Word
Count: 2,653 Rating:
PG Category:
Angst. Humour. Story Status:
Complete Summary:
Rodney, cake, pain and even the death of an OC. What more do you want?
Oh, friendship too! Potential spoilers for all three seasons.
Written for the SGA_flashfic
Cake or Death challenge - sga_flashfic contains gen, ship and slash fics.
Beta: Thank
you to Jayne Perry for the beta-reading.
Five Ways Cake Caused Rodney Pain By Leesa Perrie
One:
Idiom - ‘a
piece of cake’, Informal - something easily done: She thought
her first solo flight was a piece of cake.
Noun - a sweet, baked,
bread-like
food, made with or without shortening, and usually containing flour,
sugar, baking powder or soda, eggs, and liquid flavouring.
Set
pre-Atlantis
It was a piece of cake.
Literally, a piece of cake.
Lemon icing on two layers of lemon flavoured sponge with lemon curd and
cream in the middle. The only thing that wouldn’t
kill him
was the cream, except it was now contaminated by all that yellow death.
He backed away slowly, muttering about not being hungry, and how nice
of her to bake it especially for him, but he really, really
couldn’t eat another bite. She was disappointed, he
could
see that, so he suggested that she put some in a container for him to
take home.
But he knew he’d lost some points with her, and he
wasn’t
surprised when a few days later she broke up with him. It
wasn’t just the damned cake, he knew that, but it
hadn’t
made things better.
Maybe he should have told her about his allergy earlier, he’d
certainly meant to. Usually he did when going to dine at
someone’s house, but he hadn’t wanted to seem
difficult,
and he knew what she’d planned for the main meal and that it
was
safe. She’d told him her plans excitedly the day
before.
But she hadn’t mentioned the cake, a nice surprise for him.
Not so nice, actually, not that she was to know that.
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, even though he liked
her. A lot.
Stupid allergy, stupid cake, but most of all, stupid him.
Two:
Noun - pancake;
griddlecake.
Set
Season Three
It was a pancake, and the juice of doom.
A damned pancake!
It seemed that Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday, was celebrated by a few
of the nationalities among them. Of course many of them had
differing traditions, so to save potential problems Elizabeth had
declared that each nationality was to take it in turns to use the
kitchens. That way they could make their own pancakes with
their
own particular recipes and toppings, though she made sure that they
welcomed anyone who wanted to try their pancakes, including those who
didn’t normally celebrate the day.
The first year that Pancake Day had come around, the expedition had
still been cut off from Earth and the flour was running low, so
everyone had had to make do without pancakes. The second
year,
everyone who had been in Atlantis during the first year seemed to be
going out of their way to make up for the loss. Elizabeth was
willing to allow it, for the sake of morale, and turned a blind eye to
the unofficial pancake races down various corridors; so long as they
were cleared first to avoid accidents. She’d even
allowed
the British contingent a chance to re-enact the Ashbourne Shrovetide
football (and the term was used extremely loosely by everyone) match,
and quite a crowd of people gathered to join in with the rough and
tumble game; especially bored military types.
There was golden syrup for those to whom it was an essential topping,
like the British, and maple syrup for others. Of course,
anyone
caught putting maple syrup on their pancake was gently (or not so
gently in a few cases) derided for their choice by any Brits in the
vicinity. There was also lemon and sugar on hand for those
who
preferred that traditional topping. And there were always
those
handful who dumped golden syrup and lemon juice onto their pancakes,
along with sugar, but the less said about them the better.
Rodney had wandered into the mess hall whilst the Brits were in charge,
and after complaining bitterly about all the potentially fatal citrus
juice in the area, tucked into a British style pancake, a little
thinner than the normal Canadian and American version, but still very
nice. He smothered the first one with maple syrup, ignoring
the
jibes that brought in his direction, and the second one with golden
syrup, to see what it was like.
The third got both syrups, one on each side.
He would have gone for more, but apparently three was the limit - and
whose inane idea had that been - so he grumbled and, grabbing a pudding
cup and an apple, headed out of the mess hall.
Meanwhile, Ronon had been intrigued by the lemon shaped and sized
plastic containers holding the lemon juice. He soon worked
out
that you needed to squeeze them in the middle for the juice to come out
of the hole, and so he did, but misjudged rather badly the amount of
pressure required and pressed the yellow plastic with much of his
strength. The result was spectacular.
The stream of lemon juice missed his pancake and hit his plate,
spraying upwards and to the sides, covering everyone at the table as
well as several people walking past; one of whom was Rodney.
