Fic: Three Fates 3/36 [SGA]
Three Fates 3/36
Yeah, yeah, every day, bleah, bleah, it's midnight somewhere.
Author: auburnnothenna & eretria
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Size: ~ 3811 words
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Rising, Before I Sleep, The Brotherhood, The Defiant One, Hot Zone, The Siege I, II & III, Trinity
Disclaimer: Not ours, not profiting, written for entertainment purposes alone.
Characters: Elizabeth Weir, Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Atlantis
Genre: AU, polyamorous
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard, McKay/Sheppard/Atlantis, McKay/Weir/Sheppard, Sheppard/Atlantis
Summary: "Worst case scenario?"
"We tear a hole in the fabric of the universe."
Trinity
There was no rational way to handle this.
Previous post 2/36
Lachesis
Arcturus Weapons Installation
Doranda System
7032
Doranda is already a dead world when Sheppard and Rodney gate through to the system.
The planet is already dead, but it is there, along with the rest of the system, orbiting its blue-white primary, with an incredibly dense field of debris floating in the space around it. It's the remnants of the Wraith fleet they had seen before. The proximity alarm begins screeching as soon as the jumper exits the gate.
"What - ?" Rodney exclaims, and, "Shields, shields, shields," in a panicked chant.
"On it, McKay," Sheppard says and it's incredibly normal, incredibly welcome.
It isn't the big pieces Rodney's scared of. It's the little micro-meteorites. It all looks so innocent, like it's just floating there in space, but the truth is every piece is moving at speeds that will punch through the thin shell of a jumper like a bullet. The atmosphere of Doranda is a spark-bright lightshow from the constant shower of debris falling into the gravity well and burning up. In slightly less than ten thousand years - nine thousand thirty-seven - most of the smaller debris will have been destroyed on entry or its velocity will have taken it beyond Doranda into the empty space above the planetary orbital plane. For now, it flares up in brilliant pinpricks against the jumper's shield.
Sheppard takes them through the mine field of the broken fleet silently, then down through the atmosphere to the weapons installation.
They pick up their packs and guns out of habit and exit the jumper. They don't have any explosives, but it won't be necessary. Rodney is intimately familiar with the facility. He knows its weak points. He knows how to power it up and how to activate the self-destruct. It won't take long and when they're done, the Arcturus Project will be a Tunguska-sized crater, all evidence of its existence wiped away.
It's dark and freezing cold as they exit the jumper. Sheppard's breath curls white before him and Rodney's fingers go numb. So much dust has been thrown up into the atmosphere by the constant bombardment that the sun is only a pale, dim coin seen through the roiling black cloud cover. Doranda is in the grip of an endless winter that will kill any life left on the planet.
The air smells of cold and dust and ozone.
Rodney follows Sheppard inside. Power cells that had been depleted after millennia are still active now and the facility lights up for Sheppard as they enter. He remembers Ronon prying open the hatch when they found this place; he can even see Ronon's ghost standing with his arms folded, glowering at them. The light is sharp, unnatural, bleaching everything and throwing eerie shadows. For an instant, Rodney thinks he can see frost caught on Sheppard's dark stubble and his breath catches. He blinks and stops in his tracks.
When he doesn't move after too long, Sheppard turns back toward him. His face is gaunt in the blue-tinted light and his eyes are dark, dark and filled with anger. Sheppard's mask is cracking, but Rodney can't move. He can't think for remembering and seeing.
The bodies are back. Oh, yes, the bodies are back that they found the first time, but age hasn't kindly withered them to dusty mummies yet. Rodney can only stare. It's still possible to see that they died like Collins did: burnt by radiation from a thousand impossible particles generated by a runaway overload. The way everyone on Doranda died, he knows now. At least enough years have passed that the smell is gone. Bile rises in his throat anyway.
He turns around and sees Optican bent over a console. Radek pushing his glasses up his nose, eyes distracted. Teyla, her arms folded over the stock of her P90, her wonderful smile fading into something so full of disappointment, Rodney has to squeeze his eyes shut. He can't move, he can't do anything, it's all bearing down on him, crushing him under the guilt. The words want to tear themselves out. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant, I never would, I didn't know, it wasn't supposed to be that way, I'd do anything, anything to repay.
Sheppard's too caught up in his own hell to see that Rodney is falling apart. Or he doesn't care, Rodney admits to himself. His tone eats at Rodney like caustic when he speaks, snapping Rodney's eyes open.
"What the hell are you waiting for, McKay?" Sheppard's face is tight, as though this place makes him sick, too.
"Oh, God."
"McKay, God damn it, don't you dare try anything - "
But Rodney is backing away from the control console. "I can't," he mumbles. "I - I've got to get out of here."
