Fic: The Simple Things
Title: The simple things
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Elizabeth with a few side pairings
Rating: pg - 13 for this chapter
Spoilers: well, none. Although some crackish Stargate references can be found
Genre: complete AU with romance and cracky craziness
Summary: eighteen years later (eighteen years after the events of first chapter), John Sheppard is anything but a rockstar. However, some people think he deserves another chance. He isn't the only person deserving another chance.
Warning: I'm making a reference to President Clinton in this part and I'm sincirely hoping nobody gets offended.
A/N: I had this waiting to be posted and I finally came around to do it. Sorry to keep you waiting, guys. Meet some old/new people here! A huge thank you to
tenacious_err for helping me making this all shiny, and to
the_scary_kittywho did the first round of beta reading this fic.
*
Chapter Two
"People say I'm a loser, but I get lucky on the side"
-
(Eighteen years later, in LA)
Andrew Radim was certain that his mom was incredibly unadventurous. That, and she had no sense of humor, no hobbies, no pastimes and apparently no interest besides her work and her determination that he finished his schooling and achieved the best education possible. And achieve the world domination. Someone working so much had to have a crazy ambition, right? His schooling of course involved ridiculously expensive, up tight, straight by the rules schools both she and his father kept insisting on. Andrew hated them; and he hated the way his parents didn’t talk any more, if it wasn’t about his schooling.
Actually Andrew didn’t hate them, he hated what they were doing and making him do, but sometimes it felt all the same. Bottom line, he didn’t like it. At seventeen, he didn’t like lots of things.
He also wished he talked to his father more often. Not that it was Andrew’s fault. Ladon Radim was a busy businessman.
Andrew sighed deeply, hearing the familiar tone of his mother’s voice, knowing just by the way she kept it even and calm that she was angry, but in control. Mom was always in control. Damn it, he had to be adopted, because all he wanted, right now, is for her to yell at him. That would be something he could work with. He knew that wouldn’t happen - she would collect him, take him home and make him sit through the summer, learning for the exams. Then, with any luck, she’d find him another up tight, expensive, straight by the line private school.
The door opened and Elizabeth Weir, his mother, entered the room. She was pale, looked tired and completely unhappy. The tailored costume, skirt and high heels made her look- Andrew's thoughts paused for a moment - unattractive. In this short falsh of something he usually got when he was walking around with his camera, there was this flash of insight telling him “shoot this”. And there it was, and he looked at his mom as if she were a stranger for a moment, and Andrew felt almost sad. If he had his camera now, the photograph of her would lack colors. It was like she didn’t have any colors. He held her eyes and then dropped his gaze when the guilt finally woke up and crawled out of the back of his mind.
“Here he is, Mrs. Weir,” said principle Sumner solemnly, striding into his office and taking a seat behind the large, heavy - looking desk. Andrew looked up defiantly and met the older man's eyes. He couldn't find anything in them that would assure him that usually reasonable, if not particularly tollerant man trusted him in the least. “We don't allow drugs in our school.”
Elizabeth only nodded, still standing by the door. Andrew grabbed his bag and got up, straightening to his full height - he was taller than his mom, and almost taller than principle Sumner. He glanced at Elizabeth and realized she didn't trust him either. Oh, well, that was just great. He was a troublemaker, but he wasn’t stupid.
“I said I didn't do it,” Andrew couldn't help his temper or his tone.
“I've heard enough of that, young man,” said Marshal Sumner firmly. “It was found in your very bag.” Nothing could be proven, but they sentenced him guilty. Andrew wrecked his head, he simply couldn't come up with a name of who would and could set him up like that. The marijuana wasn't his, and yes, he did try the stuff, some time ago, but he didn't like it one bit. It was essentially stupid to make a fool of yourself like that. He said so to Sumner, he was being completely honest, but apparently this was the point when his reputation of being a trouble maker slapped him in the face.
