Fic: The Physicist Blues, McKay/Sheppard, PG -13, A Words & Music Fic
Title: The Physicist Blues
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Genre: First Time/First Kiss, Humor, Blues Abuse, Bead's Words & Music
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: One teeny one for 5x06 "The Shrine."
Unbeta'd.
Summary: What does John do with that guitar in his room?
Author’s note: This is deeply silly. But the song wedged its way into my brain last night as I was trying to get to sleep, insisting that it was a song of John Sheppard’s. I said, “Ooooookay,” and blinked a lot. And then the story wedged itself in while I was waiting for my beta to look over this other very different thing, and well. Here you go.
The song, "The Physicist Blues," written and performed by J. Sheppard is available via Megaupload here. He actually wouldn't sing the song for the recording, so, um. Just the melody. (Please note; he just wrote it, so it's supposed to be rough. Honest. And um, I just learned how to write music last week and have no formal training. I have no casual training, either. In other words, John and I are both operating on gut instinct.)
~*~*~*~*~*~
John tuned his guitar and played some chords that had been rolling around his head; looked like tonight was an old-fashioned blues night. He bit his lip while he got the rhythm right, shifted into a more comfortable position and got into it.
I got the blues, he sang, long about the second run-through. Cranky physicist blues.
He blinked. The songs that he noodled out usually didn’t have lyrics, but it seemed like this one did.
I got the blues, cranky physicist blues. Ba da da-dom, ba ba ba ba bo do. Da da dum dum da da dada and the Large Hadron Collider.
“Large Hadron Collider?” he said aloud, playing the phrase over. “What the hell is gonna rhyme with that?” He blew out a mildly frustrated breath. Maybe he should stick to getting the tune finished.
He couldn’t help part of his brain thinking about it, though, Tie-fighter? Back biter? Coffee hider? Hmph. No no no. And where the tie-fighter came from, he had no idea.
Well, maybe that…discussion…he and Rodney had in the jumper bay.
John played a little louder, a little harder, calling the chords out as he slowly went through each measure. “E3, E3 Flat, E3, ba, da ba ba….E3 Flat E3, C3, E3…..(bomp bomp bomp) Yeah, a little bass riff-y thing would be good right there.”
I got the blues (I got the blues) Cranky physicist blues (oh those physicist blues) Iiiiiiiiii got the blues (I got the blues) Cranky physicist blues (oh those physicist blues) He slapped the body of the guitar for a little rhythm section action: slap, slap, slap. Something something, something something and a Large Hadron Collider Really? Still? Iiiiii-ee-iiii got the ba-luuuuues. (slap slap, slap slap)
“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” he laughed. He didn’t have the greatest voice - not by a long shot - but who cared? He was in his own quarters playing his own guitar for nobody but himself. It felt pretty good, yep, pretty pretty good. (Oh those physicist blues)
And best yet, he wasn’t thinking about his crappy afternoon or the way Rodney sounded when he…Cranky physicist blues… Okay, maybe he was thinking about Rodney a little.
Aaaaand he cheats in chess! (slap slap, slap, slap, slap, SLAP.)
John shook his head and put his back into getting chords right, frowning with concentration. He played it through twice and the lyrics bubbled right back up to his lips, so he sang them softly, trying to tease some more words out for the empty section. Nope, nothing else was coming but the Large Hadron Collider, which was going to just stick out, thanks a lot, potentially universe-eating thing. No, wait. And this way, he could also super collider. Or scientific divider…
Least’s the universe’s here (oh the universe’s here) /gonna get me a beer (that’s right, get me a beer.)
And presumably, drink it on the pier. With Rodney. Who was a steer. Or something else that ended in “-eer.”
Down on the pier (down on the pier) I'll tell Rodney I'm queer (that's right buddy,I'm queer)...
Like that would happen. Ha. A bombardier (a bombardier)and no three-beer ol'queer (come on right over here) And wipe off that sup-er-eior leeeeeer. (your superior leer)
“Sheppard,” he said to himself, “you have officially lost it.”
Oh-OHH, I’ve got the blues. Cranky - ” he fumbled the transition from A2 to G2 and slowed down to correct himself. Stupid physicist ba-lues.
“Um, I think that’s cranky physicist. Scans better.”
John collapsed over the guitar, groaning.
“The door,” Rodney said hesitantly, “opened on it’s own.”
Of course it did. “Yeah,” John sighed, his fingers squeaking on the strings as he beat his head against the smooth wood. “You just override the lock anyway, so I keyed it to let you in.”
