Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate: Atlantis, Supernatural or Bones. Wish I did, then I would have my own group of supernatural scientists who explore the galaxy and solve murders. Cool!
AN: This is probably rubbish, and shouldn't be read, but I felt the need to write something and this was all that came. Oh well.
I Hate Clowns
In a park in Washington DC, a carnival was set up. The carnival was the same as any other, the same vomit inducing speed rides, the same Ferris wheel, the same creepy old guy selling tickets in the booth, and most importantly, the same circus tent with a show ring inside. Sitting inside this tent, but spaced out around the ring were three different men from three different walks of life, all thinking the exact same thought.
For Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, it was dislike…
He was pretty sure that it wasn't the floppy shoes. It couldn't really be the red noses. It wasn't even when they tried to get you to do something when you just didn't want to. Look back at his childhood, John had the sneaking suspicion that the real reason he disliked clowns was because behind the face paint, they could have been anyone. Paint on a smile, and no-one could see that underneath they were angry. Hide underneath a fuzzy wig and no-one could tell that you despised the very children you were entertaining.
John could remember countless birthday parties held at the family manor. Every kid in his class invited, not because he liked them, but because it was what polite society dictated. There would be the balloons and the ice cream and the hordes of children rampaging through the house causing chaos and mayhem wherever they went. By the end of the day, at least one child would have fallen into the pool fully dressed, and one more would be crying because he/she wanted one of the toys that John had received. And through all of this would be the clown.
Looking back on it, John couldn't tell if was the same guy each year, but there would be the same stupid jokes and even though he would ask for a gorilla balloon animal, he would get a dog, a horse, a giraffe or any one of a hundred variations of the same basic shape. Maybe it was the same guy because every year after his show was over, while the kids were running around on a sugar and red cordial induced high the clown would disappear behind the house for a smoke. John remembered being about seven or eight and looking for a good hiding place when he spotted the clown and heard the muttering. Gone was the happy man with the bright smile and squeaky shoes. In his place was a cold, grumpy person – the wig and nose still in place but seeming much more menacing than before. The quiet litany of "…evil brats. 'Make me a dinosaur, Mr Clown!' my ass. Ungrateful little shits…" reached John's innocent ears and forever cemented in his mind the idea that clowns were not nice people.
Nowadays, John was a grown man. He had a very important job, a good home and a review with several high-up Washington types that had actually gone well, for once. It was on the way from the review to their hotel that he had spotted the flyers for the carnival and it hadn't taken much effort for him to convince the rest of SGA-1 that they should go.
It had taken a little while before Ronon and Teyla had accustomed themselves to the strange sights and sounds before they had relaxed, but once they had, everyone had enjoyed themselves. John had ridden the Ferris wheel four times in a row before the carnie operating the ride had kicked him off. Teyla had eaten too much popcorn and was now looking a little green. Ronon had won a plastic skull trinket in the Baseball Toss that had looked cheap and tacky until Ronon wove it into his dreads where it looked…kind of cool. Even McKay had gotten into the spirit of the outing, having taken great enjoyment in stumping Mr Mysterio 'The Worlds Greatest Know-It-All!' with a couple of well placed questions about the laws of thermodynamics and how they act in a vacuum scenario.
But later, as John watched the painted figure in the floppy shoes and frizzy wig trying to pull a gangly youth to his feet, accompanied by the laughter of the youth's friend, all of John's happiness at the day faded, replaced by a single thought.
I hate clowns.
For FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth, it was hatred.
It wasn't a subtle hatred, one of the ones that inserted themselves into your life – like brussell sprouts. Booth could pinpoint the exact day and time he started hating clowns.
He had been twelve years old and it was at Halloween. He and his friends had realised that this would probably be the last year that they could go before they got too old and it became 'uncool' so they had decided to go all out on their costumes and have fun. At the end of the night as he waved goodbye and headed off down the cul-de-sac to his home, he spat out his fake vampire fangs and opened up his bag to inspect his candy haul. So intent was he on seeing if he could spot any peanut butter cups, he didn't notice until it was too late that he was surrounded by a group of boys not that much older than him, clown masks hiding their faces and given them an air of menace.
