The Lost and the Forgotten

Chapter 7

A sigh, a stretch, and Zanta rolled languidly over to face him.  She idly ran the tip of one finger over his profile, catching slightly on his lower lip.

"You really are a scientist, aren't you?" she drawled.  "I've never felt quite so thoroughly... investigated."

"Yes, well, you know, I'm all about the rigorous application of scientific method!" His hands twitched as if they wanted to flap enthusiastically, but didn't have the energy.

"Rigorous?"

"And vigorous.  Vigorously rigorous.  Or the other way round." He frowned slightly and turned his head to face her, the rest of his body preferring to stay heavily motionless.  "It was good, though?  You did like being investigated?"

She smiled a slow, satiated smile.

"Oh, yes!"

Rodney thought about asking for marks out of ten, and additional comments for each of the categories on his mental checklist, but decided her brief accolade was sufficient.

"And the...?" He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together and looked at her questioningly.

"Very slippery.  Very tingly."

"Yes, that's the caffeine.  Because you can get caffeine shampoo for... well, never mind about that!  So, I thought, by natural extension, caffeine lube might... er... stimulate certain, er..."

"It did.  So you can tick that box."

Rodney grinned fleetingly at her joke, wondering if she realised that there did exist an actual box to be ticked, in a certain file on his laptop.  His thoughts wandered aimlessly, flitting here and there over his varied experiences as an intergalactic explorer, and finding that many of them compared unfavourably with his most recent mission to explore the newly-charted territory laid out in panoramic splendor by his side.  He wondered if, over the years, he should have devoted a larger proportion of his time and intellect to such voyages of discovery, but concluded firstly that most of the attractive women he had encountered had been irresistibly drawn, like opposite poles, to John or Ronon rather than himself, secondly, that when an opportunity had arisen, he had usually messed it up through awkwardness, embarrassment and/or general cluelessness, and thirdly, that he and the entire Atlantis expedition at the very least, would certainly be dead by now if he'd devoted even a very few extra percentage points of his time and intellect to lighter pursuits.  His second conclusion was interesting though, in that, in Zanta's case, it didn't seem to apply.

"You're a catalyst," he said, aloud.

"I'm a what?"

"A catalyst." He leant up on one elbow and looked down at her.  "Normally, I don't get very far with women.  I struggle with the early stages, where you're supposed to be able to do small talk and be casually cool; the kind of thing that Sheppard's so good at.  But with you, I don't seem to need so much activation energy to get the whole reaction started, and after that I'm exothermic all the way!"

"I'll take your word for it," she said, laughing.  "But if it's casually cool you're going for, that hat of yours does the job!"

"Oh." He flopped back down on the bed.  "I think I lost it.  Yesterday.  When I was running for my life.  It wasn't a hat-friendly situation."

"That's a shame.  You looked good in it."

"Good enough to eat?"

"Apparently so," she smirked.

"I'd better get another, then.  Soon."

Zanta's fingers trailed slowly over his chest, her eyes following them, thoughtfully.