mific: John sheppard head and shoulders against gold orange sunset (Sheppard orange)
[personal profile] mific posting in [community profile] stargateficrec
Show: SGA
Rec Category: AU - specifically, with alien worldbuilding.
Characters: John Sheppard, Teyla Emmagan, Ben (Sheppard's son), Kolya, OFCs, OMCs, Rodney McKay, Ronon Dex.
Categories: Gen (friendship/family relationship with Teyla, a brief sexual encounter with an OFC)
Warnings: Graphic violence, harm to children, death of a child, grief.
Author on DW: n/a
Author's Website: Defunct. See M.'s fanlore page for several stories saved on Wayback.
Link: Your Cowboy Days Are Over on Wayback
Why This Must Be Read: Everyone will know of this fic, but it's only been reccd here once, 10 years ago, and the link had expired. It's probably SGA fandom's most famous story with alien worldbuilding, its reputation as a classic well-deserved. It's not always an easy read, with John and Teyla self-exiled from Atlantis on the world Bajan, technologically advanced but very different to Earth, caring for John's young son. There's lots of plot, the story includes several engaging and well-rounded OFCs and OMCs, and a very interesting Kolya who has far more depth and nuance than in canon without being unrealistically out of character. A gripping read, Sheppard-centric as he traverses terrible loss and grief and comes, finally, to a measure of resolution. One of the best truly sci-fi fanfics out there, and the worldbuilding is stunning. There's a podfic here and a sequel, Summerland, also on Wayback, with more angst, abused children, a largely Kolya POV and more Sheppard whump and character development, as he grows more fully into being a leader. Previous rec on Stargateficrec (the links don't work)


They trade one of John's childhood memories and the last of the medical supplies for passage on a cargo ship, and land on Bajan in mid-winter. The memory is nothing exceptional: Rachel Sheppard doing the baseball mom thing on a Saturday afternoon in 1975, at Fort Bragg. She wears a bottle green shirt, the left wristcuff stained with soda; she yells, "Show them what you're made of, Big J!" when John is up for bat in the fourth inning and Frank Sheppard has left the stands; even with the sun in his eyes, John hits a line drive that takes him to third base. Because little league is nothing anyone in this galaxy has ever heard of, the clip sells at a premium. Teyla holds his hand during the upload and hums an Athosian chant, but John's okay. He's got more where that came from.

That first month, they stay down-city in a cheap resthouse packed with other immigrants, deep in the bowels of Bajan minor where the suns only contribute a permanent kind of dawn. Their room is small and bare, but they keep it clean. The bed is little more than a mattress propped up on the floor, but big enough for the adults to share and for Ben to sleep in a knobby ball against John's back.

After a long day of menial jobs or no jobs at all, they huddle together, too tired to be bothered by the high-pitched squeals of the critters getting hacked in the kitchen next door. John's arm reaches behind him, curled around his son's slim waist, the child's face tucked between his shoulder blades. Teyla's hand cups John's elbow, fingers splayed over the efflorescence of Ellia's old feeding wound.

The long winter, the constant press of bodies, the economics of memory that leave John shaking: none of that can intrude upon this hard-won peace. Home is a roof over their heads, food that doesn't fight back, and a shield at last.

 
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