Missing Shep - "Fic" - Rating: G
The Muse is Stronger
He sits in an embrasure of the battlements, right at the top of the castle, staring out into the darkening sky with his knees drawn up to his chest. The wind is high, autumn well under way, and it surges through the forest below with a sound almost like the sea. The wind licks his hair, ruffles the tuft on his tail which hangs down over the wall. He gazes unseeing out beyond the castle, and tries not to think. It is peculiarly easy not to think, as though his mind is muffled, sleeping or drugged or AWOL. He sits for hours, as night draws in and the trees merge into a turbulent expanse of shadow, stretching like storm clouds to an even darker horizon. There are a few stars, but the sky is mostly blank with clouds too thick for the wind to chase away.
He feels the chill but does not shiver, feels the caress of the wind in his hair and imagines that it is lifting his memories, plucking them from his subconscious and floating them away one by one like thistledown. He doesn’t care; he is glad, he gives them freely to the wind. He wishes he could fly away himself, soar like an eagle on the back of the wind. He would take up the jet, but Rodney has ordered a close watch on the gates of the castle, so that he can’t run away again. It should make him angry; instead, he doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t going to run; he’s done with running. Nothing to run from, anymore.
* * *
Rodney finds him like this, hours past dinnertime, a huddled shape almost indistinguishable from the stone teeth of the battlements. The Ferris wheel looms dark and silent off to the right; he knew he’d find his errant lover here. He walks over to the wall, hugging his arms about his jacket against the bite of the wind, and stands behind John for a moment, listening to the fluting of air through the crenellations.
"You missed dinner," he says quietly, so as not to startle him. John doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. He’s as still as a gargoyle, hunched against the night.
"John?"
Nothing. Rodney sighs, passes his hand through his hair. He steps closer, turns around and leans companionably against the wall. At least it shields him somewhat from the wind.
"You’re dwelling," he observes unnecessarily. "It’s not healthy. And you must be frozen. Come inside, and eat."
He waits a minute, two. John remains still, and only the tense balance of his posture indicates that he’s not asleep.
Rodney sighs again. "Much as I like the sound of my own voice, I’m not actually in the habit of talking to myself. Is there any point to my being here? I could go."
Still no response and Rodney feels stung, shut out and unwanted.
"Fine," he mutters irritably, and heaves himself away from the wall, ready to stomp away.
"Don’t go..." The whisper is fainter than the wind, and he could almost believe he imagined it.
"John?" he says again, turning so that he can study the sharp profile, a pale glimmer against the backdrop of the night. He puts out a hand, hesitantly touches the hunched shoulder.
"Talk to me, John," he urges gently, anxiously.
"I miss him." John’s voice is small and sad, overlaid with bewilderment. Rodney squeezes the shoulder gently.
"I know. I miss him, too. But you’ve still got me..." The words hang between them, an unspoken question. He’s not sure whether he does, whether he ever really did. The uncertainty forms a hard, cold knot in his stomach, but he’s sure it’s only the sting of the wind prickling his eyes to wetness. He keeps his hand in place; although the hurt makes him want to drop it, walk away.
"Let me fly, Rodney," John beseeches him suddenly, voice taut with suppressed emotion.
"Certainly. Can I come along?"
"...I need to fly alone. It helps me think. It’s nothing personal, I just... I can’t think when I have company." He sounds apologetic, but firm.
"Then no," Rodney’s response is crisp. "Not after last time. John, I’ve lost him already, do you think I’m not going to do everything in my power to keep from losing you, too?" His own voice is raw, bitter with doubt.
John sighs, his shoulders slumping, and he remains silent. They stay like that for several minutes, Rodney unsure what to say, awkwardly stroking John’s shoulder. He is growing uncomfortable, but doesn’t know how to break this mood without hurting John, or angering him.
Finally, he has an idea.
"Give me your tail." He uses that special voice of command that Sheppard can’t help reacting to, velvet tone with a core of steel. John doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him in any other way, but his tail flicks over his shoulder as though of its own volition, the soft tip thumping down in Rodney’s outstretched hand.
Rodney holds it as carefully as he would a fragile woodland animal, cupping it in his palm. With his other hand, he strokes the dark hair until the minute quivering stills; moves his hand further back and gently caresses the skin. It feels like chilled silk under his fingers.
