Stargate Atlantis, The Years and the Stories They Leave, McKay/Ford
I think maching_monkey dared me to. Inspired me to actually do it, at least, cuz she pwomised icons.
The Years and the Stories They Leave
One long night, when insomnia decides to fuck with him, Rodney lays awake and counts on his fingers. The past laid out; trying to accommodate local times to some standard, some vague idea of what they were never going back to. Doing the math a fourth time for good measure.
Six years. He almost wants to cry that last time he needs a second hand to display his final product. Six years away from Atlantis, away from contact with Earth.
Rodney feels the bed shift and Aiden press against his side. “Time’s just an illusion anyways,” Aiden tells him and presses the years back into his palms.
They know each other’s stories. Rodney knows what six years mean to Aiden. A grandmother who probably died without knowing what happened to her only grandson. His mother. His sister, who was engaged to an accountant when he left. Two nieces, eleven and eight. Shauna and Amaya. Shauna had a passion for jump rope and sidewalk chalk. Amaya was her baby when Shauna and her friends played house and she wasn’t busy finger painting the walls. Neither of them mentioned specifics anymore.
“My muscles are sore,” Rodney mutters instead.
“Where?”
“Neck and shoulders.”
“Roll over,” Aiden says with a nudge and Rodney doesn’t know what to do with his hands once he’s on his belly.
Aiden straddles his ass with a yawn, starts grinding at Rodney’s shoulders with the heels of his palms. “You should stretch more.”
“I did. With you. This morning.”
“The important word there was ‘more.’ You did a pretty good job messing this one up.” He started in on the muscles that made Rodney really wince.
“This harvest stuff isn’t doing me any favors.”
Aiden’s hands squeeze his biceps. “I’m not so sure about that.” He smiles, probably that maddeningly attractive, almost-boyish smile Rodney loves, and pulls up Rodney’s sleeve. “Oh my God!” he gasps.
“What?” Rodney’s eyes widen.
“I think you got a tan!”
“Hey!” He twists around and grabs at Aiden, who rolls back onto his side of the bed. Rodney follows, straddles him, and goes for the kill: his hands maliciously snake up Aiden’s sides as Aiden laughs and tries to jerk away.
“Stop,” Aiden gasps when he gets enough breath the do so.
“Apologize,” Rodney demands, stilling his hands.
“Never.”
“Well, in that case.” With renewed vigor, Rodney’s hands skirt towards Aiden’s armpits. Aiden jerks up, held in place by Rodney, and breathlessly concedes. They’re both laughing; Rodney falls forward, and he and Aiden shake together for a few more minutes.
Rodney says something into the pillow, and Aiden says into his ear, “I can’t understand you.”
Rodney sits up a little, shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Smiling, Aiden says, “Nothing back at ya.” Rodney burrows his nose in Aiden’s neck and Aiden rubs his back.
“Am I smothering you?”
Aiden’s grip tightens on him. “You’re just fine right there.”
Rodney kisses his neck and they doze off like that until another day calls them.
This kind of sounds more like an outline for the idea that's been wracking my brain for-fucking-ever but won't sit down and get written down.
The Years and the Stories They Leave
One long night, when insomnia decides to fuck with him, Rodney lays awake and counts on his fingers. The past laid out; trying to accommodate local times to some standard, some vague idea of what they were never going back to. Doing the math a fourth time for good measure.
Six years. He almost wants to cry that last time he needs a second hand to display his final product. Six years away from Atlantis, away from contact with Earth.
Rodney feels the bed shift and Aiden press against his side. “Time’s just an illusion anyways,” Aiden tells him and presses the years back into his palms.
They know each other’s stories. Rodney knows what six years mean to Aiden. A grandmother who probably died without knowing what happened to her only grandson. His mother. His sister, who was engaged to an accountant when he left. Two nieces, eleven and eight. Shauna and Amaya. Shauna had a passion for jump rope and sidewalk chalk. Amaya was her baby when Shauna and her friends played house and she wasn’t busy finger painting the walls. Neither of them mentioned specifics anymore.
“My muscles are sore,” Rodney mutters instead.
“Where?”
“Neck and shoulders.”
“Roll over,” Aiden says with a nudge and Rodney doesn’t know what to do with his hands once he’s on his belly.
Aiden straddles his ass with a yawn, starts grinding at Rodney’s shoulders with the heels of his palms. “You should stretch more.”
“I did. With you. This morning.”
“The important word there was ‘more.’ You did a pretty good job messing this one up.” He started in on the muscles that made Rodney really wince.
“This harvest stuff isn’t doing me any favors.”
Aiden’s hands squeeze his biceps. “I’m not so sure about that.” He smiles, probably that maddeningly attractive, almost-boyish smile Rodney loves, and pulls up Rodney’s sleeve. “Oh my God!” he gasps.
“What?” Rodney’s eyes widen.
“I think you got a tan!”
“Hey!” He twists around and grabs at Aiden, who rolls back onto his side of the bed. Rodney follows, straddles him, and goes for the kill: his hands maliciously snake up Aiden’s sides as Aiden laughs and tries to jerk away.
“Stop,” Aiden gasps when he gets enough breath the do so.
“Apologize,” Rodney demands, stilling his hands.
“Never.”
“Well, in that case.” With renewed vigor, Rodney’s hands skirt towards Aiden’s armpits. Aiden jerks up, held in place by Rodney, and breathlessly concedes. They’re both laughing; Rodney falls forward, and he and Aiden shake together for a few more minutes.
Rodney says something into the pillow, and Aiden says into his ear, “I can’t understand you.”
Rodney sits up a little, shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Smiling, Aiden says, “Nothing back at ya.” Rodney burrows his nose in Aiden’s neck and Aiden rubs his back.
“Am I smothering you?”
Aiden’s grip tightens on him. “You’re just fine right there.”
Rodney kisses his neck and they doze off like that until another day calls them.
This kind of sounds more like an outline for the idea that's been wracking my brain for-fucking-ever but won't sit down and get written down.