Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead by Speranza, commentary by Girlnamedpixley
Title: Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead
Author: Speranza
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Commentator: Girlnamedpixley
Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead
by Speranza
Author’s Note: Many thanks to all the usual suspects: shalott, resonant, and Terri. This story was written for the sga_flashfic “Left Behind” challenge and demonstrates my continuing inability to understand the “flashfiction” concept.
1
Rodney thinks that he can detect Sam Carter’s well-meaning hand in the fact that they’re put up at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs (five stars according to travelsmart.com) rather than on base in Cheyenne Mountain. Everyone seems to take it for granted that they’ll have people to see and things to do. “They’ve been in another galaxy, sir,” Sam probably said, rolling her eyes, and the generals probably looked nervously at each other and agreed that, yes, the senior staff of Atlantis might well want to have a steak, or visit their mothers, or both.
This is how Rodney finds himself standing at the registration counter in the overly ornate lobby of the Broadmoor, being handed a key card for room 914. Beside him, Sheppard is looking around warily, like he expects a Wraith to jump out from behind a pink fluted column or a damask armchair. This is where I knew I was going to love this story. How can you not love a story that gives you the mental image of Steve the Wraith lurking behind pink columns and damask chairs? Further down, Elizabeth smiles as she signs something with a pen chained to the desk; Beckett’s already taken advantage of the SGA’s long leash, and has high-tailed it for the Highlands. Rodney doesn’t blame him; compared to Pegasus, Scotland’s a hop, skip and a jump.
“Gentlemen,” Elizabeth says, nodding as she passes them. There’s an unfamiliar gleam in her eye, a barely-suppressed excitement in her stride; it’s obvious that she’s going to be meeting someone. Rodney pauses to watch her disappear toward the bank of elevators, then turns back to the clerk to sign his own registration form; beside him, Sheppard palms his key card off the counter with a lopsided smile that looks friendly, but really isn’t at all. The fact that this story is from Rodney’s POV makes the little asides like this extremely important. They’re little things that seem insignificant - a friendly smile that isn’t really - but it’s significant because Rodney recognizes them for that they are. Rodney has the Sheppard Opertaing Manual, even if he hasn’t realized it yet.
Sheppard follows him to the elevators without speaking, but frowns when Rodney presses the button for the ninth floor. Sheppard tilts his key toward Rodney; he’s in room 916. Rodney nods just as the door opens, and then they’re walking up the corridor with its ornate wallpaper and hideous pink-tinted lights. Their rooms are next to each other, but the doors are, thankfully, separated by a big chunk of wall. The small brass nameplate on the door next to his reads 912, and Rodney will bet dollars to donuts that it belongs to Elizabeth Weir.
“Catch you later,” Sheppard says, and Rodney waves an impatient hand at him as he swipes his keycard and shoves the handle down when the light flashes green.
2
His room is awash with faux-luxury touches: the bed is unnaturally high and has too many pillows, there are white bathrobes and a million stupid little bottles in the bathroom but only a tiny little coffee machine and a single Ethernet port-not even wireless. Sighing, Rodney drops his bag and yanks off his jacket. Then he sits down and sweeps everything on the desk-hotel information booklet, complimentary notepad and pen, Colorado Springs tourist literature, idiot’s guide to Ethernet-into the trash and sets up his laptop. Then he dials room service. *snort* That is SO him.
In room 912, the shower goes on. In room 916, the television. The first mention of the sound of the TV. Very significant. Very cool. Let’s hear it for subtle symbolism!
Rodney begins to boot up various things he’s working on; he likes cycling between projects, working on each as the mood strikes him. This is exactly how I work. I can totally see Rodney doing this. He finds that sometimes the answer to one problem comes to him as a distraction from another problem, and has learned to capitalize on that fact. He also takes a moment to crack the graduate student server at MIT, just to see what the kids are up to these days; the professors, he knows, are hopelessly mired, but the kids might do something worthwhile before their advisors beat their wackiest ideas out of them.
In room 912, a hairdryer is blaring. In room 916, the television is still going strong.
A knock on the door tells him that his food’s arrived. Rodney’s leaning against the open door and scrawling his name on the bill when Elizabeth passes behind the waiter, drop dead gorgeous in high heels and a tight-fitting blue dress. She glances at him and laughs, and Rodney realizes that he must be gaping. He snaps his mouth shut and shoves the bill at the waiter, who nods obsequiously and pushes the cart of covered dishes into his room.
Rodney eats idly, picking at the various dishes as he surfs his old online haunts, then has an idea about the matter displacement wave he’s been trying to predict and works furiously until his back twinges. He pushes back from the desk, gets up, and stretches; he’s been hunched over for-how long? Hours, he realizes, glancing at the clock-but he can still hear the murmur of the television from next door.
4-3, Rodney thinks before he knows what that means, and then he does know. It’s hockey, and the score is 4-3; before that, it was football, final score 16-6; before that, football again, 32-14. This is why I love the running theme of the sound of the TV. Because it’s exactly how Sheppard has insinuated himself in Rodney’s life. It’s white noise. It’s a constant background hum. Rodney doesn’t even realize that somewhere along the way he’s started to understand and interpret it without conscious effort. He finds he’s exhausted, and he strips down to his underwear, throws half of the pillows onto the floor, and switches off the light before getting into his too-high bed. In the dark, he falls asleep to the announcer’s voice and the familiar metallic shushing of skates.
3
He knocks on Sheppard’s door the next morning to see if he’s going over to the SGC. Sheppard answers the door barefoot and in sweatpants, (please, God, I beg you. Let me see this just one time before I die.) with his hair flat on one side and his cheek strangely chafed. Rodney, who’s often woken up looking much the same, knows what this means: Sheppard fell asleep somewhere on his face. “Yeah, I-yeah,” Sheppard says, sounding exhausted; he rubs at his bristly chin and says, “Give me a minute.”
Rodney assumes that this means he should wait in his room, but Sheppard surprises him by holding the pneumatic door for him. Rodney instinctively puts his hand up, and by the time he realizes this commits him to coming inside, Sheppard’s already drifting back into the room. The television, Rodney sees right away, is still on-ESPN, and some newscaster is giving post-game analysis, and then there’s a slow motion replay of a bunch of guys in helmets crashing into each other. A quick glance shows four empty beer bottles with the labels peeled off, and a bunch of tiny crumpled foil packages of what Rodney immediately recognizes as vending machine fare: single-serve packages of Doritos, couple of Snickers bars, pretzels, chips. For some reason, this is the saddest image in the world. John, alone in a hotel room, peeling labels off empty beer bottles and wishing with every fiber of his being that he was back home in Atlantis. Rodney thinks so too. Sheppard is gathering up his discarded casual uniform when Rodney asks him what he had for breakfast; Sheppard shrugs, picks up an open can of Coke, and drains it, tossing it into the trash with a satisfying thump on his way into the bathroom. Rodney can’t really argue with this because Coca-Cola (sugar, caffeine, instant energy surge) has always been the Breakfast of Champions, but he thinks about maybe asking Sheppard to order room service with him later on tonight.
They stop at Elizabeth’s door on the way to the elevator, just for form’s sake. She isn’t there.
4
There’s some kind of power struggle happening. Rodney’s not central enough in the power politics of the SGC to know what it is, but still, he can smell it, and he becomes certain of it when he finds out that they’ve sent Sheppard away in the middle of the day with a multi-day leave pass. I like that Rodney’s not in on whatever’s brewing at the SGC. He’s in a position of power in Atlantis, so you’re not used to seeing him (or Sheppard) being out of the loop. Knowing he’s in the dark right now too kind of humanizes him for the story. That’s a nice touch.) Rodney wonders if Sheppard will do a Beckett and hop the next plane for-well, wherever Sheppard’s from, but when he gets back to the Broadmoor later that night, he can hear the television on in Sheppard’s room when he passes it.
Rodney’s changed and comfortable and in front of his laptop when his stomach growls, and it’s only when he reaches for the room service menu that he remembers his idea of getting Sheppard to eat by ordering food with him. Sighing, he shuts the laptop, pads out to Sheppard’s door, and knocks.
“Yeah?” Sheppard calls from inside.
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Housekeeping,” he calls back, and when Sheppard opens the door, he’s barefoot and in the same black sweats as this morning, only now he’s wearing a faint grin.
“I could use some fresh towels,” Sheppard says, and tilts his head ironically.
Rodney pushes past him, into the room, and says, “You could use some food that didn’t come out of the minibar. I’m getting burgers, what do you want?” Awww, Rodney. It’s *obvious* that someone has to assume the Care and Feeding of Lt. Col. John Sheppard right now, since his self-preservation instincts appear to have fled the country. Rodney steps up. As always. I just want to squish them together and make them comfort each other damn it! The television is on, still tuned to ESPN, and it’s football again. Sheppard’s desk is still covered with the hotel literature, and Rodney finds the room service menu, and hands it to him. Sheppard takes it, flips it open, and frowns down at it. “The fries were good,” Rodney says, eyes drawn to the television again; he doesn’t understand football, and hasn’t ever wanted to waste time trying. He’ll just order the food and go back to his laptop.
But then Sheppard looks up from the menu. “Okay, yeah, I’ll have the same,” he says, and then, handing the menu back to Rodney, “Do you like football?” and of course the only answer to that is, no; no, he doesn’t. Except Rodney hears himself saying, “I don’t really know enough about it,” and then Sheppard is moving past him, eyes on the screen, hands waving in the air, and he’s saying, “Okay, so look, it’s simple, it’s just like hockey, really. The goal is to move the ball to the opponent’s end zone, and you can move the ball by either passing or rushing...” and it’s five minutes before Rodney can stop him for long enough to get their food order in.
