Small Change by lavvyan (h/c challenge)
Title: Small Change
Author: lavvyan
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1000
Notes: McKay/Sheppard pre-slash set in some kind of "The Return" AU where they didn't go back to Atlantis, though I firmly choose to believe they didn't go back yet. As far as I could tell, there are no flights connecting Colorado Springs and Las Vegas, but I didn't want poor John to get broken in transit. According to kensieg, apparently there are. Also, I'm having kind of a bad month, so this is schmoop without any redeeming values.
Summary: For one exhausted, irrational moment, John just wants to be home. Barring that, he wants to be in Nevada, where there's sun and heat and Rodney.
Small Change
"They're not going to fly in this weather," John says into his cell phone. His left hip aches as he shifts, protesting the chill of the waiting hall. Stupid natives and their stupid spears; he should have just shot them after all. "You might as well go home."
"Well, it's your own damn krzzzzzt taking a commfssss flight." Rodney's voice is almost lost against the static, as unpredictable as the snow on the other side of the panorama windows. What little makes it to John's end of the connection is mostly annoyance.
"It's a freak storm, Rodney," John says again, patience running thinner with every throb of his hip. He shifts again. His fingers tighten around the phone at the twinge. "The damn Air Force isn't flying, either."
Silence. Or maybe the connection finally broke. John isn't sure he cares.
Then Rodney says, as clearly as if he were standing right next to John, "I know, I know, sorry. It's just--" He breaks off.
John sighs.
"Yeah."
He's standing in the crappy, freezing hall of Colorado Springs Airport, tired and miserable and surrounded by screaming children and people who don't seem to get that postponing their flight is actually a good thing because, hello, snow storm. And he doesn't want to die in a plane crash, but neither does he want to be here. For one exhausted, irrational moment, John just wants to be home. Barring that, he wants to be in Nevada, where there's sun and heat and Rodney.
"Look," he says, and scrubs his free hand across his face. "I'll just call a cab when I get there. I've still got your key, you don't have to wait."
"Fine," Rodney says, but whatever else he might have to add is lost in a solid burst of static.
John lowers his phone, stares at it, then raises it back to his ear.
"McKay?"
Nothing, just the sizzle and sputter of a dead line. John sighs, and presses the button to disconnect.
Fucking natives, he thinks, one hand rubbing over his hip like that might make it better. It doesn't. Sooner rather than later, he will need to sit down, but he doesn't see any empty seats. Fucking Colorado.
Fucking Earth.
John limps over to the harried-looking flight attendant who'd been handing out tea and blankets earlier, and asks if there's any chance of getting a coffee. There isn't.
John sighs again.
This is going to be a long night.
~~~
When John steps off the plane at McCarran International, he's in a world of pain. His limp has become so bad he's shuffling more than walking. He has no idea how he's going to manage the flight of stairs to Rodney's apartment, or even getting into a taxi. He doesn't even want to think about what Rodney's going to say about John's smart idea of stuffing his pain meds into his luggage... which, incidentally, got lost somewhere around Utah.
Arrivals is mostly empty at this time of night, but a lone figure sits slumped in the middle of a row of brightly-coloured plastic chairs, head tipped back, mouth half-open as he snores.
John's heart skips like the plane's taking off all over again.
He limps over, and carefully balances on his good leg to kick the guy's foot as he says, "Hey."
Rodney jerks awake with a snort, blinking fast as his gaze sweeps across the hall and finally comes to rest on John. His eyes narrow as he studies John's face.
"Did you know they have slot machines here?" he asks, apropos of nothing as he digs in his pocket for... something, not-so-surreptitiously wiping the drool from his mouth with his free hand. "Las Vegas: Where small change goes to die."
The something turns out to be a small white plastic bottle that he hands to John without comment. John feels his lips twitch into a grin, shakes two of the pain killers into his palm and swallows them dry.
"Thanks," he says. It's far too soon for the meds to have kicked in, of course, but already he's feeling better. Less... brittle, somehow.
He kicks Rodney's foot again, ignoring both the twinge and the scowl.
"I thought I said not to wait for me."
Rodney scoffs.
"Please. Like you didn't look ready to pass out just now."
The thing is, on just about every other day, John would have taken offence at the implication that he doesn't know how to take care of himself. Right now, the obvious concern underlying Rodney's words makes something bloom warm and bright in his chest.
"Guess I'm lucky you're here to look out for me, huh?" he asks with a grin he knows is bordering on giddy, his half-assed attempt at sarcasm drowned out by a sense of belonging so strong he's wondering if maybe the drugs have kicked in after all.
This time, he doesn't kick Rodney's foot so much as nudge it.
"Yes, you are." Rodney's own expression has softened into something dangerously close to fondness, and it's a good thing they're alone. With an audience, this would be really embarrassing.
"So, you gonna make me stand here all night?" John's only half-joking; his hip is starting to lock up again, and no amount of pain meds will get him up Rodney's stairs if that happens.
"I should." Rodney stands up and takes John's arm like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
John throws him a glance. Rodney's cheeks are flushed and he ducks his head, but he still tugs on John's arm. John takes the hint and leans some of his weight on Rodney as they shuffle towards the doors. His side is warm from having Rodney all but plastered against it, but not as warm as the tips of his ears or the space behind his ribs.
He can't seem to stop smiling.
"You know, Earth isn't so bad," he says, and lets Rodney's rant about inane statements wash over him like the waves of a faraway ocean.
