Challenge Fic: Past Perfect (PG-13)
Written for Challenge #71 - History
title: Past Perfect
author: neevebrody
pairing/characters: John Sheppard, Jeannie Marie McKay (OFC)
rating: PG-13
words: ~5,100
legal: the OFC is the only thing that belongs to me.
warnings/spoilers: AU, mention of character death, language
A/N: This is a sequel to The Last Word, which you should read first. Otherwise, this story will make no sense.
beta: Thanks to my beta, mischief5 - I fiddled and fussed afterward, so any mistakes are all mine. Also, thanks to sgamadison for giving me the perfect summary. ♥
summary: Shows what a rudderless John would be like and reminds us of how unstoppable a force of nature a McKay, any McKay, can be.
I am my father's daughter to begin with.
I guess I'd just gotten tired of it. That's the best reason I have to explain my actions. It hurt and I needed to get it out as much for me as for him. I was getting married for god's sake, and he'd practically been a no-show since my dad's funeral.
The house was pretty much the same as I'd remembered it, smaller and a little less cared for, if you know what I mean. The name Sheppard was gone from the mailbox; now there was just the street number. Stepping up onto the porch, I noticed the windows were shuttered in the mid afternoon, the yard needed mowing, paint had given up its hold and had slipped from the columns, curling with dry, lonely neglect. Much like the man inside, I suspected.
For a year or so we saw him regularly - he taught my brother and me to fly - but after that, only if Mom invited him, and sometimes not even then. It took him forever to answer the door. He looked surprised to see me, but then again, not. I obeyed his mumbled offer and followed him past the front room into the den behind the staircase. The wood paneling and closed blinds gave the illusion hours had passed instead of moments.
He picked up the TV remote and, with a flick of his wrist, muted the sound before taking what looked to be his usual spot on the sofa. The air was crowded with the smells of coffee, stale beer, and the sweet tang of overripe apples. Brown and green beer bottles stood like sentinels with a couple of saucers scattered across the wide coffee table in front of him. An abandoned pizza crust lay there beside a pair of reading glasses, and the corner of a red, white, and green delivery box peeked from beneath some old magazines and a compact data reader.
He motioned for me to sit. The chair looked harmless enough but there were some dried noodles in a bowl on the table next to it. I chose to stand. He didn't pick up one of the beer bottles, so I figured they were all empty. My mood was not improving.
"Mom told me you were still alone out here. Not hard to see why." I actually tried not to touch anything on my way to the kitchen. I found the recycle containers in a closet and had half a mind to do the job myself, but then I got a good look around. I took one of the containers back in and shoved it in his hand, my meaning clear, I assumed, then headed back to the kitchen, turning a deaf ear to his rather rude protests.
The dishwasher was one of those energy saver models everyone had to buy now, but inside it looked and smelled as if he'd never used it. Turning to the sink, I noticed the small wire rack sitting on top of a folded towel. Probably took a while for one person to dirty enough dishes to justify using the machine, especially during restrictions but, at that point, if I gathered all the ones scattered around and those in the other rooms, I would easily fill it.
Standing at the sink, fitting the cups and glasses in the slots, I thought of them - my father and John. The look on my father's face whenever he and John were together, or when he'd talk about their adventures. As far back as I can remember, my mother had never put that kind of look on his face, that sparkle in his eyes, at least that I knew of. I wiped the corner of my eye with the dry part of my forearm. "It's been months since you've been around," I called into the other room. "No texts, no email, nothing."
"Been a little busy," was his reply.
"Yeah, I can see that. I guess you'd need to be real industrious to cultivate a mess like this, but, hey, way to go on the conservation thing. Only I think you've taken this 'make your house organic' cause a bit too far. Jesus, Sheppard, when they say they want you to have a 'green' home, they don't mean that literally, you know." He made sure I could hear the bottles crashing together in the bin and that made me smile.
There were a few pots and a baking dish I didn't want to put in the machine, so I washed those. I was just about to dry them when he shuffled into the kitchen and put the bin down beside the back door. He had at least a month's growth of beard, which was flecked with more salt than pepper, and his clothes were wrinkled. I shook my head at his bare feet - at his age, he really should know better - and noticed how thin he looked in those jeans. He caught me staring and that brought me back up to his still-handsome, yet unapologetic face.
"You're welcome," I said pointedly, putting the pots in the cabinet beside the stove.
"I didn't ask you to."
"No, you didn't. How about a beer for my trouble, then." His answer was to pull open the refrigerator door on his way back to the den.
"If you think I'm doing any vacuuming, you can forget it." I handed his beer over the back of the couch, grazing his cheek much to his dislike, then sat down in the chair opposite him.
"Fine with me," he said, then took a long swallow. His eyes were like beady insects dancing all around the room, lighting on me for only seconds at a time.
"I'm getting married. I want you to give me away."
That got him focused. He looked at me, beer almost to his lips. I could see something working behind those eyes just before it disappeared. "That same guy," he asked, like I got married every other day.
"Yes. Something you'd have known if you'd been around." I let that sink in first. "Did you think we didn't want to hear from you, that we didn't care to know if you were still alive?"
"Communication's a two-way street, darlin'."
I tipped my bottle his way and would so liked to have slapped that smug smirk off his face. Bastard. I think he knew it, too. Instead, I leaned back and crossed my legs, perfectly satisfied just to sit there drinking.
"Heard your mom's met someone," he said finally. "Kinda serious. Why don't you ask-"
"Richard? Please. I'm not sure I like him. Haven't made my mind up yet. Of course, it doesn't matter anymore what I think - hasn't for some time now." He shrugged that off, which, you know, mothers and daughters. I couldn't really blame him for not wanting to poke that particular can of worms.
