FIC: Parsed (Radek/Elizabeth, PG-13)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY crimsonclad! This is my birthday present to you, and I hope it fits! It does come with an exchange policy. I had meant to write you some hot hot hot porn, but instead you get this. If you would like the porn, too, just say the word - and be sure to include the size, color, etc you would like best. In the meantime, try this one on:
Title: Parsed
Fandom: SG:A
Pairing: Weir/Zelenka
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Spoilers for 'Trinity', 'Critical Mass' and 'The Long Goodbye'.
Radek Zelenka was fond of poetry. He did not need to bring any with him when he left Earth, because he had memorized it: all of Shakespeare’s sonnets; Browning; Yeats; five psalms; The Wasteland; a dash of Sappho; Rumi; and of course Branislav, among others. The words were his prayers some days. Other days they merely marked time, marked his place, and he ran them over and over silently while he worked, nimble fingers running, too, over crystal and wires and his hair, his brow, back and forth and back again.
*
“I do not think it matters how much cake you walk on,” he had said to Rodney over the radio, just before the stars exploded. Rodney had, predictably, ignored him, but Elizabeth had rewarded him with a small, perfect smile as she twisted her necklace between her fingers. And that, too, was a kind of poetry.
Days later at dinner there had been cake, actual cake made with honey. It was hard like biscotti and helped immensely by a good, long soak in tea. Elizabeth sat with him in the mess at a table by the window in the afternoon sun.
“Dr. Zelenka,” she greeted him. He watched her eat salad and dry bread with slow, deliberate grace.
“I miss butter,” he said. Elizabeth nodded politely and sipped her soup. “Butter, like love, seems common enough, but has so many imitators.”
“Connie Wanek,” she said, sparkling. This time her smile was broad, showing a tiny sliver of green between her teeth. So unfair that that should be so adorable, Radek thought. He would tell her, though. Eventually. Soon.
“You know the poem?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to hear it?”
*
There were some he did not recite for her, no matter if it was night and their meal was shared on her office balcony over a hushed sea. No matter that there was starlight, or how soft her eyes were. Some words were only for the past, for his ghosts and his memories of other eyes, now hushed.
*
And then there was Sheppard, or not-Sheppard, or Phelan, or whatever his name was, that thief. And Phoebus, who had stolen Elizabeth, who was not Elizabeth, running with a gun and scaring the ever-loving shit out of him.
“Are you all right?” she asked him later.
“It is I who should be asking you this,” Radek said, smoothing the edges of the thin infirmary sheets along her shoulders. He tried not to look at her mouth, or to think of the kiss that had been taken from him.
“Will you read to me?” She held his wrist. Radek opened her book, the one he’d brought from her quarters.
“Page seven,” he agreed. He knew which one was her favorite and the words came easily. He read it to her twice, leaning forward, buying time until he could think of his own words.
“I missed this,” she said when he was done, her eyes still closed.
“As have I,” he began. “Elizabeth,” Her hair was soft under his fingers. “I am sorry.”
In the end, she wouldn’t let him apologize or take any of the burden or fault for the weeks they’d lost to anger and gritty, strained silences. He was sorry, though. Every time an old report came across his desk and he spied Kavangh’s name, or when he saw Ronon scrape absently at an itch with his knife, Radek felt it anew: something like betrayal or maybe just pure, hot rage that she could make such a decision, or that it would be demanded of her. And that he could do nothing but watch her bear it.
It was torture, and he was breaking. He would tell her everything, to the last syllable.
*
It was night. It was morning. They lay stretched out in her bed, in pale sheets, and Radek traced the lines of her cheek and jaw. She kissed his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she snuggled closer, pulling his arm over her, burying her face in his chest. Her breath was hot yet made him shiver. He stroked her hips, her belly, until she opened against him and took him in again with all of his memories, his promises, their poems.
(fin)
Title: Parsed
Fandom: SG:A
Pairing: Weir/Zelenka
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Spoilers for 'Trinity', 'Critical Mass' and 'The Long Goodbye'.
Radek Zelenka was fond of poetry. He did not need to bring any with him when he left Earth, because he had memorized it: all of Shakespeare’s sonnets; Browning; Yeats; five psalms; The Wasteland; a dash of Sappho; Rumi; and of course Branislav, among others. The words were his prayers some days. Other days they merely marked time, marked his place, and he ran them over and over silently while he worked, nimble fingers running, too, over crystal and wires and his hair, his brow, back and forth and back again.
*
“I do not think it matters how much cake you walk on,” he had said to Rodney over the radio, just before the stars exploded. Rodney had, predictably, ignored him, but Elizabeth had rewarded him with a small, perfect smile as she twisted her necklace between her fingers. And that, too, was a kind of poetry.
Days later at dinner there had been cake, actual cake made with honey. It was hard like biscotti and helped immensely by a good, long soak in tea. Elizabeth sat with him in the mess at a table by the window in the afternoon sun.
“Dr. Zelenka,” she greeted him. He watched her eat salad and dry bread with slow, deliberate grace.
“I miss butter,” he said. Elizabeth nodded politely and sipped her soup. “Butter, like love, seems common enough, but has so many imitators.”
“Connie Wanek,” she said, sparkling. This time her smile was broad, showing a tiny sliver of green between her teeth. So unfair that that should be so adorable, Radek thought. He would tell her, though. Eventually. Soon.
“You know the poem?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to hear it?”
*
There were some he did not recite for her, no matter if it was night and their meal was shared on her office balcony over a hushed sea. No matter that there was starlight, or how soft her eyes were. Some words were only for the past, for his ghosts and his memories of other eyes, now hushed.
*
And then there was Sheppard, or not-Sheppard, or Phelan, or whatever his name was, that thief. And Phoebus, who had stolen Elizabeth, who was not Elizabeth, running with a gun and scaring the ever-loving shit out of him.
“Are you all right?” she asked him later.
“It is I who should be asking you this,” Radek said, smoothing the edges of the thin infirmary sheets along her shoulders. He tried not to look at her mouth, or to think of the kiss that had been taken from him.
“Will you read to me?” She held his wrist. Radek opened her book, the one he’d brought from her quarters.
“Page seven,” he agreed. He knew which one was her favorite and the words came easily. He read it to her twice, leaning forward, buying time until he could think of his own words.
“I missed this,” she said when he was done, her eyes still closed.
“As have I,” he began. “Elizabeth,” Her hair was soft under his fingers. “I am sorry.”
In the end, she wouldn’t let him apologize or take any of the burden or fault for the weeks they’d lost to anger and gritty, strained silences. He was sorry, though. Every time an old report came across his desk and he spied Kavangh’s name, or when he saw Ronon scrape absently at an itch with his knife, Radek felt it anew: something like betrayal or maybe just pure, hot rage that she could make such a decision, or that it would be demanded of her. And that he could do nothing but watch her bear it.
It was torture, and he was breaking. He would tell her everything, to the last syllable.
*
It was night. It was morning. They lay stretched out in her bed, in pale sheets, and Radek traced the lines of her cheek and jaw. She kissed his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she snuggled closer, pulling his arm over her, burying her face in his chest. Her breath was hot yet made him shiver. He stroked her hips, her belly, until she opened against him and took him in again with all of his memories, his promises, their poems.
(fin)