The Place Where Angels Live / CSI+SGA
Title: The Place Where Angels Live
Rating: G
Fandom: CSI+SGA
Prompt: Night is falling. You're not home.
Summary: Sequel to Miles to Go Before I Sleep, which is the sequel to The Silent Land. (Nick/David, McShep.)
“And this,” John says, gesturing proudly towards The Stack House, “is our twenty-four hour diner, one of the finest eateries in town.”
“Sadly, it’s one of the only eateries in town, made worse by the fact it’s not always open twenty-four hours,” Rodney adds, using his characteristic grumbly voice. The sound of Nick’s laugh follows, but David himself can’t verbalize a single thing; he’s too busy staring at the diner, mouth carefully closed, expression carefully blank. Atlantis, Nevada-God, pictures didn’t do it the slightest bit of horrific justice! He’d been prepared for the cracked, sun-baked roads, the dusty ground, the rust and disarray, but the photos Rodney had sent during his first month here didn’t quite capture the surrealistic, jury-rigged nature of the town.
The fences are uneven. The auto shop (white-washed and stained) is an unimaginable eyesore. The actual Sheriff's station is held together by duct tape and prayer. Every coat of paint is peeling, every house is missing at least one shingle, and there’s nothing new or recent in terms of repair or construction. It gives David the feeling of being trapped in the Deep South circa 1950-something. It’s the same feeling Rodney had as well-at least initially, because David remembers the frantic e-mails with SOS messages in all caps.
“Anyway,” John continues, as if aware David’s thoughts are a hundred miles away, “I think that about wraps up the grand tour. Any questions?”
“I heard something about a water tower,” Nick replies, though David can’t tell if Nick’s gently teasing John or if he’s being serious. John, however, is eager to impress Rodney’s friends (for the sole purpose of impressing Rodney himself, no doubt), so he takes the small offering.
“Tallest structure in a forty mile radius,” comes the quick explanation. “Just had it installed last year. We raised the money ourselves, way before Rodney ever came along.”
“They somehow survived all this time without me,” Rodney dryly cuts in. A sarcastic retort forms at the tip of David’s tongue (it’s a natural reaction, really, borne from the fact that he and Rodney were once an infamous pair at the LVCL: Rodney, the haughty CSI; David, the only tech who could stand him), but it stays there, never crossing his lips.
For some reason, Rodney likes it here. David isn’t going to insult that.
“I think it’s a fine town you have,” Nick says, ever polite, and John practically glows at the compliment. “What do you think, Dave?”
Honestly? He thinks it’s a disaster. Middle of the desert, intermittently terrorized by a gang, no new technology, no serious connection to anywhere-it’s like the wild west, the sort of place no sane person would ever think to settle.
But surely Rodney knows this. John probably knows it, too, and David is suddenly aware that John cares about their opinions; maybe he thinks Rodney will leave if David dislikes Atlantis (a ridiculous concept, since Rodney does what Rodney wants, and nothing else), or maybe he honestly wants to impress visitors (which seems unlikely, considering his rumored “devil may care” attitude). Whatever the case, his casual, friendly manner is underlain with a ball of apprehension, and David aims to fix that immediately.
“You could use a couple of landscapers,” he says (Nick, in response, jabs him with a sharp elbow). “Then again,” he continues, pointedly ignoring the pain in his side, “this isn’t exactly a town.”
“Really,” Rodney deadpans. “Then by all means, what is Atlantis?”
David pauses, unsure of how to say it's a brave campaign, a delicate undertaking, a myth. He finally settles with: “It's something else entirely.”
He watches John, clad in his uniform and a leather jacket, shove his hands into his pockets to stave off the typical cold night temperature. Beside him is Rodney, wearing his favorite black coat, a long thing that reaches past his knees. His arms are crossed, more in defiance than warmth, and as they breathe, puffs of silvery-grey air flow from their mouths.
They make a strangely perfect picture: the small-town Sheriff and the big-town CSI, two worlds that, by all accounts, shouldn’t fit together.
“So tell us more about the Wraith gang,” Nick says, turning back towards the station, where Ronon’s brewing coffee and Teyla’s making room for two extra desks, because despite what anyone in Vegas thinks-Ecklie, Grissom, Atwater-Nick and David are going to see this to the end.
