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crack_van2011-11-14 05:35 pm
mf_luder_xf) wrote in crack_van2011-11-14 05:35 pm
Entry tags:
Romance at the Roadkill Grill by lamardeuse (NC-17)
This week, the van shall be changing it up for a boat. That's right, I'll be recommending what I refer to as boat!AUs. While I love John Sheppard as a pilot, there's just something about Atlantis as the city under and upon the sea that lends really well to the idea of John as a ship captain or otherwise engaged in boat-related activities. Or maybe it's just because I really loved seeing half-naked Joe in that Dawson's Creek two-parter.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Length: 22,000
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lamardeuse
Author Website: when the world is puddle-wonderful
In the first of the boating AUs, Rodney's friend is hospitalized and Rodney agrees to run his restaurant while he's out of commission. Cue big city Rodney being dumfounded by the quirky population as though they were his lab crew (who, you know, even when he's yelling at them he has respect for them or they wouldn't be on Atlantis...first wave *cough*Kavanaugh*cough* perhaps excluded) and completely smitten with the lobster fisherman who may or may not be Rodney's friend's boy toy.
The OCs make this story and a surprisingly open, though still socially awkward, Sheppard is a delight to read. It's sweet, funny, completely romcom-ish, yet still our boys (and even team).
Gull Island, Maine was about as far from civilization as you could get without leaving New England (did Maine count as part of New England? Rodney was never sure) but it was Sasha’s chosen semi-retirement home. Therefore, he had to endure both it and the interminable ferry ride that got him there. God only knew why one of the greatest chefs in the history of the known universe had chosen to spend his golden years in the armpit of nowhere, but it wasn’t the question that was uppermost in Rodney’s mind right now. No, what he was wondering about at the moment was what the disheveled-looking guy in overalls currently lounging against the side of the humongous pickup truck was staring at. Oh, God, were they going to hit an iceberg? Weren’t there icebergs this far north in the Atlantic? Rodney turned to look behind him, but there was nothing. He turned back, puzzled. The guy’s mouth was curled now in a half-smile.
Rodney glared back, deciding as usual that the best defense was a good offence. When the guy just kept looking at him without saying anything, Rodney finally snapped, “Yes? Can I help you?”
The man slowly shook his head once in a lazy form of negation. “Just watching to see if that vein on your head’s going to pop.”
Rodney’s hand flew to his forehead. “What vein?”
Another half-shake of the head, which was topped by a ridiculously tousled mop of black hair. “Never mind. Now that you’ve stopped screaming, it’s getting smaller.”
“I was not – all right, fine, whatever.” Rodney realized he was still gripping his cell phone; he flipped it shut and jammed it into the pocket of his jeans. The man’s gaze dipped briefly, then rose again.
No, Rodney thought, eyes widening slightly before he managed to contain his shock. He couldn’t be. He was some sort of – fisherman or handyman or something; they didn’t make gay fishermen, did they? Certainly not in Maine, anyway.
“Well, this has been fun,” Rodney began, then realized he had nowhere to go on this tiny, overburdened ferry. He contemplated stalking off to sulk in his car, but that would be childish. Also, he didn’t want to be trapped inside a vehicle if and when the boat chose to topple over.
“Going somewhere?” One of the man's eyebrows arched à la Spock, and Jesus, Rodney did not just feel a strange little thrill at that.
“No, I suppose not,” Rodney growled, to cover his embarrassing reaction. “Unless I feel like swimming.”
The guy scratched absently at the back of his neck. “Water's still kind of cold this time of year. The beaches are pretty nice in August, though.”
A fat lot of good that did him in early June. “That's nice to know, thank you, but I won't be here in August.”
“Hm,” the guy said, noncommittally, as though Rodney might end up staying on this rock another two months. Not bloody likely.
“Well,” the guy drawled, and it finally occurred to Rodney that his voice sounded familiar, but there was certainly no chance they'd ever met, “I hope you enjoy the time you do spend on Gull Island, Mr...?”
This guy's as subtle as an avalanche, Rodney thought, but he remembered his rusty manners just in time to step forward and extend his hand. “McKay. Rodney McKay.” He didn't expect this hick to recognize him; it was doubtful that a Maine fisher/handyman/something-or-other working-class watched public television, let alone shows on advanced fusion cookery.
