SGA Fic - Envy
Title: Envy
Rating: PG for language
Characters: John, Rodney
Summary: In which Rodney gets wings and John doesn't.
A/N: Just a little something I whipped up a while ago that's been sitting on my hard drive. Edited but not beta'd.
Envy
When another run-in with pointless Ancient machinations gave Rodney wings, Sheppard stopped talking to him. So a little jealousy was to be expected - wings really should have been a Sheppard thing. But a day going into a week going into three weeks felt like a bit much for Sheppard.
Strike that, it was too much for a guy with a sulking half-life of an hour... or whenever something shiny and explosive came along to distract him. Rodney had been certain, without a doubt, that Sheppard of all people would be on Rodney like his shadow: offering flight lessons, giving pointers, digging up video footage of avians on the wing and all that flyboy crap. Two minutes of sulking, then it was off to the nearest pier, dragging Rodney and his new wings with him to test what those babies could do.
Which, really, would have been a hell of a lot more tolerable than dealing with damn zoologists who seemed more intent on dissecting the stupid wings - they kept taking samples; feathers, skin... blood. The scalpel would soon follow, Rodney was sure.
So Rodney ditched the zoologists when he could, testing the wings on his own. He was a scientist himself, after all. Besides which, Sheppard would come around eventually, so Rodney might as well get the prospect of learning how to fly over with.
First attempt, a glide over the ocean from the pier, and Rodney almost drowned. Ronon had to haul him out. Sheppard was there at the infirmary, hovering, watching, still saying nothing.
Second attempt, no drowning, only a sprained wrist. Sheppard hovered, quiet as a statue, and left when Rodney was given a clean bill of health, the same time a zoologist came for another sample.
Third attempt, Rodney circled once over the waves, unsteady as a fledgling, and flailed and fluttered his way back to the pier. He landed, like a rock, but with nothing sprained and Teyla and Radek cheering him on. Ronon told him good job in that flat, unimpressed way of his. If Sheppard had been there, hovering like he did in the infirmary, Rodney hadn't seen him. Neither did he think he'd been there.
And Rodney was getting sick of it. He tried, with twice the tenacity used on those who refused to listen to reason, to talk to Sheppard. He bypassed Sheppard's door and cornered him every chance he got. But it was all the same, ended all the same - Sheppard growled at him, Rodney growled back. Sheppard told him he just needed time to process and to leave him alone until he did. Rodney stomped off in a huff.
Three weeks became a month. The wings weren't a product of an Ascension machine, or Rodney would be ascended - or more likely dead - by now.
Rodney circled over the ocean more and more, building wing muscles that took a little off the waist and broadened his back. It was quite exhilarating, flying without the confines of a metal box, feeling the wind push against him, but the air endless around him. He could see why Sheppard loved flying so much, and why he was jealous but Rodney had had the latter figured from day one.
The machine wasn't an Ascension machine. Rodney couldn't say what it was for, neither could Zelenka, but the Ancient gene had a lot to do with it. The mice without the gene tested within the machine came out normal. The mice injected with the gene therapy came out with gills and flippers and had to be kept in a fish tank.
This got Beckett theorizing, gathering genes where he could to synthesize more of the inoculation, and mice popped out like future X-men from a mutant factory - gills, wings, strength, psionic abilities. One mouse could speak, spell and count, but the enlarged brain capacity soon killed the poor little guy. They had called him Frank, because he'd liked the name, and they buried him on the mainland with a little head stone. It was weird.
Rodney gained enough wing-muscle to fly to the lowest balcony.
The Ancient database coughed up clues - research into gene manipulation, both before the war with the Wraith and heavily during. To change the Wraith to human, was Beckett's theory, except that the machine didn't work on anything without the gene.
“A healing device, then,” was Beckett's next grand assumption. Some of those inoculated mice that had been showing signs of illness were, as Carson put it, healthy as horses. Being the obnoxious softy that he was, he refused to injure a mouse on purpose for the sake of a theory, so waited, because even mice could be clumsy. One of the winged mice gave itself a concussion flying into the wall of its cage. It was bleeding on the brain, about to die. Carson put it in the machine.
Nothing happened; the mouse died, anyway. Carson consoled himself by saying that the alteration must be a one time thing. Once the body had been manipulated, the machine was done. Then he called it a right ruddy piece of crap as a healing machine would have come in handy, even if it was prejudice to those without the gene.
Rodney flew to the highest balcony.