Ten minutes later, as he picked himself up from the hard and unforgiving ground, Seeley Booth winced as he felt the skin over his cheekbone starting to bruise and swell. Watching the boys who had mugged him for his candy move away, laughing as they planned to divvy up their loot, Seeley refereed the second argument of the night between his head and his heart. Considering the result of the first argument between head (Just give them the candy and run!) and heart (Not fair! It's mine!), this time he went with his head's more sensible suggestion and let the bullies leave. Turning himself towards home and the sympathy that would hopefully be waiting, he kicked out at the flapping tails of the coat that he had thought make him look so dark and brooding.
Now, as he sat in the audience of the circus show, a sugar-loaded Parker sitting beside him, he watched the clown trying to coax some poor schmuck out of the audience and into the ring. Booth could hear Parker's quiet giggles which would soon undoubtedly escalate into full-blown laughter. He could hear the couple behind him groaning at the cheesiness of the show. He could even hear the poor schmuck's friend (or maybe brother?) clapping too loudly and with mocking cheer. But even though he heard these things, he paid no notice to them. All Seeley Booth could do was think one thought.
I hate clowns.
For Sam Winchester, it was fear.
Growing up, his father had always told him not to trust the outside appearance, and this was a lesson that had been reinforced over the years through encounters with various demons, spirits and other miscellaneous creepy stuff. But even without this lesson, his fear of clowns ran deep.
It had been when Sam was about six years old and his dad had come home from a hunt, carrying with him a harmless talisman. It was therefore somewhat of a shock to him when he was awoken by his youngest child's screaming. John Winchester had charged into Sam's room to discover that the flea-market clown doll that he had purchased to keep his son entertained during the long car trips had come to life and was trying to kill Sammy. Quickly assessing the situation, he had grabbed the clown doll and shut it in the wardrobe, trapping the possessed toy inside.
It had taken a quick incantation and the generous application of a sledgehammer to break the talisman and it's spell. It took a lot more than that for the nightmares to stop and for Sam to feel comfortable sleeping in complete darkness again. Afterwards, whenever Sam Winchester saw a clown a shiver would run down his spine. The shiver got colder after incident with the Rakshasa and it turned to ice after hearing the Trickster's mocking laughter in those six months that never happened. Which was why he felt so uncomfortable here, in the traditional home of the clown.
It had taken him and Dean all day to scan the fairground, looking for the focusing charm that Bobby had told them about, and after the near fight between his brother and the Bearded Lady, Sam was frustrated with their lack of results. His frustration climbed even higher when the clown decided that Sam was going to be the dupe that would be pulled out of the audience. As Dean clapped and cheered in the seat next to him, encouraging the clown in his harassment of his brother, Sam sat resolutely in his chair, shaking his head and giving emphatic 'No' s every time the clown tried to coax him into the ring. When the clown tried to grab his arm and pull him up out of his seat, Sam could only think one thing.
I hate clowns.
Now, maybe it was a strange planetary alignment.
Maybe it was a weird combination of Sam's demon blood, Seeley's unshaken belief in right and wrong, and John's ATA gene.
Or maybe it was the exact same thought at the exact same time from three different minds and helped along by the focusing charm that was tied to the centre pole of the Big Top tent.
For whatever reason, two point seven seconds after the thought ran through all three heads the clown exploded.
Okay, evil laughter done. This fic is a result of two factors. Factor one: Watching season 4 of Atlantis and season 2 of both Bones and Supernatural over the Holiday break and noticing a common thread. Factor two: having waaaaaay too much time on my hands combined with waaaaaay too many sugary drinks. I hope that this fic provided you with at least a small measure of enjoyment.
Oh, and if you are a clown, or have been one in the past, please don't be offended. I don't want to be chased by scary clowns.
Fred the Wraith Queen