5
Sheppard’s too deep in the game to get the food when it comes, so Rodney signs his name to the tab and waves the cart in; burgers, fries, beer. Sheppard pulls himself away long enough to claim his food and pop open a beer, and then he sprawls on the bed and eats French fries, mechanically dipping them in ketchup before putting them into his mouth. Rodney sits in the desk chair and puts his tray on the bed, eyes moving between the game (not nearly as complex as he thought, once he gets the whole concept of “downs”) and Sheppard’s obsession with it. At one point, Sheppard jumps up, yelling and nearly toppling his tray onto the floor, and when Rodney demonstrates his lack of understanding by failing to be suitably impressed, Sheppard darts to the screen and narrates the instant replay, finger tracing a line across the screen: the running back is moving rapidly through a channel between two groups of offensive blockers, running and running before he’s tackled down to the ground. Rodney’s pretty sure that wasn’t a touchdown, but Sheppard swipes his beer off the nightstand and takes a long, satisfied-seeming swig. God. Rodney letting Sheppard explain football to him - even if he’s only half paying attention - is the sweetest thing EVER.
6
“So, the SGC sent you home,” Rodney says, dropping the words into one of the many long, slow moments of set-up. *Wince* Aaaaand…so much for that nice little moment. Segue, Rodney. Look it up!
Sheppard shoots him a sideways glance, but says nothing.
“Any plans for shore leave?” Rodney asks, and this time Sheppard doesn’t even look at him; he just stares fixedly ahead at the screen. Yeah. That went well.
7
Rodney goes back to his room after the first period of the hockey game that follows; Sheppard barely looks at him as he says, “Night,” and waves his hand. Rodney’s room is just as he left it, and it feels like home away from home-and all right, pot, kettle, because it’s not as if he’s gone anywhere or done anything that he wouldn’t have done back (home) in Atlantis. Rodney shuts off the lights, then goes to the window and looks out over the twinkling lights of Colorado Springs: he could, he supposed, go visit his cat, if that weren’t the most pathetic thing ever in the history of pathetic, or maybe he should go and see Schwartzman-though visiting your graduate advisor is even more pathetic than visiting your cat. Rodney leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes; he isn’t interested in shopping, he’ll download all the movies he wants onto a drive and ration them out over the long, long Atlantis nights, there’s nobody he really wants to see. The fact that there’s really no one Rodney wants to see seems sadder to me than it does to Rodney. He just kind of flies through his “could do” list and moves on to the idea of the symphony. But it’s just a really good way to plant that seed that Rodney and John are both so stranded here. Both completely alone, even right next door to each other. Just kind of makes me want to jump up and down and yell “WAKE UP AND KISS, YOU IDIOTS! While you have a king size bed RIGHT HERE!” Still, there must be something here for him that there isn’t back home-and all of a sudden, he’s got it and he moves swiftly back to the desk, turns on the lamp, and opens the laptop. He googles “Colorado Springs philharmonic,” and damn if there isn’t a Colorado Springs Philharmonic, which, the website informs him, is the only professional orchestra of the Colorado Springs region. He’s sure it isn’t the Boston Symphony or the Philharmonic or even the Pops, but Boston can spoil a person and right now it seems enough that they’re a professional outfit. They’re doing Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 tomorrow night, and even though it says SOLD OUT, Rodney knows from long experience that it’s always easy to get a single ticket. A few clicks on the box office software and he’s reserved his seat, and he falls asleep feeling wonderfully self-satisfied.
8
When Rodney knocks on Elizabeth’s door on his way to the SGC the next morning, and gets no answer, he wonders if she ever comes back to the hotel at all. The television’s still on in Sheppard’s room. Rodney hesitates in front of the door and thinks about knocking, but he isn’t sure what to say; he doesn’t want it to look like he’s rubbing it in that Sheppard’s not currently welcome at Cheyenne Mountain. With a sigh, he turns and leaves. Well 2 minutes ago, I wanted Rodney to have some tact, and now that he’s trying to, it’s killing me and I want him to knock on the damn door and…I don’t know! DO SOMETHING! Sheppard is breaking my heart here!
He spends the day rejecting scientists-honestly, are these the best people they can come up with?-and then heads back to the Broadmoor for a shower and a shave. He can’t bear to wear a tie, but he feels the need to dress up a little as a mark of musical respect, and so he puts on a button-down shirt and a sports jacket.
He’s almost ready to go when there’s a knock at the door, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t order anything for tonight, but this is a good hotel, and it occurs to him that they might be anticipating his habits. They’re not.
Sheppard takes him in at a glance, and something in his face changes. “You’re going out,” Sheppard says, and Rodney’s surprised before he realizes that Sheppard certainly knows him well enough to recognize that he’s dressed unusually for him-neither for work nor for home. *falls writhing to the floor* The angst. Oh how it burns! You just know Sheppard finally forced himself to get out of the damn sweatpants and stop wallowing and go find Rodney, and now Rodney’s going out and…and…why did I think I loved this story again? Someone tell me! *Flails helplessly*
“Yes,” Rodney says, frowning, and last night, he’d imagined telling Sheppard that he was going out, and he’d felt vaguely smug about it, because he’d clearly figured out something to do with himself in Colorado Springs where Major Popular, Hip, and Good-Looking clearly hadn’t. But he doesn’t feel smug; he feels guilty. “I’m, uh,” Rodney says, and his hands are moving fruitlessly in the air, trying to convey the no-big-deal-ness of it, the really-very-pathetic-ness, “I got myself a ticket to the symphony. They’re doing Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 .”
“Oh,” Sheppard says, and Rodney recognizes that expression; he saw it in the mirror somewhere between Sheppard’s explanation of an I-formation and a sack. “Cool. Have a good time,” he says, and turns-
“Was there something...?” Rodney begins uncertainly.
“No, no; never mind,” Sheppard says, and goes back to his room. I’ll just be over here. Softly crying.
9
The terrifyingly named “Pikes Peak Cultural Center” turns out to be a real concert hall, and a swift glance at the architecture leads Rodney to believe that it was designed by somebody who actually understood acoustics. He’s surprised by the claustrophobia he feels among the crowd milling in the red-carpeted lobby; it’s been a long time since he’s been among so many people. Still, he reminds himself that this is what he came for: he’s here to be part of an audience. He knows that there’s something about being in a room full of hushed, silently-breathing people that moves the experience of symphonic music from the wondrous to the sublime, and he can feel excitement surging through his nerves just from hearing the orchestra tune up. His seat is at the end of an aisle, so he loiters around the hall, idly reading the musicians’ biographies in the program-half are from Tanglewood, which is reassuring-until the row is full and everyone is seated. Then he sits down, takes a breath, and closes his eyes.
There’s applause as the curtain goes up, more applause as the conductor comes out, and then silence, punctuated by the occasional muted cough. A sole trumpeter plays the symphony’s opening notes, and suddenly the tension is unbearable, in the orchestra, in the room, all of them holding their breath together and waiting for the first resounding, shuddering crash of instrumentation. And then it comes, wave after wave washing over him, through him, and it’s all he can do to hold on against the tide of liveness, of life, pure, precise, mathematical energy, and not be swept away by the force of his own emotions. This is one of the most honest and true descriptions of music appreciation I’ve ever read. I don’t have an ear for music. I have pieces that I like, but I don’t…I don’t feel classical music the way someone who truly loves it can feel it. But I do feel visual art that way, and so I know what this moment for Rodney was like and how it touched him and where, and Speranza captured it flawlessly and as fluidly as the symphony itself. I love this paragraph, because it’s so tight. My appreciation of it is longer than the passage itself (evidence that I don’t have her gift), but I couldn’t let it go without giving it the nod it deserves.
10
The symphony leaves him weak and deeply gratified-positively post-coital-and on impulse, Rodney investigates the next evening’s program, and buys a ticket when he discovers there’s a guest pianist, in from the east. Rachmaninoff, but you can’t have everything, and there’s some Mozart and some Grieg, so what the hell. Patting the pocket containing the ticket, Rodney walks along the street outside the Cultural Center, and all of Colorado Springs’ nightlife seems to be concentrated in this tiny downtown area: there are restaurants and bars and a movie theatre, and strolling couples and groups of friends huddled and laughing and arguing about where to go next, and Rodney feels like-not just a tourist, but an alien, gaping at the strange habits of the locals. He goes into a bistro and gets a table by the window, so that he can people-watch while he munches on his sandwich and drinks his beer.
He rides this state of dreamy contentedness all the way back to the Broadmoor, and it’s only when the elevator discharges him on the 9th floor that he thinks about Sheppard. Suddenly he feels like he won’t be able to stand it if he passes Sheppard’s door and hears that the television’s on, but then he does and it is. This may be my favorite internal Rodney moment in the whole story - because as the reader, that is EXACTLY how I felt at this point in the story. Rodney was floating home on a musical high and I was happy for him, but then I thought “please don’t tell me the tv is on when he walks past Sheppard’s room - I won’t be able to stand it.” But she did.
Rodney stops and knocks, and when Sheppard opens the door, he’s wearing jeans and sneakers and has done his hair in that strange style that Rodney has come to understand is intentional. “Hey there,” Sheppard says, and leans against the door, “how was the music?”
“It was...extraordinarily good,” Rodney replies, and that’s an understatement, but he’s not sure how to tell Sheppard how close he came to weeping, or how it made him feel like a whole person for the first time in a long time. I bet Sheppard can tell anyway. “I bought a ticket for tomorrow, too,” Rodney says, hand moving instinctively toward his pocket, and the idea’s out before he’s thought it through, “and I was thinking, you know, that maybe you’d want to come, have dinner and-”
Sheppard’s expression is shuttered, but he’s already shaking his head. “Thanks, but-I think I’m going to hop over to L.A.,” and oh, huh, Sheppard seems to have found something to do after all, and Rodney has a quick pop-pop vision of the beach and the clubs on the Strip-that part of L.A., in other words, that isn’t his L.A., which is Pasadena and Cal Tech and the Pie ‘n’ Burger. But the vision winks out of existence when Sheppard scrubs tiredly at his face and mutters, “Ford’s got a cousin who lives there, so I figure, I might as well go and see her. Tell her what I can tell her, which isn’t much. Still,” Sheppard adds with a shrug, “it’s not like I’m doing anything.”