The man nodded, mock-seriously, and wrapped his long fingers around Rodney's blunter ones. His grip was strong but not too strong, dry and warm. “Sheppard. John Sheppard,” he mimicked, biting back what was no doubt a ridiculous smirk. “Actually, I already know who you are.”
Romance at the Roadkill Grill
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Length: 22,000
Author on LJ:
lamardeuse Author Website: when the world is puddle-wonderful
In the first of the boating AUs, Rodney's friend is hospitalized and Rodney agrees to run his restaurant while he's out of commission. Cue big city Rodney being dumfounded by the quirky population as though they were his lab crew (who, you know, even when he's yelling at them he has respect for them or they wouldn't be on Atlantis...first wave *cough*Kavanaugh*cough* perhaps excluded) and completely smitten with the lobster fisherman who may or may not be Rodney's friend's boy toy.
The OCs make this story and a surprisingly open, though still socially awkward, Sheppard is a delight to read. It's sweet, funny, completely romcom-ish, yet still our boys (and even team).
Gull Island, Maine was about as far from civilization as you could get without leaving New England (did Maine count as part of New England? Rodney was never sure) but it was Sasha’s chosen semi-retirement home. Therefore, he had to endure both it and the interminable ferry ride that got him there. God only knew why one of the greatest chefs in the history of the known universe had chosen to spend his golden years in the armpit of nowhere, but it wasn’t the question that was uppermost in Rodney’s mind right now. No, what he was wondering about at the moment was what the disheveled-looking guy in overalls currently lounging against the side of the humongous pickup truck was staring at. Oh, God, were they going to hit an iceberg? Weren’t there icebergs this far north in the Atlantic? Rodney turned to look behind him, but there was nothing. He turned back, puzzled. The guy’s mouth was curled now in a half-smile.
Rodney glared back, deciding as usual that the best defense was a good offence. When the guy just kept looking at him without saying anything, Rodney finally snapped, “Yes? Can I help you?”
The man slowly shook his head once in a lazy form of negation. “Just watching to see if that vein on your head’s going to pop.”
Rodney’s hand flew to his forehead. “What vein?”
Another half-shake of the head, which was topped by a ridiculously tousled mop of black hair. “Never mind. Now that you’ve stopped screaming, it’s getting smaller.”
“I was not – all right, fine, whatever.” Rodney realized he was still gripping his cell phone; he flipped it shut and jammed it into the pocket of his jeans. The man’s gaze dipped briefly, then rose again.
No, Rodney thought, eyes widening slightly before he managed to contain his shock. He couldn’t be. He was some sort of – fisherman or handyman or something; they didn’t make gay fishermen, did they? Certainly not in Maine, anyway.
“Well, this has been fun,” Rodney began, then realized he had nowhere to go on this tiny, overburdened ferry. He contemplated stalking off to sulk in his car, but that would be childish. Also, he didn’t want to be trapped inside a vehicle if and when the boat chose to topple over.
“Going somewhere?” One of the man's eyebrows arched à la Spock, and Jesus, Rodney did not just feel a strange little thrill at that.
“No, I suppose not,” Rodney growled, to cover his embarrassing reaction. “Unless I feel like swimming.”
The guy scratched absently at the back of his neck. “Water's still kind of cold this time of year. The beaches are pretty nice in August, though.”
A fat lot of good that did him in early June. “That's nice to know, thank you, but I won't be here in August.”
“Hm,” the guy said, noncommittally, as though Rodney might end up staying on this rock another two months. Not bloody likely.
“Well,” the guy drawled, and it finally occurred to Rodney that his voice sounded familiar, but there was certainly no chance they'd ever met, “I hope you enjoy the time you do spend on Gull Island, Mr...?”
This guy's as subtle as an avalanche, Rodney thought, but he remembered his rusty manners just in time to step forward and extend his hand. “McKay. Rodney McKay.” He didn't expect this hick to recognize him; it was doubtful that a Maine fisher/handyman/something-or-other working-class watched public television, let alone shows on advanced fusion cookery.
The man nodded, mock-seriously, and wrapped his long fingers around Rodney's blunter ones. His grip was strong but not too strong, dry and warm. “Sheppard. John Sheppard,” he mimicked, biting back what was no doubt a ridiculous smirk. “Actually, I already know who you are.”
Romance at the Roadkill Grill