This is highly irregular, thinks the lab table as lcjsheppard unbuckles dmrmckay's pants and shoves him against its surface. The lights running up its legs flash in irritation but neither of the humans notice.

I am a finely calibrated instrument! I could calculate your mass within a zeptolark! I've won awards, many many --

Dmrmckay's squishy bits press against the table top.


Dmrmckay spins back around and he and lcjsheppard touch their mouths together and make vowel sounds, and maybe they'll just, keep doing that, over there, maybe -- try the couch! the couch! It likes that sort of thing, but no, they swing back around and lcjsheppard tugs his pants off and then his squishy bits are dragging along the table leg, and oh -- for the love of the Ancestors! Will this degradation never end?

Dmrmckay gets his solar guard creme out and lcjsheppard starts rubbing it all over the place, especially those places on dmrmckay that the table would rather it'd never saw. Dmrmckay has a very white boot.

Then dmrmckay's bending over the table and his squishy bits are all sliding around in the solar creme -- the table idly tests its composition: (2-Hydroxy-4-methoxyphenyl)-phenylmethanone; 1-(4-methoxyphenyl)-3-(4-tert-butylphenyl)propane-1,3-dione; 2-Ethylhexyl 3-(4-methoxyphenyl)propenoate; (2-Hydroxy-4-methoxyphenyl)-(2-hydroxyphenyl)methanone -- and lcjsheppard's behind dmrmckay, standing very closely, so close that his squishy bits are probably all involved with dmrmckay's boot, which can't be comfortable for either of them, and then, ew! ew!

The Alterans never did this sort of thing in the lab! The table is fairly certain the Alterans never did this sort of thing anywhere. They were very clean people. Neat. Tidy. Oh, thinks the table, wishing it could power down as lcjsheppard gives a particularly powerful thrust and solar creme squirts out dmrmckay's boot, that's just not right.

Dmrmckay's bracing himself against the table top, hands gripping the edge while he talks non-stop. The table listens in, but he's not saying anything useful, just "more" and "harder" and "I hope there's pie at dinner."

Pi sounds like a good idea, and the table visualizes a circle and calculates π = 3.14159265358979... -- but there's so much moaning and groaning that the table actually loses its place, which is completely unheard of! Dmrmckay's wiggling all over the table top and lcjsheppard's leaving sweaty handprints on its surface -- he needs to eat more bitter greens, he has a slight chemical imbalance -- and after a little more of that dmrmckay ejects some genetic information (which is fascinating! the table stores that away for later), and finally, finally it seems to be over.

The humans stand up and touch their mouths together again and dmrmckay puts his hands in lcjsheppard's hair and lcjsheppard puts his on dmrmckay's boot and the network refreshes and suddenly all twelve puddlejumpers (they call themselves that now, like their original names aren't good enough for them anymore) are pinging the table madly, desperate for all the details. The table blocks them -- they're such gossips -- and wishes the humans had found the automated helperbots. It really would like a thorough disinfecting.