Fic: Condor's Flight, Part I
Title: Condor's Flight
Author: Major Fischer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sheppard/Weir, O'Neill/Weir
Note: A crack!fic alternate universe. Special thanks to melyanna for putting up with brainstorming and for enabling me. Also than to luisa_f and sache8 for their help with the Spanish in earlier chapters.
Summary: For Army Air Force flyer John Sheppard being shot down was just the beginning of his problems. Attempting to return to England via Neutral Spain he encounters a woman he'll never forget.
November 1942
Madrid, Spain
For Captain John Sheppard, home was always a rather nebulous concept, but right now he would settle for his bed safe in England. There was half a loaf of bread in his pocket that seemed like a ton of lead when his stomach growled, but he had been saving it for his copilot, who was walking unsteadily beside him. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought Lorne’s injuries were far worse than he had let on over the course of their journey through occupied France.
When they had bailed out of the B-17, Lorne had been slammed against the belly of the plane and broke his arm hitting the ball turret. Sheppard had been lucky not to have the same fate or worse. He could still close his eyes and count the rivets on the underbelly of the flying fortress as he passed it and missed the wing by a couple of feet at most. While he fell to the earth under the silk canopy of his parachute, he'd tried to spot the rest of his crew, but the plane exploded just after he'd cleared the aircraft, leaving him with a sickening realization. He'd lost eight men, dead or dying in the burning wreckage, and a hostile earth was coming up to meet him.
They’d had a few close calls in France and had to make a quick decision between going to Switzerland or Spain. In the end it came down to Lorne’s health. Spain was closer and John was concerned about dragging his friend over the Alps. Neither of them had really counted on the Pyrenees being as tall as they were, or Spain being as desolate once they crossed over.
On an intellectual level Sheppard knew what bombs did to towns and cities. After all he dropped them, and despite what the bombardiers said about their precious Nordon Bomb Sight he was sure that they hadn’t worked out enough of the mathematics to really place the bombs on the factories or rail yards they were aiming at. Not to mention that rail yards weren’t something easily destroyed by high explosive bombs, but the cities they were next to were. There were all things he understood on one level, but carefully walled off so that he could go to briefings every day and fly his plane and not think about the earth below.
Now that he was on the earth below and walking through Spain he could see what war did, even five years after the fact. The plan had been simple: make their way to Spain, to Madrid, and just walk up to the United States Embassy, but in many ways, it seemed so much easier to walk through occupied France. In Catalonia and the Basque country, they passed by entire towns wiped off the face of the earth. Shells of buildings inhabited by ghostly children without parents and Spanish police who drove through in armored cars with machine guns at the ready to destroy whatever threat they came upon. The Spanish Civil War had been a background to his undergraduate college days five years before, and the fight between the Republicans defending democracy (or imposing communism depending on whom one asked) and the German-supported Nationalists seemed so much more romantic than the aftermath clearly was. The reality of the war was likely not that romantic either, but it was still very far removed from American life. To John Sheppard it seemed to him the line between civilization and barbarism was blurry, and he wondered about those places where his own bombs landed and if it was really any different.
He was glad at any rate that they were at the end of their journey, and unlike those devastated Basque towns Madrid seemed to be a busy and busting city. Not quite Chicago, but not everywhere could be Chicago. Still, if he looked closely even here he could see the scars of the Civil War and he would be happy to see the gates of the Embassy.
The bombed-out buildings, though, seemed to be neatly contained, in small piles of building materials. The people on the street seemed either to be well dressed and wealthy or desperately poor, with the usual smattering of military uniforms. Well, usual for a London or New York these days, but it was probably a little odd for a city at peace. John was wishing that he’d read a bit more of Hemingway.
He was also wishing they had more to eat as the smells of the street café made him think again of the hunk of bread in his pocket. He was lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t see the slap coming, and he stood there for a stunned second registering it.
"¡Juan, tu borracho perezoso, mi madre empleó a ti y a tu hermano para fijar su plomero hoy! ¿Estás tu alambique borracho, o tu estás buscando otra barra? ¡Debo encenderle!"