This is an unexpected horror, and Rodney nods grimly; this isn’t something he would wish on anyone. That’s exactly what it is. A horror. Because, you know - Sheppard was having such a *good time* up till now. He needed to take it to the next level. “When are you going?” Rodney asks, and Sheppard answers, “Tomorrow morning; it’s a quick flight, one stop. I’ll be back the next day,” and Rodney nods and says, awkwardly, “Tell her, tell Ford’s family that-you know. That we all-”
“Yeah,” Sheppard says in a dark voice, and for a second it’s as if they’re not in the Broadmoor, not in Colorado, or on Earth, but they’re back in the blue and silver halls of Atlantis. And their teammate is lost. *sniff* Where the hell are Teyla? There needs to be a group hug IMMEDIATELY.
11
When Rodney wakes up the next morning, the rooms on either side of him are silent. Why is that so heartbreaking? How is she manipulating me like this with just the idea of NO TV NOISE? His breakfast-oatmeal, omelette, fruit cup, carafe of coffee-arrives, and he eats it while surfing the morning news on his laptop. He spends the day at the SGC demanding to see the files they think they’ve vetted, and sure enough, they’ve discarded all the interesting candidates: Fields at Cal Tech, and Ben-Zvi from Fermilab, and that woman Wasser who was such a prodigy over at M.I.T. two years before he arrived and trumped all her records.
The only familiar faces at the SGC are unfriendly ones, people he pissed off two years ago and who now show him tight, thin-lipped smiles if they smile at all. He can’t wait to escape back to the Broadmoor; more than that, he realizes, as he shoves his key card into the lock, he can’t wait to get back to Atlantis. Weirdly, he misses Teyla; he misses his lab and his room with its narrow, twin bed and single flat pillow; he misses the city, his home. Doesn’t everyone know that feeling? No matter how nice your surroundings are, when you’re homesick, you’re homesick. All the goose down duvet covers in the world can’t feel as good as your thin mattress and small bed if that’s where home is.
He changes his clothes and goes straight downtown, getting a steak and a baked potato at a nearby restaurant before queuing up at the Cultural Center at a quarter to eight. This time, when the lights dim, a single spotlight comes up on a grand piano. Rodney patiently sits through the Rachmaninoff, but he has to close his eyes during the perfectly-executed Mozart, and he’s ripped into pieces by the Grieg, and maybe it’s knowing that Sheppard is safely a thousand miles away where he’ll never see and never know, but this time, he lets himself shake. I’m overcome with the burning need to buy a thousand classical cds and attempt to somehow send them to the Pegasus galaxy. Rodney should *always* have music in his life.
12
He’s not sure if it’s the emotional hangover from the Grieg or the incipient hangover from all the beer he drank afterwards to steady himself, but he can’t sleep, even though he’s exhausted.
It’s 4 a.m. when he finally gets out of bed and switches on the television. After that, he’s asleep within minutes.
That symbolism just never gets old for me. The tv as metaphor for John - and Rodney not being able to sleep if it’s not there. Because without Sheppard, he is completely unmoored.
13
Rodney’s hung over the next morning, and oddly, the low murmur of ESPN on his television seems to help. He can’t really eat anything, but he manages to down a few cups of coffee and a couple bites of toast before heading over to the SGC. But it’s not his day, because General Landry chooses this morning to request a meeting with Elizabeth and whatever staff she has available, and Elizabeth looks disappointed when she finds out that Major Sheppard has amscrayed and Dr. Beckett’s still in Scotland and the utterly respectable and quiet-living Dr. Rodney McKay has chosen the night before to go on a bender. Still, Rodney shows up for moral support, and tries to project an air of utter reliability and extreme brilliance while Elizabeth articulates their specific needs vis a vis personnel and materiel. Still, when the meeting is over, he high-tails it back to the Broadmoor, where he throws up and then flops down on his bed, fully clothed, for a nap.
He awakes to the sound of sports from next door, and rolls out of bed without thinking. His head is rotten but clears a bit by the time he’s at the door, and then he’s moving down the too-bright hall.
When Sheppard answers the door, he’s in his black sweats again, and he looks terrible-he’s pale beneath the dark scruff of his beard, and he has dark circles around his eyes, like he hasn’t slept since he left.
“You look like hell,” Rodney says. For some reason, I always feel that Rodney’s heart is pounding just a little bit harder than it should be here, and he doesn’t really know why. It’s just…John’s back. And yeah, it’s only been a day, but things were just…wrong.
Sheppard groggily rubs one eye. “You don’t look so good yourself,” he says, and then squints narrowly at Rodney. “What happened to you?”
“I-” Rodney waves his hand tiredly; it’s too much effort to explain. “Drinking.”
“Well, that wasn’t very smart,” Sheppard drawls. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
“Tell me about Ford’s cousin,” Rodney interrupts, and Sheppard’s face changes, goes hard. Rodney pushes into the room in case Sheppard decides to shut the door on him. “Tell me,” he repeats.
“It’s nothing, her name’s Lara, she’s very nice,” Sheppard says. “She thinks I’m responsible for what happened to Ford,” he says, adding, almost angrily: “And I think she’s right about that.”
“Oh, please,” Rodney says, rolling his eyes. “Try that on somebody who didn’t spend the past year fighting space vampires with you.”
“I came to Atlantis,” Sheppard begins, sharp as glass, “with one commanding officer and one second lieutenant. You don’t think it’s strange that Colonel Sumner is dead and Ford is-” and Sheppard’s hand jerks violently to show that he doesn’t know what the hell Ford is. “You don’t think that says something about me?”
And it’s funny, but only then does Rodney feel the weight of his year’s experience serving on the away team, because Sheppard is muscling him, getting into his space, like he just might punch him. And a year ago Rodney would have backed down from a physical confrontation (great moment of self-awareness here, and so true), but now he finds himself getting right up in Sheppard’s face and saying, with as much hostility as he can manage, “I know just what it says about you. I was there.”
Something twitches in Sheppard’s expression before he nails it down, and Rodney sighs and awkwardly raises a hand to pat his shoulder. But it’s not enough-he knows that immediately; they both do-and so he slings his arm around Sheppard’s neck and yanks him into the tightest hug of his life. Sheppard hugs him back so hard his ribs hurt, and Jesus, maybe it’s just the last couple of days or the trauma of the whole last year, or maybe it’s just that right now John Sheppard is the only part of Atlantis that he has, but Rodney can’t let go of him. My heart is breaking for them both. Sometimes words just can’t be enough.
It should be embarrassing, but it isn’t. Sheppard doesn’t let go, either.
Then it’s like Sheppard reads his mind. “I want to go home.”
“Yeah,” Rodney says, and his chest hurts.
“I can’t live here anymore. I’m not sure that I ever could.” This fucking BROKE me. The whole exchange just BROKE me into a million pieces.
“Yeah,” Rodney says, and then Sheppard’s pulling back, putting his hands on Rodney’s shoulders and pushing them apart, and he’s wearing an expression that Rodney’s never seen before. It might be fear.
“What if they don’t let me come back?” Sheppard asks in a barely-controlled voice.
Rodney can feel his eyes widening: that’s a truly horrifying thought. “They wouldn’t. They can’t. I mean, you’ve got the-” and Rodney’s waving his hand up and down; the gene, he means, but not just that; it’s the whole genetically-advantaged-hot-flyboy-soldier-surviving-in-another-galaxy thing he means: Sheppard in his entirety.
“I go where they tell me,” Sheppard says mechanically, but his eyes are saying no; no, I don’t. “And I lost my commander and my subordinate officer both. They won’t like that,” and then he adds, with a hard cheerfulness, “They already don’t like me-”
“Oh! Well!” Rodney explodes, “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” and Sheppard grins, and it’s a rare enough event that a smile reaches Sheppard’s eyes that Rodney stops to takes notice; it’s oddly breathtaking. And suddenly we’re back on the Good Ship Kiss Him Already. “The SGC, the military commanders, they don’t know-” and Rodney doesn’t have to spell it out: that we love the place, that it loves us, that it’s home in a way that this planet never was , because Sheppard’s already nodding seriously; he knows. “Believe me,” Rodney adds, “they’ll probably send you back just to spite you.”
Sheppard’s hands tighten on Rodney’s shoulders. “But what if they don’t?” and Rodney’s served with Sheppard long enough to know that he’s not a guy to waste time on pointless hypotheticals. This isn’t a hypothetical question.
“They will,” Rodney says, meeting his eye, and Sheppard knows him well enough to know that that means, I’ll put you through the gate myself, if I have to, and Sheppard exhales a long breath, lets his shoulders relax, and nods; message understood. Because he will. Rodney will absolutely do that, and Sheppard knows it. He KNOWS it. And that makes it okay - at least as okay as it can be right now. And then Sheppard’s backing away nervously, one hand reaching up to rub at the weird spikes of his hair, and Rodney understands that they need to find their footing, get back on normal ground.
“So, uh...are you going downtown again?” Sheppard asks. That weather’s really something, huh? How about them Oilers? “Another symphony or something?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Rodney answers distractedly. “Why?”
Sheppard just shrugs, a long elegant thing. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d come with.”
“Oh. Well. I-I’ll go find out what’s playing.”
14
Rodney groans when the Philarmonic’s schedule comes up on his laptop screen. It’s chamber music: a violin sonata by Beethoven, a sextet for piano, flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn by Poulenc, and a piano concerto by Shostakovich: great stuff, but not what he would have chosen. Rodney had been hoping for something with a lot of bang and flash, for Sheppard-Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812, Grieg’s Peer Gynt, Beethoven’s Seventh. He hesitates, then thinks ‘what the hell’ and buys the tickets: if Sheppard really hates it, they can leave. He’s about to push the laptop cover down when he has another thought, and runs a search for “Colorado” and “football.” The University of Colorado seems to have a team, but a couple of clicks brings him to a team called the Denver Broncos, which he thinks he’s heard of, and a professional team must be better than a college team, right?
The only tickets he can get are nearly a hundred and fifty dollars each, but what the hell, and he buys two seats for tomorrow afternoon’s game. He doesn’t think he’ll be coming back to Earth again, so he might as well spend some of his entirely useless money and see what an American football game is like. Denver’s only an hour away. Just when I thought I couldn’t love Rodney more? Yeah. I can. I know - I was surprised too!
