Fic Preview From lovesrain44: Lay Me Down So
This is a tiny piece of the fic, which is McShep and a whole lot of h/c and other dark things. This is one of the early, not-quite-so-dark moments.
***
“Feed them,” said one of the guards, and the guard behind the pot tipped his head and knocked his ladle against the stew pot to announce that the first kehk should step forward to receive his portion.
Groaning inwardly, Rodney shuffled forward when the line moved, doing his best not to complain out loud. Why on earth had he thought there would be real food in a place like this? Just stew for breakfast? Pizza he could understand, but not stew. He’d been starving last night, without supper, now he was more starving, his stomach was pressing against his backbone, and all he was going to get was grey glop and a hunk of sawdust stuck together with muddy glue?
Once he was partly under the flap of canvas, it was good to be out of the rain, but the smell of the stew and the heat of the fire hit him all at once. His head felt dizzy and he thought about his hypoglycemia and how he ought to save a portion of his bread for later. Except that he had no pockets, and-
John turned and shoved a wooden bowl and spoon in Rodney’s hands, and Rodney took them. They were smooth, as though polished for years, and he wondered if the bowls ever even needed washing. It was a horrible thought, all those germs, though maybe they couldn’t live very well in the damp. Or maybe they flourished.
Before he could figure it out, Rodney was in front of the stewpot and he held out his bowl, feeling a little like Oliver Twist, although that character never had to deal with alien guards in fur trimmed coats. The guard slopped some stew in his bowl and waved at the bin of bread, indicating that Rodney could take a piece. Rodney picked the biggest piece he could find, trying not to look like he was doing it on purpose, in case anyone felt that a beating should follow a hungry man trying to get enough to eat for breakfast. At that point, he was in real trouble.
He followed John over to the narrow benches under more tarp, and sat there with his bowl balanced on his knees and tried to figure out whether to eat his bread and then the stew, or to put the bread in to the stew to soften it. The bread wasn’t hard as a rock, actually, but it was crumbling in his hand. So he put it in the stew and poked at it with his spoon, and saw that John had done the same.
John was bent over his bowl, to protect it from the gusts of wind that snuck up from between their feet, and he was eating slowly, like he was concentrating. Then he looked up at Rodney, like he wanted to say something.
Rodney leaned close, holding his bowl tight on his lap.
“At least it doesn’t have worms in it,” said John. He was all hunkered over his bowl. Rodney ducked his head down, about to ask what John had really said because it couldn’t have been about worms in the food. That’s the last thing Rodney needed to worry about.
“You know,” said John. “All those prison movies, the food is really bad, you know? It’s always riddled with worms and one of the inmates feeds this baby bird with it-”
“Are you talking about The Shawshank Redemption?” asked Rodney, his voice cracking in astonishment. “Because this is miles away from anything like that. We’re not on Earth to begin with, and there is no Red with his sonorous voice-overs, and no magical cornfield with a magical lava rock with magical money to take us to Zihuatanejo or anywhere near it!” He lifted his spoon and was just about to shake it at John and continue in this vein, when he saw John peeping up through his eyelashes, a little smirk on his mouth, bruised and all.
Rodney subsided. It was like John, to make a joke, or to get Rodney riled up to forget his troubles. As the team leader, John probably thought it was his job to keep Rodney on an even keel, with little, distracting comments like this, and it was probably a full time job. Rodney knew he was difficult, even at the best of times. Poor John.
***
“Feed them,” said one of the guards, and the guard behind the pot tipped his head and knocked his ladle against the stew pot to announce that the first kehk should step forward to receive his portion.
Groaning inwardly, Rodney shuffled forward when the line moved, doing his best not to complain out loud. Why on earth had he thought there would be real food in a place like this? Just stew for breakfast? Pizza he could understand, but not stew. He’d been starving last night, without supper, now he was more starving, his stomach was pressing against his backbone, and all he was going to get was grey glop and a hunk of sawdust stuck together with muddy glue?
Once he was partly under the flap of canvas, it was good to be out of the rain, but the smell of the stew and the heat of the fire hit him all at once. His head felt dizzy and he thought about his hypoglycemia and how he ought to save a portion of his bread for later. Except that he had no pockets, and-
John turned and shoved a wooden bowl and spoon in Rodney’s hands, and Rodney took them. They were smooth, as though polished for years, and he wondered if the bowls ever even needed washing. It was a horrible thought, all those germs, though maybe they couldn’t live very well in the damp. Or maybe they flourished.
Before he could figure it out, Rodney was in front of the stewpot and he held out his bowl, feeling a little like Oliver Twist, although that character never had to deal with alien guards in fur trimmed coats. The guard slopped some stew in his bowl and waved at the bin of bread, indicating that Rodney could take a piece. Rodney picked the biggest piece he could find, trying not to look like he was doing it on purpose, in case anyone felt that a beating should follow a hungry man trying to get enough to eat for breakfast. At that point, he was in real trouble.
He followed John over to the narrow benches under more tarp, and sat there with his bowl balanced on his knees and tried to figure out whether to eat his bread and then the stew, or to put the bread in to the stew to soften it. The bread wasn’t hard as a rock, actually, but it was crumbling in his hand. So he put it in the stew and poked at it with his spoon, and saw that John had done the same.
John was bent over his bowl, to protect it from the gusts of wind that snuck up from between their feet, and he was eating slowly, like he was concentrating. Then he looked up at Rodney, like he wanted to say something.
Rodney leaned close, holding his bowl tight on his lap.
“At least it doesn’t have worms in it,” said John. He was all hunkered over his bowl. Rodney ducked his head down, about to ask what John had really said because it couldn’t have been about worms in the food. That’s the last thing Rodney needed to worry about.
“You know,” said John. “All those prison movies, the food is really bad, you know? It’s always riddled with worms and one of the inmates feeds this baby bird with it-”
“Are you talking about The Shawshank Redemption?” asked Rodney, his voice cracking in astonishment. “Because this is miles away from anything like that. We’re not on Earth to begin with, and there is no Red with his sonorous voice-overs, and no magical cornfield with a magical lava rock with magical money to take us to Zihuatanejo or anywhere near it!” He lifted his spoon and was just about to shake it at John and continue in this vein, when he saw John peeping up through his eyelashes, a little smirk on his mouth, bruised and all.
Rodney subsided. It was like John, to make a joke, or to get Rodney riled up to forget his troubles. As the team leader, John probably thought it was his job to keep Rodney on an even keel, with little, distracting comments like this, and it was probably a full time job. Rodney knew he was difficult, even at the best of times. Poor John.