"Morning Underground", SGA/SG-1, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell, AU
Title: Morning Underground
Series: Part 2 of the Tour of Europe series (WIP), sequel to London Afternoon
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 2380
Warnings: light R, angst, AU
Summary: Purple hyacinths mean "please forgive me" in the language of flowers. Lavender roses mean "love at first sight".
Author's Note: In this AU, John never joined the Air Force, although Cam's career unfolded exactly the same way as in canon.
Morning Underground
by Scroll
John sends flowers, because eight years of marriage had taught him that's what he's supposed to do when he screws up. With his wife, he'd learned that an expensive gift and an abject apology were usually enough to buy forgiveness--right up until she divorced him. With Cameron, the chances of a teary reconciliation and passionate make-up sex are pretty much zilch, but it's not like flowers can make the situation any worse.
Early in the morning, with any luck early enough that Cameron hasn't already left for a day of sight-seeing, John goes to the florist across the street from Cameron's hotel. The proprietor, a middle-aged South Asian woman, takes pity on him and elicits enough information from him about Cameron to advise against the two dozen red roses John initially wanted to purchase.
"You've only met the bloke yesterday," she protests, shaking her head. "No, it's far too presumptuous. And it sounds to me you're more in need of forgiveness than a date."
John can hardly argue with that assessment, so he meekly accepts the bouquet of purple hyacinths. "If he throws them in my face, do I get a refund?" he jokes, fiddling with the pen as he tries to write an accompanying note.
"From what you tell me, he's more likely to donate them to the local children's hospital." She studies him for a moment, tapping her fingers against the glass counter. "You really fancy him, don't you?" When John shrugs and can't meet her eyes, she ducks into the back with a flap of her apron.
She returns with a tiny lavender rosebud that gets tucked into the hyacinth arrangement. "I've a soft spot for the romantically-challenged," she says, smile crooked. "Best of luck."
"Thanks," says John, gruff but grateful. With that bit of encouragement, he heads across the street to deliver his message.
At the front desk, the concierge helpfully points him in the direction of the hotel restaurant, which is currently serving breakfast. John finds Cameron at a small table against the far wall, and it hits him again--that this sweet, gorgeous guy had really liked him, wanted him, but that John had sabotaged any chance they might have had within minutes of meeting him.
John knows what his therapist would say if she knew.
There are two women sitting opposite Cameron, a blonde and a brunette, both pretty, mid-thirties, and clearly into Cameron. They're chatting--flirting--over their second cups of coffee, and John hesitates, not sure he wants to do this with an audience.
Too late. Cameron glances up and spots him, and even from this distance John can see the way his smile goes tight. When the women turn to look, John takes a deep breath and figures, hell, he deserves a little humiliation after yesterday. He goes over, doesn't try to sit down, just stands next to the table and offers the bouquet to Cameron. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I wanted another chance to apologise."
"You didn't have to do this," Cameron says, accepting the flowers with barely hidden reluctance. "I said it was fine."
"It's not fine." John can't accept the polite fiction, not when he screwed with the guy's head by almost screwing him, literally, in a public park. "What I did was really shitty. I wish there was some way I could make up for it." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the two women staring, voyeurs to their little drama, probably wondering why all the good ones are gay--at least that's what he hopes they're thinking, because John doesn't like the idea of Cameron flirting with them. Kind of hates it, in fact.
"I don't need you to do anything," says Cameron, tense. Shifting uncomfortably, he lays the flowers on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, everything about his body language screaming stay away. But there's a flare of interest in Cameron's blue eyes when John leans one hip against the table, and John clings to that, files it away as proof that the chemistry between them wasn't his imagination. "Look, the flowers are great and all," Cameron adds, "but I'd just like to pretend yesterday never happened."
"Right, sure, I get it," John quickly agrees. "How about we start over, okay? Hi, I'm John Sheppard." He sticks out a hand, holding his breath.
"Start over?" Cameron echoes, incredulous, looking from John's hand to his face. "Uh, yeah, no. Not a good idea."