And Sheppard won’t come back to Earth, either; Rodney knows this. Sheppard will risk anything except being left behind, and if Sheppard is lucky enough to get back home to Atlantis, he won’t push his luck.
15
Sheppard surprises him by dressing for an evening out: he’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and a black jacket over jeans and boots, and Rodney thinks he looks oddly like a country-western singer. Want. To. Seeeeeee. Rodney takes him downtown to the strip of bars and restaurants near the cultural center; the trees, Rodney suddenly notices, have been wrapped with little white Christmas lights. Sheppard points to a warm-looking restaurant called La Palapa, but Rodney instantly vetoes Mexican, since they put lime in every damn thing. They compromise on Italian, order huge plates of pasta and a bottle of red wine-and Rodney’s just about to tell Sheppard about the Broncos tickets when it suddenly seems weird that he bought them; Sheppard’s definitely going to think it’s weird.
“What?” Sheppard asks, looking up from where he’s buttering his bread.
“Nothing,” Rodney says, and twirls his fork in his spaghetti. Sheppard gives him a look but lets it go, instead telling him how he saw Elizabeth leave the hotel just before they did. She was-
“-dressed to kill, Rodney. I’m talking murder. Low-cut dress, spiky heels, you know-” and Sheppard raises his hands and traces out some indeterminate, indiscriminate shape. “I almost didn’t recognize her.”
“Well,” Rodney says, ripping into the bread, “I guess it’s going well, then.”
Sheppard lifts both eyebrows. “Do you think? I would have said it wasn’t going well at all.” I love this observation. My first instinct was to think the way Rodney did, so when John said this it was a total epiphany for me. And he’s probably right. I loved that he had that insight.
16
Rodney drains the last of his wine in a hurry when he realizes the time; thankfully, the cultural center is just down the street. He hands Sheppard a ticket, and Sheppard seems suitably impressed with the red-carpeted lobby, the well-dressed clientele, the bar that’s selling cappuccino and glasses of champagne and strawberries.
“Do we have good seats?” Sheppard asks once they enter the hall, and Rodney has to explain that this is music, not spectacle; it’s about sound waves and their reflections, and from that vantage point, most of the seats here are good.
Rodney takes out his pen with the laser pointer on the end and directs Sheppard’s attention to the strategically-placed diffusers, the large, hard reflectors. “There’s maybe a hot spot or two, a dead spot or two, but this is really pretty good.” Sheppard, he sees, is looking at his laser pointer and trying hard to suppress a smile. “No, seriously: the acoustics are everything,” Rodney says, hastily flicking off the red light. “I usually listen with my eyes closed,” and then he shoves the pen back into his pocket, and swiftly moves down the aisle to their seats.
Two on the aisle, and no sooner have they taken their seats than the house lights flash twice and then slowly go down. There’s the familiar rustling and coughing as people get comfortable and go silent, and then a single violin plays the tense opening notes of the Beethoven, and beside him, Sheppard drops his hands onto the armrests of his red velvet chair, and closes his eyes, and Rodney half-expects the theatre to light up. I’m ridiculously touched by the fact that they’re on a date that neither one of them has officially mentioned. But you KNOW they both know it’s a date.
17
Sheppard quivers during the Beethoven, tilts his head curiously during the Poulenc, and looks riveted during the Shostakovich-which means he understands music after all, thank God. After the final, crashing chord, the audience erupts in applause, some leaping to their feet, as the pianist stands smugly, one hand on the piano, and acknowledges them. Rodney just sits there, weighed by memories-playing that third movement, over and over, in the summertime, with the windows open and Jeanie and her friends shrieking with laughter outside on the patio-until he comes to himself and turns to Sheppard, who’s just sitting there quietly, too, as people stream up the aisle past him.
“That was great,” Sheppard says in a hushed voice, and Rodney understands that impulse to be hushed; when you’ve heard something truly wonderful, you don’t want it chased out of your head with noise and stupid chatter. Okay right here, I think Rodney’s underestimating Sheppard. I can’t help but feel like Sheppard’s not really talking about the music here - at least not just the music. Rodney’s there, quiet and still beside him, and they shared something intense and personal and *that’s* what I think Sheppard doesn’t want chased away. I think he’s holding onto Rodney for as long as he can - not the music.
“Mmm.” Rodney looks back at the now unlit stage, and the abandoned piano.
Sheppard doesn’t rush him, but eventually they stand, drift up the aisle, drift up the street. Still speaking with muted voices, they decide not to have coffee, to just go back to the hotel. They end up back in Sheppard’s room, and Rodney doesn’t know how it happens, if he starts it or if Sheppard does, but somehow they move from awkward fidgeting and even more awkward conversation (“Thanks for-” “No, I’m glad you-” “I did, I really did,”) to kissing awkwardly, and maybe it’s Sheppard who starts it, because Sheppard’s hand is hot on the back of his neck, and Sheppard’s tongue is in his mouth, but it’s Rodney who wraps his arms around Sheppard and anchors them together so that they can kiss and kiss without falling.
And now it’s time for my college essay length manifesto on Why This Is Truly One of the Greatest First Time Sex Scene Ever.
I’m usually all about the first time sex scene. I love first times. I’m a sucker for them. And I want as much detail as possible in them so I can positively wallow in the first time loveliness. Except for this one, because this one is all about what’s not said and not told, rather than what is.
This would not be nearly as effective if we were privy to every one of Rodney’s thoughts, and we don’t need to be. This is such a quiet story with a quiet build up - it really needs an equally quiet emotional payoff.
I love that they “speak with muted voices” in conversations we don’t hear. We don’t need to hear them deciding not to have coffee or know what they talk about on the way back to the hotel. We’re told everything we need to know by the fact that Rodney doesn’t know if he initiates the kiss or if Sheppard does. They’ve been heading to this place, this moment all week, and they’re both on the same page, and it’s just…right.
18
“This is a bad idea,” Rodney mumbles, between kisses.
“Hi, I’m John Sheppard, have you met me?” and all right, yes, he has a point.
Here’s what it took me three readings of this story to realize: Up to this point in the story, Rodney has never once thought of Sheppard as anything other than Sheppard. Not once. Until right here, where John introduces himself.
And from this moment on, until the end of the story, Rodney never thinks of him as “Sheppard” again. From here on out…it’s “John.”
That? That is fucking *masterful* That changes the entire tone of the story so subtly that you don’t even realize it, and to make that transition from “Sheppard” to “John” by actually *using* the name itself…I am blown away.
19
They kiss for a long time-first upright, then horizontally on John’s neatly-made bed. John’s mouth is unbelievably soft under his, and Rodney cups his face and lazily sucks his tongue. It reminds him of being in college and making out with someone and it taking forever because there was no guarantee that things were going to move to the next level; you were just grateful for what you got. Kissing John is like that, and it makes him feel warm and happy and strangely young. His fingers find the buttons of John’s shirt and undo them so that Rodney can slide his hand over John’s heart, stroke through his chest hair, gently tease his nipples into hardness.
It takes a long time for things to get carnal, but when it happens, it happens fast. Rodney’s hips are suddenly snapping forward-Christ, he’s hard, he has to-and right then, John twists his face away, panting. And then they’re both writhing, shucking their clothes and trying to get skin against skin, at least in the important places. John lets out a little moan of frustration, but Rodney works well under pressure. He gets John’s pants open and gropes John’s cock slowly, kissing his jaw and paying attention, until he figures out what drives John crazy. Then he moves his hand and works those spots until John gasps, “Rodney! Jesus!” in a gratifyingly broken voice.
He supposes he should wait, but he can’t wait: he’s almost desperate to come. He rolls on top of John, kissing him and humping him, trying to bring himself off, and then suddenly John’s hands are on him, pushing him onto his back and John’s voice is saying, “Wait-hey-hang on. Christ, let me--” and then there’s a hot, wet mouth around his cock, and something important in his brain explodes. Talk amongst yourselves. I’m going to bask in the afterglow and contemplating taking up smoking.
20
Afterwards, they sprawl on the bed and pant up at the ceiling. Finally, John groans and forces himself to sit up; he looks, Rodney thinks, actually kind of irritated. “Jesus, are you good at everything?” John asks.
Rodney thinks about that. “Mostly, yes, actually,” he says, and John rolls his eyes and shoves Rodney’s shoulder hard when he gets up to go to the bathroom.
21
Rodney wonders if he should leave, if the etiquette here is to leave. But he doesn’t want to leave if John doesn’t want him to leave; actually, he doesn’t want to leave even if John does want him to leave, but he will of course leave if that’s what John wants. He runs through the various probabilities in his head: John wants him to go because it’s awkward now, or for appearance’s sake, or because the sex is over; John wants him to go because he wants more room to stretch out on the bed, or because it will be a good sign that Rodney’s not codependent. Or-John will take it the wrong way if Rodney tries to go, will think Rodney’s ashamed or repressed or has issues with sleeping with a man, which he totally doesn’t. Or-John actually wants him to stay, maybe for a second round, to reciprocate the truly excellent head he just gave Rodney or for some other sexual purpose entirely, which Rodney is totally on board with; or maybe just to watch football or something. Rodney decides that his best position is sitting up on the bed; that way, he can pretend to be leaving, or just stretching, or- AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA? Come on. Admit it. Everyone in the whole world would be doing (or has done) the same thing.
John comes out of the bathroom, pauses by the bed, and idly scratches his neck. “What are you doing?”
There’s only one good answer. “Nothing,” Rodney replies, and John looks at him a moment, then shrugs, and switches off the bedside light. That’s a good sign that John wants him to stay, because it’d be rude to expect him to find his way out in the dark. Sure enough, John pulls back the covers and gets into bed, and Rodney hesitates only briefly before doing the same. The pillow smells like John, and John’s punching his pillow before tucking it under his head, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s shared a bed with anybody; a really damn long time.
“G’night,” John mumbles, and Rodney hears himself say, in a voice that’s way too loud, “Good night,” and it all seems strangely anticlimactic until John slings a possessive arm across his chest. Rodney goes out like a light. Warning: There is about to be happy flailing. I can not be held responsible for anyone’s injury if they get too close to me while I flail. That said….*happy flailing*
Part 2
Author: Speranza
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Commentator: Girlnamedpixley
Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead
by Speranza
Author’s Note: Many thanks to all the usual suspects: shalott, resonant, and Terri. This story was written for the sga_flashfic “Left Behind” challenge and demonstrates my continuing inability to understand the “flashfiction” concept.
