mrsronweasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mrsronweasley) wrote2007-01-25 09:15 am
mrsronweasley) wrote2007-01-25 09:15 am
Kid!fic and WIPs.
It's good to know that only a smallish handful of you think I'm whacked. \o/
So, okay, results of the poll?
First,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lamardeuse totally wins with her (horrific and terrifying) advice of "BREED HEAVILY AND OFTEN", which I will, despite the funny, choose to totally and completely ignore.
Runners up are all of you who wanted PORN as the cure. Especiallybrooklinegirl, who advised with "dirty, dirty porn. With rimming. and sex toys. Dildos, perhaps." It's the "Dildos, perhaps" that really makes that classy and couth.
Alternately, y'all said "MORE KIDFIC, DUH!" which is a totally valid lifestyle choice.
So I totally opened up my unfinished kidfic AU and I am staring at it, and it is staring at me back very defiantly. It's telling me, "YOU got yourself into this PLOT business, YOU dig yourself out", and I'm trying to tell it that just because I thought that AU Ray and Fraser couldn't start fucking as soon as they met when I started writing it, didn't mean it had to be this way NOW, when it actually so totally does, and hence the staring contest. It's 33 pages long and it's only the beginning.
*sigh*
But I really, really want to finish it. I just have to...work this plot out. Like, I think I vaguely know what goes where and how and why and, mostly, WHEN, but I have a hard time with putting all these elements together. I'm going to have to give it to someone to just, honestly, poke holes in the plot, because I'm sure there will be many opportunities.
But, you know that thing where we post bits of WIPs? The first one is more of the kidfic AU, the last two are my SGA fics that I'm not actually sure I'll finish. I go back and forth on them, and the second one is causing me actual existential angst, because the canon's moved on, and clearly, I haven't. But, well, here. I dunno. I might finish Siberia, 'cause it brings me joy. And I'm definitely going to work more on the due South AU, because - ditto. The last one, though...well, that one might just stay on my hard drive and wither.
The Due South Kidfic AU, wherein Ray and Stella had a daughter prior to the divorce, her name's Jenn, she's 11, and her favorite teacher is Mr. Fraser. Also, there's plot, hence it's unfinished.
Ray rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee. They were getting absolutely nowhere with the damn case. The profile guys gave them virtually nothing to go on and went on their merry way, and the interviews at the school only helped confirm the fact that Winters had kept totally mum about the threats he’d received and nobody knew anything and nobody understood why anyone would kill such a wonderful man.
Vecchio was yawning next to him. They’d stayed up half the night going through their notes, trying to see if they maybe missed anything, just something that could help them out, but when the notes began blurring into ink stains, they’d gone home, and now were back, still seeing nothing. Not a single teacher had anything remotely negative to say about the vic, and all were shocked, dismayed and distraught.
No evidence was found at the crime scene except for a single boot print on the kitchen linoleum that didn’t belong to Winters because it was two sizes too big. No prints, no weapon, nada.
“Fuck.” Ray dropped his chair back onto four legs.
He needed a walk, or a cigarette, but he’d given those up too long ago to start back up now, and anyway, it was another one of those urges he had to will away, and he’d gotten used to it by now. Need a cigarette - can’t, sorry, move the fuck on. That’s how it had been for the past five years, that’s how it’ll continue to be. “Want anything from the break room?”
He got up to at least stretch his legs and have a change of scene for a while. Vecchio shook his head and grunted.
“All right, I’ll be right back.” Ray began walking away just as his phone went off. He cursed. What the hell was it now?
He leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver. “Kowalski, what?”
An unfamiliar female voice answered, seemingly disregarding his near-growl.
“Detective Kowalski? This is Meg Thatcher, the principal of Chicago City Day School.”
Ray sank into his chair. “Something wrong? Is Jenn all right?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vecchio look up from the case notes.
“Yes, she is,” the woman answered. “I’m sorry to have startled you, Detective. I am not calling on behalf of Jennifer. I am, in fact, calling for an altogether different reason.” She stopped to clear her throat. “It’s a matter of a sensitive nature, Detective, and I was wondering if you might be able to come and see me in person as soon as is possible for you.”
Some kind of alarm bell went off in Ray’s head. “Sensitive nature? What do you mean?”
“I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone, actually. When is the earliest you could come in?”
“Uh --” Ray glanced over at Vecchio, who was miming “what the hell is going on?” at him, and thought. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the case anyway. He could leave it to Vecchio to pretend to muddle through for a couple of hours and be back to brief Welsh. “Now is fine.”