The screaming madwoman-at least that was the way he’d immediately qualified her in his mind-was a brunette in a pretty dress. She had legs that seemed to go on forever but also like a stiff wind might blow her over… an impression countered by the sting of the slap still radiating in his face.
"Entran el coche ahora! Vamos a la casa de su madre. Van!"
He glanced lightly confused to Lorne, who spoke a little Spanish from growing up in New Mexico. Or understood more than he spoke. Lorne leaned in and spoke low. “Something about a plumber named Juan…. And she thinks you’re drunk.”
“I’d like to be, does that count?” She had opened the door to a car and was gesturing for them to get in. “I think we should get in.”
“You’d go anywhere with a pretty woman, Shep… this isn’t a good idea.”
She then grabbed Lorne by his injured arm, and he winced as she pulled him into the car. John followed, a little unsure what else to do. Once the car was started up and she was driving he looked over at Lorne again. “This is surreal. I hope you know how to fix pipes.”
“It could be worse. Bulls could start running down the street.”
“Wrong city for that.” The brunette suddenly acquired the ability to speak in English. “I think you’ve read The Sun Also Rises too many times. I hope the two of you know how to fly planes better than you do how to walk around unnoticed.” They both turned their heads forward to see her eyes in the rear view mirror. “You were about to walk into a Civil Guard check point and probably get arrested.”
“Hey, I loved that book!” He had to break eye contact after a moment with the belated realization, “You’re American.”
“Shep, I think you win a prize,” Muttered in Lorne from the corner.
Her accent was crisp and clear and made him think of sophisticated college girls, though this woman had clearly been out of college for a decade. “Your boots are American too, I spotted them half a block away from a café.” Her evaluation had a certain degree of coldness in her voice, underlaid by quick breathing. “I needed to distract attention from you.”
John nodded. “Everyone on the street remembers the crazy woman, and not the drunk workers.” It occurred to John that perhaps he should introduce himself. “Captain John Sheppard and Lieutenant Marcus Lorne, 8th Air Force.”
“Nice to meet you, Captain. And yes, that was the plan. I’m taking you to my apartment while I figure out what to do with you.”
“As much as I like going home with a woman on a first date, we were heading for the embassy.”
John was mildly annoyed when she seemed to blow right past his flirtation like a cold wind. “You can’t just walk into the embassy, you have to pass a civil guard checkpoint. They’re looking for flyers and you’d end up in an internment camp for the rest of the war with visitors from the German armed forces.”
“I thought Spain was neutral,” Lorne piped up from behind her.
She turned around as she came to a stop in front of a four-story apartment building. “I take it you believe in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus too? General Franco is neutral in name only; little goes on in Madrid in the afternoon that isn’t known in Berlin the following morning. Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
John wasn’t sure if he was grateful or annoyed with this pushy woman. “We don’t even know your name, lady.”
“Weir. Elizabeth Weir. I work at the embassy.”
She opened doors and they had to walk up the stairs to the third floor before she nodded to a door and let them in. The apartment was tastefully decorated with a few pieces of art and nice furniture. There was a dark-skinned woman in the kitchen who looked up when they came in. “Teyla, son amigos.” There was something in the way she spoke to the other woman that made John think there was an undercurrent of information not spoken.
Elizabeth gestured for them to sit down. “I’ll run some water for you so you can clean up and shave. I might have some clothes that you can wear too. Careful of Teyla, she fought with the Reds during the war and doesn’t care for pilots much. Even when they’re on her side.”
The other woman’s eyes narrowed at the two of them. “Cerdos capitalistas.”
Lorne looked slightly alarmed and moved a few feet from her but tried to shift the subject. “I’m not sure telling Shep to shave will do much good, Miss Weir. He’ll just look scruffy again ten minutes later.”
“Ah, but Lieutenant, he won’t smell like that ten minutes later.” She grinned at them both. “I’m going to go over to the embassy and ask my boss what to do with you. Don’t leave the apartment.”
After she departed, Lorne tried smiling at the communist maid, it wasn’t that hard, she was easy on the eyes. She smiled back but something about it made John think she trusted them about as far as she could throw them.
“Should we leave, Captain?”
“I don’t think I want to cross Teyla or Miss Weir.”
“You’re a sucker for pretty women, Sheppard.”