"Things... things will be okay." His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, empty and futile. Rodney doesn’t normally pander to such wishful thinking, but right now he knows that logic is not the way to John’s bruised and frozen heart. He shudders minutely from the cold and huddles closer, chest to back, not quite touching. Patiently he continues to stroke the tasselled cord of flesh in his hands, just the tip, not wanting to stir up stronger emotions that neither of them could handle just now.
Abruptly, John speaks, as though talking to himself, addressing the night. If Rodney weren’t leaning so close, the wind would snatch the soft words away.
"I don’t... I don’t really feel that he’s gone. Not completely. Sometimes... I can feel him watching; me, us. It’s like he’s a shadow, just out of sight, waiting to come in. His eyes are so gentle and sad and loving. He never stopped loving us, I’m sure of that. He just had... to go away. But he wishes he could come back. He wants to be with us."
As John talks, his voice strengthens, sounding more and more assured. Suddenly he turns his head, smiling ruefully, and lays his cheek against Rodney’s chest. His tail gives a convulsive shudder and slides out of Rodney’s gentle grasp, around his waist. Rodney feels his eyes prickle again with warm relief, and raises one hand to stroke John’s hair, holding him close.
"I’m sure you’re right," he says far more heartily than he feels. "You’re him, after all, in a way, and he’s you. If anyone should know what he’s thinking..."
"He’s thinking that I’m an idiot for sitting out here in the cold, worrying you," John chuckles throatily. "Did you say there was dinner..?"
Rodney grins, hugs John to him as he musses his hair. "Yes, there’s probably still food left. Tyr and Ronon were on hunting detail; I think they brought back half the forest. When I left the table, there was venison, rabbit stew, roast woodcock... which probably tastes like turkey, if you ignore the gamey tang. Of course, hunting makes them hungry, so they *might* have eaten it all by now..."
"Then we’d better go in, hadn’t we." John wiggles around in the embrasure, stopping Rodney’s heart for a second, then slides gracefully to the ground. He wraps his tail more snugly around Rodney’s waist and they head inside together.
Behind them, John hears the fading sound of the wind in the forest, seeming to call out to him in a rushing whisper of regret and hope.
"John... Beloved twin..."
TBC
He sits in an embrasure of the battlements, right at the top of the castle, staring out into the darkening sky with his knees drawn up to his chest. The wind is high, autumn well under way, and it surges through the forest below with a sound almost like the sea. The wind licks his hair, ruffles the tuft on his tail which hangs down over the wall. He gazes unseeing out beyond the castle, and tries not to think. It is peculiarly easy not to think, as though his mind is muffled, sleeping or drugged or AWOL. He sits for hours, as night draws in and the trees merge into a turbulent expanse of shadow, stretching like storm clouds to an even darker horizon. There are a few stars, but the sky is mostly blank with clouds too thick for the wind to chase away.
He feels the chill but does not shiver, feels the caress of the wind in his hair and imagines that it is lifting his memories, plucking them from his subconscious and floating them away one by one like thistledown. He doesn’t care; he is glad, he gives them freely to the wind. He wishes he could fly away himself, soar like an eagle on the back of the wind. He would take up the jet, but Rodney has ordered a close watch on the gates of the castle, so that he can’t run away again. It should make him angry; instead, he doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t going to run; he’s done with running. Nothing to run from, anymore.
* * *
Rodney finds him like this, hours past dinnertime, a huddled shape almost indistinguishable from the stone teeth of the battlements. The Ferris wheel looms dark and silent off to the right; he knew he’d find his errant lover here. He walks over to the wall, hugging his arms about his jacket against the bite of the wind, and stands behind John for a moment, listening to the fluting of air through the crenellations.
"You missed dinner," he says quietly, so as not to startle him. John doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. He’s as still as a gargoyle, hunched against the night.
"John?"
Nothing. Rodney sighs, passes his hand through his hair. He steps closer, turns around and leans companionably against the wall. At least it shields him somewhat from the wind.
"You’re dwelling," he observes unnecessarily. "It’s not healthy. And you must be frozen. Come inside, and eat."
He waits a minute, two. John remains still, and only the tense balance of his posture indicates that he’s not asleep.
Rodney sighs again. "Much as I like the sound of my own voice, I’m not actually in the habit of talking to myself. Is there any point to my being here? I could go."
