Fic: "At Once Our Time Devour" (SGA, McKay/Sheppard)
I missed the party for spike21's birthday, but I still have presents!
At Once Our Time Devour (1041 words)
Summary: Aging takes it out of a guy.
Spoilers: Through Common Ground (3x07)
Notes: Written as a birthday present for spike21. Happy belated, chica!
Rodney wasn't in his lab or the mess hall, so John tried the TV lounge. Sure enough, there was Rodney on the beat-up couch, dark circles under his eyes and one of those super-strong Quebec beers he'd bribed Novak to bring him in his hand, resting against his chest like a teddy bear.
"Whatcha watching?" John asked.
"Smallville," Rodney said, not looking up from the set.
"Yeah? What's that about?"
Rodney pressed pause on the remote and looked up, eyes wide. "What happened to you as a child?"
"What?"
"Smallville! Where Superman grew up! How do you not know that?"
There were a hundred different answers to that, but none of the conversations ended well. John just shrugged. "So, it's like Superboy?"
For a second, Rodney looked like he was going to explode, but then he just took a loud, deep breath and sighed. "Yes, fine. Superboy."
"Cool." John dropped heavily onto the couch. Rodney clutched his beer protectively and glared.
"Don't you have somewhere to be, Colonel? Marines to order around?"
"Nope." John grabbed the remote and pressed Play. "Bunch of mission reports waiting for the science team signoff, though."
"Oh, is that what this is?"
On the screen, a familiar-looking blond guy was making a speech in a kitchen. "Hey, is that Bo Duke? Man, he's gotten old."
Rodney grimaced. "If I promise to get those files to you by the end of the day, will you leave me to watch TV in peace?"
"Take it up with Lorne, McKay. He gets really mean when the paperwork isn't done."
"Yes, yes, I'm terrified. Look, I've only got three reports to do myself, two of which are one-liners since I don't think the SGC is interested in the entirely involuntary research I did on the effect of mold on regulation-issue socks on P3X-490."
"Ground-breaking work."
"Hah hah. The only reports that are really overdue are from Carson's team. They wanted extra time to go over those blood samples they took from you."
John shifted a little on the couch. "Wanted to double-check there wasn't any leftover Wraith mojo, huh."
"It's the first time we've seen anyone come back from getting fed on by the Wrath, Colonel, it's a major scientific opportunity." Rodney looked over at John and did a double-take. "You're not still upset by that, are you?"
"Dying of old age and then coming back? Nah. Happens to me all the time."
"Great. The macho space hero routine. You're going to have a complete breakdown eventually, and you won't be able to say I didn't warn you."
"I promise I won't."
They watched TV in companionable silence for a while. Rodney seemed to be following what was going on on-screen, so John mostly watched Rodney. When Rodney got caught up in something, his whole expression changed: the permanent grimace disappeared, and the lines in his forehead smoothed out. It took ten years off his face, easy.
"Do you really think I look younger?" John heard himself asking.
"What?"
"Since the Wraith. You said I looked younger than when I got grabbed."
Rodney looked at him carefully. "I don't know. At the time, I suppose, it was shock. We thought... well, we didn't think... anyhow, shock. I'm not sure right now. Why?"
John shrugged. "Curiosity. I mean, I was a pretty good-looking kid."
"Oh, for -- don't tell me this is a vanity thing for you! Get captured by the Wraith for better skin!"
"It's not like that." Except it kind of was, a little. John was fine with getting older, at least in the normal way of doing it. But that didn't mean it wasn't a nasty shock some mornings, when he'd gotten back from a hard mission and was working on four hours sleep and eight cups of coffee, to look in the mirror and see, well, an old guy.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "You're still the prettiest colonel in town. OK?" He took a drink from his beer and put it carefully down on the floor, out of easy kicking range. "As hard as you might find it to believe, I -- I was actually considered quite good-looking myself, in my salad days. But I wouldn't trade who I am today for a pretty face. Anyone can have one of those. Look at the gate tech, the Canadian."
"You should really learn his name," John said.
"Whatever. That's the point! He's just a pretty face. Nothing's happened to him yet; he's unmarked. Boring. But you -- you have scars." Rodney's hand went to John's shoulder, right next to where the Iratus had left its mark on his neck.
"Lots of scars," John muttered.
"You've lived." Rodney's fingers traced lightly across John's cheekbones, the places where his crow's feet formed, the spots in his temple where he could have sworn, last month, that he was starting to go grey. "You'd trade that for some sort of anonymous ‘pretty'? I wouldn't."
"Jesus, Rodney." Of all the ways John had imagined this going down, and he'd imagined it plenty, he'd never imagined it like this, with Rodney's hands on his face like he was some precious discovery. He raised his hand to Rodney's forehead, traced the softness of his hairline, and he felt Rodney's hand on his own face tremble. "We - let's take this somewhere more private, OK? Anyone could come in."
"Oh, OK, yeah." Rodney shook his head, like he was shaking off a dream, and suddenly he was all business. "I'll be - your room, in half an hour? I have to return these DVDs before I forget."
"Half an hour, yeah." That would give John time to shave and pick up all the clothes on the floor. "That works. Who'd you borrow them from, anyhow?"
"Simpson. She's got a thing for the Lex Luthor character."
"Lex Luthor? And you let her use dangerous chemicals?"
Rodney smiled. "Thank God you knew who he was, or I was going to have to stand you up."
"Do that," John warned, "and I'll really sic Major Lorne on you."
"Oh, yes," Rodney shouted as John walked out of the lounge. "I'm so terrified of being deadpanned to death!"