The juice hit him on the arms (he wasn’t wearing his jacket,
just
a short-sleeved t-shirt), and even a few drops hit his face.
He was descended on by Sheppard and Teyla, who rushed him into the
kitchen area to wash the citrus off, while Ronon radioed for a med
team.
Luckily, having not actually ingested any of the juice, his reaction
was not as severe as it could have been. Minor swelling,
causing
a nasty wheeze, and red hives. Bad, but not deadly,
fortunately.
He was out of the infirmary by the next day and back in his labs,
causing terror in all but a few. Radek, annoyingly, being one
of
the latter.
Ronon arrived several times during the day with a supply of pudding
cups, blue Jell-O and chocolate chip cookies; and just where had he
found those? Rodney still had no clue, and it
wasn’t for
lack of asking...
After the nth time he was interrupted by Ronon he couldn’t
stand
it anymore. He told him that; it was an accident, he had
forgiven
him, and could he please get out of the lab, right now, and stop
interrupting him every
five minutes, because he couldn’t
concentrate on his highly
important work otherwise and just might end
up sinking the city.
Ronon just smiled, clearly amused by Rodney’s outburst, then
nodded and left, leaving behind the pudding cup he’d brought
with
him.
Damn irritating caveman.
Rodney turned back to his work, absent-mindedly opening the pudding cup.
Mmm, chocolate; one of his favourites.
Three:
Noun - a shaped or
moulded mass of other food: a fish cake.
Set
during Rodney’s teen years
It was fishcake.
Fairly innocuous, one would have thought; incorrectly.
He was fourteen when his mother had gone in for an operation, a
hysterectomy he’d overheard and had immediately set about
looking
up in the medical books at the library, wishing he hadn’t
bothered afterwards; definitely a case of too much information.
Anyway, it was clear she’d need help around the house for a
while, and as Rodney’s father was a busy man who often
didn’t get home from work until 7 pm, his grandma had
volunteered
to look after the kids until their mother was back home and fully
recovered.
His grandma, who was awaiting cataract surgery on her eyes, and was
half blind.
So this fateful day, when his mom had gone into hospital for her
operation, his grandma decided to make Jeannie’s favourite
for
dinner; fishcakes. She’d have something else later
with her
son when he came home from work, but fishcakes was fine for the kids;
as if Rodney was still a ‘kid’ at fifteen,
he’d
muttered to himself.
He wished she’d just brought some from a shop, but that was
‘unhealthy’ and so she made the fishcakes from
scratch
herself. Which would have been fine if she could have seen
what
she was doing when boning the fish.
Served up, Rodney had soon realised that the cakes had lots of little
and not so little bones in them, which sucked. Fortunately
his
grandma was in another room and wouldn’t get upset at her
mistake, or be offended that he’d mentioned it, no doubt
going on
to point out that they were lucky she was able to help or else they
would have to make their meals themselves and do the housework and so
on... He’d already had one tirade from her that day and he
really
didn’t want another.
He pulled Jeannie’s plate over, removing the bones for her as
best he could and telling her not to say anything as it would just
upset grandma, and then did the same for his own meal, which tasted
alright after that, if still a little crunchy.
It was a short while later that it happened. The family cat,
the
one who loved him more than the rest of the family; the one who
followed him everywhere around the house and slept on his bed at night;
the one he confided his secrets and his fears to; the one he loved more
than any other cat he’d ever known and had owned for nearly
seven
years; found the fish bones that his grandma hadn’t cleared
away
properly due to her poor eyesight. And choked to death before
anyone was able to help her on one of the bigger bones.
He’d never eaten fishcake again; at least, not until that
first
year on Atlantis, when food was scarce and if fishcake was the only
thing on the menu, well, he didn’t have much choice, did he?
But he always felt sick afterwards.
Four:
Noun - a shaped or
compressed mass: a cake of soap; a cake of ice.
Season
One, Atlantis
It was a bar of soap. A stupid bar of soap.
McKay groaned at the memory.
He’d smuggled in some perfume-free shower gel and a sponge,
not
wanting to have to defend them as ‘necessary items’
as
opposed to his being ‘personal item’
quota. And he
had been right to.
Damned military issued soap.
Unfortunately, he went through the shower gel much more quickly than
he’d expected; too many off world missions with mud or other
nasty substances he’d rather forget about. His
sponge had
disintegrated far too fast for his liking as well, forcing him to grab
a few military issued flannels, which felt too harsh for his sensitive
skin.
