TEAM WORK: in at the deep end, "The Echoes in a Shallow Bay"
Title: The Echoes in a Shallow Bay
Author: themostepotente
Team: Work
Prompt: in at the deep end
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard with a strong appearance by Todd
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Minor character death, smoking!Sheppard, a bit of artistic leeway with the Ancients' touch stones
Summary: Stones, when dropped, make ripples. These ripples make changes.
A/N: Takes place some time after the episode 'Enemy at the Gate.'
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
**
The Echoes in a Shallow Bay
It starts with a stone.
It's really a rock but Rodney's not here to argue the semantics. You have no idea which planet in the Pegasus galaxy you picked it up from, only that the rock is rough and jagged. You speculate it may have been from Waterfalls or Green Rivers or perhaps even Tallest Trees. The childish names sound silly even in your head, but you won't begrudge Ford his optimism. Even if Ford's just bones and teeth now. And then it comes to you. Stone Monoliths. That's where you found it - just a broken piece from a dolmen that resembled a rotted molar, pitted and blackened, from the maw of a great beast.
You hold it tightly in the palm of your hand and then let it go. It thuds to the ground. To the naked eye, it appears still. But stones, when dropped in pools, create ripples, and those ripples in turn create change. For a brief moment, you consider picking up the stone, but you leave it there to stir the calm.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone watching you. Without a whisper, you leave. The stone, left to its own devices, is plucked from the deck of Atlantis.
You want to turn and see whose fortunes will change, but your resolve is greater than Rodney ever gives you credit for.
Rodney's in the computer lab with Todd again, and your excuses to stay are getting flimsier and flimsier. You comprehend none of what they're doing together, and you're slightly jealous of their simpatico work relationship. You lean against the doorjamb until Rodney not so subtly points out that your body is interfering with the door's locking mechanism. Moving further into the room, you reach into a pocket and produce a hand exerciser to strengthen your grip. You can't help but imagine your vise-like grip is actually on Rodney's collar, dragging him closer for a kiss. When Todd speaks, you imagine your hand around his throat instead, choking the life out of him. This feeling is as alien as the invasive presence in the room, and you tuck it away deep inside. You and Rodney have never worked this closely with this much intensity. He is science and you are military, and for a brief moment you wish you were a bit smarter or he a bit stronger. Your working lives are destined to run parallel like east and west. Jennifer will always be the warm south and Todd the cold north.
You casually observe, looking but not really seeing. There are a hundred other places you should be. A hundred other matters that demand your attention. A hundred other people who seek both your company and your command. Rodney's talking fast and gesturing wildly with his hands, in the animated way a catcher would signal back to the pitcher. Todd seems to understand everything Rodney's telling him, and you hate that the only language barriers are the ones you encounter. You listen a bit longer, intent on grasping something of their conversation, but your brain has slowed to impulse, and you can only think in terms of fists and Bantos rods or cards and poker chips. You've been up for nearly sixteen hours, but fatigue hasn't so much as poked a bony finger at your chest. At least not in the conventional sense.
When you could swear the pair of them are gibbering in 1s and 0s, you take your self-implied 'three's a crowd' hint and head out. Before the door closes behind you, you think you hear Rodney trying to explain Mensa to Todd, and you clutch at the burn in your chest. You tell yourself it's the second helping of tater tots that Teal'c pushed onto your plate, and you almost believe that until the craving for a smoke derails that thought. Old habits die hard, John Sheppard, you hear in your head, only it's not your voice. Either you need to call it a night, or that pale, pointy bastard slipped past your guard.
You distinctly remember quitting ten years ago, but you started up again when this thing (you don't know what else to call it) with Rodney started. You should probably go easy with what's left of the pack. It's not like you can demand frivolous gate dialings back to Earth for such creature comforts, but you can't seem to shake the taste of stale cigarettes. You stare broodingly into the heavens as if all of the answers to all of your questions are written in the sky. Not surprisingly, no answers are forthcoming. The night is clear, beautiful even, but these are not your stars.
You draw the smoke (the tar, the nicotine) deep into your lungs, hoping your oxygen-deprived high will spur an epiphany. And that's when Rodney steps outside, thankfully alone. He takes your left, and you share a companionable silence before he speaks. Things have progressed, though slowly, and his science teams are working round-the-clock with minimal reprieves. It's strange, you think, that Rodney is hesitant to address Todd by his human name even though they work in close quarters. Rodney reminds you daily how awful the name is, but you take some perverse pleasure in relating everyone you meet to guys you knew back in college. Not even Rodney is immune. Intellectually, he resembles Nick something-or-other, resident band geek and trigonometry wizard. You vaguely remember his Flock-of-Seagulls haircut and the way he could suck the yellow off a canary. Of the three, you don't recall which you hated most: his hyper-intelligence, his superiority complex, or his hold on you.
And that's when it happens, mid-thought, Rodney's lips on yours. Only instead of a graceful kiss, he pushes you away by your chin with a Christ, John. He shoves a stick of Big Red at you and you oblige, chewing resolutely before swallowing. The cigarette, now mostly forgotten, dangles from your fingers.
You never mean for your relationships to become so chaotic. Rodney doesn't know what his closeness does to you, that to you he is the flesh and blood equivalent of the Attero device. Your heart explodes into a million pieces when you move through him, but your attempts at circumnavigation are always thwarted. When Rodney deepens the kiss, you are lost but good. So lost that you don't feel the burn of the fallen cigarette beneath your bare toes or the slip of his given name in a stolen breath.
