The Power of Words by Vecturist (amnesty 2007, backstory challenge
Title: The Power of Words
Characters: Radek, Sheppard
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Primarily ‘Sunday’
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for a couple dozen soy sauce packets in the fridge.
Note: I originally wrote this for the backstory challenge, but didn’t have the time to publish it here, but it has been posted in another community.
Summary: Radek's trying to deal with some guilt and finds he's not alone.
The bottle of vodka Radek has sitting before him on the bar is far smoother than anything he’s been able to concoct during the three years he’s been on Atlantis, even despite the “helpful” input from various marines. For a fleeting moment he’s annoyed, well aware what more than a few people, including Colonel Sheppard and Rodney refer to his efforts as (despite their regular consumption), while Dr. Weir looks the other way on his not-quite-legal operation. He shrugs as he picks up the bottle, realizing that it will at least make getting drunk easier and he aims to be as drunk as possible before the evening is over.
He doesn’t even have to worry about getting home. Somewhere in the gloom of this bar is his designated driver, some young airman or marine nursing glasses of water or soda until it was time to bundle the Czech back to the Mountain for the night. Idly he wonders where the others are as he refills his glass again. Like water molecules escaping from a boiling kettle, the six of them seemed to need to distance themselves as fast and far as possible after their solemn task had been completed.
He’s not sure why Carson’s death is hitting him so hard, life in Pegasus has made them all too familiar with it, an unwelcome guest that one must still set a place for at dinner. With a careless hand swipe, he blurred the series of wet rings left by the vodka bottle as he overheard a small commotion behind him and suddenly Colonel Sheppard is slouching on the barstool next to him.
Neither man said anything, other than a quick nod of recognition., each lost in his own thoughts. Radek finally glances over as the colonel grabs the bottle, nodding approvingly at the choice after the bartender sets down a glass, having divined by whatever intuition bartenders seem to possess that the two men are together. Radek was almost certain Sheppard would have started drinking directly from the bottle if give a few more moments. He’d changed out his dress uniform and into jeans and a dark shirt, the color making him look even paler than he was. As pale as Radek had seen on multiple occasions being rushed towards Carson’s infirmary. Radek shook his head slightly, correcting himself. It was simply the infirmary now.
Colonel Sheppard filled his glass and Radek’s as well, lifting the glass in a silent toast and downed it in a single swallow, which Radek quickly imitated, and both glasses were refilled again. This continued for several rounds, neither of them saying anything, although a comment from Miko tickles in the back of his mind, something about being honor-bound to drink whatever is poured for you. The bottle is nearly empty and Radek debates the merits of ordering another while realizing he has bypassed the fuzzy slightly drunk state in favor of being well on his way to being completely drunk and asking for a memorable hangover when Sheppard suddenly curses and slams his glass down, which follows the ever-so-predictable laws of physics and promptly splinters.
Sheppard holds his hand up, seemingly shocked at the glass fragments and blood just beginning to bead up on his palm.
“You should let Carson take a look at that,” Radek offers, the words tumbling out automatically before he can think. Both men stare at each for a long, shocked moment before breaking into hysterical laughter. The bartender seems unruffled by what is unfolding in front of her, but a discrete eyeroll has their escorts suddenly herding them out the door and Sheppard’s having his hand stitched up by some anonymous SGC doctor on the night shift before it all completely registers. Radek has been checked over as well, although there isn’t much, aside from sympathetic looks and an offer of painkillers to lessen the impending hangover.
Having nowhere else to go except cramped temporary quarters, both men opt to remain in the infirmary; it’s a quiet night and no one’s kicking them out. As the effects of the alcohol slowly wear off, Radek surmises that Sheppard’s probably spent as much time in the infirmary either recovering or waiting for a teammate to recover as his own quarters.
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Doc,” Sheppard says suddenly, wincing a little at the loudness of his voice. Radek looks up, startled by the sudden conversation; they’d been busy occupying their own little islands of grief.
“It has been a long time since a death has affected me so,” he finally responds slowly, as if measuring out his words. The colonel gives him a curious look, and Radek finds himself starting to explain. “Growing up, I remember going to many funerals, even when there was not always a body,” his hands start moving of their own accord when Sheppard seems puzzled. “The government, the military, people would suddenly vanish, and you just knew, knew they were dead.” He paused. “My parents were dissidents, I was born during the Prague Spring, such a time of hope, that ended all too quickly. As soon as I could talk, my parents taught me the most important rule: words can kill, even the most innocent phrases,” he drifted off for a moment, and the colonel shifted on his bed, not quite sure where the conversation was going.
“Rodney likes to brag about nuclear bomb he built when twelve. When I was ten, I helped blow up government records center,” he smiled at the distant memory of small hands tracing out delicate wires. “My parents were always suspected by the government, so they had to be careful, extra careful when I started school. It was a balancing act, I was smart, eligible for better schools, but because of who my parents were, we lived in bad housing, homework by candlelight, because electricity was unpredictable. We camped for a few months because when the apartment burned, we were not high on priority list, and I think my parents suspected my brother’s bomb-making materials may have helped with the blaze. Still, not all bad,” he added catching the odd look, somewhere between worry and disbelief, from Colonel Sheppard.
“My father had pigeons, racing pigeons on the roof. Sometimes we used them to send messages. I was lucky though, smart enough to get to the good schools without Party favors. Stayed quiet, played chess,” he shuddered at the last word. Colonel Sheppard walked over to him, awkwardly pacing his good hand on the Czech’s shoulder. “I felt something would happen, I should have pushed harder for him to play chess, should have followed him to fish. Words can kill, I killed him.”
“We might all be guilty of that, Doc,” said the colonel slowly. Meeting his eyes, Radek saw for a brief second the raw turmoil in the man, someone who completely understood the power of words.
