Timestamp meme #5 and 6 (SGA, Lorne/Parrish)
mklutz and bkwyrm both asked for continuations of accidental slavery Lorne/Parrish smut ficlet.
The day after
For mklutz
Parrish is gone for most of the next day. Evan's awake early enough to hear him tiptoeing around the quarters. He hears the shower, and it's easy to visualize the hard spray of water falling around Parrish. He wants to get up, slip into the bathroom and join Parrish in the shower. He wants to wash Parrish's hair for him, dig fingers into his scalp and listen as Parrish's sighs merge with the sound of water.
Instead, he digs his fingers into the mattress and bites his lip. He forces himself to stay where he is, because as good as he'd make it - moving from washing Parrish's hair, to sweeping his fingers across Parrish's shoulder, the barest pretense of washing overlaying massage - as much as Parrish's body would relax and ask for more - Parrish would hate it. He'd want more, and on some level he'd hate it.
So Evan stays in bed, forcing himself to stay still, biting his lip as hard as he can stand it, until he hears the water shut off. And then he tells himself that Parrish doesn't need a towel, doesn't need Evan standing outside holding out his clothes.
By the time Parrish leaves the quarters, Evan's pushing back the faintest hint of nausea. Relief and disappointment mingle, but eventually he gets out of bed and hits the shower. Eight hours and forty-seven minutes, he tells himself.
His hair is still damp when Sheppard comes by. He's carrying a tray. "Parrish said he didn't have time to stop by the mess hall this morning."
Evan manages to grin. "Yeah, I guess he's in the middle of something big in the lab right now." He tells himself he isn't making excuses for Parrish, isn't covering his ass.
Sheppard probably isn't fooled, but he sets the tray down. "I was thinking about putting together a new off-world team."
"Yeah?"
"I'm thinking that Henderson might make -"
They talk about it for a while, pros and cons, what the primary strength of a new team might be. It's make-work. Evan isn't stupid. But he appreciates it. This isn't the kind of situation when he can radio Sheppard, request backup, but Sheppard's there anyway. And he doesn't ask Evan how it's going, or push for details. Sheppard's not stupid, he probably can put two and two together, but Evan isn't about to admit that last night he'd sucked off a guy who barely can meet his eyes, who'd pushed him away after, horrified and angry.
Seven hours and thirty-nine minutes, he thinks, when Sheppard leaves. Then he gets started on the pile of paperwork - makework - Sheppard left behind.
A couple hours after Sheppard leaves, Beckett shows up for his daily visit. "Any change today?"
Evan shrugs, holding out his right arm. "Feels the same."
Beckett strokes his fingers over Evan's skin, over the tiny device that embedded itself in his arm. It's fused with his skin, seamless, painless. A small square of Ancient tech that latched onto Evan and won't let go. There hadn't been any blood; it doesn't even itch.
"We're still trying to figure out how to detach it without a repeat of last time."
Evan nods, clenching his jaw at the memory.
"Why would the Ancients even -" Beckett murmurs to himself, the same question that's been asked a dozen times already. Why would they have this technology? What point did it serve?
Evan doesn't know. He doesn't even care that much any more. He just wishes Parrish would walk through the door, smile at him, however absently, however awkwardly. He wishes Parrish would just acknowledge what Evan could do for him. Wants to do for him.
"Are there any side effects? Do you notice anything different today?"
Evan shrugs. "Same old stuff. Itching to do something. I'm more observant about Parrish."
"Observant?"
"He limps a little - his boots are too tight. He's tense. He squints when he gets a headache. That kind of thing."
"Ah."
Yeah. And that's all he's going to say, even if they end up sending Heightmeyer again - and they will.
Evan's not looking forward to that visit, to her understanding smile and her gentle concern. "I'm fine," he tells Beckett. "It's okay. I'm getting used to it. It's not too bad."
Beckett's expression shifts, and Evan sighs. Wrong thing to say.
"How much longer until Parrish's shift ends?" Beckett asks as he's about to leave.
"Five hours, twenty-three minutes," Evan answers without thinking, without seeing it for the trick it is.
When Beckett leaves, he's frowning.
Five hours and twenty-two minutes.
After Lorne gets out of the tower
For: bkwyrm
Once he gets out, he doesn't think about it. He just pushes the whole experience to the back of his mind, because he's not here to dwell on things. That's not his job.
It's only when he's not paying attention - when he's not thinking about anything, when he's not busy working - that still finds himself stroking his arm, right over where the device used to be. There should be something there to remind him - a scar, or some change in the texture of the skin. Instead, it's like it was never there.
"You must be relieved," Heightmeyer said to him, the first day he stepped out of the east tower.
"You got it, Doctor," he'd answered, grinning the right kind of grin. He'd taken a deep breath, remembering what the air smelled like closer to the control room - more people, the faint scent of ozone lingering from each time the Stargate engaged.
"Looking to get off-world?" Sheppard had asked him, not much later.
"Hell, yes," Evan had said, thinking about sunshine and trees, and maybe getting to shoot at some Wraith.
"Just as soon as Beckett clears you."
That had been almost the extent of it. There are regular meetings with Heightmeyer, but Beckett cleared him for duty, and almost everyone acts like it never happened, except for when they apologise for taking so long to get the device off him in the first place.
Evan's grateful. He's almost a little grateful that Parrish avoids him. It's easier that way.
Except sometimes, when he's not paying attention - when he's standing in the 'gate room, waiting to escort a handful of botanists to a multi-planet agricultural fair, and Parrish is chatting excitedly with his colleagues; when he's in the mess hall, thinking about food, and notices Parrish sitting at a table, reading while he eats - he ends up stroking his arm, pressing his fingers against a non-existent scar.
And he wonders, just a little. A few indulgent minutes of wondering if Parrish ever thinks about it.