The soft sweep of the outer doors should alert you to stop, but like all sins committed in the Pegasus galaxy, once done it can never be undone.
Inevitably, Todd's hunger must be dealt with if he's to continue working alongside Rodney. This would be easy, were there a place for life-force take-out, but things are never that simple and so a donor must be found.
For a suit, Woolsey's pretty reasonable in a crunch, so you’re not surprised when he approves finding a Wraith for Todd to feed off. There are always dissenting voices, outraged lifers, but this is child's play compared to how you repeatedly fucked over Michael. Todd and the other Wraith (Norman, you decide, even though it will be a husk soon enough) stare intently at each other. They are, no doubt, communicating telepathically, and for some odd reason you flash on that scene in The Fly where Goldblum tries to explain insect politics to Davis. Then Todd slams his feeding hand into Norman's chest, and it's over in ten ticks. You've grown accustomed to the savagery, but you've heard Rodney compare a Wraith feeding to a hyaena being torn apart by a lion on the Serengeti. Todd's smile, however dull, reminds you of a rich man dabbing the corners of his mouth with a silk napkin.
You head to the gym for a bit of sparring. Teyla has just finished putting Rodney through the wringer, but you convince him to stay. Not that he'd be moving any time soon. Already, fresh bruises are blooming on his pale, dampened skin. Your mind wanders back to last Thursday and the stray hour you spent in your quarters, half-inside Rodney and kissing a path up his spine. You can barely make out his post-beating babble about Salisbury steak and mac 'n cheese in the mess. It's as far away as the sound of the ocean inside a seashell. He calls your name at least half a dozen times before you snap from your reverie. Instead of answering, you offer him a hand up. He could use a review on hand-to-hand combat training.
You drill for about an hour until Rodney looks about ready to raise the white flag, only his surrender is merely a ruse to get one good hit out on you. The right hook comes with surprising velocity, but that alone is not enough to knock you to the ground. Your boot catches an overlap in the mat and you lose your footing, falling inelegantly.
Rodney laughs at this, and you sweep his legs out from under him. He falls like a skyscraper devastated by demolition, and you grab him by the shirtfront, pulling him towards you. You crash your mouths together, and you can taste the vestiges of strong, black coffee and peppermint Altoids. When you pull apart, his lips are pink and moist. Smiling, he murmurs, My quarters.
Once there, Rodney lies back and lets you strip him of his fatigues. He's wearing faded boxers decorated in maple leaves, and when you pull them down over his hips, a flush spreads to his neck and he worries his bottom lip in nervous anticipation. Jeannie's lecture that Rodney hasn't your looks has made Rodney overly self-conscious, so you do your best to reassure him. Doubtful, he still shoves your hand away when you go to remove his t-shirt.
Back when you were in the Genii holding cell, you distinctly recall Todd explaining the Hunger. You feel it, too. A burning. And this burning will never stop no matter how many times you do this. On your knees before him, you quickly push your pants and underwear down past the curves of your ass, fumbling almost boyishly in your pocket for your squeeze tube of lip balm to anoint your cock. Sticky hands trembling, you hoist Rodney's legs over your shoulders and slide your prick inside. A plea, something lost between a whisper and a choked cry, floods your consciousness, and your control slips. You claim the flesh at your fingertips, tracing the jagged arrow scar on Rodney's buttock as you lift him up for deeper penetration. The strangled noises that slip from the back of your throat synch with the pushpullpushpull of your movements until you are dizzy with them. 'Touch yourself,' you command, and Rodney obeys without question. You come in a heated rush, your vision whitening as a hot-cold prickle electrifies your skin. Toes curling, Rodney's not far behind, singing your praises not with a list of Gods or archangels, but noteworthy astrophysicists. His big toe nudges your ear in thanks.
You collapse next to him with a sated groan, your limbs leaden. The longer you stay like this, the fewer your chances are of making it to your own bed. Your stomach growls, and you realize you haven't eaten since lunch. The stomach growl is sort of a Pavlovian bell for Rodney, and he's up faster than you can say Folsom Prison Blues.
In the mess, Rodney shovels in gravy-soaked meat and lumpy potatoes like they're going out of style. You're still trying to decide what fruit they've submerged in the blue Jell-O when Lorne comes looking for you. 'Zelenka's found it,' he says, and you abandon your dessert plate.
Rodney just sighs, and you'd know that look anywhere.
No rest for the wicked.
The Wraith genetics lab is located on a planet on the outer rim of the Pegasus galaxy. Zelenka believes it's been there since the war and may have served as a docking bay. Long-range sensors strongly suggest a cache of ZPMs, but you're not getting your hopes up. In fact, you remain mostly quiet on the six-hour puddle jumper ride with your crossword puzzles. A cursory glance around finds Lorne and Teyla sleeping, Rodney eating a power bar and Ronon and Todd staring intently at each other. When Todd smirks ever so slightly, Ronon raises his BFG and points it at Todd's head, returning the smirk. It's always a contest of wills between the two, and you give it a good thirty seconds before you intervene with a stern look and a firm voice.