“Let's go, Andrew,” was all that Elizabeth said, sounding more tired than anything else, and Andrew felt sad for her. That was the worst part, because he really wanted to be angry with her. He threw another glance at the school's principal and met no sympathy. Well, okay. He never fit there anyway, he thought, following his mom's rapid pace.
-
(Eighteen years and one day later, in Colorado)
This got old.
It got old a long time ago, but Evan didn’t want to think about at what precise moment he started doing this - every Friday, in the wee hours of the morning he drove his old car down here, near the old ranch gate, finding the same thing every time. Or nearly every time, but still, too often for his liking. Pulling up the collar of his coat, he opened the door. The air was still chilly, although the days were rapidly becoming warmer.
Evan parked his car and sighed, as he watched the old jeep covered in mud under the seeping light of the tall lamp, not thirty yards away from the fence and the gate. Okay, at least he wasn’t sleeping on the ground. That, sadly, happened before. Sometimes Evan wondered if it was just Sheppard’s way of pissing everyone off, or perhaps testing how much they really cared. Evan was getting tired of his buddy's antics, though. He had to open the gallery early in the morning, and check on the strawberry crops even earlier, if not Katie and Laura wouldn’t be happy. Any extra hour of sleep would be good. However his spidey sense made him drive up the hill, all the way toward John's ranch. He had done this almost every Friday night, for the past three years.
Of course, there was a man inside the jeep, snoring happily, sitting behind the steering wheel, with his forehead leaned against the glass of the driver's door. Evan closed his eyes and shook his head, then forced the last threads of mercy out of his mind.
A groan followed the dull thud when John Sheppard, forty two years of age and almost no dime in his pocket, fell out of his jeep and woke up when his side hit the ground. On top of everything, he was listening to Dean Martin. Damn it. Evan shook his head, Nancy was the one who brought all Dean Martin albums and then left them, and John, behind.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” frowned Evan when John looked up.
“Hello, Prince Charming,” the answer came in the familiar snarky tone. Good, no harm done, then. “Weren't you supposed to kiss me awake?”
“I think you ended up in a wrong fairy tale here. I'm not the frog-kissing princess,” answered Evan, crouching to pull his friend up by the collar of his jacket. John could certainly use a princess or any other kind of girl. Given that one would want him. Evan sniffed. Nothing suspicious. “Are you drunk?”
“Even if I was, it's all gone after this gentle awakening. I had two beers. Does that count as heavy drinking?”
“Depends,” John was the expert in being impossible.
“On what?”
“If you had tequila with them,” said Evan. The way John was looking at him was telling.
Evan pushed his friend in the direction of the wide gate. Not drunk. Well, not completely; he was still in a functional state of inebriation. He was also just trying to be the fuck up, as usual. Somehow this would be easier if he really was a heavy drinker - which John never had been, he couldn't stand the damn thing.
“Well, thank you for all the care, I can let myself in,” the sarcasm was dripping from John's voice when they reached the porch. “After you woke me so gently and all.”
“You deserve much worse.”
“Glad to know you still care for me.”
Evan didn't say anything but John smirked and Evan smirked back, then walked back to his car, and the world he knew was as good as it got.
-
(Eighteen years, two days, LA again)
This was hell. This was his personal hell, mused Rodney. He was seriously underpaid to do this job in the first place - heck, these days he wasn't paid at all, not by one particular client of his, because John Sheppard, once upon a time his best client, was that much in debt.
The news Jack O'Neill was preparing to give him simply couldn't be good, because too many people wanted John out of the Pegasus Records and gone. Not even Jack, in his weirdly worded benevolence, could protect him any more. Yes, that had to be it. However, it wasn't all that simple, because people were still buying John's albums and asking about new stuff. Two years ago that album he recorded, the one with the covers only, but damn good covers, wasn’t even close to his old stuff selling, but it was good. Someone even wrote John Sheppard could cover another’s song and make it his own, Cash songs included. John had tried back then not to look smug about that. The fact was, he still cared. Only he wasn’t doing anything about the whole issue. Rodney still couldn't figure out why, all of the sudden, John had stopped writing and performing. He just did, and just like in some bad movie, his career sank like a stone thrown in the river. All he seemed able to do were the covers. But little bit was better than nada, and John wasn’t topping the charts, but he was invited to the parties again. There seemed to be some hope.
