New story: Lullaby for a superhero
May. 13th, 2007 01:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eretriaLook, ma, it's post-ep fic for First Strike (is it just me or is there hardly any around?)! It's for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thegrrrl2002 and murron! It's ... here:
Title: Lullaby for a superhero
Author: eretria
Fandom: SGA
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Rating: G
Size: 1660
Summary: Even eighteen hours after he left the chair, Atlantis sings in his veins.
Spoilers: First Strike
Dedication: Forthegrrrl2002 and murron who needed comfort.
Thank you: toauburnnothenna for the prompt and a very prompt beta-read.
Even eighteen hours after he left the chair, Atlantis sings in his veins. The sudden rush of power, of knowledge, of connection is still there, luring him to come back, to be with her when her power fails. She has ways and means; it’s a promise that’s in every console he touches, every wall he brushes when he walks past, in the railing he leans against now, tired beyond measure. The perfect calm he experienced while flying the city tempts him to go back into that limbo of not-feeling and not-hearing, into that perfect, frightening cold clarity. It's tempting to get away from the problems waiting for him here, but he’s never been someone who ran away from trouble.
John pushes off the railing and starts walking, even though his muscles protest and he wants nothing but to sit down with his head against the nearest wall and let Atlantis lull him into sleep, just for a few minutes. He doesn’t.
He prefers to run toward certain doom. Give fate one more kick in the ass, even if it’s the last thing he does.
John’s sure Rodney will agree.
Rodney’s bent over the console, his back stiff, the cuts on his face itching, his wrist numb from the tight bandage Keller put on it. Her hands were strong and quick, cooler than Carson’s ever were. She didn’t give him stimulants like he asked her to and he still hates her for it. He can’t work like this. He’s been awake for over forty-eight hours: since the whole mess started. He is so tired he gets nauseous whenever he looks at a computer screen. He needs to rest, but he can’t. Not now. Not if he wants to wake up again.
He spends a few minutes hating the IOA and the new Colonel whose name he can’t remember before he realises that it is consuming too much energy he needs to think about saving their asses.
He exhales in a rush and watches his breath condense into small white clouds. They powered down environmental control in order to save power ten hours ago. The cold of space is creeping in, slow and sure, prying fingers into what it already knows will be its own. The keyboard of his laptop has frost patterns that are bizarrely beautiful.
Rodney runs a hand over his face and blinks at the white bandage for a few moments, at the flakes of encrusted blood marring it. He has never been afraid of space, like many people are. Since he first sat foot in a puddlejumper and flew into space with Sheppard, he has felt at home there.
He no longer does. The ground beneath his feet is no longer solid. In the vastness of space, Atlantis is small and insignificant, her walls thin; the waning shield is their only protection against certain death. Rodney believes in technology. He just doesn’t trust the Ancients any longer. In a little over six hours, the shield will fail. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that they can do to change that. Suddenly, out of the blue, the space outside the shield scares Rodney. It’s the monster from his childhood dreams and worse, because it doesn’t need to do anything, doesn’t have to threaten or mock. It just has to wait. Time is on its side.
John reaches the control room just in time to see Rodney list forward, catch himself on the console, and shake his head as though dizzy.
John winces in sympathy. He waits for a moment, giving Rodney the chance to recover before he talks to him. There’s no need to let him know John saw him falter.
He ambles over to the console, shards of coloured glass scrunching under his boots, and leans against it. On any other day, it would be a casual lean. Today, John needs the support.
“Hey,” he says.
Rodney looks up as though only noticing him now. Their first year, John would have thought he was pretending. Three years later, John knows that Rodney really hadn't been aware of him, be it from immersion in work or simple fatigue.
Rodney gives him a quick, surprised look out of bloodshot eyes. “I appreciate you not asking how we’re doing.”
John shrugs. “If anything had changed, it’d be warmer.” He shrugs deeper into the sweater he’s dug out of his closet. “Besides, we all know you’re not Superman.”
Rodney blinks at him for a couple of seconds, visibly torn between insult and amusement. He settles for a tired: “Oh, ha, ha, very funny.”
John shrugs again. This time a wave of fatigue causes the movement to hurt. “I try.”
Rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers, Rodney mumbles something under his breath.
