"London Afternoon", SGA/SG-1, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell, AU
Title: London Afternoon
Series: Part 1 of the Tour of Europe series (WIP)
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 2230
Warnings: light R, UST, lots of angst, AU
Summary: Cam and John feel an instant attraction the first time they meet, but that's not always enough to build a connection.
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic using gaffsie's prompt: SGA/SG1, John/Cam, the AU where John's a civilian.
London Afternoon
by Scroll
They don't meet during basic training, or flight school. They don't meet in the skies over Afghanistan, or on the Antarctic ice sheets. They don't meet deep in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, or in an Ancient city in a galaxy far, far away. They don't meet when John's still in the closet and suffocating under the expectations of his business mogul father and his country club wife. They don't meet when "don't ask, don't tell" is a burden Cam still has to bear for the sake of duty, despite the atmosphere of acceptance in the SGC.
They first cross paths in August 2009, in the London Underground, of all places, while John's on "sabbatical" from Sheppard Enterprises and Cam's on his first real vacation in almost seven years.
The original plan was for Cam and his brother Casey to take leave at the same time and go backpacking through Europe. That plan changed when Cam's sister-in-law Susanna lost her job and money got tight. It's nobody's fault the economy is still in a slump, and rescheduling the trip wasn't feasible. Cam convinces himself he's going to have a great time, regardless--Mitchells make their own fun wherever they go.
John doesn't have an itinerary. He was in Malta last week and he might be in Denmark next week. His father thinks he's in New York. John wants to walk by the Thames and maybe ride the London Eye, but that's the extent of his travel plans.
Coming out of Westminster station, something flutters out of the folds of John's jacket as he pulls it on and Cam, walking a few steps behind him, picks it up from the ground. It's a faded photo of a pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a brown leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, standing next to a blue and white Cessna.
Cam tries to chase after the guy who dropped the photo, but he disappears too quickly into the crowd. Hopping up onto a planter, Cam scans the area for dark hair and aviator sunglasses, but the guy is gone. He flips over the photo and finds writing on the back: Kathleen Sheppard, Palo Alto, 1968.
His cell phone doesn't have the bells and whistles of Vala's iPhone, but it does have overseas roaming. He calls up Daniel in his office at the SGC and asks for a favour, mostly because he figures the woman in the photo must be the guy's mother, from the brief glimpse he got of his face, and no one should ever lose a photo of their mom.
Daniel promises to call back with the information, so Cam tucks the picture into his wallet for safe-keeping and puts the incident out of his mind. Five hours later, as he's listening to the tour guide expound on the history of the Globe Theatre, his phone buzzes with a text message from Vala.
The guy, John Sheppard, is staying at a luxury hotel on Piccadilly, so Cam gets on the Tube at Southwark and heads west to Green Park. He considers simply leaving the photo with the concierge, because stalking a guy he's never met while in a foreign country is bad enough without introducing himself and explaining how he enlisted an archaeologist and an alien to help track him down through his credit card.
But then he spies Sheppard--or a dark-haired guy wearing the same jacket and aviator sunglasses--exit the hotel and cross the street to enter the park on the south side of Piccadilly, and some instinct urges him to follow. Sheppard's trudging along the path not far ahead, hands in his pockets, head down, oblivious to Cam calling his name. Jogging the last few steps, Cam pulls even with him and sees that he's got earbuds on.
Sheppard turns off his music when he realises Cam is trying to talk to him, and pushes his aviators to sit on the top of his head. "Sorry about that. Did you say something?"
Wishing he'd thought this through more, Cam holds out the photo, smiling awkwardly. "You dropped this earlier, outside Westminster station." He's nervous, not sure why, except that John Sheppard is a good-looking guy about his age, with hazel eyes and a wide mouth--and he's pinging Cam's gaydar like crazy.
Sheppard's polite smile drops away when he sees the photo, replaced with astonishment. "Oh, thank God," he murmurs, staring down at it, his fingertips tracing reverently over his mom's face. "I thought it was gone for good." He looks up at Cam and laughs, happy and relieved. "Thank you so much. You're amazing."
"Not really," says Cam, grinning. "I'm just glad I could help."
But John takes a step closer, close enough for Cam to see the flecks of green in his eyes. "Are you kidding? This is the only photo I have left of my mom with her plane. I've been so pissed with myself for losing it." He puts a hand on Cam's arm. "Seriously, thank you."
