Where All the Ladders Start by ceitie [Left Behind Challenge]
Title: Where All the Ladders Start
Author: ceitie
Rating: R (for language)
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly, and no profit is made.
Length: 1850 words
Summary: Sinking down against a wall, knees pulled up to his chest and face hidden from sight; he does not cover his ears. Not only would it be useless against sounds that come from inside his head, it would make him look even crazier than he already does.
A/N: Thank you so much, of_evangeline, for being an awesome beta. With a cool haircut! You're totally getting cookies next time I see you.
Where All the Ladders Start
They’re all staring at him.
John feels heat beginning to creep into his cheeks and can’t stop himself from snapping, “What?” (don’t use that tone with me young man)
Rodney’s eyes shift away, his lips thinning. (do you like what you see?) Elizabeth and Teyla exchange quick glances, while Zelenka and Lorne just look uncomfortable. Ronon is the only one who continues to stare, his customary air of unimpressed stoicism unchanged.
After a few seconds Elizabeth says gently, “Could you repeat those last two sentences, John, please?”
He’s definitely blushing now, but it’s frustration rushing through him, not embarrassment. The knot in his chest twists tighter. (why am i surrounded by incompetents) He tries a smile anyway, a joke.
“What language was it this time?”
“Portuguese, I think,” Rodney says, without looking at him. (there’s real danger in the type of work i do)
John digs his nails into his palm, hard.
Teyla says something calming and meaningless, and John regains his composure well enough to repeat his last few sentences, in English this time. The rest of the meeting goes smoothly; at least, no one mentions it if he says anything else incomprehensible.
Beneath the table, John’s hands move in the patterns of a language he never learned. (help me help me help me)
He goes to the lab that night to find Rodney. He doesn’t want to talk, of course, (pass the salt please) but actually being able to carry on one half of a conversation isn’t really a prerequisite for spending time with Rodney, who usually talks more than enough for five people.
The labs are full of scientists, but not the one John’s looking for. He finally spots Zelenka, who is typing furiously into a laptop and mutters something about the infirmary upon inquiries of Rodney’s whereabouts. John experiences a twinge of alarm before Zelenka shakes his head and gestures absently while clarifying, “No, no, is fine, not for injury, to see Carson.” (place your knife in the exposed throat region)
John smiles his thank you, unseen by the still typing Zelenka, and heads off for the infirmary. He passes Dr. Simpson in the corridor, and they nod to each other curtly. (mommy can I have some cheerios mommy it hurts) John bites his tongue viciously until she’s out of sight, then leans against the wall and allows himself to say, just once, “Ben.”
The hallway echoes the name of Simpson’s son: dead for six years, one month and nineteen days. John’s throat aches and he can taste blood, but he pushes away from the wall to continue towards his destination. He keeps his mouth tightly closed.
Captain Santos is the only resident of the infirmary, snoring softly in one of the corner beds. Sprained wrist and bruised ribs, outcome of a trade mission turned nasty, but nothing serious or permanent. (you don’t have to scream at me!) John strides through the cots towards Carson’s office as fast as he can. He swoops past the night nurse before she can offer any pleasantries, and slips through the door into the softly lit office. Rodney and Carson look up at him from their seats. (the plane’s leaving now) They both have glasses in their hands, and they both look exhausted.
There’s an empty chair waiting for John, and he’s too utterly grateful to work up any real anger over being so obviously predictable. He collapses into it, and buries his face in his hands. (the goal of conformal invariance is met by) A few seconds later, someone pulls one hand away and puts a glass into it. He takes a sip while avoiding two pairs of blue eyes.
