Strictly Theoretical (SGA)
"I have a theory," Rodney says.
"It is New Year's Eve. We are not dead. Wraith are not coming. I am ignoring you," Zelenka tell him charitably.
"My theory is this," Rodney continues. "John was a hooker."
"I hate when you speak," Zelenka says, agonized. "When you speak, my soul hurts."
Rodney tries to shape his horrified frustration and titillating arousal with his hands, and mostly it looks like he's mangling a ball of invisible lard. His face twists with worry. "There is evidence," he says. "There is a mountain of mounting evidence that he used to mount people for money."
Zelenka hums Auld Lang Sine under his breath and runs a comb through his hair, checking his reflection in the deep freezer in the lab, filled with highly experimental compounds and a couple of Ancient gadgets that had to be put down with freezing temperatures to keep them from setting themselves on fire and everybody's secret stash of vodka and popsicles.
"Number one," Rodney says, following Zelenka around the room as he shuts down the computers and cleans up the last workstations. "Number one is just the way he looks."
"I hate you," Zelenka says honestly, shutting down a fume hood. He doesn't want to know why that's in the physics lab.
"Number two is the fact that he's just too good in bed," Rodney babbles.
"My God," Zelenka says, horrified and looking for a heavy object.
Rodney's eyes are crazy. "Number three: he can put on a condom with his mou--"
Zelenka throws a book at him and runs away.