You know you've been in the Pegasus galaxy too long when all of the planets start resembling one another. You look for something, anything at all, that will set this planet apart from the others, but you come up short. Aiden would be disappointed at your christening this place with a blasé description. You wait for Rodney to add his two cents, but he's too busy tying his bootlaces. When the iris finally closes, you press forward, flanked by Teyla and Ronon, with Rodney in the middle and Lorne on six. Not more than ten steps ahead is Todd, the muzzle of your gun pointed at his back.
It takes maybe twenty minutes to find the great, hulking structure. It's overgrown with weeds and vines, and when you clear a path to the hatch, you notice it's blackened with scorch marks. Todd rests his hand on the specified indent, and the device interprets the flow of biological resonance from his feeding organ. The door opens with a loud click.
You split up into groups of two, each pair heading off into the three remaining directions, with you and Todd heading north. Your direction yields a series of surgical laboratories. As on the Hive ships, the walls are lined with cocoons, their occupants reduced to husks. The faint trace of death on the air would indicate recent but not immediate occupation. You open your mouth to implicate Michael, but it rolls off Todd's tongue with an underlying growl. Any further speculation is interrupted by Lorne's curt summons that you meet with him and Rodney ASAP. As you turn, you think you see Todd slipping a large vial into the folds of his fighting leathers. There's no time to confront him. A moment's disorientation overcomes your alarm, followed by a sense of foreboding. When Todd shoulders past you, you can't help but notice his eyes are a deeper shade of yellow.
En route, you encounter Teyla and Ronon, a mixture of apprehension and surprise on their faces. Ronon's carrying a stainless steel suitcase, which he opens at your meeting. Inside are two ZPMs and a palm-sized oval stone, somewhat recognizable. Curious, you pick up the stone. You feel a sudden body and brain pull, not dissimilar to the one you endure during wormhole travel.
You're standing in the back of a confiscated puddle jumper, a mess of red, white, yellow and blue circuitry dangling just above your face. Lorne is standing guard whistling some annoying shit kicker tune, until you finally explode and tell him to shut up. You've never had any patience for verbal distractions, which is why you've always demanded complete silence when working. You open an access panel, and that's when it falls out, carefully hidden for thousands of years. You seem to recall it belongs in a cradle with its mate, but you doubt that the other one survived if this one was so carefully hidden.
The circuitry blurs before your eyes and suddenly you're back in bed, sweaty, mussed and with limbs all a-tangle. You're still wearing that stupid t-shirt you refused to remove, and you wonder when he'll grow sick and tired of your childish insecurities. He's staring up at the ceiling, lips silently moving like he's trying to reconcile the galaxy's problems in five minutes or less. You expect him to get up and leave any moment now. He never stays, at least not for long. That's just not his way.
It's quiet, save for the air circulator, and that's when he sits up, an inhuman-like growl from the pit of his stomach. It triggers your own insatiable hunger, and you can't deny your own pangs. You dress quickly and quietly, contemplating the pile of clothes in the corner. You'll contend with that later, you think, and just before he raises his hand to open the door, you give him one last kiss for the night. Just behind his ear.
The connection's broken when the stone is knocked from your hand. It lands with a dull thud at Todd's feet. Lantean touch stones, you hear in your head. Very powerful communication devices. I wouldn't leave it here, John Sheppard.
You give Todd an inquisitive look before you bend over to pick up the stone with your jacket sleeve. The four of you make haste to where Lorne and Rodney are, and you find yourself in a big, empty docking bay. The air is stale, and the dampness is wreaking havoc on Rodney's allergies. Sleeve held to his face, Rodney tries to explain that he might be able to jury-rig the puddle jumper. Just this one would give you a significant advantage in the upcoming weeks, so you approve his suggestion. Then the team stands around and waits. You've all had to learn to be patient.
Not twenty minutes into Rodney's diagnostic a klaxon sounds, and this can only mean one thing. You and your team hightail it out of there, running full-tilt out of the building and throwing yourselves in the dirt as the building explodes behind you. Despite your near misfortune, you reason the trip was worth the risks. You now have two more ZPMs at your disposal. Rodney is positively elated with the discovery, even though the ZPMs appear to be non-functional, and you're fairly certain he'll be burning both ends of the candle tinkering away to try to fix them.
You wonder what Todd has to gain from this excursion. He never does anything to help unless it's beneficial to him or his people, but the answer is not forthcoming. At least not yet. It's hard to derive anything from that inscrutable smile of his until it's too late.
The return trip is equally quiet. Grateful for this, you go back to your crosswords. Three down should come to you just like that, but your mind wanders as you shoot Rodney a sidelong glance. He's trying to get comfortable on the bench, but every time he shifts, Ronon reacts in kind. You smile inwardly, and your thoughts wander further.
Seven across is at the tip of your tongue, but you're finding it difficult to concentrate with the buzz in your ear and the tickle in your brain. You mark your place with the pen, and set the book off to the side. Folding your arms across your chest, you monitor navigation until your thoughts are gently nudged in the direction of Rodney.
The two of you mix like oil and water, but somehow you make things work. You know that he gets ridiculously excited over banana splits, Star Trek marathons and Venn diagrams. You know that he favors breakfast over every other meal, and that he likes his eggs under-cooked and his toast over-browned. You know that he loves Delibes's Flower Duet, and that he still fiddles with a Duncan yo-yo when the answers won't come to him. And you know that he prefers rain to shine and baths to showers. You even know that he runs on coffee like an engine runs on oil, and that he sometimes eats dessert first so there's no argument over having room for it.