Sheppard crosses the room while Rodney's still looking around wildly for the exit. He has Rodney's arm under his hand. His fingers bite brutally into Rodney's bicep. He spins him and then he pushes Rodney back, one step, two steps, three, and Rodney's back hits the wall. The metal chill cuts through his jacket and his shirt. The shock of it makes him gasp. His hands scrabble at Sheppard's, but Sheppard is too close for Rodney to gain any leverage. He shoves his forearm against Rodney's throat, forcing his chin up, and leans in.
"You're not going anywhere," Sheppard says harshly. He looks feral.
He leans closer and suddenly the heat from his body is all Rodney can feel. Nothing else is real. There's just Sheppard. Hot breath so close it stirs against Rodney's skin. If he opened his mouth he could almost taste it. His own breath saws in and out. He's caught.
Caught under Sheppard's hands, caught between past and future, caught between the dead cold of this place and burning alive.
His hands are on Sheppard's arm, but he's not pushing it away.
He's not sure if Sheppard is going to exert the extra pressure it would take to close his windpipe. He could. Sheppard's good at killing. Rodney couldn't stop him. Wouldn't stop him. It would be the end of this nightmare. Sheppard can set the self-destruct. Sheppard's good at self-destruction, too.
"Do it," he whispers.
He can see Sheppard's eyes widen. It's like light pouring into them, then it's gone and they're darker than Rodney's ever seen. The pulse in Sheppard's neck jumps and speeds. His sweat smells bitter. "No," he says. "No, damn it." The pressure against Rodney's throat loosens. His voice drops. "I swear, I'm not letting you go anywhere, Rodney."
Rodney slumps back against the wall. It hurts to swallow; his Adam's apple working against the painful presence of Sheppard's arm.
"Go back to the jumper. Get out of here."
"You want me to leave you?" Sheppard's voice rises into disbelief.
"Yeah."
"You bastard. You think I'd screw you over like that?"
"I think I deserve it."
Sheppard steps back.
He's scared out of his mind. He never, ever wanted to die. He never understood how Sheppard could smile when dying seemed inevitable, when Rodney wants to scream and flail and beg and claw and do anything to stay alive.
Rodney thinks Sheppard's going to do it. He's going to leave. He'll fly the jumper back to Atlantis and Elizabeth and that soft tickle at the back of his mind that is the AI, the whisper of Ancient that Rodney can almost make out. He'll go and Rodney will set the self-destruct and it will be over. He doesn't deserve to get away from his nightmares and he doesn't deserve the peace of knowing he's giving his life to undo his mistake. The truth is, he doesn't deserve anything. He doesn't deserve to escape living with what he did, either, but you can't die to amend your mistakes and live as penance, too. He knows he doesn't deserve Sheppard's forgiveness or Elizabeth's either, but he still wants it.
Except Sheppard isn't leaving. He grabs Rodney's wrists and pins them against the wall. It's slick and unforgiving under Rodney's clenched fingers. Sheppard's hands are going to leave bruises. Sheppard pushes closer, between Rodney's legs, pressing Rodney back, whispering, "Fuck that, fuck you, Rodney, just fuck you." His chest is against Rodney's, his weight holding them both against the wall. His hands slide up from Rodney's wrists to his shoulders, closing there tight enough to bruise.
Rodney's hands are free again, but he doesn't know what to do with them. Push Sheppard away? Pull him tighter? Finally, he mimics Sheppard and sets his hands on Sheppard's shoulders, resting them there lightly, afraid to do more.
Sheppard's stubble rasps almost painfully against Rodney's jaw line. Rodney cracks his head against the wall as he jerks it back in response to Sheppard's teeth closing on his neck.
He can feel Sheppard's erection grinding into him. Rodney's hard too and he doesn't - no, he knows what they're doing - he just doesn't know why. It feels like oxygen when he's drowning, but they never would have done this before and he doesn't know why he needs Sheppard's hands on him and Sheppard's mouth and Sheppard's want now.
He realizes he can touch, so he does.
Rodney squeezes the back of Sheppard's neck, amazed at the heat and warmth of that strip of skin between the softness of his hair and the collar of his zip-neck black shirt. He tunnels his other hand under Sheppard's belt and the pants that are even looser than they used to be, under Sheppard's boxers, closing his hand on Sheppard's ass and pulling him tighter.
Sheppard lets go of Rodney's shoulders in favor of roughly opening Rodney's pants. His fingers are dry, faintly rough, as they brush against the bare skin of Rodney's stomach. Sheppard has got the buttons open now, pulling Rodney's pants open and Rodney's already hard enough his cock is pushing out of his underwear on its own. He doesn't notice the cold, because his whole body is lighting up, hyperaware of the places his skin touches Sheppard's, feeling overtaking any thoughts.
Sheppard's hand closes on his cock, not hesitating, no finesse, just stripping the pleasure from Rodney's nerve endings into his brain. Sheppard's face is pressed into the crook of Rodney's neck and he's grinding his cock against Rodney's hip almost desperately as he jerks him off. He doesn't say anything. All Rodney can do is grunt as Sheppard wrings his orgasm from him, leaving him sticky and spent, propped against the wall.