Five days later, his wings fell off. Rodney woke up, sat up and thought he was feeling a few pounds lighter. He turned and there they were, his wings, still on the bed and molting fast. In a fit of panic he ran to the infirmary, not even noticing that he was in his PJs, and all for nothing. The wings had fallen off and there wasn't even a scar to show for it.
Carson wasn't surprised. “Some of the mice are showing signs of reverting to their natural form, like a body rejecting a new organ but without the nasty side effects, like death. Guess their gene wasn't strong enough.”
All the same, Carson imprisoned Rodney in an infirmary bed for the sake of observation.
And Sheppard hovered, in the shadows, saying nothing.
Rodney lifted his chin at him. “Guess this makes you happy.”
Sheppard stepped closer, up to the foot of the bed. “Not really.”
Liar. He had his hands in his pockets; he was relaxed.
“It was fun while it lasted, though,” Rodney said, flooded with vindication.
“Bet it was,” Sheppard said.
“You're happy,” Rodney accused, frowning. “You're happy that they're gone. So why don't you do us both a favor and just admit it so that we can get on with life.”
Sheppard stayed quite. He stared at Rodney, and stared, and stared and... “They let you keep yours.”
“Ha! I kne-- what?”
Sheppard turned his back to him, then lifted his shirt, over his shoulder blades and all the way to his neck.
Rodney had seen Sheppard shirtless more times than he cared to remember - in the infirmary, accidentally walking in on him while he was getting dressed, during another asinine alien ritual. He'd seen Sheppard skin, muscle and the occasional outline of bones. He'd seen hidden scars.
But he'd never seen them, those lines of cut flesh, those round shapes where bullets had punctured.
Two angled lines running between the shoulder blades, the length of the shoulder blades...
Sheppard lowered his shirt as he turned back around, adjusting it around his body.
Rodney looked at him and said, quiet and small and at a complete loss, “How?” Because they didn't have manipulation machines on Earth. At least... not that Rodney knew.
Sheppard shrugged. “Having your genes screwed with must be hereditary.”
“I didn't know,” Rodney said.
“I know,” Sheppard said.
“How old...”
“Five. Before I was supposed to start school. After my mom died.”
“You could go into the machine. You could...”
But Sheppard patted his foot. “It's okay, Rodney. It's okay. See you at lunch.”
Sheppard left, like it really didn't matter.
Except that it did.
The End
Rating: PG for language
Characters: John, Rodney
Summary: In which Rodney gets wings and John doesn't.
A/N: Just a little something I whipped up a while ago that's been sitting on my hard drive. Edited but not beta'd.
Envy
When another run-in with pointless Ancient machinations gave Rodney wings, Sheppard stopped talking to him. So a little jealousy was to be expected - wings really should have been a Sheppard thing. But a day going into a week going into three weeks felt like a bit much for Sheppard.
Strike that, it was too much for a guy with a sulking half-life of an hour... or whenever something shiny and explosive came along to distract him. Rodney had been certain, without a doubt, that Sheppard of all people would be on Rodney like his shadow: offering flight lessons, giving pointers, digging up video footage of avians on the wing and all that flyboy crap. Two minutes of sulking, then it was off to the nearest pier, dragging Rodney and his new wings with him to test what those babies could do.
Which, really, would have been a hell of a lot more tolerable than dealing with damn zoologists who seemed more intent on dissecting the stupid wings - they kept taking samples; feathers, skin... blood. The scalpel would soon follow, Rodney was sure.
So Rodney ditched the zoologists when he could, testing the wings on his own. He was a scientist himself, after all. Besides which, Sheppard would come around eventually, so Rodney might as well get the prospect of learning how to fly over with.
First attempt, a glide over the ocean from the pier, and Rodney almost drowned. Ronon had to haul him out. Sheppard was there at the infirmary, hovering, watching, still saying nothing.
Second attempt, no drowning, only a sprained wrist. Sheppard hovered, quiet as a statue, and left when Rodney was given a clean bill of health, the same time a zoologist came for another sample.
Third attempt, Rodney circled once over the waves, unsteady as a fledgling, and flailed and fluttered his way back to the pier. He landed, like a rock, but with nothing sprained and Teyla and Radek cheering him on. Ronon told him good job in that flat, unimpressed way of his. If Sheppard had been there, hovering like he did in the infirmary, Rodney hadn't seen him. Neither did he think he'd been there.
And Rodney was getting sick of it. He tried, with twice the tenacity used on those who refused to listen to reason, to talk to Sheppard. He bypassed Sheppard's door and cornered him every chance he got. But it was all the same, ended all the same - Sheppard growled at him, Rodney growled back. Sheppard told him he just needed time to process and to leave him alone until he did. Rodney stomped off in a huff.