While Cam manages to bite down the "aww, shucks" that wants to spill out, he can't help blushing bright red at John's gratitude. But before he can open his mouth and make an utter fool of himself, John tips his head and asks, curious, "Hey, how'd you even find me?"
"I, uh," he stammers, and flails for a story that doesn't involve the misuse of government resources. He can't think of one. "You probably don't want to know," he says, finally, and winces at John's confused frown. Yeah. Time for a tactical retreat. "Anyway, I'm glad I could get that back to you."
"No, please," John says quickly, catching Cam's elbow when he turns to go. "At least let me buy you a drink." He glides warm fingers down Cam's forearm to circle his wrist, smiling slow and sultry, his eyes dark with invitation. "Show you how grateful I am."
Pulled in like a sailor to the siren's song, Cam sways forward helplessly. "That's not why I did it," he tries to protest, breath hitching audibly when John presses his other hand low on Cam's belly. "Oh," he gasps, startled and turned on. "You, uh, you don't have to--"
"Sure I do," John whispers, leaning up against him, so close that his mouth brush against Cam's ear. His tongue and teeth come out to tease until Cam moans, his knees going weak. "I owe you, right?" John's hand drops lower, to trace the inseam of Cam's jeans. "Anything you want," he promises, and drags his mouth over Cam's cheek to his mouth.
Cam welcomes him in, melting into the kiss, hungry and desperate for John's tongue in his mouth. When John pulls back to breathe, he chases after him. "Please," he says, rough, wanting more. "Kiss me." He clings to John's shoulders, shuddering when John cups him through his jeans. Cam grabs his hand, seconds away from coming. "John, wait--"
Abruptly John releases him and steps back. "You know my name." His voice is cold and he doesn't seem very surprised, or aroused. His mouth is red and bruised, but there's no softness to it at all. "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want," he spits out. "You want money? Is that it?"
He's been played, Cam realises. Like a rank amateur, he's been played. He suddenly remembers where he is--in a public park in the middle of London, with joggers and cyclists passing behind them on the path, a bunch of kids kicking around a soccer ball not that far in the distance. It's a bucket of ice right in his lap.
Cam has travelled to other galaxies and not felt so far away from home as he does in this moment. There's no Teal'c or Sam to back him up, no Daniel or Vala to watch his six. He wants his team. He wants his P-90. He wants to be anywhere but here.
"I want to know who you are," John demands, pulling out his cell phone. "Or I'm calling the cops."
Any other day, Cam would be more than willing to call his bluff, but he wants out of this conversation as fast as possible. "Cameron Mitchell. I'm a colonel in the Air Force." He grinds the words out, matching John glare for glare. "You don't have to call the cops, okay? I don't want anything from you. I was just trying to help. I don't want money, I don't want anything--" He cuts himself off. Sheppard doesn't believe him, he can see it on his face. "Forget it. Think whatever you want."
He stalks off, not quite at a run, but pretty damn close. His face is burning with humiliation and it's a struggle not to turn around and give Sheppard the black eye he deserves, the cold-hearted bastard. This is why Cam needs to stick with women, because apparently his taste in men sucks. What the hell was he thinking? That some hot guy he met for all of five minutes actually wanted to have sex with him to say thanks for giving back his photo? Seriously, how stupid can he get?
He breaks into a run once he's out of sight of the park, and he runs and doesn't stop for anything except traffic until he arrives at his hotel in Soho. He has a choice now--find a bar and get drunk, or keep running. It's not a difficult decision, and Cam quickly changes into shorts and a t-shirt before heading out again, this time north towards Regent's Park. He's careful on the sidewalks not to knock over pedestrians, and remembers to look to the right instead of the left for cars making turns. Once he hits the running path around the park, he pours on the speed, imagining that Jolan is somewhere beside him, pacing him, ready to knock him off his feet if he slows down for even a second. He makes one loop around the park, not ready to commit to a second loop when he's supposed to be on vacation, then heads back for the hotel.
There are more people on the streets now with the offices let out for the day, so he slows to a walk and finally allows himself to think. Finally allows himself to admit how much he'd liked John's smile and his laugh and his pretty hazel eyes and his clever hands and his scorching hot kisses, admit that he would've followed John back to his hotel for whatever he was offering, no questions asked, because he'd been smitten almost instantly. It hurt to be toyed with like that, to realise John was never interested in him. To know that, when Cam was begging John to kiss him, John was thinking Cam was a creep who wanted sex or money--or both--as some kind of reward.
