[Stargate: Fiction] "Compatibility of Souls: Ch. 5: Worth a Thousand Words" [6/12][John/Rodney, G]
Title: Chapter Five: Worth a Thousand Words
Author: Ami Ven
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,050
Prompt: mcsheplets challenge #052 ‘destiny’
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Summary: Rodney is a renaissance painter and John is an ex-soldier-turned-model.
Worth a Thousand Words
Non-Warning! This chapter contains nothing particularly offensive.
Milan, Italy
1483 A.D.
“What now?” grumbled Rodney. He set down his palette and brush, and slid from his stool to yank open the door. “What?”
The man on the other side looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Signor McKay?”
“That’s me,” said Rodney.
“I heard that you were looking for a model, for your paintings” said the man, a little hesitantly. “And I’m looking for a job.”
Rodney looked at the man again. He was of average height and slim build, with a tangle of dark hair which was pulled back from eyes that couldn’t decide on green or brown. His clothes were worn but neat, carefully mended, and he carried a single battered satchel over one shoulder.
“All right, you’re hired.”
“What?” said the man. “Don’t you want to know my name, or where I’m from, or if I plan to murder you in your sleep?”
“Do you plan to murder me in my sleep?” Rodney asked, dryly.
“No, but-”
“Then you’re hired. I’m doing a series of paintings depicting human motion, so I don’t actually care what you look like. You seem to have good musculature, although I might have to worry about being distracted by that hair.”
“What about my hair?” the man protested.
“My hours can be unpredictable,” Rodney continued, ignoring him. “I paint when I get an idea, or when the light is good, or when I’m very far behind on a deadline. I’ll need you to be available at any time to pose for me, but in exchange, I’m prepared to pay a daily wage, so you won’t have to worry about if I do any painting on any given day. Does that sound acceptable?”
“That sounds fine. But-”
“I’m just finished for the night,” said Rodney. “So, I’ll show you my studio and-”
“Hey,” the man interrupted, catching Rodney’s arm. His grip was firm but careful, not intended to hurt, though he clearly had the strength to. “I’m Sheppard. John Sheppard.”
“Rodney McKay. But you knew that already. Do you want to see the studio or not?”
Sheppard grinned. “Sure.”
There really wasn’t much to show him, but Sheppard seemed impressed. He complimented the paintings that Rodney had out drying, and even followed his somewhat rambling explanation of how he mixed all his own paints. Finally, they stopped at the foot of the stairs that lead to Rodney’s apartment on the second floor.
“Where are you lodging?” Rodney asked. “In case I get an idea suddenly and need to call on you?”
Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, nowhere,” he admitted. “I came straight here when I got into town, mostly because I didn’t have enough money for a room anywhere. But that’s fine, I can just-”
“You can just stay here,” said Rodney. “My apartment is upstairs, and there’s plenty of room.”
“Do you always invite strangers to move in with you, McKay?” asked Sheppard, smiling.
“I know your name, and that you don’t plan to kill me. What more do I need to know about a man?”
Sheppard laughed. “Plenty,” he said. “But I suppose we have time.”
“I see,” said Rodney, even though he didn’t. “Well. You can take the room at the end of the hall. It’s mostly empty, but feel free to move any art supplies you find to… anywhere else.”
“Thank you,” said Sheppard, and Rodney waited for the door to close before he turned to enter his own room.
Rodney forced himself to wake early the next morning, to take advantage of the spring sun, and found that Sheppard was already up.
“Sorry,” the other man said, raising his mug of ale apologetically. “I went for a run, and I got hungry. But I kept some warm for you.”
Rodney blinked. There was an actual fire going in his hearth, and a cloth-covered plate sitting to one side. Under the cloth were slices of the pork that had been left over from his supper the night before, and for a long moment, Rodney simply looked down at his plate.
“I usually just eat things cold,” he said. “Or go to the tavern. Where did you even get firewood?”
“There’s a stack of it in the courtyard outside the kitchen,” said Sheppard, slowly. Then, he snorted a laugh. “You’re one of those absent-minded artists, aren’t you?”
“I’m a genius,” Rodney protested, but he smiled, too. “All right, enough small talk, there’s work to be done.”
“That was small talk?” said Sheppard, as he rose and began clearing away the dishes.
Rodney ignored him, sorting through a pile of papers and other assorted supplies, until he found his sketchbook and a few sticks of charcoal.
“What’s that for?” Sheppard asked. “I thought you were a painter.”