Three weeks became a month. The wings weren't a product of an Ascension machine, or Rodney would be ascended - or more likely dead - by now.
Rodney circled over the ocean more and more, building wing muscles that took a little off the waist and broadened his back. It was quite exhilarating, flying without the confines of a metal box, feeling the wind push against him, but the air endless around him. He could see why Sheppard loved flying so much, and why he was jealous but Rodney had had the latter figured from day one.
The machine wasn't an Ascension machine. Rodney couldn't say what it was for, neither could Zelenka, but the Ancient gene had a lot to do with it. The mice without the gene tested within the machine came out normal. The mice injected with the gene therapy came out with gills and flippers and had to be kept in a fish tank.
This got Beckett theorizing, gathering genes where he could to synthesize more of the inoculation, and mice popped out like future X-men from a mutant factory - gills, wings, strength, psionic abilities. One mouse could speak, spell and count, but the enlarged brain capacity soon killed the poor little guy. They had called him Frank, because he'd liked the name, and they buried him on the mainland with a little head stone. It was weird.
Rodney gained enough wing-muscle to fly to the lowest balcony.
The Ancient database coughed up clues - research into gene manipulation, both before the war with the Wraith and heavily during. To change the Wraith to human, was Beckett's theory, except that the machine didn't work on anything without the gene.
“A healing device, then,” was Beckett's next grand assumption. Some of those inoculated mice that had been showing signs of illness were, as Carson put it, healthy as horses. Being the obnoxious softy that he was, he refused to injure a mouse on purpose for the sake of a theory, so waited, because even mice could be clumsy. One of the winged mice gave itself a concussion flying into the wall of its cage. It was bleeding on the brain, about to die. Carson put it in the machine.
Nothing happened; the mouse died, anyway. Carson consoled himself by saying that the alteration must be a one time thing. Once the body had been manipulated, the machine was done. Then he called it a right ruddy piece of crap as a healing machine would have come in handy, even if it was prejudice to those without the gene.
Rodney flew to the highest balcony.
Five days later, his wings fell off. Rodney woke up, sat up and thought he was feeling a few pounds lighter. He turned and there they were, his wings, still on the bed and molting fast. In a fit of panic he ran to the infirmary, not even noticing that he was in his PJs, and all for nothing. The wings had fallen off and there wasn't even a scar to show for it.
Carson wasn't surprised. “Some of the mice are showing signs of reverting to their natural form, like a body rejecting a new organ but without the nasty side effects, like death. Guess their gene wasn't strong enough.”
All the same, Carson imprisoned Rodney in an infirmary bed for the sake of observation.
And Sheppard hovered, in the shadows, saying nothing.
Rodney lifted his chin at him. “Guess this makes you happy.”
Sheppard stepped closer, up to the foot of the bed. “Not really.”
Liar. He had his hands in his pockets; he was relaxed.
“It was fun while it lasted, though,” Rodney said, flooded with vindication.
“Bet it was,” Sheppard said.
“You're happy,” Rodney accused, frowning. “You're happy that they're gone. So why don't you do us both a favor and just admit it so that we can get on with life.”
Sheppard stayed quite. He stared at Rodney, and stared, and stared and... “They let you keep yours.”
“Ha! I kne-- what?”
Sheppard turned his back to him, then lifted his shirt, over his shoulder blades and all the way to his neck.
Rodney had seen Sheppard shirtless more times than he cared to remember - in the infirmary, accidentally walking in on him while he was getting dressed, during another asinine alien ritual. He'd seen Sheppard skin, muscle and the occasional outline of bones. He'd seen hidden scars.
But he'd never seen them, those lines of cut flesh, those round shapes where bullets had punctured.
Two angled lines running between the shoulder blades, the length of the shoulder blades...
Sheppard lowered his shirt as he turned back around, adjusting it around his body.
Rodney looked at him and said, quiet and small and at a complete loss, “How?” Because they didn't have manipulation machines on Earth. At least... not that Rodney knew.
Sheppard shrugged. “Having your genes screwed with must be hereditary.”
“I didn't know,” Rodney said.
“I know,” Sheppard said.
“How old...”
“Five. Before I was supposed to start school. After my mom died.”
“You could go into the machine. You could...”
But Sheppard patted his foot. “It's okay, Rodney. It's okay. See you at lunch.”
Sheppard left, like it really didn't matter.
Except that it did.
The End