“I am very relieved to hear that. I shall see you soon, then. You will have a visitor’s pass waiting for you in the main office.” Ray heard a click and the line went dead.
Five minutes later, he was drumming a twitchy rhythm on the wheel of the GTO. He was trying very hard not have to have any idea why the principal of his daughter’s school was asking him to come down to her office and discuss matters of a sensitive nature.
Rodney in Siberia, wherein he...is in Siberia, and then there's angst, and then there's lots of Canadian/Russian sex.
Andrey swears softly in Russian as he looks for a parking space. He glances over at Rodney as if in apology. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a car, so I do not know where to best – ah, okay, here.” His vowels are clipped, made simpler by his accent. Rodney notes the open ‘ah,’ the stilted, thinned out ‘ay’ at the end of ‘okay.’ The street lights look foreign to him.
When Andrey finally finds a spot, he jumps out of the car and only then does Rodney notice that he hadn’t buckled up. Tradition or death wish? He gets out on his side and is late again to help with his suitcase. He heaves his shoulder bag higher.
Andrey leads him to the five story apartment building. It looks grey to Rodney’s eyes, but maybe with a touch of red – brick? It’s red brick, paler in the dark. The windows are mostly lit up, with curtains covering up the insides. Andrey stomps off to the front door, Rodney’s suitcase weighing down his left side.
“Welcome,” he says as they enter the building. The inside is old, the walls are painted white on top, green on the bottom. They’re not fresh coats.
Andrey notices his scrutiny and laughs, shaking his head. “Russia. This isn’t very exotic, I’m afraid.”
Rodney says, “Depends on the perspective, I suppose,” and follows a chuckling Andrey up the stairs. “Can I help you with the suitcase? I didn’t mean to --”
Andrey just waves him off, trudging further up. “Not more – I live on the second story. Here.” He opens the staircase door and leads Rodney down the hallway. Stopping at door number 5, he smiles at Rodney and rings the bell.
“You will live here for a few days, while your new flat is prepared, okay?”
Rodney, after fifteen hours on a plane, is ready to agree to anything. He notes the way “live” sounds like “leave” in this man’s voice. He studies Andrey under the pale hallway light before he hears shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door and the locks click.
*
“Mama, this is Rodney McKay, from Canada,” Andrey says as soon as he’s through the door. “On iz Canady,” he adds as he sets down Rodney’s suitcase and slides off his hat. His hair is light brown and messy in its curly tufts. Rodney turns his attention to the small old woman standing in front of him. She smiles and nods, though she doesn’t say a word. Rodney nods awkwardly back. He’s hit with a sudden exhaustion so deep, he doesn’t think he can remain standing for much longer.
“Rodney, this is my mother – her name is Natalia Filipovna.”
Rodney must look as panicked as he feels, because Andrey chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. “You can call her ‘mama’ or ‘Natasha’, if you want. Pravil’no, ma?”
“Budet menia mamoy zvat’, chto-li?” The old lady chuckles and her eyes crinkle with her smile. “Ladno, ladno, a to yazyk eshio zaputaetsia. Zahodite, zahodite, uzhe vsio na stole.”
Rodney is completely at sea, and he tugs at his scarf, manages to unzip his jacket. It isn’t hot, but he’s sweating, and then he feels it – the very first sign of a panic attack tugging at the back of his stomach, his muscles… No, he hasn’t had one in years, he’s been so good, it’s been so easy – why – why now –
“Rodney? You are okay?” Andrey’s concerned blue eyes look into his own and at least it’s English, at least he understands it, thank God, he speaks English. Rodney manages to pull himself upright, feels the heat receding.
”I’m fine, I’m sorry. Just…tired.”
“Chto eto s nim? Zastoial ty ego tut, prohodite-zhe, Andriusha, davay!”
Natasha sounds worried and Rodney has absolutely no idea what she’s saying, but he figures they should get out of the cramped entryway. Which is exactly what Andrey is doing, as he’s pulling off his shoes and putting on slippers. Rodney follows suit – Natasha smiles as she points to another pair near Andrey’s – and then they’re in what he assumes is the living room.
Every wall space is taken up by a piece of furniture. Bookshelves, couch, TV stand, more bookshelves, and above the couch, a great big oriental rug hangs against the wallpaper. It clashes with the green pattern of the paper, but something about it makes Rodney smile. A rug on a wall. He really is in Siberia, isn’t he?
