sga_saturday | Week #44: Control: A Good Day for an Apocalypse (John/Rodney, PG)

esteefee posting in

Title: A Good Day for an Apocalypse
Author:

esteefee
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG
Words: 1391
Categories: Apocafic, post-EatG, Pre-slash, Zombies
Warnings: reference to possible unintentional animal cruelty
Summary: Rodney and John are at a fork in the road. With zombies.
A/N: The first line was a dream I had last night. I came up with no good answer myself.

A Good Day for an Apocalypse

by esteefee

The problem with the apocalypse, Rodney thought, is what to do about your cat.

Did he bring him along? How? It’d be kind of hard to beat off zombies while holding a cat carrier. At the same time, he couldn’t just let him free to fend for himself, even if Rodney could get back to his apartment, which wasn’t a certainty, considering the way Sheppard was gripping his jacket and tugging him along, grimly silent, pausing every so often to tilt his head, huge fucking Howitzer or whatever that fucking thing was in his arms poised at the ready.

And Rodney’s feet were killing him.

"I think I need some new Dr. Scholl's."

"Can't stop. Zombies will eat us."

"That's your answer for everything," Rodney said, which was nothing but the truth, but John just cracked an unamused smile and kept tugging him along.

There was nothing Rodney could do in this situation. That was the most horrific thing of all. Medicine, zombie-inducing killer plagues? Not his area. Battling his way through hoards of fiends bent on using their teeth to tear the quivering flesh from his bones? Also not his thing.

Give him a clean lab, a quad core processor, some ten thousand year-old technology and a tough problem to solve and he was the man in control, the man with the plan. If he didn't have one, he'd come up with one.

This, this scurrying about and making decisions based on nothing but merest instinct and then having to make split-second life-or-death—

John shoved him against the wall and pulled his machete, then went whipping around the corner. Rodney heard a squish and a disgusting thunk, and a moment later a zombie head came rolling into view. John gave the all-clear whistle, and Rodney found John squatting over the body and carefully wiping off his blade with an anti-bacterial wipe.

"You're going to run out of those."

John shrugged. "More where these came from."

Which was, as Rodney recalled, the 7-11 they'd broken into two days earlier on the edge of town. They could use some more food at this point, so maybe Sheppard would be willing to stop. On the other hand, they were getting close to the Mountain.

They were even closer to Rodney's apartment, actually, now that Rodney identified the burned-out shell of a building across the street from them as his favorite Chinese restaurant.

"Ah, Sheppard. We need to make a pit-stop."

"Can't stop—"

"Yes, yes, and et cetera. But this is important."

Sheppard leveled a look at him, one Rodney was all too familiar with. John Sheppard, the lazy wise-ass, had been missing for five days now. Colonel Sheppard, military asshole, was the one in control. Rodney was getting a little weary of the cold, but there was no denying he'd saved their asses repeatedly.

But now Rodney wanted to talk to John. About a cat.

"We're right by my apartment. I need to get a few things."

"No can do. It's too risky."

"It's two blocks!"

Sheppard winced, and Rodney quickly lowered his voice. "Two blocks, seriously."

"So four blocks round trip through a hot zone, for what? Some books you didn't take to Atlantis already? Come on, let's go." John turned away, and Rodney grabbed the strap of his rifle and dug in his heels.

"I lied. It's not things. It's my cat. I borrowed him back from my neighbor while I was in town."

John spun and actually gaped at him for a second before holding up his hands and saying, low, "Okay, you're nuts. But we can't keep standing here in the open. Let's get secure."

Rodney followed this time while John hunted them a spot to sit. Rodney had noticed that Sheppard liked to be high up with two exits, and sure enough he found them a stairwell in the ruins of Tsingtao's that was both sheltered and gave them a good view.

Then Sheppard hunkered down with his back to the wall and said, "Seriously, your cat."

"Yes, um. Manfred von Richthofen."

John actually cracked a smile. "You named your cat after the Red Baron?"

"Well, he's an orange calico. And an enemy of dogs."

Shaking his head, John said, "Rodney, we can't bring a goddamned cat. For one thing, unless he's mute, he'll give away our position."

"No, no. Of course we can't. I know that." Rodney knew that. He couldn't carry Manfred, not and defend himself, and Manfred was not a quiet cat, it was true. "I just can't leave him to starve to death in there."

"So you want to risk your life, and my life, to cross a hot zone to let a cat out of an apartment so he can be zombie food in a couple of days."

"Cats are fast," Rodney protested weakly. "It's how they catch mice!" But the thought was just ridiculous. Manfred couldn't be bothered to catch the catnip mouse when Rodney dangled it in front of his crossed eyes. He was a pampered indoor cat and always had been. He was also getting on in years.

"Hey, wait a minute—how has he been eating these past five days since we've been trying to get back?" John asked suspiciously.

"He's a fat cat, and he had plenty of water."

But Sheppard's face had gone to stone again. "Rodney. Rule number one of the apocalypse? The important stuff only. What's more important here? A possibly already dead cat, or your life? Because, don't make me. I can't let you get killed or bitten—" Sheppard broke off with a quiet swear and bent his head.

It was interesting, because John was almost implying the decision was Rodney's after all.

But it seemed like nothing at all was under Rodney's control. He'd spent the past five days ducking, cowering and hiding and being terrified, and not just for himself. Every time John swung that damned machete of his, Rodney winced and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that no gore would splatter into John's face, into his eyes or mouth, that John wouldn't be infected by an unseen scratch or hidden bite.

And Rodney had shot three zombies himself, three once-people, now monsters. Innocent people with no control over their own actions. And Rodney had felt equally helpless, firing blind and terrified and angry at the necessity.

He just wanted to do this one thing. Save his cat, even though realistically he knew the Baron was probably already dead, that even if he'd survived having no food, he'd probably been loud enough to attract a zombie or two of his own.

"Just say you'll do it," Rodney said. "Say you'd take me. Please, John."

John stiffened, and then his shoulders dropped in utter defeat, and he moaned into his hands.

Then John nodded.

Something burned in Rodney's chest, something he'd been aware of for a long time. "Really? Really? You'd take me?"

"Christ, yes, all right? I'd take you even though it's the stupidest thing, and pointless, and I don't want—Christ, Rodney, I don't want to risk you, all right?" John kept his voice low out of habit, and his eyes jerked over Rodney's shoulder, and then back over both stairwells in sudden alertness, as if reminded of the danger. "God. Why would you do this? We're so close, and if anyone's beaten this thing it's the SGC, and we can send you back to your apartment complex in a tank, okay?" John put a hand on his shoulder. "Please, Rodney. Don't make me risk you."

"But you would." The warm spot had bubbled up higher until it almost closed Rodney's throat. "You'd do it because I asked you to."

John blinked and dropped his hand. "I just said so, didn't I?" He cleared his throat. "Either way, you'd better decide. We've been here too long."

"Right. Can't stop."

"Zombies will eat us." John smiled, for real this time, and lifted up his pack, slinging it on. "Which way are we going?"

"To the Mountain. But we're making a quick pit stop."

"Oh, yeah?" John's eyes were already busy scouting ahead. Rodney dropped behind him.

"Yeah, let's hit the drug store. I need some Dr. Scholl's."

And some other stuff, Rodney thought, smiling and looking up at the blue sky.

It wasn't a bad day, for an apocalypse.

End.

A/N: The Red Baron.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

From:

goddess47

You dream weird shit. Really.

But it's good weird shit... that's a good point... what do you do with your cat?

I love Rodney's epiphany.... ;-)

Nice work!

From:

Week #44: Control: A Good Day for an Apocalypse (John/Rodney, PG)

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