Illumination (Sheppard/McKay, PG)
Title: Illumination
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: There are reasons why Lils and I are not permitted to watch SGA together: we hallucinate. This fic was basically prompted by what we thought we heard Sheppard say. Forgive my poor attempt at making this half-decent, as it was written rather late in the night. Or, more specifically, early in the morning.
Subnotes: Watch out for character death, angst, and a failed attempt at being stylish.
First posted on 11 April 2006.
"Together for one second we are light." - Gwendolyn MacEwen
He cannot see; nothing else exists outside the flash of the Stargate, outside the intense pulse of the blood pumping through his veins. Shouting throbs across the airwaves, dragging shivers down his back, down his legs, and he thinks he might loose control of them -- just for a moment.
They are coming and he can’t breathe; he’s forgotten how.
I can’t. I can’t. It’s a dead-man’s confession, a final confession -- the last he will ever make. His feet are rooted as trees curled around the very core of the earth, twisted together and bound. He cannot move. He will not move.
(They are woven and tight, knitted together -- their legs crisscrossed, their minds melted from the heat of their love making. There are no words for what they have touched together, no words for what they have given to each other, but Rodney calls it ‘insight’ and he likes to think it’s an accurate title for it. You’ll be the death of me, he says one night, speaking into the pillow they share. The only answer is John’s steady beating heart.)
Rodney, says John. He thinks for a moment that there are more words but they fail him, like his heart is failing him... beating out of time, dripping from the wounds that are everywhere. He bleeds out language and life -- soon there will be neither left inside of him.
But Rodney does not move and bears that hopeless, stubborn look.
I can’t, I can’t.
(They take him away and John swears it will be the last thing they ever do. His fingers flex and his eyes are dark and gold-rimmed, sharp and cruel like the eyes of the Wraith -- like the eyes of a hunter. He knows what he should do, what he must do, but he won’t -- he can’t. His men depend on him but this will be the day he lets the down. Change of plans, he says far-too-calmly. They’ve got Rodney.)
They won’t make it -- either of them. The gate is open and it calls out, but they will not escape to it -- this is as far as they can go. This is The End. Rodney looks up at the blue waves shuddering in the distance, his eyes catching their light -- magnifying it -- and John watches the changing colors dance across his cheeks like firelight.
Rodney, he murmurs. The shouts and cries have become the air now, choking out the oxygen, and neither he nor Rodney can hear anything outside the foreign tongues shrieking in the distance. In the dark, in the wild stillness, the only thing that brings comfort is the bright ring of light that is too close and too far from them, pulsing like a heart.
(John breathes out and Rodney -- who is always too close -- breathes in.)
John wishes he could feel his legs, just to know that they’re there. He wishes he could feel his fingers, just to know that they’re there. He wishes Rodney would listen, would leave, would get the hell out of here like he was told to, just so all this foolishness isn’t wasted.
But he doesn’t. Somehow, John knew he wouldn’t.
(Something rips through him, tears him open, but his feet are still running and he trusts them to take him further. The others are safe, they know what to do and how to get back; John can be unreasonable, just this once. This is for Rodney, he tells himself. This is for that stubborn, noisy, egotistical bastard that snores after sex. His body carries him, weak-kneed, but it carries him, and Rodney is so close -- so close -- that he can feel him in the darkness. All he has to do is cut him free, get him out, and it will all be over. You can rest when you’re dead, Sheppard. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll have to wait that long.)
He could leave, if he wanted to; his feet are working and he still has a clip in his sidearm, but Rodney takes one last, long look at the gate and sits down instead. He lies in the grass, head close to John’s, cheek settling in the warm pool of blood where their pillow should be. He keeps his eyes open and he watches the man beside him; John watches back, breathing.
In those last few moments of visibility, their eyes are connected.
Then the gate sparks out.
Paring: Sheppard/McKay
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG/Angry Green Wombat
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing.
Notes: There are reasons why Lils and I are not permitted to watch SGA together: we hallucinate. This fic was basically prompted by what we thought we heard Sheppard say. Forgive my poor attempt at making this half-decent, as it was written rather late in the night. Or, more specifically, early in the morning.
Subnotes: Watch out for character death, angst, and a failed attempt at being stylish.
First posted on 11 April 2006.
"Together for one second we are light." - Gwendolyn MacEwen
He cannot see; nothing else exists outside the flash of the Stargate, outside the intense pulse of the blood pumping through his veins. Shouting throbs across the airwaves, dragging shivers down his back, down his legs, and he thinks he might loose control of them -- just for a moment.
They are coming and he can’t breathe; he’s forgotten how.
I can’t. I can’t. It’s a dead-man’s confession, a final confession -- the last he will ever make. His feet are rooted as trees curled around the very core of the earth, twisted together and bound. He cannot move. He will not move.
(They are woven and tight, knitted together -- their legs crisscrossed, their minds melted from the heat of their love making. There are no words for what they have touched together, no words for what they have given to each other, but Rodney calls it ‘insight’ and he likes to think it’s an accurate title for it. You’ll be the death of me, he says one night, speaking into the pillow they share. The only answer is John’s steady beating heart.)
Rodney, says John. He thinks for a moment that there are more words but they fail him, like his heart is failing him... beating out of time, dripping from the wounds that are everywhere. He bleeds out language and life -- soon there will be neither left inside of him.
But Rodney does not move and bears that hopeless, stubborn look.
I can’t, I can’t.
(They take him away and John swears it will be the last thing they ever do. His fingers flex and his eyes are dark and gold-rimmed, sharp and cruel like the eyes of the Wraith -- like the eyes of a hunter. He knows what he should do, what he must do, but he won’t -- he can’t. His men depend on him but this will be the day he lets the down. Change of plans, he says far-too-calmly. They’ve got Rodney.)
They won’t make it -- either of them. The gate is open and it calls out, but they will not escape to it -- this is as far as they can go. This is The End. Rodney looks up at the blue waves shuddering in the distance, his eyes catching their light -- magnifying it -- and John watches the changing colors dance across his cheeks like firelight.
Rodney, he murmurs. The shouts and cries have become the air now, choking out the oxygen, and neither he nor Rodney can hear anything outside the foreign tongues shrieking in the distance. In the dark, in the wild stillness, the only thing that brings comfort is the bright ring of light that is too close and too far from them, pulsing like a heart.
(John breathes out and Rodney -- who is always too close -- breathes in.)
John wishes he could feel his legs, just to know that they’re there. He wishes he could feel his fingers, just to know that they’re there. He wishes Rodney would listen, would leave, would get the hell out of here like he was told to, just so all this foolishness isn’t wasted.
But he doesn’t. Somehow, John knew he wouldn’t.
(Something rips through him, tears him open, but his feet are still running and he trusts them to take him further. The others are safe, they know what to do and how to get back; John can be unreasonable, just this once. This is for Rodney, he tells himself. This is for that stubborn, noisy, egotistical bastard that snores after sex. His body carries him, weak-kneed, but it carries him, and Rodney is so close -- so close -- that he can feel him in the darkness. All he has to do is cut him free, get him out, and it will all be over. You can rest when you’re dead, Sheppard. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll have to wait that long.)
He could leave, if he wanted to; his feet are working and he still has a clip in his sidearm, but Rodney takes one last, long look at the gate and sits down instead. He lies in the grass, head close to John’s, cheek settling in the warm pool of blood where their pillow should be. He keeps his eyes open and he watches the man beside him; John watches back, breathing.
In those last few moments of visibility, their eyes are connected.
Then the gate sparks out.