The WIP Project, 7
(For the uninitated/because I haven't done this in a while, this is when I post things I'm never, ever going to finish, ever, but want to be rid of.)
So this is the mpreg abortion story.
Here's the backstory: I wrote most of this, and then I shelved it, because it should be manifest that I start and never finish a lot of things. Then before I came back to it, somebody else posted one, about which I remember very little. And I was just going to be like, "lol fannish hivemind" and post it anyway, but then the other one turned into a kerfuffle and a whole lot of mpreg bashing. And me, I have no opinion about mpreg- I like the good stuff and dislike the bad stuff- I just like to fuck around with tropes.
So I was like, "out b4 wank bitches" and I never posted mine. The only thing I really am disappoint about is that I couldn't use this title, which is so awesome and so appropriate for this story (but only if you've read Nancy Scheper-Hughes, WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT AWESOME) and totally inappropriate for anything else I would ever write.
Trivia fact: This is where the Ronon and macrame joke originally came from, and I have continually reused it because 1) it is totally canon 2) it will never not be funny to me.
This is about 750 words, John/Rodney, and, y'know, it is about abortion, so please keep that in mind.
--
(M)Other Love
Everybody was being really cool about the whole thing.
Keller jury-rigged some kind of scanner so that they could look at it, and she held John's hand while he lay underneath, watching the green lights pass back and forth over his still-flat stomach.
Woolsey had stammered a bit, but he finessed the paperwork and threw them a surprisingly tasteful housewarming party for their new quarters.
Teyla offered up her wisdom and experience, along with a very large sack of the herbal tea that she said John would very much thank her for later.
Ronon promised to teach it to fight, and also some kind of traditional Satedan rope art that was an awful lot like macramé.
And Rodney, Rodney read baby name books and requisitioned childproof locks and swore at anyone who got too near John with suspiciously radioactive things and assured everyone that he was really, really ready for this, really, about sixteen times a day.
Yeah, everybody was totally okay with the fact that Colonel Sheppard had his and Dr. McKay's child slowly developing inside of him.
Except for, y'know, John.
But, then, nobody'd asked him.
-
The shotgun at John and Rodney's shotgun wedding was entirely nonmetaphorical.
Okay, so it wasn't a shotgun, so much as it was an energy pistol. But Ronon still tapped it from time to time, looking daggers at Rodney all through Teyla's- really very lovely- song.
And then Rodney took him back to their room and fucked the living daylights out of him; John didn't really have any issues with that part.
-
In the end, it didn't surprise him that Teyla was the one who figured it out.
She slipped him a piece of paper with a gate address on it. "There is a wise woman. She knows what to do." Her face grew even more serious. "You must think about it, John. If you take this treatment, you may not be able to have any more children."
John resisted the urge to respond with Well, whoop-de-fucking-doo. "Thank you," he said, his voice as sincere as he could make it. There was a pause; he fidgeted nervously, wondering how to frame his question.
She sighed, smiling. "I will go with you, if you cannot go alone."
--
He spent two long days curled up on a thin mattress in the healer's attic, throwing up more than he'd ever eaten in his entire life and bleeding from more places than he cared to think about.
He tried to think about what Ronon would think of him, now that he'd thrown the Ancestors' gift right back in their smug, glowy faces, a gift that Ronon would probably kill to have, if it meant some small part of Sateda might survive. Or Keller, with the one-two punch of coming off-world for a dangerous medical procedure and not trusting her to understand why he wanted it. He tried to think about everyone on Atlantis who'd wanted this child, how people he could have sworn he'd never even met came up to congratulate him.
When he was at his worst, he tried to think about Rodney, about the fact that he'd just killed what might very well be Rodney's first- maybe even only- child. Probably Rodney would leave him for that, which John figured was fair enough. He tried to be sorry, tried to mourn what probably would have been a great kid, who probably would have turned out just fine despite having such screwed up parents.
He tried to feel bad about what he'd done.
But he couldn't feel anything but nausea and relief.
-
[[John gets back, there's some stuff here, I don't remember what. Then John and Rodney get into a fight, which I only have bits of.]
"You could've told me."
He tried to say something comforting, but, "I'm not sorry," was all that came out.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, but I'm not sorry for what I did. I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd let you talk me out of it."
[[I have no idea what line was supposed to go here.]]
“That's almost sweet.”
“Really?”
“In the same way that taking my turn in a game of Russian roulette would be sort of sweet. Jesus fuck, Rodney!”
"For Christ's sake, John, when are you going to learn that you have to tell me things if you want me to know them?"
"Maybe one day we'll adopt, or find a surrogate, or steal one of Teyla's, or something. Or maybe we never will, and that's okay too. Look, John, I know we live out here on the edge of crazy and everything, but spontaneous gender-bent pregnancy is a pretty fucked up thing to expect anybody to deal with."