John smiled. Getting older turned out to have its advantages after all.
* * * * *
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
-- Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"
At Once Our Time Devour (1041 words)
Summary: Aging takes it out of a guy.
Spoilers: Through Common Ground (3x07)
Notes: Written as a birthday present for spike21. Happy belated, chica!
Rodney wasn't in his lab or the mess hall, so John tried the TV lounge. Sure enough, there was Rodney on the beat-up couch, dark circles under his eyes and one of those super-strong Quebec beers he'd bribed Novak to bring him in his hand, resting against his chest like a teddy bear.
"Whatcha watching?" John asked.
"Smallville," Rodney said, not looking up from the set.
"Yeah? What's that about?"
Rodney pressed pause on the remote and looked up, eyes wide. "What happened to you as a child?"
"What?"
"Smallville! Where Superman grew up! How do you not know that?"
There were a hundred different answers to that, but none of the conversations ended well. John just shrugged. "So, it's like Superboy?"
For a second, Rodney looked like he was going to explode, but then he just took a loud, deep breath and sighed. "Yes, fine. Superboy."
"Cool." John dropped heavily onto the couch. Rodney clutched his beer protectively and glared.
"Don't you have somewhere to be, Colonel? Marines to order around?"
"Nope." John grabbed the remote and pressed Play. "Bunch of mission reports waiting for the science team signoff, though."
"Oh, is that what this is?"
On the screen, a familiar-looking blond guy was making a speech in a kitchen. "Hey, is that Bo Duke? Man, he's gotten old."
Rodney grimaced. "If I promise to get those files to you by the end of the day, will you leave me to watch TV in peace?"
"Take it up with Lorne, McKay. He gets really mean when the paperwork isn't done."
"Yes, yes, I'm terrified. Look, I've only got three reports to do myself, two of which are one-liners since I don't think the SGC is interested in the entirely involuntary research I did on the effect of mold on regulation-issue socks on P3X-490."
"Ground-breaking work."
"Hah hah. The only reports that are really overdue are from Carson's team. They wanted extra time to go over those blood samples they took from you."
John shifted a little on the couch. "Wanted to double-check there wasn't any leftover Wraith mojo, huh."
"It's the first time we've seen anyone come back from getting fed on by the Wrath, Colonel, it's a major scientific opportunity." Rodney looked over at John and did a double-take. "You're not still upset by that, are you?"
"Dying of old age and then coming back? Nah. Happens to me all the time."
"Great. The macho space hero routine. You're going to have a complete breakdown eventually, and you won't be able to say I didn't warn you."
"I promise I won't."
They watched TV in companionable silence for a while. Rodney seemed to be following what was going on on-screen, so John mostly watched Rodney. When Rodney got caught up in something, his whole expression changed: the permanent grimace disappeared, and the lines in his forehead smoothed out. It took ten years off his face, easy.
"Do you really think I look younger?" John heard himself asking.
"What?"
"Since the Wraith. You said I looked younger than when I got grabbed."
Rodney looked at him carefully. "I don't know. At the time, I suppose, it was shock. We thought... well, we didn't think... anyhow, shock. I'm not sure right now. Why?"
John shrugged. "Curiosity. I mean, I was a pretty good-looking kid."
"Oh, for -- don't tell me this is a vanity thing for you! Get captured by the Wraith for better skin!"
"It's not like that." Except it kind of was, a little. John was fine with getting older, at least in the normal way of doing it. But that didn't mean it wasn't a nasty shock some mornings, when he'd gotten back from a hard mission and was working on four hours sleep and eight cups of coffee, to look in the mirror and see, well, an old guy.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "You're still the prettiest colonel in town. OK?" He took a drink from his beer and put it carefully down on the floor, out of easy kicking range. "As hard as you might find it to believe, I -- I was actually considered quite good-looking myself, in my salad days. But I wouldn't trade who I am today for a pretty face. Anyone can have one of those. Look at the gate tech, the Canadian."
"You should really learn his name," John said.
"Whatever. That's the point! He's just a pretty face. Nothing's happened to him yet; he's unmarked. Boring. But you -- you have scars." Rodney's hand went to John's shoulder, right next to where the Iratus had left its mark on his neck.
"Lots of scars," John muttered.
"You've lived." Rodney's fingers traced lightly across John's cheekbones, the places where his crow's feet formed, the spots in his temple where he could have sworn, last month, that he was starting to go grey. "You'd trade that for some sort of anonymous ‘pretty'? I wouldn't."
"Jesus, Rodney." Of all the ways John had imagined this going down, and he'd imagined it plenty, he'd never imagined it like this, with Rodney's hands on his face like he was some precious discovery. He raised his hand to Rodney's forehead, traced the softness of his hairline, and he felt Rodney's hand on his own face tremble. "We - let's take this somewhere more private, OK? Anyone could come in."
"Oh, OK, yeah." Rodney shook his head, like he was shaking off a dream, and suddenly he was all business. "I'll be - your room, in half an hour? I have to return these DVDs before I forget."
"Half an hour, yeah." That would give John time to shave and pick up all the clothes on the floor. "That works. Who'd you borrow them from, anyhow?"
"Simpson. She's got a thing for the Lex Luthor character."
"Lex Luthor? And you let her use dangerous chemicals?"
Rodney smiled. "Thank God you knew who he was, or I was going to have to stand you up."
"Do that," John warned, "and I'll really sic Major Lorne on you."
"Oh, yes," Rodney shouted as John walked out of the lounge. "I'm so terrified of being deadpanned to death!"
John smiled. Getting older turned out to have its advantages after all.
* * * * *
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
-- Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"