The John and Rodney epic that I started writing about three or so weeks ago that won't go anywhere, but check out how I'm totally predicting certain parts of "Sunday", only...transposed?.. Wishfully thought?.. Yeah.
John hasn’t been able to spend long periods of time in his room lately. He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself in the mess at two in the morning, beating McKay’s ass at chess for the third time that night. McKay smells like coffee and he looks like crap. John studies him as he contemplates his next move. John has figured out the entire game – McKay may be brilliant, but he’s nothing if not predictable – and can take his time. McKay’s cheeks are pale, and he’s been losing a bit of weight. It could be residual effect of the Ascension machine, but it’s weird to see him this way, and John feels uncomfortable. He’s probably just imagining things. He noticed Elizabeth looking at him strangely today, and it unsettled him. She was never the easiest person to read, but lately, she’s become inscrutable. He had always thought that the longer you got to know a person, the better you could understand them. She’s been proving him wrong for months now.
He knows McKay. He knows his next move will force John to checkmate his ass. He knows McKay knows. When McKay’s hand doesn’t move but he looks up at John, John shifts in his chair.
“You okay, Rodney? Forget the rules?”
McKay’s mouth turns down more and he leans heavier against the table. John instinctively reaches forward. “Rodney?”
“I was just…” He waves his hand a little. The gesture is so perfectly McKay that John allows himself to relax a bit, lean back and listen. “Just thinking. You ever consider what it is we’re supposed to be doing here? Not -” he raises his hand, stopping any possible objections John might have had to that question, “ – not the mission directive. But us - all of us – doing it. I mean, clearly, they wanted the most advanced scientific minds and brilliant strategists and whatnot, but… We’re in the Pegasus Galaxy, Colonel. Doesn’t that – doesn’t that make you wonder?”
John wonders whether the fact that he knows exactly what Rodney is talking about is at all a good thing. He never doubted that others were having their own personal meltdowns over being here, but he had honestly convinced himself that the meltdowns had stopped sometime shortly after the first return back to Earth. With the Daedalus in commission and the SGC in contact, it didn’t seem quite as apocalyptic to be living in a different galaxy. The fact that Rodney McKay is now saying this after two and a half years probably speaks for John’s naivete.
Just in case, he plays dumb. “What do you mean, Rodney?”
He can tell Rodney is frustrated. Color has risen a little in his cheeks, his eyes have widened a bit. “What I mean is, there’s life, and then there’s our life. What we were… I mean, I never really took anything anybody ever told me for granted – people are not to be trusted to be logical at any given moment – but we were.” He pauses then, takes a breath. Lets it out. John tries to lean against his chair casually. He can’t remember what his next move was meant to be. “We were told, all our lives back on Earth, that we do this, this and this, during our lifetime. We go to school, we learn, do you follow?”
John nods and doesn’t break eye contact, even if the unexpected desperation in Rodney’s eyes is unsettling, to say the least. John knows how hard it is to have an existential crisis and have to involve another person in its thought processes. It’s the reason he stays in his room as much as he can and talks to the walls. In silence.
“We learn to get an education, we find work. We – we find someone else to share it with, well… I mean, normally, that’s what we’re told we do. We marry them. We have a family.”
Rodney’s cheeks grow even pinker, and John has an overwhelming urge to leg it out of the mess before Rodney can draw his next breath to speak. He can’t have this conversation. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that he can’t. He forces himself to breathe and stay. His muscles ache from tension. Luckily, Rodney doesn’t notice there’s anything wrong at all. He barrels on, entirely caught up in his own external monologue.
“But here, we’re – it’s like. I can’t imagine going back to Earth and doing any of that. I have my education, and I’m – I’m using it for something that very few even know about. And it’s incredible. And I – I like my life, Colonel, it’s better than I ever expected it. It’s terrifying and it’s – it’s exciting.” He looks at John like he wants him to share that exact sentiment, and John can’t even open his mouth to speak. He nods, instead, tries to make it look normal, friendly, even encouraging. Rodney takes it. “And I don’t – I feel more or less fulfilled, in, um, my personal life. I mean- okay.”
John looks around at the walls, through the windows, where he can make out the dark sky, but not see any of the stars through the stained glass. It washes in ripples, dark on a different shape of dark, with some color thrown in. He wants McKay to stop talking. He doesn’t. His mouth moves faster now, John can tell, though he isn’t looking. McKay’s getting more nervous, John thinks, then wonders why he thought that.