He's exhausted, wrung out, in desperate need of a shower and a hot meal, but considering the way his day is going, of course John Sheppard is waiting for him outside the hotel. "Now who's the stalker," he mutters under his breath. He almost blows right past him, but it's tit for tat, a voice in his head that sounds disturbingly like his mother tells him. He stops a good six feet away.
"Colonel Mitchell?" John takes a step forward, and Cam takes a step back.
"What," he says, staring past the other man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," says John in a rush, voice low. "I'm sorry. You gave me back my mom's picture and I treated you like you were some kind of criminal. You didn't deserve that."
Cam has to agree there. "I'll get over it." He's pretty sure it'll happen eventually. Maybe one day he'll even laugh about it. Not today, though. "Apology accepted. Excuse me." But when he tries to go around him, John moves to block him.
"Wait, please," he says, one hand stretched out, beseeching. "Let me make it up to you. Buy you dinner, pay for your hotel. Something."
"I don't want anything from you," Cam says again, gritting his teeth. "It wasn't my intention to come across like a stalker, but I can see how it must have looked from your angle," he adds, as polite and precise as he can. He's willing to concede that he'd feel a bit paranoid too, if a stranger tracked him down in a city of 7.5 million people. "I took advantage of my security clearance to access your private information, which I shouldn't have done for a number of reasons. I'm sorry."
"Don't," says John, taking another step forward. "Don't apologise, I'm the one who--" He cuts off when Cam flinches back from his hand. "Please don't," John whispers, pained.
Cam plants his feet on the sidewalk and squeezes his empty water bottle until the plastic cracks. "I didn't do it for some ulterior motive, okay?" he says, needing to be believed. "I just wanted to give back the photo."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John sighs, looking tired. "You were trying to do a nice thing. Most people wouldn't have even bothered." He steps out of the way, his eyes lingering on Cam's face. "I really am sorry, Colonel. You have no idea how much."
"It's fine," Cam says, and walks a wide arc around him to get into the hotel. "Enjoy your stay in London."
to be continued?
* * *
...yeah, I don't know either.
But apparently what I needed to start writing John/Cam again was to give up on writing Big Bang. Weird.
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)
Series: Part 1 of the Tour of Europe series (WIP)
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 2230
Warnings: light R, UST, lots of angst, AU
Summary: Cam and John feel an instant attraction the first time they meet, but that's not always enough to build a connection.
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic using gaffsie's prompt: SGA/SG1, John/Cam, the AU where John's a civilian.
London Afternoon
by Scroll
They don't meet during basic training, or flight school. They don't meet in the skies over Afghanistan, or on the Antarctic ice sheets. They don't meet deep in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, or in an Ancient city in a galaxy far, far away. They don't meet when John's still in the closet and suffocating under the expectations of his business mogul father and his country club wife. They don't meet when "don't ask, don't tell" is a burden Cam still has to bear for the sake of duty, despite the atmosphere of acceptance in the SGC.
They first cross paths in August 2009, in the London Underground, of all places, while John's on "sabbatical" from Sheppard Enterprises and Cam's on his first real vacation in almost seven years.
The original plan was for Cam and his brother Casey to take leave at the same time and go backpacking through Europe. That plan changed when Cam's sister-in-law Susanna lost her job and money got tight. It's nobody's fault the economy is still in a slump, and rescheduling the trip wasn't feasible. Cam convinces himself he's going to have a great time, regardless--Mitchells make their own fun wherever they go.
John doesn't have an itinerary. He was in Malta last week and he might be in Denmark next week. His father thinks he's in New York. John wants to walk by the Thames and maybe ride the London Eye, but that's the extent of his travel plans.
Coming out of Westminster station, something flutters out of the folds of John's jacket as he pulls it on and Cam, walking a few steps behind him, picks it up from the ground. It's a faded photo of a pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a brown leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, standing next to a blue and white Cessna.
Cam tries to chase after the guy who dropped the photo, but he disappears too quickly into the crowd. Hopping up onto a planter, Cam scans the area for dark hair and aviator sunglasses, but the guy is gone. He flips over the photo and finds writing on the back: Kathleen Sheppard, Palo Alto, 1968.
His cell phone doesn't have the bells and whistles of Vala's iPhone, but it does have overseas roaming. He calls up Daniel in his office at the SGC and asks for a favour, mostly because he figures the woman in the photo must be the guy's mother, from the brief glimpse he got of his face, and no one should ever lose a photo of their mom.
