Memoria (Sheppard/McKay, PG-13)
Title: Memoria; or, Three Weeks After
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG-13/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: Totally inspired by Lily's fic, which broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. A piece to calm myself while I wait for her to finish the sequel which will---hopefully---make my woobie feel better. This fic is Post-Conversion, so spoilers, obviously. (Also, I was playing with style---I do that a lot though, so nothing new.) Be gentle, as this is my first Atlantis fic ever.
First posted on 24 January 2006.
He sleeps, he wakes, his skin itches and peels. He eats what the IV pumps into his blood, he drinks whatever he can swallow, he says whatever can be pushed past his flaking lips. He gets sick and coughs and draws in air unevenly. He has fits from the medication, fits from the virus dying in his system, fits from the unbelievable itch that’s left behind when the deep blue skin flakes away and leaves him raw.
Sometimes there are visitors, sometimes there are doctors, most of the time there is white noise and the unbroken pulse of his heartbeat on the monitor. Beep beep beep beep -- all normal. Sometimes Teyla is there, sometimes Ronon, usually it’s Elizabeth -- she practices her bedside manner. Rodney stays away.
Despite everything, the memories won’t leave him.
When he does nothing else, he remembers.
When there is nothing else, he remembers.
He wishes he didn’t.
I.
It feels like flying, like shooting fire up his veins, like getting caught and getting fucked and licking battery acid up with his tongue; it’s all electric shocks and pumping blood and power trips that last a hundred years. He takes a breath; the chemistry burns its aftertaste in his throat.
It doesn’t scare him, even though it should, even though he wishes it did -- sort of. He’s sky high and turned on and awake at last, suddenly seeing, suddenly knowing that there is something out there in the universe and by god it’s me. He’s something newer than lightning, something charged with electric currents and stolen adrenaline.
He wants a test drive.
But Elizabeth stares at him, watches him with concern and duty, and he knows, he can practically taste the warning on her tongue. She’s not going to let him go; but maybe he’ll make her.
II.
He sees Teyla and remembers: hot Sundays spent in the backseat of the family car, broken windows and the thrill of getting caught, satin candy lipstick, casino night, black leather, neon, Xena: Warrior Princess. She sways in step with him, sentient and wild, all-knowing and so dense he could chip a tooth trying to bite into her.
He doesn’t bite; he sucks her tongue right out of her mouth instead.
She’s startled and afraid and he thinks Breakfast is served, but something pulls him back, dusts him off, drives the fever out of him. He sees Teyla and remembers: boundaries. Hesitation ties his tongue, knots it, and he reaches for clarity, for the control, picking out her name from his mind like a weed.
Teyla, he says.
She’s already leaving.
III.
McKay is all petulance and submission and tense lines of poetry; he struggles and kicks but the deeper meaning eludes, the deeper feelings suppress and repress and repress until there’s nothing but mass hysteria. The empty space between them is filled with oxygen and John inhales it in one breath, greedy like a newborn, before sucking McKay in too, drawing him close and near.
This is what you want, he says.
It’s an order.
FIN.
Three weeks after John Sheppard is hospitalized --
three weeks after the pain gave in after the voice in his head stopped telling him to fucking kill them all after he could breathe after he could think after the high died after he could look at himself in the mirror and see part of himself after he could after he could after after three fucking weeks
-- Rodney Mckay steps through the infirmary door.
There are no words spoken, no efforts made to console or question, no blame passed or thrown; uneven breathing, tense glances, guilt -- nothing else exists. John bites at his tongue, chews on the inside of his lip; he remembers. Rodney panics, because that’s what Rodney does. That’s how Rodney accepts a situation.
There’s pressure on John’s chest -- he remembers: guilty. He doesn’t remember why.
"Carson said," a pause; Rodney tests his voice for stability, carefully -- like a scientist. He doesn’t clear his throat -- the sound could break him, break this moment, break this courage. He’s quiet, he waits, he studies. "Carson said, you don’t remember."
"I..."
(John remembers: wanting.)
It’s difficult; Rodney breathes -- steady, in out in out -- turning his head away for a moment, just to clear it. He's not a coward, no matter how much he wishes he was. He can do this because it has to be done. This is something that needs to be fixed; Rodney’s good a fixing things.
(John remembers: stopping.)
"... I didn’t." he says.
"No, you didn’t." but I wanted you to. The words hang in the air, suspended as if by fingertips -- no other chances, had to take you as a monster or not at all -- and John remembers: quiet looks across the conference table, little moments of kindness that are out-of-character, unspoken friendship, acts of bravery that don’t fit, that don’t add up -- I’ve never asked you for this before, but I think I’ve earned that. Trust me.
"Rodney."
(This is what you want.)
