First Night Challenge "Theory" by Brighid
Well. It's a theory.
Title: Theory
Author: Brighid
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Just borrowing, not making money.
Notes: First Night challenge.
Summary: In theory, things could get better.
Theory
Peter isn't quite sure how he's ended with what appears to be a broom closet for his quarters, but there it is and here he is. At least the door closes and McKay is out *there*, somewhere, and he's in here and he finally, *finally* gets to put his gear away and clean up and get some sleep.
Maybe not in that order, though.
He finds it hard to believe that an Ancient lived in this place, in this room; it's such a mix of oddly prosaic, *human* things alongside seemingly impossible technology. It's all very ... well, Star Trek, really, complete with anachronisms and funky Lucite technology.
He sets his laptop up on the low shelf by his bed, fishes through his "personal effects" bag for his collection of mp3's and cues up "Yellow", lets it fill the room. He slits his eyes half-shut, pretends he's in his bedroom back home, because all of this, right now, is too big to even began to try and realize, to understand. He wanders into the even smaller cubby that appears to be his bathroom and peers into the shower, which isn't so much a shower as a niche in the corner with multiple jet nozzles. He strips off his uniform which has been worn for close to forty-nine hours straight and smells like it, and then steps into the niche and lets the nozzles activate; like the doors they appear to just require a human presence rather than an ATA gene to activate, which is probably a good thing since he has a feeling Doctor Beckett might balk at having to do nightly toileting rounds.
Somewhere in the middle of losing himself in the steam and heat Peter realizes he's left his soap and razor and toothbrush and even his goddamn towel back in the main chamber but he decides it doesn't matter. He scrubs a little with his hands, then gets a mouthful of water and rinses his mouth out. When he steps away the water stops. After a moment of cold, naked indecision he uses his undershirt to towel the worst of the wet off before letting it drop. He doesn't look in the mirror because he's not sure who will be looking back at him. He closes his eyes again for walk back into his home-sweet-broom closet and climbs naked into bed. The lights dim around him and the music is like home and the sheets are clean and crisp and he wants to be asleep, he wants it all to just go away.
But his brain won't shut down, won't shut up. He's still in the control room and McKay's still bleating in his ear and people are running and afraid and leaving and coming and dying.
Already people are dead.
Sumner is dead. And there are no Goa'uld but there are Wraith and. And.
People are already dead.
This is supposed to be different, Peter thinks. A risk, yes, but still *different*.
Only it's not.
He wonders why he's here, why he's given up the devil he knows but Yellow switches over to Fra Lippo Lippi and he's here and he's not dead yet and...
he's here, and he's tired, and the stars outside his window are still stars and they're his stars now.
He opens his eyes, just enough to see out through the half-screened window, and he thinks he knows some of them, at least in theory.
In theory.
Peter closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.
)0(
Brighid 2005
Title: Theory
Author: Brighid
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Just borrowing, not making money.
Notes: First Night challenge.
Summary: In theory, things could get better.
Theory
Peter isn't quite sure how he's ended with what appears to be a broom closet for his quarters, but there it is and here he is. At least the door closes and McKay is out *there*, somewhere, and he's in here and he finally, *finally* gets to put his gear away and clean up and get some sleep.
Maybe not in that order, though.
He finds it hard to believe that an Ancient lived in this place, in this room; it's such a mix of oddly prosaic, *human* things alongside seemingly impossible technology. It's all very ... well, Star Trek, really, complete with anachronisms and funky Lucite technology.
He sets his laptop up on the low shelf by his bed, fishes through his "personal effects" bag for his collection of mp3's and cues up "Yellow", lets it fill the room. He slits his eyes half-shut, pretends he's in his bedroom back home, because all of this, right now, is too big to even began to try and realize, to understand. He wanders into the even smaller cubby that appears to be his bathroom and peers into the shower, which isn't so much a shower as a niche in the corner with multiple jet nozzles. He strips off his uniform which has been worn for close to forty-nine hours straight and smells like it, and then steps into the niche and lets the nozzles activate; like the doors they appear to just require a human presence rather than an ATA gene to activate, which is probably a good thing since he has a feeling Doctor Beckett might balk at having to do nightly toileting rounds.
Somewhere in the middle of losing himself in the steam and heat Peter realizes he's left his soap and razor and toothbrush and even his goddamn towel back in the main chamber but he decides it doesn't matter. He scrubs a little with his hands, then gets a mouthful of water and rinses his mouth out. When he steps away the water stops. After a moment of cold, naked indecision he uses his undershirt to towel the worst of the wet off before letting it drop. He doesn't look in the mirror because he's not sure who will be looking back at him. He closes his eyes again for walk back into his home-sweet-broom closet and climbs naked into bed. The lights dim around him and the music is like home and the sheets are clean and crisp and he wants to be asleep, he wants it all to just go away.
But his brain won't shut down, won't shut up. He's still in the control room and McKay's still bleating in his ear and people are running and afraid and leaving and coming and dying.
Already people are dead.
Sumner is dead. And there are no Goa'uld but there are Wraith and. And.
People are already dead.
This is supposed to be different, Peter thinks. A risk, yes, but still *different*.
Only it's not.
He wonders why he's here, why he's given up the devil he knows but Yellow switches over to Fra Lippo Lippi and he's here and he's not dead yet and...
he's here, and he's tired, and the stars outside his window are still stars and they're his stars now.
He opens his eyes, just enough to see out through the half-screened window, and he thinks he knows some of them, at least in theory.
In theory.
Peter closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.
)0(
Brighid 2005