Fic snippet: Farscape/SG-1 (sort of)
Wrote this for Syn's little festival: 101 times JD Nielsen hitched a ride. JD being the clone of Jack O'Neill played in one episode, very memorably, by Michael Welch, and then developed further by Syn in a metric ton of fic.
Wasn't exactly a hitch-hiker; more like a stowaway.
Chiana made the last food run with Rygel, and swore up and down that the balance of the pod was off. So Aeryn and John spent two arns going over it, but couldn't find a damned thing wrong.
Of course, when John said that, Aeryn went on to speculate about Chiana's driving ability, and, well. Fuel to the fire, and all that. Chiana was too close to the stove, and they ended up eating cold for three days.
Which is beside the point, anyway. Except 1812 suddenly stopped playing the Overture, and started playing Beethoven's Ninth, which John knew full well he'd never taught him. And Pilot said that three DRDs had gone missing down in the hammand-side cargo area.
So John went looking for trouble. He did bring Winona, but he didn't think to tell Aeryn. More fool him.
The holds seemed fine, no evidence of anyone in there. It wasn't until he got into the section where the supplies from Earth were stored that he realized the environmentals had been screwed with: it was a lot warmer down here than Pilot usually kept the storage areas. And he hadn't seen a DRD other than 1812 in the last few minutes.
But he should have been more on his guard--he blamed sleep-deprivation from D's bout with colic--and he only just barely dodged the wrench coming down from the right as he opened the door into the last hold. "Frell!" John spun, drawing Winona as he turned, and the wrench missed his head, landing on his shoulder instead. John jumped back to give himself some room to maneuver.
The guy with the wrench was just a kid, really--a skinny kid with tattoos all up and down his arms, and more peeking out the neck of the filthy grey t-shirt he was wearing. He scowled and shifted his grip on the wrench, clearly preparing to take another swing at John.
"Back off!" John snapped, bringing Winona up. "And Pilot!" he added, more loudly, in case Pilot wasn't monitoring 1812's feed. "Can you get Aeryn down here? We got another frelling hitchhiker!"
"Where are you, Crichton?" Aeryn's voice came over the comms.
"Hammand-side storage bays, dekka-four," said John, keeping a wary eye on the kid. "My backup's gonna be here in a minute," he said. "You might wanna put that spanner down."
The kid's brows drew in as he frowned, but he didn't let go of the wrench. "You speak English, but they don't." He waved his left hand at the air.
"You recognize English." John didn't lower Winona: it had been a long time since English meant anything reassuring. But the kid was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which clearly didn't come from John's supplies. He was--impossibly--from Earth. "How'd you get here? The wormhole's closed."
Brown eyes widened. "Wormholes, seriously?"
"How else could you get here? It's not like United makes regular runs from Dulles to the Uncharteds."
The kid gave a strangled laugh and flung up his arms, wrench apparently forgotten, looking like he was going to kick something. But he got control of himself, faster than John would have expected, and asked, "So where is here, anyway? And what's the deal with this freaky ship?"
John snorted, and waggled Winona. "I'm the one with the gun. You go first."
Things kind of went downhill from there. By the time Aeryn arrived, John had been deprived of Winona and had an egg-sized lump on his head. To add insult to injury, she was only too willing to believe his attacker was just a kid.
It took three solar days, some sneaky reprogramming of the environmental controls, and the combined efforts of Moya's entire crew and all the DRDs to find the kid again. He'd managed to break into one of the transport pods John had set aside for repairs, and was halfway through rewiring the power conduits when Aeryn finally took him down.
They ended up bringing him back to the planet they'd found him on, and hooking up the transport pod to the big stone ring he swore would generate a stable wormhole under the right conditions. Fuck of it all, he was right.
Thing of it was, they never did get his name.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.
Wasn't exactly a hitch-hiker; more like a stowaway.
Chiana made the last food run with Rygel, and swore up and down that the balance of the pod was off. So Aeryn and John spent two arns going over it, but couldn't find a damned thing wrong.
Of course, when John said that, Aeryn went on to speculate about Chiana's driving ability, and, well. Fuel to the fire, and all that. Chiana was too close to the stove, and they ended up eating cold for three days.
Which is beside the point, anyway. Except 1812 suddenly stopped playing the Overture, and started playing Beethoven's Ninth, which John knew full well he'd never taught him. And Pilot said that three DRDs had gone missing down in the hammand-side cargo area.
So John went looking for trouble. He did bring Winona, but he didn't think to tell Aeryn. More fool him.
The holds seemed fine, no evidence of anyone in there. It wasn't until he got into the section where the supplies from Earth were stored that he realized the environmentals had been screwed with: it was a lot warmer down here than Pilot usually kept the storage areas. And he hadn't seen a DRD other than 1812 in the last few minutes.
But he should have been more on his guard--he blamed sleep-deprivation from D's bout with colic--and he only just barely dodged the wrench coming down from the right as he opened the door into the last hold. "Frell!" John spun, drawing Winona as he turned, and the wrench missed his head, landing on his shoulder instead. John jumped back to give himself some room to maneuver.
The guy with the wrench was just a kid, really--a skinny kid with tattoos all up and down his arms, and more peeking out the neck of the filthy grey t-shirt he was wearing. He scowled and shifted his grip on the wrench, clearly preparing to take another swing at John.
"Back off!" John snapped, bringing Winona up. "And Pilot!" he added, more loudly, in case Pilot wasn't monitoring 1812's feed. "Can you get Aeryn down here? We got another frelling hitchhiker!"
"Where are you, Crichton?" Aeryn's voice came over the comms.
"Hammand-side storage bays, dekka-four," said John, keeping a wary eye on the kid. "My backup's gonna be here in a minute," he said. "You might wanna put that spanner down."
The kid's brows drew in as he frowned, but he didn't let go of the wrench. "You speak English, but they don't." He waved his left hand at the air.
"You recognize English." John didn't lower Winona: it had been a long time since English meant anything reassuring. But the kid was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which clearly didn't come from John's supplies. He was--impossibly--from Earth. "How'd you get here? The wormhole's closed."
Brown eyes widened. "Wormholes, seriously?"
"How else could you get here? It's not like United makes regular runs from Dulles to the Uncharteds."
The kid gave a strangled laugh and flung up his arms, wrench apparently forgotten, looking like he was going to kick something. But he got control of himself, faster than John would have expected, and asked, "So where is here, anyway? And what's the deal with this freaky ship?"
John snorted, and waggled Winona. "I'm the one with the gun. You go first."
Things kind of went downhill from there. By the time Aeryn arrived, John had been deprived of Winona and had an egg-sized lump on his head. To add insult to injury, she was only too willing to believe his attacker was just a kid.
It took three solar days, some sneaky reprogramming of the environmental controls, and the combined efforts of Moya's entire crew and all the DRDs to find the kid again. He'd managed to break into one of the transport pods John had set aside for repairs, and was halfway through rewiring the power conduits when Aeryn finally took him down.
They ended up bringing him back to the planet they'd found him on, and hooking up the transport pod to the big stone ring he swore would generate a stable wormhole under the right conditions. Fuck of it all, he was right.
Thing of it was, they never did get his name.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.