Author: lavvyan
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1000
Notes: McKay/Sheppard pre-slash set in some kind of "The Return" AU where they didn't go back to Atlantis, though I firmly choose to believe they didn't go back yet. As far as I could tell, there are no flights connecting Colorado Springs and Las Vegas, but I didn't want poor John to get broken in transit. According to kensieg, apparently there are. Also, I'm having kind of a bad month, so this is schmoop without any redeeming values.
Summary: For one exhausted, irrational moment, John just wants to be home. Barring that, he wants to be in Nevada, where there's sun and heat and Rodney.
Small Change
"They're not going to fly in this weather," John says into his cell phone. His left hip aches as he shifts, protesting the chill of the waiting hall. Stupid natives and their stupid spears; he should have just shot them after all. "You might as well go home."
"Well, it's your own damn krzzzzzt taking a commfssss flight." Rodney's voice is almost lost against the static, as unpredictable as the snow on the other side of the panorama windows. What little makes it to John's end of the connection is mostly annoyance.
"It's a freak storm, Rodney," John says again, patience running thinner with every throb of his hip. He shifts again. His fingers tighten around the phone at the twinge. "The damn Air Force isn't flying, either."
Silence. Or maybe the connection finally broke. John isn't sure he cares.
Then Rodney says, as clearly as if he were standing right next to John, "I know, I know, sorry. It's just--" He breaks off.
John sighs.
"Yeah."
He's standing in the crappy, freezing hall of Colorado Springs Airport, tired and miserable and surrounded by screaming children and people who don't seem to get that postponing their flight is actually a good thing because, hello, snow storm. And he doesn't want to die in a plane crash, but neither does he want to be here. For one exhausted, irrational moment, John just wants to be home. Barring that, he wants to be in Nevada, where there's sun and heat and Rodney.
"Look," he says, and scrubs his free hand across his face. "I'll just call a cab when I get there. I've still got your key, you don't have to wait."
"Fine," Rodney says, but whatever else he might have to add is lost in a solid burst of static.
John lowers his phone, stares at it, then raises it back to his ear.
"McKay?"
Nothing, just the sizzle and sputter of a dead line. John sighs, and presses the button to disconnect.
Fucking natives, he thinks, one hand rubbing over his hip like that might make it better. It doesn't. Sooner rather than later, he will need to sit down, but he doesn't see any empty seats. Fucking Colorado.
Fucking Earth.
John limps over to the harried-looking flight attendant who'd been handing out tea and blankets earlier, and asks if there's any chance of getting a coffee. There isn't.
John sighs again.
This is going to be a long night.
~~~
When John steps off the plane at McCarran International, he's in a world of pain. His limp has become so bad he's shuffling more than walking. He has no idea how he's going to manage the flight of stairs to Rodney's apartment, or even getting into a taxi. He doesn't even want to think about what Rodney's going to say about John's smart idea of stuffing his pain meds into his luggage... which, incidentally, got lost somewhere around Utah.
Arrivals is mostly empty at this time of night, but a lone figure sits slumped in the middle of a row of brightly-coloured plastic chairs, head tipped back, mouth half-open as he snores.
John's heart skips like the plane's taking off all over again.
He limps over, and carefully balances on his good leg to kick the guy's foot as he says, "Hey."
Rodney jerks awake with a snort, blinking fast as his gaze sweeps across the hall and finally comes to rest on John. His eyes narrow as he studies John's face.
"Did you know they have slot machines here?" he asks, apropos of nothing as he digs in his pocket for... something, not-so-surreptitiously wiping the drool from his mouth with his free hand. "Las Vegas: Where small change goes to die."
The something turns out to be a small white plastic bottle that he hands to John without comment. John feels his lips twitch into a grin, shakes two of the pain killers into his palm and swallows them dry.
"Thanks," he says. It's far too soon for the meds to have kicked in, of course, but already he's feeling better. Less... brittle, somehow.
He kicks Rodney's foot again, ignoring both the twinge and the scowl.
"I thought I said not to wait for me."
Rodney scoffs.
"Please. Like you didn't look ready to pass out just now."
The thing is, on just about every other day, John would have taken offence at the implication that he doesn't know how to take care of himself. Right now, the obvious concern underlying Rodney's words makes something bloom warm and bright in his chest.
"Guess I'm lucky you're here to look out for me, huh?" he asks with a grin he knows is bordering on giddy, his half-assed attempt at sarcasm drowned out by a sense of belonging so strong he's wondering if maybe the drugs have kicked in after all.
This time, he doesn't kick Rodney's foot so much as nudge it.
"Yes, you are." Rodney's own expression has softened into something dangerously close to fondness, and it's a good thing they're alone. With an audience, this would be really embarrassing.
"So, you gonna make me stand here all night?" John's only half-joking; his hip is starting to lock up again, and no amount of pain meds will get him up Rodney's stairs if that happens.
"I should." Rodney stands up and takes John's arm like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
John throws him a glance. Rodney's cheeks are flushed and he ducks his head, but he still tugs on John's arm. John takes the hint and leans some of his weight on Rodney as they shuffle towards the doors. His side is warm from having Rodney all but plastered against it, but not as warm as the tips of his ears or the space behind his ribs.
He can't seem to stop smiling.
"You know, Earth isn't so bad," he says, and lets Rodney's rant about inane statements wash over him like the waves of a faraway ocean.