“I don’t go on, you know…regular dates or anything, and god knows, I don’t want to get married, but I just – I wonder, sometimes. Don’t you ever get lonely?”
John hears it like a snap. In a second, he’s facing McKay, and McKay’s waiting for his answer.
“What?” It comes out stronger than he had ever wanted it to. He doesn’t even remember thinking it.
“What do you mean, what? I mean – don’t you get lonely? Because, see…I do. And it’s – it doesn’t seem right. It shouldn’t happen.”
John breathes out. His voice is calmer, smoother when he talks again. “You’re lonely here?”
McKay shrugs and runs his palms over the table surface. “Aren’t you? Haven’t you noticed? We’re all desperate.”
John realizes two things at once. One, he never quite put into words what he knew was right in front of him, and McKay just nailed it on the head. Two, the shock of knowing that McKay, a man not exactly known for being the most sensitive guy around, saw through it and named it for what it was, is almost too much to take. Maybe they called McKay a genius for more than one reason. Maybe John seriously needs a nap.
“Desperate,” John repeats, tasting the word on his own tongue. “What do you mean?” He tries to make it sound almost threatening, wants Rodney to stop talking about it. As always, Rodney doesn’t.
“Exactly what that means. Look at Elizabeth – she’s completely desperate.”
John frowns. It feels wrong discussing Elizabeth behind her back. It feels a bit like a betrayal. “I don’t think that’s any of our business, McKay.”
McKay waves it off like a non-issue. “Whatever, she’s Elizabeth. She’s our friend, so we can talk all we want. She needs a connection probably more than any of the rest of us.”
“Us?” Connection?
McKay waves a hand between them, then all around them, indicating the empty place settings, the pushed back chairs. “This whole expedition. I don’t know what happens behind the scenes here or anything, but it’s not like we get many chances at – at anything. And I just – I never expected to be the kind of person who cares.” Just like that, McKay deflates and John doesn’t know what to make of this.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean-“ Rodney’s twisting a rook between thumb and forefinger, watching it move. “I mean, I never bought into any of it.”
“Any of…what?” John has realized that asking questions is his most brilliant strategy yet. If he just keeps on asking questions, he won’t have to answer any himself.
“Marriage. Significant others.” Rodney’s voice is flat. He doesn’t look at John.
“McKay, are you saying you wanna get married?” Why? thinks John, but doesn’t say it.
“No!” McKay’s head snaps up. “No, I just told you, I didn’t. I just. Like I said. It’s odd to feel lonely in this place.”
And that’s true. They fought tooth and nail, risked their careers, their lives, to get back here. There was nothing for them on Earth, and they knew it. But being back here has always meant certain restrictions. Sacrifices, maybe. And John has always – mostly – thought them worth it. He nods a little, gauging McKay’s level of sanity. They’ve never had anything remotely like this conversation. Apart from the Kirk digs and the rare mentions of Katie Brown and the like, they have always had a mutual agreement of not talking about personal lives. The closest John’s ever come to knowing about Rodney’s life was Jeannie Miller. There has been an occasional (daily) mention of Samantha Carter, of course, but John has never considered that to be anything but McKay being obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious. Maybe he’s been wrong.
He realizes that he hasn’t spoken in a while, and clears his throat. “I’m, uhm. I’m sorry to hear you’re lonely, Rodney. I thought things were happening with Katie Brown?”
McKay snorts and leans back in his chair. He throws John an unreadable glance, then looks away. “We have dinner on occasion, but… Well, I don’t think her heart is, uh, in it.” He fidgets with more chess pieces, picking them up, putting them down again. John draws breath and makes himself talk.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Rodney. I’m sure -” He searches for words that won’t sound as trite as he hears them in his own mind. “I’m sure that…one of these days…you’ll find someone here.”
Rodney’s shoulders hunch in a rebuttal of sorts, but he doesn’t say anything. Not until after he makes his next move – John has to concentrate on how to block it, because he hadn’t imagined McKay to have that kind of sudden foresight – and clears his throat.
“You know, I always thought that you and Elizabeth would –”
John nearly upsets the board with his hand. He doesn’t say anything because he knows McKay will not finish that sentence. When McKay looks up, John is looking back at him, and he hopes it’s a glare as murderous as he feels. It must be, because McKay immediately drops his gaze to the board and doesn’t say anything else.
John feels a bit guilty, but he simply hadn’t been expecting that. It’s a sore spot that he’d rather not rub, and certainly, not with McKay present, baring his soul in a sudden, three-am-induced emotional hemorrhage. John rolls his shoulders, eases out some of the tension and makes his next move.
