Censured, by mayachain, PG
Somewhere off-world, PG, ~450 words
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It's not fair, Evan thinks as he studies the trees of MX5-4A7 with more interest than they deserve from anyone but Doctor Parrish. About five steps behind him, Colonel Sheppard is kissing Doctor McKay, and like the three marines equally faking interest in the planet's plant life Evan is honor-bound to look away, compelled by a never-spoken agreement to avert his eyes.
It's not the kissing part that interests him, that has him fight the urge to subtly turn his head and sneak a glance. It's a truth he doubts most people would believe if he ever told them, which, and this is the whole point, he can't. Evan Lorne does not harbor the envious curiosity he suspects in the hearts of some of his female soldiers. There's nothing sexual about his wish to be allowed to catch a glimpse.
But.
The artist in him itches to know what it looks like, craves to catalogue all the snapshots of themselves they are betraying. He craves to study how the intimacy shows in the shades of expressions on the Colonel's and McKay's faces, longs to see if the touch of lips of someone he loves can make Sheppard drop every mask he shows the world. His fingers ache to be allowed to sketch the happy creases around John's eyes he can hear in the small, cut-off sounds emanating from behind. Out of all the different poses his pencil has already caught McKay in, there is none that can come close to what sounds like blissed-out, utter stillness.
More than once, he has tried to derive abstract art out of those hushed, barely-there whispers that are all he has to go on, mixed with all that five years have taught him about both their personalities and their friendship. Successfully captured, Evan is convinced the piece or the pieces would be priceless, while nobody's secret would have been compromised. Again and again, however, crumpled sheets of paper have confirmed that he's only good at painting what he can see, which is why every time the Colonel and McKay kiss, his body is vibrating with frustrated energy.
There is every possibility that none of it would make it into a sketchbook, much less onto a canvas. There is every possibility that Evan would deem what he'd see too private. And yet.
And yet.
A fleeting glance might be enough to commit the images to memory, to be able to decide later on whether watercolor or oil or charcoal would be the best ways to do this moment in the MX5-4A7 rain forest justice. But he's not allowed, not allowed, and the unfairness of it makes him want to scream.
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Prompted by a story I'm looking for at storyfinders, my own Beating Hearts 7, and this mcsmooch by danceswithgary from a few days ago.
::
::
It's not fair, Evan thinks as he studies the trees of MX5-4A7 with more interest than they deserve from anyone but Doctor Parrish. About five steps behind him, Colonel Sheppard is kissing Doctor McKay, and like the three marines equally faking interest in the planet's plant life Evan is honor-bound to look away, compelled by a never-spoken agreement to avert his eyes.
It's not the kissing part that interests him, that has him fight the urge to subtly turn his head and sneak a glance. It's a truth he doubts most people would believe if he ever told them, which, and this is the whole point, he can't. Evan Lorne does not harbor the envious curiosity he suspects in the hearts of some of his female soldiers. There's nothing sexual about his wish to be allowed to catch a glimpse.
But.
The artist in him itches to know what it looks like, craves to catalogue all the snapshots of themselves they are betraying. He craves to study how the intimacy shows in the shades of expressions on the Colonel's and McKay's faces, longs to see if the touch of lips of someone he loves can make Sheppard drop every mask he shows the world. His fingers ache to be allowed to sketch the happy creases around John's eyes he can hear in the small, cut-off sounds emanating from behind. Out of all the different poses his pencil has already caught McKay in, there is none that can come close to what sounds like blissed-out, utter stillness.
More than once, he has tried to derive abstract art out of those hushed, barely-there whispers that are all he has to go on, mixed with all that five years have taught him about both their personalities and their friendship. Successfully captured, Evan is convinced the piece or the pieces would be priceless, while nobody's secret would have been compromised. Again and again, however, crumpled sheets of paper have confirmed that he's only good at painting what he can see, which is why every time the Colonel and McKay kiss, his body is vibrating with frustrated energy.
There is every possibility that none of it would make it into a sketchbook, much less onto a canvas. There is every possibility that Evan would deem what he'd see too private. And yet.
And yet.
A fleeting glance might be enough to commit the images to memory, to be able to decide later on whether watercolor or oil or charcoal would be the best ways to do this moment in the MX5-4A7 rain forest justice. But he's not allowed, not allowed, and the unfairness of it makes him want to scream.
::
::
Prompted by a story I'm looking for at storyfinders, my own Beating Hearts 7, and this mcsmooch by danceswithgary from a few days ago.