John shoves his hand back in his pocket. "Give me a chance, here," he says, getting a little desperate. "I'm a pretty decent guy most of the time, I swear."
The blonde woman interrupts at this point. "Hey, buddy, take a hint," she says, her tone firm. "If the man says no, then it's no." She turns to Cameron, nudging his arm. "We'd better get going, Cam. The tour's in half an hour."
Checking his watch, Cameron nods. "Yeah, okay. Meet you guys in the lobby in five minutes?"
The two women stand up and go, the blonde giving John a warning glare as she passes, while the brunette sneaks him a sympathetic smile. Cameron stands as well, but slides out the other way, the table a solid barrier between him and John.
Damn it. John looks at him, grasping for a last-ditch persuasive argument that doesn't come. "At least keep the flowers," he says, finally. It really is a nice arrangement--it'd be a shame to waste it.
Cameron hesitates, but picks up the flowers. "Purple hyacinths."
"Yeah, uh, the lady at the flower shop says it means 'please forgive me'--something like that," he stammers. He waits, palms sweating, as Cameron gently touches the rosebud, scared that he's going to pull it out and hand it back. "Keep them," John says again, and it's an effort to keep his voice steady. "Please. I promise I won't bother you again."
There's the tiniest smile on Cameron's face when he looks up. "Yeah, okay, I'll keep them. It was a nice gesture, thanks." He stares at John for a moment, pale blue eyes softening a smidgen, but not enough, not nearly enough. "Bye, John."
John gives a half-hearted wave as Cameron walks out the door. "See you."
He wanders aimlessly around London after that, too depressed to be interested in sight-seeing, too restless to head back to his hotel room. He's been to London before, isn't really sure why he's here now and not surfing in Hawaii or, hell, sitting in his office at Sheppard Enterprises. The way he's going, his dad's going to have to fire him eventually, scion of the empire or not.
Heading north, away from the bustle of tourists, John eats up the blocks with a long stride, passing shops and offices and residential neighbourhoods, and by the time he stops walking, he's thoroughly lost. There's a pub kitty-corner from his position, though, and even knowing that drinking this early in the day is a stupid, unhealthy move, he goes in and sits down at a table.
What stops him from ordering a bottle of whisky and getting plastered is the British soldier in camouflage eating brunch with his parents. The kid's all baby face and peach fuzz, and John wonders whether he's still in training or being shipped out to Afghanistan. Wonders if he'll fly a chopper or drive a tank, if he'll get shot down or blown up or he'll make it home in one piece.
He wonders where Cameron is stationed, whether he's destined for the middle east after his vacation. Do colonels fight the insurgents themselves? Or do they stay in the base camp, where they're supposedly safe? Do they ever get killed in action? He's not sure he wants to know the answers to those questions.
So he orders coffee instead, and a turkey sandwich with havarti cheese, comfort food for him. Eating helps to ease the hollow feeling in his stomach, pushes back the dark edges, at least enough that he doesn't feel a need to make an emergency call to his therapist. Anyway, it's 3am in California.
After his sandwich, he considers calling for a cab, then realises the nearest Tube station is just around the corner, if he'd kept walking. He takes the stairs down into King's Cross, determined to head back to his hotel, pack his bags, and find some other city to haunt. Or perhaps not a city--he's sick of crowds, wouldn't mind a view of nothing but water and trees and fields and the occasional cow.
It's a shock, then, to run into Cameron on the platform. "What are you doing here?" he asks, stunned. They're pretty far from the usual tourist attractions.
Cameron looks equally bewildered. "I promised my nieces I'd take a picture of the Harry Potter trolley," he replies, shaking his head as though he's not quite sure John is real. "What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," John says, honest. "I started walking and ended up here."
For some reason, Cameron smiles a little at that. "Yeah? I just run."
John actually knows that, because yesterday he'd followed Cameron in a cab--like he was in a bad cop movie--as Cameron ran from Green Park back to his SoHo hotel, then watched from across the street as he came out again in shorts, obviously planning to run some more. The fact that Cameron seemed driven to get so far away from John, so fast, is what convinced John that he'd been sincere from the start--a realisation that came too late.
