The Hard Prayer by Rheanna27 (PG-13)
Apr. 19th, 2016 07:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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stargateficrecShow: SGA
Rec Category: Alternate Universe
Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard
Categories: Slash, Apocafic, Drama, Angst, Cannon AU
Warnings: Dead bodies, Angst, PTSD
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rheanna27
Author's Website: Unknown (Note: there is a website link on the author's LJ. DO NOT click on it. The domain's been taken over by some spam site that's a pain to get back from.)
Link: The Hard Prayer
Why This Must Be Read: This is one of those stories that feels so real you can practically taste the hopelessness in the back of your throat. Rheanna27's language is that evocative and the premise and characters that well thought-through, right down to the neurosis each develops as a result of their circumstances. The apocalypse here wasn't anything violent -- there are no zombies or atomic bombs or giant storms to give people something to fight -- which gives the story a very eerie feeling.
Author's summary: A year after the end of the world, John meets another survivor.
Bill is in his usual spot, lying prone half in and half out of the shrubbery half way along the path, his Chicago Bulls baseball cap perched at a jaunty angle atop his skeletal face.
"Hey, Bill," John greets him with false joviality. "Isn't it a great morning? Look at that blue sky. You oughtta do something today, Bill. All this lying around isn't doing you any good."
Bill nods, and for a single insane second John half thinks he's actually responding. He isn't, of course; it's just that Bill's neck muscles have long since atrophied, leaving his head precariously balanced on his shoulders, so that every gust of wind turns him into the corpse version of those tacky nodding dogs people sometimes have in their cars. That people sometimes had in their cars, John corrects himself. Everything's past tense, now.
John pours the contents of the slops bucket into the storm drain at the end of the row of the chalets, then walks back to the room, calling out another cheery greeting to Bill-the-corpse on the way past.
Back in the room, he makes a desultory effort to wash in the remaining half-bucket of clean water, then immediately undoes whatever good he might have accomplished by putting on the same clothes he's been wearing for the past week. Maybe two weeks, he's lost track. He ought to eat something, but his stomach churns at the idea; he has to force himself to chew and swallow a handful of dry granola. The thought of hot coffee is more appealing, but boiling water on the camping stove feels like too much effort. Everything feels like too much fucking effort.
John had been in the Air Force for nearly twenty years; he served in Iraq and Afghanistan and he used to feel quietly proud of his ability to live in—to actually like—some of the loneliest, most inhospitable places on the planet. A year ago, he assessed his situation and decided that, while the future looked pretty bleak, at least he knew he had the kind of personality that should be able to adapt to a solitary existence in an empty world. He'd thought it wouldn't be all that different than the life he'd already been living.
He'd been wrong about that.
With breakfast out of the way, John checks his supplies. He's running low on gas for the camping stove and bottled water. He can't put it off any longer: he'll have to leave the motel to get supplies today. When he first established his base here, he made the ten mile round trip most days, but now he's barely going once a week, and he's stopped foraging for anything except the essentials.
He knows he's slowly giving up, his will to keep going rotting away to nothing in much the same way that Bill is. He knows it; he just can't make himself care anymore.
Rec Category: Alternate Universe
Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard
Categories: Slash, Apocafic, Drama, Angst, Cannon AU
Warnings: Dead bodies, Angst, PTSD
Author on LJ:
rheanna27Author's Website: Unknown (Note: there is a website link on the author's LJ. DO NOT click on it. The domain's been taken over by some spam site that's a pain to get back from.)
Link: The Hard Prayer
Why This Must Be Read: This is one of those stories that feels so real you can practically taste the hopelessness in the back of your throat. Rheanna27's language is that evocative and the premise and characters that well thought-through, right down to the neurosis each develops as a result of their circumstances. The apocalypse here wasn't anything violent -- there are no zombies or atomic bombs or giant storms to give people something to fight -- which gives the story a very eerie feeling.
Author's summary: A year after the end of the world, John meets another survivor.
Bill is in his usual spot, lying prone half in and half out of the shrubbery half way along the path, his Chicago Bulls baseball cap perched at a jaunty angle atop his skeletal face.
"Hey, Bill," John greets him with false joviality. "Isn't it a great morning? Look at that blue sky. You oughtta do something today, Bill. All this lying around isn't doing you any good."
Bill nods, and for a single insane second John half thinks he's actually responding. He isn't, of course; it's just that Bill's neck muscles have long since atrophied, leaving his head precariously balanced on his shoulders, so that every gust of wind turns him into the corpse version of those tacky nodding dogs people sometimes have in their cars. That people sometimes had in their cars, John corrects himself. Everything's past tense, now.
John pours the contents of the slops bucket into the storm drain at the end of the row of the chalets, then walks back to the room, calling out another cheery greeting to Bill-the-corpse on the way past.
Back in the room, he makes a desultory effort to wash in the remaining half-bucket of clean water, then immediately undoes whatever good he might have accomplished by putting on the same clothes he's been wearing for the past week. Maybe two weeks, he's lost track. He ought to eat something, but his stomach churns at the idea; he has to force himself to chew and swallow a handful of dry granola. The thought of hot coffee is more appealing, but boiling water on the camping stove feels like too much effort. Everything feels like too much fucking effort.
John had been in the Air Force for nearly twenty years; he served in Iraq and Afghanistan and he used to feel quietly proud of his ability to live in—to actually like—some of the loneliest, most inhospitable places on the planet. A year ago, he assessed his situation and decided that, while the future looked pretty bleak, at least he knew he had the kind of personality that should be able to adapt to a solitary existence in an empty world. He'd thought it wouldn't be all that different than the life he'd already been living.
He'd been wrong about that.
With breakfast out of the way, John checks his supplies. He's running low on gas for the camping stove and bottled water. He can't put it off any longer: he'll have to leave the motel to get supplies today. When he first established his base here, he made the ten mile round trip most days, but now he's barely going once a week, and he's stopped foraging for anything except the essentials.
He knows he's slowly giving up, his will to keep going rotting away to nothing in much the same way that Bill is. He knows it; he just can't make himself care anymore.
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