Fic The Secrets We Keep
Title: The Secrets We Keep
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters beling to people who are richer than I am.
Summary: Heroism is the domain of the individual. Just ask John Sheppard.
Notes: Written for mcsheplets for the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" challenge. Unbeta'd, so if you spot problems, let me know.
John’s been in the chair for over three hours, judicious use of drones proving effective against an armada of Wraith hives and cruisers. But even judicious and accurate use of drones doesn’t mean endless supply, and there are precious few left in Atlantis’ arsenal. Caldwell and Ellis have been battling in the space above Lantea for just as long, Asgaard weapons proving formidable against the organic hulls of the hives. But they have taken many hits, and the situation in the air starts looking grim for them as well.
Zelenka’s been staring at sensor read-outs, shouting when each ship was destroyed or incapacitated, and Rodney’s been monitoring munitions and energy output by both the city and the SGC ships in space. Things are beginning to look up for Atlantis and, by extension, Earth.
“Oh, no,” comes the whispered words of dread from Zelenka. Rodney hears them over his radio and immediately looks up from his screen.
“What?” he shouts, “What is it?”
“Rodney. There are at least four more hive ships on the way in. The Apollo and Daedalus have both sustained heavy damage, and at best can only be counted on for a short while.”
“I see that,” Rodney says, fingers moving furiously over the keyboard, hoping against hope that there’s another store of drones somewhere on Atlantis.
“McKay,” John’s voice, tight and controlled, but still so very calm, edges into Rodney’s consciousness. “What’s going on?”
Rodney pauses and looks at John, marvels at the serene expression on his face. Rodney’s always wondered what it’s like to be truly connected to the city the way John gets every time he sits in the chair. Every instance when John has to sit in the Chair, when the battle is over, John sits up slowly and sighs like he’s missing something. But John’s still connected right now, and despite the firefight in the air, the urgency of the city’s survival, and the drain of power, John is calm. He’s placid even, his fingers moving gracefully and thoughtlessly over the Chair’s gel pads.
He’s been silent too long, Rodney supposes, when John opens his eyes abruptly and spears him with a glance. “McKay!”
Rodney starts and answers, briefly, “Four more hives with cruisers and darts. Running out of drones, and the Daedalus and Apollo have sustained too much damage to be useful much longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Twenty, tops.”
John nods, closes his eyes again for a few minutes. Then they’re open and focused on Rodney again. “Can they take out two of the hives?”
Rodney nods, knowing what’s coming.
“I can get one from here; there are enough drones, but then…” he trails off, eyes closed again, concentration marring his brow.
Rodney doesn’t ask because he knows John won’t tell, but he leans forward, forehead resting against John’s, and right there, in the heat of the battle, with the city rumbling around his ears and John a hairsbreadth from leaping out of the Chair to go on another suicide run, Rodney kisses John. Hard. Lips closed. No breath whispered between them. His eyes open.
He pulls back and John sits up, smiles his grim smile and says, “So long, Rodney.”
A minute later, Rodney stares at an empty chair.
Three minutes later, he hears cheers over the radio. Beneath the cheers, “This is Atlantis base calling Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard. Do you read?”
And after that, silence.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters beling to people who are richer than I am.
Summary: Heroism is the domain of the individual. Just ask John Sheppard.
Notes: Written for mcsheplets for the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" challenge. Unbeta'd, so if you spot problems, let me know.
John’s been in the chair for over three hours, judicious use of drones proving effective against an armada of Wraith hives and cruisers. But even judicious and accurate use of drones doesn’t mean endless supply, and there are precious few left in Atlantis’ arsenal. Caldwell and Ellis have been battling in the space above Lantea for just as long, Asgaard weapons proving formidable against the organic hulls of the hives. But they have taken many hits, and the situation in the air starts looking grim for them as well.
Zelenka’s been staring at sensor read-outs, shouting when each ship was destroyed or incapacitated, and Rodney’s been monitoring munitions and energy output by both the city and the SGC ships in space. Things are beginning to look up for Atlantis and, by extension, Earth.
“Oh, no,” comes the whispered words of dread from Zelenka. Rodney hears them over his radio and immediately looks up from his screen.
“What?” he shouts, “What is it?”
“Rodney. There are at least four more hive ships on the way in. The Apollo and Daedalus have both sustained heavy damage, and at best can only be counted on for a short while.”
“I see that,” Rodney says, fingers moving furiously over the keyboard, hoping against hope that there’s another store of drones somewhere on Atlantis.
“McKay,” John’s voice, tight and controlled, but still so very calm, edges into Rodney’s consciousness. “What’s going on?”
Rodney pauses and looks at John, marvels at the serene expression on his face. Rodney’s always wondered what it’s like to be truly connected to the city the way John gets every time he sits in the chair. Every instance when John has to sit in the Chair, when the battle is over, John sits up slowly and sighs like he’s missing something. But John’s still connected right now, and despite the firefight in the air, the urgency of the city’s survival, and the drain of power, John is calm. He’s placid even, his fingers moving gracefully and thoughtlessly over the Chair’s gel pads.
He’s been silent too long, Rodney supposes, when John opens his eyes abruptly and spears him with a glance. “McKay!”
Rodney starts and answers, briefly, “Four more hives with cruisers and darts. Running out of drones, and the Daedalus and Apollo have sustained too much damage to be useful much longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Twenty, tops.”
John nods, closes his eyes again for a few minutes. Then they’re open and focused on Rodney again. “Can they take out two of the hives?”
Rodney nods, knowing what’s coming.
“I can get one from here; there are enough drones, but then…” he trails off, eyes closed again, concentration marring his brow.
Rodney doesn’t ask because he knows John won’t tell, but he leans forward, forehead resting against John’s, and right there, in the heat of the battle, with the city rumbling around his ears and John a hairsbreadth from leaping out of the Chair to go on another suicide run, Rodney kisses John. Hard. Lips closed. No breath whispered between them. His eyes open.
He pulls back and John sits up, smiles his grim smile and says, “So long, Rodney.”
A minute later, Rodney stares at an empty chair.
Three minutes later, he hears cheers over the radio. Beneath the cheers, “This is Atlantis base calling Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard. Do you read?”
And after that, silence.