new fic: [ when stars fall ]
Sep. 5th, 2005 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTitle: When Stars Fall
Fandom: SGA
Author: Kim G.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: not rated
Warnings: death of a major character off-screen
Summary: John isn't insane.
These aren't mine, I'm just playing with them. Rights, etc. belong to someone else who isn't me and who has a lot more money than I ever will.
Lots and lots of thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
visionshadows and darkseaglass for the impromptu beta. Y'all rock, ladies :) *hugs tight*
It's been one month, one week, three days, fourteen hours and...twenty-two minutes.
Twenty-three.
Sheppard checks his watch, tilting it so the luminous numbers flash brighter, then lets his arm fall back to his side. It's almost time, and this feels so wrong, being here by himself. It's like a physical ache in his gut.
He can hear McKay's voice plain as if he was standing next to him, Give me a break, Colonel, complete with eye roll. In fact, he closes his eyes so he can see the visual better, then opens them again to check the time.
Twenty-six minutes.
There's a soft whisper of a breeze coming in off the north side of the city, and if Sheppard is here in Atlantis for another two decades, he'll never get completely used to the way the air tastes just a little bit different. It feels just slightly off, but so totally right now, too. He can't explain it to anyone who's never been here, but anyone who has knows exactly what he means when he mentions it.
It used to be the main reason he didn't want to go back to Earth. Well, that, and McKay.
He'll stay now, because...well. Because of McKay, still, but differently.
Twenty-nine minutes. Behind the clouds streaking across the sky the twinkle and glow of the stars -- once so alien and now more familiar to him than Earth's -- becomes visible. In a few more minutes there'll be star fire in the sky as they go shooting across. No one's ever been able to explain why it is they have shooting stars regularly out here. The various sciences theorized until they were blue in the face, but no one could really explain it.
Sheppard chalked it up to just one more thing that set Atlantis apart from anywhere else in the universe. McKay called him a sappy romantic about it -- Atlantis -- and Sheppard felt obliged to point out all the times McKay -- Rodney, dammit -- had gone non-verbal with delight over this gadget or that doohickey, and maybe he was just as sappy about the city, in his own way.
Sex was always the greatest when they were snipping at each other beforehand. Hell, sex was always great, period.
Thirty-four minutes. Another ten to go before the light show begins, and Sheppard's gut is coiled hot and tight, like something inside him is alive and just holding back from breaking loose.
He can't do this. Not by himself. Not when it was something they shared, that meant so much to both of them.
"I can't do it," he says to the stars, and in his mind he sees Rodney roll his eyes again, with that peculiar expression of his that plainly said You're an idiot, but I guess I'll keep you anyway. "Yeah, okay, I'm an idiot."
Which really is a given, since he's sitting on the east pier, talking to himself. And imagining a conversation in his head that's never going to happen again, ever.
Pfft. What's a little death between friends? The Rodney-voice is stronger, almost vibrant, almost real, and Sheppard both is and isn't surprised to see the first streak of starlight out of the corner of his eye.
"More than friends," he mutters, shifting position to draw his legs up toward his chest before clasping his arms loosely around them. The space beside him is empty, cool, and the sensation of loss, of knowing there should be a warm, solid body there slithers through him hot and cold and painful, until all he feels is an ache so huge, so strong, he feels consumed by it.
Much more, Rodney agrees, But friends, too. Sheppard's torn between closing his eyes so he can see Rodney, and keeping them open to so he doesn't lose himself in the visuals, in the emotions. I'm glad you came--you shouldn't give this up.
More stars streak across the sky, falling, shooting, moving, and Sheppard blurts out, "They want me to leave Atlantis. Go back to Earth."
The Rodney inside his head frowns, mouth tugging downward as his lips thin out. Who? Why?
"Everyone. They think I'm--" He chokes off the words because whoa, yes, unbalanced would fit; he's having a conversation inside his head with a ghost.
I'm not a ghost. If I was, I'd be making sure Kavanaugh wet himself in terror every.single.day.
"You did that pretty much every single day anyway, didn't you?"
Huh. Maybe. I guess. But-- Sheppard practically sees sees Rodney wave his hand dismissively, and for the briefest instant there's a presence beside him, not just within him. Within his mind. You're not insane, you're grieving.
"Insane wasn't what they said," he snaps. "It was 'unbalanced'." Above him the sky is streaked with soft trails of light. Light that wavers just a little, then a little more, wobbling and shifting until Sheppard makes the connection between that and the stinging in his eyes, and knuckles them dry impatiently. "And how do you know I'm grieving? Maybe I'm just royally pissed off that you went and got yourself killed--"
He sees the sneer, Rodney's lip curling just ever-so-slightly. Yeah, because it's totally my fault there was something big and nasty and hungry lurking in the lake that our sensors didn't detect, because I didn't have it programmed for jello fish with huge teeth. Right, thanks for that confirmation.