After a few moments of expectant silence, Carson gets the point and starts talking again, and John lets the soft burr of his voice rumble over and through him. Rodney’s replies are sharp-worded and flat-accented and John finally starts to drift, the whiskey warming his abused throat and siphoning the tension from his shoulders. (sleep now, miko-chan)
A soft gasp pulls him back, and his head jerks up from where it was sinking down towards his chest. Carson is staring into nothing, his empty hand frozen halfway to his lips. He looks hauntingly lost. (then turn left down the road towards Raipur)
“What is it?” says Rodney so harshly that it makes John jump again. Carson lowers his hand sheepishly, but his eyes are still far away.
“Nothing, it’s -” (wear a coat, dear, keep warm)
“It’s not fucking nothing, Carson!”
John tries to remember if he’s ever heard Rodney swear when there was nobody at risk of dying suddenly and horribly. He is certain that he’s never heard Rodney use that tone of voice before, not even when someone had just died suddenly and horribly.
Carson can’t seem to stop turning his glass in his hands. (anna’s stuck in a firewall) Rodney speaks again, and this time he’s quiet but his face is like iron.
“Just tell us what it is. I’m so sick of pretending that none of this -” His voice cracks, and so does Carson.
“Beer, with my - her sister, in the field behind our - their uncle’s house. They stole a bottle from the refrigerator and ran outside to share it. It was summer and - and they felt brave and grown-up.” Carson blurts it out in a rush, riddled with sudden stops. John closes his eyes and tries to ignore the tightness that had been building in his chest for the last five days, ever since he woke up in the infirmary along with the six other gene carriers who’d had the misfortune to be in the lab when a small Ancient box labeled ‘function unknown’ had been activated.
He doesn’t need to hear this, doesn’t want to be a witness to late night confessions. (read me a story?) He tries to concentrate on the muted humming of the infirmary equipment in the next room, on the pulse of Atlantis that thrums through the city, on the creak of Carson’s chair. He’s been hearing enough unfamiliar voices, enough secrets already. (i didn’t fuck him, i swear to god) Rodney’s voice, however, cuts through all the other noises and John can't shut it out. He's never been able to.
“What if it doesn’t go away? What if it never stops? What if we’re stuck like this?” Rodney asks. He sounds strained and very young. (it can be used when there are precisely two cases in the case analysis)
John sucks in a breath. Typical of Rodney, to say what they’d all been thinking but hadn’t been dumb or ballsy enough to ask out loud. Aftereffects, Dr. Ghajar had said. Your minds were essentially twisted together, there are bound to be some aftereffects, but they’ll probably fade soon enough. Soon enough. Sure. (you always make it too salty)
His breath stutters out as a laugh, and Rodney and Carson turn to him. If their expressions are any indication, he sounds just as unbalanced (it’s cluttered, not messy) out loud as he does in his head. John stands up, shoving his chair away and trying to ignore the way the room spins slightly.
He's hot and cold all over, and the tightness in his chest is making it hard to breathe. He has to get away. It’s easy to avoid the hands that reach for him, easier to tune out the anxious questions. John’s been deafening himself to unwanted voices for days. (pass me the ladder, it’s too high) He makes it out of the infirmary, once again dodging the night nurse, into the corridor and around three corners before he crumples.
Sinking down against a wall, knees pulled up to his chest and face hidden from sight; he does not cover his ears. Not only would it be useless against sounds that come from inside his head, it would make him look even crazier than he already does. And he’s not crazy. He’s not. (i just have another consciousness in my brain)
Rodney’s footsteps round the corner a couple of minutes later. John doesn’t look up. (it won’t stop bleeding) Without a word, Rodney sits down next to him, settling back against the wall. John silently counts twenty-two seconds before Rodney says, “You know what’s actually really strange?”
There are far too many answers to that question (she needs to stop, make her stop), so John takes the easy way out.
“What?”
Rodney shifts slightly, his shoulder and side nudging against John. It takes all his remaining self-control not to lean into Rodney’s solid warmth.
“What’s strange is that five days have passed, and I haven’t heard the term ‘Vulcan mind meld’ used once. Not once, in a city full of people who, if they weren’t already dedicated science fiction fans when they got here, certainly have some damn good reasons and opportunities to watch the classics now that they live in, you know, Atlantis.”
