SGA/The Stand: (FIC) Just A Few Detours: John/Rodney: R
Title: Just A Few Detours
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Summary: Even as they travel, the dreams keep coming.
Contains: AU-Fusion with The Stand.
Notes: Thank you, evaporate, for the beta. This is a sequel to Anywhere But Vegas. Um. Well, I had a little idea.
After fourteen days of walking, a sore ankle, and insistent dreams telling them to get off the road for a while, Rodney and John agree to stop at the next decent place they can find.
Rodney can still picture the dream, wonders if John can, too. It’s dusk. It’s always dusk when he sees her, though. But this time, it feels creepy. Mother Abigail is sitting on her stoop, in her rocking chair, saying, "Mer, you’ve got to get off the road for a spell, now. Heal up, stay safe, then come on and find your way to me."
Rodney stills amidst the corn and is about to ask her why when the wolves start to howl and rats gather at his feet.
"The creatures are his, Mer. They’ll be heading your way. And his people, too. You need to keep safe. You and John. Keep safe and then come on down and see me."
The last thing Rodney hears is her guitar before he wakes. Sometimes, he wishes she wouldn’t call him Mer. It reminds him too much of Jeannie. But mostly, it makes him feel like that part of him will never disappear.
"This place looks good," he says, spying a small cabin at the end of a dirt road off the trail. It’s even better when he considers the fact they both were anticipating having to get back on the highway, which is two miles south of where they are.
John nods and shoots him a leer. "Anywhere with a bed looks good, Rodney."
"You say that now, John, but what about when we find the cabin stacked five deep with bodies all liberally crawling with maggots?"
With a grin, John shakes his head and drops a kiss on his lips. "Where would I be without your optimism?"
"Probably at the bottom of a ditch, wondering why the paper-thin bridge you walked on collapsed under your weight."
John nudges his shoulder as they head for the door. Rodney doesn’t know how, but the simple peck on his cheek two weeks ago had devolved into lush, full mouth kisses- with a hot hand curled around his cock-in their tent that night-and every night since, but he’s not complaining. It’s the only thing aside from their destination that feels right anymore.
His earlier words luckily fall flat and they discover the cabin is empty of corpses. It’s strange, however, because the cabin shows signs of recent use and Rodney finds a generator running around back.
"Does this mean this place has electricity?" John asks quietly, not quite ready to be happy.
Rodney nods, and that’s when the generator clunks, putters, and groans. "Figures."
Two minutes later, it’s completely dead, but their hopes were never high to begin with.
He tinkers with for a while John goes off somewhere. In another life, Rodney thinks he could fix this, easily. Even if he could find tools, there’s no gas, so it’s useless.
"Hey, Rodney!" John yells, excitement and happiness evident. He comes around the corner holding up two six packs of beer, the cans glistening with sweat, a wide smile stretching across his face. "They’re still cold."
Instead of dragging John-and his beautiful smile-off to bed, Rodney forces his mind to food. He grabs the last bag of his favourite chips he’s been saving and two tins of Vienna sausages.
There’s a dock out back overlooking a nearly dry riverbed. Rodney thinks about the family that might have lived there. He imagines summers with fishing rods and rolled-up pants, and the hum of multitudes of mosquitoes and irritating poison ivy related rashes. There’s not much for wildlife anymore and the things that do still thrive frighten him to the core.
After they finish the food, they each take a fourth can of beer. The sun is low in the sky and there’s a breeze that relieves the heat and stink of the land.
"You think we’re it?" John asks after he sets down his can. They’ve not seen or heard another soul since they met. It grows more disconcerting by the day.
Rodney shakes his head. "Of course not," he says, and takes a few folded pieces of paper from his pockets. He unfolds them and spreads them on the wooden planks. "Since we’re alive, the communicability of the Superflu can’t be one hundred percent. Yet, since we’ve yet to encounter other survivors, I’d estimate it to be between ninety-nine and ninety-nine point nine percent."
John picks up the first sheet of paper and stares at it. Rodney knows John can follow the math, but continues his explanation regardless. It’s been such a long time since he last used his brain, since he’s felt sure of anything. It feels nice to be right, and to have someone else know the same.
"Anyhow, most likely, the number falls somewhere in between. Based on a communicability level of ninety-nine point four, there are roughly one point four million people who’d survive the Superflu."
Putting down the first, John picks up the second paper. This one is more theoretical, but Rodney’s theories aren’t often far off base.