“Checkmate.”
McKay frowns, then purses his lips. John’s relieved – there’s no way McKay is up for another ass-kicking, not with the way their conversation petered out. So, it more than surprises John when McKay clears the board and begins setting his pieces up all over again, carefully arranging them on the squares. John can leave any time, he knows that. He pushes his chair closer in and picks up the white pieces. Best out of ten.
So, yeah. There's that. And I've been getting more and more back into Ray and Fraser. Because, really, I'm just not done with them yet. I was afraid I was, but apparently, I was wrong. And that kind of makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside, and whatnot.
So, okay, results of the poll?
First,
lamardeuse totally wins with her (horrific and terrifying) advice of "BREED HEAVILY AND OFTEN", which I will, despite the funny, choose to totally and completely ignore. Runners up are all of you who wanted PORN as the cure. Especially
brooklinegirl, who advised with "dirty, dirty porn. With rimming. and sex toys. Dildos, perhaps." It's the "Dildos, perhaps" that really makes that classy and couth. Alternately, y'all said "MORE KIDFIC, DUH!" which is a totally valid lifestyle choice.
So I totally opened up my unfinished kidfic AU and I am staring at it, and it is staring at me back very defiantly. It's telling me, "YOU got yourself into this PLOT business, YOU dig yourself out", and I'm trying to tell it that just because I thought that AU Ray and Fraser couldn't start fucking as soon as they met when I started writing it, didn't mean it had to be this way NOW, when it actually so totally does, and hence the staring contest. It's 33 pages long and it's only the beginning.
*sigh*
But I really, really want to finish it. I just have to...work this plot out. Like, I think I vaguely know what goes where and how and why and, mostly, WHEN, but I have a hard time with putting all these elements together. I'm going to have to give it to someone to just, honestly, poke holes in the plot, because I'm sure there will be many opportunities.
But, you know that thing where we post bits of WIPs? The first one is more of the kidfic AU, the last two are my SGA fics that I'm not actually sure I'll finish. I go back and forth on them, and the second one is causing me actual existential angst, because the canon's moved on, and clearly, I haven't. But, well, here. I dunno. I might finish Siberia, 'cause it brings me joy. And I'm definitely going to work more on the due South AU, because - ditto. The last one, though...well, that one might just stay on my hard drive and wither.
The Due South Kidfic AU, wherein Ray and Stella had a daughter prior to the divorce, her name's Jenn, she's 11, and her favorite teacher is Mr. Fraser. Also, there's plot, hence it's unfinished.
Ray rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee. They were getting absolutely nowhere with the damn case. The profile guys gave them virtually nothing to go on and went on their merry way, and the interviews at the school only helped confirm the fact that Winters had kept totally mum about the threats he’d received and nobody knew anything and nobody understood why anyone would kill such a wonderful man.
Vecchio was yawning next to him. They’d stayed up half the night going through their notes, trying to see if they maybe missed anything, just something that could help them out, but when the notes began blurring into ink stains, they’d gone home, and now were back, still seeing nothing. Not a single teacher had anything remotely negative to say about the vic, and all were shocked, dismayed and distraught.
No evidence was found at the crime scene except for a single boot print on the kitchen linoleum that didn’t belong to Winters because it was two sizes too big. No prints, no weapon, nada.
“Fuck.” Ray dropped his chair back onto four legs.
He needed a walk, or a cigarette, but he’d given those up too long ago to start back up now, and anyway, it was another one of those urges he had to will away, and he’d gotten used to it by now. Need a cigarette - can’t, sorry, move the fuck on. That’s how it had been for the past five years, that’s how it’ll continue to be. “Want anything from the break room?”
He got up to at least stretch his legs and have a change of scene for a while. Vecchio shook his head and grunted.
“All right, I’ll be right back.” Ray began walking away just as his phone went off. He cursed. What the hell was it now?
He leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver. “Kowalski, what?”
An unfamiliar female voice answered, seemingly disregarding his near-growl.
“Detective Kowalski? This is Meg Thatcher, the principal of Chicago City Day School.”
Ray sank into his chair. “Something wrong? Is Jenn all right?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vecchio look up from the case notes.
“Yes, she is,” the woman answered. “I’m sorry to have startled you, Detective. I am not calling on behalf of Jennifer. I am, in fact, calling for an altogether different reason.” She stopped to clear her throat. “It’s a matter of a sensitive nature, Detective, and I was wondering if you might be able to come and see me in person as soon as is possible for you.”