John can’t help snorting half-way through Rodney’s indignant declaration, and afterwards his lips keep trying to twitch into a smile. (just take another sample) When quiet descends, he lifts his head to look at Rodney.
“So, what? You’re worried about the omission?” (blessed is the fruit of thy womb)
Rodney shakes his head, “No, just surprised really -”
He continues to elaborate on his point, and John watches his mouth, the motion of his hands through the air. Beneath Rodney’s words, he can hear piano music. It’s kind of nice, actually, and John feels the pressure in his chest lift slightly. He doesn’t notice that Rodney has stopped talking until Rodney touches his knee carefully and he realizes that he’s been staring straight into Rodney’s eyes. He looks away. (these few final hours have been dearly purchased)
Rodney is still for a moment, then says, “I can’t eat. Whenever I try, I end up smelling blood from one of Carson’s operations, or the room where Miko’s father died, or - or a burning helicopter.”
John flinches. Apologizing for accidentally sharing his shitty memories in the Pegasus version of a Vulcan mind meld would be ludicrous, but he’s really not sure what else he could say. (we can’t plant yet, the ground’s frozen) Rodney touches his knee again, and doesn’t remove his hand this time.
“Sometimes I forget which parts happened to me and which didn’t,” Rodney whispers, and John turns to face him. He could say that he wakes up calling the names of people he’s never met, that he catches himself humming the lullaby that Dr. Vogel’s grandmother used to sing. He could say that he knows exactly how Carson whimpers when he’s getting a blowjob, the name of Dr. Kusanagi’s first goldfish, and every single rasping scream that Dr. Perreira’s best friend voiced in the hour it took him to bleed out on a muddy road.
Instead John says, “Rodney. I - please. Stop talking.” (i’ll wait with you)
Then Rodney’s hands are touching his face instead of his knee. And when they kiss, there is.
At last.
Silence.
Author: ceitie
Rating: R (for language)
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly, and no profit is made.
Length: 1850 words
Summary: Sinking down against a wall, knees pulled up to his chest and face hidden from sight; he does not cover his ears. Not only would it be useless against sounds that come from inside his head, it would make him look even crazier than he already does.
A/N: Thank you so much, of_evangeline, for being an awesome beta. With a cool haircut! You're totally getting cookies next time I see you.
Where All the Ladders Start
They’re all staring at him.
John feels heat beginning to creep into his cheeks and can’t stop himself from snapping, “What?” (don’t use that tone with me young man)
Rodney’s eyes shift away, his lips thinning. (do you like what you see?) Elizabeth and Teyla exchange quick glances, while Zelenka and Lorne just look uncomfortable. Ronon is the only one who continues to stare, his customary air of unimpressed stoicism unchanged.
After a few seconds Elizabeth says gently, “Could you repeat those last two sentences, John, please?”
He’s definitely blushing now, but it’s frustration rushing through him, not embarrassment. The knot in his chest twists tighter. (why am i surrounded by incompetents) He tries a smile anyway, a joke.
“What language was it this time?”
“Portuguese, I think,” Rodney says, without looking at him. (there’s real danger in the type of work i do)
John digs his nails into his palm, hard.
Teyla says something calming and meaningless, and John regains his composure well enough to repeat his last few sentences, in English this time. The rest of the meeting goes smoothly; at least, no one mentions it if he says anything else incomprehensible.
Beneath the table, John’s hands move in the patterns of a language he never learned. (help me help me help me)
He goes to the lab that night to find Rodney. He doesn’t want to talk, of course, (pass the salt please) but actually being able to carry on one half of a conversation isn’t really a prerequisite for spending time with Rodney, who usually talks more than enough for five people.