At least until John's personality reared its head back. John had always had a "charming" personality. He was gaining in charm as he got older. Eventually, it got them kicked out, and John was back to his life of a resigned farmer by day, lousy gambler by night. Ever since that album he decidedly refused to play anything anywhere, which got him into a fight with Mitchell. Or that was the official version at least. There were things Mitchell wasn't saying.
It took skill to pick up that kind of argument with Cameron Mitchell. He and John weren't talking for a year or more. Actually, they weren't talking still. Rodney wasn't certain, but he suspected the fight had something to do with John's creative block, how people called it behind his back. Nobody mentioned it in front of him. At all. Well, except for Cameron Mitchell.
Rodney McKay sighed. What used to be the best job he had turned into a bad soap opera.
As he walked down the long halls of Pegasus Records, his heart was slowly sinking to his feet. Maybe it was time to call it quits and move on to something better, but Rodney didn't like to think of himself as a quitter.
They said you shouldn’t leave friends behind. Even when they were broke, or owed you money and you were certain you'd never see that money back. Rodney and John got into this business together, one made the other famous in their field of work. John was like family. Heck, people even thought they were a couple, although they weren't. Rodney thought it was annoying but still cute, in a ridiculous kind of way.
When Rodney reached the door, he stood straight, adjusted his tie, and cleared his throat.
Here we go again, thought Rodney. There wasn't anything new Jack O'Neill and his executive board could dish out and have him surprised.
----
Jack O'Neill had zero tolerance for bullshit. That was what his expression was saying at least, but nobody was listening, or rather looking at him. Jack thought about the pain in his back, then about the pain in his butt, literal and symbolic one, and couldn’t decide which one was worst. Then he closed his eyes and cursed inwardly. This meeting would give him the mother of all headaches. He covered his eyes with his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, while trying to listen to the argument going on. His brain was refusing to cooperate. All he could think about was... fishing.
How on Earth could a group of grown up, educated people let this happen?? The conversation in the conference room was rapidly deteriorating and becoming something Jack could only describe as wank of his own brain cells.
“No, you don't understand, this thing won't come down that easily. It's been all over the press and TV stations for two weeks now, and it doesn't look like it's going to stop...”
“... and there's the marijuana thing in high school...”
“... to which she had no comment. No freakin’ comment. Where did we find her again? Does she have any brain? Not even the I didn't inhale crap, which would...”
“Gentlemen?”
“Would do what? Make her sound like Clinton?”
“Do you seriously think any comment she could have made would make this, um, I don't know, better?!?”
“Wait. What do you mean by 'she would sound like Clinton'?”
“What do you think of someone who lets his lover give him blow jobs in the Oval Office?”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
“Gentlemen??”
“The Clinton attitude is the last thing we need to deal with now.”
“No, but any kind of attitude would be better than hiding in the shithole that is, whatever was the name...”
“Chipewa Falls”
“What?”
“The shithole you referred to is called Chipewa Falls and in Wisconsin. That's where Keller is now.”
“Okay, that's enough!”
Mouths closed and heads turned around as everyone stopped talking. Jack O'Neill straightened in his chair a little, feeling his brain cells slowly rearing their heads out of their hideouts, and looking around the bunch of people who seemed to behave like idiots at the moment.
Almost a complete waste of space.
“You're aware that nothing you could pull out of your asses will sweet talk us, or her, out of this?”
After a moment of silence it was, of course, Alfred Kinsey who spoke up.
“Forgive me for asking, but aren't you stating the obvious?”
