aesc
in
sga_flashfic
With Feathers, by aesc (Not Human challenge)
.title: With Feathers (~1,600 words)
.by: aesc
.pairing: McKay/Sheppard
.rating/warnings: PG, absolute crack
.excerpt: Every winter it’s the same story: John tries to lead them across the field, over the river, and up the hill through the forest, but the snow blankets every convenient landmark, piling in drifts over the stone walls and bushes and even the long flat path the humans have made.
.notes: I should probably say that dogeared and I have talked about this for quite a bit in various forms, and the "Not Human" challenge coming up when it did is... eerily appropriate. Thanks to sheafrotherdon for indulging my "I am too lazy to go to the computer with Photoshop" self.
Also, when I say "crack," I do mean it.
.With Feathers
Every winter it’s the same story: John tries to lead them across the field, over the river, and up the hill through the forest, but the snow blankets every convenient landmark, piling in drifts over the stone walls and bushes and even the long flat path the humans have made.
So, inevitably, John gets lost.
And, inevitably, Rodney has to go find him. Also inevitably, when Rodney finds him, John will fan his tail and puff out his chest like he’s the one who found Rodney which, to be honest, is completely ridiculous.
Rodney really, really hates going through the woods alone, even though the large predators are hibernating and the humans and their guns have gone away for another year. (Also, Rodney’s quite intelligent for a Meleagris gallopavo silvestris, which are by nature, agile and cunning, if he does say so himself, and he’s figured out that the humans have put up some kind of territorial marker to keep other humans away.) Still, he does not like walking through the silent forest, kee-keeing to let John know how extremely annoyed he is with having to leave the flock to track him down.
“John?” he calls, listening through the rustling of trees for John’s drawling yodel. “John?”
“Down here, Rodney.”
“Oh, for…” He’s done it again, Rodney thinks, hustling through the forest. Though he’s somewhat large and ungainly for a wild turkey, he moves quickly, negotiating the snow-hidden rocks and roots on the stream bank - and sure enough, there John is, wandering along the side of the stream, peering down into it. “How did you manage to get up here?”
“I don’t know,” John says. He contorts himself, scratching his cheek meditatively with his claw. The feathers on the back of his neck stick up rakishly, most un-turkeylike. “I think I turned the wrong way at the big metal tree.”
“The flagpole,” Rodney corrects. John had been obsessed with climbing it one year, like he’s been obsessed with climbing to the top of the crabapple tree and balancing on very delicate limbs, flapping his wings while he tosses crabapples down. Usually Rodney has something to say about John’s incredible carelessness, but, well, it’s crabapples. Rodney loves crabapples.
“Right.” John picks his way quickly up the bank, blinking at Rodney as though surprised at how he got up here so quickly. Given that John flies at truly reckless speeds - reckless even for turkeys, which are swift and cunning (though John seems to have more of the swiftness and less of the cunning, in Rodney’s opinion) - Rodney finds this hard to believe.
“So you came out here to get me?” John asks as Rodney leads them back along the trail. It’s started to snow, and already Rodney’s arrow-like tracks are starting to vanish.
“I seem to have made it a habit,” Rodney says as he stalks along, trying not to cluck. John has the irritating ability to make Rodney worry more than he already does, which considering hunters, bears, wolves, dogs, cats, rampaging moose, storms, falling trees, food shortages, the noisy contraptions called cars… That’s a lot of worry for one turkey, and Rodney tells John it’s very unfair of him to add more.
“I’ll try not to,” John says.
“Good.” Rodney keeps a sharp eye out for trouble. John’s vigilant too, and so well before it appears, they hear it, its high, menacing thrum, and vanish into the bushes. Rodney hunches low under a winter-denuded tangle of brambles, John pressed close and warm next to him.
A herd of humans thunders by, whooping and hollering on the backs of their noisy, gliding monstrosities. They make a noise similar to the cars Rodney hates so much, but they go on long flat boards over the top of the snow, and make a horrible racket and put out the terrible stench of burning things. Sometimes, when it’s dark out, their eyes glow, and they go roaring away down quiet forest tracks. Rodney hates them, but he’s seen John watch them as they go by, and he thinks John is kind of interested even though they can’t glide nearly as fast as a turkey can fly.
The humans and their noisy contraptions howl off into the distance, leaving behind a ringing silence and a very nervous Rodney. He makes himself come out from behind the safety of the bush; by the time he reaches the tracks the humans and their awful machines have put down, John is standing there, looking off into the distance, puffing out his chest, and facing the wrong way.