The labs are full of scientists, but not the one John’s looking for. He finally spots Zelenka, who is typing furiously into a laptop and mutters something about the infirmary upon inquiries of Rodney’s whereabouts. John experiences a twinge of alarm before Zelenka shakes his head and gestures absently while clarifying, “No, no, is fine, not for injury, to see Carson.” (place your knife in the exposed throat region)
John smiles his thank you, unseen by the still typing Zelenka, and heads off for the infirmary. He passes Dr. Simpson in the corridor, and they nod to each other curtly. (mommy can I have some cheerios mommy it hurts) John bites his tongue viciously until she’s out of sight, then leans against the wall and allows himself to say, just once, “Ben.”
The hallway echoes the name of Simpson’s son: dead for six years, one month and nineteen days. John’s throat aches and he can taste blood, but he pushes away from the wall to continue towards his destination. He keeps his mouth tightly closed.
Captain Santos is the only resident of the infirmary, snoring softly in one of the corner beds. Sprained wrist and bruised ribs, outcome of a trade mission turned nasty, but nothing serious or permanent. (you don’t have to scream at me!) John strides through the cots towards Carson’s office as fast as he can. He swoops past the night nurse before she can offer any pleasantries, and slips through the door into the softly lit office. Rodney and Carson look up at him from their seats. (the plane’s leaving now) They both have glasses in their hands, and they both look exhausted.
There’s an empty chair waiting for John, and he’s too utterly grateful to work up any real anger over being so obviously predictable. He collapses into it, and buries his face in his hands. (the goal of conformal invariance is met by) A few seconds later, someone pulls one hand away and puts a glass into it. He takes a sip while avoiding two pairs of blue eyes.
After a few moments of expectant silence, Carson gets the point and starts talking again, and John lets the soft burr of his voice rumble over and through him. Rodney’s replies are sharp-worded and flat-accented and John finally starts to drift, the whiskey warming his abused throat and siphoning the tension from his shoulders. (sleep now, miko-chan)
A soft gasp pulls him back, and his head jerks up from where it was sinking down towards his chest. Carson is staring into nothing, his empty hand frozen halfway to his lips. He looks hauntingly lost. (then turn left down the road towards Raipur)
“What is it?” says Rodney so harshly that it makes John jump again. Carson lowers his hand sheepishly, but his eyes are still far away.
“Nothing, it’s -” (wear a coat, dear, keep warm)
“It’s not fucking nothing, Carson!”
John tries to remember if he’s ever heard Rodney swear when there was nobody at risk of dying suddenly and horribly. He is certain that he’s never heard Rodney use that tone of voice before, not even when someone had just died suddenly and horribly.
Carson can’t seem to stop turning his glass in his hands. (anna’s stuck in a firewall) Rodney speaks again, and this time he’s quiet but his face is like iron.
“Just tell us what it is. I’m so sick of pretending that none of this -” His voice cracks, and so does Carson.
“Beer, with my - her sister, in the field behind our - their uncle’s house. They stole a bottle from the refrigerator and ran outside to share it. It was summer and - and they felt brave and grown-up.” Carson blurts it out in a rush, riddled with sudden stops. John closes his eyes and tries to ignore the tightness that had been building in his chest for the last five days, ever since he woke up in the infirmary along with the six other gene carriers who’d had the misfortune to be in the lab when a small Ancient box labeled ‘function unknown’ had been activated.
He doesn’t need to hear this, doesn’t want to be a witness to late night confessions. (read me a story?) He tries to concentrate on the muted humming of the infirmary equipment in the next room, on the pulse of Atlantis that thrums through the city, on the creak of Carson’s chair. He’s been hearing enough unfamiliar voices, enough secrets already. (i didn’t fuck him, i swear to god) Rodney’s voice, however, cuts through all the other noises and John can't shut it out. He's never been able to.