"It was my fault, dammit, and don't you think I don't know that? I should've--been closer, or armed, or checked it out myself first. Done something." The anger John's been shoving down, pushing a little harder at every day, surges upward, clawing to get out. Anger at Rodney, anger at himself. Mostly himself, but god, he wants to blame someone else. "It was my fault," he says again, fainter this time, his throat closing over the words.
Nothing answers him but the wind, a quiet whisper over the water; if he strains, John can hear a gentle slap-slap noise as small ripples and waves break against the pier.
The starlight -- shooting trails and stationary dots -- wavers again, and when John closes his eyes against the sting he can almost fool himself into believing the dampness on his face is from the ocean, where the wind's kicking a little bit of water up. He opens his eyes and blinks at the sky, at the slowly dissipating streaks of light.
It wasn't your fault, Rodney says quietly, as the last of the shooting stars starts to fade away. Wasn't yours, wasn't mine. It just--was. Accidents, John. They happen.
Maybe so, and John isn't disagreeing per se, just. God. After nearly two decades of surviving the best and worst the Pegasus Galaxy could throw at them, to have that be the way Rodney--
Stop it, Rodney snaps, and John sees him clearly, standing in front of him, arms folded across his chest, glaring. Behind him, through him, the stars are playing peek-a-boo with the clouds blowing in. Playing the suffering martyr really doesn't suit you.
"Did it ever occur to you I might miss you?"
Of course you miss me! Who wouldn't? Wait, don't answer that. The image wavers, and the cold ache in his chest grows stronger when Rodney says, I miss you too. But seriously, let it go. Please.
Please. It wasn't something John heard from Rodney very often through their years together. Sometimes in bed, rarely any other time. He glances up again at the stars, at the wisps of smoke or fog or whatever that are blowing past him now, the outline of Rodney gone again. "No promises," he says finally. "But I'll try."
You do that, he hears, plain as day. There's a wet, cool something that touches his mouth briefly, then the sensation fades and is gone.
Just above him, one last star shoots across the sky, blazing brightly before disappearing into the night. John watches, strains to see it just a little longer, until his eyes ache with the effort. When he's sure it's gone he picks himself up off the pier and whispers, "Goodbye."
~fin~
Fandom: SGA
Author: Kim G.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: not rated
Warnings: death of a major character off-screen
Summary: John isn't insane.
These aren't mine, I'm just playing with them. Rights, etc. belong to someone else who isn't me and who has a lot more money than I ever will.
Lots and lots of thanks to
visionshadows and darkseaglass for the impromptu beta. Y'all rock, ladies :) *hugs tight*It's been one month, one week, three days, fourteen hours and...twenty-two minutes.
Twenty-three.
Sheppard checks his watch, tilting it so the luminous numbers flash brighter, then lets his arm fall back to his side. It's almost time, and this feels so wrong, being here by himself. It's like a physical ache in his gut.
He can hear McKay's voice plain as if he was standing next to him, Give me a break, Colonel, complete with eye roll. In fact, he closes his eyes so he can see the visual better, then opens them again to check the time.
Twenty-six minutes.
There's a soft whisper of a breeze coming in off the north side of the city, and if Sheppard is here in Atlantis for another two decades, he'll never get completely used to the way the air tastes just a little bit different. It feels just slightly off, but so totally right now, too. He can't explain it to anyone who's never been here, but anyone who has knows exactly what he means when he mentions it.
It used to be the main reason he didn't want to go back to Earth. Well, that, and McKay.
He'll stay now, because...well. Because of McKay, still, but differently.
Twenty-nine minutes. Behind the clouds streaking across the sky the twinkle and glow of the stars -- once so alien and now more familiar to him than Earth's -- becomes visible. In a few more minutes there'll be star fire in the sky as they go shooting across. No one's ever been able to explain why it is they have shooting stars regularly out here. The various sciences theorized until they were blue in the face, but no one could really explain it.
Sheppard chalked it up to just one more thing that set Atlantis apart from anywhere else in the universe. McKay called him a sappy romantic about it -- Atlantis -- and Sheppard felt obliged to point out all the times McKay -- Rodney, dammit -- had gone non-verbal with delight over this gadget or that doohickey, and maybe he was just as sappy about the city, in his own way.
Sex was always the greatest when they were snipping at each other beforehand. Hell, sex was always great, period.
Thirty-four minutes. Another ten to go before the light show begins, and Sheppard's gut is coiled hot and tight, like something inside him is alive and just holding back from breaking loose.