"However," Rodney says, frowning, "there’re other factors to consider. Suicides. Homicides. Anything that might require medicine or hospitals. That’d cut the population down by an additional, oh, fifteen to twenty percent. Still, given the landmass of the United States, we’d still have approximately one person per seven to ten square kilometers. My theory is that, during the outbreak of the Superflu, a percentage of those who would have survived died because of what I call the panic factor. Some were killed in the rioting. Some by military police. And some who tried to escape the city had the unlucky chance of being trapped in cars behind drivers who’d died at the wheel."
"Don’t forget prisons, nursing homes. And young children," John adds. "Anyone who couldn’t move or leave on their own probably starved. Though, the time frame of these deaths run the gamut from the during panic factor to the post-flu secondary epidemic."
Rodney points his finger at John. "Yes. That's why the figure is hard to calculate. Some of these numbers are based on the distance we've traveled with no encounters. I mean, just because we haven’t seen anyone ourselves doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Some people are hiding and others are traveling. I think the remaining population can be divided into three categories. A lot of people will stay put or go wherever they feel safest. Then there are those of us going to Nebraska, and the rest, who will be going on to him."
There's a pause and Rodney stares at his empty can. "This was wasn't natural. It was created. This whole thing happened because of some stupid government fuck-up."
"Created?" John asks quietly, but not disbelieving.
Rodney looks at John and gives him a grim smile. "Even the bubonic plague only wiped out a third of Europe, and that was before decent sanitation and rat traps."
"Makes sense," John says. "Why a government fuck-up and not terrorism?"
"If another country did this, we'd have bombed the fuckers to hell and back. The denial of it all screams government cover-up. Plus, I'm betting they shared the love, so to speak, to avoid anyone figuring out the origin of this mess."
"If that doesn’t deserve another beer, I don’t know what does," John says at last. And Rodney understands. The devastation can be reduced to numbers but some things aren’t quantifiable. That someone caused this…that this was preventable, is too horrifying to contemplate.
Rodney’s sister, John’s brother, Flagg’s offers, and why Nebraska follow, he and John talking about these things for the first time-and the last-as they finish the rest of the beer. Even the enticement of scientific research and flying planes can’t make the wrongness of the Dark Man right. Rodney thinks he’d rather spend the rest of his life using his genius to sow crops in the Midwest than to take anything Vegas has to offer.
They stumble back to the cabin after the first wolf howl. It gives Rodney goose bumps, and he didn’t last this long just to get eaten. John smiles against his neck despite everything and Rodney offers one in return
In the dark of the cabin, they lose their trash, their empties, and their clothes as they make their way through the rooms.
They fall together on the bed, naked, with loose limbs and warm skin. John tastes like salt and beer and Rodney can't get enough. Everything from before is gone and John's his world now in every scary way.
John’s hand trails down his back, cups his ass, and he rubs his cock against Rodney’s.
With clean sheets and a soft bed beneath them, he revels in these touches, for once not distracted by the roots beneath them or the wind whipping against the tent. Rodney forgets about the dreams and the death and the wolves and every horrible thing in John’s arms, with John’s lips against his mouth, his throat, his skin.
Rodney comes embarrassingly fast, but he doesn't care because he loves the way John moves over him then, covers him. He grasps John's ass and pulls John as close as possible, spreading his legs wider. John thrusts his cock against Rodney's now-slick skin, their lips only parting for the barest of breaths.
"Rodney," John sighs, tensing as he comes. He wipes them up with a corner of the sheet, then gathers Rodney close again before they fall asleep.
**
Dawn breaks and Rodney sits up like a shot. "No fucking way," he says, angry and tired and possibly still horny. These dreams will drive him crazy, he's sure of it.
John stirs beside him, groaning as he wakes. Rodney stares as John stretches, naked and beautiful, and Rodney upgrades possibly to definitely.
"Oh, God," John says, arm over his eyes, "this is not happening." Once more, Rodney's attention is back on the dream and he's furious once more.
"Colorado?!" Rodney yells. "We traveled halfway across South Dakota border only to have to double back to fucking Boulder, Colorado?! We could have been there days ago!"
"Rodney," John says, smiling in bemused resignation. "Stay in bed with me today?"
"I'll never leave this bed again," he vows, letting John tug him back into his arms. As soon as it's safe, they'll be on the road once more, but he'll take this reprieve as long as he's allowed it. "Never."
