The Road To Nevada by lamardeuse (NC-17)
Apr. 28th, 2012 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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stargateficrecShow: SGA
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lamardeuse
Link: The Road To Nevada
Why This Must Be Read:
Set during the Depression, this AU is a rollercoaster ride on the run. It's a great adventure.
Excerpt:
The day John Sheppard met Rodney McKay happened to be, by an astonishing coincidence, the day he fell out of the sky for the second time.
John’d been having trouble making ends meet the past couple of months, and so when he’d gotten a telegram from an old Army buddy telling him about a big opportunity to be had at a race in Toronto, he’d jumped at the chance. It took him three days of hitching rides, but he made it over the border and out to the field, a grass strip on the western edge of town.
The sky was clear and perfect, and the wind was moderate but steady off Lake Ontario. John settled his pack over his shoulder and headed straight for the nearest plane, a sleek, gorgeous monocoque design that looked a little like one of the new Supermarines. He walked around the nose and found a pair of legs and an ass encased in greasy blue overalls sticking out of the engine compartment.
The ass was pretty nice, actually, and it was wiggling back and forth in a way that made John forget what he was going to ask for a minute.
“Uh, excuse me,” he called.
A soft thud emerged from the engine compartment. “Goddammit!” the ass yelled. John winced.
“Sorry. I’m looking for the—” he fumbled the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and scanned it “—Dominion Aeroworks plane. Could you tell me where I can find it?”
“You’ve found it,” the ass said, slowly wiggling its way free from the guts of the engine. It was attached, John soon discovered, to a beefy torso topped by a scowling face and a thinning thatch of hair that had been severely rearranged by its abrupt contact with the cowling hatch.
John countered the sour expression with a smile; the first thing you learned as a pilot was never to piss off the ground crew. “Hiya,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Sheppard. Max Anderson’s friend.”
The other man continued to scowl, but he took the offered hand after wiping his own on the leg of his overalls. “Another American?” he asked with a curl of his wide lip.
John reminded himself that he really needed this job before answering. “Last time I checked,” he replied easily.
“Hm,” grunted the stranger. Crystal-clear blue eyes as bright as the sky above them looked him up and down like a disapproving drill sergeant. “Considering that less than four days after he was hired Anderson managed to get drunk, smash his car and break his fool leg, I’m not sure why his buddy should be an acceptable substitute.”
John’s gut took a nose dive. He’d come eight hundred miles to walk onto this field with exactly two bits and the hope of a good paying job. It was starting to look like he’d have to manage another eight hundred on just the two bits. “Listen, brother, Max said Dominion had a job for a top notch flier. If you don’t mind pointing the way to your boss, I’ll just—”
“You’re top notch, are you?” That dismissing gaze roamed his rumpled clothes, and John felt his face go hot.
Patience finally exhausted, he growled, “It took me three days to get here, traveling nonstop. I’m beat, I need a bath and a shave, and I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.” He returned the visual reconnaissance sweep, ending it at the top of the man’s disheveled head. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the freshest daisy in the field either.”
The other guy’s mouth thinned dangerously, and John noticed it had a tilt to it. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he sneered. “Perhaps I should introduce myself: my name is Rodney McKay.”
John raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
McKay’s lopsided mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m the owner of Dominion Aeroworks.”
“Oh,” John said, his gut crashing and burning on the tarmac. “Good for you.” He paused, then thought, what the hell. “So, do I get the job or what?”
McKay stared at him, mouth slackening. “It’s really true,” he marveled. “All of you Yanks have got balls of brass.”
“Solid, four inch radius.”
This time it was McKay’s eyebrows that climbed. “You mean diameter.”
“I mean radius.”
McKay stared at him for another moment, then to Sheppard’s surprise snorted and smirked. “I take it you’ve flown monoplanes before?”
“A few,” John hedged, figuring two was close enough to ‘a few’ to pass inspection. “None as gorgeous as this one, though.”
McKay’s demeanor brightened considerably at that. “This is my latest design,” he said proudly, laying a hand on the aluminum skin. John noted absently that his hands were broad and callused. “Variable pitch propeller, retractable landing gear, and a supercharged engine. She’ll cruise at two eighty and never break a sweat.”
John tried not to be charmed by the way McKay looked at his machine with real affection. It was a look he’d given planes himself on occasion, usually when they carried him safely back to earth after a dangerous flight. “What’s her top speed?” he asked.
McKay shook his head. “It hasn’t been fully tested yet,” he replied sadly.
“You must have a regular test pilot,” John said, surprised.
“I did. He disappeared last week. That’s why I hired your friend Anderson.”
