Stargate Atlantis snippet: cut out of the sun
cut out of the sun [Stargate Atlantis, Sheppard/McKay, PG, 307 words, no spoilers. For celli, just because.]
Rodney's always wanted to know. Little things, little whys and hows at first, child pulling at his mother's skirt, constant questions. But as soon as he learned that sky is space, blue shading into black that lasts forever, he wanted to know the grandest things.
He wants more than is possible. He makes it happen.
Space excites him, and scares him, equal parts. He knows how small he is, speck of dust small in comparison. He sees its beauty and the careless cruelty in it, vicious mistress, and he worships it. Nearest thing he has to a god, this world around him, the power and wonder of it, the perfection of the laws it follows effortlessly, the symmetry of motion, the mindless fury of it.
Space is so vast, not even he can begin to contemplate it.
But Sheppard tethers him.
Sheppard's not fearless. It's not that. Rodney's seen his hands shake, heard the crack in his voice as he jokes a goodbye, even when he's being so much more reckless and foolhardy than anyone should allow, not a second's thought for his own life. He's not fearless, no, but he fights his fear, silently. Rodney admires that.
And Sheppard reminds Rodney. When Rodney's so caught up in the wonder of discovery that he forgets the mundane, forgets other people, consequences. Sheppard reminds him.
At night too, John tethers him then. Holds him when the magnitude of countless galaxies gets too much. Distracts him, eager hands and warm lips.
Solid and steady. His earth.
And in the dark, his mouth talks silently to Rodney's body, and tells him things that feel even more vast than the universe. He makes Rodney forget that they're half a universe away from everything safe, that they're a tiny speck floating in nothing.
He brings Rodney back, and it's enough. It's everything.
Rodney's always wanted to know. Little things, little whys and hows at first, child pulling at his mother's skirt, constant questions. But as soon as he learned that sky is space, blue shading into black that lasts forever, he wanted to know the grandest things.
He wants more than is possible. He makes it happen.
Space excites him, and scares him, equal parts. He knows how small he is, speck of dust small in comparison. He sees its beauty and the careless cruelty in it, vicious mistress, and he worships it. Nearest thing he has to a god, this world around him, the power and wonder of it, the perfection of the laws it follows effortlessly, the symmetry of motion, the mindless fury of it.
Space is so vast, not even he can begin to contemplate it.
But Sheppard tethers him.
Sheppard's not fearless. It's not that. Rodney's seen his hands shake, heard the crack in his voice as he jokes a goodbye, even when he's being so much more reckless and foolhardy than anyone should allow, not a second's thought for his own life. He's not fearless, no, but he fights his fear, silently. Rodney admires that.
And Sheppard reminds Rodney. When Rodney's so caught up in the wonder of discovery that he forgets the mundane, forgets other people, consequences. Sheppard reminds him.
At night too, John tethers him then. Holds him when the magnitude of countless galaxies gets too much. Distracts him, eager hands and warm lips.
Solid and steady. His earth.
And in the dark, his mouth talks silently to Rodney's body, and tells him things that feel even more vast than the universe. He makes Rodney forget that they're half a universe away from everything safe, that they're a tiny speck floating in nothing.
He brings Rodney back, and it's enough. It's everything.