He looks around and realises Cameron is alone. "What happened to your friends?"
"They're meeting a friend of theirs at the British Library," he shrugs. "They--" The rest of the sentence is lost as the train screeches into the station. The commuters bunch and shift closer to the doors, waiting to get on, and Cameron glances at John uneasily when they get separated.
Passengers exit the train in a rush, and everyone on the platform tries to enter in an equal rush, and John reaches out and grabs Cameron's wrist and pulls him onto the train just before the doors close. "Thanks," Cameron says, breathless. "God, I hate subways."
"They're not that bad," says John, acutely aware of how much of Cameron is pressed up against him in the crowded car. "Better for the environment than everyone driving everywhere," he adds inanely. He's still got his fingers locked around Cameron's wrist, and he can feel his pulse hammering. Whoever is standing behind him keeps moving around and pushing John off balance. "Sorry," he mutters, trying to keep from falling into Cameron.
But Cameron's eyes are wide and dark, and he puts a hand on John's hip to hold him steady. "Shit," he whispers when a sudden jolt tips them against the door, John practically straddling his thigh. "You okay?" The hand on John's hip shifts around to the small of his back.
John's throat is dry, and it takes him a few tries to find enough saliva to speak. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, I'm good." There's a degree of privacy inherent to standing in a crowd, like a bubble of wilful blindness. John feels safe enough to let his gaze flicker down to Cameron's mouth, then glances back up to find Cameron staring at his own mouth. Taking a chance, he leans in and kisses him--a soft, restrained kiss that lingers but doesn't push for more. When he pulls back, Cameron lets out a shaky breath, lashes fluttering open. "Was that okay?" John asks, cautious, hopeful.
"I don't--" Cameron looks away, forehead wrinkling. "I'm not letting you do this again."
John ducks his head, tries to get Cameron to look at him. "I'm not playing with you, I swear," he tells him, his voice low but fierce. "Cameron, please."
His name gets Cameron to turn back, wary, his jaw clenched. "The way I figure it, what you did yesterday says more about you than it does about me."
"You think I don't know that?" John laughs bleakly. "Trust me, there's a reason my therapist can afford to send her kid to an Ivy League college." He finds purchase against the door and gives Cameron a couple inches of space. "I like you, okay?" He meets his eyes and refuses to flinch away from the doubt he sees there. "I like you, Cameron, and I screwed up before I even knew your name."
"And, what, you want to start over? Just like that?" Cameron's words are harsh, but his hand is still resting low on John's back, holding him close, and there's a hint of pleading in his tone. "I don't think I can do that, John."
"Give me a chance, please," John whispers, touching his fingertips to Cameron's cheek. There's a creeping awareness of just how far gone he is, begging a man he's known for less than 24 hours for a do-over, but it's not like he's cared about pride or appearances since his divorce. "One date. Anywhere you want to go."
Biting his lip, Cameron finally nods. "Paris. I'll be there August 14th."
"That's next week," says John, not protesting, exactly.
Cameron shifts his gaze over John's shoulder. "If that doesn't fit with your travel plans--"
"No, I'll be there," John hurries to agree. "I'll be there. Which hotel are you staying at?"
But Cameron shakes his head. "I'll call you," he demurs, and yes, John had written his cell phone number in the note that accompanied the flowers. It's risky and one-sided, but a hell of a lot more than he could have hoped for five minutes ago. "John, I'm going to get off at the next stop, okay? I want to run home, clear my head."
Not sure how to get him to stay, John cups the nape of his neck and kisses him, messy and desperate. "You'll call me, right?" He kisses him again. "Cameron."
Cameron's breathing hard when the train screeches to a halt at Warren Street station. "Cam. My friends call me Cam," he says in a rush, fumbling the door open. "I'll call you." He steps off the train and gets caught up in the flow of bodies, disappearing quickly from view, and John watches him go, holding onto that promise.
to be continued, with any luck
* * *
Hey, I think I've got a bona fide series in the works after all. Feedback is welcome!