"You're doing traditional - having someone walk you down the aisle? I thought kids these days just entered a contract, one of those open door things where you can walk away if you want." He leaned forward and set his bottle down on the stack of magazines. A single ray of light had somehow struggled its way through a gap in the blinds; it set his eyes on fire, illuminating the hollows underneath.
"Jenks and I happen to love each other and you know I don't go for all that post-agey crap. We're doing it all, wedding, expensive honeymoon - we're thinking one of those space getaways, especially if we can take advantage of Jenks's connections at Novastar. He's such a geek; Dad would have loved him."
"Jenks and Jeannie… Rodney would have given you so much shit for that." When he said my dad's name, there was the slightest break in his voice and I knew I had him.
"I think he'd be happy to have you give me away in his honor."
He didn't say anything, just rubbed his thighs, and stood up. He walked over to the window, suddenly unable to keep still.
I followed him with my eyes. "I know," I said, then took a deep breath. This was the real reason I'd come, after all.
He stopped his pacing. "You know what?"
"Rodney loved you. You made him happy, even if…" The rest of that thought lodged in my throat; I don't think I was ready to hear it out loud.
"Go on." When he turned around, his eyes were so hungry it caught me up short. Dread at what I might have stirred up gathered around my heart. That look was one I never wanted to know firsthand.
"You love him, too."
He moved slowly, as if he carried the weight of two people, and sat heavily on the sofa. That golden light ray fractured the dusty, blown halos surrounding us. "Think you're pretty smart, don't you?"
"I get it honest - sue me." I offered him my best crooked grin and took another pull from my beer, loving the heady green bite and the way it prickled my tongue.
Instead of taking my bait, John began straightening the already-straightened things on the table. It was no surprise he wouldn't look at me, or that he was too willing to drop the subject. He'd had long years' practice avoiding it.
"So, will you?" I asked, not willing to leave until I at least had my answer on that.
He turned his beer up and finally looked my way. He stared a moment then asked if I wanted another. I emptied the one in my hand and gave him the bottle.
"You didn't come out here to play housemaid," he called from the kitchen. "And you could have phoned or messaged me about the wedding."
I waited for him to return, took the cold beer he offered, and let him sit down. "No, hiding out is your thing. I thought I'd take a more direct approach."
"I'm not hiding." His eyes sparked in the dimming afternoon light. I took that as a good sign.
"Oh, really? How come we never see you anymore? What do you do, punch the clock at the airport, come home every night, and feel sorry for yourself? Seriously, what was the biggest decision you made all day, which magazine to take with you to the bathroom? If my dad could see you…"
He leaned against the sofa back and immediately drew into himself like an armadillo; arms ratcheting over the hollow of his chest, drawn in close to his body, feet on the coffee table, crossing one over the other. I expected it, of course, but not quite that fast. In the still air, you could almost hear the shuttering of his eyelids - a clear shield so he could still glare at me - clicks and whirs, locking everything down tight. Hell, even his words sounded as if they'd come from a locked chamber.
"Rodney's dead."
And there it was.
"I want to see it," I said, standing.
He blinked and cocked his head. Such a petulant defiance, so hopelessly endearing. He knew damn well what I wanted, probably had from the minute he'd opened the door.
"I know about the Replicate. Mom said she gave it to you. I want to see it."
He shook his head and focused on the TV. "Rodney's last wish… only your mother and I see it."
"Oh, that is so much bullshit." I set my beer on the table next to his and crossed my own arms, waiting.
"I can't."
"And by can't, you mean you won't."
He shifted his gaze to some point over my shoulder. "I can't."
I blew out my frustration and went over to sit down beside him. The lighting in the room was for shit, but still he looked tired, like there was no fight left inside him, and that was just all kinds of wrong. His hair was practically overrun with silver at the temples, the same showing through the gap in his shirt. When he turned to me, his eyes still held that fire, but also a plea; he needed me to understand that he couldn't sit through it again.
"You still have it?" He stiffened but didn't answer. "You could give it to me. You wouldn't have to-"
"No. Just… no." I wasn't ready yet to accept defeat but it was time to let it go for a while. My heart had had quite enough of that look for one day.
I drew my knees up, threaded my arm through his, and leaned softly against his shoulder. The shirt he was wearing was worn, soft against my skin, and still held the clean but flowery scent of detergent. We sat there like that until the last claw of daylight surrendered and darkness slipped unnoticed into the room.
"Of course I'll do it," he said after a while. The only light was the glow from the muted television, a warm colored-white that cast deformed shadows around the room. Now he'd talk. Because he was safe in the dark, because in that voice, long dead of emotion, no one could hear his pain. Not even me.
And when you took that away, what was left was love for my father and John's bitterness with himself. And I wasn't even thinking of talking him out of that. It was his. He deserved it. My heart began to beat too fast and too hard. I knew how harsh those thoughts were, how unfeeling, and how against popular sentiment - the all-inclusive, psyche-stroking concept of the Self.
Born out of the righteous nouveau churches and shrines devoted to loving the Self, the latest cause célèbre had caught on as just another way rid people of their accountability. If you ask me, it's all just more self-serving, self-centered nonsense, like the DigiChips. Christ, those abominations were responsible for more depression, death, greed and vice than any single transformative invention in my lifetime. Yet, I desperately wanted to know what memories my father had left behind.
I wanted to see the early days with John, with my mom. I wanted to see what my dad saw as a child and needed to see myself and my brother through his eyes. Mostly, I wanted all the secret missing pieces to validate the puzzle I'd so neatly put together in my head over the past few years.
No. John Sheppard owned his misery and I was glad to let him wallow in it. My father could have been happy, the man I was clinging to could have been happy, and that was really all the thinking I could do on that. God damn it, I was bitter, too, and before you point fingers, I freely admit to owning mine.
"Not so sure there'll be any honor in it, though - for you, I mean." He relaxed and I leaned into that tiny bit of surrender.