A feeling, not unlike the cold press of steel licking skin, sinks in, and you'd swear you're not alone in your head.
You mentally push back with both hands, keeping the intrusive presence at bay. It's strong, but even under considerable stress, you find the strength when you will it. You were never comfortable with drop-ins, and this feels like a lurking vampire pressing for an invite. You're not letting it in if you can help it.
You try to hold on to these intimate moments, but they slip through the cracks in your fingers as easily as sand through an hourglass. Thoughts of hearth and home, and of Rodney directing you where to kiss (just behind his ear or the bend of his knee). These are your moments, not to be shared. You jerk upright, and the feeling passes. The cold steel scrapes just beyond your eyes, and the sensation of insects skittering across your brain dies with it. You must have fallen asleep for a moment.
Todd, that bastard, is staring at you. He seems pleased.
Once back, you radio Woolsey and dodge the mission debriefing. He can get in line and wait his turn behind a shower and sleep. As you drape your jacket over the back of your desk chair, something rolls out of your sleeve.
A faint blue glow illuminates your quarters. It hums in a way that suggests you have questions.
Or, most likely, that it has answers for you.
An hour or so before the post-mission debriefing, you spy Rodney handing a swaddled bundle to Woolsey. You're fairly certain the bundle contains your stone's companion piece. This was what enabled you to switch places with Rodney until the connection was broken. It will be placed in the dome-shaped device that houses the stones. You will be expected to surrender yours. But first… First you have questions for someone.
You wait on the deck of Atlantis, the sun sinking into the horizon. The sky is a beautiful swirl of orange-pink, and you've come to appreciate its alien beauty. You may even love it one day.
The crumpled pack in your pocket contains your last cigarette. The lap of the water below is just quiet enough that you can hear the hiss of the match flare to life. You suck in a deep drag and hold it in as long as you can before you exhale. You haven't yet taken three hits on the cigarette before the door opens and two armed guards arrive, flanking Todd. You flick the remainder of the cigarette over the railing, then give your men the order to stand down. If they seem hesitant to leave you with a cold-blooded killer, they betray no sign of it. Todd makes some ridiculous joke he labels 'Wraith humor', and the two guards leave tight-lipped at your nod. At the swoosh of the automatic door, Todd is welcomed by the muzzle of your 9mm and the second stone cradled in your jacket.
He never needed much persuasion.
Long, pale fingers pick up the stone, and he has direct access to your mind. To the best of your knowledge, no two hands have ever touched one stone. The stones work in tandem, not singularly, but you have just this one chance to confirm or deny your suspicions. Weapon still securely trained on Todd, you touch the stone and shift positions.
Todd drags his long-ago memories to the surface.
You see yourself as a young scientist bearing no marks of age or distinction. No tattoos, no facial growth. In fact, the only characteristic that sets you apart from your peers is your thirst for human understanding. You are, after all, the product of a world seeded thousands of years ago. A hybrid of man and insect, who through the evolutionary process has lost touch with the human in him. You are sent to the genetics lab to perform heinous experiments. Unlike your peers, you are interested in getting to know your enemy. How does he think? Why does he feel? What does he see? These are questions the empirical sciences can never answer. You are a Wraith first and foremost, so you still perform your duties admirably. But there is also the desire to divide the genomes. These experiments inevitably end in disaster.
The Genii holding cell flickers into focus, and your chest hitches in horror. You've been here for ten years, and compared to ten thousand, it seems like a drop in the bucket. You've spent most of this time in agonizing pain, and you've given up any hope that you'll be rescued. When another joins you in the adjacent cell, you are grateful for the company. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought you'd put your life in a human's hands, or let him put his life in yours. If there is little else, there is honor amongst humans, and your decision to work together to escape pays off.
With a sudden and violent mood swing, you are tapping your strongest vein, depressing the plunger that holds the last in the line of Beckett's mutated retrovirus strains. On the counter beside you sits the vial you’d stolen, missing a few cubic centimeters. Through feral-yellow eyes, you watch greedily as you try and map the human heart with only a narrow understanding of emotion. And you crave so much more than casual observances. So much that it becomes an obsession.
Curiously, Todd breaks the link just as you are about to show him what holds you to Rodney. What you were adamant about not showing him earlier.
You let go and the stone thuds to the deck. You move to pick it up, and he kicks it out of your reach with enough force to send it through the bottom railings. A faint splash echoes in the distance. Todd smiles.
'You won't remember this life' you say. Todd nods in understanding and claps your shoulder companionably. He whispers something you're sure you'll never remember, much less repeat. When you look at him questioningly, he tells you no Wraith has ever shared his name with a human. He turns to leave. After a few strides, he reaches into the folds of his leathers and produces a jagged rock, letting it tumble from his fingers. Summoned, your men escort him away and you're alone on the deck, the pale swell of the moon lighting the choppy waters.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone watching you. Mind abuzz, you turn and ponder instead your lack of cigarettes and the number of Titleist golf balls you've whacked fathoms deep. The stone, left to its own devices, is plucked from the deck of Atlantis.
You want to turn and see whose fortunes will change, but Rodney's kiss prevents you from doing so.
