It snowed on New New Lantea.
"Well, that's just great," Rodney says to none of them in particular, to all of them, because what, does he look like someone who should be in charge of caring for anything other than a small, personal nuclear weapon or a ZPM? But he checks his pulse and it's strong and steady; his forehead is cool; his sinuses seem clear - somehow he's not sick, and everyone else is, and shit, that means he's probably in charge.
. . . and since introspection's for the fucking birds, for the shrinks, for Nancy's friends, for that one guy who liked quoting poetry during sex, it's not surprising he stumbled over this without really knowing he wanted it, without acknowledging he'd been pulling Rodney's pigtails for four goddamn years.
AU: Europe, 1820; swords to ploughshares (or rather to musical instruments). Rodney wants better, louder, more...
When he wakes up in the hospital - it's more like a lab than a hospital, all white walls and Star Trek technology, but he's bare-assed in a paper-thin gown with an IV drip attached to him, so he's more comfortable thinking hospital for now - they tell him he has "the gene". They all call it that: the gene, like there's only one that really counts, Keller smiling down at him like he's just won some kind of lottery.
A New Year's celebration.
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