Peg² (8/?)
Title: Square Peg, or, Peg² (Pegasus Squared) [A sequel to Full Circle, set in the Epic Crossover ‘Verse]
Chapter: 8 of ?
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~1,700 words (this part)
Fandom(s): Leverage, Psych, SG:A
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep preslash
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: language (like, a lot), violence, kid!fic, un-beta’d
Beta: None, so please point out errors
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A (as well as any other television show, movie or book in existence) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: Apologies in advance for A) shortness, and B) the way the inside of Shawn's head came off really pompous and disjointed.
Summary: The requisite Dramatic Rescue of our intrepid heroes.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
In Which The Wraith Are Poor Hosts
SHAWN
Shawn opened his eyes only to promptly shut them again and wait to wake up. This was going to be one of those weird dreams, he could tell already. The brief glimpse he’d had when he’d opened his eyes had seared into his mind, just like every glimpse always did, and he took the time while he was waiting to wake up to review it. Dim and bluish light illuminating a wall about eight feet in front of him. The wall was a really dark and disgusting green that was almost black, and looked unpleasantly squishy to the touch, like it had a layer of some completely deadly mold on it. It looked malevolent, as much as a wall could be malevolent. His glance gave him an odd impression of height, like the floor was farther away than he was used to, but he dismissed that as unimportant-he was probably just dreaming he was taller again. The wall extended past his peripheral vision without curving or being intersected by anything, so he was either standing near, and facing, the wall of a large room, or was facing the opposite wall of a long, narrow room or maybe a hallway. Most likely either a big empty basement in a damp climate, what with the mold. Though maybe not, considering he hadn’t seen a ceiling intersect the wall, and standing eight feet back and looking straight across would mean the ceilings were at least a good 7 feet above his head, which wasn’t something really common in subterranean basements. Maybe it was a cave, though the walls were a little smooth for that.
Time passed as he ruminated over this place he’d dreamed himself into and waited to wake up, until the sudden explosion of his sense of smell brought with it the overwhelming need to sneeze. Up until he started smelling things again, he hadn’t even noticed the lack of the sense, in that way that dreams had-you’d only feel or hear or see or smell something when it had a particular part in the plotless plot that ruled the dream. Predominantly dank and sour, the overwhelming scent also had undertones of metallic copper and the sickly sweet scent of overripe fruit, something Shawn’s subconscious immediately tagged as a bad bad bad smell. The reek of the place was so strong he could taste it, like a blanket of some viscous liquid coating his tongue and slipping inexorably down the back of it to coat his throat and eventually seep its way down his throat and clog his lungs, and an image of the deadly mold on the wall across the way creeping its way into his mouth and down his throat replaced the overwhelming need to sneeze the smell out of his nasal passages with the urge to vomit it out of his esophagus. I really, really don’t like this dream, Shawn thought to himself, half coherently, before his limbs began to tingle, then blaze, with fiery pins and needles, and Shawn came to the unfortunate realization that this wasn’t, in fact, a dream.
He groaned at the tingling as sensation returned to his limbs, and an answering groan to his left had him snapping his eyes open again. Shawn couldn’t turn his head, he was immobilized (he squashed the brief hysterical paralyzed that echoed in his head) by something, but he could make out a dim silhouette when he rolled his eyes all the way to the left, a silhouette that reminded him vaguely of Egyptian mummies. Shawn took a moment to be glad that Gus wasn’t here to scream and carry on-which, why wasn’t he here, come to think of it?
With that incentive, Shawn started scouring his memory of the dream, and the rest of his neurons finally started firing as the effects of the stunner that’d been waiting on the other end of the culling beam wore off, and Shawn remembered where he was and what had- he rolled his eyes to the right, and there were two smaller lumps on the wall to the other side of him. Thank god. Eliot was waking up and they hadn’t been separated from the kids. Now all they had to do was get out the bondage-esque cocoons and find a way off the freaking ship without the life-sucking aliens in drag catching them. Easy as cake. A really really complicated cake, like the ones they made on those Food Network competition shows, maybe.
Yeah, it could work.