1
Rodney thinks that he can detect Sam Carter’s well-meaning hand in the fact that they’re put up at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs (five stars according to travelsmart.com) rather than on base in Cheyenne Mountain. Everyone seems to take it for granted that they’ll have people to see and things to do. “They’ve been in another galaxy, sir,” Sam probably said, rolling her eyes, and the generals probably looked nervously at each other and agreed that, yes, the senior staff of Atlantis might well want to have a steak, or visit their mothers, or both.
This is how Rodney finds himself standing at the registration counter in the overly ornate lobby of the Broadmoor, being handed a key card for room 914. Beside him, Sheppard is looking around warily, like he expects a Wraith to jump out from behind a pink fluted column or a damask armchair. This is where I knew I was going to love this story. How can you not love a story that gives you the mental image of Steve the Wraith lurking behind pink columns and damask chairs? Further down, Elizabeth smiles as she signs something with a pen chained to the desk; Beckett’s already taken advantage of the SGA’s long leash, and has high-tailed it for the Highlands. Rodney doesn’t blame him; compared to Pegasus, Scotland’s a hop, skip and a jump.
“Gentlemen,” Elizabeth says, nodding as she passes them. There’s an unfamiliar gleam in her eye, a barely-suppressed excitement in her stride; it’s obvious that she’s going to be meeting someone. Rodney pauses to watch her disappear toward the bank of elevators, then turns back to the clerk to sign his own registration form; beside him, Sheppard palms his key card off the counter with a lopsided smile that looks friendly, but really isn’t at all. The fact that this story is from Rodney’s POV makes the little asides like this extremely important. They’re little things that seem insignificant - a friendly smile that isn’t really - but it’s significant because Rodney recognizes them for that they are. Rodney has the Sheppard Opertaing Manual, even if he hasn’t realized it yet.
Sheppard follows him to the elevators without speaking, but frowns when Rodney presses the button for the ninth floor. Sheppard tilts his key toward Rodney; he’s in room 916. Rodney nods just as the door opens, and then they’re walking up the corridor with its ornate wallpaper and hideous pink-tinted lights. Their rooms are next to each other, but the doors are, thankfully, separated by a big chunk of wall. The small brass nameplate on the door next to his reads 912, and Rodney will bet dollars to donuts that it belongs to Elizabeth Weir.
“Catch you later,” Sheppard says, and Rodney waves an impatient hand at him as he swipes his keycard and shoves the handle down when the light flashes green.
2
His room is awash with faux-luxury touches: the bed is unnaturally high and has too many pillows, there are white bathrobes and a million stupid little bottles in the bathroom but only a tiny little coffee machine and a single Ethernet port-not even wireless. Sighing, Rodney drops his bag and yanks off his jacket. Then he sits down and sweeps everything on the desk-hotel information booklet, complimentary notepad and pen, Colorado Springs tourist literature, idiot’s guide to Ethernet-into the trash and sets up his laptop. Then he dials room service. *snort* That is SO him.
In room 912, the shower goes on. In room 916, the television. The first mention of the sound of the TV. Very significant. Very cool. Let’s hear it for subtle symbolism!
Rodney begins to boot up various things he’s working on; he likes cycling between projects, working on each as the mood strikes him. This is exactly how I work. I can totally see Rodney doing this. He finds that sometimes the answer to one problem comes to him as a distraction from another problem, and has learned to capitalize on that fact. He also takes a moment to crack the graduate student server at MIT, just to see what the kids are up to these days; the professors, he knows, are hopelessly mired, but the kids might do something worthwhile before their advisors beat their wackiest ideas out of them.
In room 912, a hairdryer is blaring. In room 916, the television is still going strong.
A knock on the door tells him that his food’s arrived. Rodney’s leaning against the open door and scrawling his name on the bill when Elizabeth passes behind the waiter, drop dead gorgeous in high heels and a tight-fitting blue dress. She glances at him and laughs, and Rodney realizes that he must be gaping. He snaps his mouth shut and shoves the bill at the waiter, who nods obsequiously and pushes the cart of covered dishes into his room.
Rodney eats idly, picking at the various dishes as he surfs his old online haunts, then has an idea about the matter displacement wave he’s been trying to predict and works furiously until his back twinges. He pushes back from the desk, gets up, and stretches; he’s been hunched over for-how long? Hours, he realizes, glancing at the clock-but he can still hear the murmur of the television from next door.
4-3, Rodney thinks before he knows what that means, and then he does know. It’s hockey, and the score is 4-3; before that, it was football, final score 16-6; before that, football again, 32-14. This is why I love the running theme of the sound of the TV. Because it’s exactly how Sheppard has insinuated himself in Rodney’s life. It’s white noise. It’s a constant background hum. Rodney doesn’t even realize that somewhere along the way he’s started to understand and interpret it without conscious effort. He finds he’s exhausted, and he strips down to his underwear, throws half of the pillows onto the floor, and switches off the light before getting into his too-high bed. In the dark, he falls asleep to the announcer’s voice and the familiar metallic shushing of skates.
3
He knocks on Sheppard’s door the next morning to see if he’s going over to the SGC. Sheppard answers the door barefoot and in sweatpants, (please, God, I beg you. Let me see this just one time before I die.) with his hair flat on one side and his cheek strangely chafed. Rodney, who’s often woken up looking much the same, knows what this means: Sheppard fell asleep somewhere on his face. “Yeah, I-yeah,” Sheppard says, sounding exhausted; he rubs at his bristly chin and says, “Give me a minute.”
Rodney assumes that this means he should wait in his room, but Sheppard surprises him by holding the pneumatic door for him. Rodney instinctively puts his hand up, and by the time he realizes this commits him to coming inside, Sheppard’s already drifting back into the room. The television, Rodney sees right away, is still on-ESPN, and some newscaster is giving post-game analysis, and then there’s a slow motion replay of a bunch of guys in helmets crashing into each other. A quick glance shows four empty beer bottles with the labels peeled off, and a bunch of tiny crumpled foil packages of what Rodney immediately recognizes as vending machine fare: single-serve packages of Doritos, couple of Snickers bars, pretzels, chips. For some reason, this is the saddest image in the world. John, alone in a hotel room, peeling labels off empty beer bottles and wishing with every fiber of his being that he was back home in Atlantis. Rodney thinks so too. Sheppard is gathering up his discarded casual uniform when Rodney asks him what he had for breakfast; Sheppard shrugs, picks up an open can of Coke, and drains it, tossing it into the trash with a satisfying thump on his way into the bathroom. Rodney can’t really argue with this because Coca-Cola (sugar, caffeine, instant energy surge) has always been the Breakfast of Champions, but he thinks about maybe asking Sheppard to order room service with him later on tonight.
They stop at Elizabeth’s door on the way to the elevator, just for form’s sake. She isn’t there.
4
There’s some kind of power struggle happening. Rodney’s not central enough in the power politics of the SGC to know what it is, but still, he can smell it, and he becomes certain of it when he finds out that they’ve sent Sheppard away in the middle of the day with a multi-day leave pass. I like that Rodney’s not in on whatever’s brewing at the SGC. He’s in a position of power in Atlantis, so you’re not used to seeing him (or Sheppard) being out of the loop. Knowing he’s in the dark right now too kind of humanizes him for the story. That’s a nice touch.) Rodney wonders if Sheppard will do a Beckett and hop the next plane for-well, wherever Sheppard’s from, but when he gets back to the Broadmoor later that night, he can hear the television on in Sheppard’s room when he passes it.
Rodney’s changed and comfortable and in front of his laptop when his stomach growls, and it’s only when he reaches for the room service menu that he remembers his idea of getting Sheppard to eat by ordering food with him. Sighing, he shuts the laptop, pads out to Sheppard’s door, and knocks.
“Yeah?” Sheppard calls from inside.
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Housekeeping,” he calls back, and when Sheppard opens the door, he’s barefoot and in the same black sweats as this morning, only now he’s wearing a faint grin.
“I could use some fresh towels,” Sheppard says, and tilts his head ironically.
Rodney pushes past him, into the room, and says, “You could use some food that didn’t come out of the minibar. I’m getting burgers, what do you want?” Awww, Rodney. It’s *obvious* that someone has to assume the Care and Feeding of Lt. Col. John Sheppard right now, since his self-preservation instincts appear to have fled the country. Rodney steps up. As always. I just want to squish them together and make them comfort each other damn it! The television is on, still tuned to ESPN, and it’s football again. Sheppard’s desk is still covered with the hotel literature, and Rodney finds the room service menu, and hands it to him. Sheppard takes it, flips it open, and frowns down at it. “The fries were good,” Rodney says, eyes drawn to the television again; he doesn’t understand football, and hasn’t ever wanted to waste time trying. He’ll just order the food and go back to his laptop.
But then Sheppard looks up from the menu. “Okay, yeah, I’ll have the same,” he says, and then, handing the menu back to Rodney, “Do you like football?” and of course the only answer to that is, no; no, he doesn’t. Except Rodney hears himself saying, “I don’t really know enough about it,” and then Sheppard is moving past him, eyes on the screen, hands waving in the air, and he’s saying, “Okay, so look, it’s simple, it’s just like hockey, really. The goal is to move the ball to the opponent’s end zone, and you can move the ball by either passing or rushing...” and it’s five minutes before Rodney can stop him for long enough to get their food order in.