“You can’t just start painting,” said Rodney. “You need a sketch first, to get the proportioning right, and the angles… Didn’t I mention that I was doing a series on human muscle movement?”
“You did,” Sheppard agreed.
“Then go move some muscles. Over there, by the window. This needs plenty of light. And take your shirt off.” When Sheppard hesitated, Rodney added, “In the incredibly unlikely even that we get visitors, I’ll give you some warning so that you can make yourself presentable to polite society, all right?”
“Fine,” said Sheppard, and pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. “How is this?”
It took Rodney a moment to realize he’d been asked a question. “What? No, that’s fine. That’s… Can you hold both arms straight and use them to lean against the window? There’s something about the curve of your shoulders…”
Rodney trailed off, bent over his sketchbook, charcoal scratching over the paper. Every so often, Sheppard shifted his weight, which should have been a problem, but the new angles of his body were just as interesting, so Rodney sketched them, too. It was only when the light began to change that he realized he had been sketching for hours.
“Sorry,” he said, setting down his sketchbook. “You must be tired. And I think I have enough to begin with.”
Sheppard smiled, pushed off from the window, and dropped into the chair beside Rodney’s work table. “I’m fine. This is much easier than marching all day. I was a soldier,” he added, at Rodney’s blank look.
“Oh. Well, anyway, thank you. I have ideas already for the poses I want to include in the series.”
“Great,” said Sheppard. “Can I see what you drew today?”
Rodney hesitated, then handed him the sketchbook. “These are very rough,” he said. “And I didn’t really try to make them look like you.”
“What are you talking about, McKay?” said Sheppard, flipping carefully through the pages. “These are amazing! They look just like me.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“These are really, really good. The only time I’ve ever seen anything close is that guy in Florence, Leonardo.”
“What, that hack?” said Rodney, outraged. “I’ll admit, he’s had a few good ideas, but most of his work-”
“Your work is much better, McKay,” said Sheppard, smiling.
It took three more days of sketching before Rodney was ready to move onto a canvas, which was actually two days fewer than he’d thought. Sheppard seemed to understand what he was trying to capture, and Rodney found himself talking more and more while he drew, not just about the work, but about anything and everything. The other man was surprisingly knowledgeable, for an ex-soldier, and seemed more amused than annoyed when Rodney began rambling.
He gave Sheppard the next day off, while he organized his sketches, and the ex-soldier came back just after nightfall with a basket of food he’d traded for with an afternoon of manual labor.
“Have to keep in shape, right?” Sheppard joked. “Your paintings won’t be as good if I get fat from just sitting around.”
“You could never get fat,” Rodney scoffed, and Sheppard just laughed.
In the middle of the night, Rodney woke with a painting already half-formed in his mind, and he hurried downstairs to find a canvas. He didn’t bother lighting any candles, just stood beside the open window, sketching and painting by moonlight, until a cloud passed overhead, and he paused. Rodney looked at what he’d drawn and took a long, shaky breath, then folded a cloth over the canvas and slid it behind the small pile of blank ones.
Still feeling a little unsteady, he went back to bed.
The next morning, Rodney started painting the first of his motion series, and asked Sheppard to stay, in case he needed more references.
“I feel stupid just sitting here when you’re not drawing me,” Sheppard complained, after an hour. “I’ll stay within shouting distance.”
Rodney waved a dismissive hand, already absorbed in his work, but when he looked up again, hours later, he nearly dropped his paintbrush. His entire studio had been cleaned- jars of paint and pigment were lined up on his desk, cleaning rags were folded in neat piles, canvases were stacked in even rows- and Sheppard sat by the cold hearth, sweeping ashes into an old jar.
“What did you do?” Rodney asked, surprised.
Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck. “It didn’t seem right, getting paid for not doing any work, so I cleaned up a bit,” he said, and just as Rodney remembered his canvas sketch from the night before, Sheppard added, “I didn’t look at anything, and I didn’t get rid of anything. I just straightened everything up a bit.”
Rodney looked around, relieved. There wasn’t really anything that wasn’t in the same place he would have put it, if he’d ever gotten around to cleaning up himself. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
He had never considered taking on an apprentice or hiring an assistant, but he couldn’t have found one who was better than Sheppard. While Rodney worked, Sheppard kept the studio tidy, reminded Rodney to eat, and even stretched canvases and mixed up paints, after Rodney had shown him how.
“Looking good, McKay,” he said, whenever he passed by, as the series slowly took shape.