"That just proves how little you know about me, doesn't it?"
He brought his other hand up to cover mine. "It wasn't just me, you know. There were other things to consider… it was compl-"
"Complicated. Christ, yes. I know." That was the only word I'd ever gotten out of either of my parents and the very sound of it, especially from Sheppard, raised my hackles. "All it would have taken was one word from you, a gesture, a…"
He stiffened again and I stopped talking, afraid he'd close off completely. I wasn't ready for this to end. It was crazy, but being around John had always brought my dad back to me. Sitting there together, it was as if Rodney was in the room with us. A spirit conjured by two desperate but separate needs. Rodney McKay was still alive in both our hearts; his essence invaded our thoughts and exuded from our pores.
From nowhere, it all welled up inside me. I could see him again, smell him. His echo was in the small, unguarded places of John's voice, and the shadow of him was always there in John's eyes. That's why the darkness felt so right, I guess. For both of us.
"Why won't you let me see it?" I asked again. "We could watch it in the dark, I'd-"
"No," he answered softly. "You obviously still have that little girl notion that I'm some kind of fearless hero."
I bristled at the little girl remark, but I wondered: did it take a brave man or a coward to live a lie? I decided it probably took a bit of both and I wanted to keep my notions, thank you very much. "You're the second bravest man I know," I said, and grinned at his quiet huff of laughter.
"What about Jenks?"
"Jenks is afraid of his own shadow - he has his good points, mind you - but that's why he has me… I'm not afraid of anything."
He patted my hand, thankfully not in a condescending way. "You haven't seen everything."
"Maybe."
"And for the record, your dad used to be afraid of anything he couldn't quantify or fit neatly into a formula or fuck with to make it work in a pinch." He paused; the warmth had returned to his words. "But it was in his heart, I knew that from the beginning. He just needed a push now and then."
"Yeah, and look who was there to push him every time."
"Not every time."
"Right. There were times someone should have been there to stop him. Where were you then?" He didn't answer and I knew he wouldn't.
I closed my eyes to let a tear burn across my cheek. When it disappeared into the corner of my mouth, I licked at the salty leavings. "Are you hungry?" I asked him. "I could fix something before I go."
My body moved with his deep breath and the gesture of his shrug. "I could eat," he said, letting go of my hand.
~~~~~
"Christ, John. Dad said you never kept anything. How he could he have missed the obvious pack rat in you is more than I can understand." I stood in front of one of the closets in the hallway, a deep cavernous thing with a sloped ceiling and packed to the gills, much worse than the others. I'd come armed with my industrial-sized recycle bags but just stood there for a moment, marveling at the sheer compactness of everything. Not a real stretch when you knew how well he compartmentalized every other aspect of his life. "I mean, the clothes in here you had to have worn in high school, right? Who needs this many jackets? What the fuck?"
I turned at the soft swish of his slippers behind me. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a mouth like your old man? Jenks likes that potty mouth, does he?"
He padded right past me on his way to the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand. "Fuck you, Sheppard." I grinned at his loud snort and then added, "Hey, I just made fresh."
"'Bout god damned time," he deadpanned and kept walking, taking my fond smile with him.
I jerked the clothes to one side then the other, opened the bag, and began to fill it. The shelters in town must have thought it was Christmas.
I couldn't say how things had happened to bring us to that point. After that afternoon months ago, checking on him once or twice a week soon became cooking and running the vacuum, and that somehow led to sheets on the guest bed, drawers and hangers holding my clothes, and assorted personal 'stuff' decorating his bathroom. I plopped an extra toothbrush in the cup with his and hung my underwear in there just to hear him rant. Like some kind of truncated evolution, it had just… become.
It was an arrangement we didn't examine too closely. We sure as hell didn't talk about it.
As the weather grew warmer, nights were spent on the porch drinking, the wind driving our conversations while I paid close attention to all the things he didn't say. With the rains came the lush, verdant scent of the night. It was familiar and comforting - to him, too, I think. Mostly, we'd just sit and sip our beer.
He looked better, was certainly eating better, and even though his silence remained the same, and very much predictable, the way he said nothing had changed. Several nights had me home late from running errands; he'd have supper cooking and blow all kinds of smoke about having to do all the damn work.
The morning he'd shown up in the kitchen in track pants and running shoes, I felt lighter all day. I even ignored it when he tried to act like it was something he did every day, negating the long months he'd gone without pushing his body. I let him have that delusion, of course. It was enough to have his breakfast ready when he returned and talk of mundane lists of things I had to do, or the latest invention Jenks was working on. I think he liked listening to me.
He even indulged me and offered his opinion on my wedding dress. I think a direct quote was: "It's nice, if you like that sort of thing."
~~~~~
My mother wasn't pleased that I'd chosen to spend the night before my wedding with John. Apparently, neither was Jenks, but he'd have a lifetime to get over it. And Mom, well, she had Richard.
My brother, John, would arrive the next morning, not able to leave his detail until the last possible minute. Being stationed in the States had its advantages but any sort of family leave was cut as short as possible for those stateside. Of course, I'd have to share him with Mom, but that would be okay. It would have to be.
The supper dishes were done, dried, and put away. Outside, there was still a bit of light left and the air blowing across the porch was warm and fragrant thanks to the blooms I'd managed to rescue. It was the time of year when it was really pleasant to be outside.
Sitting there wiggling my bare toes at the warm air, I studied his face. Those dark circles were gone; he'd been sleeping better lately and I was sure it was because I was there. A McKay in his house. He had that look, though, like he had something to say, and I could only hope it wasn't marriage advice. My dad told me John had been married once, before they'd known each other. For reasons I could only speculate about, it hadn't worked. A low rumble of thunder sounded far away and the next breeze brought the hot-asphalt scent of rain with it.