And Sheppard hasn't come. He's still hard, still pressed against Rodney, but he isn't moving. He hasn't even taken his hand away from Rodney's unpleasantly sensitized dick. His breath gusts down Rodney's shirt, his face still hidden in the crook between neck and shoulder.
Rodney takes a deep breath. He has no idea what comes next. A reciprocal hand job? A punch in the gut? His heart is hammering. A trickle of sweat runs between his shoulder blades.
"Fuck," Sheppard breathes against Rodney's neck.
"Yeah."
He slides his hand up from Sheppard's ass to his waist and rests it there, ready to tighten if Sheppard tries to draw away.
"Are you - ?"
Sheppard's shaking his head against Rodney's shoulder. Actually, all of him is shaking.
"I'm not okay."
Rodney doesn't say anything. Sheppard's not okay. Rodney's not okay. What just happened isn't okay. He was so damn sure of himself he made a mistake that ripped apart the fabric of existence. The universe ends in just over nine thousand years, if they don't change what happens, because of him. Nothing means much compared to that.
Except Sheppard, who needs too, and smells of musk and sex and fear, and is still warm and alive.
Rodney manages to get Sheppard's pants open one-handed. The angle's awkward and unfamiliar, but Sheppard is sleek and hot and whimpers at the first touch of Rodney's hand. He holds onto Rodney's hips to steady himself and bucks into Rodney's hand after the first two strokes. He comes with a whole-body shudder, soundless, and slumps against Rodney briefly, before pulling away.
They don't look at each other. They're not going to talk about it. It's not going to happen again.
Rodney does what's necessary to blow up the entire weapons installation while Sheppard waits. It's even darker when they leave. Jagged, blinding streaks of lightning strike from cloud to earth in the distance, thunder following them. It gives the clouds a purple tint. Black and purple are the colors of mourning, Rodney thinks.
Fitting.
¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦
Elizabeth sorts the remaining MREs, counts them, calculates how far they can be stretched - another few days - while she waits and waits and waits. She paces around and through the control room, down the steps to the gate and back up, pausing under the darkened windows, hugging herself. She checks her watch over and over, half convinced it's slow or stopped. Time passes with agonizing slowness.
Atlantis is still and so quiet around her she can hear her footfalls and the quick, sharp sound of her jacket's zip as she pulls it closed. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She can hear her own breathing, too fast, in counterpoint to the city that seems to hold its breath, desperate for John and Rodney's return.
She curses herself for agreeing to stay behind. She was there the first time, she should have gone with them this time. John's too damn headstrong. When he gets an idea, he's as bad as Rodney, refusing to consider another way might be better. Her staying behind is just one more occasion in which she has let herself be persuaded by them, irrespective of her good sense.
Despite that, she knows exactly why they went. They both blame themselves. They think they have to make amends, undo their mistakes.
They aren't the only ones.
She rubs her hands up and down her arms, thinking about the past that may be the future. The future John and Rodney are guaranteeing won't end with Arcturus. A future that can be ... amended, she thinks. Her eyes narrow as she turns the thought over. They have Atlantis. They have time, oh God, do they have time, and all the benefits of twenty-twenty hindsight.
Why not?
Why not take advantage? They can make things better. They can repair the Lagrange point satellite and save this timeline's Peter Grodin. They can warn their counterparts to avoid the Wraith supply ship where Abrams and Gall died. They can not wake the Wraith, not initiate a devastating culling fifty or a hundred years early.
Intent now, she stops checking her watch every ten minutes. Instead she begins making a list of things they can fix before they ever happen. Being careful on Athos, quarantining the energy being, deleting Hoff from the database, never visiting the Genii, sealing off the nanovirii lab … Sliding into the routine of strategizing is easy, comfortable. This is a habitat she's at home in, weighing possible costs against possible benefits. Prioritizing. Survival over guilt.
It's playing God.
It won't undo their past, just change this timeline's future.Wiping out the Arcturus installation and the information it holds won't change what they did, before, only what may happen again. It isn't enough, can never be, and that's what haunts her. Time is unredeemable.
She doesn't care.
She begins thinking about potential missions, considering planets they visited in their timeline. Athos, Manarea, Dagan. She ponders Athos for a while but discards the thought of going there: if she remembers correctly, then Athos was in the middle of a Wraith culling cycle 9000 years back. She's not going to risk either of their lives finding out whether or not it's true. There also is the niggling suspicion that history will repeat itself, one way or the other, even if the culling cycle is long over. Manarea and Dagan seem safer, especially Dagan, since John and Rodney already know the secret of the Brotherhood. She's sketching out the details of a mission to Dagan, to recover the ZPM left by the Ancients with the Sudarians, when the stargate activates. Her earpiece crackles and John's welcome voice echoes in her ear. "This is Sheppard. We're on our way."
Elizabeth jumps to her feet and races for the jumper bay.
¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦
Rodney bolts out of the jumper the instant the ramp's down, the clang echoing up into the dark of the jumper bay's ceiling, metallic and harsh, greeting Elizabeth with a curt, "I have to get something to eat," and brushing past her. The set of his mouth, pulled thin, and the hunch in his shoulders shouts, Leave me alone.
She waits a minute, then another, and then John is walking down the ramp, looking pale and exhausted, moving with a brittle sort of care. The lights in the bay brighten in response to him. He stops when he sees her and she realizes he hadn't considered she'd be waiting.
His gaze drops back to the floor.
"John?" she asks cautiously. From the way Rodney acted and John's tense appearance, she's suddenly afraid something went drastically wrong, as though Doranda is cursed, because there are so many things that could have happened. She's spent too many hours imagining all of them. She wonders if he and Rodney didn't quarrel again, despite the apparent rapprochement between them before they left.
His lips move on a soundless word, maybe her name, but it's impossible to tell.
"The weapon?"
He shivers under the light gray and black jacket. "It's done," he tells her. His face goes blank, his eyes drop away from hers. "Rodney did it."
It should be a relief. Arcturus destroyed the universe in their timeline, but its threat is gone from this one. Elizabeth doesn't feel anything, beyond a horrible light-headedness as whatever she's using to hold herself together suddenly drains away. If this is what John is experiencing, small wonder he appears at a loss. She expected to feel something, but of course she doesn't.
But John's back, whole and safe, as is Rodney, and that propels Elizabeth forward to the bottom of the jumper's ramp. She wraps her arms around him, because she needs to feel that and he looks like he needs it.
John is stiff at first, and despite knowing about it, Elizabeth wonders at that; that he's so uncomfortable with a simple hug, a human touch. Then his arms close around her and he's breathing her name hoarsely. One hand presses between her shoulder blades, the other around her waist and both press her closer to him. His breath is rough and fast and her pulse ratchets up. The instant she starts to pull back, John's pulling her closer, finding her lips with his mouth before she can speak a protest. His tongue is there, slick and urgent, finding its way into her mouth.
He hisses when she bites his lip in retaliation.
The kiss is all bruising pressure, teeth catching tender flesh, hard hands and desperation. She twists and her nipples scrape over the rough pockets and zips of his tac vest. The sensation makes her tighten inside, tension spiraling in her belly. One hand is digging into his hair, fingers clenching on dark strands, and one clutching at his hip. Thinking her nails might draw blood right through the fabric of his BDUs. Not caring, because she just wants to take for once.
She's holding onto John, she's kissing him now, welcoming the mindless physicality in the place of consideration, wanting the heat. He groans when she grinds herself against him. Slides his hands down to cup her ass, lifting her onto her toes to press against him even tighter.
There's nothing good or sweet about what they're doing, she thinks, and rocks her hips against him, not caring, tasting blood and licking where it wells.
Then his hands are gone and he's three steps away, eyes almost black, blood trickling from his lip, and she barely regains her balance.
He holds his hands up, open, shaking his head.
"Jesus, Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I'm - that - "
She wants to scream at him. She holds onto her temper and whatever is left of her dignity. At least he can't tell how wet and ready she is, though she can see he's still aroused. She can't do anything about her nipples, except hug her arms over her breasts to hide them. "Sorry for what? A kiss?"
"No - Yes!" John echoes, his voice rising. "I just - this is too screwed. Not after - right now this would be - " He looks pleading. "I can't fuck things up more than I already have."
"Of course," she says.
She always knew he had more control than he let show. It broke just now, but he's building it back up with every harsh breath. His fingers twitch, but she knows he won't reach for her again.
She watches him leave the jumper bay, her mouth still hot from his kisses. Less than a month ago, if John had kissed her like that, she would have either kneed him or called for security because something was wrong with him. She would never have kissed him back, no matter how much she liked him as a man.
There were rules of conduct and they both lived by them.
John and Rodney have no reason to obey her now, except habit. To their thinking, they're the ones who are going to go out and do something. Her skills must seem nearly meaningless in the Pegasus Galaxy.
If John hadn't stopped, she wouldn't have. Part of her knows that fucking John would be a way to bind him to her again. It's an age old instinct, combined with fear and adrenaline, and it infuriates her that she succumbed to it for even an instant. Under the circumstances, if they slept together, neither of them would have retained much respect for each other.
A cold sweat breaks out along her back as she thinks of Rodney. He asked her out once. He'd be hurt if she slept with John. He'd be jealous of them both. She can't turn to Rodney for the same reasons. Everything could get worse.
A deep breath, followed by another, and she is in better control and grateful that John pulled back. If the memory of his warmth lingers like his scent, she'll live with it. Sex under the circumstances would be a mistake. She licks her lower lip. John felt good and kissed like his life depended on it.
It would have been a mistake.
She repeats that to herself, but her body is still buzzing, and she curses John, herself, Rodney and the situation equally.
The jumper bay goes dark, the lights switching off - Atlantis refusing to acknowledge Elizabeth's presence again.
