FIC: "Fresh, Crisp December Wind" McBeck AU & "The Smell of Old, Yellowed and Dog-eared Pages" Shep
Title: Fresh, Crisp December Wind
Author: Severusslave
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Carson Beckett/Rodney McKay
Words: 544
Note: + Written for au100 challenge 54: Air
+ My claim is McKay/Beckett (SGA)
+ Table
+ For dark_cygnet. *smoochies*
When Carson opened the door to their apartment in London, he expected to find Rodney waiting for him with a hot pot of coffee ready and a cookie between his teeth - the same way he always greeted Carson when he came home from some kind of medical conference or other.
It was always supposed to be a full cup of coffee with two sugars and a cookie in Rodney's hand ready for Carson to nibble on after a long, wonderful 'Hello, I'm home' kiss, but thing like this did never work out for Rodney.
Today though Carson opened their door and was greeted by darkness. All their blinds were shut. It was only 4pm.
Carson frowned. He entered the hallway and sat his suitcase down next to the hall stand. Rodney's favourite leather loafers were there - he was home then.
Carson went to the living room. Some used mugs sat on the table and their TV had been dragged so that somebody lying on the couch could comfortably watch it. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He went to the kitchen to throw a look to the pin board. No new post-it. But a tower of unwashed dishes. Carson sighed and went n to their bedroom.
As he opened the door he immediately recoiled. The air in it was rank and stank of sweaty, sick man.
It was pitch black in there but Carson could make out dozens of white, balled up tissues littering the plumeau and the bed's surroundings. Carson sighed. He went over to Rodney to check if he slept - he did, deeply - and then opened the windows widely.
He went to the kitchen, grabbed the waste basket and returned to Rodney to pick up all the used tissues. Then he proceeded to air the entire apartment. Only a minute later all the rooms were filled with fresh, crisp December wind - Carson was glad he left on his coat.
It didn't take long then he heard Rodney cough. Coughing meant that he was awake. He left him alone for a minute more though and went to his safe. He opened the door after punching in his 10 digits code and took out some painkillers and something to help Rodney's body loosen up the phlegm. He had to keep all his medicine in there, Rodney's hypochondria could get ugly form times to times.
He fetched a glass of water then went to his lover.
As Rodney's trying to greet him resulted in a long and nasty coughing fit he ordered him to "Just stay silent then and take this - and those. No, drink up the whole glass. You need fluids."
Carson could see that Rodney was completely exhausted by the strain of holding his upper body upright to drink the water, so he toed off his shoes after he'd closed the windows and shut the blinds again and settled down at the bed's headboard and stroke Rodney's forehead gently. It did not take very long for the caress to change into a repetitive brushing of his thumb over Rodney's eyebrow - one of the guaranteed things to put him to sleep. Something Carson knew Rodney needed lots of right now.
He adored how Rodney leant into his caress.
Title: The Smell of Old, Yellowed and Dog-eared Pages
Author: Severusslave
Rating: PG13
Character: John Sheppard
Words: 313
Notes: For springwoof who requested John/His Book.
John stepped out of his bathroom, threw his towel in the general direction of his laundry pile and flung himself buck naked onto his bed.
He was done in for this night. Every single muscle group of his body seemed to hurt especially intense to get his immediate attention and if he never ever had to move again he'd die a lucky man.
He lay there for several minutes not moving even an inch. His thoughts resolved around just one thing. Getting on all fours and climbing beneath the covers and that it would take actual moving to do so and, really, one more minute of lying on them wouldn't hurt anybody.
After John lay over twenty minutes there and stared blankly at the not really fascinating, little wheels of his desk's chair and could not get to sleep he decided that maybe he should actually climb into bed and think out the lights.
Six minutes later he finally did so.
Still, some time later in the now dark room sleep did not come to him. John knew why. He just did not, not, not, not want to move to get the one thing necessary for it.
He groaned into his pillow as he reached out his left arm and thumped his hand searchingly onto his bed side table three times till he found what he longed for.
His book. The old, tattered paperback of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' that his mother had loved so much that she read it to him as a child, never mind that he did not really get the plot back then.
Nowadays the distinct smell of the old, yellowed and dog-eared pages was the only thing to get him to completely relax. John stroke his thumb lazily over the edge of the pages and went to sleep, his book lying next to his head on his pillow.