The military were masochists, obviously.
And then the soap. Standard, ordinary, and too damn slippery.
So he’d lost hold of it, several times; so that one time
he’d managed to step on it whilst trying to retrieve it, so
what? Not like he was the only one to do something like that.
Stupid soap.
He’d fallen on his hands and knees, bruising his left knee
enough
to leave him with a limp for a few days, and spraining his left wrist.
Carson had been unsympathetic; giving him a mini-lecture on being more
careful, all the while laughter dancing in his so-called
friend’s
eyes, damn him.
He’d managed to fob people off about how he had injured
himself,
telling them it was none of their business, and now typing with one
hand was driving him crazy. Not to mention trying to use his
tools to investigate or fix things.
But did he get any sympathy from anyone? No, of course not.
It didn’t help when, three days after the accident, Major
Sheppard managed to prise out of him what had happened, with the help
of some Athosian alcohol; and whose idea had it been to bring alcohol
to Team Night? Bad idea. Very bad idea; he should
have
known better.
The next day when he’d returned to his quarters it was to
find
that someone, Sheppard, had broken in, not literally thanks to his damn
gene, and somehow managed to fold and fit a rubber exercise mat onto
the floor of his shower.
Oh ha, ha, very funny.
And there was a sign tacked to the wall of his shower that said,
‘Beware the soap of doom’.
Really, how childish could someone get?
The final touch was a new bar of soap that someone, no need to guess
who, had carefully drilled a hole in, threaded some thin rope through
and securely attached to one on the shower fixtures, in such a way that
he could still use the soap without having to untie it from its new
home.
He’d sighed, and then removed the sign, intending to throw it
away; and if it somehow managed to find its way into a desk drawer, so
what? It was a shame to waste their limited supply of paper
and
maybe he could reuse it one day.
Then he’d called Carson. He’d thought
about calling
Sheppard down to help remove the mat from his shower, but
couldn’t face it. Carson wasn’t much
better,
chuckling at the major’s antics while helping him shift the
mat
out, and then taking the opportunity to prod and poke his wrist, before
leaving with a big damn smile on his face.
The soap on a rope remained.
Five:
Noun - Animal Husbandry
- a compacted
block of soybeans, cottonseeds, or linseeds from which the oil has been
pressed, usually used as a feed or feed supplement for cattle.
Set
Season Two
It was a Pegasus version of cattle cake for a Pegasus version of
cattle; big as rhinos, they were mean like water buffalo, and believe
him, too many nature documentaries had told him that they were mean and
even lions treated them with extreme caution.
These keklies were definitely mean, and ugly as sin too. Not
to
mention mad for the cattle cake. Apparently they’d
do
anything for it, and this was how the villagers had been able to
control them; through bribery.
The culled or dead villagers that was.
An exasperated Teyla had explained about the keklies and the cattle
cake later, but at the time
it happened, she and Sheppard had been on
the other side of the village.
Of course, it hadn’t helped that the cake looked like
flapjack,
causing Ronon, that fearless eater of unknown foodstuffs, to try it and
declare it edible, even very pleasant.
It was all Ronon’s fault, he decided.
So, he’d been hungry, but he’d had no intention of
trying
the alien cake until Ronon’s enthusiasm finally got the
better of
him. So, it tasted wondrous and he’d gathered some
to take
back with them for later. So what? It was still all
Ronon’s fault, big damn garbage can that he was.
The keklies, of course, had smelt the cake as he passed by their
enclosure and had charged the fences. The damaged
by Wraith
fire fences, that buckled and broke under the stampede.
He’d been fortunate that there was a stone building close by
for
him, and Ronon, to dive into, though the whole structure shook when the
herd started pushing it, trying to find a way in.
A frantic radio message and a few minutes later a quick thinking Teyla
had located a barn holding further cattle cake and opened its doors
wide, throwing down bits of cake in a trail towards it and jumping
quickly out of the way once the keklies smelt the new source of food
and dived off after it.
He was forced to throw the cake he’d collected away, and they
beat a hasty retreat from the village and its now free, marauding
not-really-cows. Returning to Atlantis, having escaped injury
by
the skin of his teeth, he thought it was over, but a few hours later
saw him leaning over the toilet bowl, heaving up his insides.
It
wasn’t fatal and he’d been assured it would only
last a few
hours at most.
His only satisfaction was that Ronon was in similar dire straits.
He heaved again; a few hours? Oh crap…
The End
Author's Notes:
for information on the Ashbourne Shrovetide
‘football’ game, go here.