Some kind of alarm bell went off in Ray’s head. “Sensitive nature? What do you mean?”
“I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone, actually. When is the earliest you could come in?”
“Uh --” Ray glanced over at Vecchio, who was miming “what the hell is going on?” at him, and thought. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the case anyway. He could leave it to Vecchio to pretend to muddle through for a couple of hours and be back to brief Welsh. “Now is fine.”
“I am very relieved to hear that. I shall see you soon, then. You will have a visitor’s pass waiting for you in the main office.” Ray heard a click and the line went dead.
Five minutes later, he was drumming a twitchy rhythm on the wheel of the GTO. He was trying very hard not have to have any idea why the principal of his daughter’s school was asking him to come down to her office and discuss matters of a sensitive nature.
Rodney in Siberia, wherein he...is in Siberia, and then there's angst, and then there's lots of Canadian/Russian sex.
Andrey swears softly in Russian as he looks for a parking space. He glances over at Rodney as if in apology. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a car, so I do not know where to best – ah, okay, here.” His vowels are clipped, made simpler by his accent. Rodney notes the open ‘ah,’ the stilted, thinned out ‘ay’ at the end of ‘okay.’ The street lights look foreign to him.
When Andrey finally finds a spot, he jumps out of the car and only then does Rodney notice that he hadn’t buckled up. Tradition or death wish? He gets out on his side and is late again to help with his suitcase. He heaves his shoulder bag higher.
Andrey leads him to the five story apartment building. It looks grey to Rodney’s eyes, but maybe with a touch of red – brick? It’s red brick, paler in the dark. The windows are mostly lit up, with curtains covering up the insides. Andrey stomps off to the front door, Rodney’s suitcase weighing down his left side.
“Welcome,” he says as they enter the building. The inside is old, the walls are painted white on top, green on the bottom. They’re not fresh coats.
Andrey notices his scrutiny and laughs, shaking his head. “Russia. This isn’t very exotic, I’m afraid.”
Rodney says, “Depends on the perspective, I suppose,” and follows a chuckling Andrey up the stairs. “Can I help you with the suitcase? I didn’t mean to --”
Andrey just waves him off, trudging further up. “Not more – I live on the second story. Here.” He opens the staircase door and leads Rodney down the hallway. Stopping at door number 5, he smiles at Rodney and rings the bell.
“You will live here for a few days, while your new flat is prepared, okay?”
Rodney, after fifteen hours on a plane, is ready to agree to anything. He notes the way “live” sounds like “leave” in this man’s voice. He studies Andrey under the pale hallway light before he hears shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door and the locks click.
*
“Mama, this is Rodney McKay, from Canada,” Andrey says as soon as he’s through the door. “On iz Canady,” he adds as he sets down Rodney’s suitcase and slides off his hat. His hair is light brown and messy in its curly tufts. Rodney turns his attention to the small old woman standing in front of him. She smiles and nods, though she doesn’t say a word. Rodney nods awkwardly back. He’s hit with a sudden exhaustion so deep, he doesn’t think he can remain standing for much longer.
“Rodney, this is my mother – her name is Natalia Filipovna.”
Rodney must look as panicked as he feels, because Andrey chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. “You can call her ‘mama’ or ‘Natasha’, if you want. Pravil’no, ma?”
“Budet menia mamoy zvat’, chto-li?” The old lady chuckles and her eyes crinkle with her smile. “Ladno, ladno, a to yazyk eshio zaputaetsia. Zahodite, zahodite, uzhe vsio na stole.”
Rodney is completely at sea, and he tugs at his scarf, manages to unzip his jacket. It isn’t hot, but he’s sweating, and then he feels it – the very first sign of a panic attack tugging at the back of his stomach, his muscles… No, he hasn’t had one in years, he’s been so good, it’s been so easy – why – why now –
“Rodney? You are okay?” Andrey’s concerned blue eyes look into his own and at least it’s English, at least he understands it, thank God, he speaks English. Rodney manages to pull himself upright, feels the heat receding.
”I’m fine, I’m sorry. Just…tired.”
“Chto eto s nim? Zastoial ty ego tut, prohodite-zhe, Andriusha, davay!”
Natasha sounds worried and Rodney has absolutely no idea what she’s saying, but he figures they should get out of the cramped entryway. Which is exactly what Andrey is doing, as he’s pulling off his shoes and putting on slippers. Rodney follows suit – Natasha smiles as she points to another pair near Andrey’s – and then they’re in what he assumes is the living room.
