"Did you know," Rodney said, sitting down across from Sheppard in the mess and automatically reaching over to snatch away John's chocolate Snack Pack, "that you and Samantha Carter graduated from the academy the same year?"

John set down his half-finished turkey sandwich and shoved a few crinkle fries around his mostly-full plate, looking inscrutable.   "Did we," he said.

The day the McKays moved into Eureka Jack got approximately a dozen phone calls from Fargo, who was hiding under a desk in his office at Global Dynamics.

"Do you know when I last saw Rodney McKay?" Fargo whispered through the telephone line. "I last saw Rodney McKay when he was threatening to kill me using a protractor during a seminar he was leading in graduate school! This was before he started to lose his hair! Can you just imagine what a safety threat he is by now?"

“What the fuck, McKay!” John yelled. “I can’t take you anywhere!”

Dr. John Sheppard was not as excited about joining the project as Rodney was to have him on board.

In mathematics, the factorial of a non-negative integer n is the product of all positive integers less than or equal to n. This is written as n! and pronounced "n factorial", or colloquially "n shriek", "n bang" or "n crit". (Wikipedia)

YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE ALONE

Eames used to think a long fuck was an hour, when at the end of it his hips are sore and he's got a fucking charley horse and everybody's gasping for air and dying for oxygen — he didn't know shit.

When Alex Summers broke out of supermax to rescue his stupid kid brother, he had no idea it was going to be so fucking complicated.

Thinking that a reporter genuinely likes you is pretty much on par with feeling like you really are special to that stripper.

Obviously, it was not just any sort of egg.

The original plan had been, in fact, to honeymoon in Spain.

The throw-in begins play at the start of the game, after each goal, and after the ball goes out of bounds.

In which Prince Arthur meets Merlin and all hell breaks lose.

Merlin looked uncertainly to Arthur. "Have you ever made bread?" he asked. "How hard could it be?" Arthur said.

But L's only good at cryptography, not dealing with Raito when he's acting like a fourteen year old girl--serial killer or not, he still whines like a teenager.

It wasn't always like that. Because when Dumbledore had paused before the cluster of four boys--and they were still boys, Sirius knew now--on their last day at Hogwarts, and told them that they were bound for extraordinary things, he'd been right.

Remus was really astoundingly drunk. Impressively, astonishingly drunk, with a side of bastard to go with the mix. He'd gotten himself tossed out of the bar approximately half an hour prior and he'd set himself at walking toward his flat immediately thereafter.

James wasn't stupid, and he was mostly quick. Four weeks, he'd counted. It'd taken him four weeks total to realize what exactly had happened and manage not to yell, "You bloody tart!" at Sirius.

Sirius kept forgetting to charge his meter. And so, with London melting through the windowpanes of his modest flat, he and Remus were resigned to drinking the beer before it went warm, and feeling summer seep in through the walls.

Remus meets Sirius on the Hogwarts Express when Sirius' piano falls on his foot.

It’s a perfectly wretched day in Camelot when Uther Pendragon announces Arthur’s betrothal.

James was pink from head to toe, and from what Remus could see, it was the same exact color all over--not like a sunburn with varying shades, but a solid stomach-medicine hue, vaguely nauseating in and of itself. It had to be Charmwork. Advanced Charmwork from the looks of it--magic that no regular first year ought to have known. Which narrowed the field to James--who was predisposed to magic; Sirius--who was predisposed to mischief; Remus--who was predisposed to reading; or Snape.

"After all, you are our most prized art restorer."

Italy, Arthur, the glitterati he’d fallen in with by accident — they were all ravishingly beautiful, and Merlin was pasty and odd and terrifically bad with good company.

"How’s it going?" the instructor asks, her voice a harmony, hovering nearby.

"Futilely," Spock volunteers at the same time Jim says, "Shitty."

"Oh my God, this shit has developed a narrative thread," Chris marvels.

"Imagine the PR nightmare if good, hardworking French escorts found out."

In which Kirk gets beaten like a rented mule behind a bar, sulks about it for a significant period of time, is forced to endure Spock in eyeliner, and points that no one is ever going to buy what Spock's selling -- unless they train him up a bit.

Uther has faded, now, from the forefront of statesmanship, and though Camelot’s feasts and her knights are as worthy of envy and awe as ever, it is the promise of Uther’s leadership that has lost its shine — and the betrayal in that realization is an ache, a stone heavy and sickening in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur's gaze is very steady and very sure and a very dark blue, and there's no question anywhere in his eyes. Merlin can feel himself gripping the edge of Arthur's desk, and underneath his tongue there are all sorts of flustered protests, because he enjoys accusing Arthur of being bossy (and occasionally telling strangers at garden parties Arthur beats him) but there is the way Arthur snaps commands and whatever this is — this all-encompassing entitlement he's wearing like a leather glove.

They’re pulling up the tree-lined avenue toward Buckingham when he suffers an attack of conscience and deletes most of the images — all the most revealing, all the most explicit. He keeps only what’s absolutely necessary to prove a point, and it still burns at him, to know that in less than an hour these will be everywhere and that they’ll never be erased. They’ll live in zeros and ones long after he’s dead, and maybe Merlin will never forgive him for letting his cell phone get stolen, but he’d hate Arthur far, far more if he knew the truth — Merlin always gets caught up in the tangential details. Arthur could explain for hours, days, weeks, but Merlin would never really believe him.

Arthur meets Mal first. He inherits Dom, after. Everything else is on him.

When Mal leans into his office and asks Eames what he did to his back, he can't exactly say, "the new graphics intern," so he says, "Oh, just stress, love."

The original plan for returning to England involved fucking around being shellshocked and suffering mandatory post-combat counseling and physical therapy to dissect the shattered mosaic of his feelings. That's not quite how it goes.

While it's not like Dean hasn't had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him.

In his rational mind, Rodney knew that following a girl who'd just dumped you into a strip club was really, really pathetic.

But so was going to your little sister's wedding without a date.

Science was his mistress, yes, but it was hardly one Rodney could put into a turquoise mermaid dress and parade around skeptical and shocked family members who had been taking bets on whether Rodney was asexual, gay, or more attracted to theoretical physics than other organic matter.

Jim, I swear to fucking GOD. Is this shit you? IS THIS YOU? What the fuck are you planning? No, don't tell me. I can't bear to hear it. The universe record holder for largest confirmed orgy is something in the neighborhood of 300+ sentients, and that was in a planet that engages in psychic sex -- THERE IS NO WAY YOU CAN BEAT THAT, ALL RIGHT?

Wherein the peanut gallery and I were sitting around during my work hours talking about terrible romantic comedies, and I said, lol, wouldn't it be funny if someone wrote Dean/Castiel to The Wedding Date? and there was a prophetic silence and then some stuff happened and I got all turned around and somehow this had happened.