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)
Series: Part 2 of the Tour of Europe series (WIP), sequel to London Afternoon
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Cameron Mitchell/John Sheppard
Words: 2380
Warnings: light R, angst, AU
Summary: Purple hyacinths mean "please forgive me" in the language of flowers. Lavender roses mean "love at first sight".
Author's Note: In this AU, John never joined the Air Force, although Cam's career unfolded exactly the same way as in canon.
Morning Underground
by Scroll
John sends flowers, because eight years of marriage had taught him that's what he's supposed to do when he screws up. With his wife, he'd learned that an expensive gift and an abject apology were usually enough to buy forgiveness--right up until she divorced him. With Cameron, the chances of a teary reconciliation and passionate make-up sex are pretty much zilch, but it's not like flowers can make the situation any worse.
Early in the morning, with any luck early enough that Cameron hasn't already left for a day of sight-seeing, John goes to the florist across the street from Cameron's hotel. The proprietor, a middle-aged South Asian woman, takes pity on him and elicits enough information from him about Cameron to advise against the two dozen red roses John initially wanted to purchase.
"You've only met the bloke yesterday," she protests, shaking her head. "No, it's far too presumptuous. And it sounds to me you're more in need of forgiveness than a date."
John can hardly argue with that assessment, so he meekly accepts the bouquet of purple hyacinths. "If he throws them in my face, do I get a refund?" he jokes, fiddling with the pen as he tries to write an accompanying note.
"From what you tell me, he's more likely to donate them to the local children's hospital." She studies him for a moment, tapping her fingers against the glass counter. "You really fancy him, don't you?" When John shrugs and can't meet her eyes, she ducks into the back with a flap of her apron.
She returns with a tiny lavender rosebud that gets tucked into the hyacinth arrangement. "I've a soft spot for the romantically-challenged," she says, smile crooked. "Best of luck."
"Thanks," says John, gruff but grateful. With that bit of encouragement, he heads across the street to deliver his message.
At the front desk, the concierge helpfully points him in the direction of the hotel restaurant, which is currently serving breakfast. John finds Cameron at a small table against the far wall, and it hits him again--that this sweet, gorgeous guy had really liked him, wanted him, but that John had sabotaged any chance they might have had within minutes of meeting him.
John knows what his therapist would say if she knew.
There are two women sitting opposite Cameron, a blonde and a brunette, both pretty, mid-thirties, and clearly into Cameron. They're chatting--flirting--over their second cups of coffee, and John hesitates, not sure he wants to do this with an audience.
Too late. Cameron glances up and spots him, and even from this distance John can see the way his smile goes tight. When the women turn to look, John takes a deep breath and figures, hell, he deserves a little humiliation after yesterday. He goes over, doesn't try to sit down, just stands next to the table and offers the bouquet to Cameron. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I wanted another chance to apologise."
"You didn't have to do this," Cameron says, accepting the flowers with barely hidden reluctance. "I said it was fine."
"It's not fine." John can't accept the polite fiction, not when he screwed with the guy's head by almost screwing him, literally, in a public park. "What I did was really shitty. I wish there was some way I could make up for it." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the two women staring, voyeurs to their little drama, probably wondering why all the good ones are gay--at least that's what he hopes they're thinking, because John doesn't like the idea of Cameron flirting with them. Kind of hates it, in fact.
"I don't need you to do anything," says Cameron, tense. Shifting uncomfortably, he lays the flowers on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, everything about his body language screaming stay away. But there's a flare of interest in Cameron's blue eyes when John leans one hip against the table, and John clings to that, files it away as proof that the chemistry between them wasn't his imagination. "Look, the flowers are great and all," Cameron adds, "but I'd just like to pretend yesterday never happened."
"Right, sure, I get it," John quickly agrees. "How about we start over, okay? Hi, I'm John Sheppard." He sticks out a hand, holding his breath.
"Start over?" Cameron echoes, incredulous, looking from John's hand to his face. "Uh, yeah, no. Not a good idea."