“Come again?” John inquires, brow quirking up.
“I want to be.”
“Want to be what?”
Rodney buries his nose in his sweater – a horrid orange John has a vague memory of – and it takes a while before he answers. ”A superhero.”
John grins and shifts against the console. Glass tinkles as he moves his foot on the floor. “Come on, Rodney. Don’t tell me you’re losing your megalomania?”
“Always easier for superheroes. At the end of the day, they always save the day.” He taps his fingers against the console. John notices them shaking. He wonders if it’s cold or exhaustion or more, and doesn’t like either answer.
“Like you?” The question out before John can stop himself and Rodney’s gaze snaps up at him. It’s uncomfortably piercing, as though he’s searching for mockery.
“I’m serious.”
The implication is hurtful. John pushes off the console, and crosses his arms in front of him. Just standing up takes an effort, he has to lock his knees and sways a little. „When was the last time you let us down, Rodney? And no,” he says when he sees Rodney’s tongue already forming the D against his palate, “that was a mistake. Doesn’t count.”
Rodney holds his gaze for a few moments, then he looks away, burying his nose in his sweater again. John sees flakes of dried blood on the collar. “We don’t have time for this, anyway.”
Coward, John wants to say, but doesn’t. It wouldn’t be fair, and wouldn’t be helpful to either of them. “We have time for much more.”
“In which universe are you trapped right now?” Rodney asks, half-hearted scorn dripping from his words. “And once you tell me, can I come live there, too? I bet it’s warmer in Sheppard’s world.”
He looks up at John again, a small smile playing around his lips and his eyes huge and bloodshot in his too pale face, so damn hopeful that John’s stomach clenches. John grins back and decides the pain is nothing but hunger. He pulls a powerbar from his pocket, squished and crumbled, and holds it up to Rodney.
“’Feeding of the superhero’ time,” he says.
Rodney looks at the squished bar, then at John, then back at the bar. Colours from the screen behind him reflect against the side of his face - blue, green, red, letting his cuts appear all that much worse. Rodney snatches the bar, opens the silver wrapping with his teeth, crumbles the content into his palm and holds out his hand to John. Blue washes over scraped knuckles. John narrows his eyes but holds his hand out, palm up, as well.
Rodney lets about half of the crumbles drizzle into John’s open palm. “Feeding of the superheroes,” he states. Then he throws back the crumbles, licking his palm clean.
John watches him, biting back a grin. He has no doubt that Rodney will find a way out of this. None at all.
He eats his half of the powerbar, and rubs his palm against his pants when he’s done. Rodney’s lashes are fluttering again, and John has had enough. There is being a superhero and then there is being so tired you can’t stand up straight.
He walks around the console and grabs Rodney’s arm. Pulls him along, despite Rodney’s “What, what do you -- hey!”
John stops next to a wall. He checks that there is no glass, then he crouches, pulling Rodney along.
“Has the lowered amount of oxygen in the air already started to decay your brain?” Rodney asks, but it’s without heat.
John gives him one of the grins he knows infuriate Rodney and sits down, ignoring the cold immediately seeping through the fabric of his pants. Ignoring the hum of Atlantis trying to get him to come back to the control chair. This’ll have to do. They have no time for beds or chairs. He pulls Rodney down beside him, closing one hand around his lower arm when he feels him jerking away. “Even superheroes need a nap.”
“We have six more hours until we die and you want to nap?” Rodney’s voice edges into a higher octave. “I always knew you were crazy, but this–“
John feels the grin sliding from his face. His hand clamps around Rodney’s arm, hard enough to cause bruises. “This is the only way to make sure you don’t fall asleep over that damn console, hit your head on something critical, and get us all blown up before those six hours are over.”
Rodney’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes grow wide and surprised and John immediately feels sorry.
“Just … get some sleep, Rodney. Just half an hour. Power-napping. We both know—“
“That even superheroes need naps?” Rodney gives him a small smile.
John eases his grip on Rodney’s arm. An answering smile creeps back. “Exactly.”
“Well,” Rodney says, shuffling to get comfortable and finally resting his head on John’s shoulder, “You’d better be a good pillow.”