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Summary: Even as they travel, the dreams keep coming.
Contains: AU-Fusion with The Stand.
Notes: Thank you, evaporate, for the beta. This is a sequel to Anywhere But Vegas. Um. Well, I had a little idea.
After fourteen days of walking, a sore ankle, and insistent dreams telling them to get off the road for a while, Rodney and John agree to stop at the next decent place they can find.
Rodney can still picture the dream, wonders if John can, too. It’s dusk. It’s always dusk when he sees her, though. But this time, it feels creepy. Mother Abigail is sitting on her stoop, in her rocking chair, saying, "Mer, you’ve got to get off the road for a spell, now. Heal up, stay safe, then come on and find your way to me."
Rodney stills amidst the corn and is about to ask her why when the wolves start to howl and rats gather at his feet.
"The creatures are his, Mer. They’ll be heading your way. And his people, too. You need to keep safe. You and John. Keep safe and then come on down and see me."
The last thing Rodney hears is her guitar before he wakes. Sometimes, he wishes she wouldn’t call him Mer. It reminds him too much of Jeannie. But mostly, it makes him feel like that part of him will never disappear.
"This place looks good," he says, spying a small cabin at the end of a dirt road off the trail. It’s even better when he considers the fact they both were anticipating having to get back on the highway, which is two miles south of where they are.
John nods and shoots him a leer. "Anywhere with a bed looks good, Rodney."
"You say that now, John, but what about when we find the cabin stacked five deep with bodies all liberally crawling with maggots?"
With a grin, John shakes his head and drops a kiss on his lips. "Where would I be without your optimism?"
"Probably at the bottom of a ditch, wondering why the paper-thin bridge you walked on collapsed under your weight."
John nudges his shoulder as they head for the door. Rodney doesn’t know how, but the simple peck on his cheek two weeks ago had devolved into lush, full mouth kisses- with a hot hand curled around his cock-in their tent that night-and every night since, but he’s not complaining. It’s the only thing aside from their destination that feels right anymore.
His earlier words luckily fall flat and they discover the cabin is empty of corpses. It’s strange, however, because the cabin shows signs of recent use and Rodney finds a generator running around back.
"Does this mean this place has electricity?" John asks quietly, not quite ready to be happy.
Rodney nods, and that’s when the generator clunks, putters, and groans. "Figures."
Two minutes later, it’s completely dead, but their hopes were never high to begin with.
He tinkers with for a while John goes off somewhere. In another life, Rodney thinks he could fix this, easily. Even if he could find tools, there’s no gas, so it’s useless.
"Hey, Rodney!" John yells, excitement and happiness evident. He comes around the corner holding up two six packs of beer, the cans glistening with sweat, a wide smile stretching across his face. "They’re still cold."
Instead of dragging John-and his beautiful smile-off to bed, Rodney forces his mind to food. He grabs the last bag of his favourite chips he’s been saving and two tins of Vienna sausages.
There’s a dock out back overlooking a nearly dry riverbed. Rodney thinks about the family that might have lived there. He imagines summers with fishing rods and rolled-up pants, and the hum of multitudes of mosquitoes and irritating poison ivy related rashes. There’s not much for wildlife anymore and the things that do still thrive frighten him to the core.
After they finish the food, they each take a fourth can of beer. The sun is low in the sky and there’s a breeze that relieves the heat and stink of the land.
"You think we’re it?" John asks after he sets down his can. They’ve not seen or heard another soul since they met. It grows more disconcerting by the day.
Rodney shakes his head. "Of course not," he says, and takes a few folded pieces of paper from his pockets. He unfolds them and spreads them on the wooden planks. "Since we’re alive, the communicability of the Superflu can’t be one hundred percent. Yet, since we’ve yet to encounter other survivors, I’d estimate it to be between ninety-nine and ninety-nine point nine percent."
John picks up the first sheet of paper and stares at it. Rodney knows John can follow the math, but continues his explanation regardless. It’s been such a long time since he last used his brain, since he’s felt sure of anything. It feels nice to be right, and to have someone else know the same.
"Anyhow, most likely, the number falls somewhere in between. Based on a communicability level of ninety-nine point four, there are roughly one point four million people who’d survive the Superflu."
Putting down the first, John picks up the second paper. This one is more theoretical, but Rodney’s theories aren’t often far off base.