Author: Severusslave
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Carson Beckett/Rodney McKay
Words: 544
Note: + Written for au100 challenge 54: Air
+ My claim is McKay/Beckett (SGA)
+ Table
+ For dark_cygnet. *smoochies*
When Carson opened the door to their apartment in London, he expected to find Rodney waiting for him with a hot pot of coffee ready and a cookie between his teeth - the same way he always greeted Carson when he came home from some kind of medical conference or other.
It was always supposed to be a full cup of coffee with two sugars and a cookie in Rodney's hand ready for Carson to nibble on after a long, wonderful 'Hello, I'm home' kiss, but thing like this did never work out for Rodney.
Today though Carson opened their door and was greeted by darkness. All their blinds were shut. It was only 4pm.
Carson frowned. He entered the hallway and sat his suitcase down next to the hall stand. Rodney's favourite leather loafers were there - he was home then.
Carson went to the living room. Some used mugs sat on the table and their TV had been dragged so that somebody lying on the couch could comfortably watch it. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He went to the kitchen to throw a look to the pin board. No new post-it. But a tower of unwashed dishes. Carson sighed and went n to their bedroom.
As he opened the door he immediately recoiled. The air in it was rank and stank of sweaty, sick man.
It was pitch black in there but Carson could make out dozens of white, balled up tissues littering the plumeau and the bed's surroundings. Carson sighed. He went over to Rodney to check if he slept - he did, deeply - and then opened the windows widely.
He went to the kitchen, grabbed the waste basket and returned to Rodney to pick up all the used tissues. Then he proceeded to air the entire apartment. Only a minute later all the rooms were filled with fresh, crisp December wind - Carson was glad he left on his coat.
It didn't take long then he heard Rodney cough. Coughing meant that he was awake. He left him alone for a minute more though and went to his safe. He opened the door after punching in his 10 digits code and took out some painkillers and something to help Rodney's body loosen up the phlegm. He had to keep all his medicine in there, Rodney's hypochondria could get ugly form times to times.
He fetched a glass of water then went to his lover.
As Rodney's trying to greet him resulted in a long and nasty coughing fit he ordered him to "Just stay silent then and take this - and those. No, drink up the whole glass. You need fluids."
Carson could see that Rodney was completely exhausted by the strain of holding his upper body upright to drink the water, so he toed off his shoes after he'd closed the windows and shut the blinds again and settled down at the bed's headboard and stroke Rodney's forehead gently. It did not take very long for the caress to change into a repetitive brushing of his thumb over Rodney's eyebrow - one of the guaranteed things to put him to sleep. Something Carson knew Rodney needed lots of right now.
He adored how Rodney leant into his caress.
Title: The Smell of Old, Yellowed and Dog-eared Pages
Author: Severusslave
Rating: PG13
Character: John Sheppard
Words: 313
Notes: For springwoof who requested John/His Book.
John stepped out of his bathroom, threw his towel in the general direction of his laundry pile and flung himself buck naked onto his bed.
He was done in for this night. Every single muscle group of his body seemed to hurt especially intense to get his immediate attention and if he never ever had to move again he'd die a lucky man.
He lay there for several minutes not moving even an inch. His thoughts resolved around just one thing. Getting on all fours and climbing beneath the covers and that it would take actual moving to do so and, really, one more minute of lying on them wouldn't hurt anybody.
After John lay over twenty minutes there and stared blankly at the not really fascinating, little wheels of his desk's chair and could not get to sleep he decided that maybe he should actually climb into bed and think out the lights.
Six minutes later he finally did so.
Still, some time later in the now dark room sleep did not come to him. John knew why. He just did not, not, not, not want to move to get the one thing necessary for it.
He groaned into his pillow as he reached out his left arm and thumped his hand searchingly onto his bed side table three times till he found what he longed for.
His book. The old, tattered paperback of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' that his mother had loved so much that she read it to him as a child, never mind that he did not really get the plot back then.
Nowadays the distinct smell of the old, yellowed and dog-eared pages was the only thing to get him to completely relax. John stroke his thumb lazily over the edge of the pages and went to sleep, his book lying next to his head on his pillow.