A Farm In Iowa by sheafrotherdon (M)
Show: SGA
Rec Category: John Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard Rodney McKay
Pairings: John Sheppard / Rodney McKay
Categories: Slash / AU
Author on LJ: sheafrotherdon
Author's Website: Page on AO3
Link: A Farm In Iowa
Why This Must Be Read: {C}
I can't believe this classic has not been rec'd in this category before, but I didn't see it listed and that's a shame.
This is an amazing story and an amazing series of stories about a John who never when to Antarctica and a Rodney who never went to Atantis, but still found each other. Their story and love is epic.
It's spring, and he's fixing the tractor when he hears it - the familiar thud-thud-thud of a car with a tire that's about to blow. He ducks out from beneath the hood, squints into the early evening sun and lifts a hand to his eyes, watching the sedan come into view, wondering why the driver isn't slowing. He can see from the color of the plates that the car's not local, frowns at the speed its going and despite himself, flinches when the inevitable happens and the road's showered with strips of rubber in a spectacular show. He pulls a rag from the back pocket of his jeans, works on getting the worst of the oil from his hands as he jogs up the lane, headed toward the car that's nose-deep in the ditch. He's still fifteen feet away when the driver's door's flung open, and the guy inside catapults out, yelling a stream of incomprehensible babble at a pitch that suggests he's really fucking annoyed.
"You alright?" John calls, closing the distance between them.
"Alright?" The driver's quivering with indignation or shock or something, his face an unnatural shade of pink "Do I seem like I'd be alright? My car is in a ditch! What sort of roads do you people have out here? Is this a trick? A lure? A test for people who don't know their way around your . . . your . . ." He gestures, as if to take in everything around them - the oak trees by the creek, the wide open fields, the farmhouse - and dismiss them all out of hand.
John quirks an eyebrow. "John Sheppard," he says, extending a mostly clean hand.
"Sheppard. Of course. How appropriate, with the rural, farming . . . " the driver's words fade into an exasperated sigh. "Dr Rodney McKay." He shakes John's hand and promptly wipes his palm down his own trousers, leaving a smear of oil behind.
John valiantly doesn't show his amusement. This guy's a trip. "Need a phone?"
McKay waves a hand, and digs in his jacket pocket, brandishing a cell phone as if it's something John might not have seen before. "I have one. Thank you."
John waits for him to work out they're out of range of any tower.
"What do you mean there's no signal?" McKay splutters at his phone, as if it might have an answer for him. "Where in hell am I?"
"Cedar County," John says blandly. This is ridiculous, but also pretty fun. "Maybe my land line'd help?"
"Land line." McKay says the words as if they're roughly the equivalent of smallpox. "Sure."
He follows John back along the road and down the lane, obviously completely out of his element, twitching when something inquisitive buzzes too close. "You have mechanics out here, I assume?" he asks.
"Oh yeah," John nods blithely. "Course it's after hours now, and no one's open Sundays but . . . "
"This is the twenty-first century," McKay hisses.
"Yep." John's sorely tempted to pull a long stalk of grass from the edge of the pasture and start chewing on it, just for effect. "But Bob and Jim are your regular God-fearing sort of folk. They'll help you out Monday."
McKay says something - probably unpleasant - beneath his breath. "It's a rental car," he observes tightly. "I have twenty-four hour roadside assistance for which I paid a premium, and someone will no doubt be here within the hour."
John makes a small, skeptical noise.
"What?" McKay snaps.
"Nothing - phone's right in here." John opens the kitchen door, ushers McKay inside, points to the phone and gets himself a beer. He steps back outside to give the man a little privacy to experience his searing disappointment in the value of add-on services, and sits on the porch steps, savoring the breeze. When McKay starts yelling, he swears it makes the beer taste better.
There's silence for a good few minutes once the yelling stops, and John's just about to go investigate when the screen door creaks open. "I wonder. . . ." McKay seems to be fidgeting. "It's just that I'm hypoglycemic, you see, and stress can be a factor in bringing on episodes, and my blood sugar's no doubt plummeting into ranges that only . . . "
John waves a reassuring hand. "First cabinet on your left. Go to town."
McKay nods and disappears.
John's content to sit on the stoop and finish his beer for all of thirty seconds before his curiosity wins out. There's a manic level of rustling going on in the kitchen, and it's possible McKay's a doctor of medieval murder techniques for all John knows, so he sticks his head around the doorframe and bites back a smile as McKay eats what looks to be his sixth Reese's Peanut Butter cup in a row. "Better?" John asks.
"It's debatable," McKay says, licking the wrapper morosely.
"So your rental company," John says, reaching to pull McKay a beer from the fridge. "Coming right out?"
McKay stiffens and lifts his chin. "There are apparently no available vehicles in the vicinity. They'll . . . call me back." He looks a little shamefaced. "If you don't mind me waiting."
"Not at all. Stoop's nicer, unless you've got a thing for doing someone else's dishes."
McKay squints at him. "Um. Sure." The 'whatever' seems implied.
They settle on the stoop, tugging at beers, and John's happy with the silence - McKay's clearly not. John bets himself an extra hour in bed in the morning that McKay's gonna break and rant about the roads or the mechanics or the -
"What sort of place is this that you don't have cell phone coverage?" McKay explodes.