-=The End=-
**
Poll
Author: themostepotente
Team: Work
Prompt: in at the deep end
Pairing(s): McKay/Sheppard with a strong appearance by Todd
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Minor character death, smoking!Sheppard, a bit of artistic leeway with the Ancients' touch stones
Summary: Stones, when dropped, make ripples. These ripples make changes.
A/N: Takes place some time after the episode 'Enemy at the Gate.'
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
**
The Echoes in a Shallow Bay
It starts with a stone.
It's really a rock but Rodney's not here to argue the semantics. You have no idea which planet in the Pegasus galaxy you picked it up from, only that the rock is rough and jagged. You speculate it may have been from Waterfalls or Green Rivers or perhaps even Tallest Trees. The childish names sound silly even in your head, but you won't begrudge Ford his optimism. Even if Ford's just bones and teeth now. And then it comes to you. Stone Monoliths. That's where you found it - just a broken piece from a dolmen that resembled a rotted molar, pitted and blackened, from the maw of a great beast.
You hold it tightly in the palm of your hand and then let it go. It thuds to the ground. To the naked eye, it appears still. But stones, when dropped in pools, create ripples, and those ripples in turn create change. For a brief moment, you consider picking up the stone, but you leave it there to stir the calm.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone watching you. Without a whisper, you leave. The stone, left to its own devices, is plucked from the deck of Atlantis.
You want to turn and see whose fortunes will change, but your resolve is greater than Rodney ever gives you credit for.
Rodney's in the computer lab with Todd again, and your excuses to stay are getting flimsier and flimsier. You comprehend none of what they're doing together, and you're slightly jealous of their simpatico work relationship. You lean against the doorjamb until Rodney not so subtly points out that your body is interfering with the door's locking mechanism. Moving further into the room, you reach into a pocket and produce a hand exerciser to strengthen your grip. You can't help but imagine your vise-like grip is actually on Rodney's collar, dragging him closer for a kiss. When Todd speaks, you imagine your hand around his throat instead, choking the life out of him. This feeling is as alien as the invasive presence in the room, and you tuck it away deep inside. You and Rodney have never worked this closely with this much intensity. He is science and you are military, and for a brief moment you wish you were a bit smarter or he a bit stronger. Your working lives are destined to run parallel like east and west. Jennifer will always be the warm south and Todd the cold north.
You casually observe, looking but not really seeing. There are a hundred other places you should be. A hundred other matters that demand your attention. A hundred other people who seek both your company and your command. Rodney's talking fast and gesturing wildly with his hands, in the animated way a catcher would signal back to the pitcher. Todd seems to understand everything Rodney's telling him, and you hate that the only language barriers are the ones you encounter. You listen a bit longer, intent on grasping something of their conversation, but your brain has slowed to impulse, and you can only think in terms of fists and Bantos rods or cards and poker chips. You've been up for nearly sixteen hours, but fatigue hasn't so much as poked a bony finger at your chest. At least not in the conventional sense.
When you could swear the pair of them are gibbering in 1s and 0s, you take your self-implied 'three's a crowd' hint and head out. Before the door closes behind you, you think you hear Rodney trying to explain Mensa to Todd, and you clutch at the burn in your chest. You tell yourself it's the second helping of tater tots that Teal'c pushed onto your plate, and you almost believe that until the craving for a smoke derails that thought. Old habits die hard, John Sheppard, you hear in your head, only it's not your voice. Either you need to call it a night, or that pale, pointy bastard slipped past your guard.
You distinctly remember quitting ten years ago, but you started up again when this thing (you don't know what else to call it) with Rodney started. You should probably go easy with what's left of the pack. It's not like you can demand frivolous gate dialings back to Earth for such creature comforts, but you can't seem to shake the taste of stale cigarettes. You stare broodingly into the heavens as if all of the answers to all of your questions are written in the sky. Not surprisingly, no answers are forthcoming. The night is clear, beautiful even, but these are not your stars.
You draw the smoke (the tar, the nicotine) deep into your lungs, hoping your oxygen-deprived high will spur an epiphany. And that's when Rodney steps outside, thankfully alone. He takes your left, and you share a companionable silence before he speaks. Things have progressed, though slowly, and his science teams are working round-the-clock with minimal reprieves. It's strange, you think, that Rodney is hesitant to address Todd by his human name even though they work in close quarters. Rodney reminds you daily how awful the name is, but you take some perverse pleasure in relating everyone you meet to guys you knew back in college. Not even Rodney is immune. Intellectually, he resembles Nick something-or-other, resident band geek and trigonometry wizard. You vaguely remember his Flock-of-Seagulls haircut and the way he could suck the yellow off a canary. Of the three, you don't recall which you hated most: his hyper-intelligence, his superiority complex, or his hold on you.
And that's when it happens, mid-thought, Rodney's lips on yours. Only instead of a graceful kiss, he pushes you away by your chin with a Christ, John. He shoves a stick of Big Red at you and you oblige, chewing resolutely before swallowing. The cigarette, now mostly forgotten, dangles from your fingers.
You never mean for your relationships to become so chaotic. Rodney doesn't know what his closeness does to you, that to you he is the flesh and blood equivalent of the Attero device. Your heart explodes into a million pieces when you move through him, but your attempts at circumnavigation are always thwarted. When Rodney deepens the kiss, you are lost but good. So lost that you don't feel the burn of the fallen cigarette beneath your bare toes or the slip of his given name in a stolen breath.