He raised the sweating brown bottle to his lips; I watched his throat work as he swallowed, and then looked down at his other hand worrying over his thigh. That was the give-away. When there was nothing pressing on his mind, he was still and would nurse maybe two beers the entire evening.
"Nice night," I said, because someone had to start it and I had McKay-level patience.
"Yep." He looked over at me then. "You sure you wanna go ahead with this?" he asked, concern lacing the edges of the words. It was so cute but I wasn't buying it.
Balancing the bottle between my knees, I pulled my hair back and clipped it into a pile on top of my head. I wanted to drink the air into every pore. "Don't give me that… you like Jenks. You know we're perfect for each other."
"Yeah." He took another long pull on his beer and I did the same.
"So what is it, Sheppard? What's got you bugged?" I asked, thinking to have a little fun. "Afraid you'll never see me again?"
To my surprise, he raised himself from the wooden chair, paint flecks falling from his jeans as he walked over to the railing. "Something like that," he finally said.
The words hit me like a cold rain in summer and the way he kept his back turned was the wind that blew it over me. I set my beer on the porch floor and joined him. He breathed deeply. The muscles were still firm underneath his skin. The strength to hold up the universe still there, spanned by my outstretched arms - much easier to do now than when I was little. I pressed my cheek below his collar and leaned into him. He drew up tight as if he couldn't bear for me to touch him.
"Never," I said, holding him even tighter. He shuddered and I held him tighter still until he relaxed and turned around. The fairy glow from the porch lights played in his eyes and shadowed his mouth into a worried line. When I smiled, thinking that would make it better, his breath caught. A quick, broken hitch before his eyes darted away from me.
He held me out to arm's length. "I have to give you away tomorrow."
"Hey." I ducked my head, trying to get him to look at me. "You're not gonna bolt on me are you?" Just like him to change his mind last minute.
"I'm not… I'm not ready."
"It's not like you're losing me, you know."
He let go of me and picked up his beer. "You're leaving," he said after taking a drink.
"Uhm, yeah. Unless you want Jenks to move in, too. And I've got news for you, I am so not sharing a bathroom with two men." I tried to get a good read from him but it wasn't possible.
Hell, half the time we'd fought like cats and dogs. I kept coming back because I needed the reconciliation. I needed to steep myself in the history of the two men who'd been so important to me growing up. I needed to understand why things had worked out the way they had. Had my being there meant just as much to John?
"You're so much like him," he said. "Jesus."
That wasn't news. I knew I was more McKay than Keller and I'd always been proud of it. Only now, I suddenly felt sorry for it, a cold, hollow-pointed sorrow that sank itself into my bones.
"It's late," I finally said. He nodded and I moved closer to hug him. When he bent his head to mine, I kissed the cheek stubbly and dry from too much sun and wind. The lump in my throat grew; it meant to stop me, hold back the words John needed to hear. I did understand. I was the wrong McKay but I wasn't about to deny him.
I pulled back and waited for those flickering eyes to find me. "I love you, John Sheppard." I said it right out loud where he'd be sure to hear me. His arm around me faltered then he recovered, holding me a little closer. He just nodded again. I really didn't expect any more.
~~~~~
No matter how many plans you make, no matter how sure you are things will go off without a hitch, they find a way. By the time I was ready for the procession, I was beyond all help of anti-anxiety meds, one legacy of my dad's I could have done without. Anesthesia would have been a better fit. Everything from last minute 'what-the-hell-am-I-doing' thoughts to visualizing myself tripping half way down the aisle, and now John was…
"You're a shallow breather just like your dad." The words made me jump, but the hands on my bare shoulders were warm and grounding, the voice like a double dose of Valinax injected straight into a vein. "Breathe deep," he said. "Clear blue skies… always worked for Rodney."
I turned in his arms and almost lost it. Oh, my god. He'd shaved and he wore that half-smile of his like it was brand new or something. "You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it." He leaned close to kiss my forehead and the scent of his after-shave drowned me in memories. Jesus, I was twelve years old again, watching John and my dad try to outwit some household disaster. "Doing a favor for a friend," he whispered, eyes so heavy with emotion I thought I'd burst open from it.
"Damn, but you do clean up nice." He shook his head and I frowned at his tie. "I see you did this yourself." I fussed with it until it was acceptable, but not perfect. He took my hands away from his throat and held them against his chest.
"You're not so bad yourself. He'd be so proud." He didn't have to say the words because they were right there in his eyes. "So am I."
I don't know how long we stood that way, but from the corner of my eye, I caught someone's flailing arms and vague whispers about people waiting.
It was a small affair - that was the way we wanted it - but I was still petrified. Walking down the aisle of the wedding hall, I watched my mother's face. Someday we'd be okay again; I think we both knew that. She looked so happy standing there with Richard and all of a sudden, I just felt like crying for her. Thankfully, my brother's big, goofy face swam into view. I smiled at him. God, it was good to see him.
I took John's arm tighter and turned my attention to Jenks. He smiled back at me with such little boy innocence; we could have been kids acting out a play. Then I missed my next step, causing a little stutter, but John held fast.
It seemed to take forever to reach Jenks, and when we did, I turned to John first. Even though I'd told him nothing would change, in that moment, we both knew that it would. Sort of. Change was inevitable, wasn't it? But I'd meant it when I said he wouldn't lose me. He'd never lose me. Maybe he'd change too. Maybe my hanging around for months had freed him from whatever self-bondage had been torturing him. I wanted to believe that.
I meant to thank him, for the day, for everything, but his lips on my cheek formed a dam at the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and held my breath. He pressed something into my hand, something hard and square. My heart began to race. Breathe, I told myself, blue skies… just breathe.
"I love you, Jeannie Marie McKay Forster," he whispered before letting me go. I bit down hard and when I opened my eyes he was gone, standing with his arm draped over my brother's shoulder.