“I am, and you've just spent,” Jack glanced at his watch, frowning, “twenty minutes of my time beating the dead horse. Right now, Keller's career is as good as dead if you bunch of know-it-alls don't come up with something to do.”
“Meaning?” asked Kinsey and Jack kept his face straight.
“You know, to do? To undertake an action with a specific goal, to...”
Kinsey actually growled, which didn't happen often. Yes, he wanted the kid out, just like he wanted a number of other performers, just because they didn't meet his merit of excellence, or weren’t filling their pockets fast enough. Luckily for all those performers, Kinsey wasn't as powerful as he wanted to be.
“Meaning, she needs a new project,” interjected one of the two smart and, up to now, silent people in the room. Elizabeth Weir looked tired. Jack sympathized. It wasn't so surprising about her, though, that woman invented the lack of sleep. Jack was wondering what was happening with the other silent person, the man fiddling with his tie and staring at the bowl of oranges placed in the middle of the conference desk. Maybe he was experiencing a death wish after watching The Godfather too many times. It was a bad time to allow Rodney to eat citrus, thought Jack. He called him here to do what he usually did, but instead he kept his mouth shut. Wasn’t everything running just smoothly today? Yeah.
The heads turned in unison toward the thin woman in a tailored suit. Jack hated the flattened hair on her. In his honest opinion, one he never spoke out loud, it was hideous, just like some other novelties in her life. Men with perm never sat well with Jack, but Elizabeth was a grown woman and if her taste in male hair was making her happy, then so be it. Not that it was his business to tell her. She used to have curves and wear skirts, but that was before her son became such trouble. If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the kid was in Elizabeth’s office right now.
“You were saying, Elizabeth?” asked Alfred, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Not that he ever liked her, he never appreciated her. That was different, and in Jack’s opinion, a lot worse. If you fail to appreciate someone as competent as Elizabeth, you must be very stupid. Plainly put. It was a damn big mistake on his part and some day, sooner or later, Kinsey would regret it. That woman would rock the world, if she didn't kill herself with her workaholism before.
“Jennifer Keller needs a new project, something that will make her look good. We need to utilize this situation,” she leaned forward, elbows on the smooth desk surface and Jack thought, if anyone could save Keller's career, it was this woman.
“She ruined her career when they photographed her doped up and half naked. Now how do you think we can utilize that? I don't think we could afford a Britney wannabe around here,” Kinsey's voice was laced with sarcasm and he did a poor job hiding the smirk.
“Good girls go to heaven and bad girls go anywhere?”
Heads turned again, this time toward oh so not interested voice of Rodney McKay, the second smartest person in the room. He was too smart for his own good, but Jack wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Exactly,” nodded Elizabeth. “We all know that negative attention of the media is better than none at all,” added Elizabeth, slanting a glance in Kinsey's direction. “Which is how we,” she looked at Jack - “came to this idea.”
“I would really appreciate if someone explained what am I doing here,” Rodney McKay was slipping into his annoyed, I’m - too - smart - to - be - bothered - with - this - kind - of - stuff mode.
“We got you here because you work for us,” Kinsey just had to butt in, although he had no clue what was on the table and that was irking the hell outta him. Jack felt darkly amused, because he was about to drop a bomb and it was going to hit hard. He leaned back a little, trying not to look satisfied.
“Actually, we called him here because he is John Sheppard’s agent,” said Jack. Kinsey was sipping from his glass and snorted the water right through his nose. Margaret Chen looked like someone spilled cold water over her, and well, Rodney McKay himself looked surprised.
“What does that...?”
“It's simple, actually,” Jack leaned back in his chair. “Your client needs a job, and Keller needs a new project. Which means she needs a job too. John Sheppard might be out of the loop, breeding cows God knows where, but people still think good music when his name is mentioned. Do the math.”