The soft sweep of the outer doors should alert you to stop, but like all sins committed in the Pegasus galaxy, once done it can never be undone.
Inevitably, Todd's hunger must be dealt with if he's to continue working alongside Rodney. This would be easy, were there a place for life-force take-out, but things are never that simple and so a donor must be found.
For a suit, Woolsey's pretty reasonable in a crunch, so you’re not surprised when he approves finding a Wraith for Todd to feed off. There are always dissenting voices, outraged lifers, but this is child's play compared to how you repeatedly fucked over Michael. Todd and the other Wraith (Norman, you decide, even though it will be a husk soon enough) stare intently at each other. They are, no doubt, communicating telepathically, and for some odd reason you flash on that scene in The Fly where Goldblum tries to explain insect politics to Davis. Then Todd slams his feeding hand into Norman's chest, and it's over in ten ticks. You've grown accustomed to the savagery, but you've heard Rodney compare a Wraith feeding to a hyaena being torn apart by a lion on the Serengeti. Todd's smile, however dull, reminds you of a rich man dabbing the corners of his mouth with a silk napkin.
You head to the gym for a bit of sparring. Teyla has just finished putting Rodney through the wringer, but you convince him to stay. Not that he'd be moving any time soon. Already, fresh bruises are blooming on his pale, dampened skin. Your mind wanders back to last Thursday and the stray hour you spent in your quarters, half-inside Rodney and kissing a path up his spine. You can barely make out his post-beating babble about Salisbury steak and mac 'n cheese in the mess. It's as far away as the sound of the ocean inside a seashell. He calls your name at least half a dozen times before you snap from your reverie. Instead of answering, you offer him a hand up. He could use a review on hand-to-hand combat training.
You drill for about an hour until Rodney looks about ready to raise the white flag, only his surrender is merely a ruse to get one good hit out on you. The right hook comes with surprising velocity, but that alone is not enough to knock you to the ground. Your boot catches an overlap in the mat and you lose your footing, falling inelegantly.
Rodney laughs at this, and you sweep his legs out from under him. He falls like a skyscraper devastated by demolition, and you grab him by the shirtfront, pulling him towards you. You crash your mouths together, and you can taste the vestiges of strong, black coffee and peppermint Altoids. When you pull apart, his lips are pink and moist. Smiling, he murmurs, My quarters.
Once there, Rodney lies back and lets you strip him of his fatigues. He's wearing faded boxers decorated in maple leaves, and when you pull them down over his hips, a flush spreads to his neck and he worries his bottom lip in nervous anticipation. Jeannie's lecture that Rodney hasn't your looks has made Rodney overly self-conscious, so you do your best to reassure him. Doubtful, he still shoves your hand away when you go to remove his t-shirt.
Back when you were in the Genii holding cell, you distinctly recall Todd explaining the Hunger. You feel it, too. A burning. And this burning will never stop no matter how many times you do this. On your knees before him, you quickly push your pants and underwear down past the curves of your ass, fumbling almost boyishly in your pocket for your squeeze tube of lip balm to anoint your cock. Sticky hands trembling, you hoist Rodney's legs over your shoulders and slide your prick inside. A plea, something lost between a whisper and a choked cry, floods your consciousness, and your control slips. You claim the flesh at your fingertips, tracing the jagged arrow scar on Rodney's buttock as you lift him up for deeper penetration. The strangled noises that slip from the back of your throat synch with the pushpullpushpull of your movements until you are dizzy with them. 'Touch yourself,' you command, and Rodney obeys without question. You come in a heated rush, your vision whitening as a hot-cold prickle electrifies your skin. Toes curling, Rodney's not far behind, singing your praises not with a list of Gods or archangels, but noteworthy astrophysicists. His big toe nudges your ear in thanks.
You collapse next to him with a sated groan, your limbs leaden. The longer you stay like this, the fewer your chances are of making it to your own bed. Your stomach growls, and you realize you haven't eaten since lunch. The stomach growl is sort of a Pavlovian bell for Rodney, and he's up faster than you can say Folsom Prison Blues.
In the mess, Rodney shovels in gravy-soaked meat and lumpy potatoes like they're going out of style. You're still trying to decide what fruit they've submerged in the blue Jell-O when Lorne comes looking for you. 'Zelenka's found it,' he says, and you abandon your dessert plate.
Rodney just sighs, and you'd know that look anywhere.
No rest for the wicked.
The Wraith genetics lab is located on a planet on the outer rim of the Pegasus galaxy. Zelenka believes it's been there since the war and may have served as a docking bay. Long-range sensors strongly suggest a cache of ZPMs, but you're not getting your hopes up. In fact, you remain mostly quiet on the six-hour puddle jumper ride with your crossword puzzles. A cursory glance around finds Lorne and Teyla sleeping, Rodney eating a power bar and Ronon and Todd staring intently at each other. When Todd smirks ever so slightly, Ronon raises his BFG and points it at Todd's head, returning the smirk. It's always a contest of wills between the two, and you give it a good thirty seconds before you intervene with a stern look and a firm voice.