Every wall space is taken up by a piece of furniture. Bookshelves, couch, TV stand, more bookshelves, and above the couch, a great big oriental rug hangs against the wallpaper. It clashes with the green pattern of the paper, but something about it makes Rodney smile. A rug on a wall. He really is in Siberia, isn’t he?
The John and Rodney epic that I started writing about three or so weeks ago that won't go anywhere, but check out how I'm totally predicting certain parts of "Sunday", only...transposed?.. Wishfully thought?.. Yeah.
John hasn’t been able to spend long periods of time in his room lately. He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself in the mess at two in the morning, beating McKay’s ass at chess for the third time that night. McKay smells like coffee and he looks like crap. John studies him as he contemplates his next move. John has figured out the entire game – McKay may be brilliant, but he’s nothing if not predictable – and can take his time. McKay’s cheeks are pale, and he’s been losing a bit of weight. It could be residual effect of the Ascension machine, but it’s weird to see him this way, and John feels uncomfortable. He’s probably just imagining things. He noticed Elizabeth looking at him strangely today, and it unsettled him. She was never the easiest person to read, but lately, she’s become inscrutable. He had always thought that the longer you got to know a person, the better you could understand them. She’s been proving him wrong for months now.
He knows McKay. He knows his next move will force John to checkmate his ass. He knows McKay knows. When McKay’s hand doesn’t move but he looks up at John, John shifts in his chair.
“You okay, Rodney? Forget the rules?”
McKay’s mouth turns down more and he leans heavier against the table. John instinctively reaches forward. “Rodney?”
“I was just…” He waves his hand a little. The gesture is so perfectly McKay that John allows himself to relax a bit, lean back and listen. “Just thinking. You ever consider what it is we’re supposed to be doing here? Not -” he raises his hand, stopping any possible objections John might have had to that question, “ – not the mission directive. But us - all of us – doing it. I mean, clearly, they wanted the most advanced scientific minds and brilliant strategists and whatnot, but… We’re in the Pegasus Galaxy, Colonel. Doesn’t that – doesn’t that make you wonder?”
John wonders whether the fact that he knows exactly what Rodney is talking about is at all a good thing. He never doubted that others were having their own personal meltdowns over being here, but he had honestly convinced himself that the meltdowns had stopped sometime shortly after the first return back to Earth. With the Daedalus in commission and the SGC in contact, it didn’t seem quite as apocalyptic to be living in a different galaxy. The fact that Rodney McKay is now saying this after two and a half years probably speaks for John’s naivete.
Just in case, he plays dumb. “What do you mean, Rodney?”
He can tell Rodney is frustrated. Color has risen a little in his cheeks, his eyes have widened a bit. “What I mean is, there’s life, and then there’s our life. What we were… I mean, I never really took anything anybody ever told me for granted – people are not to be trusted to be logical at any given moment – but we were.” He pauses then, takes a breath. Lets it out. John tries to lean against his chair casually. He can’t remember what his next move was meant to be. “We were told, all our lives back on Earth, that we do this, this and this, during our lifetime. We go to school, we learn, do you follow?”
John nods and doesn’t break eye contact, even if the unexpected desperation in Rodney’s eyes is unsettling, to say the least. John knows how hard it is to have an existential crisis and have to involve another person in its thought processes. It’s the reason he stays in his room as much as he can and talks to the walls. In silence.
“We learn to get an education, we find work. We – we find someone else to share it with, well… I mean, normally, that’s what we’re told we do. We marry them. We have a family.”
Rodney’s cheeks grow even pinker, and John has an overwhelming urge to leg it out of the mess before Rodney can draw his next breath to speak. He can’t have this conversation. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that he can’t. He forces himself to breathe and stay. His muscles ache from tension. Luckily, Rodney doesn’t notice there’s anything wrong at all. He barrels on, entirely caught up in his own external monologue.
“But here, we’re – it’s like. I can’t imagine going back to Earth and doing any of that. I have my education, and I’m – I’m using it for something that very few even know about. And it’s incredible. And I – I like my life, Colonel, it’s better than I ever expected it. It’s terrifying and it’s – it’s exciting.” He looks at John like he wants him to share that exact sentiment, and John can’t even open his mouth to speak. He nods, instead, tries to make it look normal, friendly, even encouraging. Rodney takes it. “And I don’t – I feel more or less fulfilled, in, um, my personal life. I mean- okay.”
