FIC: Plus One

Title: Plus One
Author: Barb G
Rating: G
Spoilers: The Siege?
Summary: They got a milk-crate this time.



The plan itself was not foolproof, but foolproof enough for mere mortals. Zelenka had caught him working on the fully functional prototype stasis jar earlier in the year. Rodney had found it--okay, went actively looking for it--in one of the storage rooms of the city. Zelenka probably wanted to ask questions, but Rodney gave a patented glare, and Zelenka threw up his hands, obviously unwilling to fight this time. They'd been between crises that particular moment, and nothing became of it.

The proto-type did work, but still needed a self-contained energy source that would last at least a month. It took him a while to figure that one out. But, when all was said and done, it did pay to be a genius.

The size, of course, was another concern. It had to be large enough for the cargo, but small enough to fit in a cube the size of a milk-crate they gave everyone for their personal belongings. He supposed that was a blessing as well. The last time it had been a shoe-box. Siberia, it had been what ever he could fit in his... he didn't want to dwell on Siberia.

Of course, when the siege began, the project had to wait, so when it was time to go back to Earth, he could only take his best attempt and go.

The debriefing had a debriefing, and Elizabeth kept them busy with all her meetings. He gave her 98% of his attention span, far more than he usually gave her with the Major in the room, and eventually, they were given the weekend for shore leave.

No plan was entirely without flaw, and he certainly didn't intend to spend most of his Sunday night on his last day on Earth up a tree, but treed he certainly spent it, hanging on a branch and using his most logical arguments in vain. He supposed that's why he had wanted Murray in his life; the cat was the one creature on Earth who simply refused to be bludgeoned by his sheer will. It had been refreshing until John managed it, off Earth, on a daily basis. Rodney found himself wondering how Murray and the Major would get along with each other.

Finally, at dawn, Murray ambled back down from the upper branches into Rodney's arms as though that had been his cunning plan the whole while, and together they dropped back down to the soft ground. Murray, his objections to the plan well and truly noted from his position and arguments in the tree, didn't fight the jar. Screwing on the lid was harder than Rodney thought possible, but Murray remained unconcerned, even as the fine white mist settled down over him. Rodney held him until Murray entered the state of stasis, and then gently lowered the whole thing into the cooler he picked out. It was labeled with a sign identifying the contents as his and threatening slow, lingering death to anyone who would dare think of stealing his food. Sometimes having a reputation was worth it.

On the way back to Cheyenne Mountain, he scanned the cooler for life-signs, but it gave off nothing that the chicken potpies it was labeled as wouldn't. The chamber, filled with the white smoke, would not be breeched until they arrived back home.

His home. The Major. The not yet being sucked into his own mortality, and his cat. It was going to be a very good year.