“He won't do it,” deadpanned Rodney, after doing the math and correctly assuming what Jack had in mind. However Jack could tell Rodney liked the idea. The no-good former country and rock star could also use this cooperation. After all, the scruffy look was never out of fashion, and Jack had a damn good feeling the controversial two would only make the other look better. It could be a double win or a complete failure, yes, but what was life without a little risk?
“I've heard your client is in the dire need of money,” observed Jack. “If I were you, I would really try to talk him into doing this.”
Of course, there were more things Kinsey simply had to object to.
“May I remind you we won’t make profit with country and western albums? We haven’t had one published in what… three years?”
“Then we could use a fresh paint too,” answered Jack.
“One can hardly call John Sheppard fresh paint,” observed Kinsey.
“One can hardly say that about Rolling Stones either. You’d wonder if they’re even rolling these days, but I’d be damn glad to publish for them.”
“Bottom line, one is never too old for rock and roll, and country music is the mother of rock and roll. Dare say good old mum is too old,” Elizabeth flashed that pretty smile of hers and Jack could only agree. Some people wouldn’t agree with the latter part of her statement, but those were the people who probably never listened to single album by Johnny Cash. Those people should be prohibited by law or something.
Elizabeth would work well as Keller’s new manager, and Jack was only too happy to finally give Lucius Lavin the boot. That guy was an idiot (money earning idiot, but still an idiot), and also involved in this damn incident. Bad thing about Aiden Ford, though. Adding hip hop to the Pegasus brand was Kinsey’s idea, and it wasn’t a bad one. Ford and Keller dating and holding hands in front of cameras were damn good for promotion and for some time things were going really well. They were cute. Nobody had even a slightest idea that Ford had a substance related problem, but well, what was done, was done. They had to fix this. By this time too many people had too many photos of Jennifer Keller, the teenage idol doing things no teenager should be seeing, let alone doing.
“Too young, too old, too crazy, everything goes. I wish you good luck with this, Elizabeth,” Jack smirked and the woman smirked back.
“I think it will be okay, Jack. I've dealt with worse,” she said and that was true. However Jack felt worried, but not professionally - wise. Something was going on with her, and it wasn’t good. Elizabeth Weir was a very private person, but Jack had a nagging feeling that things with her son weren’t the best. Andrew was a good kid who had two too busy parents, and perhaps all he wanted was to have them around more often than he did. Being a teenager naturally meant he chose a rather dramatic way to achieve his goal. Elizabeth, however, was stubbornly trying to handle everything. There had to be a point when a woman couldn’t get thinner without getting sick, and Jack feared that moment was coming soon.
“You’re actually thinking about doing this?” asked Kinsey, looking at Margaret Chen who seemed to contemplate the whole matter very seriously. Everett Young, one of the newer people on board was getting apparently more enthusiastic about the idea the more he listened, and Phoebe Thalen, a woman who thought nothing but jazz was quality music appeared uninterested. Jack had his eye on her, just in case, because she usually opposed everything Elizabeth was suggesting. Kate Heightmeyer, the financial consultant should probably be in Jack’s corner because not doing anything would definitely cost them more money on the long run.
And it was Kate who spoke up next.
“A new album by both could turn out to be profitable if we present good music, but what we will also need is really good publicity. I recommend hiring Harry Maybourne to do that part of the job. No, don’t give me that look,” Kate said to pretty much everyone, but was looking at Rodney McKay specifically.
“Kate, you’re not serious. Have you forgotten what happened the last time we hired him?”
“I’d say it was a definitely fun way to make money,” grinned Kate. “And not many people could brag with clients like your Mr. Todd.”
“He and his band need a haircut and a shrink,” grunted Rodney. “The world already has one Marlyn Manson.”
“Come on Rodney. The boys aren’t so bad. And if we can have a band called 'The Wraith' then, I assume, John Sheppard and the Furlings will do no significant harm. That is, if you can convince your client to cooperate.”
Rodney only sighed.
