Title: Lust and Fame
Author: Angel Leviathan
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis, characters, concept, etc, aren't mine.
Notes: AU fic featuring the characters of Atlantis. Inspired by the song 'After the Lights'.
He was lying with his head jammed under his pillow, sprawled across his bed, when he heard his mobile start to ring with a volume he was sure had to be illegal for that time in the morning. Muttering a curse, he reluctantly looked out from under the pillow, across at the digital clock on his bedside table. Said clock had received a smashing earlier when it had dared to wake him at some god forsaken time in the morning, but somehow still offered him the time, blinking red seconds back at him. Afternoon. It was afternoon. Since when was it afternoon? Last he had known it was ten in the morning. Actually, last he had known, he had happily been letting some pretty young woman seduce him, but he was sure that was another story…when he remembered it all. He swore again as his phone insisted it wanted attention, and he picked it up with a deep suffering sigh, "…Hello?"
"John? John, its me."
"Hello, me," he croaked.
"…Are you still in bed?" the voice demanded.
He yawned, "I might be."
"You are. Get up, you lazy beggar, I don't work my fingers to the bone trying to find you work just to have you drink and sleep your free time away."
"'Free' time. My time. Time for me," John mumbled, "Time when I'm not somebody else."
"Well its time to be somebody else again, John. I managed to get you that part in that new London production, via your video audition. So get up and start packing, the play starts in four weeks and you're due for rehearsal the day after tomorrow. Actually, you're due at another play tomorrow evening, but I'll get to that later."
"Get to it now," he muttered, rolling onto his side and resting his phone on his ear, closing his eyes.
"I thought it might be interesting for you to see your leading lady at work in her latest production before you start work together," his agent began.
"…Who is it?" he was half asleep already.
"Elizabeth Weir."
"Elizabeth who?"
"Elizabeth Weir. How can you not know who she is? Call yourself an artist?"
"I call myself a performer," John sighed, "Anyway, Elizabeth Weir?"
"She's being hailed as one of the best performers of her generation. She's in high demand. Be grateful you're getting to work with her."
He opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow, "I'm doing the happy dance."
"You better well be. People would kill to be in your position. Actually, people would kill for your role alone, so don't screw it up!"
"Nice to know I have your complete faith."
His agent's voice softened, "…You do, John, you know that. You're damn fine actor and I'm proud to represent you. But do yourself a favour…"
"…And that would be?" he sprawled back across the bed.
"Get your arse here to London, sharpish! Tickets already booked online, just pack and hand in your passport. You'll be in the UK for four months at least. I've got you a flat to stay in. Not saying you wont be able to get back home, but do me a favour?" her voice held a note of long suffering.
"…Yeah?"
"Don't be a typical man and just throw everything into a case!"
He didn't listen, of course. One hastily packed case, redirected answer-phone message, plane flight and glance around his 'new' apartment later, horrifically jet-lagged and dying for a drink, he found himself just over two hours into the latest and greatest London stage production. He hadn't even checked the title, just the theatre, and the ticket he had found on his kitchen table upon arrival had been accepted, so he had few complaints. Aside from the jet-lag and craving for a cold beer.
But his agent had been right. She was good. Damn good. And live performance after life performance, day after day, that was hard to maintain. She did it well. …Almost too well. John was suddenly very much aware that he had been paying very little attention to the play itself and more attention to the study of who was soon to be his co-star. He realised that, once he met this Elizabeth Weir, he'd have very little time to study her when she wasn't aware of his presence. She was giving one hell of a final performance…the intensity almost scared him; would every performance with her be so stressful? She seemed to carry it off with ease, he was sure he couldn't do the same. Then again, she was on stage…and they were all different people on stage. Rarely let anyone see past the image they projected.
John blinked and tried to re-focus, jet-lag returning with a vengeance. Coffee. Coffee or beer. Either. Both. Soon. Preferably sleep, but he suspected that wasn't going to be an option. The final scene left her collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Very convincingly. As the curtain fell, he stood, not to applaud with the rest of the audience, but to escape the crowds and try and get a closer look at the stage he'd be working on for the next few months.
Problems with authority. That's what they'd said he had. So he'd left the USAF Academy honourably, before they got ideas about booting him out. It was his instructors who had suggested the stage. Said they were never sure what they were getting with him, whether they knew the young man in their charge at all, whether he would be capable of following orders to the letter when it came to it. If they couldn't see past his mask, they couldn't trust him entirely. And couldn't put their faith in him. Could take direction, they said, but not orders.
He charmed his way backstage, introducing himself as their new leading man, eager to start and eager to learn a new role through and through. The stage manager, who introduced himself as Rodney McKay, was hardly impressed with his attempts, but was distracted enough arguing with a peer, whom John noted had a lilting foreign accent, for him to escape. What he didn't know was that he was being subtlety observed the whole time.
"John Sheppard, I presume?" a strong female voice questioned.
He started at the voice, but turned round slowly to find the source, as if he had all the time in the world. There stood Elizabeth Weir, clad in jeans and a loose fitting shirt, leaning against the back wall, arms folded, slight smile on her face. He nodded once, silently.
She pushed off from the wall, walking toward him, "Elizabeth Weir," she offered him her hand.
John shook it, "I can see why they're calling you the best," he stated.
She smiled in a self depreciating manner, "Maybe for now. Not for long, I suspect," Elizabeth took a step back, "So, you're my new leading man?"
"So they say," he shot her a grin.
She nodded several times, looking him up and down, "I look forward to working with you," she glanced at her watch, frowning for a moment, before she looked back at him, "…I could do with a drink."
"Do you do mind reading too?"
"On my off days," Elizabeth smiled, "Care to join me?"
He frowned, "Don't you have some huge cast party to go to? Or don't they do it over here like we do at home?"
She laughed softly, "Oh they do. Sometimes even better," she checked her watch again, "Yes, I do. And I said I'd attend," she raised an eyebrow, "But seeing as you're next in line to the stage, I doubt anybody would begrudge you a seat at the table. And if we're both still standing afterward, then I'll take you up on that drink."
John grinned again, "I thought you asked me for a drink."
She grabbed a piece of paper from her back pocket, noting the name of the restaurant and time, "I thought you might turn out to be a gentleman," Elizabeth walked right past him, pressing the piece of paper into his hand, smiling faintly, "We'll see."
