SGA Fic: Topology (K+ 1/1) Kavanagh character piece tying into Doppelganger
Title: Topology
Author: Purpleyin
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Up to 4x04 "Doppelganger"
Summary: I'm not going to qualify this absurd pursuit with the cliché of "Dear Diary," although the lack of it doesn't in reality change what I'm being forced to do. Kavanagh writes something other than a report to keep a promise he can't break.
A/N: Betaread by fififolle. The pairing here could potentially be perceived in a romantic way, though it's written as a tentative friendship at best.
~
William Kavanagh writes. Every letter is plain and executed to the page in a short fashion, calculated to be perfectly readable and as efficient as possible. A waste of time it may be but he won't waste any more time on it than necessary.
I'm not going to qualify this absurd pursuit with the cliché of "Dear Diary," although the lack of it doesn't in reality change what I'm being forced to do.
There's a pause. The pen stops and he glances around, paranoid he'll be interrupted even though he's working late in one of the quieter labs. It won't do for anyone to know about this but he doesn't like the idea of writing in his quarters - that would make it personal. Scowling down at the line on the page, he notes how ridiculous it is, yet continues on; committed now the task is started and eager to get it over with.
I'm quite experienced at writing reports but this attempt at a journal has been instigated by my so-called medical professional - if you can call psychiatry a quantifiable enough practice to constitute it contributing to well-being; I've yet to discern any benefits of the sessions myself. However, she insists I do this.
Another thoughtful pause. He'd immediately moved to cross the last part out, correct himself, but there's hesitation that resolves into contrived apathy and it is left intact.
Purportedly the exercise will help me "purge my negativity." Personally I can't see I need any assistance in that area. It's everyone else who has a problem with my suggestions and constructive criticism. I shouldn't need to apologise for being able to see things how they really are, nor change my world view to be rose-tinted like all the other idiots!
He finishes that paragraph with the dot struck down hard, a flourish on the line upwards and proud self-righteous smile. It falters as he calms, regaining composure and returning to his previously serious state.
Anyway, I made no promises, only that I'd write in this and I intend to treat it as my own personal report on events in the city. This isn't a book I plan to be anything except factual.
And the deed is done. He closes the notebook, places it in his drawer. Locking it away he resolves to think of it no more until the time he has scheduled for the next write-up.
~
The population of Atlantis is still shaken up after the recent incursion into their minds. I admit I still find it difficult to lay my head down and will sleep to come. Naturally there is a lot of tension in the air after recent events, everyone is eager to lay the blame elsewhere and is anyone able to see that badly implemented protocols are where the fault lays? No! They stroll around alien planets like it's a walk in a park, they've done it so many times nothing unexpected can possibly go wrong. Time and time again this attitude is proved wrong but they never learn. Nobody listens and people pay with their lives. But that's all I have to say on the matter.
The entry is made earlier than its designated date, justified by the fact it would otherwise lose its relevancy - certainly not because he's been itching to get those thoughts out of his head. The more urgent speed at which it's written is to expedite this detour from his lunch and make sure he's not spied upon.
Apart from the atmosphere life goes on as normal. I've yet to decide if Colonel Carter is an improvement on Weir. For all Sheppard's ease with McKay and his buddies, I don't trust the military faction not to interfere with important scientific decisions. It's hard to know where you stand with the military unless you understand what's going on in their heads and I don't have the patience to work that out - science is science, it's bad enough that departmental politics get in the way without outside interests affecting us.
At least Weir could be relied on to occasionally reign in Sheppard's antics, according to the conservatives around. Oh wait, scratch that - how could I forget - she authorised torture. I swear most of the population has selective memory. They treat Ronon like he's either an honored sports star or gruff but lovable puppy - just insane. It's not like I can trust sensible decisions from anyone around here.
A resigned sigh is issued - it's no more than he expects - but then he seems to recall an where this was leading and his face takes on a cold look; he finishes up quickly, rushing the concluding sentence that he deems necessary.
Maybe Carter will be different, we'll see... Shame it comes too late.
He snaps it shut and stows it away in the desk, his hand pausing against the end of the draw, a glimmer of resistance before finally sliding it shut.
~
He sets the book down on his desk in his quarters, thumbing through half of it to the next free page.
I keep writing in here as if it means something. What's the point when no one will ever read what I have to say? At least the reports have a purpose. It's just every time I consider forgoing the practice I remember how I promised her.