Next Chapter: Part II
Author: Major Fischer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sheppard/Weir, O'Neill/Weir
Note: A crack!fic alternate universe. Special thanks to melyanna for putting up with brainstorming and for enabling me. Also than to luisa_f and sache8 for their help with the Spanish in earlier chapters.
Summary: For Army Air Force flyer John Sheppard being shot down was just the beginning of his problems. Attempting to return to England via Neutral Spain he encounters a woman he'll never forget.
November 1942
Madrid, Spain
For Captain John Sheppard, home was always a rather nebulous concept, but right now he would settle for his bed safe in England. There was half a loaf of bread in his pocket that seemed like a ton of lead when his stomach growled, but he had been saving it for his copilot, who was walking unsteadily beside him. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought Lorne’s injuries were far worse than he had let on over the course of their journey through occupied France.
When they had bailed out of the B-17, Lorne had been slammed against the belly of the plane and broke his arm hitting the ball turret. Sheppard had been lucky not to have the same fate or worse. He could still close his eyes and count the rivets on the underbelly of the flying fortress as he passed it and missed the wing by a couple of feet at most. While he fell to the earth under the silk canopy of his parachute, he'd tried to spot the rest of his crew, but the plane exploded just after he'd cleared the aircraft, leaving him with a sickening realization. He'd lost eight men, dead or dying in the burning wreckage, and a hostile earth was coming up to meet him.
They’d had a few close calls in France and had to make a quick decision between going to Switzerland or Spain. In the end it came down to Lorne’s health. Spain was closer and John was concerned about dragging his friend over the Alps. Neither of them had really counted on the Pyrenees being as tall as they were, or Spain being as desolate once they crossed over.
On an intellectual level Sheppard knew what bombs did to towns and cities. After all he dropped them, and despite what the bombardiers said about their precious Nordon Bomb Sight he was sure that they hadn’t worked out enough of the mathematics to really place the bombs on the factories or rail yards they were aiming at. Not to mention that rail yards weren’t something easily destroyed by high explosive bombs, but the cities they were next to were. There were all things he understood on one level, but carefully walled off so that he could go to briefings every day and fly his plane and not think about the earth below.
Now that he was on the earth below and walking through Spain he could see what war did, even five years after the fact. The plan had been simple: make their way to Spain, to Madrid, and just walk up to the United States Embassy, but in many ways, it seemed so much easier to walk through occupied France. In Catalonia and the Basque country, they passed by entire towns wiped off the face of the earth. Shells of buildings inhabited by ghostly children without parents and Spanish police who drove through in armored cars with machine guns at the ready to destroy whatever threat they came upon. The Spanish Civil War had been a background to his undergraduate college days five years before, and the fight between the Republicans defending democracy (or imposing communism depending on whom one asked) and the German-supported Nationalists seemed so much more romantic than the aftermath clearly was. The reality of the war was likely not that romantic either, but it was still very far removed from American life. To John Sheppard it seemed to him the line between civilization and barbarism was blurry, and he wondered about those places where his own bombs landed and if it was really any different.
He was glad at any rate that they were at the end of their journey, and unlike those devastated Basque towns Madrid seemed to be a busy and busting city. Not quite Chicago, but not everywhere could be Chicago. Still, if he looked closely even here he could see the scars of the Civil War and he would be happy to see the gates of the Embassy.
The bombed-out buildings, though, seemed to be neatly contained, in small piles of building materials. The people on the street seemed either to be well dressed and wealthy or desperately poor, with the usual smattering of military uniforms. Well, usual for a London or New York these days, but it was probably a little odd for a city at peace. John was wishing that he’d read a bit more of Hemingway.
He was also wishing they had more to eat as the smells of the street café made him think again of the hunk of bread in his pocket. He was lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t see the slap coming, and he stood there for a stunned second registering it.
"¡Juan, tu borracho perezoso, mi madre empleó a ti y a tu hermano para fijar su plomero hoy! ¿Estás tu alambique borracho, o tu estás buscando otra barra? ¡Debo encenderle!"
The screaming madwoman-at least that was the way he’d immediately qualified her in his mind-was a brunette in a pretty dress. She had legs that seemed to go on forever but also like a stiff wind might blow her over… an impression countered by the sting of the slap still radiating in his face.