I clutched the past tight in my hand and turned toward my future.
title: Past Perfect
author: neevebrody
pairing/characters: John Sheppard, Jeannie Marie McKay (OFC)
rating: PG-13
words: ~5,100
legal: the OFC is the only thing that belongs to me.
warnings/spoilers: AU, mention of character death, language
A/N: This is a sequel to The Last Word, which you should read first. Otherwise, this story will make no sense.
beta: Thanks to my beta, mischief5 - I fiddled and fussed afterward, so any mistakes are all mine. Also, thanks to sgamadison for giving me the perfect summary. ♥
summary: Shows what a rudderless John would be like and reminds us of how unstoppable a force of nature a McKay, any McKay, can be.
I am my father's daughter to begin with.
I guess I'd just gotten tired of it. That's the best reason I have to explain my actions. It hurt and I needed to get it out as much for me as for him. I was getting married for god's sake, and he'd practically been a no-show since my dad's funeral.
The house was pretty much the same as I'd remembered it, smaller and a little less cared for, if you know what I mean. The name Sheppard was gone from the mailbox; now there was just the street number. Stepping up onto the porch, I noticed the windows were shuttered in the mid afternoon, the yard needed mowing, paint had given up its hold and had slipped from the columns, curling with dry, lonely neglect. Much like the man inside, I suspected.
For a year or so we saw him regularly - he taught my brother and me to fly - but after that, only if Mom invited him, and sometimes not even then. It took him forever to answer the door. He looked surprised to see me, but then again, not. I obeyed his mumbled offer and followed him past the front room into the den behind the staircase. The wood paneling and closed blinds gave the illusion hours had passed instead of moments.
He picked up the TV remote and, with a flick of his wrist, muted the sound before taking what looked to be his usual spot on the sofa. The air was crowded with the smells of coffee, stale beer, and the sweet tang of overripe apples. Brown and green beer bottles stood like sentinels with a couple of saucers scattered across the wide coffee table in front of him. An abandoned pizza crust lay there beside a pair of reading glasses, and the corner of a red, white, and green delivery box peeked from beneath some old magazines and a compact data reader.
He motioned for me to sit. The chair looked harmless enough but there were some dried noodles in a bowl on the table next to it. I chose to stand. He didn't pick up one of the beer bottles, so I figured they were all empty. My mood was not improving.
"Mom told me you were still alone out here. Not hard to see why." I actually tried not to touch anything on my way to the kitchen. I found the recycle containers in a closet and had half a mind to do the job myself, but then I got a good look around. I took one of the containers back in and shoved it in his hand, my meaning clear, I assumed, then headed back to the kitchen, turning a deaf ear to his rather rude protests.
The dishwasher was one of those energy saver models everyone had to buy now, but inside it looked and smelled as if he'd never used it. Turning to the sink, I noticed the small wire rack sitting on top of a folded towel. Probably took a while for one person to dirty enough dishes to justify using the machine, especially during restrictions but, at that point, if I gathered all the ones scattered around and those in the other rooms, I would easily fill it.
Standing at the sink, fitting the cups and glasses in the slots, I thought of them - my father and John. The look on my father's face whenever he and John were together, or when he'd talk about their adventures. As far back as I can remember, my mother had never put that kind of look on his face, that sparkle in his eyes, at least that I knew of. I wiped the corner of my eye with the dry part of my forearm. "It's been months since you've been around," I called into the other room. "No texts, no email, nothing."
"Been a little busy," was his reply.
"Yeah, I can see that. I guess you'd need to be real industrious to cultivate a mess like this, but, hey, way to go on the conservation thing. Only I think you've taken this 'make your house organic' cause a bit too far. Jesus, Sheppard, when they say they want you to have a 'green' home, they don't mean that literally, you know." He made sure I could hear the bottles crashing together in the bin and that made me smile.
There were a few pots and a baking dish I didn't want to put in the machine, so I washed those. I was just about to dry them when he shuffled into the kitchen and put the bin down beside the back door. He had at least a month's growth of beard, which was flecked with more salt than pepper, and his clothes were wrinkled. I shook my head at his bare feet - at his age, he really should know better - and noticed how thin he looked in those jeans. He caught me staring and that brought me back up to his still-handsome, yet unapologetic face.
"You're welcome," I said pointedly, putting the pots in the cabinet beside the stove.
"I didn't ask you to."
"No, you didn't. How about a beer for my trouble, then." His answer was to pull open the refrigerator door on his way back to the den.
"If you think I'm doing any vacuuming, you can forget it." I handed his beer over the back of the couch, grazing his cheek much to his dislike, then sat down in the chair opposite him.
"Fine with me," he said, then took a long swallow. His eyes were like beady insects dancing all around the room, lighting on me for only seconds at a time.
"I'm getting married. I want you to give me away."
That got him focused. He looked at me, beer almost to his lips. I could see something working behind those eyes just before it disappeared. "That same guy," he asked, like I got married every other day.
"Yes. Something you'd have known if you'd been around." I let that sink in first. "Did you think we didn't want to hear from you, that we didn't care to know if you were still alive?"
"Communication's a two-way street, darlin'."
I tipped my bottle his way and would so liked to have slapped that smug smirk off his face. Bastard. I think he knew it, too. Instead, I leaned back and crossed my legs, perfectly satisfied just to sit there drinking.
"Heard your mom's met someone," he said finally. "Kinda serious. Why don't you ask-"
"Richard? Please. I'm not sure I like him. Haven't made my mind up yet. Of course, it doesn't matter anymore what I think - hasn't for some time now." He shrugged that off, which, you know, mothers and daughters. I couldn't really blame him for not wanting to poke that particular can of worms.