“That’s north,” Rodney tells him. “We need west.”
“Right,” says John.
They start trotting along, and although Rodney will ever ever admit it, he likes being alone with John - or, he supposes, he likes it when John is alone with him. It’s better than being with most of the rest of the flock. Teyla and Ronon are fine, and there are others who aren’t completely intolerable (Radek, Carson, Elizabeth), but it’s Chaya, Teer, and pretty much every other female turkey Rodney can’t stand.
At long last, they’re within sight of the flock, which has, under Teyla’s guidance, crossed the frozen stream and has gone up the hill, and has begun to forage at the bottom of the feeders the people there keep. Technically the feeders are for small songbirds, but the smaller birds are careless and drop a lot, and John is acrobatic enough to fly up to the feeder and shake seeds and peanuts loose. Rodney’s also territorial enough to warn off the other turkeys, so John can get some seeds too, even though he frequently goes on and on about how important his flock is and how he doesn’t mind sacrificing for them.
“It’s peanut butter,” or “it’s bagels” Rodney says to John’s objections. “Just eat it already.”
Predictably, Teer and Chaya start chattering excitedly as soon as they see John (and haven’t they heard of it isn’t mating season yet? Rodney wonders irritably). They rush over, completely ignorant of the fact that he and John have just faced down a herd of noisy snowbeasts.
They aren’t, Rodney admits to himself, glaring at them as they circle John, completely ignorant of the fact that John’s quite good-looking, with glossy wings that are bronze when it’s dark and a bit copper when the sun is on them. He has striations of white and dark brown on his flight feathers, a dark green iridescence on his chest and black banding on his tail. (Which is also a bit messy and not a neat fan like every other turkey’s - well, every other turkey except Rodney, who feels pathetically inadequate when it comes to his tail and suspects that it’s asymmetrical.) Rodney wishes - really, really wishes - they’re as blind to that as they seem to be to everything else, but Teer and Chaya observe John as keenly as Rodney does.
He sighs and starts to wander in the direction of the feeder, flapping his wings and squawking at Peter, who drops a beakful of sunflower seeds and runs away. It doesn’t make him feel much better, but at least the sunflower seeds are tasty. All the other turkeys watch him carefully - he has a reputation, and one he’s very happy to uphold, of being hostile and acerbic, and more than a bit territorial when it comes to food - and it looks like Teyla’s about to come over and ask him what’s wrong, but he glares at her and she stays next to Ronon.
It’s in a dark frame of mind that he continues to investigate what’s left underneath the various feeders. Either the humans are generous or the birds who come here are stupidly wasteful because there’s a lot of good stuff to pick up, but Rodney can’t quite summon his usual enthusiasm as he picks through the hulls and shells. And he’s so busy trying not to be miserable (and failing), that at first he doesn’t hear a series of very indignant, feminine squawks.
“John!” Chaya, Rodney thinks absently. There’s a nasal quality to her screeching that always makes his pinfeathers itch.
“John!” Mara - the one Rodney almost never remembers - the, the hussy. Rodney hopes they peck each other’s eyes out.
There’re more flapping, indignant sounds, but Rodney ignores them as best he can. He ignores them so well, in fact, that he only slowly becomes aware of a presence over his right wing.
“Oh for the love of…” Figuring it’s Teyla wanting to talk about his feelings, or Radek, or - even worse - Chaya, Teer, or (Rodney blanks) Mara wanting to gloat, Rodney wheels around, wings half-raised to flap a warning.
“John?”
“Yeah.” John scratches his cheek again. “Sorry about that. Listen, I just… I wanted to tell you something.”
“Yes?” Rodney asks suspiciously. Chaya and the others are lurking and sulking not far away.
“Well…” John fidgets and looks like he really wants to run - or preferably fly - away, but he stays still. “I wanted to say thanks for coming to get me again.”
“Not a problem,” Rodney tells him. It isn’t, it really isn’t. “Even though you deserve to have some predator messily devour you.”
“Yeah.” John makes a sound that might be wry agreement. “But, um… I wanted to say… I don’t mind getting crabapples for you.”
“Oh,” Rodney says, and blinks a slow, careful turkey-blink.
“Yeah,” John says again, and puffs out his chest.
And that, in winter no less, is as close to courtship as Rodney’s ever gotten.
-end-
This is a photograph of my parents' backyard, which during the fall and winter spends part of the morning and afternoon occupied by turkeys. The story is technically set in said yard and the yard of the people on the other side of the stream and the road.