John frowned. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“You don’t know what ‘disappeared’ means?”
“I know what ‘disappeared’ means, McKay…”
“—vanished, gone, no longer there?”
John groaned and threw up his hands.
“He was another Yank,” McKay mused. “Maybe you knew him?”
John rolled his eyes. “Sure, because everybody knows one another in the U. S. of A.”
“His name was Marshall Sumner.”
“Holy shit,” John breathed.
“So I’ll take that as a yes?” McKay asked acidly.
Marshall Sumner. John hadn’t heard that name in almost twenty years. He’d been a good CO, if a little too by-the-book. He was also a hell of a pilot, and John was glad to hear he’d obviously recovered from the mishap that had gotten him invalided back to England and back home shortly thereafter. Too many good men had never made it back from that hellhole.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve heard of him. He was my squadron commander in the war.”
McKay eyed him skeptically. “You don’t look old enough to have served.”
“I lied about my age,” John said, shrugging. “I wanted to fly.”
McKay’s crooked mouth got slightly more crooked at that; John figured that meant he was thinking about something. “All right,” McKay said after a moment. “Since I’m hard against it, I’m going to have to give you a try. The race starts at two and it’s now…” he checked his wristwatch “half past eight. That’ll give you time to take her up to get the feel of her before the race.”
John’s stomach chose that moment to emit a loud growl.
“But before we do that,” McKay said, “We’d better feed you, hm? I don’t want you passing out from manly hunger when you’re racing my ship.”
John thought about his twenty-five cents. Fifteen would get him a decent breakfast, but unless McKay paid him right after the race he’d have to sleep under the stars tonight. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.
“There’s a great diner just down the road,” McKay said. “My treat.”
John shook his head. “No, thanks. I mean, yes to the diner, no to the treat.”
“Don’t be stupid,” McKay said shortly. Surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around John’s bicep and began tugging him toward an open top coupe. “When you work for me, food is one of the perks.” He blinked. “Well. Actually it’s the only perk, but that’s beside the point.”
Sighing, John let himself be dragged, because he was too hungry by now to really give a damn about his pride, and because he really wanted to fly that beautiful bird of McKay’s. It had been six weeks since he’d been up in the sky, and the itch was turning into an ache.
“Are flapjacks part of the perks?” John asked as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.
McKay met his gaze. “All you can eat.”
“Mister, you got yourself a deal,” John said, opening the door and climbing in.
...
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ:
lamardeuseLink: The Road To Nevada
Why This Must Be Read:
Set during the Depression, this AU is a rollercoaster ride on the run. It's a great adventure.
Excerpt:
The day John Sheppard met Rodney McKay happened to be, by an astonishing coincidence, the day he fell out of the sky for the second time.
John’d been having trouble making ends meet the past couple of months, and so when he’d gotten a telegram from an old Army buddy telling him about a big opportunity to be had at a race in Toronto, he’d jumped at the chance. It took him three days of hitching rides, but he made it over the border and out to the field, a grass strip on the western edge of town.
The sky was clear and perfect, and the wind was moderate but steady off Lake Ontario. John settled his pack over his shoulder and headed straight for the nearest plane, a sleek, gorgeous monocoque design that looked a little like one of the new Supermarines. He walked around the nose and found a pair of legs and an ass encased in greasy blue overalls sticking out of the engine compartment.
The ass was pretty nice, actually, and it was wiggling back and forth in a way that made John forget what he was going to ask for a minute.
“Uh, excuse me,” he called.
A soft thud emerged from the engine compartment. “Goddammit!” the ass yelled. John winced.
“Sorry. I’m looking for the—” he fumbled the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and scanned it “—Dominion Aeroworks plane. Could you tell me where I can find it?”
“You’ve found it,” the ass said, slowly wiggling its way free from the guts of the engine. It was attached, John soon discovered, to a beefy torso topped by a scowling face and a thinning thatch of hair that had been severely rearranged by its abrupt contact with the cowling hatch.
John countered the sour expression with a smile; the first thing you learned as a pilot was never to piss off the ground crew. “Hiya,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Sheppard. Max Anderson’s friend.”
The other man continued to scowl, but he took the offered hand after wiping his own on the leg of his overalls. “Another American?” he asked with a curl of his wide lip.
John reminded himself that he really needed this job before answering. “Last time I checked,” he replied easily.
“Hm,” grunted the stranger. Crystal-clear blue eyes as bright as the sky above them looked him up and down like a disapproving drill sergeant. “Considering that less than four days after he was hired Anderson managed to get drunk, smash his car and break his fool leg, I’m not sure why his buddy should be an acceptable substitute.”