"You're doing traditional - having someone walk you down the aisle? I thought kids these days just entered a contract, one of those open door things where you can walk away if you want." He leaned forward and set his bottle down on the stack of magazines. A single ray of light had somehow struggled its way through a gap in the blinds; it set his eyes on fire, illuminating the hollows underneath.
"Jenks and I happen to love each other and you know I don't go for all that post-agey crap. We're doing it all, wedding, expensive honeymoon - we're thinking one of those space getaways, especially if we can take advantage of Jenks's connections at Novastar. He's such a geek; Dad would have loved him."
"Jenks and Jeannie… Rodney would have given you so much shit for that." When he said my dad's name, there was the slightest break in his voice and I knew I had him.
"I think he'd be happy to have you give me away in his honor."
He didn't say anything, just rubbed his thighs, and stood up. He walked over to the window, suddenly unable to keep still.
I followed him with my eyes. "I know," I said, then took a deep breath. This was the real reason I'd come, after all.
He stopped his pacing. "You know what?"
"Rodney loved you. You made him happy, even if…" The rest of that thought lodged in my throat; I don't think I was ready to hear it out loud.
"Go on." When he turned around, his eyes were so hungry it caught me up short. Dread at what I might have stirred up gathered around my heart. That look was one I never wanted to know firsthand.
"You love him, too."
He moved slowly, as if he carried the weight of two people, and sat heavily on the sofa. That golden light ray fractured the dusty, blown halos surrounding us. "Think you're pretty smart, don't you?"
"I get it honest - sue me." I offered him my best crooked grin and took another pull from my beer, loving the heady green bite and the way it prickled my tongue.
Instead of taking my bait, John began straightening the already-straightened things on the table. It was no surprise he wouldn't look at me, or that he was too willing to drop the subject. He'd had long years' practice avoiding it.
"So, will you?" I asked, not willing to leave until I at least had my answer on that.
He turned his beer up and finally looked my way. He stared a moment then asked if I wanted another. I emptied the one in my hand and gave him the bottle.
"You didn't come out here to play housemaid," he called from the kitchen. "And you could have phoned or messaged me about the wedding."
I waited for him to return, took the cold beer he offered, and let him sit down. "No, hiding out is your thing. I thought I'd take a more direct approach."
"I'm not hiding." His eyes sparked in the dimming afternoon light. I took that as a good sign.
"Oh, really? How come we never see you anymore? What do you do, punch the clock at the airport, come home every night, and feel sorry for yourself? Seriously, what was the biggest decision you made all day, which magazine to take with you to the bathroom? If my dad could see you…"
He leaned against the sofa back and immediately drew into himself like an armadillo; arms ratcheting over the hollow of his chest, drawn in close to his body, feet on the coffee table, crossing one over the other. I expected it, of course, but not quite that fast. In the still air, you could almost hear the shuttering of his eyelids - a clear shield so he could still glare at me - clicks and whirs, locking everything down tight. Hell, even his words sounded as if they'd come from a locked chamber.
"Rodney's dead."
And there it was.
"I want to see it," I said, standing.
He blinked and cocked his head. Such a petulant defiance, so hopelessly endearing. He knew damn well what I wanted, probably had from the minute he'd opened the door.
"I know about the Replicate. Mom said she gave it to you. I want to see it."
He shook his head and focused on the TV. "Rodney's last wish… only your mother and I see it."
"Oh, that is so much bullshit." I set my beer on the table next to his and crossed my own arms, waiting.
"I can't."
"And by can't, you mean you won't."
He shifted his gaze to some point over my shoulder. "I can't."
I blew out my frustration and went over to sit down beside him. The lighting in the room was for shit, but still he looked tired, like there was no fight left inside him, and that was just all kinds of wrong. His hair was practically overrun with silver at the temples, the same showing through the gap in his shirt. When he turned to me, his eyes still held that fire, but also a plea; he needed me to understand that he couldn't sit through it again.
"You still have it?" He stiffened but didn't answer. "You could give it to me. You wouldn't have to-"
"No. Just… no." I wasn't ready yet to accept defeat but it was time to let it go for a while. My heart had had quite enough of that look for one day.
I drew my knees up, threaded my arm through his, and leaned softly against his shoulder. The shirt he was wearing was worn, soft against my skin, and still held the clean but flowery scent of detergent. We sat there like that until the last claw of daylight surrendered and darkness slipped unnoticed into the room.
"Of course I'll do it," he said after a while. The only light was the glow from the muted television, a warm colored-white that cast deformed shadows around the room. Now he'd talk. Because he was safe in the dark, because in that voice, long dead of emotion, no one could hear his pain. Not even me.
And when you took that away, what was left was love for my father and John's bitterness with himself. And I wasn't even thinking of talking him out of that. It was his. He deserved it. My heart began to beat too fast and too hard. I knew how harsh those thoughts were, how unfeeling, and how against popular sentiment - the all-inclusive, psyche-stroking concept of the Self.
Born out of the righteous nouveau churches and shrines devoted to loving the Self, the latest cause célèbre had caught on as just another way rid people of their accountability. If you ask me, it's all just more self-serving, self-centered nonsense, like the DigiChips. Christ, those abominations were responsible for more depression, death, greed and vice than any single transformative invention in my lifetime. Yet, I desperately wanted to know what memories my father had left behind.
I wanted to see the early days with John, with my mom. I wanted to see what my dad saw as a child and needed to see myself and my brother through his eyes. Mostly, I wanted all the secret missing pieces to validate the puzzle I'd so neatly put together in my head over the past few years.
No. John Sheppard owned his misery and I was glad to let him wallow in it. My father could have been happy, the man I was clinging to could have been happy, and that was really all the thinking I could do on that. God damn it, I was bitter, too, and before you point fingers, I freely admit to owning mine.
"Not so sure there'll be any honor in it, though - for you, I mean." He relaxed and I leaned into that tiny bit of surrender.
"That just proves how little you know about me, doesn't it?"
