Seperis (seperis) wrote,

the jackalope in it's natural habitat

For those who aren't aware of the mighty jackalope.

Taken from The Jackalope.


It turns out that John suffers from a traumatic childhood hunting memory. Rodney expounds on the psychological connotations of carrying childhood phobias into adulthood, but he's got no leg to stand on when John drags out his claustrophobia and waves it like a big flag of unreasonable neuroses. Point taken. Stupid point, but taken.

"And you can obviously do it," John says reasonably, completely unbloodied a few feet away, eyes fixed on the horizon, sitting far too straight to be natural. The smell has to be getting to him; the greenish cast to his skin isn't fading, and Rodney pretends hard that he doesn't care. "I'm impressed."

Rodney stares at the partially disassembled carcass with narrowed eyes. "Right. Here's a thought. Find us shelter? Unless al fresco eating and sleeping are your thing. They so aren't mine." It doubles as an excuse to send John out of sight. And this--this is going to take a while and this can only get messier. Rodney's hands are only just remembering how this goes.

John straightens, looking at him, then quickly away. "Yes." The enthusiasm is almost cute, in a way that Rodney will be damned if he'll ever admit aloud. "Shelter."


"Also good," John says encouragingly, regaining color at a remarkable rate. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he gets to his feet, one hand going casually to a tree to cover for the fact he's swaying on his feet. Rodney knows better than to even try to comment on it. "I'll be back. Carry on." With a salute so crisp that the air cracks with it, John wanders off at a quick pace toward a copse of trees a very convenient distance away.

"Find water!" Rodney shouts, as much for survival purposes as the fact that, oh God, he's going to need a bath after this. "Something in cool and refreshing!"

"Will do," drifts back, and Rodney stares down at the carcass blankly. If they had salt, they could store the remainder somewhere--there's no way both of them can eat all of this, and Rodney's experience with drying meat is two decades old. Of course, if they had a puddlejumper, they could go home, the really, really long way, so really, why the hell is he thinking about salt for if he's wishing for things? The Daedalus showing up unexpectedly--*that* would be useful.

Sitting back on his heels, Rodney frowns. "I really, really hate the outdoors."


John's still green and picks at dinner with a marked lack of enthusiasm, but Rodney remembers this reaction from his mother and restrains himself from calling John a total girl because, well, he's still armed.

There is something to be said for dinner you dressed and cooked yourself--not something he's looking forward to doing on a daily basis or anything, but still. He's finding a kind of sad longing for vegetables, though, even the pentagon shaped ones that kept giving him flashbacks to seeing the Exorcist in sixth grade. Salt. Pepper. Maybe even something in garlic and bay leaves.

This, Rodney thinks dismally, can only lead to depression and possible severe indigestion. "Eat."

John narrow-eyes him from the other side of the fire. The jackalope rib is barely touched. "I'm not that hungry."

Rodney waves his own stripped jackalope rib. "You didn't eat breakfast, you threw up lunch, and I know for a fact that you skipped dinner last night. So don't *even*. I'm so not nursing you through starvation and then being left here *alone* to be consumed by giant antlered rabbits. It's just not happening. Eat."

"I'm sure you'll be fine." But John picks up the rib, nibbling half-heartedly, then setting it back down with a 'happy now?' expression that makes Rodney want to throw the stripped bones at him. "You know--"

Rodney doesn't like the way he says that. "Is this about the Daedalus picking us up tomorrow?"

John's hands flatten on his knees. "They don’t know where we are."

"They'll ask the priestesses."

"Who might not tell."

And Atlantis isn't known for its torture techniques. Rodney stares at the fire hard. "They'll tell."

John nods slowly, eyes flickering to the trees swaying above them. "There aren't any caves. Tomorrow, we'll look for something better." John pulls his knees up, toeing the rib aside. "Temporarily."

Rodney makes himself nod. "Temporarily."


Edited to fix the jackalope picture. Stupid non-posting picture.
Tags: fic: stargate:atlantis 2005, fic: works in progress, sga: jackalope
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