Warning! This is a WiP. However, since it's not a huge marathon WiP like some evil WiPs that Shall Remain Unnamed, I think I have a good to excellent chance of actually finishing this. In fact, the next section is already in the can.

Fandom: SGA
Rating: So far, R for language and content.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Summary: “Wait,” Rodney says, snapping his fingers and blinking. “You were looking at porn, right? I totally caught you looking at porn!”
A/N: Feedback is tasty goodness. Also? I'm not totally caught up on season 3 yet, so please limit spoilers in comments if you can, thanks!

There’s a classified ads page on the Atlantis intranet. John has no idea when it first appeared, since he’d probably been on Atlantis for about two months before he cracked open his laptop for the first time and it’d been another two months before he realized he had an e-mail address (and, consequently, 4683 unopened e-mail messages from various members of the science team), but ever since John found the classifieds, it’s become his favorite way of killing time while outwardly appearing to do paperwork.

Because stuff like this? It’s pure comedy gold.

Like, today, under the category of ‘Health & Fitness’:

WANTED: handcuffs, preferably mink-lined. Any color. Trades welcome. Confidentiality a must. Reply to Ad #092-C.

And under ‘Crafts & Hobbies’:

FOR SALE: twelve mint-in-package Star Trek TNG action figures. Will trade for any vintage Battlestar Galactica memorabilia. Inquiries can be directed to Dr. Brown in Botany.

“Trekkie, I knew it,” John mutters under his breath, and scrolls down. He’s slouched in his chair in the conference room with his feet propped on the table, which is sure to make Elizabeth do that thing where she silently wonders if John was raised in a barn (and he’s still never going to tell her), but he’s got five minutes before the senior staff meeting and this beats the hell out of playing minesweeper or solitaire.

Under ‘Food and Beverage’, he spots Rodney’s contribution:

URGENTLY REQUIRED: chocolate chip granola bars. Have access to Czech-brewed moonshine in exchange. Reply to chipme@atlantis.net.

And under ‘Business Services’, something John’s never seen before among all the requests for food, porn, geek paraphernalia, and liquor:

WANTED: Sperm donor. Must be intelligent and reasonably attractive. Terms of delivery are negotiable. Interested parties may inquire by leaving notices on this service.

John’s leg slips and kicks over his full coffee mug on the table. “Holy crap,” he blurts, and slams the laptop shut only to find that Rodney has just walked into the room and is frowning at John in a slightly confused way.

“Did you just have an accident?” he asks, seeming disconcerted.

“My foot slipped,” John snaps, as he pulls himself upright and begins to hunt for a towel.

“I’ve never seen you do that before,” says Rodney, not helping in the least.

“Stick around long enough, you never know what you’ll see,” John answers shortly. He’s using Elizabeth’s ornamental placemat from under her ornamental vase to sop up the coffee, and he’s pretty sure that’s going to earn him yet another exasperated sigh.

“Wait,” Rodney says, snapping his fingers and blinking. “You were looking at porn, right? I totally caught you looking at porn!” He lunges for John’s laptop and has it open before John can stop him. “You’ve been holding out on me?” he demands, indignant, and then frowns again when the screen fails to show him any breasts.

“It’s not porn, McKay, for god’s sake,” John replies testily, reaching for his computer.

“Holy crap!” Rodney shouts, just as Ronon ambles in the room. Ronon fails to have any reaction whatsoever, except to come around the table and look over Rodney’s shoulder at John’s laptop.

“Oh,” says Ronon, who can’t read English. “I thought you were looking at the sex pictures again.”

“This is better than sex pictures,” Rodney exclaims, waving his free hand in the air. “This is actual *sex*!” He pokes at the screen as though Ronon should be able to decipher whatever it is Rodney’s seeing in the shape of the letters.

“It is?” asks Ronon, perking up a bit.

“No it isn’t!” John protests, getting up and standing beside Ronon with some vague idea of getting his computer back.

“Terms of *delivery* are *negotiable*,” reads Rodney with a leer, somehow managing to make it the dirtiest phrase John’s ever heard outside of a military barracks. He waggles his eyebrows and starts typing madly.

“Hey, that’s my computer!” John protests, feeling the beginnings of panic.

“Oh, calm down, no one’s going to trace it back to you, we’re on a secured wi-fi connection,” Rodney says. “I just want to get a jump on this offer and you’re already logged in.”

“You’re going to donate your sperm?” John asks, baffled, the panic welling higher.

“This says that there’s a woman who wants to have sex?” Ronon asks, gesturing at the laptop, definitely interested now. “How much?”

“She’s not a hooker, you ape,” Rodney shoots back acerbically, “she’s a reproductively-minded woman who’s, you know, taking advantage of the huge genius sperm surplus here on Atlantis.”

“She’s a nutbag!” John shouts. “Rodney, you can’t be serious!”

“So it’s free?” Ronon asks, seriously.

“What’s free?” says Elizabeth, coming into the room.

Rodney closes the laptop abruptly, proving to John that he hasn’t yet gone completely insane, though of course *John* is the one fighting back a guilty blush. Ronon’s unmoved as usual and is the one to answer Elizabeth. “Sex,” he says, “on the computer.”

“Please tell me that you two are *not* teaching Ronon about the wonders of the internet,” Elizabeth asks, smirking.

“Oh please, he’s a male with a hand and a rudimentary understanding of point-and-click, there’s no instruction necessary,” Rodney says, and Elizabeth holds up her palm to silence him.

“Just -- not in the conference room, please?” she requests, and now she’s giving all three of them the look. Then she notices her ornamental coffee-soaked placemat. “What happened to my Thai silk scarf?”

“The colonel had an accident,” Rodney answers casually, passing John’s laptop back into his hands.

“My foot slipped,” John says as Teyla walks through the door. “Can we just -- have this meeting?” he asks, dropping back into his chair. The sooner the meeting ends, the sooner John can try to talk some sense into Rodney.

***

Part 2