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/357397.html.
comments over there.
So this is the mpreg abortion story.
Here's the backstory: I wrote most of this, and then I shelved it, because it should be manifest that I start and never finish a lot of things. Then before I came back to it, somebody else posted one, about which I remember very little. And I was just going to be like, "lol fannish hivemind" and post it anyway, but then the other one turned into a kerfuffle and a whole lot of mpreg bashing. And me, I have no opinion about mpreg- I like the good stuff and dislike the bad stuff- I just like to fuck around with tropes.
So I was like, "out b4 wank bitches" and I never posted mine. The only thing I really am disappoint about is that I couldn't use this title, which is so awesome and so appropriate for this story (but only if you've read Nancy Scheper-Hughes, WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT AWESOME) and totally inappropriate for anything else I would ever write.
Trivia fact: This is where the Ronon and macrame joke originally came from, and I have continually reused it because 1) it is totally canon 2) it will never not be funny to me.
This is about 750 words, John/Rodney, and, y'know, it is about abortion, so please keep that in mind.
--
(M)Other Love
Everybody was being really cool about the whole thing.
Keller jury-rigged some kind of scanner so that they could look at it, and she held John's hand while he lay underneath, watching the green lights pass back and forth over his still-flat stomach.
Woolsey had stammered a bit, but he finessed the paperwork and threw them a surprisingly tasteful housewarming party for their new quarters.
Teyla offered up her wisdom and experience, along with a very large sack of the herbal tea that she said John would very much thank her for later.
Ronon promised to teach it to fight, and also some kind of traditional Satedan rope art that was an awful lot like macramé.
And Rodney, Rodney read baby name books and requisitioned childproof locks and swore at anyone who got too near John with suspiciously radioactive things and assured everyone that he was really, really ready for this, really, about sixteen times a day.
Yeah, everybody was totally okay with the fact that Colonel Sheppard had his and Dr. McKay's child slowly developing inside of him.
Except for, y'know, John.
But, then, nobody'd asked him.
-
The shotgun at John and Rodney's shotgun wedding was entirely nonmetaphorical.
Okay, so it wasn't a shotgun, so much as it was an energy pistol. But Ronon still tapped it from time to time, looking daggers at Rodney all through Teyla's- really very lovely- song.
And then Rodney took him back to their room and fucked the living daylights out of him; John didn't really have any issues with that part.
-
In the end, it didn't surprise him that Teyla was the one who figured it out.
She slipped him a piece of paper with a gate address on it. "There is a wise woman. She knows what to do." Her face grew even more serious. "You must think about it, John. If you take this treatment, you may not be able to have any more children."
John resisted the urge to respond with Well, whoop-de-fucking-doo. "Thank you," he said, his voice as sincere as he could make it. There was a pause; he fidgeted nervously, wondering how to frame his question.
She sighed, smiling. "I will go with you, if you cannot go alone."
--
He spent two long days curled up on a thin mattress in the healer's attic, throwing up more than he'd ever eaten in his entire life and bleeding from more places than he cared to think about.
He tried to think about what Ronon would think of him, now that he'd thrown the Ancestors' gift right back in their smug, glowy faces, a gift that Ronon would probably kill to have, if it meant some small part of Sateda might survive. Or Keller, with the one-two punch of coming off-world for a dangerous medical procedure and not trusting her to understand why he wanted it. He tried to think about everyone on Atlantis who'd wanted this child, how people he could have sworn he'd never even met came up to congratulate him.
When he was at his worst, he tried to think about Rodney, about the fact that he'd just killed what might very well be Rodney's first- maybe even only- child. Probably Rodney would leave him for that, which John figured was fair enough. He tried to be sorry, tried to mourn what probably would have been a great kid, who probably would have turned out just fine despite having such screwed up parents.
He tried to feel bad about what he'd done.
But he couldn't feel anything but nausea and relief.
-
[[John gets back, there's some stuff here, I don't remember what. Then John and Rodney get into a fight, which I only have bits of.]
"You could've told me."
He tried to say something comforting, but, "I'm not sorry," was all that came out.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, but I'm not sorry for what I did. I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd let you talk me out of it."
[[I have no idea what line was supposed to go here.]]
“That's almost sweet.”
“Really?”
“In the same way that taking my turn in a game of Russian roulette would be sort of sweet. Jesus fuck, Rodney!”
"For Christ's sake, John, when are you going to learn that you have to tell me things if you want me to know them?"
"Maybe one day we'll adopt, or find a surrogate, or steal one of Teyla's, or something. Or maybe we never will, and that's okay too. Look, John, I know we live out here on the edge of crazy and everything, but spontaneous gender-bent pregnancy is a pretty fucked up thing to expect anybody to deal with."
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/357397.html.
comments over there.