oh. Nothing,” Rodney said. “Never mind.” How could he tell him that Peter Grodin had shown up in his room without sounding like a basketcase? He’d probably been dreaming, anyway. Crazy, sugar-inspired madness.

“You feel all right?”

“What? Yes, of course.” He was feeling perfectly sane.

“Nauseous? Have a powerbar on hand?”

Rodney’s brows furrowed at Sheppard’s concern. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, then.”

Cue awkward pause. Rodney cleared his throat. “Right, um. Sorry to wake you up.”

“No problem,” Sheppard drawled. “Sweet dreams.”

“What?” Sweet what?

Another pause. “It’s an expression, Rodney,” Sheppard finally said, and Rodney knew that, yes, but these were some bizarre coincidences.

*

Rodney had only just gotten into a light, paranoid sleep when the sound of his door sliding open jerked him awake again. There was only one person who could so easily override his locks.

“Colonel, what are you.” He stopped, because it wasn’t Sheppard. “Ford?”

“Hey, Doc.” Ford grinned at him from under his snug cap, thumbs hooked in the sides of his tac vest, and why was Ford there, mission-ready, at – he check his clock – just after midnight?

“Ford?” Rodney repeated dumbly.

“The past is dead, McKay,” he said, looking exactly how he had when they’d first stepped through the gate – fresh and eager, an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes. “Dead and finished.”

Rodney narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

“Yep. Come on,” he jerked his head towards the door, “let’s take a peek. Remind you of what once was.”

“This is just so stupid,” Rodney muttered, climbing out of bed. He didn’t need to be shown the true meaning of Christmas or the error of his ways or that his life was heading towards irreparable doom – because, yes, of course it was; there were space vampires after them, and crazed genii terrorists and highly sophisticated robots. Never let it be said he lacked Christmas spirit, though, and he plastered on a bright smile as he searched for his pants.

Before he could pull them on, though, Ford grabbed his arm.

“Sometime this century, Doc,” he said, and suddenly he was in the commissary, clad only in his boxers and the Set Phasers to Disco t-shirt he’d gotten out of the grab box. It was almost like this nightmare he’d had once, except there was more weapons, less food, and no one could actually see him.

The room, while lacking decoration, was loud and raucous and Rodney snapped his fingers. “I remember this.”

Ford gave him a look.

“I mean, of course, but this was our second Christmas.” He breathed in deeply, smelling the enormous mainland geese they’d cooked up, noting the giddy joyfulness that infused everyone, despite the dark smudges under their eyes. They’d survived, mostly, and Sheppard hadn’t died no matter how hard he’d tried, and yeah. They’d lost a lot of good people, but it was Christmas, and the Wraith hadn’t won. There’d been things worth celebrating.

“Look,” Ford said, pointing towards the corner of the room.

Ah, there he was. Tired, glassy-eyed, but a genuine grin on his face. Sheppard pushed his chocolate cake towards him, which had been the best present ever.

They were happy. It was in every shift of their bodies, and Teyla was drunk on smuggled whisky, slumped over the table, giggling.

Rodney saw it through different eyes, though, keenly feeling the loss in retrospect. “We shouldn’t have been that happy.”

“Really?” Ford asked, head cocked. “You almost lost him.”

“Him? Oh, Sheppard, yes.” Rodney nodded. Even with the relief, there’d been bitterness at first. That he’d left so easily, thinking that it wouldn’t have mattered, when Rodney knew it would’ve most-likely crippled them all. “Yes,” he said again, lips pressed together.

He studied Sheppard, the set of his shoulders, trying to find any emotions other than the frothy cheer he spread with his grin.

“Can we get closer?” Rodney asked. Sheppard was leaning back in his chair, smirking, and Rodney was saying something that he couldn’t recall, and he wanted to hear.

Ford rocked back on his heels. “There’s more to see, McKay,” he said apologetically.

“But—”

“Come on. Remember after the Asurans?”

Rodney huffed. “You mean after the Ancients kicked us out.”

Ford’s smile was soft at the edges. “You came back.”

