Pairing/Charecter(s): Ancient!John, Rodney, Aurora; John/Rodney,
Warnings/Spoliers: this drabble can takes place, chronologically, after part 5 of "Legati" Ancient!John 'verse, with spoilers for "Aurora"
Disclaimer: Title 17 of the US Code, § 107, aka the Fair Use Doctrine.
Summary: Aurora makes Lantean orbit
Notes: This seemed like a brilliant way to start the next chappie... until it didn't. So I'm going to drabble it and try a different angle.
Filius haeretici is son of a heretic in Latin.
An Ancient!John Story
“A married couple are well suited when both partners usually feel the need for a quarrel at the same time.”
Jean Rostand Marriage
"Filius haeretici," Iohannes barks into his comm as they drop out of hyperspace, the Aurora tumbling into Lantean orbit with all the grace of an eighty tonne brick. Were it not for the fact that the linter is sentient – and the fact that, even without proper controls, he's no slouch as a pilot, – Iohannes has no doubts that they'd currently be in a entirely irrecoverable angle of decent. As it is, they're going to have to go through some significant aerobreaking manoeuvres before they can even think of making port. "What kind of approach do you call that Thor?"
"My apologizes, Pastor," the Asgard says calmly as he brings his own linter into a higher – and far more stable – orbit around the planet. "I did not anticipate-"
He never does find out whatever it is that Thor hadn't expected, as the next thing he knows Aurora is practically screaming, nay, shrieking, with unrestrained joy as they enter Atlantis' comm range. It's hard to make out exactly what she's saying because of the volume, but it sounds a lot like home and finally and maybe even mother.
Iohannes is vaguely horrified. He didn't know anything an intellegentia artificialis could do could horrify him any more.
"Rory!" he says as sternly as possible, the tone he's using sounding strange even to his own ears until Iohannes realizes their bleeding, that's how riotous she's being, "Calm down. I know you want to go home, but we've got to make sure your shields and whatnot will hold before we land. I dunno about you, but I certainly didn't go to all this trouble for you to break apart in re-entry."
The linter tries to restrain herself, she really does – her noise level goes down from about a thousand in his head to a merely uncomfortable eleven, and she stops quivering like she's about to fall apart at the seams – but, for all her age, she's so very young and it's rather like trying to tell one of the Terran anthropologists that, no, he'd prefer not to talk about his people, the war, or, really, anything more resent than last week's senior staff meeting.
Iohannes calls it compartmentalizing when he's forced to name it.
The anthropologists call it deliberately unhelpful, which is true as well.
The physiologists call it post-traumatic stress disorder, which isn't, by any measure of the term, but try telling them that.
Anyway, Aurora tries, but still, she can barely managed half-a-minute of silence before asking, /When can we land?/ in a way that's more curious than repentant.
"When Rodney says we can."
/Oh./ There's a beat, then, /When will that be?/
"I dunno. Rodney?" he looks over at where his amator is fiddling with a tablet, frowning unhappily and giving no sign he's heard Iohannes at all. "Rodney," he tries again, to no avail, before waling over and shouting his name as loud as he dares right in his ear.
"YES, YES, WHAT?" Rodney shouts back, jumping a full foot into when he turns and finds Iohannes so close. Iohannes barely has time to smirk at this, however, before Rodney's right in his personal space – closer than they usually ever dare when either of them is, however ostensibly, working, raising a hand to his ear. "JOHN, YOUR EARS-"
"I know-" he begins, but Rodney either can't hear or chooses to ignore him, as he plucks the earwigs from both their ears and starts to examine them as if they they were the source of all their problems.
Iohannes is forced to stare pointedly at the ceiling until Aurora has managed to get a hold of herself – and, thus, the volume of her song – for him to be heard. "I know," he repeats when this is the case, using Rodney's surprise to steal back his earwig. "Might want to put a rush-order on the repairs, buddy. Rory's getting anxious."
"You can't rush genius."
"I'm not asking for genius. I'm asking for basic hold-together-ness."
"Hold-together-ness," Rodney repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "Please, tell me that's some sort of complicated Ancient word that just doesn't translate well into English because, I swear to God, I absolutely refuse to believe that the Ancient school system ever degenerated to a point where such a word might be considered appropriate by anyone, to include you."
"Oh, no. Don't Rodney me. If you won't let me call the ZedPM recharger a ZedPM recharger because it's a debasement of the Alteran language, you can't use hold-together-ness as a word for the same reason."
"Can we lay off the grammar for the moment and concentrate on getting Aurora patched up enough to land? I'm doing my best here," Iohannes frowns at the nearest console, "but I can only hold her off for so long."
"Please. You forget I've seen you with Atlantis. I sincerely doubt this ship would – or could – do anything you didn't expressly want her do to."
He raises an eyebrow. "You really want to test that theory?"
"Hey," Rodney says, indicating the tablet he's already gone back to fiddling with, "I'd like not to disintegrate in the atmosphere as the next person, but I'm just saying that there's no actual risk here, so it's kinda pointless trying to talk it up to me so I've no choice but to overcome it."
Iohannes considers reminding him of all the noise he'd made over them being aboard the same highly-damaged, ten thousand year-old Alteran linter while it travelled through hyperspace with its largely unknown intellegentia artificialis, but decides against it. Implying where Rory could overhear that she mightn't be entirely trustworthy could do no one any good. Least of all them or their eardrums.
He settles for, "Whatever," instead.
"Give me five minutes," the Terran sighs. "I'll be able to tell you something by then."
"Five minutes? You're slipping, buddy."
"Not going to work," he practically sing-songs as Iohannes replaces his earwig (a task made more difficult as he finds himself shaking his head, trying not to laugh).