Triquetra, gen, G, post "Sunday"
Title: Triquetra
Fandom: SGA
Author: eretria
Rating: G
Spoilers: massive for "Sunday" (episode tag)
Characters: Rodney McKay, Elizabeth Weir
Words: 1133
Summary: Elizabeth makes an inviting gesture that is anything but. She wants to be alone, he can tell, but he really, really doesn’t.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made or wanted.
Beta: within minutes by enname. If you find mistakes, let me know.
When he returns through the gate, Atlantis is subdued, darker than he remembers. Elizabeth isn’t there to greet him. Sheppard, Ronon, Zelenka and the others had left Rodney with Carson’s family a day earlier. Spending time with Carson’s mother had been unbelievably painful, but it had helped him in ways he doesn’t want to put into words.
He walks up the stairs to Elizabeth’s office. She’s sitting behind her laptop, a familiar pose, but even through the glass front, a little distorted, he can see that she isn’t working.
Rodney enters her office with quiet, careful steps. “Hey,” he says, tries to find something better and more profound to add and fails. Instead, he puts at small bag on the desk in front of her.
“Rodney,” Elizabeth looks up, distracted, her gaze returning from a great distance. “You’re back.”
On every other day, he would have met this blatant stating of the obvious with sarcasm. Not today. Today he says: “I am.” And “Can I sit?”
Elizabeth makes an inviting gesture that is anything but. She wants to be alone, he can tell, but he really, really doesn’t.
He nods toward the paper bag with intricate Celtic design printed on it. “Brought you something.”
“Did you write me another novel?” She has to visibly force her face to shape into a smile.
Rodney winces, but doesn’t return her smile. “Better.”
“Hm.”
She reaches for the bag. Strong paper crackles loud, an organic, old-fashioned sound in the technical and hypermodern surroundings of Atlantis. She doesn’t open it. Her fingers trace the design, up and down, up and down, a hypnotic journey that captures Rodney’s gaze and distracts him from watching her face.
When he pulls himself away, minutes have passed, and neither of them has said anything. He’s never been good at not talking.
He looks at her now, her hair dark against too pale, too thin skin, bones sharp, sees her eyes shadowed by dark rings, red from working in a dry room for too long. He doesn’t think she’s cried yet. Sheppard had radioed him when he’d returned to Atlantis and had told him that Elizabeth wasn’t … Sheppard hadn’t finished the sentence. But Rodney had gathered that Elizabeth was reacting much the same way that Sheppard himself was, and, ever the good team-leader, he had realised that it wasn’t good for her. Rodney knows he’ll never get Sheppard to stop compartmentalising, and he doesn’t really want to, but it’s different with Elizabeth. Different enough even Sheppard notices, and sends out a call for help.
The loud crackle of paper brings Rodney back to the here and now.
Elizabeth holds the bottle of single malt in her hand, weighing it, watching how the contents of the bottle glow golden and amber when she holds it in the cold artificial light. She watches for a long time again, not saying anything, and Rodney gets more uncomfortable by the second. She’s not usually this slow, this meticulous, not when dealing with people. And she shouldn’t be. He’s tempted to tell her what he paid for the bottle, just to get a reaction. Even with a bank account as full as his, this purchase was exorbitant.
When she finally moves, Rodney’s surprised.
She sets the bottle down on the desk, unscrews it with long-fingered, steady hands and raises it to her lips, drinking straight from the bottle in one huge swallow. Outside, people watch with round eyes and Rodney feels rage prickling all the way up from his spine to the top of his skull.
He rises from his chair, swift, reaches the door in three big steps. Hits the control panel and watches the glass front of Elizabeth’s office go opaque. Takes another step, outside. Turns to the people in the control room with narrowed eyes. “If anyone says anything, I’ll make sure you’re off this expedition before you can sneeze. Same thing goes for anyone who even thinks about coming into this office for the next three hours.”
Rodney doesn’t check to see what impact his words have. He knows that he didn’t really need them, people in the control room are normally good at circumspect, but it never hurts to be careful.