The pen runs out on the R, a strange fortune to let him complete what he was writing. He spends five minute searching for another pen, no thought given to giving up despite his previous comment.
I may have agreed in an extremely patronising way to the proposal, because honestly how else could I respond to her schoolgirl joke of an idea that seemed designed to hide her uncertainty about "what to do" with me. Still, I'm not one to make commitments lightly. I just wished she knew I was doing this. If my mental stability actually mattered to her then it would only seem fitting for her to realise I'm doing this because of her and, however stupid it appears, my brain is latched onto that foolish sentiment. The impression I have is that this should relieve tension but instead of acting as an outlet I find this frustrates me more. I'm not dumb enough to think any of this matters, it can't have any effect on anyone. It's too late now.
~
The journal rests out in the open, catching his eye each time he looks up from the calculations he's doing on his day off. Inevitably he begins another entry, the theory already well thought out, just requiring expression - it would seem odd not to add it.
Thinking upon it for the last week I have a solution to the "lack of progress" I'm making with this journal. I did promise to write in here, never stating about what exactly. Therefore I intend to experiment a little. It does no good to state the truth, this isn't a recording of my life and I sure as hell have no intention to take up the actual purpose of moaning about my life as if it's a pathetic mess. It is what it is and the following will be nothing but lies and conjecture, pure fiction.
~
He sits in the the shadow of an Atlantean dusk, arms rested against a desk, hand curled around a pen and looking out to the ocean restlessly, willing his imagination to cooperate. His eyes avert from the view after a minute, so as not to remind him inadvertently of the height he's at. On the edge of his mind there is wash of relief at what the rest fails to recall - the harsh metals below, purified by sea spray.
After an hour of silence the sound of a pen scratching rough against the surface of the paper can be discerned. The ink doesn't escape as fast as necessary, the tip tracing the top layer in a hard manner but it's hurried. His desperate sprawl creating the hint of each letter, far from the usual decisive and measured script used for his gospel format - the steadfast reports he is used to.
William Kavanagh writes about a woman he doesn't know, who it should have been possible to save - and in his version she doesn't live happily ever after, yet there she is alive in his words, ever tortured by the refusal of one of her patients to cooperate in the slightest and still smiling because she always thinks better of people than exists.
~
Want more Kavanagh fic? Visit my Kavanagh fanfic100 table.
Author: Purpleyin
Rating: K+
Spoilers: Up to 4x04 "Doppelganger"
Summary: I'm not going to qualify this absurd pursuit with the cliché of "Dear Diary," although the lack of it doesn't in reality change what I'm being forced to do. Kavanagh writes something other than a report to keep a promise he can't break.
A/N: Betaread by fififolle. The pairing here could potentially be perceived in a romantic way, though it's written as a tentative friendship at best.
~
William Kavanagh writes. Every letter is plain and executed to the page in a short fashion, calculated to be perfectly readable and as efficient as possible. A waste of time it may be but he won't waste any more time on it than necessary.
I'm not going to qualify this absurd pursuit with the cliché of "Dear Diary," although the lack of it doesn't in reality change what I'm being forced to do.
There's a pause. The pen stops and he glances around, paranoid he'll be interrupted even though he's working late in one of the quieter labs. It won't do for anyone to know about this but he doesn't like the idea of writing in his quarters - that would make it personal. Scowling down at the line on the page, he notes how ridiculous it is, yet continues on; committed now the task is started and eager to get it over with.
I'm quite experienced at writing reports but this attempt at a journal has been instigated by my so-called medical professional - if you can call psychiatry a quantifiable enough practice to constitute it contributing to well-being; I've yet to discern any benefits of the sessions myself. However, she insists I do this.
Another thoughtful pause. He'd immediately moved to cross the last part out, correct himself, but there's hesitation that resolves into contrived apathy and it is left intact.
Purportedly the exercise will help me "purge my negativity." Personally I can't see I need any assistance in that area. It's everyone else who has a problem with my suggestions and constructive criticism. I shouldn't need to apologise for being able to see things how they really are, nor change my world view to be rose-tinted like all the other idiots!
He finishes that paragraph with the dot struck down hard, a flourish on the line upwards and proud self-righteous smile. It falters as he calms, regaining composure and returning to his previously serious state.
Anyway, I made no promises, only that I'd write in this and I intend to treat it as my own personal report on events in the city. This isn't a book I plan to be anything except factual.
And the deed is done. He closes the notebook, places it in his drawer. Locking it away he resolves to think of it no more until the time he has scheduled for the next write-up.