You know you've been in the Pegasus galaxy too long when all of the planets start resembling one another. You look for something, anything at all, that will set this planet apart from the others, but you come up short. Aiden would be disappointed at your christening this place with a blasé description. You wait for Rodney to add his two cents, but he's too busy tying his bootlaces. When the iris finally closes, you press forward, flanked by Teyla and Ronon, with Rodney in the middle and Lorne on six. Not more than ten steps ahead is Todd, the muzzle of your gun pointed at his back.
It takes maybe twenty minutes to find the great, hulking structure. It's overgrown with weeds and vines, and when you clear a path to the hatch, you notice it's blackened with scorch marks. Todd rests his hand on the specified indent, and the device interprets the flow of biological resonance from his feeding organ. The door opens with a loud click.
You split up into groups of two, each pair heading off into the three remaining directions, with you and Todd heading north. Your direction yields a series of surgical laboratories. As on the Hive ships, the walls are lined with cocoons, their occupants reduced to husks. The faint trace of death on the air would indicate recent but not immediate occupation. You open your mouth to implicate Michael, but it rolls off Todd's tongue with an underlying growl. Any further speculation is interrupted by Lorne's curt summons that you meet with him and Rodney ASAP. As you turn, you think you see Todd slipping a large vial into the folds of his fighting leathers. There's no time to confront him. A moment's disorientation overcomes your alarm, followed by a sense of foreboding. When Todd shoulders past you, you can't help but notice his eyes are a deeper shade of yellow.
En route, you encounter Teyla and Ronon, a mixture of apprehension and surprise on their faces. Ronon's carrying a stainless steel suitcase, which he opens at your meeting. Inside are two ZPMs and a palm-sized oval stone, somewhat recognizable. Curious, you pick up the stone. You feel a sudden body and brain pull, not dissimilar to the one you endure during wormhole travel.
You're standing in the back of a confiscated puddle jumper, a mess of red, white, yellow and blue circuitry dangling just above your face. Lorne is standing guard whistling some annoying shit kicker tune, until you finally explode and tell him to shut up. You've never had any patience for verbal distractions, which is why you've always demanded complete silence when working. You open an access panel, and that's when it falls out, carefully hidden for thousands of years. You seem to recall it belongs in a cradle with its mate, but you doubt that the other one survived if this one was so carefully hidden.
The circuitry blurs before your eyes and suddenly you're back in bed, sweaty, mussed and with limbs all a-tangle. You're still wearing that stupid t-shirt you refused to remove, and you wonder when he'll grow sick and tired of your childish insecurities. He's staring up at the ceiling, lips silently moving like he's trying to reconcile the galaxy's problems in five minutes or less. You expect him to get up and leave any moment now. He never stays, at least not for long. That's just not his way.
It's quiet, save for the air circulator, and that's when he sits up, an inhuman-like growl from the pit of his stomach. It triggers your own insatiable hunger, and you can't deny your own pangs. You dress quickly and quietly, contemplating the pile of clothes in the corner. You'll contend with that later, you think, and just before he raises his hand to open the door, you give him one last kiss for the night. Just behind his ear.
The connection's broken when the stone is knocked from your hand. It lands with a dull thud at Todd's feet. Lantean touch stones, you hear in your head. Very powerful communication devices. I wouldn't leave it here, John Sheppard.
You give Todd an inquisitive look before you bend over to pick up the stone with your jacket sleeve. The four of you make haste to where Lorne and Rodney are, and you find yourself in a big, empty docking bay. The air is stale, and the dampness is wreaking havoc on Rodney's allergies. Sleeve held to his face, Rodney tries to explain that he might be able to jury-rig the puddle jumper. Just this one would give you a significant advantage in the upcoming weeks, so you approve his suggestion. Then the team stands around and waits. You've all had to learn to be patient.
Not twenty minutes into Rodney's diagnostic a klaxon sounds, and this can only mean one thing. You and your team hightail it out of there, running full-tilt out of the building and throwing yourselves in the dirt as the building explodes behind you. Despite your near misfortune, you reason the trip was worth the risks. You now have two more ZPMs at your disposal. Rodney is positively elated with the discovery, even though the ZPMs appear to be non-functional, and you're fairly certain he'll be burning both ends of the candle tinkering away to try to fix them.
You wonder what Todd has to gain from this excursion. He never does anything to help unless it's beneficial to him or his people, but the answer is not forthcoming. At least not yet. It's hard to derive anything from that inscrutable smile of his until it's too late.
The return trip is equally quiet. Grateful for this, you go back to your crosswords. Three down should come to you just like that, but your mind wanders as you shoot Rodney a sidelong glance. He's trying to get comfortable on the bench, but every time he shifts, Ronon reacts in kind. You smile inwardly, and your thoughts wander further.
Seven across is at the tip of your tongue, but you're finding it difficult to concentrate with the buzz in your ear and the tickle in your brain. You mark your place with the pen, and set the book off to the side. Folding your arms across your chest, you monitor navigation until your thoughts are gently nudged in the direction of Rodney.
The two of you mix like oil and water, but somehow you make things work. You know that he gets ridiculously excited over banana splits, Star Trek marathons and Venn diagrams. You know that he favors breakfast over every other meal, and that he likes his eggs under-cooked and his toast over-browned. You know that he loves Delibes's Flower Duet, and that he still fiddles with a Duncan yo-yo when the answers won't come to him. And you know that he prefers rain to shine and baths to showers. You even know that he runs on coffee like an engine runs on oil, and that he sometimes eats dessert first so there's no argument over having room for it.
