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kyiziOkay, I think the only person that might even be interested is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loriel_eris, but on the off chance that someone else has something to offer with regards to how I could conceivably attempt to continue this (or if I even should), I thought I'd open post it.
Basically I had random flashes of ideas for a fic and I wrote them down...however, they remain random flashes and I have no idea if I should even attempt to put them into some form of whole...
so, yeah...help?
Closing the door, he nods to the marine behind the wheel and, a moment later, the nondescript black car drives away. It’s not going far, really, but he’s glad it’s no longer behind him.
He lets his gaze follow white picket fence number two and concedes that it’s really not all that white anymore, more of a dingy grey. The path leading to the door is overgrown and yet still manages to maintain an almost cared for look. It’s everything and nothing like he expected it to be. Everything he knows about the people in this house is eighteen years old and he has no idea how he’ll be received.
They’re old and he knows that he really shouldn’t be surprised by that fact. He’d almost expected they wouldn’t be here and he’s not sure if he’s happier in the knowledge that he gets to say what he came to say, or if it would have been easier speaking to headstones.
“Okay, I know we’re doing this as a dying wish for our best friends,” Rodney says and even John can tell he’s having trouble talking about it, despite knowing what’s coming next. “But seriously. Teron?”
John shrugs. “We’re supposed to take it from his parents,” he says softly. “It’s Sadetan tradition.”
Rather than argue, which John knew he wasn’t going to do, Rodney just nods. “Okay, then.”
“Okay, then,” John repeats.
“You realise, of course,” Rodney continues, “that you’re paying for the psychiatric care when he gets the crap kicked out of him at school.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing that they don’t have many of those this side of Pegasus.”
The tiny bundle makes a sound that shouldn’t be physically possible for someone that size and John winces. It wriggles in his grip and something tells him that caring for the child is going to be a lot harder than handling his P90; as much as he realises that this thing is going to be constantly shooting something out if its rear end as well, he knows can’t lock it in his drawer at the end of the day.
“So, you’re our grandson?” the woman asks kindly, her eyes lighting up in hope and Teron nods.
“Yeah, yeah, I am.” Then he cocks his head to the side in a manner they’re both achingly familiar with. “Well, not biologically,” he says, “but Dad and Pops always said that didn’t matter. Actually Papa was a lot more…vocal about it.”
The man’s eyes widen as he looks at his wife, but she merely smirks at him and somehow Teron knows that her eyes are saying ‘I told you so’ in a language that he doesn’t understand. His Aunt Elizabeth was always good at that, as well, and not even his parents had ever fully understood her. But he doesn’t want to think about the people he's lost, not just now, not when he has to keep things together.
Rodney storms into their rooms just in time for John to not avoid a spoon full of something that’s not-quite-tomato soup landing in his lap. He jumps up squealing (like a girl) from the table as Teron giggles at his own masterfulness.
Rodney, however, is outraged and barely seems aware that John is trying to verify that his tackle is still in tact.
“You need to kill Lorne.”
“Rodney, I’m kinda in pain here. Keep an eye on-”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Are you seeing the pain I’m in?” John cries, suddenly wishing he’d just stayed quiet rather than drawing Rodney’s attention to his groin.
Rodney stares for a minute before clearing his throat. He shakes his head and looks away. "Kill. Lorne. The concept should not difficult for your gun weilding brain to grasp."
“What did he do now?” John asks, resigning himself to standing in hot not-tomato covered trousers until Rodney finally tells him what's going on.
“He wants to know when you’ll be making ‘an honest woman out of me’?”
John shrugs. “Tell him what I did; we’re saving up for the ring.”
Rodney, for once, is speechless.
“Why do I have to be ‘Papa’? Why do you get to be ‘Dad’?” Rodney asks indignantly.
“You look more like a ‘Papa’,” John replies. “It’s kinda hot.”
“No, it’s not,” Rodney glares. “You’re just saying that to make me agree.”
“Is it working?”
“Dad? Pops?” Teron asks softly and they look at each other warily, as if they knew what he's about to ask. “Tell me about Mother and Father?”
