SGA: Trading Tomrrows
Title: Trading Tomorrows
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, preslash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: SGA is the property of of someone else. I like to play in their sandbox.
Thanks to my RL beta.
Note: This is an unasked-for present to synecdochic for Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose, which I re-read yesterday. In her DVD commentary, she notes that she didn't have a full back story in her head of how they got together in the first place. This is a post-Trinity fic that could be the start of it, and perhaps shows some of the early stages of the changes synecdochic surmised for Dr. McKay. I could not comment on her story in any coherent way, so I offer this instead.
Trading Tomorrows
"Colonel, is something wrong?"
"You shouldn't be here." Sheppard stretches an arm up to lean on the door frame in an effective block, his face neutral. Rodney finds the lack of expression more discomfiting than anger or false cool.
"I'm sorry," he says, and turns to go.
"God damnit," Sheppard says in two precise words. Then he leans his head into his forearm.
"Colonel?" Rodney hates the uncertainty in his own voice.
"Why are you here?" Sheppard asks without looking up, voice muffled.
Rodney stares at the raised arm, the ear that he can see, the tense lines in Sheppard's neck that disappear into his black T-shirt. He doesn't know why he's here. He came with the intention of justifying himself - his ego demands that he be seen as right, even with a spectacular fuckup staring everyone in the face - but now he can feel the Siberian cold and hear Natalia's voice in his head telling him, "What is that American expression? Get over yourself, Rodney McKay."
The hardest words he's ever said come, unbidden. That they rise on their own doesn't make it any less difficult to get them out his throat. "I came to beg forgiveness."
Sheppard looks up, just enough for a brief eye contact. "I believed in you."
"Not so, uh, thrilled hearing the past tense there."
Sheppard takes a deep breath, glances up the corridor, and says, "Come in." He turns without looking to see if Rodney follows, and Rodney isn't sure he should, but the pull of John Sheppard is too strong. He looks around the room. There isn't much to set it apart, but the rumored skateboard is real. Sheppard sits on the bed, and gestures toward the chair.
Rodney sits, awkward, not knowing what to do with this hands, looking at Sheppard, who is not looking at him. "I," he starts, then gestures toward the door, "Maybe I -"
"If you want," Sheppard says.
Rodney doesn't want. Rodney doesn't know what he wants, so he shifts in his chair, and he waits, feeling mixed parts like he's sitting outside the principle's office, even though the other kid started it, and like he's waiting for Sarah to break up with him, even though he already knew she had a boyfriend out of town. It's inevitable. It's not his fault. He knew better. He had to throw the punch, take the offered sex, try to fix that Ancient weapon.
Sheppard lets him stew for a minute, but Rodney has learned that sometimes the Colonel needs a moment to put on his game face. Rodney tries to find one of his own, but he knows that everything he feels is out there, naked and raw.
"We're supposed to be a team, Rodney," Sheppard says at last. "We have to trust each other to watch each other's backs, to follow orders, to put the mission ahead of personal goals. I trusted you, but you're a god damned prima donna, and I can't afford that."
Rodney swallows. "Maybe I can learn to be more of a Beverly Sills and less of an Kathleen Battle," he says, expecting to have to explain the joke. He doesn't think Sheppard knows any kind of soprano but the TV show.
Sheppard surprises him and laughs, and says, "You're a diva, all right."
New gears start to mesh in Rodney's brain. Sheppard knows opera?
"There's no room for a diva on a team, Rodney."
"Or at least not two?"
Sheppard looks at him, eyebrows asking the question.
Rodney folds his arms, starting to fall back into his habitual postures, physical and mental. "You don't honestly think that you don't ever do a little grand standing ? You're such a typical example of the Air Force pilot. All attitude and confidence."
Sheppard ignores the dig. "That confidence has to be deserved."
"I'm confident I'm the smartest man in Atlantis."
"You're too arrogant."
"Says the pilot."
"This is not about me! I have to lead. It's my job."
"It's my job, too, or have you forgotten I'm head of science."
"Do you think you'll keep that job after this? If I tell Elizabeth that I can't trust you, do you think you'll step through that Gate again?"
That jolts him. His arms drop to his lap. "You wouldn't."
Sheppard looks at him for a long moment. Rodney tries not to blink. It feels as if Sheppard is trying to find something, to look down the nerves that connect his eyes to his brain and read out the maps and pathways.
"A team is a little like a group marriage, Rodney. If it's going to work, there has got to be compromise, commitment and communication. And," Sheppard pauses, looking for the word, "amnesty."
Rodney can't quite deal with the idea that he may have just been given what he came for, so he sits back and recrosses his arms and asks the question, defensive out of habit, but he wants to know. "When were you ever married, Colonel?"
"It wasn't the kind of thing I could have on my service record," Sheppard says quietly.
"Oh my god," says Rodney, the gears slamming so hard into place that his head hurts. "You're trusting me."
"I expect you to deserve it."
Rodney can't look at Sheppard, can't face that penetrating gaze that sees his every uncertainty. He looks at the hands he finds on his lap, not tucked under his arms where he thought he left them. "So, you're keeping me on the team, then?"
"If you can be a team player."
"I, uh, yes," Rodney says. "I'll do my best. Sir, Colonel."
Sheppard rises and Rodney does, too, feeling awkward and relieved, feeling as if there should be some other gesture between them. He holds out his hand. Sheppard takes it, and surprises him by pulling him closer. It isn't a hug - their clasped hands are still between them - and they pat each other's backs stiffly, but when they pull away, Sheppard squeezes his shoulder, once.
"Go to bed, Rodney," he says, and Rodney, who had every intention of going back to the lab to figure out where his calculations went wrong, obeys.
He doesn't sleep, but in the quiet of his room he thinks about more than numbers.