Rodney worked on all the paintings simultaneously, six canvases on six easels, and he darted between them, brushes flying. Then, suddenly, he slowed to a stop in the circle of flickering candlelight.
“I’m finished,” he said, surprised.
“Really?” said Sheppard. “That’s great!”
He came over to see the paintings, grinning. Rodney had been focused on the motion of the human body, but the figure did look a bit like Sheppard, sun-tanned skin and wild dark hair.
“These are amazing,” said Sheppard. “Lady Weir will love them.”
“Lady Weir, right,” said Rodney. She was his patron, the only child of wealthy and indulgent parents, who had surprisingly good taste in art. “Right. I’ll need… I’ll need to box these up, have them sent to her…”
“They need to dry first,” said Sheppard. “And you’ve been up for two days straight. Get some sleep. I can set these out to dry, you’ve shown me how.”
“All right,” said Rodney, too tired to argue. “Good night.”
Rodney woke late the next morning, long after the sun had risen. And now that he was rested, he felt the high spirits that came with finishing a long project- which evaporated the moment he came downstairs to find Sheppard standing beside a half-built crate, and holding a familiar canvas.
Rodney had never seen it in the daylight- he had painted it by moonlight and put it away immediately. “I can explain…” he began.
Sheppard set the canvas on an easel with shaking hands. “Is this really how you see me?”
The painting, rough scratches of color mixed with meticulous brushstrokes, showed Sheppard lying in a grassy field, completely bare except for a carefully-placed drape of night-black cloth, skin glowing in the dappled sunlight.
“I’m sorry,” Rodney breathed. “I should have asked, I shouldn’t have…”
“I don’t think you got it quite right,” said Sheppard.
Rodney’s heart stuttered. “What?”
“In fact,” said Sheppard. “I think you should paint another one.”
“Another one?” Rodney repeated.
Sheppard nodded. “Maybe several.”
A smile slowly crept across Rodney’s face. “I’ll need a model.”
Sheppard- John- grinned, and reached for his hand. “As it happens, I know someone who might be interested.”
“Might be?” Rodney asked, closing his fingers around John’s.
“Is,” John corrected.
Who’s Who
Rodney McKay, as a painter
John Sheppard as an unemployed soldier
Elizabeth Weir as Rodney’s patron
Chapter Six
Current Mood:
crappy
Author: Ami Ven
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,050
Prompt: mcsheplets challenge #052 ‘destiny’
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Summary: Rodney is a renaissance painter and John is an ex-soldier-turned-model.
Worth a Thousand Words
Non-Warning! This chapter contains nothing particularly offensive.
Milan, Italy
1483 A.D.
“What now?” grumbled Rodney. He set down his palette and brush, and slid from his stool to yank open the door. “What?”
The man on the other side looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Signor McKay?”
“That’s me,” said Rodney.
“I heard that you were looking for a model, for your paintings” said the man, a little hesitantly. “And I’m looking for a job.”
Rodney looked at the man again. He was of average height and slim build, with a tangle of dark hair which was pulled back from eyes that couldn’t decide on green or brown. His clothes were worn but neat, carefully mended, and he carried a single battered satchel over one shoulder.
“All right, you’re hired.”
“What?” said the man. “Don’t you want to know my name, or where I’m from, or if I plan to murder you in your sleep?”
“Do you plan to murder me in my sleep?” Rodney asked, dryly.
“No, but-”
“Then you’re hired. I’m doing a series of paintings depicting human motion, so I don’t actually care what you look like. You seem to have good musculature, although I might have to worry about being distracted by that hair.”
“What about my hair?” the man protested.
“My hours can be unpredictable,” Rodney continued, ignoring him. “I paint when I get an idea, or when the light is good, or when I’m very far behind on a deadline. I’ll need you to be available at any time to pose for me, but in exchange, I’m prepared to pay a daily wage, so you won’t have to worry about if I do any painting on any given day. Does that sound acceptable?”
“That sounds fine. But-”
“I’m just finished for the night,” said Rodney. “So, I’ll show you my studio and-”
“Hey,” the man interrupted, catching Rodney’s arm. His grip was firm but careful, not intended to hurt, though he clearly had the strength to. “I’m Sheppard. John Sheppard.”
“Rodney McKay. But you knew that already. Do you want to see the studio or not?”
Sheppard grinned. “Sure.”