~
The population of Atlantis is still shaken up after the recent incursion into their minds. I admit I still find it difficult to lay my head down and will sleep to come. Naturally there is a lot of tension in the air after recent events, everyone is eager to lay the blame elsewhere and is anyone able to see that badly implemented protocols are where the fault lays? No! They stroll around alien planets like it's a walk in a park, they've done it so many times nothing unexpected can possibly go wrong. Time and time again this attitude is proved wrong but they never learn. Nobody listens and people pay with their lives. But that's all I have to say on the matter.
The entry is made earlier than its designated date, justified by the fact it would otherwise lose its relevancy - certainly not because he's been itching to get those thoughts out of his head. The more urgent speed at which it's written is to expedite this detour from his lunch and make sure he's not spied upon.
Apart from the atmosphere life goes on as normal. I've yet to decide if Colonel Carter is an improvement on Weir. For all Sheppard's ease with McKay and his buddies, I don't trust the military faction not to interfere with important scientific decisions. It's hard to know where you stand with the military unless you understand what's going on in their heads and I don't have the patience to work that out - science is science, it's bad enough that departmental politics get in the way without outside interests affecting us.
At least Weir could be relied on to occasionally reign in Sheppard's antics, according to the conservatives around. Oh wait, scratch that - how could I forget - she authorised torture. I swear most of the population has selective memory. They treat Ronon like he's either an honored sports star or gruff but lovable puppy - just insane. It's not like I can trust sensible decisions from anyone around here.
A resigned sigh is issued - it's no more than he expects - but then he seems to recall an where this was leading and his face takes on a cold look; he finishes up quickly, rushing the concluding sentence that he deems necessary.
Maybe Carter will be different, we'll see... Shame it comes too late.
He snaps it shut and stows it away in the desk, his hand pausing against the end of the draw, a glimmer of resistance before finally sliding it shut.
~
He sets the book down on his desk in his quarters, thumbing through half of it to the next free page.
I keep writing in here as if it means something. What's the point when no one will ever read what I have to say? At least the reports have a purpose. It's just every time I consider forgoing the practice I remember how I promised her.
The pen runs out on the R, a strange fortune to let him complete what he was writing. He spends five minute searching for another pen, no thought given to giving up despite his previous comment.
I may have agreed in an extremely patronising way to the proposal, because honestly how else could I respond to her schoolgirl joke of an idea that seemed designed to hide her uncertainty about "what to do" with me. Still, I'm not one to make commitments lightly. I just wished she knew I was doing this. If my mental stability actually mattered to her then it would only seem fitting for her to realise I'm doing this because of her and, however stupid it appears, my brain is latched onto that foolish sentiment. The impression I have is that this should relieve tension but instead of acting as an outlet I find this frustrates me more. I'm not dumb enough to think any of this matters, it can't have any effect on anyone. It's too late now.
~
The journal rests out in the open, catching his eye each time he looks up from the calculations he's doing on his day off. Inevitably he begins another entry, the theory already well thought out, just requiring expression - it would seem odd not to add it.
Thinking upon it for the last week I have a solution to the "lack of progress" I'm making with this journal. I did promise to write in here, never stating about what exactly. Therefore I intend to experiment a little. It does no good to state the truth, this isn't a recording of my life and I sure as hell have no intention to take up the actual purpose of moaning about my life as if it's a pathetic mess. It is what it is and the following will be nothing but lies and conjecture, pure fiction.
~
He sits in the the shadow of an Atlantean dusk, arms rested against a desk, hand curled around a pen and looking out to the ocean restlessly, willing his imagination to cooperate. His eyes avert from the view after a minute, so as not to remind him inadvertently of the height he's at. On the edge of his mind there is wash of relief at what the rest fails to recall - the harsh metals below, purified by sea spray.
After an hour of silence the sound of a pen scratching rough against the surface of the paper can be discerned. The ink doesn't escape as fast as necessary, the tip tracing the top layer in a hard manner but it's hurried. His desperate sprawl creating the hint of each letter, far from the usual decisive and measured script used for his gospel format - the steadfast reports he is used to.
William Kavanagh writes about a woman he doesn't know, who it should have been possible to save - and in his version she doesn't live happily ever after, yet there she is alive in his words, ever tortured by the refusal of one of her patients to cooperate in the slightest and still smiling because she always thinks better of people than exists.
~
Want more Kavanagh fic? Visit my Kavanagh fanfic100 table.