Fic: And Never Brought to Mind by HYPERFocused
Title: And Never Brought to Mind
Author: HYPERFocused
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard implied
Rating PG
A/N: For Amnesty, Earthside, and 38 Minutes. Part of a longer unfinished piece. About 800 words. Keep in mind the whole "written in 38 minutes" thing.
It's no secret why he's chosen your resort. Atlantis is a fine place to rest and recuperate, the blue-green waters and warm sun beckon many. He's been at the resort for as long as you've been working there, but as far as you can see, he never avails himself of the amenities. Doesn't lay out on the lounge chairs -- "Do you know the SPF I'd need? -". Doesn't swim. "What's the point? It wouldn't be the same." Avoids the award winning buffet "Just my luck the world renowned Chef would experiment with citrus." in favor of a few repeated favorite dishes, requested specially.
Mostly he sits at the grand piano in the lobby, and plays for hours while the audience builds and builds. His hands are beautiful, while he plays, and his intensity unnerving. The music ranges from pop to classical to wild jazz to something you can't name, except to say it's otherworldly. You wonder if he brought it back with him, or if his journey brought it out of himself.
It's odd that he's so proficient at the keys, because when you see him at other times, like when he's watching the ocean so intently you could swear he's waiting for someone to return from it, his hands shake like your father's did after he took to drinking. Something about the piano stills his tremors, or at least lessens them. Maybe you just don't notice because he plays with such passion.
He doesn't talk to you, or to anyone, really, except to say that the piano is out of tune -- he must have a more precise ear than the tuner who checks it weekly -- or to thank you when you pour him coffee, or a Molson, depending on his mood..
You're not sure if he's shy or anti social, or if once the floodgates opened would have no restraint at all. He seems the type who hides multitudes. Something about the way he looks at you keeps you from your own friendly banter. He wouldn't appreciate your wasting his time with fluff and geniality, even though as far as you can tell he's got nothing but time on his hands.
You know who he is, of course, and what he does -- or did. Probably everyone on Earth with access to the media knows the name Rodney McKay now, and the story of Atlantis. How a multinational group of scientists and soldiers took a leap into the unknown, and crossed an incredible distance for the joy of discovery. How the experimental genetic adaptation some of them were given worked for a time, but was later found to have dire health effects on a few, and Dr McKay was one of them.
It boggles you, to think of how far he's traveled, what he must have seen. It's beyond even your imagination -- and you've always been a dreamer.
The many articles you've read in magazines -- Time: Revelation of the Year, only tell the tiniest part, a drop in the bucket. You'd like to ask him what it was really like. Does he miss it? Stupid question. How can he not long to return to the world he helped create. Can he ever go back?. You don't ask, because you fear the wrong answer. It isn't even your journey, but it makes you heartsick to imagine it at it's very likely end. Does Earth even feel like home anymore? Who has he left behind?
So much of what he's learned and done and experienced will be classified long after you're dead. Your father was military before it all went wrong, and you know how these things go.
"What is it like?" You ask this, an open ended question, when you finally get the nerve. He's been playing all day, and there's a hint of something different in the air. It's two in the morning, the lobby for once abandoned, and there's no one there but the two of you. The music and Molson have loosened his tongue.
"It's like this," he says, gesturing to the piano. "Terrible and beautiful and painful and real. It's the best place I know, and the worst thing for me. If I go back it could kill me, but if I stay here, I'll die. My body will just take longer to catch up."
'It isn't just the 'where', is it? It's the 'who'. There's someone waiting for you," you say.
"I'm afraid I can't talk about that." He plays a bit of Folsom Prison Blues, and you wonder who it's for. He doesn't seem the Johnny Cash type. Then he seques into Heart of Rock and Roll, and you can tell the confessional part of the night is over.
You know he won't be there tomorrow.
Author: HYPERFocused
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard implied
Rating PG
A/N: For Amnesty, Earthside, and 38 Minutes. Part of a longer unfinished piece. About 800 words. Keep in mind the whole "written in 38 minutes" thing.
It's no secret why he's chosen your resort. Atlantis is a fine place to rest and recuperate, the blue-green waters and warm sun beckon many. He's been at the resort for as long as you've been working there, but as far as you can see, he never avails himself of the amenities. Doesn't lay out on the lounge chairs -- "Do you know the SPF I'd need? -". Doesn't swim. "What's the point? It wouldn't be the same." Avoids the award winning buffet "Just my luck the world renowned Chef would experiment with citrus." in favor of a few repeated favorite dishes, requested specially.
Mostly he sits at the grand piano in the lobby, and plays for hours while the audience builds and builds. His hands are beautiful, while he plays, and his intensity unnerving. The music ranges from pop to classical to wild jazz to something you can't name, except to say it's otherworldly. You wonder if he brought it back with him, or if his journey brought it out of himself.
It's odd that he's so proficient at the keys, because when you see him at other times, like when he's watching the ocean so intently you could swear he's waiting for someone to return from it, his hands shake like your father's did after he took to drinking. Something about the piano stills his tremors, or at least lessens them. Maybe you just don't notice because he plays with such passion.
He doesn't talk to you, or to anyone, really, except to say that the piano is out of tune -- he must have a more precise ear than the tuner who checks it weekly -- or to thank you when you pour him coffee, or a Molson, depending on his mood..
You're not sure if he's shy or anti social, or if once the floodgates opened would have no restraint at all. He seems the type who hides multitudes. Something about the way he looks at you keeps you from your own friendly banter. He wouldn't appreciate your wasting his time with fluff and geniality, even though as far as you can tell he's got nothing but time on his hands.
You know who he is, of course, and what he does -- or did. Probably everyone on Earth with access to the media knows the name Rodney McKay now, and the story of Atlantis. How a multinational group of scientists and soldiers took a leap into the unknown, and crossed an incredible distance for the joy of discovery. How the experimental genetic adaptation some of them were given worked for a time, but was later found to have dire health effects on a few, and Dr McKay was one of them.
It boggles you, to think of how far he's traveled, what he must have seen. It's beyond even your imagination -- and you've always been a dreamer.
The many articles you've read in magazines -- Time: Revelation of the Year, only tell the tiniest part, a drop in the bucket. You'd like to ask him what it was really like. Does he miss it? Stupid question. How can he not long to return to the world he helped create. Can he ever go back?. You don't ask, because you fear the wrong answer. It isn't even your journey, but it makes you heartsick to imagine it at it's very likely end. Does Earth even feel like home anymore? Who has he left behind?
So much of what he's learned and done and experienced will be classified long after you're dead. Your father was military before it all went wrong, and you know how these things go.
"What is it like?" You ask this, an open ended question, when you finally get the nerve. He's been playing all day, and there's a hint of something different in the air. It's two in the morning, the lobby for once abandoned, and there's no one there but the two of you. The music and Molson have loosened his tongue.
"It's like this," he says, gesturing to the piano. "Terrible and beautiful and painful and real. It's the best place I know, and the worst thing for me. If I go back it could kill me, but if I stay here, I'll die. My body will just take longer to catch up."
'It isn't just the 'where', is it? It's the 'who'. There's someone waiting for you," you say.
"I'm afraid I can't talk about that." He plays a bit of Folsom Prison Blues, and you wonder who it's for. He doesn't seem the Johnny Cash type. Then he seques into Heart of Rock and Roll, and you can tell the confessional part of the night is over.
You know he won't be there tomorrow.