“This may be John’s last chance,” said Jack in complete seriousness. He looked at Elizabeth who knew the legendary story of John Sheppard (although she didn't know him in person) - heck, everyone knew that story - the guy who simply stopped playing, got up and left the stage. Pretty much like Jim Morrison, only without drugs. He never did a tour after that, and in few occasional performances he never sung one of his own songs. There were dozen theories about the strange case of John Sheppard, ranging from broken heart up to insanity. “Do you think he is up to this? Because let’s face it, McKay… If he doesn’t get his hands out of his ass and loose screws back in their place very soon, he will be completely out of the business.”
Rodney frowned. Jack suspected that he both loved and hated this idea.
“I can’t make promises,” said Rodney.
“Okay then,” Jack looked around the room. “Rodney you go and dig your client out of the hole.... Elizabeth....”
“I’m on it, Jack.”
-
Elizabeth was satisfied with the concept of the idea. Rodney, Maybourne, Teyla and Kate helped out. Sam Carter was contacted about producing part of the job. She didn’t even hesitate accepting when she heard Elizabeth was heading the project.
While the creative team was talking about finer aspects of the project - authoring a new album, doing covers or John Sheppard’s own songs and such - Elizabeth was cleaning Lavin’s mess. Surely, a young rock star had to be glamorous - Elizabeth knew that was the part of the business, but the list behind Jennifer’s name shouldn’t have been that big. She had a personal assistant, personal shopper, hair artist, nail artist, personal trainer, a helluva lot more people whose jobs were vague and questionable at best; and at this point unnecessary.
Elizabeth didn’t like firing people, but she felt better after she cut the list and shortened it by half. It didn’t take long for the phone to ring, and Elizabeth had to deal with certain Mrs.Vala Mal Doran, Jennifer’s personal assistant.
The woman was like a pit bull, and despite Elizabeth explaining that Jennifer wouldn’t need any kind of outfit picking assistance, and whatever Mrs. Mal Doran’s job used to be, the woman assured Elizabeth she wouldn’t get fired. After that conversation Elizabeth asked her secretary not to put through the certain Vala Mal Doran through.
Teyla did a good job at contacting Jennifer and talking her into coming down. Elizabeth barely knew the girl - sure, she met her before, and talked to her, and Jennifer was sweet, talented, but a little naïve and not completely certain of herself. When she walked into Elizabeth’s office, wearing huge dark glasses, the first thing that crossed Elizabeth’s mind was to give her a hug. She was just a few years older than Andrew, but in this scary business, it didn’t matter. Another thing that crossed Elizabeth’s mind was slapping Lucius Lavin across his face, but he wasn’t close at hand, and thus Elizabeth concentrated on what she did best.
Jennifer was hesitant to accept, and it was understandable.
“Do you really think this will work? Now?” she asked. Elizabeth interlaced her fingers on the table surface and looked into Jennifer’s eyes.
“The worst thing to do now is disappear. Trust me, Jennifer. You did good when you went to your parents, but hiding away can never be the permanent fix to the situation. Whenever you do come back, the question will be raised. Someone will ask you if you knew about the drugs. If you did it yourself, and such. I say, facing it now and heading for a new project is a good strategy. It shows you’re strong and able to move on.”
The young woman nodded.
“I didn’t know.”
“Lavin is a bastard. We all knew that. Only, he never slipped like this and smuggled illegal drugs to a party.”
Jennifer looked away.
“It feels like… I should have known,” she looked back at Elizabeth, mimicking the position of her hands on the table surface. “Okay. What do you think is the best course of action now?”
“Giving you a second chance,” Elizabeth smiled. “Everyone deserves one,” she added and slipped a CD box toward Jennifer. Five people were on the cover, posing against an old brick wall. One of them had the trademark glasses and wild looking black hair. Jennifer’s eyes widened.
“John Sheppard and the Furlings?”
“A lot of people could use a second chance, Jen.”