unamaga | FIC: Flight 187 (PG-13)

I have somehow arrived home in one piece. Hurrah! Hooray! My father plied me with non-airplane food so I am not quite as grouchy as I was when I first got off. It's surprising how very angry you can get when someone sticks their feet under your ass and wiggles them around a lot. Continuously. For the entire flight. It's equally unsurprising how very much it helps to write fic about John and Rodney surviving similar torments.

Title: Flight 187
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,150 words
Notes: A bit silly and pointless, written in about twenty minutes near the end of my flight to keep myself sane. Quick look-over by my darling

kashmir1, dedicated to

amberlynne because her story was supposed to be first of the new year. Er. ♥?

1. Two rows back, someone’s snoring. Normally, Rodney would turn around and throw something sharp, but John’s already looking pinched around the mouth and Rodney’s not willing to test John’s patience when all he has to do is reach up a few inches to give Rodney a good wallop over the back of the head.

It’s very hard to be the better person, though, because Rodney’s personal movie screen is busted (John took away his chocolate bar when he tried to fiddle with the wiring after it broke), his iPod battery is nearly gone altogether (never mind that nothing seems loud enough to drown out that god-awful rattling snore), and most of the airline meal was pre-made and ridiculously ritzy, so of course it contained lemon.

He’d almost had an epic fit when John had squeezed his own slice over the fish salad, spraying juice everywhere.

“I’ll wash my hands,” John had said, rolling his eyes. “Stop freaking out and watch the damn movie.”

2. Around hour five, Rodney’s back starts to cramp up. He doesn’t notice it at first; John’s fallen asleep against the headrest at an awkward angle, his mouth wet and open – soft, puffing breaths so steady and reassuring the slow burn doesn’t register until Rodney’s actually gasping in pain, doubled over.

John wakes up with a start, and forces Rodney into some wild yet strangely effective position before he even seems to realize what’s going on. Capable thumbs dig into the bunched up, sore muscles at the dip of Rodney’s spine.

“Y’okay?” John murmurs, sleep rough and gentle.

Rodney only pushes back into the touch, feeling the tension melt out of him easily. The person sitting directly in front of him turns around, looking scandalized.

“Jeeze, McKay,” John says, “why didn’tchu say anything?”

Rodney just blinks slowly and wriggles until John’s fingers are hitting the tense spots just above the waistband of his pants. The shiver that draws pleasant goose bumps up his arms and stands the hairs on the back of his neck on end has nothing to do with the dirty chuckle John lets out.

3. “Are you honestly watching that movie?”

John very pointedly pauses his screen and levels a glare at Rodney. “There is nothing wrong with Aladdin, Rodney.”

“Sure,” Rodney says, “if you’re five. I mean, we all know your mental age hasn’t changed much since you were in diapers, but must you flaunt it so much? You’re practically singing along.” He makes the mistake of looking at John’s face then. “Oh, don’t pout at me.”

“Genie’s cool,” John pouts.

4. Rodney shifts guiltily and shoots John a surreptitious glance to make sure he’s not being observed. It’s not he fault; he can’t help it if Claire Danes is really, really hot. And naked. Really – really naked. Wow.

“Per-vert,” John sing-songs, then adds, “Hey, did you used to get hard in astronomy class too?”

5. “No,” Rodney snaps firmly.

“Oh, come on, all the cabin crew is doing –” John gestures towards the front of the plane wordlessly, “– crew…like things. No one’ll see us go in.”

“Colonel,” Rodney says, “I am highly claustrophobic if you hadn’t noticed, and I can hardly bear those bathrooms by myself.”

John, undeterred, wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll keep you distracted, sweetheart.”

“You are insane,” Rodney informs him. After a moment’s contemplation: “More so than usual, I mean.”

They stare at each other stubbornly for a long minute. Then John seems to reach a decision with himself, calmly looking away and fishing something out of his carry-on bag with great concentration. His hand returns a second later with Rodney’s chocolate bar.

“Oh, you aren’t,” Rodney denies breathlessly.

John ignores him, ripping open the silver under wrapping and dragging a sliver into his mouth with a wet, sucking sound. It’s not the shameless moan John lets out, nor is it the sweet flush high on his cheeks that finally does Rodney in – it’s the smear of brown just below John’s lips, just beyond where John can lick it clean.

“Okay,” he concedes, and quickly flings himself out of his seat towards the vacant bathroom.

6. Hour seven finds Rodney slumped against John’s side, halfway between morose and sated. One of the female crew members has on too much flowery perfume; whenever she walks by to tend to someone or serve drinks, Rodney dissolves helplessly into a fit of sneezing.

“Try breathing through your mouth,” John had suggested the second time; he shut up when Rodney aimed a sneeze in his direction.

7. “Isn’t alcohol bad for you when you’re flying?” Rodney asks dubiously, watching John throw back another small glass bottle of wine. “How many of those are they allowed to give you?”

John grins widely, completely guileless. “One.”

8. The arm rests are creaking under Rodney’s fingers, his knuckles turning a bloodless white from the pressure he’s holding on with. He is determinedly not looking out the window, because out the window means watching the plane’s wing shake and judder like it’s about to fall off and leave them to plummet to their fiery, Maine-shaped doom.

“Hey, no fiery balls of death for us today,” John whispers; “we’re on vacation, remember?”

Rodney weaves his fingers with John’s when they’re offered, closing his eyes.

“I know you’re an insane maniac daredevil, and half the time you’re puling terrifying stunts just because – the kind of stunts that are going to get me killed one day, I can tell –” He breathes in and out a few times, counting down from twenty. “I would still feel much better if you were flying this thing.”

9. “Welcome to sunny England,” John says, too cheerfully. Even he looks a bit green around the edges (though that might have something to do with all the alcohol).

“That was the worst thing to ever happen to me,” Rodney answers, entirely serious.

“Well it wasn’t the pilot’s –” John starts.

“Shut up,” Rodney interrupts quickly, slashing one quaking hand through the air. “If you keep talking, I will throw up on you.”

“Shutting up,” John agrees quickly.

The plane intercom crackles to life. “Well that was a bumpy landing, wasn’t it? Oh my. Terribly sorry, I’m not very good at landings, I’m afraid.” A pause during which John has to carefully persuade Rodney not to commit homicide. “On behalf of the crew and British Airways, it was a pleasure to take care of you today, and we hope to see you again very soon. Have a nice stay!”

10. They’re taxiing sedately towards the gate when the ceiling falls off and nearly hits Rodney on the head, only a few thin wires holding the heavy, gaping plastic somewhat in place.

“Okay,” Rodney says after a time.

“Yeah,” John agrees.

“We’re not going to the British Museum. The statues might come to life and hit me with ancient axes. Or, or, mummies.”

John nods slowly. “Right. Mummies.”

ps, if you think you saw reference to the stardust movie in there? that's because you DID.

FIC: Flight 187 (PG-13)

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