Eliot groaned again, and started swearing under his breath; Shawn took that to mean he’d regained consciousness. The fiery pins and needles in Shawn’s arms and legs finally started to ease off, with the unsettling phantom sensation that the tingles were drip-dripping out his fingers and toes to splatter against the restraining cocoon. He started twisting and wriggling in an attempt to get the cocoon to loosen its hold. Unsurprisingly, Shawn’s contortions had little effect on the disturbingly warm and alive-feeling material wrapped closely around him. It wasn’t like the space vampires hadn’t had 10,000 years to figure out how to tie their knots right, or something to that effect. And they’d probably learned pretty quickly that their food would run away screaming after tearing out of their bindings with panic-induced strength, and that a good pantry was a locked pantry. Shawn shook his head, knowing enough to know he wasn’t thinking clearly yet even though he couldn’t get so far as to actually start thinking clearly. But hey, look, an explosion-maybe he wasn’t gonna have to try and bake that cake after all. Shawn grimaced, and spared a neuron to regret that metaphor; he was taking it a little too far even for him, and he didn’t have the luxury of ignoring himself-it was really damned hard to escape yourself when you were trapped in your own head.
Light flashed down the corridor, strafing the walls with intermittent bursts of warm yellow light, and the sharp repeating report of P-90 fire was like music to his ears. (Poorly recorded crappy garage band music, but still music.) He didn’t know how long he’d been out of it, and couldn’t remember anyone ever telling him how long a stunner blast lasted (because of course he’d never need to know that, it’s not like Atlantis was fighting a guerilla war against overwhelming odds or anything, and of course the Wraith wouldn’t ever go for someone the SGC deemed a non-combatant, because the Wraith were just ethical like that), but he could certainly appreciate the rescue team’s promptness. Rescue team. How the hell did their rescuers know where to find them, anyway?
“The signal’s getting stronger-he’s down here, this way!” a vaguely familiar voice shouted over the P-90 fire and the intermittent whine that must be coming from the Wraiths’ weapons. Bulky shapes, frequently backlit by the strobing flashes from P-90s and the occasional grenade, moved slowly down the hall, growing larger as they grew nearer to Shawn and his companions. The fact they were so small to begin with brought home how really ridiculously long the corridor was. But the people were reassuringly varying heights, unlike the Wraith (apparently there was a height requirement-and restriction-for being a life-sucking space vampire, which was, well, actually not much weirder than anything else in this galaxy), and Shawn was confident enough that they were on the Kill The Wraith team and not the Suck Shawn Dry And Brittle (heh) team that he started hollering to let them know where exactly they were.
“We’re here! Both Spencers and the kids! Trying for a remake of Cocoon!” he shouted down the hall, not caring much what he was saying as long as he was saying it loudly enough for them to pinpoint their position in case the mysterious signal wasn’t very definitive. Either they heard his hoarse yell over the explosions and gunfire, or the signal was way more precise than the crappy handheld GPS he’d gotten in a garage sale a couple of years ago to play at geo-caching with Gus, because in less than a minute their rescuers were cutting them out of their organic saran-wrap with wicked looking knives and catching them before they faceplanted on the disgusting floor that looked like it was carpeted with the same mold that lived on the walls. Shawn and Eliot each got a Marine under each arm, and the two still unconscious kids got grabbed up by the man-mountain Shawn belatedly recognized as Ronon as easily, though more gently, as if they were down-filled pillows.
“Lorne, Ronon, get them back to Jumper Three. Shut it up tight and get the fuck out of here. We’ll be right behind you with the rest of the cullees in the other Jumpers.” John’s voice was so tight with stress Shawn almost didn’t recognize it. One of Eliot’s helpers tossed off a sloppy salute in John’s general direction. The Marines under his arms started a jog-trot back the way they’d come, helping (dragging) Shawn along with them, Eliot’s helpers doing the same, Ronon striding beside them effortlessly, and the rest of the rescue squad split into two groups. One of the groups surrounded their ungainly parade to protect them on the way back to the Jumper, and the other group started checking the cocoons and alcoves around the ones that had played host to Shawn and Company, presumably checking for signs of living inhabitants. Shawn’s half-brother and his pet scientist and Warrior Princess were in the second group, and Shawn caught the anguished glance both John and Warrior Princess speared Ronon with before the first group turned a corner and lost sight of the second group.
Oh. Right.
One of those unconscious kids was Shawn’s nephew, and the other must be Warrior Princess’s son. Shawn winced as his opinion of his half-brother took a dramatic leap upwards. It took some serious ‘right stuff’ to stay and rescue other people after just getting your son back from certain death, trusting others to protect him and keep him safe while you try and get others to safety. Shit, Big Brother (and Warrior Princess) set a high standard to live up to, and Shawn wasn’t sure he could ever be as good a man as he (or Warrior Princess) was.