Still no response and Rodney feels stung, shut out and unwanted.
"Fine," he mutters irritably, and heaves himself away from the wall, ready to stomp away.
"Don’t go..." The whisper is fainter than the wind, and he could almost believe he imagined it.
"John?" he says again, turning so that he can study the sharp profile, a pale glimmer against the backdrop of the night. He puts out a hand, hesitantly touches the hunched shoulder.
"Talk to me, John," he urges gently, anxiously.
"I miss him." John’s voice is small and sad, overlaid with bewilderment. Rodney squeezes the shoulder gently.
"I know. I miss him, too. But you’ve still got me..." The words hang between them, an unspoken question. He’s not sure whether he does, whether he ever really did. The uncertainty forms a hard, cold knot in his stomach, but he’s sure it’s only the sting of the wind prickling his eyes to wetness. He keeps his hand in place; although the hurt makes him want to drop it, walk away.
"Let me fly, Rodney," John beseeches him suddenly, voice taut with suppressed emotion.
"Certainly. Can I come along?"
"...I need to fly alone. It helps me think. It’s nothing personal, I just... I can’t think when I have company." He sounds apologetic, but firm.
"Then no," Rodney’s response is crisp. "Not after last time. John, I’ve lost him already, do you think I’m not going to do everything in my power to keep from losing you, too?" His own voice is raw, bitter with doubt.
John sighs, his shoulders slumping, and he remains silent. They stay like that for several minutes, Rodney unsure what to say, awkwardly stroking John’s shoulder. He is growing uncomfortable, but doesn’t know how to break this mood without hurting John, or angering him.
Finally, he has an idea.
"Give me your tail." He uses that special voice of command that Sheppard can’t help reacting to, velvet tone with a core of steel. John doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him in any other way, but his tail flicks over his shoulder as though of its own volition, the soft tip thumping down in Rodney’s outstretched hand.
Rodney holds it as carefully as he would a fragile woodland animal, cupping it in his palm. With his other hand, he strokes the dark hair until the minute quivering stills; moves his hand further back and gently caresses the skin. It feels like chilled silk under his fingers.
"Things... things will be okay." His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, empty and futile. Rodney doesn’t normally pander to such wishful thinking, but right now he knows that logic is not the way to John’s bruised and frozen heart. He shudders minutely from the cold and huddles closer, chest to back, not quite touching. Patiently he continues to stroke the tasselled cord of flesh in his hands, just the tip, not wanting to stir up stronger emotions that neither of them could handle just now.
Abruptly, John speaks, as though talking to himself, addressing the night. If Rodney weren’t leaning so close, the wind would snatch the soft words away.
"I don’t... I don’t really feel that he’s gone. Not completely. Sometimes... I can feel him watching; me, us. It’s like he’s a shadow, just out of sight, waiting to come in. His eyes are so gentle and sad and loving. He never stopped loving us, I’m sure of that. He just had... to go away. But he wishes he could come back. He wants to be with us."
As John talks, his voice strengthens, sounding more and more assured. Suddenly he turns his head, smiling ruefully, and lays his cheek against Rodney’s chest. His tail gives a convulsive shudder and slides out of Rodney’s gentle grasp, around his waist. Rodney feels his eyes prickle again with warm relief, and raises one hand to stroke John’s hair, holding him close.
"I’m sure you’re right," he says far more heartily than he feels. "You’re him, after all, in a way, and he’s you. If anyone should know what he’s thinking..."
"He’s thinking that I’m an idiot for sitting out here in the cold, worrying you," John chuckles throatily. "Did you say there was dinner..?"
Rodney grins, hugs John to him as he musses his hair. "Yes, there’s probably still food left. Tyr and Ronon were on hunting detail; I think they brought back half the forest. When I left the table, there was venison, rabbit stew, roast woodcock... which probably tastes like turkey, if you ignore the gamey tang. Of course, hunting makes them hungry, so they *might* have eaten it all by now..."
"Then we’d better go in, hadn’t we." John wiggles around in the embrasure, stopping Rodney’s heart for a second, then slides gracefully to the ground. He wraps his tail more snugly around Rodney’s waist and they head inside together.
Behind them, John hears the fading sound of the wind in the forest, seeming to call out to him in a rushing whisper of regret and hope.
"John... Beloved twin..."
TBC