John shoves his hand back in his pocket. "Give me a chance, here," he says, getting a little desperate. "I'm a pretty decent guy most of the time, I swear."
The blonde woman interrupts at this point. "Hey, buddy, take a hint," she says, her tone firm. "If the man says no, then it's no." She turns to Cameron, nudging his arm. "We'd better get going, Cam. The tour's in half an hour."
Checking his watch, Cameron nods. "Yeah, okay. Meet you guys in the lobby in five minutes?"
The two women stand up and go, the blonde giving John a warning glare as she passes, while the brunette sneaks him a sympathetic smile. Cameron stands as well, but slides out the other way, the table a solid barrier between him and John.
Damn it. John looks at him, grasping for a last-ditch persuasive argument that doesn't come. "At least keep the flowers," he says, finally. It really is a nice arrangement--it'd be a shame to waste it.
Cameron hesitates, but picks up the flowers. "Purple hyacinths."
"Yeah, uh, the lady at the flower shop says it means 'please forgive me'--something like that," he stammers. He waits, palms sweating, as Cameron gently touches the rosebud, scared that he's going to pull it out and hand it back. "Keep them," John says again, and it's an effort to keep his voice steady. "Please. I promise I won't bother you again."
There's the tiniest smile on Cameron's face when he looks up. "Yeah, okay, I'll keep them. It was a nice gesture, thanks." He stares at John for a moment, pale blue eyes softening a smidgen, but not enough, not nearly enough. "Bye, John."
John gives a half-hearted wave as Cameron walks out the door. "See you."
He wanders aimlessly around London after that, too depressed to be interested in sight-seeing, too restless to head back to his hotel room. He's been to London before, isn't really sure why he's here now and not surfing in Hawaii or, hell, sitting in his office at Sheppard Enterprises. The way he's going, his dad's going to have to fire him eventually, scion of the empire or not.
Heading north, away from the bustle of tourists, John eats up the blocks with a long stride, passing shops and offices and residential neighbourhoods, and by the time he stops walking, he's thoroughly lost. There's a pub kitty-corner from his position, though, and even knowing that drinking this early in the day is a stupid, unhealthy move, he goes in and sits down at a table.
What stops him from ordering a bottle of whisky and getting plastered is the British soldier in camouflage eating brunch with his parents. The kid's all baby face and peach fuzz, and John wonders whether he's still in training or being shipped out to Afghanistan. Wonders if he'll fly a chopper or drive a tank, if he'll get shot down or blown up or he'll make it home in one piece.
He wonders where Cameron is stationed, whether he's destined for the middle east after his vacation. Do colonels fight the insurgents themselves? Or do they stay in the base camp, where they're supposedly safe? Do they ever get killed in action? He's not sure he wants to know the answers to those questions.
So he orders coffee instead, and a turkey sandwich with havarti cheese, comfort food for him. Eating helps to ease the hollow feeling in his stomach, pushes back the dark edges, at least enough that he doesn't feel a need to make an emergency call to his therapist. Anyway, it's 3am in California.
After his sandwich, he considers calling for a cab, then realises the nearest Tube station is just around the corner, if he'd kept walking. He takes the stairs down into King's Cross, determined to head back to his hotel, pack his bags, and find some other city to haunt. Or perhaps not a city--he's sick of crowds, wouldn't mind a view of nothing but water and trees and fields and the occasional cow.
It's a shock, then, to run into Cameron on the platform. "What are you doing here?" he asks, stunned. They're pretty far from the usual tourist attractions.
Cameron looks equally bewildered. "I promised my nieces I'd take a picture of the Harry Potter trolley," he replies, shaking his head as though he's not quite sure John is real. "What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," John says, honest. "I started walking and ended up here."
For some reason, Cameron smiles a little at that. "Yeah? I just run."
John actually knows that, because yesterday he'd followed Cameron in a cab--like he was in a bad cop movie--as Cameron ran from Green Park back to his SoHo hotel, then watched from across the street as he came out again in shorts, obviously planning to run some more. The fact that Cameron seemed driven to get so far away from John, so fast, is what convinced John that he'd been sincere from the start--a realisation that came too late.