5
Sheppard’s too deep in the game to get the food when it comes, so Rodney signs his name to the tab and waves the cart in; burgers, fries, beer. Sheppard pulls himself away long enough to claim his food and pop open a beer, and then he sprawls on the bed and eats French fries, mechanically dipping them in ketchup before putting them into his mouth. Rodney sits in the desk chair and puts his tray on the bed, eyes moving between the game (not nearly as complex as he thought, once he gets the whole concept of “downs”) and Sheppard’s obsession with it. At one point, Sheppard jumps up, yelling and nearly toppling his tray onto the floor, and when Rodney demonstrates his lack of understanding by failing to be suitably impressed, Sheppard darts to the screen and narrates the instant replay, finger tracing a line across the screen: the running back is moving rapidly through a channel between two groups of offensive blockers, running and running before he’s tackled down to the ground. Rodney’s pretty sure that wasn’t a touchdown, but Sheppard swipes his beer off the nightstand and takes a long, satisfied-seeming swig. God. Rodney letting Sheppard explain football to him - even if he’s only half paying attention - is the sweetest thing EVER.
6
“So, the SGC sent you home,” Rodney says, dropping the words into one of the many long, slow moments of set-up. *Wince* Aaaaand…so much for that nice little moment. Segue, Rodney. Look it up!
Sheppard shoots him a sideways glance, but says nothing.
“Any plans for shore leave?” Rodney asks, and this time Sheppard doesn’t even look at him; he just stares fixedly ahead at the screen. Yeah. That went well.
7
Rodney goes back to his room after the first period of the hockey game that follows; Sheppard barely looks at him as he says, “Night,” and waves his hand. Rodney’s room is just as he left it, and it feels like home away from home-and all right, pot, kettle, because it’s not as if he’s gone anywhere or done anything that he wouldn’t have done back (home) in Atlantis. Rodney shuts off the lights, then goes to the window and looks out over the twinkling lights of Colorado Springs: he could, he supposed, go visit his cat, if that weren’t the most pathetic thing ever in the history of pathetic, or maybe he should go and see Schwartzman-though visiting your graduate advisor is even more pathetic than visiting your cat. Rodney leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes; he isn’t interested in shopping, he’ll download all the movies he wants onto a drive and ration them out over the long, long Atlantis nights, there’s nobody he really wants to see. The fact that there’s really no one Rodney wants to see seems sadder to me than it does to Rodney. He just kind of flies through his “could do” list and moves on to the idea of the symphony. But it’s just a really good way to plant that seed that Rodney and John are both so stranded here. Both completely alone, even right next door to each other. Just kind of makes me want to jump up and down and yell “WAKE UP AND KISS, YOU IDIOTS! While you have a king size bed RIGHT HERE!” Still, there must be something here for him that there isn’t back home-and all of a sudden, he’s got it and he moves swiftly back to the desk, turns on the lamp, and opens the laptop. He googles “Colorado Springs philharmonic,” and damn if there isn’t a Colorado Springs Philharmonic, which, the website informs him, is the only professional orchestra of the Colorado Springs region. He’s sure it isn’t the Boston Symphony or the Philharmonic or even the Pops, but Boston can spoil a person and right now it seems enough that they’re a professional outfit. They’re doing Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 tomorrow night, and even though it says SOLD OUT, Rodney knows from long experience that it’s always easy to get a single ticket. A few clicks on the box office software and he’s reserved his seat, and he falls asleep feeling wonderfully self-satisfied.
8
When Rodney knocks on Elizabeth’s door on his way to the SGC the next morning, and gets no answer, he wonders if she ever comes back to the hotel at all. The television’s still on in Sheppard’s room. Rodney hesitates in front of the door and thinks about knocking, but he isn’t sure what to say; he doesn’t want it to look like he’s rubbing it in that Sheppard’s not currently welcome at Cheyenne Mountain. With a sigh, he turns and leaves. Well 2 minutes ago, I wanted Rodney to have some tact, and now that he’s trying to, it’s killing me and I want him to knock on the damn door and…I don’t know! DO SOMETHING! Sheppard is breaking my heart here!
He spends the day rejecting scientists-honestly, are these the best people they can come up with?-and then heads back to the Broadmoor for a shower and a shave. He can’t bear to wear a tie, but he feels the need to dress up a little as a mark of musical respect, and so he puts on a button-down shirt and a sports jacket.
He’s almost ready to go when there’s a knock at the door, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t order anything for tonight, but this is a good hotel, and it occurs to him that they might be anticipating his habits. They’re not.
Sheppard takes him in at a glance, and something in his face changes. “You’re going out,” Sheppard says, and Rodney’s surprised before he realizes that Sheppard certainly knows him well enough to recognize that he’s dressed unusually for him-neither for work nor for home. *falls writhing to the floor* The angst. Oh how it burns! You just know Sheppard finally forced himself to get out of the damn sweatpants and stop wallowing and go find Rodney, and now Rodney’s going out and…and…why did I think I loved this story again? Someone tell me! *Flails helplessly*
“Yes,” Rodney says, frowning, and last night, he’d imagined telling Sheppard that he was going out, and he’d felt vaguely smug about it, because he’d clearly figured out something to do with himself in Colorado Springs where Major Popular, Hip, and Good-Looking clearly hadn’t. But he doesn’t feel smug; he feels guilty. “I’m, uh,” Rodney says, and his hands are moving fruitlessly in the air, trying to convey the no-big-deal-ness of it, the really-very-pathetic-ness, “I got myself a ticket to the symphony. They’re doing Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 .”
“Oh,” Sheppard says, and Rodney recognizes that expression; he saw it in the mirror somewhere between Sheppard’s explanation of an I-formation and a sack. “Cool. Have a good time,” he says, and turns-
“Was there something...?” Rodney begins uncertainly.
“No, no; never mind,” Sheppard says, and goes back to his room. I’ll just be over here. Softly crying.
9
The terrifyingly named “Pikes Peak Cultural Center” turns out to be a real concert hall, and a swift glance at the architecture leads Rodney to believe that it was designed by somebody who actually understood acoustics. He’s surprised by the claustrophobia he feels among the crowd milling in the red-carpeted lobby; it’s been a long time since he’s been among so many people. Still, he reminds himself that this is what he came for: he’s here to be part of an audience. He knows that there’s something about being in a room full of hushed, silently-breathing people that moves the experience of symphonic music from the wondrous to the sublime, and he can feel excitement surging through his nerves just from hearing the orchestra tune up. His seat is at the end of an aisle, so he loiters around the hall, idly reading the musicians’ biographies in the program-half are from Tanglewood, which is reassuring-until the row is full and everyone is seated. Then he sits down, takes a breath, and closes his eyes.
There’s applause as the curtain goes up, more applause as the conductor comes out, and then silence, punctuated by the occasional muted cough. A sole trumpeter plays the symphony’s opening notes, and suddenly the tension is unbearable, in the orchestra, in the room, all of them holding their breath together and waiting for the first resounding, shuddering crash of instrumentation. And then it comes, wave after wave washing over him, through him, and it’s all he can do to hold on against the tide of liveness, of life, pure, precise, mathematical energy, and not be swept away by the force of his own emotions. This is one of the most honest and true descriptions of music appreciation I’ve ever read. I don’t have an ear for music. I have pieces that I like, but I don’t…I don’t feel classical music the way someone who truly loves it can feel it. But I do feel visual art that way, and so I know what this moment for Rodney was like and how it touched him and where, and Speranza captured it flawlessly and as fluidly as the symphony itself. I love this paragraph, because it’s so tight. My appreciation of it is longer than the passage itself (evidence that I don’t have her gift), but I couldn’t let it go without giving it the nod it deserves.
10
The symphony leaves him weak and deeply gratified-positively post-coital-and on impulse, Rodney investigates the next evening’s program, and buys a ticket when he discovers there’s a guest pianist, in from the east. Rachmaninoff, but you can’t have everything, and there’s some Mozart and some Grieg, so what the hell. Patting the pocket containing the ticket, Rodney walks along the street outside the Cultural Center, and all of Colorado Springs’ nightlife seems to be concentrated in this tiny downtown area: there are restaurants and bars and a movie theatre, and strolling couples and groups of friends huddled and laughing and arguing about where to go next, and Rodney feels like-not just a tourist, but an alien, gaping at the strange habits of the locals. He goes into a bistro and gets a table by the window, so that he can people-watch while he munches on his sandwich and drinks his beer.
He rides this state of dreamy contentedness all the way back to the Broadmoor, and it’s only when the elevator discharges him on the 9th floor that he thinks about Sheppard. Suddenly he feels like he won’t be able to stand it if he passes Sheppard’s door and hears that the television’s on, but then he does and it is. This may be my favorite internal Rodney moment in the whole story - because as the reader, that is EXACTLY how I felt at this point in the story. Rodney was floating home on a musical high and I was happy for him, but then I thought “please don’t tell me the tv is on when he walks past Sheppard’s room - I won’t be able to stand it.” But she did.
Rodney stops and knocks, and when Sheppard opens the door, he’s wearing jeans and sneakers and has done his hair in that strange style that Rodney has come to understand is intentional. “Hey there,” Sheppard says, and leans against the door, “how was the music?”
“It was...extraordinarily good,” Rodney replies, and that’s an understatement, but he’s not sure how to tell Sheppard how close he came to weeping, or how it made him feel like a whole person for the first time in a long time. I bet Sheppard can tell anyway. “I bought a ticket for tomorrow, too,” Rodney says, hand moving instinctively toward his pocket, and the idea’s out before he’s thought it through, “and I was thinking, you know, that maybe you’d want to come, have dinner and-”
Sheppard’s expression is shuttered, but he’s already shaking his head. “Thanks, but-I think I’m going to hop over to L.A.,” and oh, huh, Sheppard seems to have found something to do after all, and Rodney has a quick pop-pop vision of the beach and the clubs on the Strip-that part of L.A., in other words, that isn’t his L.A., which is Pasadena and Cal Tech and the Pie ‘n’ Burger. But the vision winks out of existence when Sheppard scrubs tiredly at his face and mutters, “Ford’s got a cousin who lives there, so I figure, I might as well go and see her. Tell her what I can tell her, which isn’t much. Still,” Sheppard adds with a shrug, “it’s not like I’m doing anything.”