Trying could be fun, though. Or, you know, result in gruesome death. Same difference.
Nine -->
Chapter: 8 of ?
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~1,700 words (this part)
Fandom(s): Leverage, Psych, SG:A
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep preslash
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: language (like, a lot), violence, kid!fic, un-beta’d
Beta: None, so please point out errors
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A (as well as any other television show, movie or book in existence) do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: Apologies in advance for A) shortness, and B) the way the inside of Shawn's head came off really pompous and disjointed.
Summary: The requisite Dramatic Rescue of our intrepid heroes.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
In Which The Wraith Are Poor Hosts
SHAWN
Shawn opened his eyes only to promptly shut them again and wait to wake up. This was going to be one of those weird dreams, he could tell already. The brief glimpse he’d had when he’d opened his eyes had seared into his mind, just like every glimpse always did, and he took the time while he was waiting to wake up to review it. Dim and bluish light illuminating a wall about eight feet in front of him. The wall was a really dark and disgusting green that was almost black, and looked unpleasantly squishy to the touch, like it had a layer of some completely deadly mold on it. It looked malevolent, as much as a wall could be malevolent. His glance gave him an odd impression of height, like the floor was farther away than he was used to, but he dismissed that as unimportant-he was probably just dreaming he was taller again. The wall extended past his peripheral vision without curving or being intersected by anything, so he was either standing near, and facing, the wall of a large room, or was facing the opposite wall of a long, narrow room or maybe a hallway. Most likely either a big empty basement in a damp climate, what with the mold. Though maybe not, considering he hadn’t seen a ceiling intersect the wall, and standing eight feet back and looking straight across would mean the ceilings were at least a good 7 feet above his head, which wasn’t something really common in subterranean basements. Maybe it was a cave, though the walls were a little smooth for that.
Time passed as he ruminated over this place he’d dreamed himself into and waited to wake up, until the sudden explosion of his sense of smell brought with it the overwhelming need to sneeze. Up until he started smelling things again, he hadn’t even noticed the lack of the sense, in that way that dreams had-you’d only feel or hear or see or smell something when it had a particular part in the plotless plot that ruled the dream. Predominantly dank and sour, the overwhelming scent also had undertones of metallic copper and the sickly sweet scent of overripe fruit, something Shawn’s subconscious immediately tagged as a bad bad bad smell. The reek of the place was so strong he could taste it, like a blanket of some viscous liquid coating his tongue and slipping inexorably down the back of it to coat his throat and eventually seep its way down his throat and clog his lungs, and an image of the deadly mold on the wall across the way creeping its way into his mouth and down his throat replaced the overwhelming need to sneeze the smell out of his nasal passages with the urge to vomit it out of his esophagus. I really, really don’t like this dream, Shawn thought to himself, half coherently, before his limbs began to tingle, then blaze, with fiery pins and needles, and Shawn came to the unfortunate realization that this wasn’t, in fact, a dream.
He groaned at the tingling as sensation returned to his limbs, and an answering groan to his left had him snapping his eyes open again. Shawn couldn’t turn his head, he was immobilized (he squashed the brief hysterical paralyzed that echoed in his head) by something, but he could make out a dim silhouette when he rolled his eyes all the way to the left, a silhouette that reminded him vaguely of Egyptian mummies. Shawn took a moment to be glad that Gus wasn’t here to scream and carry on-which, why wasn’t he here, come to think of it?
With that incentive, Shawn started scouring his memory of the dream, and the rest of his neurons finally started firing as the effects of the stunner that’d been waiting on the other end of the culling beam wore off, and Shawn remembered where he was and what had- he rolled his eyes to the right, and there were two smaller lumps on the wall to the other side of him. Thank god. Eliot was waking up and they hadn’t been separated from the kids. Now all they had to do was get out the bondage-esque cocoons and find a way off the freaking ship without the life-sucking aliens in drag catching them. Easy as cake. A really really complicated cake, like the ones they made on those Food Network competition shows, maybe.
Yeah, it could work.
