(If you do choose to read it, it's un-read-over and definitely fluffy funfic. And Sheppard/Weir, established relationship. And I really need that Pinky and the Brain icon now that was running around recently.)
Your icon distracted me into thinking about Weir sniffing Sheppard's hair.
*is really thinking about Pinky and the Brain now*
If Elizabeth Weir could travel back in time eighteen months to her first day on this expedition, this -- along with the coordinates to their recently acquired ZPM, of course -- would be the crucial information she'd bring back for herself.
John Sheppard -- undisciplined, troublemaker, headstrong subordinate -- is bent completely and totally to her will just by playing with his hair.
Like now, for example. Their most recent media care package from Earth is open on the floor in front of them, full of video games and action movies and the complete coverage of Superbowl XXXX, and here they are watching an art movie. In a language he doesn't speak. And all because she asked him his entertainment preference while massaging his head, and got in response only those four magic words...
"Whatever you want, Elizabeth."
Seriously. It might have seemed a little odd her first week in a new galaxy to reach across the briefing room and pet her ranking military officer behind the ears, but it would have saved her a whole lot of aggravation.
"Enjoying the film?" she can't help but tease, scratching her nails up the shorter hair on the back of his head.
"No," he all but hums, and when he drops his head back against the inside of her knee -- he's sitting on the floor in front of the couch to give her the best angle of attack -- she can see his eyes are closed. That can't possibly help with the subtitles, but then, she's not really watching the screen either. This is more about time together than about catching up on the latest Cannes winner (while hundreds of thousands of light-years away from France). Besides, the entertainment and media box will only stretch so far -- Elizabeth is absolutely certain she'll have the chance to see this movie again. And again. And again. And if she doesn't have John Sheppard melting practically in her lap at the time, making happy sounds that send sparks through her and smelling like... well... like John, she might actually pay attention to it, too.
She massages his ears with her thumbs and fingers for a moment, and then goes back to trailing her nails through his hair in a way that makes it stand up in even wilder disarray.
He moans. "I think I might love you."
She rolls her eyes, but it's sweet. He still only says it when it's absolutely clear that he's joking, but he makes a point of joking about it so often now that it's starting to feel like he's... testing the waters. "You'd say that to anyone who gave you head." She leans over and whispers that last in his ear -- the activity of playing with his hair is perfectly innocent, but their name for it isn't one she wants taken out of context by the Atlantis rumor mill. The last thing she wants to hear going around is that she was doing that to him in the video lounge -- it has only been for the past month or so that they've felt comfortable enough in their new relationship (relatively new for her, at least, but, at six months, the longest he's ever had) to put themselves even on this kind of potentially public display.
He tilts his face up to grin wickedly at her. "Ah, but you're the best at it." He points at the TV. "Are you really watching that?"
"No," she admits. Then, because as fun as public displays of hair-petting are, they only have so many nights off together, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
John snickers and, in the worst cockney accent she's ever heard, responds with, "I think so, Brain, but where are we going to find cheese at this time of night?"
"... What?" She doesn't think he's been drinking. Maybe Carson's post-mission exam wasn't thorough enough this time around. Or -- and this is much more likely -- this is an in-joke she hasn't heard yet. Being leader, she usually isn't privy to the nuances of what Atlantis finds funny from day to day until John decides to enlighten her.
"You never watched cartoons?"
Now he's two for two on unexpected statements. "Cartoons? Like... Saturday morning cartoons?"
"Nope." John turns around and props his chin on her knee, smirking up at her. One of his hands slides up to play with the inseam of her jeans -- getting rather indecently high up her thigh for a public setting -- but she's pretty sure it's unconscious. "Afternoons. Pinky and the Brain. Animaniacs? Come on, Elizabeth."
She decides not to slap his hand away. "When we were kids?"
"No. Ten years ago, maybe."
His hair is truly ridiculous in its currently spiked-out state, and it's made even more so by the goofy look underneath it. "I didn't really spend much time watching TV in the afternoons."
"Too much heavy reading?"
"Something like that." She tries to brush down the worst of the mess she's made of his hair, but doesn't succeed. "I can't picture you spending your afternoons watching cartoons, either."
He looks almost hurt, like she has accused him of something terrible. He's actually pouting. "You can't?"
She's romancing a child. This, along with the total devastation of personal morale he experienced last week when Ford and Teyla ganged up to beat his high score in some sort of video game about exploding cars and guns and skateboards or something -- not to mention the all-night gaming session he undertook to retake it -- only confirms it. Her boyfriend (if he is her boyfriend -- he's a little unclear on that) is twelve years old.
"Actually, I can picture it perfectly."
He beams. The hand on her thigh is getting awfully close to tickling, and even though his innocent expression doesn't flinch, she knows it's on purpose. "You're missing out, you know. It's educational."
"Oh, and I'm sure that's why you spent all your time watching it."
"I never do anything without a very important reason."
She smirks. "I'm sure."
He all but crawls up her body to kiss her. Somehow it's funny -- even though, she rationalizes, he still smells nice and has stopped tickling her so she should be more horny than amused -- and she can't keep from giggling as his tongue slips into her mouth.
He pulls back. "Hey!"
She's remembering his terrible accent now, and can't quite get her amusement under enough control to resume their makeout session. (And making out on the couch makes it seem like they're both twelve, but there it is.) "So... what did you call me?"
John looks slightly annoyed that she's interrupting his first proper attempt at seduction of the evening, but, as turnabout is fair play, she feels no guilt. "The Brain is... a genetically engineered mouse. Always coming up with a genius plan to take over the world."
She pouts. "Sounds more like Rodney than me."
John gets the look he gets when he's thinking up some sort of joke that Rodney McKay will hate, and Elizabeth starts shaking her head.
Best to ignore it. She pokes him in the shoulder. "So, if I'm The Brain, then who are you?"
"Well, I wouldn't say it's me. The Brain's sidekick is another mouse who messes everything up."
"Aww. So, the villain?"
"Nah. Just a lovable idiot."
She reaches up to flatten an especially ridiculous spike of hair and grins. And then, since her hand's already there, and since she's as addicted to the action as he is, she runs her fingers through his hair again. "I'd say that sounds exactly like you."
"I'm not going to stand for being insulted," he tries to look chiding, but his eyes are already heavy-lidded from what she's doing to him. She again muses on how easy he is now that she's found his weakness. Like putty in her hands.
"So what're you going to do about it?"
And there they are, the four magic words she intends to milk for a very long time:
"Whatever you want, Elizabeth."