.eta: Now with sequel, in which we learn of Rodney's almost-fatal attraction to safety orange hunting jackets.
.by: aesc
.pairing: McKay/Sheppard
.rating/warnings: PG, absolute crack
.excerpt: Every winter it’s the same story: John tries to lead them across the field, over the river, and up the hill through the forest, but the snow blankets every convenient landmark, piling in drifts over the stone walls and bushes and even the long flat path the humans have made.
.notes: I should probably say that dogeared and I have talked about this for quite a bit in various forms, and the "Not Human" challenge coming up when it did is... eerily appropriate. Thanks to sheafrotherdon for indulging my "I am too lazy to go to the computer with Photoshop" self.
Also, when I say "crack," I do mean it.
.With Feathers
Every winter it’s the same story: John tries to lead them across the field, over the river, and up the hill through the forest, but the snow blankets every convenient landmark, piling in drifts over the stone walls and bushes and even the long flat path the humans have made.
So, inevitably, John gets lost.
And, inevitably, Rodney has to go find him. Also inevitably, when Rodney finds him, John will fan his tail and puff out his chest like he’s the one who found Rodney which, to be honest, is completely ridiculous.
Rodney really, really hates going through the woods alone, even though the large predators are hibernating and the humans and their guns have gone away for another year. (Also, Rodney’s quite intelligent for a Meleagris gallopavo silvestris, which are by nature, agile and cunning, if he does say so himself, and he’s figured out that the humans have put up some kind of territorial marker to keep other humans away.) Still, he does not like walking through the silent forest, kee-keeing to let John know how extremely annoyed he is with having to leave the flock to track him down.
“John?” he calls, listening through the rustling of trees for John’s drawling yodel. “John?”
“Down here, Rodney.”
“Oh, for…” He’s done it again, Rodney thinks, hustling through the forest. Though he’s somewhat large and ungainly for a wild turkey, he moves quickly, negotiating the snow-hidden rocks and roots on the stream bank - and sure enough, there John is, wandering along the side of the stream, peering down into it. “How did you manage to get up here?”
“I don’t know,” John says. He contorts himself, scratching his cheek meditatively with his claw. The feathers on the back of his neck stick up rakishly, most un-turkeylike. “I think I turned the wrong way at the big metal tree.”
“The flagpole,” Rodney corrects. John had been obsessed with climbing it one year, like he’s been obsessed with climbing to the top of the crabapple tree and balancing on very delicate limbs, flapping his wings while he tosses crabapples down. Usually Rodney has something to say about John’s incredible carelessness, but, well, it’s crabapples. Rodney loves crabapples.
“Right.” John picks his way quickly up the bank, blinking at Rodney as though surprised at how he got up here so quickly. Given that John flies at truly reckless speeds - reckless even for turkeys, which are swift and cunning (though John seems to have more of the swiftness and less of the cunning, in Rodney’s opinion) - Rodney finds this hard to believe.
“So you came out here to get me?” John asks as Rodney leads them back along the trail. It’s started to snow, and already Rodney’s arrow-like tracks are starting to vanish.
“I seem to have made it a habit,” Rodney says as he stalks along, trying not to cluck. John has the irritating ability to make Rodney worry more than he already does, which considering hunters, bears, wolves, dogs, cats, rampaging moose, storms, falling trees, food shortages, the noisy contraptions called cars… That’s a lot of worry for one turkey, and Rodney tells John it’s very unfair of him to add more.
“I’ll try not to,” John says.
“Good.” Rodney keeps a sharp eye out for trouble. John’s vigilant too, and so well before it appears, they hear it, its high, menacing thrum, and vanish into the bushes. Rodney hunches low under a winter-denuded tangle of brambles, John pressed close and warm next to him.
A herd of humans thunders by, whooping and hollering on the backs of their noisy, gliding monstrosities. They make a noise similar to the cars Rodney hates so much, but they go on long flat boards over the top of the snow, and make a horrible racket and put out the terrible stench of burning things. Sometimes, when it’s dark out, their eyes glow, and they go roaring away down quiet forest tracks. Rodney hates them, but he’s seen John watch them as they go by, and he thinks John is kind of interested even though they can’t glide nearly as fast as a turkey can fly.
The humans and their noisy contraptions howl off into the distance, leaving behind a ringing silence and a very nervous Rodney. He makes himself come out from behind the safety of the bush; by the time he reaches the tracks the humans and their awful machines have put down, John is standing there, looking off into the distance, puffing out his chest, and facing the wrong way.
“That’s north,” Rodney tells him. “We need west.”
