Title: To Catch A Thief
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Pretty much everyone’s fairly keen to get John out of his underwear :o)
Disclaimer: These guys aren’t mine I’m loath to admit
Feedback: Always very much appreciated.
Summary: John finds himself the victim of a theft…
Comments: Just a quick bit of fun, it would never happen but I found the idea rather an amusing one. Oh, and you’re going to miss a joke if you haven’t seen Poisoning The Well (107).
Weir paused, mid sentence, and raised an eyebrow. “Major? Is there a problem?”
John immediately stopped squirming and sank a little lower in his seat, “It’s just that, well I’m not wearing any underwear at the moment,” his face took on a pained expression, “and certain seams are starting to chafe…”
On the other side of the briefing room table Rodney turned a snort into a cough. There was a muffled thump, rather like the sound of a boot making contact with an ankle. Promptly followed by a second, louder, thump, almost exactly like the crack of a knee hitting the underside of a table with considerable force. The table in question shuddered. Rodney went purple.
Weir’s second eyebrow joined her first.
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“Is there a particular reason why you’re not wearing any boxers?” Weir fought to keep the tremor out of her voice.
John shot Rodney a dirty look, “Well they were there last night when I went to bed but when I opened my trunk this morning they were go…” The Major trailed off and he eyed Elizabeth, “How do you know they were boxers?”
Weir, Rodney, Ford and Teyla exchanged surreptitious glances.
Teyla cleared her throat, “Have you tried the laundry Major? Perhaps they are there?”
“…I didn’t put them out them in for washing!”
Rodney’s lip curled; “Atlantis is pretty much sentient Major, you had to expect it to take drastic action sooner or later,” he snarked.
John was a silent a moment, calculating. “Right,” he began slowly, “I’m going to go down to the laundry, and if I don’t find them there then I’m going to come back. And use my P.90 as persuasion. Okay?”
John left with as much dignity as he could muster and the briefing room heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“Who has the other pairs?” Weir checked. “We’d better warn them.”
Ford started ticking off on his fingers, “Beckett, Zelenka…”
“Dr Grodin,” Teyla chimed in.
Ford paused, “And Kavanagh.”
“Wait a minute,” Rodney held up both his hands, the last two fingers of his right hand curled down, “that’s only eight, who’s got the ninth pair…?”
In a small cell, almost three quarters of a mile away from the briefing room, Steve settled down for a nap, wearing his new blue boxer shorts, minus nametag, and a satisfied smirk…