When he steps back into the office and the door slides shut behind him, opaque as well now, the bottle is back on the table, half-empty. His stomach churns when he thinks about the amount of alcohol now swirling in her system. He has never seen her drink. In the three years they have been here, she hasn't been big on drinking, refusing everything but the odd glass of champagne explaining that she had to be sober in case something came up, and there was always something coming up for the expedition leader.
Now half the bottle of whiskey is gone. He still has trouble believing his eyes.
“There’s something else in there.”
Elizabeth moves even more slow now, hands deliberately steady, and back so straight it hurts to just watch. She pulls out the small velvet pouch and looks at him, eyebrow arched.
“Are you proposing, Rodney?”
It’s inappropriate and really, really tasteless, but Rodney finds himself grinning nevertheless. “Some other time, maybe. Open it.”
A sliver of silver ghosts over Elizabeth’s hand and slips between her fingers when she tips the pouch up. She stares at the pendant, index finger idly tracing the lines of the triquetra.
She doesn’t ask why.
She doesn’t wipe away the tear sliding down her nose and staining the back of her hand with a smudge of dark mascara.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, voice hoarse and unsteady, a counterpoint to her hands.
He hates those words by now. Has heard them too many times, and as much as he needs them, he knows they aren’t true. If he’d taken the time to go fishing with Carson, he’d still be alive now. It was that simple.
“I picked him.” Her voice is barely audible, but it’s her words that bring him out of the vicious cycle of self-contempt for a moment.
“You what?”
“I remember every person I persuaded to join the mission. I remember shaking their hands and watching them sign their contracts. I remember that when I read their eulogies. I remember what I promised them.”
Rodney feels light-headed when Elizabeth gaze captures his. It’s tired. So very tired.
The simple, unadorned silver triquetra, the eternal knot, never ending, never beginning, lies forgotten on the table: in pagan belief stands for maid, mother and crone. Rodney only sees fatigue. And infinite loneliness.
It takes him three steps to round the desk. The blink of an eye to pull her up against him.
“I picked him, Rodney.” Her voice is muffled against his shoulder. Her arms hang limp at her sides while he cradles her close.
The fabric of his shirt stays dry.
Fin
Fandom: SGA
Author: eretria
Rating: G
Spoilers: massive for "Sunday" (episode tag)
Characters: Rodney McKay, Elizabeth Weir
Words: 1133
Summary: Elizabeth makes an inviting gesture that is anything but. She wants to be alone, he can tell, but he really, really doesn’t.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made or wanted.
Beta: within minutes by enname. If you find mistakes, let me know.
When he returns through the gate, Atlantis is subdued, darker than he remembers. Elizabeth isn’t there to greet him. Sheppard, Ronon, Zelenka and the others had left Rodney with Carson’s family a day earlier. Spending time with Carson’s mother had been unbelievably painful, but it had helped him in ways he doesn’t want to put into words.
He walks up the stairs to Elizabeth’s office. She’s sitting behind her laptop, a familiar pose, but even through the glass front, a little distorted, he can see that she isn’t working.
Rodney enters her office with quiet, careful steps. “Hey,” he says, tries to find something better and more profound to add and fails. Instead, he puts at small bag on the desk in front of her.
“Rodney,” Elizabeth looks up, distracted, her gaze returning from a great distance. “You’re back.”
On every other day, he would have met this blatant stating of the obvious with sarcasm. Not today. Today he says: “I am.” And “Can I sit?”
Elizabeth makes an inviting gesture that is anything but. She wants to be alone, he can tell, but he really, really doesn’t.
He nods toward the paper bag with intricate Celtic design printed on it. “Brought you something.”
“Did you write me another novel?” She has to visibly force her face to shape into a smile.
Rodney winces, but doesn’t return her smile. “Better.”
“Hm.”
She reaches for the bag. Strong paper crackles loud, an organic, old-fashioned sound in the technical and hypermodern surroundings of Atlantis. She doesn’t open it. Her fingers trace the design, up and down, up and down, a hypnotic journey that captures Rodney’s gaze and distracts him from watching her face.
When he pulls himself away, minutes have passed, and neither of them has said anything. He’s never been good at not talking.