This is an unexpected horror, and Rodney nods grimly; this isn’t something he would wish on anyone. That’s exactly what it is. A horror. Because, you know - Sheppard was having such a *good time* up till now. He needed to take it to the next level. “When are you going?” Rodney asks, and Sheppard answers, “Tomorrow morning; it’s a quick flight, one stop. I’ll be back the next day,” and Rodney nods and says, awkwardly, “Tell her, tell Ford’s family that-you know. That we all-”
“Yeah,” Sheppard says in a dark voice, and for a second it’s as if they’re not in the Broadmoor, not in Colorado, or on Earth, but they’re back in the blue and silver halls of Atlantis. And their teammate is lost. *sniff* Where the hell are Teyla? There needs to be a group hug IMMEDIATELY.
11
When Rodney wakes up the next morning, the rooms on either side of him are silent. Why is that so heartbreaking? How is she manipulating me like this with just the idea of NO TV NOISE? His breakfast-oatmeal, omelette, fruit cup, carafe of coffee-arrives, and he eats it while surfing the morning news on his laptop. He spends the day at the SGC demanding to see the files they think they’ve vetted, and sure enough, they’ve discarded all the interesting candidates: Fields at Cal Tech, and Ben-Zvi from Fermilab, and that woman Wasser who was such a prodigy over at M.I.T. two years before he arrived and trumped all her records.
The only familiar faces at the SGC are unfriendly ones, people he pissed off two years ago and who now show him tight, thin-lipped smiles if they smile at all. He can’t wait to escape back to the Broadmoor; more than that, he realizes, as he shoves his key card into the lock, he can’t wait to get back to Atlantis. Weirdly, he misses Teyla; he misses his lab and his room with its narrow, twin bed and single flat pillow; he misses the city, his home. Doesn’t everyone know that feeling? No matter how nice your surroundings are, when you’re homesick, you’re homesick. All the goose down duvet covers in the world can’t feel as good as your thin mattress and small bed if that’s where home is.
He changes his clothes and goes straight downtown, getting a steak and a baked potato at a nearby restaurant before queuing up at the Cultural Center at a quarter to eight. This time, when the lights dim, a single spotlight comes up on a grand piano. Rodney patiently sits through the Rachmaninoff, but he has to close his eyes during the perfectly-executed Mozart, and he’s ripped into pieces by the Grieg, and maybe it’s knowing that Sheppard is safely a thousand miles away where he’ll never see and never know, but this time, he lets himself shake. I’m overcome with the burning need to buy a thousand classical cds and attempt to somehow send them to the Pegasus galaxy. Rodney should *always* have music in his life.
12
He’s not sure if it’s the emotional hangover from the Grieg or the incipient hangover from all the beer he drank afterwards to steady himself, but he can’t sleep, even though he’s exhausted.
It’s 4 a.m. when he finally gets out of bed and switches on the television. After that, he’s asleep within minutes.
That symbolism just never gets old for me. The tv as metaphor for John - and Rodney not being able to sleep if it’s not there. Because without Sheppard, he is completely unmoored.
13
Rodney’s hung over the next morning, and oddly, the low murmur of ESPN on his television seems to help. He can’t really eat anything, but he manages to down a few cups of coffee and a couple bites of toast before heading over to the SGC. But it’s not his day, because General Landry chooses this morning to request a meeting with Elizabeth and whatever staff she has available, and Elizabeth looks disappointed when she finds out that Major Sheppard has amscrayed and Dr. Beckett’s still in Scotland and the utterly respectable and quiet-living Dr. Rodney McKay has chosen the night before to go on a bender. Still, Rodney shows up for moral support, and tries to project an air of utter reliability and extreme brilliance while Elizabeth articulates their specific needs vis a vis personnel and materiel. Still, when the meeting is over, he high-tails it back to the Broadmoor, where he throws up and then flops down on his bed, fully clothed, for a nap.
He awakes to the sound of sports from next door, and rolls out of bed without thinking. His head is rotten but clears a bit by the time he’s at the door, and then he’s moving down the too-bright hall.
When Sheppard answers the door, he’s in his black sweats again, and he looks terrible-he’s pale beneath the dark scruff of his beard, and he has dark circles around his eyes, like he hasn’t slept since he left.
“You look like hell,” Rodney says. For some reason, I always feel that Rodney’s heart is pounding just a little bit harder than it should be here, and he doesn’t really know why. It’s just…John’s back. And yeah, it’s only been a day, but things were just…wrong.
Sheppard groggily rubs one eye. “You don’t look so good yourself,” he says, and then squints narrowly at Rodney. “What happened to you?”
“I-” Rodney waves his hand tiredly; it’s too much effort to explain. “Drinking.”
“Well, that wasn’t very smart,” Sheppard drawls. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
“Tell me about Ford’s cousin,” Rodney interrupts, and Sheppard’s face changes, goes hard. Rodney pushes into the room in case Sheppard decides to shut the door on him. “Tell me,” he repeats.
“It’s nothing, her name’s Lara, she’s very nice,” Sheppard says. “She thinks I’m responsible for what happened to Ford,” he says, adding, almost angrily: “And I think she’s right about that.”
“Oh, please,” Rodney says, rolling his eyes. “Try that on somebody who didn’t spend the past year fighting space vampires with you.”
“I came to Atlantis,” Sheppard begins, sharp as glass, “with one commanding officer and one second lieutenant. You don’t think it’s strange that Colonel Sumner is dead and Ford is-” and Sheppard’s hand jerks violently to show that he doesn’t know what the hell Ford is. “You don’t think that says something about me?”
And it’s funny, but only then does Rodney feel the weight of his year’s experience serving on the away team, because Sheppard is muscling him, getting into his space, like he just might punch him. And a year ago Rodney would have backed down from a physical confrontation (great moment of self-awareness here, and so true), but now he finds himself getting right up in Sheppard’s face and saying, with as much hostility as he can manage, “I know just what it says about you. I was there.”
Something twitches in Sheppard’s expression before he nails it down, and Rodney sighs and awkwardly raises a hand to pat his shoulder. But it’s not enough-he knows that immediately; they both do-and so he slings his arm around Sheppard’s neck and yanks him into the tightest hug of his life. Sheppard hugs him back so hard his ribs hurt, and Jesus, maybe it’s just the last couple of days or the trauma of the whole last year, or maybe it’s just that right now John Sheppard is the only part of Atlantis that he has, but Rodney can’t let go of him. My heart is breaking for them both. Sometimes words just can’t be enough.
It should be embarrassing, but it isn’t. Sheppard doesn’t let go, either.
Then it’s like Sheppard reads his mind. “I want to go home.”
“Yeah,” Rodney says, and his chest hurts.
“I can’t live here anymore. I’m not sure that I ever could.” This fucking BROKE me. The whole exchange just BROKE me into a million pieces.
“Yeah,” Rodney says, and then Sheppard’s pulling back, putting his hands on Rodney’s shoulders and pushing them apart, and he’s wearing an expression that Rodney’s never seen before. It might be fear.
“What if they don’t let me come back?” Sheppard asks in a barely-controlled voice.
Rodney can feel his eyes widening: that’s a truly horrifying thought. “They wouldn’t. They can’t. I mean, you’ve got the-” and Rodney’s waving his hand up and down; the gene, he means, but not just that; it’s the whole genetically-advantaged-hot-flyboy-soldier-surviving-in-another-galaxy thing he means: Sheppard in his entirety.
“I go where they tell me,” Sheppard says mechanically, but his eyes are saying no; no, I don’t. “And I lost my commander and my subordinate officer both. They won’t like that,” and then he adds, with a hard cheerfulness, “They already don’t like me-”
“Oh! Well!” Rodney explodes, “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” and Sheppard grins, and it’s a rare enough event that a smile reaches Sheppard’s eyes that Rodney stops to takes notice; it’s oddly breathtaking. And suddenly we’re back on the Good Ship Kiss Him Already. “The SGC, the military commanders, they don’t know-” and Rodney doesn’t have to spell it out: that we love the place, that it loves us, that it’s home in a way that this planet never was , because Sheppard’s already nodding seriously; he knows. “Believe me,” Rodney adds, “they’ll probably send you back just to spite you.”
Sheppard’s hands tighten on Rodney’s shoulders. “But what if they don’t?” and Rodney’s served with Sheppard long enough to know that he’s not a guy to waste time on pointless hypotheticals. This isn’t a hypothetical question.
“They will,” Rodney says, meeting his eye, and Sheppard knows him well enough to know that that means, I’ll put you through the gate myself, if I have to, and Sheppard exhales a long breath, lets his shoulders relax, and nods; message understood. Because he will. Rodney will absolutely do that, and Sheppard knows it. He KNOWS it. And that makes it okay - at least as okay as it can be right now. And then Sheppard’s backing away nervously, one hand reaching up to rub at the weird spikes of his hair, and Rodney understands that they need to find their footing, get back on normal ground.
“So, uh...are you going downtown again?” Sheppard asks. That weather’s really something, huh? How about them Oilers? “Another symphony or something?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Rodney answers distractedly. “Why?”
Sheppard just shrugs, a long elegant thing. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d come with.”
“Oh. Well. I-I’ll go find out what’s playing.”
14
Rodney groans when the Philarmonic’s schedule comes up on his laptop screen. It’s chamber music: a violin sonata by Beethoven, a sextet for piano, flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn by Poulenc, and a piano concerto by Shostakovich: great stuff, but not what he would have chosen. Rodney had been hoping for something with a lot of bang and flash, for Sheppard-Tchaikovsky’s War of 1812, Grieg’s Peer Gynt, Beethoven’s Seventh. He hesitates, then thinks ‘what the hell’ and buys the tickets: if Sheppard really hates it, they can leave. He’s about to push the laptop cover down when he has another thought, and runs a search for “Colorado” and “football.” The University of Colorado seems to have a team, but a couple of clicks brings him to a team called the Denver Broncos, which he thinks he’s heard of, and a professional team must be better than a college team, right?
The only tickets he can get are nearly a hundred and fifty dollars each, but what the hell, and he buys two seats for tomorrow afternoon’s game. He doesn’t think he’ll be coming back to Earth again, so he might as well spend some of his entirely useless money and see what an American football game is like. Denver’s only an hour away. Just when I thought I couldn’t love Rodney more? Yeah. I can. I know - I was surprised too!