“Right. ‘Cause it was bad when I, um, broke it. Inadvertently. So. Ah. Thanks? At least I didn’t catch you,” he cleared his throat. “doing something really embarrassing. I mean, wow, what if you’d been…not, not that that’s what you do this time of day. Night. I mean, well, it's perfectly healthy and normal,”(John could practically hear him jutting out his chin and wringing his hands.) “But your military has such…such archaic, and you know…repressed…obviously with the not asking or you know, tell. Telling and, so. It’s good. That you weren’t. Possibly potentially damaging to I mean, that you. I know no, no, I mean to say, you could and I am sure are perfectly capable,“ his voice squeaked two octaves, “but you, you weren’t just now when I, regrettably and. That’s good.”
“Might has well have been,” John muttered. If only Rodney had caught him with his hand down his pants. John resisted the urge to hit him over the head with the guitar, partially because John had essentially left the door wide open, but mostly because he was waiting for Rodney to leave so he could beat himself with it.
“I came to apologize,“ Rodney blurted. “For this afternoon. I might have been. Well. Cranky.”
“Thank you, Rodney.” John said sincerely, sighing into the Fender’s woodgrain. “I appreciate that.”
“You had some valid points and I. Um. Should have been more receptive. I was mad about not being able to go to CERN, and I think my blood sugar was low. And I’d been talking to stupid people all day and um. You’re not stupid.”
John nodded, forehead dragging slightly against the smooth finish. Not stupid. That was edging awfully close to a compliment. John could appreciate it while he was dying of mortification.
John could sense (not that it helped now) Rodney moving closer. Hooking his chin over the edge of the Fender’s body, he could see Rodney’s shoes just at the edge of his vision, standing close.
“Nobody’s ever written me a song before,” Rodney said quietly, his hand settling on the back of John’s neck. “Any kind of song or poem or or...thing. Even a mad one. Well, hate mail, yes, but.” He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head, his warm, heavy hand making John's muscles go loose. John could feel the tremble in his fingers as Rodney stroked the shivery skin at John's nape. “Thanks, Arthur.”
Laughing helplessly - because the Arthur thing was never not funny and Rodney called him that now, sometimes, and it sounded like it meant something - John looked up into Rodney’s shy, shining face. After that, it was easy to put the guitar aside, stand up and kiss him silly, his blues fading fast.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Genre: First Time/First Kiss, Humor, Blues Abuse, Bead's Words & Music
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: One teeny one for 5x06 "The Shrine."
Unbeta'd.
Summary: What does John do with that guitar in his room?
Author’s note: This is deeply silly. But the song wedged its way into my brain last night as I was trying to get to sleep, insisting that it was a song of John Sheppard’s. I said, “Ooooookay,” and blinked a lot. And then the story wedged itself in while I was waiting for my beta to look over this other very different thing, and well. Here you go.
The song, "The Physicist Blues," written and performed by J. Sheppard is available via Megaupload here. He actually wouldn't sing the song for the recording, so, um. Just the melody. (Please note; he just wrote it, so it's supposed to be rough. Honest. And um, I just learned how to write music last week and have no formal training. I have no casual training, either. In other words, John and I are both operating on gut instinct.)
~*~*~*~*~*~
John tuned his guitar and played some chords that had been rolling around his head; looked like tonight was an old-fashioned blues night. He bit his lip while he got the rhythm right, shifted into a more comfortable position and got into it.
I got the blues, he sang, long about the second run-through. Cranky physicist blues.
He blinked. The songs that he noodled out usually didn’t have lyrics, but it seemed like this one did.
I got the blues, cranky physicist blues. Ba da da-dom, ba ba ba ba bo do. Da da dum dum da da dada and the Large Hadron Collider.
“Large Hadron Collider?” he said aloud, playing the phrase over. “What the hell is gonna rhyme with that?” He blew out a mildly frustrated breath. Maybe he should stick to getting the tune finished.
He couldn’t help part of his brain thinking about it, though, Tie-fighter? Back biter? Coffee hider? Hmph. No no no. And where the tie-fighter came from, he had no idea.
Well, maybe that…discussion…he and Rodney had in the jumper bay.
John played a little louder, a little harder, calling the chords out as he slowly went through each measure. “E3, E3 Flat, E3, ba, da ba ba….E3 Flat E3, C3, E3…..(bomp bomp bomp) Yeah, a little bass riff-y thing would be good right there.”