He brought his other hand up to cover mine. "It wasn't just me, you know. There were other things to consider… it was compl-"
"Complicated. Christ, yes. I know." That was the only word I'd ever gotten out of either of my parents and the very sound of it, especially from Sheppard, raised my hackles. "All it would have taken was one word from you, a gesture, a…"
He stiffened again and I stopped talking, afraid he'd close off completely. I wasn't ready for this to end. It was crazy, but being around John had always brought my dad back to me. Sitting there together, it was as if Rodney was in the room with us. A spirit conjured by two desperate but separate needs. Rodney McKay was still alive in both our hearts; his essence invaded our thoughts and exuded from our pores.
From nowhere, it all welled up inside me. I could see him again, smell him. His echo was in the small, unguarded places of John's voice, and the shadow of him was always there in John's eyes. That's why the darkness felt so right, I guess. For both of us.
"Why won't you let me see it?" I asked again. "We could watch it in the dark, I'd-"
"No," he answered softly. "You obviously still have that little girl notion that I'm some kind of fearless hero."
I bristled at the little girl remark, but I wondered: did it take a brave man or a coward to live a lie? I decided it probably took a bit of both and I wanted to keep my notions, thank you very much. "You're the second bravest man I know," I said, and grinned at his quiet huff of laughter.
"What about Jenks?"
"Jenks is afraid of his own shadow - he has his good points, mind you - but that's why he has me… I'm not afraid of anything."
He patted my hand, thankfully not in a condescending way. "You haven't seen everything."
"Maybe."
"And for the record, your dad used to be afraid of anything he couldn't quantify or fit neatly into a formula or fuck with to make it work in a pinch." He paused; the warmth had returned to his words. "But it was in his heart, I knew that from the beginning. He just needed a push now and then."
"Yeah, and look who was there to push him every time."
"Not every time."
"Right. There were times someone should have been there to stop him. Where were you then?" He didn't answer and I knew he wouldn't.
I closed my eyes to let a tear burn across my cheek. When it disappeared into the corner of my mouth, I licked at the salty leavings. "Are you hungry?" I asked him. "I could fix something before I go."
My body moved with his deep breath and the gesture of his shrug. "I could eat," he said, letting go of my hand.
~~~~~
"Christ, John. Dad said you never kept anything. How he could he have missed the obvious pack rat in you is more than I can understand." I stood in front of one of the closets in the hallway, a deep cavernous thing with a sloped ceiling and packed to the gills, much worse than the others. I'd come armed with my industrial-sized recycle bags but just stood there for a moment, marveling at the sheer compactness of everything. Not a real stretch when you knew how well he compartmentalized every other aspect of his life. "I mean, the clothes in here you had to have worn in high school, right? Who needs this many jackets? What the fuck?"
I turned at the soft swish of his slippers behind me. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a mouth like your old man? Jenks likes that potty mouth, does he?"
He padded right past me on his way to the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand. "Fuck you, Sheppard." I grinned at his loud snort and then added, "Hey, I just made fresh."
"'Bout god damned time," he deadpanned and kept walking, taking my fond smile with him.
I jerked the clothes to one side then the other, opened the bag, and began to fill it. The shelters in town must have thought it was Christmas.
I couldn't say how things had happened to bring us to that point. After that afternoon months ago, checking on him once or twice a week soon became cooking and running the vacuum, and that somehow led to sheets on the guest bed, drawers and hangers holding my clothes, and assorted personal 'stuff' decorating his bathroom. I plopped an extra toothbrush in the cup with his and hung my underwear in there just to hear him rant. Like some kind of truncated evolution, it had just… become.
It was an arrangement we didn't examine too closely. We sure as hell didn't talk about it.
As the weather grew warmer, nights were spent on the porch drinking, the wind driving our conversations while I paid close attention to all the things he didn't say. With the rains came the lush, verdant scent of the night. It was familiar and comforting - to him, too, I think. Mostly, we'd just sit and sip our beer.
He looked better, was certainly eating better, and even though his silence remained the same, and very much predictable, the way he said nothing had changed. Several nights had me home late from running errands; he'd have supper cooking and blow all kinds of smoke about having to do all the damn work.
The morning he'd shown up in the kitchen in track pants and running shoes, I felt lighter all day. I even ignored it when he tried to act like it was something he did every day, negating the long months he'd gone without pushing his body. I let him have that delusion, of course. It was enough to have his breakfast ready when he returned and talk of mundane lists of things I had to do, or the latest invention Jenks was working on. I think he liked listening to me.
He even indulged me and offered his opinion on my wedding dress. I think a direct quote was: "It's nice, if you like that sort of thing."
~~~~~
My mother wasn't pleased that I'd chosen to spend the night before my wedding with John. Apparently, neither was Jenks, but he'd have a lifetime to get over it. And Mom, well, she had Richard.
My brother, John, would arrive the next morning, not able to leave his detail until the last possible minute. Being stationed in the States had its advantages but any sort of family leave was cut as short as possible for those stateside. Of course, I'd have to share him with Mom, but that would be okay. It would have to be.
The supper dishes were done, dried, and put away. Outside, there was still a bit of light left and the air blowing across the porch was warm and fragrant thanks to the blooms I'd managed to rescue. It was the time of year when it was really pleasant to be outside.
Sitting there wiggling my bare toes at the warm air, I studied his face. Those dark circles were gone; he'd been sleeping better lately and I was sure it was because I was there. A McKay in his house. He had that look, though, like he had something to say, and I could only hope it wasn't marriage advice. My dad told me John had been married once, before they'd known each other. For reasons I could only speculate about, it hadn't worked. A low rumble of thunder sounded far away and the next breeze brought the hot-asphalt scent of rain with it.