There really wasn’t much to show him, but Sheppard seemed impressed. He complimented the paintings that Rodney had out drying, and even followed his somewhat rambling explanation of how he mixed all his own paints. Finally, they stopped at the foot of the stairs that lead to Rodney’s apartment on the second floor.
“Where are you lodging?” Rodney asked. “In case I get an idea suddenly and need to call on you?”
Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, nowhere,” he admitted. “I came straight here when I got into town, mostly because I didn’t have enough money for a room anywhere. But that’s fine, I can just-”
“You can just stay here,” said Rodney. “My apartment is upstairs, and there’s plenty of room.”
“Do you always invite strangers to move in with you, McKay?” asked Sheppard, smiling.
“I know your name, and that you don’t plan to kill me. What more do I need to know about a man?”
Sheppard laughed. “Plenty,” he said. “But I suppose we have time.”
“I see,” said Rodney, even though he didn’t. “Well. You can take the room at the end of the hall. It’s mostly empty, but feel free to move any art supplies you find to… anywhere else.”
“Thank you,” said Sheppard, and Rodney waited for the door to close before he turned to enter his own room.
Rodney forced himself to wake early the next morning, to take advantage of the spring sun, and found that Sheppard was already up.
“Sorry,” the other man said, raising his mug of ale apologetically. “I went for a run, and I got hungry. But I kept some warm for you.”
Rodney blinked. There was an actual fire going in his hearth, and a cloth-covered plate sitting to one side. Under the cloth were slices of the pork that had been left over from his supper the night before, and for a long moment, Rodney simply looked down at his plate.
“I usually just eat things cold,” he said. “Or go to the tavern. Where did you even get firewood?”
“There’s a stack of it in the courtyard outside the kitchen,” said Sheppard, slowly. Then, he snorted a laugh. “You’re one of those absent-minded artists, aren’t you?”
“I’m a genius,” Rodney protested, but he smiled, too. “All right, enough small talk, there’s work to be done.”
“That was small talk?” said Sheppard, as he rose and began clearing away the dishes.
Rodney ignored him, sorting through a pile of papers and other assorted supplies, until he found his sketchbook and a few sticks of charcoal.
“What’s that for?” Sheppard asked. “I thought you were a painter.”
“You can’t just start painting,” said Rodney. “You need a sketch first, to get the proportioning right, and the angles… Didn’t I mention that I was doing a series on human muscle movement?”
“You did,” Sheppard agreed.
“Then go move some muscles. Over there, by the window. This needs plenty of light. And take your shirt off.” When Sheppard hesitated, Rodney added, “In the incredibly unlikely even that we get visitors, I’ll give you some warning so that you can make yourself presentable to polite society, all right?”
“Fine,” said Sheppard, and pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. “How is this?”
It took Rodney a moment to realize he’d been asked a question. “What? No, that’s fine. That’s… Can you hold both arms straight and use them to lean against the window? There’s something about the curve of your shoulders…”
Rodney trailed off, bent over his sketchbook, charcoal scratching over the paper. Every so often, Sheppard shifted his weight, which should have been a problem, but the new angles of his body were just as interesting, so Rodney sketched them, too. It was only when the light began to change that he realized he had been sketching for hours.
“Sorry,” he said, setting down his sketchbook. “You must be tired. And I think I have enough to begin with.”
Sheppard smiled, pushed off from the window, and dropped into the chair beside Rodney’s work table. “I’m fine. This is much easier than marching all day. I was a soldier,” he added, at Rodney’s blank look.
“Oh. Well, anyway, thank you. I have ideas already for the poses I want to include in the series.”
“Great,” said Sheppard. “Can I see what you drew today?”
Rodney hesitated, then handed him the sketchbook. “These are very rough,” he said. “And I didn’t really try to make them look like you.”
“What are you talking about, McKay?” said Sheppard, flipping carefully through the pages. “These are amazing! They look just like me.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“These are really, really good. The only time I’ve ever seen anything close is that guy in Florence, Leonardo.”
“What, that hack?” said Rodney, outraged. “I’ll admit, he’s had a few good ideas, but most of his work-”
“Your work is much better, McKay,” said Sheppard, smiling.
It took three more days of sketching before Rodney was ready to move onto a canvas, which was actually two days fewer than he’d thought. Sheppard seemed to understand what he was trying to capture, and Rodney found himself talking more and more while he drew, not just about the work, but about anything and everything. The other man was surprisingly knowledgeable, for an ex-soldier, and seemed more amused than annoyed when Rodney began rambling.