John’s gut took a nose dive. He’d come eight hundred miles to walk onto this field with exactly two bits and the hope of a good paying job. It was starting to look like he’d have to manage another eight hundred on just the two bits. “Listen, brother, Max said Dominion had a job for a top notch flier. If you don’t mind pointing the way to your boss, I’ll just—”
“You’re top notch, are you?” That dismissing gaze roamed his rumpled clothes, and John felt his face go hot.
Patience finally exhausted, he growled, “It took me three days to get here, traveling nonstop. I’m beat, I need a bath and a shave, and I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.” He returned the visual reconnaissance sweep, ending it at the top of the man’s disheveled head. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the freshest daisy in the field either.”
The other guy’s mouth thinned dangerously, and John noticed it had a tilt to it. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he sneered. “Perhaps I should introduce myself: my name is Rodney McKay.”
John raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
McKay’s lopsided mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m the owner of Dominion Aeroworks.”
“Oh,” John said, his gut crashing and burning on the tarmac. “Good for you.” He paused, then thought, what the hell. “So, do I get the job or what?”
McKay stared at him, mouth slackening. “It’s really true,” he marveled. “All of you Yanks have got balls of brass.”
“Solid, four inch radius.”
This time it was McKay’s eyebrows that climbed. “You mean diameter.”
“I mean radius.”
McKay stared at him for another moment, then to Sheppard’s surprise snorted and smirked. “I take it you’ve flown monoplanes before?”
“A few,” John hedged, figuring two was close enough to ‘a few’ to pass inspection. “None as gorgeous as this one, though.”
McKay’s demeanor brightened considerably at that. “This is my latest design,” he said proudly, laying a hand on the aluminum skin. John noted absently that his hands were broad and callused. “Variable pitch propeller, retractable landing gear, and a supercharged engine. She’ll cruise at two eighty and never break a sweat.”
John tried not to be charmed by the way McKay looked at his machine with real affection. It was a look he’d given planes himself on occasion, usually when they carried him safely back to earth after a dangerous flight. “What’s her top speed?” he asked.
McKay shook his head. “It hasn’t been fully tested yet,” he replied sadly.
“You must have a regular test pilot,” John said, surprised.
“I did. He disappeared last week. That’s why I hired your friend Anderson.”
John frowned. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“You don’t know what ‘disappeared’ means?”
“I know what ‘disappeared’ means, McKay…”
“—vanished, gone, no longer there?”
John groaned and threw up his hands.
“He was another Yank,” McKay mused. “Maybe you knew him?”
John rolled his eyes. “Sure, because everybody knows one another in the U. S. of A.”
“His name was Marshall Sumner.”
“Holy shit,” John breathed.
“So I’ll take that as a yes?” McKay asked acidly.
Marshall Sumner. John hadn’t heard that name in almost twenty years. He’d been a good CO, if a little too by-the-book. He was also a hell of a pilot, and John was glad to hear he’d obviously recovered from the mishap that had gotten him invalided back to England and back home shortly thereafter. Too many good men had never made it back from that hellhole.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve heard of him. He was my squadron commander in the war.”
McKay eyed him skeptically. “You don’t look old enough to have served.”
“I lied about my age,” John said, shrugging. “I wanted to fly.”
McKay’s crooked mouth got slightly more crooked at that; John figured that meant he was thinking about something. “All right,” McKay said after a moment. “Since I’m hard against it, I’m going to have to give you a try. The race starts at two and it’s now…” he checked his wristwatch “half past eight. That’ll give you time to take her up to get the feel of her before the race.”
John’s stomach chose that moment to emit a loud growl.
“But before we do that,” McKay said, “We’d better feed you, hm? I don’t want you passing out from manly hunger when you’re racing my ship.”
John thought about his twenty-five cents. Fifteen would get him a decent breakfast, but unless McKay paid him right after the race he’d have to sleep under the stars tonight. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.
“There’s a great diner just down the road,” McKay said. “My treat.”
John shook his head. “No, thanks. I mean, yes to the diner, no to the treat.”
“Don’t be stupid,” McKay said shortly. Surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around John’s bicep and began tugging him toward an open top coupe. “When you work for me, food is one of the perks.” He blinked. “Well. Actually it’s the only perk, but that’s beside the point.”
Sighing, John let himself be dragged, because he was too hungry by now to really give a damn about his pride, and because he really wanted to fly that beautiful bird of McKay’s. It had been six weeks since he’d been up in the sky, and the itch was turning into an ache.
“Are flapjacks part of the perks?” John asked as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.
McKay met his gaze. “All you can eat.”
“Mister, you got yourself a deal,” John said, opening the door and climbing in.
...
