Fic: Inferior Copies
Title: Inferior Copies
Fandom: SGU
Pairing: Eli/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: It could just as easily be a recipe for delicious alien stew, as an instruction manual for the ship they'd found floating in space.
AN: Written for the Five Acts meme.
It could just as easily be a recipe for delicious alien stew, as an instruction manual for the ship they'd found floating in space. But Rush wants it. He wants it badly, so he demands they spend the last ten minutes making sure they get it. Because the six foot tall stone marker, covered in alien writing is about to be crushed, and it'll end up in the same crevasse their kino did.
The only problem is, they don't have the time or the equipment to cut and carry the thing out.
Matt drops his bag.
"You got a pen, right?" he asks, and he's already jerking his shirt out of his waistband.
"Yeah, but -" Eli stops when he realises what Matt's doing, why he's doing it. He wants to make some sort of awkward joke about surface area - but he's fairly certain he'd never be as comfortable as Matt looks peeling himself out of his t-shirt like some space-adventuring Indiana Jones.
Matt's already tucking the shirt into his belt and leaning into the wall, muscles shifting and rising under the skin while Eli's still working out how to get the cap off the pen.
"I'm pretty sure you can write faster than me, and I'm likely to miss anything which might be important." Matt nods even though he can't see him.
Eli laughs and it sounds nervous and stupid. "I still say it's a recipe for alien stew."
He doesn't know where to start, doesn’t know how to start. Until Matt says 'come on,' low under his breath, and that's not helpful in any way. He manages to lay the pen's point into the curve of Matt's shoulder, not sure how hard to press until he's managed a whole line of symbols.
He's holding the cap of the pen between his teeth, too tightly, fingers curled round the narrow give of Matt's waist - without him remembering giving them permission to. It's weirdly awkward and intimate, up close and personal in a way he's not sure what to do with. But there's nowhere else to put his hand, and it takes him a second to realise he's squeezing and to make himself stop. Because this is the sort of up close and personal he was never expecting, ever. He has to turn him a little, to see the marker better, and Matt moves under the pressure obediently, stretching out like a canvas, in a way that makes Eli swallow, and then swallow again.
He tries to write quickly and legibly, pen lines curling like optical illusions across every bump of vertebrae. Decorations and symbols, and explanations, directions. Matt's completely still, all military efficiency and precision while Eli is the one that's unsteady, making a mess at the edges, where sweat catches the pen lines. He doesn't know if it's Matt's or his.
"Eli." It's a reminder to hurry, Eli's hand skids, almost leaves a line of ink across the hard, lower curve of Matt's shoulder blade. They stretch and shift when Matt inhales, exhales, shifts against the rock to brace himself when Eli pushes.
"I know," he says sharply, probably too sharply.
"Write faster."
"I know," Eli huffs, and there's a strange, breathless quality to his voice as he copies every strange, slanting line and odd arrangement of dots. Matt's back is so very warm, smooth under the side of his hand where it shifts and presses, rests, sometimes for longer than it needs to. He's following the pen line with his eyes, and not thinking about the fact that he's close enough for Matt to feel him breathing, or to see the faint curve of underwear above Matt's waistband, or the way his pants aren't quite tight enough, slant of light making its way down at the side where his belt curves round his waist - and from there it's easy to think about things he shouldn't, things he has no business thinking.
There are crossed wires in his head somewhere, because he's fairly sure that this may be the most erotic thing he's ever done. Which is messed up in a way that even the alien monsters and assorted technology that regularly wants to kill them don't quite ever manage.
Matt's head is bent forward, forehead almost brushing the wall, back a mess of Eli's handwriting and the copied layout of as much of the tablet as he can put down. Matt looks nothing like the walls and loose sheets of paper that end up filled with calculations on the destiny. This is alive, this is writing, letters, symbols that move every time Matt breathes and Eli's never wanted to touch something as much in his life. Never been so aware that he shouldn't.
He's going to pretend the too-fast thump of his pulse is from the fact that this place is about to be swallowed up, and not for any other reason.