He gave Sheppard the next day off, while he organized his sketches, and the ex-soldier came back just after nightfall with a basket of food he’d traded for with an afternoon of manual labor.
“Have to keep in shape, right?” Sheppard joked. “Your paintings won’t be as good if I get fat from just sitting around.”
“You could never get fat,” Rodney scoffed, and Sheppard just laughed.
In the middle of the night, Rodney woke with a painting already half-formed in his mind, and he hurried downstairs to find a canvas. He didn’t bother lighting any candles, just stood beside the open window, sketching and painting by moonlight, until a cloud passed overhead, and he paused. Rodney looked at what he’d drawn and took a long, shaky breath, then folded a cloth over the canvas and slid it behind the small pile of blank ones.
Still feeling a little unsteady, he went back to bed.
The next morning, Rodney started painting the first of his motion series, and asked Sheppard to stay, in case he needed more references.
“I feel stupid just sitting here when you’re not drawing me,” Sheppard complained, after an hour. “I’ll stay within shouting distance.”
Rodney waved a dismissive hand, already absorbed in his work, but when he looked up again, hours later, he nearly dropped his paintbrush. His entire studio had been cleaned- jars of paint and pigment were lined up on his desk, cleaning rags were folded in neat piles, canvases were stacked in even rows- and Sheppard sat by the cold hearth, sweeping ashes into an old jar.
“What did you do?” Rodney asked, surprised.
Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck. “It didn’t seem right, getting paid for not doing any work, so I cleaned up a bit,” he said, and just as Rodney remembered his canvas sketch from the night before, Sheppard added, “I didn’t look at anything, and I didn’t get rid of anything. I just straightened everything up a bit.”
Rodney looked around, relieved. There wasn’t really anything that wasn’t in the same place he would have put it, if he’d ever gotten around to cleaning up himself. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
He had never considered taking on an apprentice or hiring an assistant, but he couldn’t have found one who was better than Sheppard. While Rodney worked, Sheppard kept the studio tidy, reminded Rodney to eat, and even stretched canvases and mixed up paints, after Rodney had shown him how.
“Looking good, McKay,” he said, whenever he passed by, as the series slowly took shape.
Rodney worked on all the paintings simultaneously, six canvases on six easels, and he darted between them, brushes flying. Then, suddenly, he slowed to a stop in the circle of flickering candlelight.
“I’m finished,” he said, surprised.
“Really?” said Sheppard. “That’s great!”
He came over to see the paintings, grinning. Rodney had been focused on the motion of the human body, but the figure did look a bit like Sheppard, sun-tanned skin and wild dark hair.
“These are amazing,” said Sheppard. “Lady Weir will love them.”
“Lady Weir, right,” said Rodney. She was his patron, the only child of wealthy and indulgent parents, who had surprisingly good taste in art. “Right. I’ll need… I’ll need to box these up, have them sent to her…”
“They need to dry first,” said Sheppard. “And you’ve been up for two days straight. Get some sleep. I can set these out to dry, you’ve shown me how.”
“All right,” said Rodney, too tired to argue. “Good night.”
Rodney woke late the next morning, long after the sun had risen. And now that he was rested, he felt the high spirits that came with finishing a long project- which evaporated the moment he came downstairs to find Sheppard standing beside a half-built crate, and holding a familiar canvas.
Rodney had never seen it in the daylight- he had painted it by moonlight and put it away immediately. “I can explain…” he began.
Sheppard set the canvas on an easel with shaking hands. “Is this really how you see me?”
The painting, rough scratches of color mixed with meticulous brushstrokes, showed Sheppard lying in a grassy field, completely bare except for a carefully-placed drape of night-black cloth, skin glowing in the dappled sunlight.
“I’m sorry,” Rodney breathed. “I should have asked, I shouldn’t have…”
“I don’t think you got it quite right,” said Sheppard.
Rodney’s heart stuttered. “What?”
“In fact,” said Sheppard. “I think you should paint another one.”
“Another one?” Rodney repeated.
Sheppard nodded. “Maybe several.”
A smile slowly crept across Rodney’s face. “I’ll need a model.”
Sheppard- John- grinned, and reached for his hand. “As it happens, I know someone who might be interested.”
“Might be?” Rodney asked, closing his fingers around John’s.
“Is,” John corrected.
Who’s Who
Rodney McKay, as a painter
John Sheppard as an unemployed soldier
Elizabeth Weir as Rodney’s patron
Chapter Six
Current Mood:
crappy