Fin.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, preslash
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: SGA is the property of of someone else. I like to play in their sandbox.
Thanks to my RL beta.
Note: This is an unasked-for present to synecdochic for Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose, which I re-read yesterday. In her DVD commentary, she notes that she didn't have a full back story in her head of how they got together in the first place. This is a post-Trinity fic that could be the start of it, and perhaps shows some of the early stages of the changes synecdochic surmised for Dr. McKay. I could not comment on her story in any coherent way, so I offer this instead.
Trading Tomorrows
"Colonel, is something wrong?"
"You shouldn't be here." Sheppard stretches an arm up to lean on the door frame in an effective block, his face neutral. Rodney finds the lack of expression more discomfiting than anger or false cool.
"I'm sorry," he says, and turns to go.
"God damnit," Sheppard says in two precise words. Then he leans his head into his forearm.
"Colonel?" Rodney hates the uncertainty in his own voice.
"Why are you here?" Sheppard asks without looking up, voice muffled.
Rodney stares at the raised arm, the ear that he can see, the tense lines in Sheppard's neck that disappear into his black T-shirt. He doesn't know why he's here. He came with the intention of justifying himself - his ego demands that he be seen as right, even with a spectacular fuckup staring everyone in the face - but now he can feel the Siberian cold and hear Natalia's voice in his head telling him, "What is that American expression? Get over yourself, Rodney McKay."
The hardest words he's ever said come, unbidden. That they rise on their own doesn't make it any less difficult to get them out his throat. "I came to beg forgiveness."
Sheppard looks up, just enough for a brief eye contact. "I believed in you."
"Not so, uh, thrilled hearing the past tense there."
Sheppard takes a deep breath, glances up the corridor, and says, "Come in." He turns without looking to see if Rodney follows, and Rodney isn't sure he should, but the pull of John Sheppard is too strong. He looks around the room. There isn't much to set it apart, but the rumored skateboard is real. Sheppard sits on the bed, and gestures toward the chair.
Rodney sits, awkward, not knowing what to do with this hands, looking at Sheppard, who is not looking at him. "I," he starts, then gestures toward the door, "Maybe I -"
"If you want," Sheppard says.
Rodney doesn't want. Rodney doesn't know what he wants, so he shifts in his chair, and he waits, feeling mixed parts like he's sitting outside the principle's office, even though the other kid started it, and like he's waiting for Sarah to break up with him, even though he already knew she had a boyfriend out of town. It's inevitable. It's not his fault. He knew better. He had to throw the punch, take the offered sex, try to fix that Ancient weapon.
Sheppard lets him stew for a minute, but Rodney has learned that sometimes the Colonel needs a moment to put on his game face. Rodney tries to find one of his own, but he knows that everything he feels is out there, naked and raw.
"We're supposed to be a team, Rodney," Sheppard says at last. "We have to trust each other to watch each other's backs, to follow orders, to put the mission ahead of personal goals. I trusted you, but you're a god damned prima donna, and I can't afford that."
Rodney swallows. "Maybe I can learn to be more of a Beverly Sills and less of an Kathleen Battle," he says, expecting to have to explain the joke. He doesn't think Sheppard knows any kind of soprano but the TV show.
Sheppard surprises him and laughs, and says, "You're a diva, all right."
New gears start to mesh in Rodney's brain. Sheppard knows opera?
"There's no room for a diva on a team, Rodney."
"Or at least not two?"
Sheppard looks at him, eyebrows asking the question.
Rodney folds his arms, starting to fall back into his habitual postures, physical and mental. "You don't honestly think that you don't ever do a little grand standing ? You're such a typical example of the Air Force pilot. All attitude and confidence."
Sheppard ignores the dig. "That confidence has to be deserved."
"I'm confident I'm the smartest man in Atlantis."
"You're too arrogant."
"Says the pilot."
"This is not about me! I have to lead. It's my job."
"It's my job, too, or have you forgotten I'm head of science."
"Do you think you'll keep that job after this? If I tell Elizabeth that I can't trust you, do you think you'll step through that Gate again?"
That jolts him. His arms drop to his lap. "You wouldn't."
Sheppard looks at him for a long moment. Rodney tries not to blink. It feels as if Sheppard is trying to find something, to look down the nerves that connect his eyes to his brain and read out the maps and pathways.
"A team is a little like a group marriage, Rodney. If it's going to work, there has got to be compromise, commitment and communication. And," Sheppard pauses, looking for the word, "amnesty."
Rodney can't quite deal with the idea that he may have just been given what he came for, so he sits back and recrosses his arms and asks the question, defensive out of habit, but he wants to know. "When were you ever married, Colonel?"
"It wasn't the kind of thing I could have on my service record," Sheppard says quietly.
"Oh my god," says Rodney, the gears slamming so hard into place that his head hurts. "You're trusting me."
"I expect you to deserve it."
Rodney can't look at Sheppard, can't face that penetrating gaze that sees his every uncertainty. He looks at the hands he finds on his lap, not tucked under his arms where he thought he left them. "So, you're keeping me on the team, then?"
"If you can be a team player."
"I, uh, yes," Rodney says. "I'll do my best. Sir, Colonel."
Sheppard rises and Rodney does, too, feeling awkward and relieved, feeling as if there should be some other gesture between them. He holds out his hand. Sheppard takes it, and surprises him by pulling him closer. It isn't a hug - their clasped hands are still between them - and they pat each other's backs stiffly, but when they pull away, Sheppard squeezes his shoulder, once.
"Go to bed, Rodney," he says, and Rodney, who had every intention of going back to the lab to figure out where his calculations went wrong, obeys.
He doesn't sleep, but in the quiet of his room he thinks about more than numbers.
Fin.