"Entran el coche ahora! Vamos a la casa de su madre. Van!"
He glanced lightly confused to Lorne, who spoke a little Spanish from growing up in New Mexico. Or understood more than he spoke. Lorne leaned in and spoke low. “Something about a plumber named Juan…. And she thinks you’re drunk.”
“I’d like to be, does that count?” She had opened the door to a car and was gesturing for them to get in. “I think we should get in.”
“You’d go anywhere with a pretty woman, Shep… this isn’t a good idea.”
She then grabbed Lorne by his injured arm, and he winced as she pulled him into the car. John followed, a little unsure what else to do. Once the car was started up and she was driving he looked over at Lorne again. “This is surreal. I hope you know how to fix pipes.”
“It could be worse. Bulls could start running down the street.”
“Wrong city for that.” The brunette suddenly acquired the ability to speak in English. “I think you’ve read The Sun Also Rises too many times. I hope the two of you know how to fly planes better than you do how to walk around unnoticed.” They both turned their heads forward to see her eyes in the rear view mirror. “You were about to walk into a Civil Guard check point and probably get arrested.”
“Hey, I loved that book!” He had to break eye contact after a moment with the belated realization, “You’re American.”
“Shep, I think you win a prize,” Muttered in Lorne from the corner.
Her accent was crisp and clear and made him think of sophisticated college girls, though this woman had clearly been out of college for a decade. “Your boots are American too, I spotted them half a block away from a café.” Her evaluation had a certain degree of coldness in her voice, underlaid by quick breathing. “I needed to distract attention from you.”
John nodded. “Everyone on the street remembers the crazy woman, and not the drunk workers.” It occurred to John that perhaps he should introduce himself. “Captain John Sheppard and Lieutenant Marcus Lorne, 8th Air Force.”
“Nice to meet you, Captain. And yes, that was the plan. I’m taking you to my apartment while I figure out what to do with you.”
“As much as I like going home with a woman on a first date, we were heading for the embassy.”
John was mildly annoyed when she seemed to blow right past his flirtation like a cold wind. “You can’t just walk into the embassy, you have to pass a civil guard checkpoint. They’re looking for flyers and you’d end up in an internment camp for the rest of the war with visitors from the German armed forces.”
“I thought Spain was neutral,” Lorne piped up from behind her.
She turned around as she came to a stop in front of a four-story apartment building. “I take it you believe in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus too? General Franco is neutral in name only; little goes on in Madrid in the afternoon that isn’t known in Berlin the following morning. Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
John wasn’t sure if he was grateful or annoyed with this pushy woman. “We don’t even know your name, lady.”
“Weir. Elizabeth Weir. I work at the embassy.”
She opened doors and they had to walk up the stairs to the third floor before she nodded to a door and let them in. The apartment was tastefully decorated with a few pieces of art and nice furniture. There was a dark-skinned woman in the kitchen who looked up when they came in. “Teyla, son amigos.” There was something in the way she spoke to the other woman that made John think there was an undercurrent of information not spoken.
Elizabeth gestured for them to sit down. “I’ll run some water for you so you can clean up and shave. I might have some clothes that you can wear too. Careful of Teyla, she fought with the Reds during the war and doesn’t care for pilots much. Even when they’re on her side.”
The other woman’s eyes narrowed at the two of them. “Cerdos capitalistas.”
Lorne looked slightly alarmed and moved a few feet from her but tried to shift the subject. “I’m not sure telling Shep to shave will do much good, Miss Weir. He’ll just look scruffy again ten minutes later.”
“Ah, but Lieutenant, he won’t smell like that ten minutes later.” She grinned at them both. “I’m going to go over to the embassy and ask my boss what to do with you. Don’t leave the apartment.”
After she departed, Lorne tried smiling at the communist maid, it wasn’t that hard, she was easy on the eyes. She smiled back but something about it made John think she trusted them about as far as she could throw them.
“Should we leave, Captain?”
“I don’t think I want to cross Teyla or Miss Weir.”
“You’re a sucker for pretty women, Sheppard.”
Next Chapter: Part II