richard dean anderson/michael shanks rps

[cimorene]

wrote this earlier before the internet died to cheer southpaw526 up. stars of stargate:sg-1 have dinner. and the title is

challenge: none. inspiration: Let's Create Warm Fuzzies.

'no,' michael sighs, 'i just... don't get it. women. how do guys arrange the cohabitation thing with them?'

rick chews a thoughtful bite of risotto and sausage. 'hm,' he says, smiling with his mouth closed.

'but see, this guy vaitiare's talking about, she was never serious about. she told me she didn't even like him that much. but now that he's proven to be an asshole, she can't decide if the whole male race--'

rick snorts.

'--are a bunch of hairy dumbasses or if i deserve a gold star for bringing tatiana Bend'N'Flex Barbie when i come to visit.'

'mmm.' says rick, raising both craggy eyebrows at michael over the table. 'so let me guess. she wanted to watch movies? and do you mind if i--?' he gestures with his fork to one of three remaining shrimp on michael's plate.

michael's lips twitch. 'go ahead. yeah. the brave little toaster.'

rick makes a noise of approval, but it's probably for the shrimp and not the movie. 'just don't jump back into bed with her,' he advises at length. 'and i think you've got a really good deal. i mean, thank god you're not the latest asshole, but she doesn't stay pissed at you for more than five minutes as long as you keep showing up to take tatiana for a spin in the cool car, and give mommy a few hours to herself.'

michael grins. 'thanks for that. was a great idea.'

rick's eyebrows waggle again. his eyebrows are really a fascinating feature--a real asset to him as an actor. and in a conversation like this, where the infectious tongue-in-cheek corny expressions he make leave michael at ease, warm and cheerful. 'the little ones love it.' the fork twirls in a little circle, reflecting the overhead lights. presumably the circle is the enthusiasm of little ones for car rides.

'i,' says michael stupidly. 'yeah.' but rick's smiling, so he smiles too, and it's okay. totally okay to say stupid things over dinner with rick. there are tiny images of the post-modern plexi chandelier reproduced in each of rick's eyes.

rick tilts his head speculatively.

'what?'

'did you?'

'what? oh--jump into bed with vaitiare? nah.' he's smiling a little. vaitiare shows sparks of interest in him again every now and again--leaning on his shoulder, for instance, and laughing at the villainous air conditioner. but he thinks she's made up her mind pretty firmly with regard to him, and he's happy with a comfortable platonic relationship.

rick snickers at him. 'she's not interested?'

there's one last shrimp on his plate, and he's eaten the last scrap of pasta and vegetable, so he's chasing it around with his fork, and finally stabs it. ah-hah! he pops it into his mouth with what is probably a sort of primitive feeling of satisfaction, and shrugs an answer to rick's question.

a mouthful of wine mingles nicely with the sharp tang of expensive cheese, pepper, and cream in the sauce. 'i'm glad i can leave and go home at night,' he says thoughtfully, and he's going to say 'most of the time' but rick is staring. '--what?'

'nothing. you have a.' reaching across the table, rick nearly knocks over his wine-glass, and michael's hand is just quick enough to catch and steady it. rick's arm stretches over his and his hand lights on michael's cheek, thumb sweeping past the corner of michael's mouth.

which is still open.

rick smiles. 'sauce.'

oh. warm and light-headed, he smiles back. 'thanks.'