Daniel promises to call back with the information, so Cam tucks the picture into his wallet for safe-keeping and puts the incident out of his mind. Five hours later, as he's listening to the tour guide expound on the history of the Globe Theatre, his phone buzzes with a text message from Vala.
The guy, John Sheppard, is staying at a luxury hotel on Piccadilly, so Cam gets on the Tube at Southwark and heads west to Green Park. He considers simply leaving the photo with the concierge, because stalking a guy he's never met while in a foreign country is bad enough without introducing himself and explaining how he enlisted an archaeologist and an alien to help track him down through his credit card.
But then he spies Sheppard--or a dark-haired guy wearing the same jacket and aviator sunglasses--exit the hotel and cross the street to enter the park on the south side of Piccadilly, and some instinct urges him to follow. Sheppard's trudging along the path not far ahead, hands in his pockets, head down, oblivious to Cam calling his name. Jogging the last few steps, Cam pulls even with him and sees that he's got earbuds on.
Sheppard turns off his music when he realises Cam is trying to talk to him, and pushes his aviators to sit on the top of his head. "Sorry about that. Did you say something?"
Wishing he'd thought this through more, Cam holds out the photo, smiling awkwardly. "You dropped this earlier, outside Westminster station." He's nervous, not sure why, except that John Sheppard is a good-looking guy about his age, with hazel eyes and a wide mouth--and he's pinging Cam's gaydar like crazy.
Sheppard's polite smile drops away when he sees the photo, replaced with astonishment. "Oh, thank God," he murmurs, staring down at it, his fingertips tracing reverently over his mom's face. "I thought it was gone for good." He looks up at Cam and laughs, happy and relieved. "Thank you so much. You're amazing."
"Not really," says Cam, grinning. "I'm just glad I could help."
But John takes a step closer, close enough for Cam to see the flecks of green in his eyes. "Are you kidding? This is the only photo I have left of my mom with her plane. I've been so pissed with myself for losing it." He puts a hand on Cam's arm. "Seriously, thank you."
While Cam manages to bite down the "aww, shucks" that wants to spill out, he can't help blushing bright red at John's gratitude. But before he can open his mouth and make an utter fool of himself, John tips his head and asks, curious, "Hey, how'd you even find me?"
"I, uh," he stammers, and flails for a story that doesn't involve the misuse of government resources. He can't think of one. "You probably don't want to know," he says, finally, and winces at John's confused frown. Yeah. Time for a tactical retreat. "Anyway, I'm glad I could get that back to you."
"No, please," John says quickly, catching Cam's elbow when he turns to go. "At least let me buy you a drink." He glides warm fingers down Cam's forearm to circle his wrist, smiling slow and sultry, his eyes dark with invitation. "Show you how grateful I am."
Pulled in like a sailor to the siren's song, Cam sways forward helplessly. "That's not why I did it," he tries to protest, breath hitching audibly when John presses his other hand low on Cam's belly. "Oh," he gasps, startled and turned on. "You, uh, you don't have to--"
"Sure I do," John whispers, leaning up against him, so close that his mouth brush against Cam's ear. His tongue and teeth come out to tease until Cam moans, his knees going weak. "I owe you, right?" John's hand drops lower, to trace the inseam of Cam's jeans. "Anything you want," he promises, and drags his mouth over Cam's cheek to his mouth.
Cam welcomes him in, melting into the kiss, hungry and desperate for John's tongue in his mouth. When John pulls back to breathe, he chases after him. "Please," he says, rough, wanting more. "Kiss me." He clings to John's shoulders, shuddering when John cups him through his jeans. Cam grabs his hand, seconds away from coming. "John, wait--"
Abruptly John releases him and steps back. "You know my name." His voice is cold and he doesn't seem very surprised, or aroused. His mouth is red and bruised, but there's no softness to it at all. "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want," he spits out. "You want money? Is that it?"
He's been played, Cam realises. Like a rank amateur, he's been played. He suddenly remembers where he is--in a public park in the middle of London, with joggers and cyclists passing behind them on the path, a bunch of kids kicking around a soccer ball not that far in the distance. It's a bucket of ice right in his lap.
Cam has travelled to other galaxies and not felt so far away from home as he does in this moment. There's no Teal'c or Sam to back him up, no Daniel or Vala to watch his six. He wants his team. He wants his P-90. He wants to be anywhere but here.