FIN.
Rating: G
Fandom: CSI+SGA
Prompt: Night is falling. You're not home.
Summary: Sequel to Miles to Go Before I Sleep, which is the sequel to The Silent Land. (Nick/David, McShep.)
“And this,” John says, gesturing proudly towards The Stack House, “is our twenty-four hour diner, one of the finest eateries in town.”
“Sadly, it’s one of the only eateries in town, made worse by the fact it’s not always open twenty-four hours,” Rodney adds, using his characteristic grumbly voice. The sound of Nick’s laugh follows, but David himself can’t verbalize a single thing; he’s too busy staring at the diner, mouth carefully closed, expression carefully blank. Atlantis, Nevada-God, pictures didn’t do it the slightest bit of horrific justice! He’d been prepared for the cracked, sun-baked roads, the dusty ground, the rust and disarray, but the photos Rodney had sent during his first month here didn’t quite capture the surrealistic, jury-rigged nature of the town.
The fences are uneven. The auto shop (white-washed and stained) is an unimaginable eyesore. The actual Sheriff's station is held together by duct tape and prayer. Every coat of paint is peeling, every house is missing at least one shingle, and there’s nothing new or recent in terms of repair or construction. It gives David the feeling of being trapped in the Deep South circa 1950-something. It’s the same feeling Rodney had as well-at least initially, because David remembers the frantic e-mails with SOS messages in all caps.
“Anyway,” John continues, as if aware David’s thoughts are a hundred miles away, “I think that about wraps up the grand tour. Any questions?”
“I heard something about a water tower,” Nick replies, though David can’t tell if Nick’s gently teasing John or if he’s being serious. John, however, is eager to impress Rodney’s friends (for the sole purpose of impressing Rodney himself, no doubt), so he takes the small offering.
“Tallest structure in a forty mile radius,” comes the quick explanation. “Just had it installed last year. We raised the money ourselves, way before Rodney ever came along.”
“They somehow survived all this time without me,” Rodney dryly cuts in. A sarcastic retort forms at the tip of David’s tongue (it’s a natural reaction, really, borne from the fact that he and Rodney were once an infamous pair at the LVCL: Rodney, the haughty CSI; David, the only tech who could stand him), but it stays there, never crossing his lips.
For some reason, Rodney likes it here. David isn’t going to insult that.
“I think it’s a fine town you have,” Nick says, ever polite, and John practically glows at the compliment. “What do you think, Dave?”
Honestly? He thinks it’s a disaster. Middle of the desert, intermittently terrorized by a gang, no new technology, no serious connection to anywhere-it’s like the wild west, the sort of place no sane person would ever think to settle.
But surely Rodney knows this. John probably knows it, too, and David is suddenly aware that John cares about their opinions; maybe he thinks Rodney will leave if David dislikes Atlantis (a ridiculous concept, since Rodney does what Rodney wants, and nothing else), or maybe he honestly wants to impress visitors (which seems unlikely, considering his rumored “devil may care” attitude). Whatever the case, his casual, friendly manner is underlain with a ball of apprehension, and David aims to fix that immediately.
“You could use a couple of landscapers,” he says (Nick, in response, jabs him with a sharp elbow). “Then again,” he continues, pointedly ignoring the pain in his side, “this isn’t exactly a town.”
“Really,” Rodney deadpans. “Then by all means, what is Atlantis?”
David pauses, unsure of how to say it's a brave campaign, a delicate undertaking, a myth. He finally settles with: “It's something else entirely.”
He watches John, clad in his uniform and a leather jacket, shove his hands into his pockets to stave off the typical cold night temperature. Beside him is Rodney, wearing his favorite black coat, a long thing that reaches past his knees. His arms are crossed, more in defiance than warmth, and as they breathe, puffs of silvery-grey air flow from their mouths.
They make a strangely perfect picture: the small-town Sheriff and the big-town CSI, two worlds that, by all accounts, shouldn’t fit together.
“So tell us more about the Wraith gang,” Nick says, turning back towards the station, where Ronon’s brewing coffee and Teyla’s making room for two extra desks, because despite what anyone in Vegas thinks-Ecklie, Grissom, Atwater-Nick and David are going to see this to the end.
FIN.