"However," Rodney says, frowning, "there’re other factors to consider. Suicides. Homicides. Anything that might require medicine or hospitals. That’d cut the population down by an additional, oh, fifteen to twenty percent. Still, given the landmass of the United States, we’d still have approximately one person per seven to ten square kilometers. My theory is that, during the outbreak of the Superflu, a percentage of those who would have survived died because of what I call the panic factor. Some were killed in the rioting. Some by military police. And some who tried to escape the city had the unlucky chance of being trapped in cars behind drivers who’d died at the wheel."
"Don’t forget prisons, nursing homes. And young children," John adds. "Anyone who couldn’t move or leave on their own probably starved. Though, the time frame of these deaths run the gamut from the during panic factor to the post-flu secondary epidemic."
Rodney points his finger at John. "Yes. That's why the figure is hard to calculate. Some of these numbers are based on the distance we've traveled with no encounters. I mean, just because we haven’t seen anyone ourselves doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Some people are hiding and others are traveling. I think the remaining population can be divided into three categories. A lot of people will stay put or go wherever they feel safest. Then there are those of us going to Nebraska, and the rest, who will be going on to him."
There's a pause and Rodney stares at his empty can. "This was wasn't natural. It was created. This whole thing happened because of some stupid government fuck-up."
"Created?" John asks quietly, but not disbelieving.
Rodney looks at John and gives him a grim smile. "Even the bubonic plague only wiped out a third of Europe, and that was before decent sanitation and rat traps."
"Makes sense," John says. "Why a government fuck-up and not terrorism?"
"If another country did this, we'd have bombed the fuckers to hell and back. The denial of it all screams government cover-up. Plus, I'm betting they shared the love, so to speak, to avoid anyone figuring out the origin of this mess."
"If that doesn’t deserve another beer, I don’t know what does," John says at last. And Rodney understands. The devastation can be reduced to numbers but some things aren’t quantifiable. That someone caused this…that this was preventable, is too horrifying to contemplate.
Rodney’s sister, John’s brother, Flagg’s offers, and why Nebraska follow, he and John talking about these things for the first time-and the last-as they finish the rest of the beer. Even the enticement of scientific research and flying planes can’t make the wrongness of the Dark Man right. Rodney thinks he’d rather spend the rest of his life using his genius to sow crops in the Midwest than to take anything Vegas has to offer.
They stumble back to the cabin after the first wolf howl. It gives Rodney goose bumps, and he didn’t last this long just to get eaten. John smiles against his neck despite everything and Rodney offers one in return
In the dark of the cabin, they lose their trash, their empties, and their clothes as they make their way through the rooms.
They fall together on the bed, naked, with loose limbs and warm skin. John tastes like salt and beer and Rodney can't get enough. Everything from before is gone and John's his world now in every scary way.
John’s hand trails down his back, cups his ass, and he rubs his cock against Rodney’s.
With clean sheets and a soft bed beneath them, he revels in these touches, for once not distracted by the roots beneath them or the wind whipping against the tent. Rodney forgets about the dreams and the death and the wolves and every horrible thing in John’s arms, with John’s lips against his mouth, his throat, his skin.
Rodney comes embarrassingly fast, but he doesn't care because he loves the way John moves over him then, covers him. He grasps John's ass and pulls John as close as possible, spreading his legs wider. John thrusts his cock against Rodney's now-slick skin, their lips only parting for the barest of breaths.
"Rodney," John sighs, tensing as he comes. He wipes them up with a corner of the sheet, then gathers Rodney close again before they fall asleep.
**
Dawn breaks and Rodney sits up like a shot. "No fucking way," he says, angry and tired and possibly still horny. These dreams will drive him crazy, he's sure of it.
John stirs beside him, groaning as he wakes. Rodney stares as John stretches, naked and beautiful, and Rodney upgrades possibly to definitely.
"Oh, God," John says, arm over his eyes, "this is not happening." Once more, Rodney's attention is back on the dream and he's furious once more.
"Colorado?!" Rodney yells. "We traveled halfway across South Dakota border only to have to double back to fucking Boulder, Colorado?! We could have been there days ago!"
"Rodney," John says, smiling in bemused resignation. "Stay in bed with me today?"
"I'll never leave this bed again," he vows, letting John tug him back into his arms. As soon as it's safe, they'll be on the road once more, but he'll take this reprieve as long as he's allowed it. "Never."