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Go South, Young Man!
Disclaimer: Don’t own or claim rights to Buffy or Stargate
Notes: Written for 365 Drabbles, Prompt - Cold
Xander hugged himself through the heavy coat he was wearing: it was freaking freezing. All he wanted right now was a nice warm bath, in an overheated bathroom, with a boiling hot coffee. Or, you know, to be back in the US where there was actual heat. Or pretty much anywhere other than where he was, which was in freaking Antarctica. He knew there was a reason for him to be here, he just wished there wasn’t, which would have meant, of course, that he wasn’t here. And that would be such a shame. ‘Cause had he mentioned: cold.
“Yeah, yeah,” Xander muttered, “sit in the chair and think cosmic thoughts.”
“If it’s possible for you to think,” Dr McKay muttered. “Why is he even here?” he added, raising his voice. “He works for a bunch of ghost chasers; surely that means that he has insufficient intelligence to be of any use, regardless how strong an expression of the gene he has.”
Xander rolled his eyes as he approached the throne-like chair. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Because, Lord knows, you’ve got personality enough to work the thing,” he added, smirking. He’d heard about the good doctor’s special deficiency. He sat down, and relaxed into the chair which automatically laid back into its active position. And Xander assuredly didn’t squeak when it did so.
Rodney scowled at the ease with which the ill-trained monkey made the Ancients’ chair work. He huffed. Proof positive that the gene wasn’t linked to intelligence.
Xander laid in the chair, watching the hologram go through its motions. “So… We done here?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope,” came a new voice, and General O’Neill walked into view. “You made it work, so you better get used to living down here.”
Xander whined.
“Oh, yeah,” Jack gloated, “you’ll want to pack some more winter woollies.”
Damn gene. Damn Giles for agreeing to this. Damn cold.
Notes: Written for 365 Drabbles, Prompt - Cold
Xander hugged himself through the heavy coat he was wearing: it was freaking freezing. All he wanted right now was a nice warm bath, in an overheated bathroom, with a boiling hot coffee. Or, you know, to be back in the US where there was actual heat. Or pretty much anywhere other than where he was, which was in freaking Antarctica. He knew there was a reason for him to be here, he just wished there wasn’t, which would have meant, of course, that he wasn’t here. And that would be such a shame. ‘Cause had he mentioned: cold.
“Yeah, yeah,” Xander muttered, “sit in the chair and think cosmic thoughts.”
“If it’s possible for you to think,” Dr McKay muttered. “Why is he even here?” he added, raising his voice. “He works for a bunch of ghost chasers; surely that means that he has insufficient intelligence to be of any use, regardless how strong an expression of the gene he has.”
Xander rolled his eyes as he approached the throne-like chair. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Because, Lord knows, you’ve got personality enough to work the thing,” he added, smirking. He’d heard about the good doctor’s special deficiency. He sat down, and relaxed into the chair which automatically laid back into its active position. And Xander assuredly didn’t squeak when it did so.
Rodney scowled at the ease with which the ill-trained monkey made the Ancients’ chair work. He huffed. Proof positive that the gene wasn’t linked to intelligence.
Xander laid in the chair, watching the hologram go through its motions. “So… We done here?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope,” came a new voice, and General O’Neill walked into view. “You made it work, so you better get used to living down here.”
Xander whined.
“Oh, yeah,” Jack gloated, “you’ll want to pack some more winter woollies.”
Damn gene. Damn Giles for agreeing to this. Damn cold.