He can't do this. Not by himself. Not when it was something they shared, that meant so much to both of them.
"I can't do it," he says to the stars, and in his mind he sees Rodney roll his eyes again, with that peculiar expression of his that plainly said You're an idiot, but I guess I'll keep you anyway. "Yeah, okay, I'm an idiot."
Which really is a given, since he's sitting on the east pier, talking to himself. And imagining a conversation in his head that's never going to happen again, ever.
Pfft. What's a little death between friends? The Rodney-voice is stronger, almost vibrant, almost real, and Sheppard both is and isn't surprised to see the first streak of starlight out of the corner of his eye.
"More than friends," he mutters, shifting position to draw his legs up toward his chest before clasping his arms loosely around them. The space beside him is empty, cool, and the sensation of loss, of knowing there should be a warm, solid body there slithers through him hot and cold and painful, until all he feels is an ache so huge, so strong, he feels consumed by it.
Much more, Rodney agrees, But friends, too. Sheppard's torn between closing his eyes so he can see Rodney, and keeping them open to so he doesn't lose himself in the visuals, in the emotions. I'm glad you came--you shouldn't give this up.
More stars streak across the sky, falling, shooting, moving, and Sheppard blurts out, "They want me to leave Atlantis. Go back to Earth."
The Rodney inside his head frowns, mouth tugging downward as his lips thin out. Who? Why?
"Everyone. They think I'm--" He chokes off the words because whoa, yes, unbalanced would fit; he's having a conversation inside his head with a ghost.
I'm not a ghost. If I was, I'd be making sure Kavanaugh wet himself in terror every.single.day.
"You did that pretty much every single day anyway, didn't you?"
Huh. Maybe. I guess. But-- Sheppard practically sees sees Rodney wave his hand dismissively, and for the briefest instant there's a presence beside him, not just within him. Within his mind. You're not insane, you're grieving.
"Insane wasn't what they said," he snaps. "It was 'unbalanced'." Above him the sky is streaked with soft trails of light. Light that wavers just a little, then a little more, wobbling and shifting until Sheppard makes the connection between that and the stinging in his eyes, and knuckles them dry impatiently. "And how do you know I'm grieving? Maybe I'm just royally pissed off that you went and got yourself killed--"
He sees the sneer, Rodney's lip curling just ever-so-slightly. Yeah, because it's totally my fault there was something big and nasty and hungry lurking in the lake that our sensors didn't detect, because I didn't have it programmed for jello fish with huge teeth. Right, thanks for that confirmation.
"It was my fault, dammit, and don't you think I don't know that? I should've--been closer, or armed, or checked it out myself first. Done something." The anger John's been shoving down, pushing a little harder at every day, surges upward, clawing to get out. Anger at Rodney, anger at himself. Mostly himself, but god, he wants to blame someone else. "It was my fault," he says again, fainter this time, his throat closing over the words.
Nothing answers him but the wind, a quiet whisper over the water; if he strains, John can hear a gentle slap-slap noise as small ripples and waves break against the pier.
The starlight -- shooting trails and stationary dots -- wavers again, and when John closes his eyes against the sting he can almost fool himself into believing the dampness on his face is from the ocean, where the wind's kicking a little bit of water up. He opens his eyes and blinks at the sky, at the slowly dissipating streaks of light.
It wasn't your fault, Rodney says quietly, as the last of the shooting stars starts to fade away. Wasn't yours, wasn't mine. It just--was. Accidents, John. They happen.
Maybe so, and John isn't disagreeing per se, just. God. After nearly two decades of surviving the best and worst the Pegasus Galaxy could throw at them, to have that be the way Rodney--
Stop it, Rodney snaps, and John sees him clearly, standing in front of him, arms folded across his chest, glaring. Behind him, through him, the stars are playing peek-a-boo with the clouds blowing in. Playing the suffering martyr really doesn't suit you.
"Did it ever occur to you I might miss you?"
Of course you miss me! Who wouldn't? Wait, don't answer that. The image wavers, and the cold ache in his chest grows stronger when Rodney says, I miss you too. But seriously, let it go. Please.
Please. It wasn't something John heard from Rodney very often through their years together. Sometimes in bed, rarely any other time. He glances up again at the stars, at the wisps of smoke or fog or whatever that are blowing past him now, the outline of Rodney gone again. "No promises," he says finally. "But I'll try."
You do that, he hears, plain as day. There's a wet, cool something that touches his mouth briefly, then the sensation fades and is gone.
Just above him, one last star shoots across the sky, blazing brightly before disappearing into the night. John watches, strains to see it just a little longer, until his eyes ache with the effort. When he's sure it's gone he picks himself up off the pier and whispers, "Goodbye."
~fin~