John gives a short bark of laughter before resting his head against Rodney’s, grinning into his short, fine hair. The hum of Atlantis grows quiet in his mind even before he feels Rodney breathing deep and even.
thegrrrl2002 and murron! It's ... here:Title: Lullaby for a superhero
Author: eretria
Fandom: SGA
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Rating: G
Size: 1660
Summary: Even eighteen hours after he left the chair, Atlantis sings in his veins.
Spoilers: First Strike
Dedication: For
thegrrrl2002 and murron who needed comfort.Thank you: to
auburnnothenna for the prompt and a very prompt beta-read.Even eighteen hours after he left the chair, Atlantis sings in his veins. The sudden rush of power, of knowledge, of connection is still there, luring him to come back, to be with her when her power fails. She has ways and means; it’s a promise that’s in every console he touches, every wall he brushes when he walks past, in the railing he leans against now, tired beyond measure. The perfect calm he experienced while flying the city tempts him to go back into that limbo of not-feeling and not-hearing, into that perfect, frightening cold clarity. It's tempting to get away from the problems waiting for him here, but he’s never been someone who ran away from trouble.
John pushes off the railing and starts walking, even though his muscles protest and he wants nothing but to sit down with his head against the nearest wall and let Atlantis lull him into sleep, just for a few minutes. He doesn’t.
He prefers to run toward certain doom. Give fate one more kick in the ass, even if it’s the last thing he does.
John’s sure Rodney will agree.
***
Rodney’s bent over the console, his back stiff, the cuts on his face itching, his wrist numb from the tight bandage Keller put on it. Her hands were strong and quick, cooler than Carson’s ever were. She didn’t give him stimulants like he asked her to and he still hates her for it. He can’t work like this. He’s been awake for over forty-eight hours: since the whole mess started. He is so tired he gets nauseous whenever he looks at a computer screen. He needs to rest, but he can’t. Not now. Not if he wants to wake up again.
He spends a few minutes hating the IOA and the new Colonel whose name he can’t remember before he realises that it is consuming too much energy he needs to think about saving their asses.
He exhales in a rush and watches his breath condense into small white clouds. They powered down environmental control in order to save power ten hours ago. The cold of space is creeping in, slow and sure, prying fingers into what it already knows will be its own. The keyboard of his laptop has frost patterns that are bizarrely beautiful.
Rodney runs a hand over his face and blinks at the white bandage for a few moments, at the flakes of encrusted blood marring it. He has never been afraid of space, like many people are. Since he first sat foot in a puddlejumper and flew into space with Sheppard, he has felt at home there.
He no longer does. The ground beneath his feet is no longer solid. In the vastness of space, Atlantis is small and insignificant, her walls thin; the waning shield is their only protection against certain death. Rodney believes in technology. He just doesn’t trust the Ancients any longer. In a little over six hours, the shield will fail. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that they can do to change that. Suddenly, out of the blue, the space outside the shield scares Rodney. It’s the monster from his childhood dreams and worse, because it doesn’t need to do anything, doesn’t have to threaten or mock. It just has to wait. Time is on its side.
***
John reaches the control room just in time to see Rodney list forward, catch himself on the console, and shake his head as though dizzy.
John winces in sympathy. He waits for a moment, giving Rodney the chance to recover before he talks to him. There’s no need to let him know John saw him falter.
He ambles over to the console, shards of coloured glass scrunching under his boots, and leans against it. On any other day, it would be a casual lean. Today, John needs the support.
“Hey,” he says.
Rodney looks up as though only noticing him now. Their first year, John would have thought he was pretending. Three years later, John knows that Rodney really hadn't been aware of him, be it from immersion in work or simple fatigue.
Rodney gives him a quick, surprised look out of bloodshot eyes. “I appreciate you not asking how we’re doing.”
John shrugs. “If anything had changed, it’d be warmer.” He shrugs deeper into the sweater he’s dug out of his closet. “Besides, we all know you’re not Superman.”
Rodney blinks at him for a couple of seconds, visibly torn between insult and amusement. He settles for a tired: “Oh, ha, ha, very funny.”
John shrugs again. This time a wave of fatigue causes the movement to hurt. “I try.”
Rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers, Rodney mumbles something under his breath.
“Come again?” John inquires, brow quirking up.
“I want to be.”
“Want to be what?”