“Right,” says John.
They start trotting along, and although Rodney will ever ever admit it, he likes being alone with John - or, he supposes, he likes it when John is alone with him. It’s better than being with most of the rest of the flock. Teyla and Ronon are fine, and there are others who aren’t completely intolerable (Radek, Carson, Elizabeth), but it’s Chaya, Teer, and pretty much every other female turkey Rodney can’t stand.
At long last, they’re within sight of the flock, which has, under Teyla’s guidance, crossed the frozen stream and has gone up the hill, and has begun to forage at the bottom of the feeders the people there keep. Technically the feeders are for small songbirds, but the smaller birds are careless and drop a lot, and John is acrobatic enough to fly up to the feeder and shake seeds and peanuts loose. Rodney’s also territorial enough to warn off the other turkeys, so John can get some seeds too, even though he frequently goes on and on about how important his flock is and how he doesn’t mind sacrificing for them.
“It’s peanut butter,” or “it’s bagels” Rodney says to John’s objections. “Just eat it already.”
Predictably, Teer and Chaya start chattering excitedly as soon as they see John (and haven’t they heard of it isn’t mating season yet? Rodney wonders irritably). They rush over, completely ignorant of the fact that he and John have just faced down a herd of noisy snowbeasts.
They aren’t, Rodney admits to himself, glaring at them as they circle John, completely ignorant of the fact that John’s quite good-looking, with glossy wings that are bronze when it’s dark and a bit copper when the sun is on them. He has striations of white and dark brown on his flight feathers, a dark green iridescence on his chest and black banding on his tail. (Which is also a bit messy and not a neat fan like every other turkey’s - well, every other turkey except Rodney, who feels pathetically inadequate when it comes to his tail and suspects that it’s asymmetrical.) Rodney wishes - really, really wishes - they’re as blind to that as they seem to be to everything else, but Teer and Chaya observe John as keenly as Rodney does.
He sighs and starts to wander in the direction of the feeder, flapping his wings and squawking at Peter, who drops a beakful of sunflower seeds and runs away. It doesn’t make him feel much better, but at least the sunflower seeds are tasty. All the other turkeys watch him carefully - he has a reputation, and one he’s very happy to uphold, of being hostile and acerbic, and more than a bit territorial when it comes to food - and it looks like Teyla’s about to come over and ask him what’s wrong, but he glares at her and she stays next to Ronon.
It’s in a dark frame of mind that he continues to investigate what’s left underneath the various feeders. Either the humans are generous or the birds who come here are stupidly wasteful because there’s a lot of good stuff to pick up, but Rodney can’t quite summon his usual enthusiasm as he picks through the hulls and shells. And he’s so busy trying not to be miserable (and failing), that at first he doesn’t hear a series of very indignant, feminine squawks.
“John!” Chaya, Rodney thinks absently. There’s a nasal quality to her screeching that always makes his pinfeathers itch.
“John!” Mara - the one Rodney almost never remembers - the, the hussy. Rodney hopes they peck each other’s eyes out.
There’re more flapping, indignant sounds, but Rodney ignores them as best he can. He ignores them so well, in fact, that he only slowly becomes aware of a presence over his right wing.
“Oh for the love of…” Figuring it’s Teyla wanting to talk about his feelings, or Radek, or - even worse - Chaya, Teer, or (Rodney blanks) Mara wanting to gloat, Rodney wheels around, wings half-raised to flap a warning.
“John?”
“Yeah.” John scratches his cheek again. “Sorry about that. Listen, I just… I wanted to tell you something.”
“Yes?” Rodney asks suspiciously. Chaya and the others are lurking and sulking not far away.
“Well…” John fidgets and looks like he really wants to run - or preferably fly - away, but he stays still. “I wanted to say thanks for coming to get me again.”
“Not a problem,” Rodney tells him. It isn’t, it really isn’t. “Even though you deserve to have some predator messily devour you.”
“Yeah.” John makes a sound that might be wry agreement. “But, um… I wanted to say… I don’t mind getting crabapples for you.”
“Oh,” Rodney says, and blinks a slow, careful turkey-blink.
“Yeah,” John says again, and puffs out his chest.
And that, in winter no less, is as close to courtship as Rodney’s ever gotten.
-end-
This is a photograph of my parents' backyard, which during the fall and winter spends part of the morning and afternoon occupied by turkeys. The story is technically set in said yard and the yard of the people on the other side of the stream and the road.
.eta: Now with sequel, in which we learn of Rodney's almost-fatal attraction to safety orange hunting jackets.