So...yeah...not exactly a fic and only really vague ideas. Is it worth turning into anything?
loriel_eris, but on the off chance that someone else has something to offer with regards to how I could conceivably attempt to continue this (or if I even should), I thought I'd open post it.Basically I had random flashes of ideas for a fic and I wrote them down...however, they remain random flashes and I have no idea if I should even attempt to put them into some form of whole...
so, yeah...help?
Closing the door, he nods to the marine behind the wheel and, a moment later, the nondescript black car drives away. It’s not going far, really, but he’s glad it’s no longer behind him.
He lets his gaze follow white picket fence number two and concedes that it’s really not all that white anymore, more of a dingy grey. The path leading to the door is overgrown and yet still manages to maintain an almost cared for look. It’s everything and nothing like he expected it to be. Everything he knows about the people in this house is eighteen years old and he has no idea how he’ll be received.
They’re old and he knows that he really shouldn’t be surprised by that fact. He’d almost expected they wouldn’t be here and he’s not sure if he’s happier in the knowledge that he gets to say what he came to say, or if it would have been easier speaking to headstones.
“Okay, I know we’re doing this as a dying wish for our best friends,” Rodney says and even John can tell he’s having trouble talking about it, despite knowing what’s coming next. “But seriously. Teron?”
John shrugs. “We’re supposed to take it from his parents,” he says softly. “It’s Sadetan tradition.”
Rather than argue, which John knew he wasn’t going to do, Rodney just nods. “Okay, then.”
“Okay, then,” John repeats.
“You realise, of course,” Rodney continues, “that you’re paying for the psychiatric care when he gets the crap kicked out of him at school.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing that they don’t have many of those this side of Pegasus.”
The tiny bundle makes a sound that shouldn’t be physically possible for someone that size and John winces. It wriggles in his grip and something tells him that caring for the child is going to be a lot harder than handling his P90; as much as he realises that this thing is going to be constantly shooting something out if its rear end as well, he knows can’t lock it in his drawer at the end of the day.
“So, you’re our grandson?” the woman asks kindly, her eyes lighting up in hope and Teron nods.
“Yeah, yeah, I am.” Then he cocks his head to the side in a manner they’re both achingly familiar with. “Well, not biologically,” he says, “but Dad and Pops always said that didn’t matter. Actually Papa was a lot more…vocal about it.”
The man’s eyes widen as he looks at his wife, but she merely smirks at him and somehow Teron knows that her eyes are saying ‘I told you so’ in a language that he doesn’t understand. His Aunt Elizabeth was always good at that, as well, and not even his parents had ever fully understood her. But he doesn’t want to think about the people he's lost, not just now, not when he has to keep things together.
Rodney storms into their rooms just in time for John to not avoid a spoon full of something that’s not-quite-tomato soup landing in his lap. He jumps up squealing (like a girl) from the table as Teron giggles at his own masterfulness.
Rodney, however, is outraged and barely seems aware that John is trying to verify that his tackle is still in tact.
“You need to kill Lorne.”
“Rodney, I’m kinda in pain here. Keep an eye on-”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Are you seeing the pain I’m in?” John cries, suddenly wishing he’d just stayed quiet rather than drawing Rodney’s attention to his groin.
Rodney stares for a minute before clearing his throat. He shakes his head and looks away. "Kill. Lorne. The concept should not difficult for your gun weilding brain to grasp."
“What did he do now?” John asks, resigning himself to standing in hot not-tomato covered trousers until Rodney finally tells him what's going on.
“He wants to know when you’ll be making ‘an honest woman out of me’?”
John shrugs. “Tell him what I did; we’re saving up for the ring.”
Rodney, for once, is speechless.
“Why do I have to be ‘Papa’? Why do you get to be ‘Dad’?” Rodney asks indignantly.
“You look more like a ‘Papa’,” John replies. “It’s kinda hot.”
“No, it’s not,” Rodney glares. “You’re just saying that to make me agree.”
“Is it working?”
“Dad? Pops?” Teron asks softly and they look at each other warily, as if they knew what he's about to ask. “Tell me about Mother and Father?”
So...yeah...not exactly a fic and only really vague ideas. Is it worth turning into anything?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-06 08:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-18 12:42 pm (UTC)Thanks for the fb!