Rodney buries his nose in his sweater – a horrid orange John has a vague memory of – and it takes a while before he answers. ”A superhero.”
John grins and shifts against the console. Glass tinkles as he moves his foot on the floor. “Come on, Rodney. Don’t tell me you’re losing your megalomania?”
“Always easier for superheroes. At the end of the day, they always save the day.” He taps his fingers against the console. John notices them shaking. He wonders if it’s cold or exhaustion or more, and doesn’t like either answer.
“Like you?” The question out before John can stop himself and Rodney’s gaze snaps up at him. It’s uncomfortably piercing, as though he’s searching for mockery.
“I’m serious.”
The implication is hurtful. John pushes off the console, and crosses his arms in front of him. Just standing up takes an effort, he has to lock his knees and sways a little. „When was the last time you let us down, Rodney? And no,” he says when he sees Rodney’s tongue already forming the D against his palate, “that was a mistake. Doesn’t count.”
Rodney holds his gaze for a few moments, then he looks away, burying his nose in his sweater again. John sees flakes of dried blood on the collar. “We don’t have time for this, anyway.”
Coward, John wants to say, but doesn’t. It wouldn’t be fair, and wouldn’t be helpful to either of them. “We have time for much more.”
“In which universe are you trapped right now?” Rodney asks, half-hearted scorn dripping from his words. “And once you tell me, can I come live there, too? I bet it’s warmer in Sheppard’s world.”
He looks up at John again, a small smile playing around his lips and his eyes huge and bloodshot in his too pale face, so damn hopeful that John’s stomach clenches. John grins back and decides the pain is nothing but hunger. He pulls a powerbar from his pocket, squished and crumbled, and holds it up to Rodney.
“’Feeding of the superhero’ time,” he says.
Rodney looks at the squished bar, then at John, then back at the bar. Colours from the screen behind him reflect against the side of his face - blue, green, red, letting his cuts appear all that much worse. Rodney snatches the bar, opens the silver wrapping with his teeth, crumbles the content into his palm and holds out his hand to John. Blue washes over scraped knuckles. John narrows his eyes but holds his hand out, palm up, as well.
Rodney lets about half of the crumbles drizzle into John’s open palm. “Feeding of the superheroes,” he states. Then he throws back the crumbles, licking his palm clean.
John watches him, biting back a grin. He has no doubt that Rodney will find a way out of this. None at all.
He eats his half of the powerbar, and rubs his palm against his pants when he’s done. Rodney’s lashes are fluttering again, and John has had enough. There is being a superhero and then there is being so tired you can’t stand up straight.
He walks around the console and grabs Rodney’s arm. Pulls him along, despite Rodney’s “What, what do you -- hey!”
John stops next to a wall. He checks that there is no glass, then he crouches, pulling Rodney along.
“Has the lowered amount of oxygen in the air already started to decay your brain?” Rodney asks, but it’s without heat.
John gives him one of the grins he knows infuriate Rodney and sits down, ignoring the cold immediately seeping through the fabric of his pants. Ignoring the hum of Atlantis trying to get him to come back to the control chair. This’ll have to do. They have no time for beds or chairs. He pulls Rodney down beside him, closing one hand around his lower arm when he feels him jerking away. “Even superheroes need a nap.”
“We have six more hours until we die and you want to nap?” Rodney’s voice edges into a higher octave. “I always knew you were crazy, but this–“
John feels the grin sliding from his face. His hand clamps around Rodney’s arm, hard enough to cause bruises. “This is the only way to make sure you don’t fall asleep over that damn console, hit your head on something critical, and get us all blown up before those six hours are over.”
Rodney’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes grow wide and surprised and John immediately feels sorry.
“Just … get some sleep, Rodney. Just half an hour. Power-napping. We both know—“
“That even superheroes need naps?” Rodney gives him a small smile.
John eases his grip on Rodney’s arm. An answering smile creeps back. “Exactly.”
“Well,” Rodney says, shuffling to get comfortable and finally resting his head on John’s shoulder, “You’d better be a good pillow.”
John gives a short bark of laughter before resting his head against Rodney’s, grinning into his short, fine hair. The hum of Atlantis grows quiet in his mind even before he feels Rodney breathing deep and even.
Fin
