Word Count: 287
Rating: PG 13
Summary: He'd never look at dried grass the same way again.
Prompt: Oct 6 - PBS begins broadcasting: write a drabble/ficlet about Lorne and his lover and a National Geographic Magazine. Single word prompt: native
Notes: ria_kukalaka rocks! (I had no other notes, so I used this space for important announcements)
He tried to contain his laughter, he really did--and if asked later he'd absolutely deny anything as shocking as, say....giggles came out of his mouth. Radek would kill him if he knew--and frankly he didn't want to be on the ass-end of the Czech's anger when they got home.
The grass skirt itched a bit, and kept rustling in a very disracting way while the native Allooans guided him in their ritualistic dance (more hip-swinging and arm-waving than a man in the American military really should be doing). Thank God he'd read a lot of National Geographic as a kid--or he'd be shocked by the gyrating going on amidst the crowd of topless, dark-skinned women. They seemed amused by his lack of rhythm and kept palming his ass in an attempt to get him to move correctly.
He had to admit Radek had things far worse--the pigtails looked too tight, and maybe a little painful, according to the pinched look around his eyes. The thick red-and-white paint had cracked a little, perfectly accentuating Radek's pained grimace.
No one approached Radek as he stomped back through the gate, flailing and shouting in both his mother tongue and several Lorne wasn't really sure were official languages. Though he heard a loud guffaw from the upper levels that sounded like Mckay, no one dared laugh in the open.
No one dared comment on Lorne's dishevelled appearance later either--or the way his hair stuck up in shocked little clumps as he limped back to his quarters, a goofy grin on his face. If anyone noticed the smears of white and red on his jaw and mouth, they didn't comment--because if anyone deserved a good after-mission lay, it was definitely Radek.