“Yes, well.” Rodney cupped the back of his neck, lowering his gaze. “Yeah.” It was the year they’d found Ford again, strung out and stick-thin and painfully sober. He’d never be the same kid again, the ghost in front of him was proof of that, but he was home and alive and surviving, and that was something to be thankful for.

When he glanced up again, they were in the common lounge. It was late, the lights dimmed, and White Christmas was playing, Rosemary Clooney crooning a smoky Count Your Blessings.

Teyla was curled up next to Ford and Ronon, a bowl of popcorn on her lap. A couple of botanists were packed into a couch in the back, and Vogel and Simpson were sprawled on the floor in front of the DVD screen, m&ms and a pack of cards between them. Radek was working on his laptop, and Cadman kept trying to close it on his fingers.

And Rodney was. Rodney was draped over Sheppard, snoring. Oh god. He was drooling on Sheppard, and why hadn’t anyone stopped him?

“Are you kidding me?” Rodney bit out, waving a hand. Sheppard was riding low on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back, and Rodney was slumped into him, head tipped onto his chest, and there was drool.

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Ford said.

Well. No, he didn’t. He even reached over and swiped his hair back, smiling a little indulgently, but Rodney maintained it was still completely embarrassing to fall asleep practically on top of his best friend. The dry, recycled air made him snore like a freight train.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “I can’t believe no one even mentioned this,” he murmured.

And then the sound drifted away, and Rodney found himself back in his rooms, dark and late, the baby-faced Ford nowhere in sight. He sighed, and swore off sugar for... well, he’d be crazy to give up sugar, really.

*

Something was poking him. Poke-poke-poke. And then, “Hey, hey. Hey, Rodney, what’s this? Huh?”

Rodney opened sticky-lidded eyes with a groan. A fat man was sitting on his bed. A fat, annoying man that Rodney remembered all too well. And he was poking at him and holding up a little handheld, and Rodney snapped, “Give me that,” and tore it out of his hands.

Lucius smiled at him. “Ready to go?”

“No.”

“What, no love for your old pal?” He pouted.

“No.”

He held up his arms, palms spread outwards, and said grandly, “Lucius and Rodney, loose in Atlantis.”

“Go away.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, my friend. Spirit of Christmas Present and all.” He bristled with pride, chest puffed out.

“I know my Christmas present. I’ve been here all day,” Rodney grumbled, but he was already reaching for his pants. He definitely needed his pants for this.

Lucius raised a single finger, biting his lip. “Watch,” he said, and then the air rippled around them like heat waves, and then they were standing in the massive ‘jumper bay. “God, I love that.”

The bay was packed, streamers and tinsel and evergreen boughs spilling out of boxes, tied all over every single puddlejumper. Tables were set up with punch and snacks, and people were laughing and chatting and wandering in and out. It was decorating central for Atlantis, the hub of the entire holiday, and Sheppard was in the middle of it all with a ridiculous Santa hat perched on his head and a sprig of mistletoe attached to the fuzzy white brim.

Christmas present. Right about then, Rodney would be elbows deep in white and blue construction paper ornaments for his lab, waiting for Sheppard to heft a tree his way.

“Oooo, cookies!” Lucius exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Freshly baked!”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Can we just get this over with?” He didn’t have anything against cookies of course – cookies! – but he knew from the many versions of this particular classic that he wouldn’t be able to touch, let alone eat them, and having to stare at the delicious forbidden morsels was pure torture.

“Wait for it,” Lucius said expectantly, then pointed at Sheppard, making his way towards the doors with a pathetically small Christmas tree.

He bumped into one of the newer scientists, a pretty little biologist with blonde hair and huge brown eyes. She grinned up at him when he apologized, flicking her gaze towards the mistletoe, reaching out to steady him with a hand on his arm.

“Hussy,” Rodney grumbled.

“Colonel,” she greeted him with her disgustingly southern accent, lashes fluttering and cheeks pinked. “Nice hat.”

Sheppard drawled a low, “Thanks,” but didn’t take the bait.