He looks around and realises Cameron is alone. "What happened to your friends?"
"They're meeting a friend of theirs at the British Library," he shrugs. "They--" The rest of the sentence is lost as the train screeches into the station. The commuters bunch and shift closer to the doors, waiting to get on, and Cameron glances at John uneasily when they get separated.
Passengers exit the train in a rush, and everyone on the platform tries to enter in an equal rush, and John reaches out and grabs Cameron's wrist and pulls him onto the train just before the doors close. "Thanks," Cameron says, breathless. "God, I hate subways."
"They're not that bad," says John, acutely aware of how much of Cameron is pressed up against him in the crowded car. "Better for the environment than everyone driving everywhere," he adds inanely. He's still got his fingers locked around Cameron's wrist, and he can feel his pulse hammering. Whoever is standing behind him keeps moving around and pushing John off balance. "Sorry," he mutters, trying to keep from falling into Cameron.
But Cameron's eyes are wide and dark, and he puts a hand on John's hip to hold him steady. "Shit," he whispers when a sudden jolt tips them against the door, John practically straddling his thigh. "You okay?" The hand on John's hip shifts around to the small of his back.
John's throat is dry, and it takes him a few tries to find enough saliva to speak. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, I'm good." There's a degree of privacy inherent to standing in a crowd, like a bubble of wilful blindness. John feels safe enough to let his gaze flicker down to Cameron's mouth, then glances back up to find Cameron staring at his own mouth. Taking a chance, he leans in and kisses him--a soft, restrained kiss that lingers but doesn't push for more. When he pulls back, Cameron lets out a shaky breath, lashes fluttering open. "Was that okay?" John asks, cautious, hopeful.
"I don't--" Cameron looks away, forehead wrinkling. "I'm not letting you do this again."
John ducks his head, tries to get Cameron to look at him. "I'm not playing with you, I swear," he tells him, his voice low but fierce. "Cameron, please."
His name gets Cameron to turn back, wary, his jaw clenched. "The way I figure it, what you did yesterday says more about you than it does about me."
"You think I don't know that?" John laughs bleakly. "Trust me, there's a reason my therapist can afford to send her kid to an Ivy League college." He finds purchase against the door and gives Cameron a couple inches of space. "I like you, okay?" He meets his eyes and refuses to flinch away from the doubt he sees there. "I like you, Cameron, and I screwed up before I even knew your name."
"And, what, you want to start over? Just like that?" Cameron's words are harsh, but his hand is still resting low on John's back, holding him close, and there's a hint of pleading in his tone. "I don't think I can do that, John."
"Give me a chance, please," John whispers, touching his fingertips to Cameron's cheek. There's a creeping awareness of just how far gone he is, begging a man he's known for less than 24 hours for a do-over, but it's not like he's cared about pride or appearances since his divorce. "One date. Anywhere you want to go."
Biting his lip, Cameron finally nods. "Paris. I'll be there August 14th."
"That's next week," says John, not protesting, exactly.
Cameron shifts his gaze over John's shoulder. "If that doesn't fit with your travel plans--"
"No, I'll be there," John hurries to agree. "I'll be there. Which hotel are you staying at?"
But Cameron shakes his head. "I'll call you," he demurs, and yes, John had written his cell phone number in the note that accompanied the flowers. It's risky and one-sided, but a hell of a lot more than he could have hoped for five minutes ago. "John, I'm going to get off at the next stop, okay? I want to run home, clear my head."
Not sure how to get him to stay, John cups the nape of his neck and kisses him, messy and desperate. "You'll call me, right?" He kisses him again. "Cameron."
Cameron's breathing hard when the train screeches to a halt at Warren Street station. "Cam. My friends call me Cam," he says in a rush, fumbling the door open. "I'll call you." He steps off the train and gets caught up in the flow of bodies, disappearing quickly from view, and John watches him go, holding onto that promise.
to be continued, with any luck
* * *
Hey, I think I've got a bona fide series in the works after all. Feedback is welcome!
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)