A feeling, not unlike the cold press of steel licking skin, sinks in, and you'd swear you're not alone in your head.
You mentally push back with both hands, keeping the intrusive presence at bay. It's strong, but even under considerable stress, you find the strength when you will it. You were never comfortable with drop-ins, and this feels like a lurking vampire pressing for an invite. You're not letting it in if you can help it.
You try to hold on to these intimate moments, but they slip through the cracks in your fingers as easily as sand through an hourglass. Thoughts of hearth and home, and of Rodney directing you where to kiss (just behind his ear or the bend of his knee). These are your moments, not to be shared. You jerk upright, and the feeling passes. The cold steel scrapes just beyond your eyes, and the sensation of insects skittering across your brain dies with it. You must have fallen asleep for a moment.
Todd, that bastard, is staring at you. He seems pleased.
Once back, you radio Woolsey and dodge the mission debriefing. He can get in line and wait his turn behind a shower and sleep. As you drape your jacket over the back of your desk chair, something rolls out of your sleeve.
A faint blue glow illuminates your quarters. It hums in a way that suggests you have questions.
Or, most likely, that it has answers for you.
An hour or so before the post-mission debriefing, you spy Rodney handing a swaddled bundle to Woolsey. You're fairly certain the bundle contains your stone's companion piece. This was what enabled you to switch places with Rodney until the connection was broken. It will be placed in the dome-shaped device that houses the stones. You will be expected to surrender yours. But first… First you have questions for someone.
You wait on the deck of Atlantis, the sun sinking into the horizon. The sky is a beautiful swirl of orange-pink, and you've come to appreciate its alien beauty. You may even love it one day.
The crumpled pack in your pocket contains your last cigarette. The lap of the water below is just quiet enough that you can hear the hiss of the match flare to life. You suck in a deep drag and hold it in as long as you can before you exhale. You haven't yet taken three hits on the cigarette before the door opens and two armed guards arrive, flanking Todd. You flick the remainder of the cigarette over the railing, then give your men the order to stand down. If they seem hesitant to leave you with a cold-blooded killer, they betray no sign of it. Todd makes some ridiculous joke he labels 'Wraith humor', and the two guards leave tight-lipped at your nod. At the swoosh of the automatic door, Todd is welcomed by the muzzle of your 9mm and the second stone cradled in your jacket.
He never needed much persuasion.
Long, pale fingers pick up the stone, and he has direct access to your mind. To the best of your knowledge, no two hands have ever touched one stone. The stones work in tandem, not singularly, but you have just this one chance to confirm or deny your suspicions. Weapon still securely trained on Todd, you touch the stone and shift positions.
Todd drags his long-ago memories to the surface.
You see yourself as a young scientist bearing no marks of age or distinction. No tattoos, no facial growth. In fact, the only characteristic that sets you apart from your peers is your thirst for human understanding. You are, after all, the product of a world seeded thousands of years ago. A hybrid of man and insect, who through the evolutionary process has lost touch with the human in him. You are sent to the genetics lab to perform heinous experiments. Unlike your peers, you are interested in getting to know your enemy. How does he think? Why does he feel? What does he see? These are questions the empirical sciences can never answer. You are a Wraith first and foremost, so you still perform your duties admirably. But there is also the desire to divide the genomes. These experiments inevitably end in disaster.
The Genii holding cell flickers into focus, and your chest hitches in horror. You've been here for ten years, and compared to ten thousand, it seems like a drop in the bucket. You've spent most of this time in agonizing pain, and you've given up any hope that you'll be rescued. When another joins you in the adjacent cell, you are grateful for the company. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought you'd put your life in a human's hands, or let him put his life in yours. If there is little else, there is honor amongst humans, and your decision to work together to escape pays off.
With a sudden and violent mood swing, you are tapping your strongest vein, depressing the plunger that holds the last in the line of Beckett's mutated retrovirus strains. On the counter beside you sits the vial you’d stolen, missing a few cubic centimeters. Through feral-yellow eyes, you watch greedily as you try and map the human heart with only a narrow understanding of emotion. And you crave so much more than casual observances. So much that it becomes an obsession.
Curiously, Todd breaks the link just as you are about to show him what holds you to Rodney. What you were adamant about not showing him earlier.
You let go and the stone thuds to the deck. You move to pick it up, and he kicks it out of your reach with enough force to send it through the bottom railings. A faint splash echoes in the distance. Todd smiles.
'You won't remember this life' you say. Todd nods in understanding and claps your shoulder companionably. He whispers something you're sure you'll never remember, much less repeat. When you look at him questioningly, he tells you no Wraith has ever shared his name with a human. He turns to leave. After a few strides, he reaches into the folds of his leathers and produces a jagged rock, letting it tumble from his fingers. Summoned, your men escort him away and you're alone on the deck, the pale swell of the moon lighting the choppy waters.
Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone watching you. Mind abuzz, you turn and ponder instead your lack of cigarettes and the number of Titleist golf balls you've whacked fathoms deep. The stone, left to its own devices, is plucked from the deck of Atlantis.
You want to turn and see whose fortunes will change, but Rodney's kiss prevents you from doing so.
-=The End=-
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