Author: Miasnape

Title: Buzz

A/N: For x-sleeptodream, who hates flying, stinging bugs and never fails to keep me writing random little things. :D

Something catches Rodney's attention; a flicker in the peripheries of his vision. When he turns, there it is. Big. Furry. Buzzing. Deadly.

Rodney's pretty sure that vaulting the coffee table and swerving around the armchair to reach the corner of the room in two seconds flat is the single most athletic and graceful thing he's done in his life. He's also pretty sure that the volume he just spat a string of curses out at would have been loud enough to herd sheep over vast acres of countryside.

At least the bee's on the other side of the room from him now. Of course, it's also swerving around between him and the only two doors out of the room, like a tiny, insectile bouncer, so he's effectively trapped himself in a messy, anaphylactic death sentence. But, okay, he's a genius. There's bound to be something he can do.

He casts his gaze around the room, making sure to keep checking on the bee's relative position every few seconds. The search yields the folded up newspaper that John left on the arm of his chair before he went out to the store. Okay, so he's seen people do this before, in cartoons and movies and things like that; it should be easy. Roll up the newspaper and then hit it. That's his plan. It's a good plan. He can do this.

The only problem, Rodney realises after he's finished with the first step, is that there's something he'd missed out in the planning stages: he has to get within hitting range before he can inflict any damage. The thing is that hitting range is also stinging range, and stinging range is also lips-turning-blue-unable-to-breathe range. His few brave attempts, holding the cylindrical Washington Post in front of him like a lightsabre, end up with him jerking back into his corner as soon as he's anywhere near the little flying bastard.

Then he hears it. Salvation, Rodney knows, doesn't often sound like a car engine, tires on the driveway, and an off-key rendition of Born to be Wild, but he's not in a position to be picky. As soon as the kitchen door clicks open, Rodney's yelling for John. In a dignified way, of course.

John's tanned face pokes around the doorframe. "What's up, Rodney?"

Rodney gestures at the bee with his rolled-up newspaper. "Killitkillitkillitnow!"

John's head snaps around like he's expecting to see a Wraith looming beside the television. Rodney can tell the exact moment that John sees the real nature of the threat, because John beats Rodney's record 'diving headlong into the farthest corner' time by one whole second.

"You were supposed to kill it! Not end up trapped here with me!" Rodney yelps, and John turns a dark, hunted gaze on him.

"It's a bug. I hate bugs. You know I hate bugs, and you know damn well why. You kill it."

Rodney brandishes his make-shift paper and ink weapon in John's face, sending a welcome waft of cool air dancing across his own sweaty skin. "I tried, but it's just as likely to kill me. Shoot it or something."

John's eyebrows climb skyward. "Okay, first, the nearest gun is locked up across the room. Second, how the hell do you expect me to be able to hit a moving target that's the same size as the bullet that's supposed to kill it? Third, I think shooting a bug might be over-- oh, shit, it's coming closer!"

It is, too. It hovers back and forth around their heads, darting close and then away like it's taunting them. Every time the buzzing gets louder Rodney has an intense impulse to cover his ears, one which is probably born of the urban legend he heard as a kid about spiders crawling into your ears and laying eggs. It clearly scarred him for life. He's never going to be able to get rid of that phantom itchy, fuzzy feeling now.

"Okay, I have a plan," John says. "The next time it flies close again, we duck and make a break for the kitchen. Then we go back to the store and buy them out of insect repellent."

"Right, okay. Duck and run. We've survived before with worse plans," Rodney allows.

"Exactly. It's a classic. Right, okay, here it comes."

The bee dives straight at John's head, which was unforeseen, but it turns out that rolled up newspapers make good projectile weapons in a pinch, so after the very manly shrieking and throwing and then the standard ducking and running, they're both slumped safely against the closed door, panting slightly.

Rodney lets his head bang back against the wood. "We're really pathetic, aren't we?" he asks.

John sighs and slides down to sit on the floor. "Space vampires, no problem. Sentient killer machines, we're fine. Send in the bugs and we're screwed."

"Teyla and Ronon can never, ever find out about this," Rodney warns, settling down beside John. "Or Lorne and Radek."

John snorts and pats Rodney's thigh. "Rest assured, buddy, this whole thing's staying between you, me, the birds and the bees."

If Rodney had still had his newspaper, he would have brained him with it.

END