Eliot groaned again, and started swearing under his breath; Shawn took that to mean he’d regained consciousness. The fiery pins and needles in Shawn’s arms and legs finally started to ease off, with the unsettling phantom sensation that the tingles were drip-dripping out his fingers and toes to splatter against the restraining cocoon. He started twisting and wriggling in an attempt to get the cocoon to loosen its hold. Unsurprisingly, Shawn’s contortions had little effect on the disturbingly warm and alive-feeling material wrapped closely around him. It wasn’t like the space vampires hadn’t had 10,000 years to figure out how to tie their knots right, or something to that effect. And they’d probably learned pretty quickly that their food would run away screaming after tearing out of their bindings with panic-induced strength, and that a good pantry was a locked pantry. Shawn shook his head, knowing enough to know he wasn’t thinking clearly yet even though he couldn’t get so far as to actually start thinking clearly. But hey, look, an explosion-maybe he wasn’t gonna have to try and bake that cake after all. Shawn grimaced, and spared a neuron to regret that metaphor; he was taking it a little too far even for him, and he didn’t have the luxury of ignoring himself-it was really damned hard to escape yourself when you were trapped in your own head.
Light flashed down the corridor, strafing the walls with intermittent bursts of warm yellow light, and the sharp repeating report of P-90 fire was like music to his ears. (Poorly recorded crappy garage band music, but still music.) He didn’t know how long he’d been out of it, and couldn’t remember anyone ever telling him how long a stunner blast lasted (because of course he’d never need to know that, it’s not like Atlantis was fighting a guerilla war against overwhelming odds or anything, and of course the Wraith wouldn’t ever go for someone the SGC deemed a non-combatant, because the Wraith were just ethical like that), but he could certainly appreciate the rescue team’s promptness. Rescue team. How the hell did their rescuers know where to find them, anyway?
“The signal’s getting stronger-he’s down here, this way!” a vaguely familiar voice shouted over the P-90 fire and the intermittent whine that must be coming from the Wraiths’ weapons. Bulky shapes, frequently backlit by the strobing flashes from P-90s and the occasional grenade, moved slowly down the hall, growing larger as they grew nearer to Shawn and his companions. The fact they were so small to begin with brought home how really ridiculously long the corridor was. But the people were reassuringly varying heights, unlike the Wraith (apparently there was a height requirement-and restriction-for being a life-sucking space vampire, which was, well, actually not much weirder than anything else in this galaxy), and Shawn was confident enough that they were on the Kill The Wraith team and not the Suck Shawn Dry And Brittle (heh) team that he started hollering to let them know where exactly they were.
“We’re here! Both Spencers and the kids! Trying for a remake of Cocoon!” he shouted down the hall, not caring much what he was saying as long as he was saying it loudly enough for them to pinpoint their position in case the mysterious signal wasn’t very definitive. Either they heard his hoarse yell over the explosions and gunfire, or the signal was way more precise than the crappy handheld GPS he’d gotten in a garage sale a couple of years ago to play at geo-caching with Gus, because in less than a minute their rescuers were cutting them out of their organic saran-wrap with wicked looking knives and catching them before they faceplanted on the disgusting floor that looked like it was carpeted with the same mold that lived on the walls. Shawn and Eliot each got a Marine under each arm, and the two still unconscious kids got grabbed up by the man-mountain Shawn belatedly recognized as Ronon as easily, though more gently, as if they were down-filled pillows.
“Lorne, Ronon, get them back to Jumper Three. Shut it up tight and get the fuck out of here. We’ll be right behind you with the rest of the cullees in the other Jumpers.” John’s voice was so tight with stress Shawn almost didn’t recognize it. One of Eliot’s helpers tossed off a sloppy salute in John’s general direction. The Marines under his arms started a jog-trot back the way they’d come, helping (dragging) Shawn along with them, Eliot’s helpers doing the same, Ronon striding beside them effortlessly, and the rest of the rescue squad split into two groups. One of the groups surrounded their ungainly parade to protect them on the way back to the Jumper, and the other group started checking the cocoons and alcoves around the ones that had played host to Shawn and Company, presumably checking for signs of living inhabitants. Shawn’s half-brother and his pet scientist and Warrior Princess were in the second group, and Shawn caught the anguished glance both John and Warrior Princess speared Ronon with before the first group turned a corner and lost sight of the second group.
Oh. Right.
One of those unconscious kids was Shawn’s nephew, and the other must be Warrior Princess’s son. Shawn winced as his opinion of his half-brother took a dramatic leap upwards. It took some serious ‘right stuff’ to stay and rescue other people after just getting your son back from certain death, trusting others to protect him and keep him safe while you try and get others to safety. Shit, Big Brother (and Warrior Princess) set a high standard to live up to, and Shawn wasn’t sure he could ever be as good a man as he (or Warrior Princess) was.
Trying could be fun, though. Or, you know, result in gruesome death. Same difference.
Nine -->