He raised the sweating brown bottle to his lips; I watched his throat work as he swallowed, and then looked down at his other hand worrying over his thigh. That was the give-away. When there was nothing pressing on his mind, he was still and would nurse maybe two beers the entire evening.
"Nice night," I said, because someone had to start it and I had McKay-level patience.
"Yep." He looked over at me then. "You sure you wanna go ahead with this?" he asked, concern lacing the edges of the words. It was so cute but I wasn't buying it.
Balancing the bottle between my knees, I pulled my hair back and clipped it into a pile on top of my head. I wanted to drink the air into every pore. "Don't give me that… you like Jenks. You know we're perfect for each other."
"Yeah." He took another long pull on his beer and I did the same.
"So what is it, Sheppard? What's got you bugged?" I asked, thinking to have a little fun. "Afraid you'll never see me again?"
To my surprise, he raised himself from the wooden chair, paint flecks falling from his jeans as he walked over to the railing. "Something like that," he finally said.
The words hit me like a cold rain in summer and the way he kept his back turned was the wind that blew it over me. I set my beer on the porch floor and joined him. He breathed deeply. The muscles were still firm underneath his skin. The strength to hold up the universe still there, spanned by my outstretched arms - much easier to do now than when I was little. I pressed my cheek below his collar and leaned into him. He drew up tight as if he couldn't bear for me to touch him.
"Never," I said, holding him even tighter. He shuddered and I held him tighter still until he relaxed and turned around. The fairy glow from the porch lights played in his eyes and shadowed his mouth into a worried line. When I smiled, thinking that would make it better, his breath caught. A quick, broken hitch before his eyes darted away from me.
He held me out to arm's length. "I have to give you away tomorrow."
"Hey." I ducked my head, trying to get him to look at me. "You're not gonna bolt on me are you?" Just like him to change his mind last minute.
"I'm not… I'm not ready."
"It's not like you're losing me, you know."
He let go of me and picked up his beer. "You're leaving," he said after taking a drink.
"Uhm, yeah. Unless you want Jenks to move in, too. And I've got news for you, I am so not sharing a bathroom with two men." I tried to get a good read from him but it wasn't possible.
Hell, half the time we'd fought like cats and dogs. I kept coming back because I needed the reconciliation. I needed to steep myself in the history of the two men who'd been so important to me growing up. I needed to understand why things had worked out the way they had. Had my being there meant just as much to John?
"You're so much like him," he said. "Jesus."
That wasn't news. I knew I was more McKay than Keller and I'd always been proud of it. Only now, I suddenly felt sorry for it, a cold, hollow-pointed sorrow that sank itself into my bones.
"It's late," I finally said. He nodded and I moved closer to hug him. When he bent his head to mine, I kissed the cheek stubbly and dry from too much sun and wind. The lump in my throat grew; it meant to stop me, hold back the words John needed to hear. I did understand. I was the wrong McKay but I wasn't about to deny him.
I pulled back and waited for those flickering eyes to find me. "I love you, John Sheppard." I said it right out loud where he'd be sure to hear me. His arm around me faltered then he recovered, holding me a little closer. He just nodded again. I really didn't expect any more.
~~~~~
No matter how many plans you make, no matter how sure you are things will go off without a hitch, they find a way. By the time I was ready for the procession, I was beyond all help of anti-anxiety meds, one legacy of my dad's I could have done without. Anesthesia would have been a better fit. Everything from last minute 'what-the-hell-am-I-doing' thoughts to visualizing myself tripping half way down the aisle, and now John was…
"You're a shallow breather just like your dad." The words made me jump, but the hands on my bare shoulders were warm and grounding, the voice like a double dose of Valinax injected straight into a vein. "Breathe deep," he said. "Clear blue skies… always worked for Rodney."
I turned in his arms and almost lost it. Oh, my god. He'd shaved and he wore that half-smile of his like it was brand new or something. "You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it." He leaned close to kiss my forehead and the scent of his after-shave drowned me in memories. Jesus, I was twelve years old again, watching John and my dad try to outwit some household disaster. "Doing a favor for a friend," he whispered, eyes so heavy with emotion I thought I'd burst open from it.
"Damn, but you do clean up nice." He shook his head and I frowned at his tie. "I see you did this yourself." I fussed with it until it was acceptable, but not perfect. He took my hands away from his throat and held them against his chest.
"You're not so bad yourself. He'd be so proud." He didn't have to say the words because they were right there in his eyes. "So am I."
I don't know how long we stood that way, but from the corner of my eye, I caught someone's flailing arms and vague whispers about people waiting.
It was a small affair - that was the way we wanted it - but I was still petrified. Walking down the aisle of the wedding hall, I watched my mother's face. Someday we'd be okay again; I think we both knew that. She looked so happy standing there with Richard and all of a sudden, I just felt like crying for her. Thankfully, my brother's big, goofy face swam into view. I smiled at him. God, it was good to see him.
I took John's arm tighter and turned my attention to Jenks. He smiled back at me with such little boy innocence; we could have been kids acting out a play. Then I missed my next step, causing a little stutter, but John held fast.
It seemed to take forever to reach Jenks, and when we did, I turned to John first. Even though I'd told him nothing would change, in that moment, we both knew that it would. Sort of. Change was inevitable, wasn't it? But I'd meant it when I said he wouldn't lose me. He'd never lose me. Maybe he'd change too. Maybe my hanging around for months had freed him from whatever self-bondage had been torturing him. I wanted to believe that.
I meant to thank him, for the day, for everything, but his lips on my cheek formed a dam at the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and held my breath. He pressed something into my hand, something hard and square. My heart began to race. Breathe, I told myself, blue skies… just breathe.
"I love you, Jeannie Marie McKay Forster," he whispered before letting me go. I bit down hard and when I opened my eyes he was gone, standing with his arm draped over my brother's shoulder.
I clutched the past tight in my hand and turned toward my future.