Work Text:
comment fic response - eyeliner and a leather skirt
by hawk
Rodney ran his hand through his hair, not caring that it was still slightly sticky from the goo they'd been given to eat less than an hour ago. When said hand came away with a couple of hairs stuck to it, he wiped it off on his shirt. Pacing seemed so pointless but what else could he do in an eight-by-eight foot cell?
A cell. Why the hell did it seem like every third -- heh, every other mission ended up with him stuck in a cell and John carted off between two alien goons to be "prepared" for some ancient mortally embarrassing ritual? Life in the Pegasus Galaxy -- sucked sometimes.
Forcefully pushing all thoughts of Wraith and sucking of the not good variety from his mind, Rodney paced, his booted feet toeing against one wall before he turned to make his way to the other again. When each turn showed him an empty corridor beyond the bars of his cell, he turned the other way so all he saw was the high barred window and the cloudless sky beyond.
How much longer would they make him wait? As he paced, the twin suns began to dip, sending a bright glare and then deepening shadows into his cell. And still no one came.
His stomach growled and he was thirsty. Hell, he was hypoglycemic for gods' sake. And wouldn't that bite if they found him dead in the cell when they returned. So much for "advancing diplomatic relations" then.
When the guards finally returned he'd taken up residence on the floor, back pressed against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest.
"On your feet."
Rodney pushed to his feet with a sigh and allowed the guards to lead him through the maze of corridors and into a room with low ceilings. A fire blazed in a pit in the center of the room and Rodney was pushed down onto a cushion to one side of it. As he looked around, he noted the exits: the door he'd just come through, and a door obviously leading to the outside since he could see night sky beyond the guards stationed to either side.
A cloud of smoke hovered at the ceiling and floated out the door and Rodney found himself watching the eddying wisps as he waited. A commotion at the door caught his attention as two guards lifted him to his feet, a hand under each elbow.
A native came inside, a low-slung leather loin-cloth girding his hips,a huge feathered headdress on his head, and a half-mask covering the upper part of his face. Two more men, in similar outfits, minus the elaborate headdress, fanned out from behind the first man and began moving sinuously around the fire. The assembled people began to chant and more dancers entered.
As the dancers moved to encircle the fire, Rodney noted a few women among them. So, this wasn't an all-male ritual as in most cultures he'd encountered. In and of itself, that fact was interesting. Interesting or not, Rodney was surprised when the village elders entered after the dancers. They all paraded by him and nodded before spacing themselves evenly around the fire.
Suddenly the chanting stopped and the dancers all stomped once in unison. As the sound died away Rodney saw another man enter, a single guard at his back.
It was the hair that gave him away, the unruly spikes a contrast to the other men's long braided locks. And when John lifted his eyes Rodney nearly groaned. Eyeliner. They'd rimmed his eyes in eyeliner... and he was wearing a version of the native clothing as well, the leather skirt riding low on his hips. He was also wearing the sandals that were so prevalent here, the leather straps crossing over the tops of his bare feet and encasing his shins in strips of gleaming black. Rodney licked his lips. Eyeliner and a leather skirt. He was so fucked.
end