Next post: 4/36
Yeah, yeah, every day, bleah, bleah, it's midnight somewhere.
Author: auburnnothenna & eretria
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Size: ~ 3811 words
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Rising, Before I Sleep, The Brotherhood, The Defiant One, Hot Zone, The Siege I, II & III, Trinity
Disclaimer: Not ours, not profiting, written for entertainment purposes alone.
Characters: Elizabeth Weir, Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Atlantis
Genre: AU, polyamorous
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard, McKay/Sheppard/Atlantis, McKay/Weir/Sheppard, Sheppard/Atlantis
Summary: "Worst case scenario?"
"We tear a hole in the fabric of the universe."
Trinity
There was no rational way to handle this.
Previous post 2/36
Lachesis
Arcturus Weapons Installation
Doranda System
7032
Doranda is already a dead world when Sheppard and Rodney gate through to the system.
The planet is already dead, but it is there, along with the rest of the system, orbiting its blue-white primary, with an incredibly dense field of debris floating in the space around it. It's the remnants of the Wraith fleet they had seen before. The proximity alarm begins screeching as soon as the jumper exits the gate.
"What - ?" Rodney exclaims, and, "Shields, shields, shields," in a panicked chant.
"On it, McKay," Sheppard says and it's incredibly normal, incredibly welcome.
It isn't the big pieces Rodney's scared of. It's the little micro-meteorites. It all looks so innocent, like it's just floating there in space, but the truth is every piece is moving at speeds that will punch through the thin shell of a jumper like a bullet. The atmosphere of Doranda is a spark-bright lightshow from the constant shower of debris falling into the gravity well and burning up. In slightly less than ten thousand years - nine thousand thirty-seven - most of the smaller debris will have been destroyed on entry or its velocity will have taken it beyond Doranda into the empty space above the planetary orbital plane. For now, it flares up in brilliant pinpricks against the jumper's shield.
Sheppard takes them through the mine field of the broken fleet silently, then down through the atmosphere to the weapons installation.
They pick up their packs and guns out of habit and exit the jumper. They don't have any explosives, but it won't be necessary. Rodney is intimately familiar with the facility. He knows its weak points. He knows how to power it up and how to activate the self-destruct. It won't take long and when they're done, the Arcturus Project will be a Tunguska-sized crater, all evidence of its existence wiped away.
It's dark and freezing cold as they exit the jumper. Sheppard's breath curls white before him and Rodney's fingers go numb. So much dust has been thrown up into the atmosphere by the constant bombardment that the sun is only a pale, dim coin seen through the roiling black cloud cover. Doranda is in the grip of an endless winter that will kill any life left on the planet.
The air smells of cold and dust and ozone.
Rodney follows Sheppard inside. Power cells that had been depleted after millennia are still active now and the facility lights up for Sheppard as they enter. He remembers Ronon prying open the hatch when they found this place; he can even see Ronon's ghost standing with his arms folded, glowering at them. The light is sharp, unnatural, bleaching everything and throwing eerie shadows. For an instant, Rodney thinks he can see frost caught on Sheppard's dark stubble and his breath catches. He blinks and stops in his tracks.
When he doesn't move after too long, Sheppard turns back toward him. His face is gaunt in the blue-tinted light and his eyes are dark, dark and filled with anger. Sheppard's mask is cracking, but Rodney can't move. He can't think for remembering and seeing.
The bodies are back. Oh, yes, the bodies are back that they found the first time, but age hasn't kindly withered them to dusty mummies yet. Rodney can only stare. It's still possible to see that they died like Collins did: burnt by radiation from a thousand impossible particles generated by a runaway overload. The way everyone on Doranda died, he knows now. At least enough years have passed that the smell is gone. Bile rises in his throat anyway.
He turns around and sees Optican bent over a console. Radek pushing his glasses up his nose, eyes distracted. Teyla, her arms folded over the stock of her P90, her wonderful smile fading into something so full of disappointment, Rodney has to squeeze his eyes shut. He can't move, he can't do anything, it's all bearing down on him, crushing him under the guilt. The words want to tear themselves out. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant, I never would, I didn't know, it wasn't supposed to be that way, I'd do anything, anything to repay.
Sheppard's too caught up in his own hell to see that Rodney is falling apart. Or he doesn't care, Rodney admits to himself. His tone eats at Rodney like caustic when he speaks, snapping Rodney's eyes open.
"What the hell are you waiting for, McKay?" Sheppard's face is tight, as though this place makes him sick, too.
"Oh, God."
"McKay, God damn it, don't you dare try anything - "
But Rodney is backing away from the control console. "I can't," he mumbles. "I - I've got to get out of here."
Sheppard crosses the room while Rodney's still looking around wildly for the exit. He has Rodney's arm under his hand. His fingers bite brutally into Rodney's bicep. He spins him and then he pushes Rodney back, one step, two steps, three, and Rodney's back hits the wall. The metal chill cuts through his jacket and his shirt. The shock of it makes him gasp. His hands scrabble at Sheppard's, but Sheppard is too close for Rodney to gain any leverage. He shoves his forearm against Rodney's throat, forcing his chin up, and leans in.