I got the blues (I got the blues) Cranky physicist blues (oh those physicist blues) Iiiiiiiiii got the blues (I got the blues) Cranky physicist blues (oh those physicist blues) He slapped the body of the guitar for a little rhythm section action: slap, slap, slap. Something something, something something and a Large Hadron Collider Really? Still? Iiiiii-ee-iiii got the ba-luuuuues. (slap slap, slap slap)
“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” he laughed. He didn’t have the greatest voice - not by a long shot - but who cared? He was in his own quarters playing his own guitar for nobody but himself. It felt pretty good, yep, pretty pretty good. (Oh those physicist blues)
And best yet, he wasn’t thinking about his crappy afternoon or the way Rodney sounded when he…Cranky physicist blues… Okay, maybe he was thinking about Rodney a little.
Aaaaand he cheats in chess! (slap slap, slap, slap, slap, SLAP.)
John shook his head and put his back into getting chords right, frowning with concentration. He played it through twice and the lyrics bubbled right back up to his lips, so he sang them softly, trying to tease some more words out for the empty section. Nope, nothing else was coming but the Large Hadron Collider, which was going to just stick out, thanks a lot, potentially universe-eating thing. No, wait. And this way, he could also super collider. Or scientific divider…
Least’s the universe’s here (oh the universe’s here) /gonna get me a beer (that’s right, get me a beer.)
And presumably, drink it on the pier. With Rodney. Who was a steer. Or something else that ended in “-eer.”
Down on the pier (down on the pier) I'll tell Rodney I'm queer (that's right buddy,I'm queer)...
Like that would happen. Ha. A bombardier (a bombardier)and no three-beer ol'queer (come on right over here) And wipe off that sup-er-eior leeeeeer. (your superior leer)
“Sheppard,” he said to himself, “you have officially lost it.”
Oh-OHH, I’ve got the blues. Cranky - ” he fumbled the transition from A2 to G2 and slowed down to correct himself. Stupid physicist ba-lues.
“Um, I think that’s cranky physicist. Scans better.”
John collapsed over the guitar, groaning.
“The door,” Rodney said hesitantly, “opened on it’s own.”
Of course it did. “Yeah,” John sighed, his fingers squeaking on the strings as he beat his head against the smooth wood. “You just override the lock anyway, so I keyed it to let you in.”
“Right. ‘Cause it was bad when I, um, broke it. Inadvertently. So. Ah. Thanks? At least I didn’t catch you,” he cleared his throat. “doing something really embarrassing. I mean, wow, what if you’d been…not, not that that’s what you do this time of day. Night. I mean, well, it's perfectly healthy and normal,”(John could practically hear him jutting out his chin and wringing his hands.) “But your military has such…such archaic, and you know…repressed…obviously with the not asking or you know, tell. Telling and, so. It’s good. That you weren’t. Possibly potentially damaging to I mean, that you. I know no, no, I mean to say, you could and I am sure are perfectly capable,“ his voice squeaked two octaves, “but you, you weren’t just now when I, regrettably and. That’s good.”
“Might has well have been,” John muttered. If only Rodney had caught him with his hand down his pants. John resisted the urge to hit him over the head with the guitar, partially because John had essentially left the door wide open, but mostly because he was waiting for Rodney to leave so he could beat himself with it.
“I came to apologize,“ Rodney blurted. “For this afternoon. I might have been. Well. Cranky.”
“Thank you, Rodney.” John said sincerely, sighing into the Fender’s woodgrain. “I appreciate that.”
“You had some valid points and I. Um. Should have been more receptive. I was mad about not being able to go to CERN, and I think my blood sugar was low. And I’d been talking to stupid people all day and um. You’re not stupid.”
John nodded, forehead dragging slightly against the smooth finish. Not stupid. That was edging awfully close to a compliment. John could appreciate it while he was dying of mortification.
John could sense (not that it helped now) Rodney moving closer. Hooking his chin over the edge of the Fender’s body, he could see Rodney’s shoes just at the edge of his vision, standing close.
“Nobody’s ever written me a song before,” Rodney said quietly, his hand settling on the back of John’s neck. “Any kind of song or poem or or...thing. Even a mad one. Well, hate mail, yes, but.” He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head, his warm, heavy hand making John's muscles go loose. John could feel the tremble in his fingers as Rodney stroked the shivery skin at John's nape. “Thanks, Arthur.”
Laughing helplessly - because the Arthur thing was never not funny and Rodney called him that now, sometimes, and it sounded like it meant something - John looked up into Rodney’s shy, shining face. After that, it was easy to put the guitar aside, stand up and kiss him silly, his blues fading fast.