"It’s alright."
Rodney breathes.
And breathes.
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG-13/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: Totally inspired by Lily's fic, which broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. A piece to calm myself while I wait for her to finish the sequel which will---hopefully---make my woobie feel better. This fic is Post-Conversion, so spoilers, obviously. (Also, I was playing with style---I do that a lot though, so nothing new.) Be gentle, as this is my first Atlantis fic ever.
First posted on 24 January 2006.
He sleeps, he wakes, his skin itches and peels. He eats what the IV pumps into his blood, he drinks whatever he can swallow, he says whatever can be pushed past his flaking lips. He gets sick and coughs and draws in air unevenly. He has fits from the medication, fits from the virus dying in his system, fits from the unbelievable itch that’s left behind when the deep blue skin flakes away and leaves him raw.
Sometimes there are visitors, sometimes there are doctors, most of the time there is white noise and the unbroken pulse of his heartbeat on the monitor. Beep beep beep beep -- all normal. Sometimes Teyla is there, sometimes Ronon, usually it’s Elizabeth -- she practices her bedside manner. Rodney stays away.
Despite everything, the memories won’t leave him.
When he does nothing else, he remembers.
When there is nothing else, he remembers.
He wishes he didn’t.
I.
It feels like flying, like shooting fire up his veins, like getting caught and getting fucked and licking battery acid up with his tongue; it’s all electric shocks and pumping blood and power trips that last a hundred years. He takes a breath; the chemistry burns its aftertaste in his throat.
It doesn’t scare him, even though it should, even though he wishes it did -- sort of. He’s sky high and turned on and awake at last, suddenly seeing, suddenly knowing that there is something out there in the universe and by god it’s me. He’s something newer than lightning, something charged with electric currents and stolen adrenaline.
He wants a test drive.
But Elizabeth stares at him, watches him with concern and duty, and he knows, he can practically taste the warning on her tongue. She’s not going to let him go; but maybe he’ll make her.
II.
He sees Teyla and remembers: hot Sundays spent in the backseat of the family car, broken windows and the thrill of getting caught, satin candy lipstick, casino night, black leather, neon, Xena: Warrior Princess. She sways in step with him, sentient and wild, all-knowing and so dense he could chip a tooth trying to bite into her.
He doesn’t bite; he sucks her tongue right out of her mouth instead.
She’s startled and afraid and he thinks Breakfast is served, but something pulls him back, dusts him off, drives the fever out of him. He sees Teyla and remembers: boundaries. Hesitation ties his tongue, knots it, and he reaches for clarity, for the control, picking out her name from his mind like a weed.
Teyla, he says.
She’s already leaving.
III.
McKay is all petulance and submission and tense lines of poetry; he struggles and kicks but the deeper meaning eludes, the deeper feelings suppress and repress and repress until there’s nothing but mass hysteria. The empty space between them is filled with oxygen and John inhales it in one breath, greedy like a newborn, before sucking McKay in too, drawing him close and near.
This is what you want, he says.
It’s an order.
FIN.
Three weeks after John Sheppard is hospitalized --
three weeks after the pain gave in after the voice in his head stopped telling him to fucking kill them all after he could breathe after he could think after the high died after he could look at himself in the mirror and see part of himself after he could after he could after after three fucking weeks
-- Rodney Mckay steps through the infirmary door.
There are no words spoken, no efforts made to console or question, no blame passed or thrown; uneven breathing, tense glances, guilt -- nothing else exists. John bites at his tongue, chews on the inside of his lip; he remembers. Rodney panics, because that’s what Rodney does. That’s how Rodney accepts a situation.
There’s pressure on John’s chest -- he remembers: guilty. He doesn’t remember why.
"Carson said," a pause; Rodney tests his voice for stability, carefully -- like a scientist. He doesn’t clear his throat -- the sound could break him, break this moment, break this courage. He’s quiet, he waits, he studies. "Carson said, you don’t remember."
"I..."
(John remembers: wanting.)
It’s difficult; Rodney breathes -- steady, in out in out -- turning his head away for a moment, just to clear it. He's not a coward, no matter how much he wishes he was. He can do this because it has to be done. This is something that needs to be fixed; Rodney’s good a fixing things.
(John remembers: stopping.)
"... I didn’t." he says.
"No, you didn’t." but I wanted you to. The words hang in the air, suspended as if by fingertips -- no other chances, had to take you as a monster or not at all -- and John remembers: quiet looks across the conference table, little moments of kindness that are out-of-character, unspoken friendship, acts of bravery that don’t fit, that don’t add up -- I’ve never asked you for this before, but I think I’ve earned that. Trust me.
"Rodney."
(This is what you want.)
"It’s alright."
Rodney breathes.
And breathes.