Characters: Radek, Sheppard
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Primarily ‘Sunday’
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for a couple dozen soy sauce packets in the fridge.
Note: I originally wrote this for the backstory challenge, but didn’t have the time to publish it here, but it has been posted in another community.
Summary: Radek's trying to deal with some guilt and finds he's not alone.
The bottle of vodka Radek has sitting before him on the bar is far smoother than anything he’s been able to concoct during the three years he’s been on Atlantis, even despite the “helpful” input from various marines. For a fleeting moment he’s annoyed, well aware what more than a few people, including Colonel Sheppard and Rodney refer to his efforts as (despite their regular consumption), while Dr. Weir looks the other way on his not-quite-legal operation. He shrugs as he picks up the bottle, realizing that it will at least make getting drunk easier and he aims to be as drunk as possible before the evening is over.
He doesn’t even have to worry about getting home. Somewhere in the gloom of this bar is his designated driver, some young airman or marine nursing glasses of water or soda until it was time to bundle the Czech back to the Mountain for the night. Idly he wonders where the others are as he refills his glass again. Like water molecules escaping from a boiling kettle, the six of them seemed to need to distance themselves as fast and far as possible after their solemn task had been completed.
He’s not sure why Carson’s death is hitting him so hard, life in Pegasus has made them all too familiar with it, an unwelcome guest that one must still set a place for at dinner. With a careless hand swipe, he blurred the series of wet rings left by the vodka bottle as he overheard a small commotion behind him and suddenly Colonel Sheppard is slouching on the barstool next to him.
Neither man said anything, other than a quick nod of recognition., each lost in his own thoughts. Radek finally glances over as the colonel grabs the bottle, nodding approvingly at the choice after the bartender sets down a glass, having divined by whatever intuition bartenders seem to possess that the two men are together. Radek was almost certain Sheppard would have started drinking directly from the bottle if give a few more moments. He’d changed out his dress uniform and into jeans and a dark shirt, the color making him look even paler than he was. As pale as Radek had seen on multiple occasions being rushed towards Carson’s infirmary. Radek shook his head slightly, correcting himself. It was simply the infirmary now.
Colonel Sheppard filled his glass and Radek’s as well, lifting the glass in a silent toast and downed it in a single swallow, which Radek quickly imitated, and both glasses were refilled again. This continued for several rounds, neither of them saying anything, although a comment from Miko tickles in the back of his mind, something about being honor-bound to drink whatever is poured for you. The bottle is nearly empty and Radek debates the merits of ordering another while realizing he has bypassed the fuzzy slightly drunk state in favor of being well on his way to being completely drunk and asking for a memorable hangover when Sheppard suddenly curses and slams his glass down, which follows the ever-so-predictable laws of physics and promptly splinters.
Sheppard holds his hand up, seemingly shocked at the glass fragments and blood just beginning to bead up on his palm.
“You should let Carson take a look at that,” Radek offers, the words tumbling out automatically before he can think. Both men stare at each for a long, shocked moment before breaking into hysterical laughter. The bartender seems unruffled by what is unfolding in front of her, but a discrete eyeroll has their escorts suddenly herding them out the door and Sheppard’s having his hand stitched up by some anonymous SGC doctor on the night shift before it all completely registers. Radek has been checked over as well, although there isn’t much, aside from sympathetic looks and an offer of painkillers to lessen the impending hangover.
Having nowhere else to go except cramped temporary quarters, both men opt to remain in the infirmary; it’s a quiet night and no one’s kicking them out. As the effects of the alcohol slowly wear off, Radek surmises that Sheppard’s probably spent as much time in the infirmary either recovering or waiting for a teammate to recover as his own quarters.
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Doc,” Sheppard says suddenly, wincing a little at the loudness of his voice. Radek looks up, startled by the sudden conversation; they’d been busy occupying their own little islands of grief.
“It has been a long time since a death has affected me so,” he finally responds slowly, as if measuring out his words. The colonel gives him a curious look, and Radek finds himself starting to explain. “Growing up, I remember going to many funerals, even when there was not always a body,” his hands start moving of their own accord when Sheppard seems puzzled. “The government, the military, people would suddenly vanish, and you just knew, knew they were dead.” He paused. “My parents were dissidents, I was born during the Prague Spring, such a time of hope, that ended all too quickly. As soon as I could talk, my parents taught me the most important rule: words can kill, even the most innocent phrases,” he drifted off for a moment, and the colonel shifted on his bed, not quite sure where the conversation was going.
“Rodney likes to brag about nuclear bomb he built when twelve. When I was ten, I helped blow up government records center,” he smiled at the distant memory of small hands tracing out delicate wires. “My parents were always suspected by the government, so they had to be careful, extra careful when I started school. It was a balancing act, I was smart, eligible for better schools, but because of who my parents were, we lived in bad housing, homework by candlelight, because electricity was unpredictable. We camped for a few months because when the apartment burned, we were not high on priority list, and I think my parents suspected my brother’s bomb-making materials may have helped with the blaze. Still, not all bad,” he added catching the odd look, somewhere between worry and disbelief, from Colonel Sheppard.
“My father had pigeons, racing pigeons on the roof. Sometimes we used them to send messages. I was lucky though, smart enough to get to the good schools without Party favors. Stayed quiet, played chess,” he shuddered at the last word. Colonel Sheppard walked over to him, awkwardly pacing his good hand on the Czech’s shoulder. “I felt something would happen, I should have pushed harder for him to play chess, should have followed him to fish. Words can kill, I killed him.”
“We might all be guilty of that, Doc,” said the colonel slowly. Meeting his eyes, Radek saw for a brief second the raw turmoil in the man, someone who completely understood the power of words.