Evan always shakes it off. Parrish isn't his job anymore.
The day after
For mklutz
Parrish is gone for most of the next day. Evan's awake early enough to hear him tiptoeing around the quarters. He hears the shower, and it's easy to visualize the hard spray of water falling around Parrish. He wants to get up, slip into the bathroom and join Parrish in the shower. He wants to wash Parrish's hair for him, dig fingers into his scalp and listen as Parrish's sighs merge with the sound of water.
Instead, he digs his fingers into the mattress and bites his lip. He forces himself to stay where he is, because as good as he'd make it - moving from washing Parrish's hair, to sweeping his fingers across Parrish's shoulder, the barest pretense of washing overlaying massage - as much as Parrish's body would relax and ask for more - Parrish would hate it. He'd want more, and on some level he'd hate it.
So Evan stays in bed, forcing himself to stay still, biting his lip as hard as he can stand it, until he hears the water shut off. And then he tells himself that Parrish doesn't need a towel, doesn't need Evan standing outside holding out his clothes.
By the time Parrish leaves the quarters, Evan's pushing back the faintest hint of nausea. Relief and disappointment mingle, but eventually he gets out of bed and hits the shower. Eight hours and forty-seven minutes, he tells himself.
His hair is still damp when Sheppard comes by. He's carrying a tray. "Parrish said he didn't have time to stop by the mess hall this morning."
Evan manages to grin. "Yeah, I guess he's in the middle of something big in the lab right now." He tells himself he isn't making excuses for Parrish, isn't covering his ass.
Sheppard probably isn't fooled, but he sets the tray down. "I was thinking about putting together a new off-world team."
"Yeah?"
"I'm thinking that Henderson might make -"
They talk about it for a while, pros and cons, what the primary strength of a new team might be. It's make-work. Evan isn't stupid. But he appreciates it. This isn't the kind of situation when he can radio Sheppard, request backup, but Sheppard's there anyway. And he doesn't ask Evan how it's going, or push for details. Sheppard's not stupid, he probably can put two and two together, but Evan isn't about to admit that last night he'd sucked off a guy who barely can meet his eyes, who'd pushed him away after, horrified and angry.
Seven hours and thirty-nine minutes, he thinks, when Sheppard leaves. Then he gets started on the pile of paperwork - makework - Sheppard left behind.
A couple hours after Sheppard leaves, Beckett shows up for his daily visit. "Any change today?"
Evan shrugs, holding out his right arm. "Feels the same."
Beckett strokes his fingers over Evan's skin, over the tiny device that embedded itself in his arm. It's fused with his skin, seamless, painless. A small square of Ancient tech that latched onto Evan and won't let go. There hadn't been any blood; it doesn't even itch.
"We're still trying to figure out how to detach it without a repeat of last time."
Evan nods, clenching his jaw at the memory.
"Why would the Ancients even -" Beckett murmurs to himself, the same question that's been asked a dozen times already. Why would they have this technology? What point did it serve?
Evan doesn't know. He doesn't even care that much any more. He just wishes Parrish would walk through the door, smile at him, however absently, however awkwardly. He wishes Parrish would just acknowledge what Evan could do for him. Wants to do for him.
"Are there any side effects? Do you notice anything different today?"
Evan shrugs. "Same old stuff. Itching to do something. I'm more observant about Parrish."
"Observant?"
"He limps a little - his boots are too tight. He's tense. He squints when he gets a headache. That kind of thing."
"Ah."
Yeah. And that's all he's going to say, even if they end up sending Heightmeyer again - and they will.
Evan's not looking forward to that visit, to her understanding smile and her gentle concern. "I'm fine," he tells Beckett. "It's okay. I'm getting used to it. It's not too bad."
Beckett's expression shifts, and Evan sighs. Wrong thing to say.
"How much longer until Parrish's shift ends?" Beckett asks as he's about to leave.
"Five hours, twenty-three minutes," Evan answers without thinking, without seeing it for the trick it is.
When Beckett leaves, he's frowning.
Five hours and twenty-two minutes.
After Lorne gets out of the tower
For: bkwyrm
Once he gets out, he doesn't think about it. He just pushes the whole experience to the back of his mind, because he's not here to dwell on things. That's not his job.
It's only when he's not paying attention - when he's not thinking about anything, when he's not busy working - that still finds himself stroking his arm, right over where the device used to be. There should be something there to remind him - a scar, or some change in the texture of the skin. Instead, it's like it was never there.
"You must be relieved," Heightmeyer said to him, the first day he stepped out of the east tower.
"You got it, Doctor," he'd answered, grinning the right kind of grin. He'd taken a deep breath, remembering what the air smelled like closer to the control room - more people, the faint scent of ozone lingering from each time the Stargate engaged.
"Looking to get off-world?" Sheppard had asked him, not much later.
"Hell, yes," Evan had said, thinking about sunshine and trees, and maybe getting to shoot at some Wraith.
"Just as soon as Beckett clears you."
That had been almost the extent of it. There are regular meetings with Heightmeyer, but Beckett cleared him for duty, and almost everyone acts like it never happened, except for when they apologise for taking so long to get the device off him in the first place.
Evan's grateful. He's almost a little grateful that Parrish avoids him. It's easier that way.
Except sometimes, when he's not paying attention - when he's standing in the 'gate room, waiting to escort a handful of botanists to a multi-planet agricultural fair, and Parrish is chatting excitedly with his colleagues; when he's in the mess hall, thinking about food, and notices Parrish sitting at a table, reading while he eats - he ends up stroking his arm, pressing his fingers against a non-existent scar.
And he wonders, just a little. A few indulgent minutes of wondering if Parrish ever thinks about it.
Evan always shakes it off. Parrish isn't his job anymore.