"You're not going anywhere," Sheppard says harshly. He looks feral.
He leans closer and suddenly the heat from his body is all Rodney can feel. Nothing else is real. There's just Sheppard. Hot breath so close it stirs against Rodney's skin. If he opened his mouth he could almost taste it. His own breath saws in and out. He's caught.
Caught under Sheppard's hands, caught between past and future, caught between the dead cold of this place and burning alive.
His hands are on Sheppard's arm, but he's not pushing it away.
He's not sure if Sheppard is going to exert the extra pressure it would take to close his windpipe. He could. Sheppard's good at killing. Rodney couldn't stop him. Wouldn't stop him. It would be the end of this nightmare. Sheppard can set the self-destruct. Sheppard's good at self-destruction, too.
"Do it," he whispers.
He can see Sheppard's eyes widen. It's like light pouring into them, then it's gone and they're darker than Rodney's ever seen. The pulse in Sheppard's neck jumps and speeds. His sweat smells bitter. "No," he says. "No, damn it." The pressure against Rodney's throat loosens. His voice drops. "I swear, I'm not letting you go anywhere, Rodney."
Rodney slumps back against the wall. It hurts to swallow; his Adam's apple working against the painful presence of Sheppard's arm.
"Go back to the jumper. Get out of here."
"You want me to leave you?" Sheppard's voice rises into disbelief.
"Yeah."
"You bastard. You think I'd screw you over like that?"
"I think I deserve it."
Sheppard steps back.
He's scared out of his mind. He never, ever wanted to die. He never understood how Sheppard could smile when dying seemed inevitable, when Rodney wants to scream and flail and beg and claw and do anything to stay alive.
Rodney thinks Sheppard's going to do it. He's going to leave. He'll fly the jumper back to Atlantis and Elizabeth and that soft tickle at the back of his mind that is the AI, the whisper of Ancient that Rodney can almost make out. He'll go and Rodney will set the self-destruct and it will be over. He doesn't deserve to get away from his nightmares and he doesn't deserve the peace of knowing he's giving his life to undo his mistake. The truth is, he doesn't deserve anything. He doesn't deserve to escape living with what he did, either, but you can't die to amend your mistakes and live as penance, too. He knows he doesn't deserve Sheppard's forgiveness or Elizabeth's either, but he still wants it.
Except Sheppard isn't leaving. He grabs Rodney's wrists and pins them against the wall. It's slick and unforgiving under Rodney's clenched fingers. Sheppard's hands are going to leave bruises. Sheppard pushes closer, between Rodney's legs, pressing Rodney back, whispering, "Fuck that, fuck you, Rodney, just fuck you." His chest is against Rodney's, his weight holding them both against the wall. His hands slide up from Rodney's wrists to his shoulders, closing there tight enough to bruise.
Rodney's hands are free again, but he doesn't know what to do with them. Push Sheppard away? Pull him tighter? Finally, he mimics Sheppard and sets his hands on Sheppard's shoulders, resting them there lightly, afraid to do more.
Sheppard's stubble rasps almost painfully against Rodney's jaw line. Rodney cracks his head against the wall as he jerks it back in response to Sheppard's teeth closing on his neck.
He can feel Sheppard's erection grinding into him. Rodney's hard too and he doesn't - no, he knows what they're doing - he just doesn't know why. It feels like oxygen when he's drowning, but they never would have done this before and he doesn't know why he needs Sheppard's hands on him and Sheppard's mouth and Sheppard's want now.
He realizes he can touch, so he does.
Rodney squeezes the back of Sheppard's neck, amazed at the heat and warmth of that strip of skin between the softness of his hair and the collar of his zip-neck black shirt. He tunnels his other hand under Sheppard's belt and the pants that are even looser than they used to be, under Sheppard's boxers, closing his hand on Sheppard's ass and pulling him tighter.
Sheppard lets go of Rodney's shoulders in favor of roughly opening Rodney's pants. His fingers are dry, faintly rough, as they brush against the bare skin of Rodney's stomach. Sheppard has got the buttons open now, pulling Rodney's pants open and Rodney's already hard enough his cock is pushing out of his underwear on its own. He doesn't notice the cold, because his whole body is lighting up, hyperaware of the places his skin touches Sheppard's, feeling overtaking any thoughts.
Sheppard's hand closes on his cock, not hesitating, no finesse, just stripping the pleasure from Rodney's nerve endings into his brain. Sheppard's face is pressed into the crook of Rodney's neck and he's grinding his cock against Rodney's hip almost desperately as he jerks him off. He doesn't say anything. All Rodney can do is grunt as Sheppard wrings his orgasm from him, leaving him sticky and spent, propped against the wall.