“Huh,” Rodney said. “That was stupid.” Hussy or not, it was a free kiss! And she was attractive, in a lesser-sciences sort of way. Rodney was pretty sure she was in charge of the tiny camels they’d found on PX3-544.

“He’s a man on a mission,” Lucius said brightly, then shook Rodney’s shoulder. “Oh, oh, watch, this is my favorite part.”

In front of ‘jumper two, a mixed a cappella group of marines and scientists led by the arguably talented Major Evan Lorne hummed their opening notes with the help of a pitch pipe, and then started a brisk Holly Jolly Christmas. Gatetech Chuck’s smooth baritone carried the melody, with Simpson and Miko adding high, sharp ding, dong, dings. Lorne and Biro harmonized, and Lucius tapped his foot, singing loudly and exuberantly along at the chorus, only he got almost every single word wrong.

Sheppard leaned against the wall, watching them with a half-smile, the small tree lurching sideways out the door.

“Seriously, you brought me here for this?” He’d had enough of the ‘Lantean Family Singers that afternoon as they’d strolled the corridors, and he was sure to get an earful more in the morning.

“Watch,” Lucius admonished.

Rodney watched. And watched some more. And finally Zelenka slinked into the room, a shirt bundled up in his arms. They were close enough to hear his, “Now you will owe me your soul, Colonel, and Rodney will owe you his,” before Sheppard peeked inside the shirt and grinned.

“You sure Ager won’t miss these?” Sheppard asked, and Rodney knew exactly what was so secretly tucked away.

“He will be too busy worrying about his precious Han Solo to notice missing candy,” Zelenka assured him.

Sheppard arched a brow. “And that’ll be okay because?”

“Rodney will not keep it.” Zelenka shrugged. “It is too easily recognizable, and Ager will most likely weep brokenly until it is returned.”

“Right, well. Thanks, Radek.”

“It is my pleasure.” Zelenka grinned sharply, and Rodney made a mental note to talk to Sheppard about making frivolous deals with Zelenka. He wasn’t a man you wanted to mess with.

“Two more stops, Rodney,” Lucius said, urging him forward, and the wall in front of them melted away to reveal Rodney’s lab. Lucius pushed Rodney through just as Sheppard showed up in the doorway, the tree in his hands and the stupid mistletoe still on his head.

“Nice hat,” his other self offered, snorting, and Rodney caught a flash of hurt in Sheppard’s eyes before he slowly slipped it off his head. Christ, sensitive much? He hadn’t meant anything by it. In fact, if Rodney’d been in possession of said hat, he’d have probably been running rampant all over Atlantis, spreading joy through his lips. You had to work a hat like that.

“I hope there’s an actual point at the end of all this,” Rodney said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lucius eyed him sadly. “You know what your problem is, Rodney?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Your problem,” Lucius went on, ignoring him, “is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” And then he snapped his fingers and they were in a darkened bedroom, and Sheppard was sleepily talking into his radio.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, and paused, a fond, slightly exasperated cast to his face. “It’s an expression, Rodney.”

Rodney watched as he tossed the radio aside, then scrubbed a hand over his jaw, up through his messy hair. He sighed, then punched his pillow and flopped over onto his side, one hand tucked up under his cheek.

His eyes were wide-awake, staring fixedly into the middle distance.

It was possibly their best Christmas in years, with Ford finally back and the Wraith extra quiet and their truce with the Genii holding steady, and Sheppard was laying there, all hangdog and melancholy, and, “Are you sure you’ve got the right Scrooge?”

“There’s only one more spirit before morning,” Lucius just said, a warning in his voice, and then everything went black.

*

The first words out of Rodney’s mouth were, embarrassingly enough, “You’re not Death.”

Cadman grinned. “Nope. I’m the wedding planner.”

“And I distinctly remember the third spirit not being able to tal—wait. Wedding planner?” Rodney’s eyes got huge. “Wedding planner?”

“Explosives expert-slash-wedding planner-slash-maid of honor,” she added cheerfully.

“Oh my god.” It was worse than death. In the future, he was going to get married. To someone who was best friends with Cadman. He threw up a little in his mouth.