He looks at her now, her hair dark against too pale, too thin skin, bones sharp, sees her eyes shadowed by dark rings, red from working in a dry room for too long. He doesn’t think she’s cried yet. Sheppard had radioed him when he’d returned to Atlantis and had told him that Elizabeth wasn’t … Sheppard hadn’t finished the sentence. But Rodney had gathered that Elizabeth was reacting much the same way that Sheppard himself was, and, ever the good team-leader, he had realised that it wasn’t good for her. Rodney knows he’ll never get Sheppard to stop compartmentalising, and he doesn’t really want to, but it’s different with Elizabeth. Different enough even Sheppard notices, and sends out a call for help.
The loud crackle of paper brings Rodney back to the here and now.
Elizabeth holds the bottle of single malt in her hand, weighing it, watching how the contents of the bottle glow golden and amber when she holds it in the cold artificial light. She watches for a long time again, not saying anything, and Rodney gets more uncomfortable by the second. She’s not usually this slow, this meticulous, not when dealing with people. And she shouldn’t be. He’s tempted to tell her what he paid for the bottle, just to get a reaction. Even with a bank account as full as his, this purchase was exorbitant.
When she finally moves, Rodney’s surprised.
She sets the bottle down on the desk, unscrews it with long-fingered, steady hands and raises it to her lips, drinking straight from the bottle in one huge swallow. Outside, people watch with round eyes and Rodney feels rage prickling all the way up from his spine to the top of his skull.
He rises from his chair, swift, reaches the door in three big steps. Hits the control panel and watches the glass front of Elizabeth’s office go opaque. Takes another step, outside. Turns to the people in the control room with narrowed eyes. “If anyone says anything, I’ll make sure you’re off this expedition before you can sneeze. Same thing goes for anyone who even thinks about coming into this office for the next three hours.”
Rodney doesn’t check to see what impact his words have. He knows that he didn’t really need them, people in the control room are normally good at circumspect, but it never hurts to be careful.
When he steps back into the office and the door slides shut behind him, opaque as well now, the bottle is back on the table, half-empty. His stomach churns when he thinks about the amount of alcohol now swirling in her system. He has never seen her drink. In the three years they have been here, she hasn't been big on drinking, refusing everything but the odd glass of champagne explaining that she had to be sober in case something came up, and there was always something coming up for the expedition leader.
Now half the bottle of whiskey is gone. He still has trouble believing his eyes.
“There’s something else in there.”
Elizabeth moves even more slow now, hands deliberately steady, and back so straight it hurts to just watch. She pulls out the small velvet pouch and looks at him, eyebrow arched.
“Are you proposing, Rodney?”
It’s inappropriate and really, really tasteless, but Rodney finds himself grinning nevertheless. “Some other time, maybe. Open it.”
A sliver of silver ghosts over Elizabeth’s hand and slips between her fingers when she tips the pouch up. She stares at the pendant, index finger idly tracing the lines of the triquetra.
She doesn’t ask why.
She doesn’t wipe away the tear sliding down her nose and staining the back of her hand with a smudge of dark mascara.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, voice hoarse and unsteady, a counterpoint to her hands.
He hates those words by now. Has heard them too many times, and as much as he needs them, he knows they aren’t true. If he’d taken the time to go fishing with Carson, he’d still be alive now. It was that simple.
“I picked him.” Her voice is barely audible, but it’s her words that bring him out of the vicious cycle of self-contempt for a moment.
“You what?”
“I remember every person I persuaded to join the mission. I remember shaking their hands and watching them sign their contracts. I remember that when I read their eulogies. I remember what I promised them.”
Rodney feels light-headed when Elizabeth gaze captures his. It’s tired. So very tired.
The simple, unadorned silver triquetra, the eternal knot, never ending, never beginning, lies forgotten on the table: in pagan belief stands for maid, mother and crone. Rodney only sees fatigue. And infinite loneliness.
It takes him three steps to round the desk. The blink of an eye to pull her up against him.
“I picked him, Rodney.” Her voice is muffled against his shoulder. Her arms hang limp at her sides while he cradles her close.
The fabric of his shirt stays dry.
Fin