And Sheppard hasn't come. He's still hard, still pressed against Rodney, but he isn't moving. He hasn't even taken his hand away from Rodney's unpleasantly sensitized dick. His breath gusts down Rodney's shirt, his face still hidden in the crook between neck and shoulder.
Rodney takes a deep breath. He has no idea what comes next. A reciprocal hand job? A punch in the gut? His heart is hammering. A trickle of sweat runs between his shoulder blades.
"Fuck," Sheppard breathes against Rodney's neck.
"Yeah."
He slides his hand up from Sheppard's ass to his waist and rests it there, ready to tighten if Sheppard tries to draw away.
"Are you - ?"
Sheppard's shaking his head against Rodney's shoulder. Actually, all of him is shaking.
"I'm not okay."
Rodney doesn't say anything. Sheppard's not okay. Rodney's not okay. What just happened isn't okay. He was so damn sure of himself he made a mistake that ripped apart the fabric of existence. The universe ends in just over nine thousand years, if they don't change what happens, because of him. Nothing means much compared to that.
Except Sheppard, who needs too, and smells of musk and sex and fear, and is still warm and alive.
Rodney manages to get Sheppard's pants open one-handed. The angle's awkward and unfamiliar, but Sheppard is sleek and hot and whimpers at the first touch of Rodney's hand. He holds onto Rodney's hips to steady himself and bucks into Rodney's hand after the first two strokes. He comes with a whole-body shudder, soundless, and slumps against Rodney briefly, before pulling away.
They don't look at each other. They're not going to talk about it. It's not going to happen again.
Rodney does what's necessary to blow up the entire weapons installation while Sheppard waits. It's even darker when they leave. Jagged, blinding streaks of lightning strike from cloud to earth in the distance, thunder following them. It gives the clouds a purple tint. Black and purple are the colors of mourning, Rodney thinks.
Fitting.
¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦
Elizabeth sorts the remaining MREs, counts them, calculates how far they can be stretched - another few days - while she waits and waits and waits. She paces around and through the control room, down the steps to the gate and back up, pausing under the darkened windows, hugging herself. She checks her watch over and over, half convinced it's slow or stopped. Time passes with agonizing slowness.
Atlantis is still and so quiet around her she can hear her footfalls and the quick, sharp sound of her jacket's zip as she pulls it closed. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She can hear her own breathing, too fast, in counterpoint to the city that seems to hold its breath, desperate for John and Rodney's return.
She curses herself for agreeing to stay behind. She was there the first time, she should have gone with them this time. John's too damn headstrong. When he gets an idea, he's as bad as Rodney, refusing to consider another way might be better. Her staying behind is just one more occasion in which she has let herself be persuaded by them, irrespective of her good sense.
Despite that, she knows exactly why they went. They both blame themselves. They think they have to make amends, undo their mistakes.
They aren't the only ones.
She rubs her hands up and down her arms, thinking about the past that may be the future. The future John and Rodney are guaranteeing won't end with Arcturus. A future that can be ... amended, she thinks. Her eyes narrow as she turns the thought over. They have Atlantis. They have time, oh God, do they have time, and all the benefits of twenty-twenty hindsight.
Why not?
Why not take advantage? They can make things better. They can repair the Lagrange point satellite and save this timeline's Peter Grodin. They can warn their counterparts to avoid the Wraith supply ship where Abrams and Gall died. They can not wake the Wraith, not initiate a devastating culling fifty or a hundred years early.
Intent now, she stops checking her watch every ten minutes. Instead she begins making a list of things they can fix before they ever happen. Being careful on Athos, quarantining the energy being, deleting Hoff from the database, never visiting the Genii, sealing off the nanovirii lab … Sliding into the routine of strategizing is easy, comfortable. This is a habitat she's at home in, weighing possible costs against possible benefits. Prioritizing. Survival over guilt.
It's playing God.
It won't undo their past, just change this timeline's future.Wiping out the Arcturus installation and the information it holds won't change what they did, before, only what may happen again. It isn't enough, can never be, and that's what haunts her. Time is unredeemable.
She doesn't care.
She begins thinking about potential missions, considering planets they visited in their timeline. Athos, Manarea, Dagan. She ponders Athos for a while but discards the thought of going there: if she remembers correctly, then Athos was in the middle of a Wraith culling cycle 9000 years back. She's not going to risk either of their lives finding out whether or not it's true. There also is the niggling suspicion that history will repeat itself, one way or the other, even if the culling cycle is long over. Manarea and Dagan seem safer, especially Dagan, since John and Rodney already know the secret of the Brotherhood. She's sketching out the details of a mission to Dagan, to recover the ZPM left by the Ancients with the Sudarians, when the stargate activates. Her earpiece crackles and John's welcome voice echoes in her ear. "This is Sheppard. We're on our way."
Elizabeth jumps to her feet and races for the jumper bay.
¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦~¦
Rodney bolts out of the jumper the instant the ramp's down, the clang echoing up into the dark of the jumper bay's ceiling, metallic and harsh, greeting Elizabeth with a curt, "I have to get something to eat," and brushing past her. The set of his mouth, pulled thin, and the hunch in his shoulders shouts, Leave me alone.
She waits a minute, then another, and then John is walking down the ramp, looking pale and exhausted, moving with a brittle sort of care. The lights in the bay brighten in response to him. He stops when he sees her and she realizes he hadn't considered she'd be waiting.
His gaze drops back to the floor.
"John?" she asks cautiously. From the way Rodney acted and John's tense appearance, she's suddenly afraid something went drastically wrong, as though Doranda is cursed, because there are so many things that could have happened. She's spent too many hours imagining all of them. She wonders if he and Rodney didn't quarrel again, despite the apparent rapprochement between them before they left.
His lips move on a soundless word, maybe her name, but it's impossible to tell.
"The weapon?"
He shivers under the light gray and black jacket. "It's done," he tells her. His face goes blank, his eyes drop away from hers. "Rodney did it."
It should be a relief. Arcturus destroyed the universe in their timeline, but its threat is gone from this one. Elizabeth doesn't feel anything, beyond a horrible light-headedness as whatever she's using to hold herself together suddenly drains away. If this is what John is experiencing, small wonder he appears at a loss. She expected to feel something, but of course she doesn't.
But John's back, whole and safe, as is Rodney, and that propels Elizabeth forward to the bottom of the jumper's ramp. She wraps her arms around him, because she needs to feel that and he looks like he needs it.
John is stiff at first, and despite knowing about it, Elizabeth wonders at that; that he's so uncomfortable with a simple hug, a human touch. Then his arms close around her and he's breathing her name hoarsely. One hand presses between her shoulder blades, the other around her waist and both press her closer to him. His breath is rough and fast and her pulse ratchets up. The instant she starts to pull back, John's pulling her closer, finding her lips with his mouth before she can speak a protest. His tongue is there, slick and urgent, finding its way into her mouth.
He hisses when she bites his lip in retaliation.
The kiss is all bruising pressure, teeth catching tender flesh, hard hands and desperation. She twists and her nipples scrape over the rough pockets and zips of his tac vest. The sensation makes her tighten inside, tension spiraling in her belly. One hand is digging into his hair, fingers clenching on dark strands, and one clutching at his hip. Thinking her nails might draw blood right through the fabric of his BDUs. Not caring, because she just wants to take for once.
She's holding onto John, she's kissing him now, welcoming the mindless physicality in the place of consideration, wanting the heat. He groans when she grinds herself against him. Slides his hands down to cup her ass, lifting her onto her toes to press against him even tighter.
There's nothing good or sweet about what they're doing, she thinks, and rocks her hips against him, not caring, tasting blood and licking where it wells.
Then his hands are gone and he's three steps away, eyes almost black, blood trickling from his lip, and she barely regains her balance.
He holds his hands up, open, shaking his head.
"Jesus, Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I'm - that - "
She wants to scream at him. She holds onto her temper and whatever is left of her dignity. At least he can't tell how wet and ready she is, though she can see he's still aroused. She can't do anything about her nipples, except hug her arms over her breasts to hide them. "Sorry for what? A kiss?"
"No - Yes!" John echoes, his voice rising. "I just - this is too screwed. Not after - right now this would be - " He looks pleading. "I can't fuck things up more than I already have."
"Of course," she says.
She always knew he had more control than he let show. It broke just now, but he's building it back up with every harsh breath. His fingers twitch, but she knows he won't reach for her again.
She watches him leave the jumper bay, her mouth still hot from his kisses. Less than a month ago, if John had kissed her like that, she would have either kneed him or called for security because something was wrong with him. She would never have kissed him back, no matter how much she liked him as a man.
There were rules of conduct and they both lived by them.
John and Rodney have no reason to obey her now, except habit. To their thinking, they're the ones who are going to go out and do something. Her skills must seem nearly meaningless in the Pegasus Galaxy.
If John hadn't stopped, she wouldn't have. Part of her knows that fucking John would be a way to bind him to her again. It's an age old instinct, combined with fear and adrenaline, and it infuriates her that she succumbed to it for even an instant. Under the circumstances, if they slept together, neither of them would have retained much respect for each other.
A cold sweat breaks out along her back as she thinks of Rodney. He asked her out once. He'd be hurt if she slept with John. He'd be jealous of them both. She can't turn to Rodney for the same reasons. Everything could get worse.
A deep breath, followed by another, and she is in better control and grateful that John pulled back. If the memory of his warmth lingers like his scent, she'll live with it. Sex under the circumstances would be a mistake. She licks her lower lip. John felt good and kissed like his life depended on it.
It would have been a mistake.
She repeats that to herself, but her body is still buzzing, and she curses John, herself, Rodney and the situation equally.
The jumper bay goes dark, the lights switching off - Atlantis refusing to acknowledge Elizabeth's presence again.
Next post: 4/36