And Sheppard won’t come back to Earth, either; Rodney knows this. Sheppard will risk anything except being left behind, and if Sheppard is lucky enough to get back home to Atlantis, he won’t push his luck.
15
Sheppard surprises him by dressing for an evening out: he’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and a black jacket over jeans and boots, and Rodney thinks he looks oddly like a country-western singer. Want. To. Seeeeeee. Rodney takes him downtown to the strip of bars and restaurants near the cultural center; the trees, Rodney suddenly notices, have been wrapped with little white Christmas lights. Sheppard points to a warm-looking restaurant called La Palapa, but Rodney instantly vetoes Mexican, since they put lime in every damn thing. They compromise on Italian, order huge plates of pasta and a bottle of red wine-and Rodney’s just about to tell Sheppard about the Broncos tickets when it suddenly seems weird that he bought them; Sheppard’s definitely going to think it’s weird.
“What?” Sheppard asks, looking up from where he’s buttering his bread.
“Nothing,” Rodney says, and twirls his fork in his spaghetti. Sheppard gives him a look but lets it go, instead telling him how he saw Elizabeth leave the hotel just before they did. She was-
“-dressed to kill, Rodney. I’m talking murder. Low-cut dress, spiky heels, you know-” and Sheppard raises his hands and traces out some indeterminate, indiscriminate shape. “I almost didn’t recognize her.”
“Well,” Rodney says, ripping into the bread, “I guess it’s going well, then.”
Sheppard lifts both eyebrows. “Do you think? I would have said it wasn’t going well at all.” I love this observation. My first instinct was to think the way Rodney did, so when John said this it was a total epiphany for me. And he’s probably right. I loved that he had that insight.
16
Rodney drains the last of his wine in a hurry when he realizes the time; thankfully, the cultural center is just down the street. He hands Sheppard a ticket, and Sheppard seems suitably impressed with the red-carpeted lobby, the well-dressed clientele, the bar that’s selling cappuccino and glasses of champagne and strawberries.
“Do we have good seats?” Sheppard asks once they enter the hall, and Rodney has to explain that this is music, not spectacle; it’s about sound waves and their reflections, and from that vantage point, most of the seats here are good.
Rodney takes out his pen with the laser pointer on the end and directs Sheppard’s attention to the strategically-placed diffusers, the large, hard reflectors. “There’s maybe a hot spot or two, a dead spot or two, but this is really pretty good.” Sheppard, he sees, is looking at his laser pointer and trying hard to suppress a smile. “No, seriously: the acoustics are everything,” Rodney says, hastily flicking off the red light. “I usually listen with my eyes closed,” and then he shoves the pen back into his pocket, and swiftly moves down the aisle to their seats.
Two on the aisle, and no sooner have they taken their seats than the house lights flash twice and then slowly go down. There’s the familiar rustling and coughing as people get comfortable and go silent, and then a single violin plays the tense opening notes of the Beethoven, and beside him, Sheppard drops his hands onto the armrests of his red velvet chair, and closes his eyes, and Rodney half-expects the theatre to light up. I’m ridiculously touched by the fact that they’re on a date that neither one of them has officially mentioned. But you KNOW they both know it’s a date.
17
Sheppard quivers during the Beethoven, tilts his head curiously during the Poulenc, and looks riveted during the Shostakovich-which means he understands music after all, thank God. After the final, crashing chord, the audience erupts in applause, some leaping to their feet, as the pianist stands smugly, one hand on the piano, and acknowledges them. Rodney just sits there, weighed by memories-playing that third movement, over and over, in the summertime, with the windows open and Jeanie and her friends shrieking with laughter outside on the patio-until he comes to himself and turns to Sheppard, who’s just sitting there quietly, too, as people stream up the aisle past him.
“That was great,” Sheppard says in a hushed voice, and Rodney understands that impulse to be hushed; when you’ve heard something truly wonderful, you don’t want it chased out of your head with noise and stupid chatter. Okay right here, I think Rodney’s underestimating Sheppard. I can’t help but feel like Sheppard’s not really talking about the music here - at least not just the music. Rodney’s there, quiet and still beside him, and they shared something intense and personal and *that’s* what I think Sheppard doesn’t want chased away. I think he’s holding onto Rodney for as long as he can - not the music.
“Mmm.” Rodney looks back at the now unlit stage, and the abandoned piano.
Sheppard doesn’t rush him, but eventually they stand, drift up the aisle, drift up the street. Still speaking with muted voices, they decide not to have coffee, to just go back to the hotel. They end up back in Sheppard’s room, and Rodney doesn’t know how it happens, if he starts it or if Sheppard does, but somehow they move from awkward fidgeting and even more awkward conversation (“Thanks for-” “No, I’m glad you-” “I did, I really did,”) to kissing awkwardly, and maybe it’s Sheppard who starts it, because Sheppard’s hand is hot on the back of his neck, and Sheppard’s tongue is in his mouth, but it’s Rodney who wraps his arms around Sheppard and anchors them together so that they can kiss and kiss without falling.
And now it’s time for my college essay length manifesto on Why This Is Truly One of the Greatest First Time Sex Scene Ever.
I’m usually all about the first time sex scene. I love first times. I’m a sucker for them. And I want as much detail as possible in them so I can positively wallow in the first time loveliness. Except for this one, because this one is all about what’s not said and not told, rather than what is.
This would not be nearly as effective if we were privy to every one of Rodney’s thoughts, and we don’t need to be. This is such a quiet story with a quiet build up - it really needs an equally quiet emotional payoff.
I love that they “speak with muted voices” in conversations we don’t hear. We don’t need to hear them deciding not to have coffee or know what they talk about on the way back to the hotel. We’re told everything we need to know by the fact that Rodney doesn’t know if he initiates the kiss or if Sheppard does. They’ve been heading to this place, this moment all week, and they’re both on the same page, and it’s just…right.
18
“This is a bad idea,” Rodney mumbles, between kisses.
“Hi, I’m John Sheppard, have you met me?” and all right, yes, he has a point.
Here’s what it took me three readings of this story to realize: Up to this point in the story, Rodney has never once thought of Sheppard as anything other than Sheppard. Not once. Until right here, where John introduces himself.
And from this moment on, until the end of the story, Rodney never thinks of him as “Sheppard” again. From here on out…it’s “John.”
That? That is fucking *masterful* That changes the entire tone of the story so subtly that you don’t even realize it, and to make that transition from “Sheppard” to “John” by actually *using* the name itself…I am blown away.
19
They kiss for a long time-first upright, then horizontally on John’s neatly-made bed. John’s mouth is unbelievably soft under his, and Rodney cups his face and lazily sucks his tongue. It reminds him of being in college and making out with someone and it taking forever because there was no guarantee that things were going to move to the next level; you were just grateful for what you got. Kissing John is like that, and it makes him feel warm and happy and strangely young. His fingers find the buttons of John’s shirt and undo them so that Rodney can slide his hand over John’s heart, stroke through his chest hair, gently tease his nipples into hardness.
It takes a long time for things to get carnal, but when it happens, it happens fast. Rodney’s hips are suddenly snapping forward-Christ, he’s hard, he has to-and right then, John twists his face away, panting. And then they’re both writhing, shucking their clothes and trying to get skin against skin, at least in the important places. John lets out a little moan of frustration, but Rodney works well under pressure. He gets John’s pants open and gropes John’s cock slowly, kissing his jaw and paying attention, until he figures out what drives John crazy. Then he moves his hand and works those spots until John gasps, “Rodney! Jesus!” in a gratifyingly broken voice.
He supposes he should wait, but he can’t wait: he’s almost desperate to come. He rolls on top of John, kissing him and humping him, trying to bring himself off, and then suddenly John’s hands are on him, pushing him onto his back and John’s voice is saying, “Wait-hey-hang on. Christ, let me--” and then there’s a hot, wet mouth around his cock, and something important in his brain explodes. Talk amongst yourselves. I’m going to bask in the afterglow and contemplating taking up smoking.
20
Afterwards, they sprawl on the bed and pant up at the ceiling. Finally, John groans and forces himself to sit up; he looks, Rodney thinks, actually kind of irritated. “Jesus, are you good at everything?” John asks.
Rodney thinks about that. “Mostly, yes, actually,” he says, and John rolls his eyes and shoves Rodney’s shoulder hard when he gets up to go to the bathroom.
21
Rodney wonders if he should leave, if the etiquette here is to leave. But he doesn’t want to leave if John doesn’t want him to leave; actually, he doesn’t want to leave even if John does want him to leave, but he will of course leave if that’s what John wants. He runs through the various probabilities in his head: John wants him to go because it’s awkward now, or for appearance’s sake, or because the sex is over; John wants him to go because he wants more room to stretch out on the bed, or because it will be a good sign that Rodney’s not codependent. Or-John will take it the wrong way if Rodney tries to go, will think Rodney’s ashamed or repressed or has issues with sleeping with a man, which he totally doesn’t. Or-John actually wants him to stay, maybe for a second round, to reciprocate the truly excellent head he just gave Rodney or for some other sexual purpose entirely, which Rodney is totally on board with; or maybe just to watch football or something. Rodney decides that his best position is sitting up on the bed; that way, he can pretend to be leaving, or just stretching, or- AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA? Come on. Admit it. Everyone in the whole world would be doing (or has done) the same thing.
John comes out of the bathroom, pauses by the bed, and idly scratches his neck. “What are you doing?”
There’s only one good answer. “Nothing,” Rodney replies, and John looks at him a moment, then shrugs, and switches off the bedside light. That’s a good sign that John wants him to stay, because it’d be rude to expect him to find his way out in the dark. Sure enough, John pulls back the covers and gets into bed, and Rodney hesitates only briefly before doing the same. The pillow smells like John, and John’s punching his pillow before tucking it under his head, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s shared a bed with anybody; a really damn long time.
“G’night,” John mumbles, and Rodney hears himself say, in a voice that’s way too loud, “Good night,” and it all seems strangely anticlimactic until John slings a possessive arm across his chest. Rodney goes out like a light. Warning: There is about to be happy flailing. I can not be held responsible for anyone’s injury if they get too close to me while I flail. That said….*happy flailing*
Part 2