Cadman punched him harder than necessary in the arm. “Let’s go spy on the bridal party.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do,” Rodney said with a pained grimace.

“Hell, McKay, don’t be a pansy. You’ve gotta ‘fess up to how you’ve lived your life.”

“Sounds great,” he said weakly, letting Cadman drag him from the room. He wasn’t against marriage really, except marriage inevitably came with compromise and babies, two things that didn’t always sit well with him.

His bride was apparently an amazon, though. Tall and leggy, with short brown hair and a pretty face, despite a slightly crooked nose. She was laughing with Teyla and Katie and two women Rodney didn’t recognize, and they were all in butter-cream leather, long Athosian style skirts and laced-up tops.

“Who—”

“Captain Marie Lane,” Cadman offered, and Rodney bit out, “A marine?”

“Air Force.”

Air Force. He was marrying into the American military. “Have I gone insane?” He looked over at Cadman. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve gone completely crazy, snapped like Ager in the lull between Daedalus runs.”

She laughed. “You’re in love.”

“I.” Rodney paused. “Okay. Then why does any of this,” he flapped a hand, “matter?” Love was all right. He could probably handle love.

“McKay,” Cadman shook her head, “this was never about you.”

She pointed to the room’s only door, which suddenly seemed much, much farther away, a small dark portal at the end of a forbiddingly dim tunnel. Rodney swallowed thickly, dread settling like a rock in his stomach as he walked towards it. What horrors would it reveal? A Nobel Prize winning Kavanagh?

He fidgeted, hand hovering over the crystals. “So. Through here?”

She made a shooing motion.

“Right,” he said, squaring his shoulders, then opened the door.

Sheppard was on the other side, slumped over on his bed, face haggard and pale, clothed in formal dress blues, hat and jacket resting on the back of his desk chair.

“Jesus, John,” Rodney breathed, and a twinge of pain shot right through his heart. This wasn’t his Sheppard. This was some paper-thin facsimile, because all of his light was gone.

A sheaf of papers was clutched in his left hand, and Rodney moved closer, craning his neck to read, the words ‘resign’ and ‘earth’ making his head spin. Sheppard was leaving Atlantis? That was... impossible.

There was a jaunty knock and Sheppard got to his feet, slowly placing the letter on his desk and pulling on his shiny-buttoned jacket. “Just a minute,” he called out hoarsely, and Rodney’s voice was muffled but recognizable through the thin door.

“Hurry up, Colonel. I’m nervous enough as it—”

Sheppard slid the door open, and the other man stopped mid-sentence. “Jesus, Sheppard, you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, Rodney,” he drawled, and Rodney knew. He knew why Sheppard was leaving, and why the hell hadn’t he seen that before?

“Come on, come on.” The other Rodney grabbed his arm, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m getting married.”

Rodney slapped a hand over his forehead. “I’m a complete moron,” he said.

His future self was obliviously blissful – mad, clearly – and Sheppard had a tight, resigned look on his face. “Yeah, buddy.” He clasped his shoulder, smile strained, posture stiff. “Let’s go.”

That was Rodney’s future, walking awkwardly out the door. A future that apparently wasn’t filled with Sheppard; wasn’t filled with his stupid jokes and horse laugh, and John was going to be freaking miserable without him. Cheesily enough, it made his chest hurt to think about. And he didn’t know this Marie person yet, but he certainly wasn’t going to love her more than John.

He spun around to find Cadman smiling at him bittersweetly. “Take me back,” he demanded. “I want to go home.”

*

When he woke up in the morning, Lorne’s voice booming Christmas greetings to the entire base through his comm. link, he had a few options. Either he’d had some really strange and vivid dreams, the spirit of Christmas had actually visited him, or – and this was the one Rodney was currently leaning towards, though he’d need to do a little system-checking to prove it – Atlantis was totally fucking with him.

Which wasn’t to say the message was false, because if there was one thing Atlantis carefully fostered – providing she was at least slightly sentient – it was John Sheppard’s mental and emotional well-being.

