Fruzarea
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Bookmarked by Fruzarea
09 Jun 2026
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Bookmarked by Fruzarea
09 Jun 2026
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He had to face facts. They'd brought him here to the warlord's private quarters—he stole a frightened sidelong glance at the bed, half-visible through an open door—which meant...
Oh god, he was a body slave.- Language:
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Bookmarked by Fruzarea
07 Jun 2026
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"I'm John," he says and picks up a framed photo from the second to highest shelf of the bookcase that lines the wall. He removes the post-it note that sticks to the glass and wipes away the thin layer of dust with his sleeve. He hands it to Rodney.
The John Sheppard in the photo is grinning at the camera, his shades pushed up high on his head. His arm is slung casually over Rodney's shoulder, and he remembers gripping Rodney's jacket to keep him from walking out of the shot. Rodney's mouth is open and his finger is raised, and he's obviously trying to get some point or another across to the person behind the camera. Teyla, on John's other side, is smiling, too. But she isn't looking at the camera, she's looking at them and there is such fondness on her face. The mission patches on their sleeves, as well as the jumper beside them, have been digitally edited out. Atlantis is still classified, and the SGC doesn't take any chances.
"We've known each other for seven years," he tells Rodney. "We're friends."
It's a terrible thing to consider that John has been over this with him so many times that the words don't feel all that foreign any more.
Bookmarked by Fruzarea
07 Jun 2026
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Rodney really ought to have deleted the tapes. But, then, he didn’t expect to be in a plane crash, on the way to an important conference in Siberia, and declared dead, due to a mixture of bureaucratic incompetence and his own spell of amnesia, which was so very much like something straight out of a particularly implausible soup opera, that he was retrospectively appalled by the sheer temerity of reality.
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Bookmarked by Fruzarea
07 Jun 2026