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I'm kind of madly in love with this song right now: Countin' On a Miracle (Acoustic). It's just so harrowingly beautiful. I almost like it better than the CD version of it. Gah. I just love Springsteen, it still amazes me how much I love his music. And him - he really just hypnotizes you.
In other news, fandom continues to make me very sad that I've never been to camp. In the case it's Campfire Law, yet another SG:A AU, where, as you might have guessed, the cast are all at Camp Atlantis, as counselors, life guards and, you know, other personnel. I've mention how incredibly fond I am of Radek, right? He's awesome in this - and Rodney, of course, continues to make me love him more than should be right. And Sheppard is awesome and in character (I think?) and still manages to come over as a military prescence, and look, just go read? So much awesome!
Rodney covers his face with his hands, but allows John to drag him toward his cabin. "I hate kids," he mumbles. "I hate kids, and I hate camp, and I hate my parents for making me take this job. 'It'll look great on your college applications!' they said. 'Leadership skills!' they said. 'Working with children!' they said. I said, 'I'm already accepted to college! Astrophysicists don't need to know how to work with children!' But did they listen? No! I should've run away when I was nine."
---
"Along with being out of Coke, we're also out of wood," Beckett says. Zelenka squeaks and his hand flies up to his nose, and at first Rodney thinks that he actually did some damage, before he looks around the circle of fading firelight and sees that Carson and Ronon and John all have their forefingers pressed to the tips of their noses, too.
"What the --"
"Nose goes," John says.
Rodney looks down at his hand. "Nose -- oh, dammit." He rubs the back of his hand over his nose. "God. I hate you all so much right now that I can't even express it in words. I may have to sing. Or I wish that I knew, oh, ballet so that I could possibly communicate my hate to you through the medium of dance, because there are not words -- wait, no, I have words: poison ivy! Mosquitoes! Thorn bushes! Little pointy sticks that poke out from trees and --"
I need a Rodney icon. I need to get over my oral fixation. Seriously. I also need to stop eating sugary things, as it will mean no sleep at all tonight. Finally, I need to get over a few things. Poll tomorrow!
In other news, fandom continues to make me very sad that I've never been to camp. In the case it's Campfire Law, yet another SG:A AU, where, as you might have guessed, the cast are all at Camp Atlantis, as counselors, life guards and, you know, other personnel. I've mention how incredibly fond I am of Radek, right? He's awesome in this - and Rodney, of course, continues to make me love him more than should be right. And Sheppard is awesome and in character (I think?) and still manages to come over as a military prescence, and look, just go read? So much awesome!
Rodney covers his face with his hands, but allows John to drag him toward his cabin. "I hate kids," he mumbles. "I hate kids, and I hate camp, and I hate my parents for making me take this job. 'It'll look great on your college applications!' they said. 'Leadership skills!' they said. 'Working with children!' they said. I said, 'I'm already accepted to college! Astrophysicists don't need to know how to work with children!' But did they listen? No! I should've run away when I was nine."
---
"Along with being out of Coke, we're also out of wood," Beckett says. Zelenka squeaks and his hand flies up to his nose, and at first Rodney thinks that he actually did some damage, before he looks around the circle of fading firelight and sees that Carson and Ronon and John all have their forefingers pressed to the tips of their noses, too.
"What the --"
"Nose goes," John says.
Rodney looks down at his hand. "Nose -- oh, dammit." He rubs the back of his hand over his nose. "God. I hate you all so much right now that I can't even express it in words. I may have to sing. Or I wish that I knew, oh, ballet so that I could possibly communicate my hate to you through the medium of dance, because there are not words -- wait, no, I have words: poison ivy! Mosquitoes! Thorn bushes! Little pointy sticks that poke out from trees and --"