“What if it doesn’t go away? What if it never stops? What if we’re stuck like this?” Rodney asks. He sounds strained and very young. (it can be used when there are precisely two cases in the case analysis)
John sucks in a breath. Typical of Rodney, to say what they’d all been thinking but hadn’t been dumb or ballsy enough to ask out loud. Aftereffects, Dr. Ghajar had said. Your minds were essentially twisted together, there are bound to be some aftereffects, but they’ll probably fade soon enough. Soon enough. Sure. (you always make it too salty)
His breath stutters out as a laugh, and Rodney and Carson turn to him. If their expressions are any indication, he sounds just as unbalanced (it’s cluttered, not messy) out loud as he does in his head. John stands up, shoving his chair away and trying to ignore the way the room spins slightly.
He's hot and cold all over, and the tightness in his chest is making it hard to breathe. He has to get away. It’s easy to avoid the hands that reach for him, easier to tune out the anxious questions. John’s been deafening himself to unwanted voices for days. (pass me the ladder, it’s too high) He makes it out of the infirmary, once again dodging the night nurse, into the corridor and around three corners before he crumples.
Sinking down against a wall, knees pulled up to his chest and face hidden from sight; he does not cover his ears. Not only would it be useless against sounds that come from inside his head, it would make him look even crazier than he already does. And he’s not crazy. He’s not. (i just have another consciousness in my brain)
Rodney’s footsteps round the corner a couple of minutes later. John doesn’t look up. (it won’t stop bleeding) Without a word, Rodney sits down next to him, settling back against the wall. John silently counts twenty-two seconds before Rodney says, “You know what’s actually really strange?”
There are far too many answers to that question (she needs to stop, make her stop), so John takes the easy way out.
“What?”
Rodney shifts slightly, his shoulder and side nudging against John. It takes all his remaining self-control not to lean into Rodney’s solid warmth.
“What’s strange is that five days have passed, and I haven’t heard the term ‘Vulcan mind meld’ used once. Not once, in a city full of people who, if they weren’t already dedicated science fiction fans when they got here, certainly have some damn good reasons and opportunities to watch the classics now that they live in, you know, Atlantis.”
John can’t help snorting half-way through Rodney’s indignant declaration, and afterwards his lips keep trying to twitch into a smile. (just take another sample) When quiet descends, he lifts his head to look at Rodney.
“So, what? You’re worried about the omission?” (blessed is the fruit of thy womb)
Rodney shakes his head, “No, just surprised really -”
He continues to elaborate on his point, and John watches his mouth, the motion of his hands through the air. Beneath Rodney’s words, he can hear piano music. It’s kind of nice, actually, and John feels the pressure in his chest lift slightly. He doesn’t notice that Rodney has stopped talking until Rodney touches his knee carefully and he realizes that he’s been staring straight into Rodney’s eyes. He looks away. (these few final hours have been dearly purchased)
Rodney is still for a moment, then says, “I can’t eat. Whenever I try, I end up smelling blood from one of Carson’s operations, or the room where Miko’s father died, or - or a burning helicopter.”
John flinches. Apologizing for accidentally sharing his shitty memories in the Pegasus version of a Vulcan mind meld would be ludicrous, but he’s really not sure what else he could say. (we can’t plant yet, the ground’s frozen) Rodney touches his knee again, and doesn’t remove his hand this time.
“Sometimes I forget which parts happened to me and which didn’t,” Rodney whispers, and John turns to face him. He could say that he wakes up calling the names of people he’s never met, that he catches himself humming the lullaby that Dr. Vogel’s grandmother used to sing. He could say that he knows exactly how Carson whimpers when he’s getting a blowjob, the name of Dr. Kusanagi’s first goldfish, and every single rasping scream that Dr. Perreira’s best friend voiced in the hour it took him to bleed out on a muddy road.
Instead John says, “Rodney. I - please. Stop talking.” (i’ll wait with you)
Then Rodney’s hands are touching his face instead of his knee. And when they kiss, there is.
At last.
Silence.