THE CLOCK TICKS DOWN BY kristen999 [LFWS #1 ROUND 4]
Title: The Clock Ticks Down
Author: kristen999
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
Prompt for the Round: Write a whump fic with John and ONE of his team. John POV.
THE CLOCK IS TICKING DOWN by kristen999
Sixty seconds. The computer voice drones from somewhere. Enough time to lace up his boots. Down an entire beer. Or empty a P-90 clip and insert another mag.
“Sheppard.”
“Almost...there,” John pants.
“You shouldn't--”
“--Ronon,” John growls. “Shut up.”
The big guy is slung over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. That ridiculous six foot-four frame unbalancing each step. John staggers drunkenly around a sharp corner; Ronon's weight nearly toppling them over.
Which way? Left or right?
The red emergency lights flash nauseatingly fast. It makes finding the correct corridor confusing. Sweat blurs his vision. Close to two hundred pounds of Satedan makes for a work-out that John hasn't prepared for.
Forty seconds.
“Yeah, I hear ya!” He shouts at the ominous voice.
“Not... gonna make it.”
“Yes, we are!”
Ronon's dreads whip at John's face, his friend's breathing hitching with every stuttering heartbeat. Blood seeps through his teammate's clothes, wetting a pattern along John's shoulders.
“Just...put me down.”
“No!”
God his back! Vertebrae are separating from his spine. Everything hurts. From John's neck, down to his feet. He's not built to do this. But he will.
Ronon took the bullet for him. Ran right into the thing's path. John killed the bad guy, but not before triggering the count down. There was no stopping the bomb.
Thirty seconds.
The length of commercials for the super bowl. Or how long it takes to guide the jumper out of the bay.
The hallway looms longer and longer. The stupid alarm blaring. This has to be the right direction. The walls were silver towards the entrance, but they all look red now.
Off. On. Off. On. It makes his head spin.
Twenty seconds.
John's legs are jelly, his left knee wants to give out. His arms quiver from holding under Ronon's right thigh and left wrist too tightly. Just a little further. He's seeing stars, lungs screaming for oxygen.
Ten seconds.
What it takes to use the transporter. Or pick out what shirt to wear for dinner.
The way out is only meters ahead. John doesn't have the breath to tell his friend. All he can do is run.
Run like he's never run before.
There!
Three seconds.
Just enough to lurch through before the explosion, heat licking their backs as they tumble to the ground.
Alive.
Ronon squeezes his shoulder, before they both pass out.
End.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.
Author: kristen999
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
Prompt for the Round: Write a whump fic with John and ONE of his team. John POV.
THE CLOCK IS TICKING DOWN by kristen999
Sixty seconds. The computer voice drones from somewhere. Enough time to lace up his boots. Down an entire beer. Or empty a P-90 clip and insert another mag.
“Sheppard.”
“Almost...there,” John pants.
“You shouldn't--”
“--Ronon,” John growls. “Shut up.”
The big guy is slung over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. That ridiculous six foot-four frame unbalancing each step. John staggers drunkenly around a sharp corner; Ronon's weight nearly toppling them over.
Which way? Left or right?
The red emergency lights flash nauseatingly fast. It makes finding the correct corridor confusing. Sweat blurs his vision. Close to two hundred pounds of Satedan makes for a work-out that John hasn't prepared for.
Forty seconds.
“Yeah, I hear ya!” He shouts at the ominous voice.
“Not... gonna make it.”
“Yes, we are!”
Ronon's dreads whip at John's face, his friend's breathing hitching with every stuttering heartbeat. Blood seeps through his teammate's clothes, wetting a pattern along John's shoulders.
“Just...put me down.”
“No!”
God his back! Vertebrae are separating from his spine. Everything hurts. From John's neck, down to his feet. He's not built to do this. But he will.
Ronon took the bullet for him. Ran right into the thing's path. John killed the bad guy, but not before triggering the count down. There was no stopping the bomb.
Thirty seconds.
The length of commercials for the super bowl. Or how long it takes to guide the jumper out of the bay.
The hallway looms longer and longer. The stupid alarm blaring. This has to be the right direction. The walls were silver towards the entrance, but they all look red now.
Off. On. Off. On. It makes his head spin.
Twenty seconds.
John's legs are jelly, his left knee wants to give out. His arms quiver from holding under Ronon's right thigh and left wrist too tightly. Just a little further. He's seeing stars, lungs screaming for oxygen.
Ten seconds.
What it takes to use the transporter. Or pick out what shirt to wear for dinner.
The way out is only meters ahead. John doesn't have the breath to tell his friend. All he can do is run.
Run like he's never run before.
There!
Three seconds.
Just enough to lurch through before the explosion, heat licking their backs as they tumble to the ground.
Alive.
Ronon squeezes his shoulder, before they both pass out.
End.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.