- cell phone towers any second. 8am it is.
Rec Category: John Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard Rodney McKay
Pairings: John Sheppard / Rodney McKay
Categories: Slash / AU
Author on LJ: sheafrotherdon
Author's Website: Page on AO3
Link: A Farm In Iowa
Why This Must Be Read: {C}
I can't believe this classic has not been rec'd in this category before, but I didn't see it listed and that's a shame.
This is an amazing story and an amazing series of stories about a John who never when to Antarctica and a Rodney who never went to Atantis, but still found each other. Their story and love is epic.
It's spring, and he's fixing the tractor when he hears it - the familiar thud-thud-thud of a car with a tire that's about to blow. He ducks out from beneath the hood, squints into the early evening sun and lifts a hand to his eyes, watching the sedan come into view, wondering why the driver isn't slowing. He can see from the color of the plates that the car's not local, frowns at the speed its going and despite himself, flinches when the inevitable happens and the road's showered with strips of rubber in a spectacular show. He pulls a rag from the back pocket of his jeans, works on getting the worst of the oil from his hands as he jogs up the lane, headed toward the car that's nose-deep in the ditch. He's still fifteen feet away when the driver's door's flung open, and the guy inside catapults out, yelling a stream of incomprehensible babble at a pitch that suggests he's really fucking annoyed.
"You alright?" John calls, closing the distance between them.
"Alright?" The driver's quivering with indignation or shock or something, his face an unnatural shade of pink "Do I seem like I'd be alright? My car is in a ditch! What sort of roads do you people have out here? Is this a trick? A lure? A test for people who don't know their way around your . . . your . . ." He gestures, as if to take in everything around them - the oak trees by the creek, the wide open fields, the farmhouse - and dismiss them all out of hand.
John quirks an eyebrow. "John Sheppard," he says, extending a mostly clean hand.
"Sheppard. Of course. How appropriate, with the rural, farming . . . " the driver's words fade into an exasperated sigh. "Dr Rodney McKay." He shakes John's hand and promptly wipes his palm down his own trousers, leaving a smear of oil behind.
John valiantly doesn't show his amusement. This guy's a trip. "Need a phone?"
McKay waves a hand, and digs in his jacket pocket, brandishing a cell phone as if it's something John might not have seen before. "I have one. Thank you."
John waits for him to work out they're out of range of any tower.
"What do you mean there's no signal?" McKay splutters at his phone, as if it might have an answer for him. "Where in hell am I?"
"Cedar County," John says blandly. This is ridiculous, but also pretty fun. "Maybe my land line'd help?"
"Land line." McKay says the words as if they're roughly the equivalent of smallpox. "Sure."
He follows John back along the road and down the lane, obviously completely out of his element, twitching when something inquisitive buzzes too close. "You have mechanics out here, I assume?" he asks.
"Oh yeah," John nods blithely. "Course it's after hours now, and no one's open Sundays but . . . "
"This is the twenty-first century," McKay hisses.
"Yep." John's sorely tempted to pull a long stalk of grass from the edge of the pasture and start chewing on it, just for effect. "But Bob and Jim are your regular God-fearing sort of folk. They'll help you out Monday."
McKay says something - probably unpleasant - beneath his breath. "It's a rental car," he observes tightly. "I have twenty-four hour roadside assistance for which I paid a premium, and someone will no doubt be here within the hour."
John makes a small, skeptical noise.
"What?" McKay snaps.
"Nothing - phone's right in here." John opens the kitchen door, ushers McKay inside, points to the phone and gets himself a beer. He steps back outside to give the man a little privacy to experience his searing disappointment in the value of add-on services, and sits on the porch steps, savoring the breeze. When McKay starts yelling, he swears it makes the beer taste better.
There's silence for a good few minutes once the yelling stops, and John's just about to go investigate when the screen door creaks open. "I wonder. . . ." McKay seems to be fidgeting. "It's just that I'm hypoglycemic, you see, and stress can be a factor in bringing on episodes, and my blood sugar's no doubt plummeting into ranges that only . . . "
John waves a reassuring hand. "First cabinet on your left. Go to town."
McKay nods and disappears.
John's content to sit on the stoop and finish his beer for all of thirty seconds before his curiosity wins out. There's a manic level of rustling going on in the kitchen, and it's possible McKay's a doctor of medieval murder techniques for all John knows, so he sticks his head around the doorframe and bites back a smile as McKay eats what looks to be his sixth Reese's Peanut Butter cup in a row. "Better?" John asks.
"It's debatable," McKay says, licking the wrapper morosely.
"So your rental company," John says, reaching to pull McKay a beer from the fridge. "Coming right out?"
McKay stiffens and lifts his chin. "There are apparently no available vehicles in the vicinity. They'll . . . call me back." He looks a little shamefaced. "If you don't mind me waiting."
"Not at all. Stoop's nicer, unless you've got a thing for doing someone else's dishes."
McKay squints at him. "Um. Sure." The 'whatever' seems implied.
They settle on the stoop, tugging at beers, and John's happy with the silence - McKay's clearly not. John bets himself an extra hour in bed in the morning that McKay's gonna break and rant about the roads or the mechanics or the -
"What sort of place is this that you don't have cell phone coverage?" McKay explodes.
- cell phone towers any second. 8am it is.