So. His best friend was pining for him. He got that. It was a little weird, and maybe he wasn’t as sure about everything as he’d been when spirit-Cadman had left, but it was still John, and he’d pretty much do everything in his power to make him happy.

He bounced out of bed, humming under his breath. By the time he finished his shower he was all-out singing, and it was completely the ‘Lantean Family Singers fault for waking him with a rousing rendition of Up On The Rooftop.

“You’re in a good mood, McKay,” Vogel said as he stepped out of his quarters across from Rodney’s.

“Christmas!” Rodney said, grinning, and he didn’t even verbally beat the scientist for pointing out the blatantly obvious. Who wouldn’t be in a good mood with present-opening in the near future, followed by a sure-to-be-satisfying breakfast feast?

First things first, though, and he stole down to his labs, pretending that he didn’t see Miko and Larson giggling by the over-stuffed stockings, still clad in pjs and fuzzy slippers.

Sheppard’s hat was where he’d left it, on top of the pathetically small, blue and white decorated Christmas tree, and Rodney slipped it off and tugged it onto his head, angling the mistletoe sprig dead center on his forehead.

“Nice hat,” Kavanagh sneered, hunched over a steaming cup of cocoa, and Rodney cocked a finger at him, smiling smugly through a cheery, “Fuck off.”

There were places to be, and people to kiss.

*

He found Sheppard in the ‘jumper bay with Ronon and Teyla, overseeing a pack of excited Athosian children who were practically mauling Carson, and that was just as hilarious as Rodney imagined it’d be.
A huge tree was propped up in between ‘jumpers eight and nine, roped with multi-colored lights, covered with tinsel and folded foil ornaments and fragile spheres of baked and painted clay, and a massive pile of haphazardly wrapped presents spilled across the floor underneath it.

Sheppard glanced over at him as Rodney made his way around the room, gaze fixed on his hat for a sticky, quizzical moment before he placed his hands on his hips and went back to surveying the kids with indulgent amusement. Rodney was sure he hadn’t imagined the flicker of surprised hope on Sheppard’s face, though, and everything was going great until he reached Sheppard’s side and realized that the genius of the mistletoe hat only actually worked when the person you were next to was shorter. Sheppard was about two inches too tall.

Rodney was hoping he’d get the point anyway.

“Hey,” Sheppard said, eyes darting to the Santa hat and away again. He licked his lips.

Rodney grinned like a shark. “Sleep well?” he asked.

“Yep. You?”

“Not really.”

Sheppard bobbed his head, still not looking at him. “Too much sugar before bed. Nice hat, by the way.”

“Thanks. I feel good about it.”

Carson was having trouble controlling everyone. He said, “Ho, ho, um, now hold on, there’s plenty for—Reed! Reed, get out of the tree. Sessa, will you just help—argh!” and waved his arms, little fluffy bits of goat hair floating around his head.

Teyla was laughing, and Ronon had on one of the biggest grins Rodney’d ever see him wear. Then Carson got bowled over when the little jackals spotted his bag of presents, and witnessing his muffled, “Man down, man down!” was, Rodney was certain, the absolute best way to start his day.

Rodney tugged on Sheppard’s elbow. “Come on.”

Finally glancing over at him, Sheppard’s brows rose on, “Why?”

“I need coffee, presents, and this hat?” He pointed towards his head. “Needs to be worked.”

“Worked,” Sheppard echoed, and then he was staring at Rodney’s mouth, eyes a little unfocused and grin a little dorky.

It seemed highly likely that Sheppard was going to get exactly what he wanted for Christmas, and Rodney was okay with that.

Was looking forward to it, actually, and he had four, um. Well, they hadn’t all been ghosts, really, and Rodney still had to figure out how the hell Atlantis had pulled the whole thing off. So he guessed they both had Atlantis to thank, and then the lights flickered on the tree and started flashing rhythmically, bright and dim.

All the kids went, “Ooooo,” and, “Ahhhhh,” and Carson ducked behind Ronon while they were distracted, murmuring desperately, “You have to get me out of here,” and, “They can scent my fear.”

Seriously, there wasn’t anything better. Rodney was sure of it.