Fandom: SGU
Pairing: Eli/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: It could just as easily be a recipe for delicious alien stew, as an instruction manual for the ship they'd found floating in space.
AN: Written for the Five Acts meme.
It could just as easily be a recipe for delicious alien stew, as an instruction manual for the ship they'd found floating in space. But Rush wants it. He wants it badly, so he demands they spend the last ten minutes making sure they get it. Because the six foot tall stone marker, covered in alien writing is about to be crushed, and it'll end up in the same crevasse their kino did.
The only problem is, they don't have the time or the equipment to cut and carry the thing out.
Matt drops his bag.
"You got a pen, right?" he asks, and he's already jerking his shirt out of his waistband.
"Yeah, but -" Eli stops when he realises what Matt's doing, why he's doing it. He wants to make some sort of awkward joke about surface area - but he's fairly certain he'd never be as comfortable as Matt looks peeling himself out of his t-shirt like some space-adventuring Indiana Jones.
Matt's already tucking the shirt into his belt and leaning into the wall, muscles shifting and rising under the skin while Eli's still working out how to get the cap off the pen.
"I'm pretty sure you can write faster than me, and I'm likely to miss anything which might be important." Matt nods even though he can't see him.
Eli laughs and it sounds nervous and stupid. "I still say it's a recipe for alien stew."
He doesn't know where to start, doesn’t know how to start. Until Matt says 'come on,' low under his breath, and that's not helpful in any way. He manages to lay the pen's point into the curve of Matt's shoulder, not sure how hard to press until he's managed a whole line of symbols.
He's holding the cap of the pen between his teeth, too tightly, fingers curled round the narrow give of Matt's waist - without him remembering giving them permission to. It's weirdly awkward and intimate, up close and personal in a way he's not sure what to do with. But there's nowhere else to put his hand, and it takes him a second to realise he's squeezing and to make himself stop. Because this is the sort of up close and personal he was never expecting, ever. He has to turn him a little, to see the marker better, and Matt moves under the pressure obediently, stretching out like a canvas, in a way that makes Eli swallow, and then swallow again.
He tries to write quickly and legibly, pen lines curling like optical illusions across every bump of vertebrae. Decorations and symbols, and explanations, directions. Matt's completely still, all military efficiency and precision while Eli is the one that's unsteady, making a mess at the edges, where sweat catches the pen lines. He doesn't know if it's Matt's or his.
"Eli." It's a reminder to hurry, Eli's hand skids, almost leaves a line of ink across the hard, lower curve of Matt's shoulder blade. They stretch and shift when Matt inhales, exhales, shifts against the rock to brace himself when Eli pushes.
"I know," he says sharply, probably too sharply.
"Write faster."
"I know," Eli huffs, and there's a strange, breathless quality to his voice as he copies every strange, slanting line and odd arrangement of dots. Matt's back is so very warm, smooth under the side of his hand where it shifts and presses, rests, sometimes for longer than it needs to. He's following the pen line with his eyes, and not thinking about the fact that he's close enough for Matt to feel him breathing, or to see the faint curve of underwear above Matt's waistband, or the way his pants aren't quite tight enough, slant of light making its way down at the side where his belt curves round his waist - and from there it's easy to think about things he shouldn't, things he has no business thinking.
There are crossed wires in his head somewhere, because he's fairly sure that this may be the most erotic thing he's ever done. Which is messed up in a way that even the alien monsters and assorted technology that regularly wants to kill them don't quite ever manage.
Matt's head is bent forward, forehead almost brushing the wall, back a mess of Eli's handwriting and the copied layout of as much of the tablet as he can put down. Matt looks nothing like the walls and loose sheets of paper that end up filled with calculations on the destiny. This is alive, this is writing, letters, symbols that move every time Matt breathes and Eli's never wanted to touch something as much in his life. Never been so aware that he shouldn't.
He's going to pretend the too-fast thump of his pulse is from the fact that this place is about to be swallowed up, and not for any other reason.