One More Time John Reese Wished River Song Hadn't Shown Up, By RoundBrainySpecs
The second time River met John
Saudi Arabia, 1990
John was just a young recruit in 1990, and why he should be called especially to report to his commanding officer, alone and ready for action, was beyond him.
"Reporting as ordered, sir."
"I have a special assignment for you, Private: you will escort a civilian archaeologist to some ruins, a few hours drive west of here." Captain Phillips absently rubbed at a red smudge on his cheek. "She asked for you in particular. She'll meet you outside. Good luck, Private."
John saluted, succeeding in hiding his annoyance and disappointment at the mission, and turned to exit the command tent. He was curious how she had the pull to ask for him in particular but even more so why she had singled him out, a young soldier, when there were far more experienced men about, not that there was likely to be any great danger or trouble – though, if there was, odds were it would be caused by this civilian archaeologist. In his experience, civilians – especially those with pull to make special requests – tended to make unnecessary fuss and bother, and he wondered why a civilian was even allowed here at this time, when a call to action was expected at any moment, and he would have precious little time to prepare once the order had been given as it was, or there might even be a preemptive strike from Iraq against Saudi Arabia. No, this was not a good time for civilians coming around and creating distractions and inconvenience.
As he stepped out of the command tent, a jeep pulled to a stop in front of him, creating a miniature sandstorm.
"Hello, John." A British accented voice, light and mischievous, addressed him, and soon he made out something of blond corkscrew curls sitting in the driver's seat of the jeep. Taking in his raised eyebrow at her familiar tone, she said, "Haven't we met before? Oh well, guess not; you boys in uniform look so alike."
"Indiana Jones's wife, I presume?" John asked the mercurial woman dryly, taking in the fedora perched on her curls, the loose white shirt, cargo vest, messenger bag, tan cargo pants, and revolver strapped to her waist.
The woman laughed. "Song. Dr. River Song. You may, however, call me River if I can call you John."
John shrugged. "Why not? It seems fair."
"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" River patted the seat beside her. "I think you'd better ride shotgun, John, since, between the two of us, you're the only one that has one, and besides, my old boy gets so cross when I kill people."
He wasn't quite sure she was quite serious about having a beau, but John decided she might be right about him riding shotgun, and he swung himself into the passenger seat.
River grinned, gunning the jeep, and sped off towards the hills.
As the hills drew nearer and conversation passed surprisingly easily between them, John commented, "You seem at ease among the military, River; most civilians tend to freeze up around us when we're in uniform."
"It reminds me of home," she replied, turning off the road down a disused little track.
"And where would that be?"
"A military prison. I'm there on charge of murder, in case you're wondering."
"Right," John replied wryly, "they just send you out on special missions, 007."
"Only when I've been good. Most of the time I just escape."
"And go on one-woman archaeological digs in whatever part of the world is the most dangerous at the time."
"You do catch on quickly, John."
"I do my best."
River finally pulled to a stop outside of what looked like a low door into one of the larger hills. River insisted on leading the way and they pulled out flashlights and entered. The inside was like a rabbit warren, with tunnels criss-crossing and twisting in every direction. River seemed to be guided by some sixth-sense, turning without hesitation.
"So, what's it you're looking for?" John asked.
"You might say that it's a piece of Byzantium," she answered.
"Long ways for it to migrate."
"You'd be surprised how far things can travel, John."
Behind a door hidden in a defaced mural, they found what River was looking for. It was a small medallion on which was stamped a creature like an angel holding its hands over its eyes as though trying to veil tears. Before he could get much more of a look at it, River pulled out a small metal box from a pocket, slipped the medallion inside it, and put it in her bag.
They had a spot of trouble on the way back. An arrogant idiot who was not Dr. Belloq surrounded them with his men and tried to take the medallion. Not finding any other option, River and John maneuvered the man into a position where John could take the element of surprise and the gunmen would be too surprised and stunned to try to shoot at River.
Trading a brief exchange of blows with the Not-Belloq, the fight ended with the man out cold from a final blow John had given him.
River had not been idle while John fought; her revolver had jumped into her hand, and she spun about like a dancer, the result of every pivot a man down, clutching at his knee in agony.
John looked at her in admiration, watching use her final shots with timely accuracy. "You're going to have to teach me how to do that."
River theatrically raised the revolver to her lips and blew, and replaced it in its holster with a flourish. "Oh, I think you'll pick it up in time, John."
They had left the men there, River offering only vague answers as to their identity.
The journey back was surprisingly uneventful and River pulled up in front of his C.O.'s tent.
"Well, it's been a pleasure, John."
"You always get into this much trouble?" John asked, getting out of the vehicle.
"Well, usually something blows up; next time, maybe."
"Enjoy that prison food," John said drily.
River laughed, and sped off in a cloud of dust.