"I want to know who you are," John demands, pulling out his cell phone. "Or I'm calling the cops."
Any other day, Cam would be more than willing to call his bluff, but he wants out of this conversation as fast as possible. "Cameron Mitchell. I'm a colonel in the Air Force." He grinds the words out, matching John glare for glare. "You don't have to call the cops, okay? I don't want anything from you. I was just trying to help. I don't want money, I don't want anything--" He cuts himself off. Sheppard doesn't believe him, he can see it on his face. "Forget it. Think whatever you want."
He stalks off, not quite at a run, but pretty damn close. His face is burning with humiliation and it's a struggle not to turn around and give Sheppard the black eye he deserves, the cold-hearted bastard. This is why Cam needs to stick with women, because apparently his taste in men sucks. What the hell was he thinking? That some hot guy he met for all of five minutes actually wanted to have sex with him to say thanks for giving back his photo? Seriously, how stupid can he get?
He breaks into a run once he's out of sight of the park, and he runs and doesn't stop for anything except traffic until he arrives at his hotel in Soho. He has a choice now--find a bar and get drunk, or keep running. It's not a difficult decision, and Cam quickly changes into shorts and a t-shirt before heading out again, this time north towards Regent's Park. He's careful on the sidewalks not to knock over pedestrians, and remembers to look to the right instead of the left for cars making turns. Once he hits the running path around the park, he pours on the speed, imagining that Jolan is somewhere beside him, pacing him, ready to knock him off his feet if he slows down for even a second. He makes one loop around the park, not ready to commit to a second loop when he's supposed to be on vacation, then heads back for the hotel.
There are more people on the streets now with the offices let out for the day, so he slows to a walk and finally allows himself to think. Finally allows himself to admit how much he'd liked John's smile and his laugh and his pretty hazel eyes and his clever hands and his scorching hot kisses, admit that he would've followed John back to his hotel for whatever he was offering, no questions asked, because he'd been smitten almost instantly. It hurt to be toyed with like that, to realise John was never interested in him. To know that, when Cam was begging John to kiss him, John was thinking Cam was a creep who wanted sex or money--or both--as some kind of reward.
He's exhausted, wrung out, in desperate need of a shower and a hot meal, but considering the way his day is going, of course John Sheppard is waiting for him outside the hotel. "Now who's the stalker," he mutters under his breath. He almost blows right past him, but it's tit for tat, a voice in his head that sounds disturbingly like his mother tells him. He stops a good six feet away.
"Colonel Mitchell?" John takes a step forward, and Cam takes a step back.
"What," he says, staring past the other man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," says John in a rush, voice low. "I'm sorry. You gave me back my mom's picture and I treated you like you were some kind of criminal. You didn't deserve that."
Cam has to agree there. "I'll get over it." He's pretty sure it'll happen eventually. Maybe one day he'll even laugh about it. Not today, though. "Apology accepted. Excuse me." But when he tries to go around him, John moves to block him.
"Wait, please," he says, one hand stretched out, beseeching. "Let me make it up to you. Buy you dinner, pay for your hotel. Something."
"I don't want anything from you," Cam says again, gritting his teeth. "It wasn't my intention to come across like a stalker, but I can see how it must have looked from your angle," he adds, as polite and precise as he can. He's willing to concede that he'd feel a bit paranoid too, if a stranger tracked him down in a city of 7.5 million people. "I took advantage of my security clearance to access your private information, which I shouldn't have done for a number of reasons. I'm sorry."
"Don't," says John, taking another step forward. "Don't apologise, I'm the one who--" He cuts off when Cam flinches back from his hand. "Please don't," John whispers, pained.
Cam plants his feet on the sidewalk and squeezes his empty water bottle until the plastic cracks. "I didn't do it for some ulterior motive, okay?" he says, needing to be believed. "I just wanted to give back the photo."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John sighs, looking tired. "You were trying to do a nice thing. Most people wouldn't have even bothered." He steps out of the way, his eyes lingering on Cam's face. "I really am sorry, Colonel. You have no idea how much."
"It's fine," Cam says, and walks a wide arc around him to get into the hotel. "Enjoy your stay in London."
to be continued?
* * *
...yeah, I don't know either.
But apparently what I needed to start writing John/Cam again was to give up on writing Big Bang. Weird.
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)