John looks around at the walls, through the windows, where he can make out the dark sky, but not see any of the stars through the stained glass. It washes in ripples, dark on a different shape of dark, with some color thrown in. He wants McKay to stop talking. He doesn’t. His mouth moves faster now, John can tell, though he isn’t looking. McKay’s getting more nervous, John thinks, then wonders why he thought that.
“I don’t go on, you know…regular dates or anything, and god knows, I don’t want to get married, but I just – I wonder, sometimes. Don’t you ever get lonely?”
John hears it like a snap. In a second, he’s facing McKay, and McKay’s waiting for his answer.
“What?” It comes out stronger than he had ever wanted it to. He doesn’t even remember thinking it.
“What do you mean, what? I mean – don’t you get lonely? Because, see…I do. And it’s – it doesn’t seem right. It shouldn’t happen.”
John breathes out. His voice is calmer, smoother when he talks again. “You’re lonely here?”
McKay shrugs and runs his palms over the table surface. “Aren’t you? Haven’t you noticed? We’re all desperate.”
John realizes two things at once. One, he never quite put into words what he knew was right in front of him, and McKay just nailed it on the head. Two, the shock of knowing that McKay, a man not exactly known for being the most sensitive guy around, saw through it and named it for what it was, is almost too much to take. Maybe they called McKay a genius for more than one reason. Maybe John seriously needs a nap.
“Desperate,” John repeats, tasting the word on his own tongue. “What do you mean?” He tries to make it sound almost threatening, wants Rodney to stop talking about it. As always, Rodney doesn’t.
“Exactly what that means. Look at Elizabeth – she’s completely desperate.”
John frowns. It feels wrong discussing Elizabeth behind her back. It feels a bit like a betrayal. “I don’t think that’s any of our business, McKay.”
McKay waves it off like a non-issue. “Whatever, she’s Elizabeth. She’s our friend, so we can talk all we want. She needs a connection probably more than any of the rest of us.”
“Us?” Connection?
McKay waves a hand between them, then all around them, indicating the empty place settings, the pushed back chairs. “This whole expedition. I don’t know what happens behind the scenes here or anything, but it’s not like we get many chances at – at anything. And I just – I never expected to be the kind of person who cares.” Just like that, McKay deflates and John doesn’t know what to make of this.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean-“ Rodney’s twisting a rook between thumb and forefinger, watching it move. “I mean, I never bought into any of it.”
“Any of…what?” John has realized that asking questions is his most brilliant strategy yet. If he just keeps on asking questions, he won’t have to answer any himself.
“Marriage. Significant others.” Rodney’s voice is flat. He doesn’t look at John.
“McKay, are you saying you wanna get married?” Why? thinks John, but doesn’t say it.
“No!” McKay’s head snaps up. “No, I just told you, I didn’t. I just. Like I said. It’s odd to feel lonely in this place.”
And that’s true. They fought tooth and nail, risked their careers, their lives, to get back here. There was nothing for them on Earth, and they knew it. But being back here has always meant certain restrictions. Sacrifices, maybe. And John has always – mostly – thought them worth it. He nods a little, gauging McKay’s level of sanity. They’ve never had anything remotely like this conversation. Apart from the Kirk digs and the rare mentions of Katie Brown and the like, they have always had a mutual agreement of not talking about personal lives. The closest John’s ever come to knowing about Rodney’s life was Jeannie Miller. There has been an occasional (daily) mention of Samantha Carter, of course, but John has never considered that to be anything but McKay being obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious. Maybe he’s been wrong.
He realizes that he hasn’t spoken in a while, and clears his throat. “I’m, uhm. I’m sorry to hear you’re lonely, Rodney. I thought things were happening with Katie Brown?”
McKay snorts and leans back in his chair. He throws John an unreadable glance, then looks away. “We have dinner on occasion, but… Well, I don’t think her heart is, uh, in it.” He fidgets with more chess pieces, picking them up, putting them down again. John draws breath and makes himself talk.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Rodney. I’m sure -” He searches for words that won’t sound as trite as he hears them in his own mind. “I’m sure that…one of these days…you’ll find someone here.”
Rodney’s shoulders hunch in a rebuttal of sorts, but he doesn’t say anything. Not until after he makes his next move – John has to concentrate on how to block it, because he hadn’t imagined McKay to have that kind of sudden foresight – and clears his throat.
“You know, I always thought that you and Elizabeth would –”
John nearly upsets the board with his hand. He doesn’t say anything because he knows McKay will not finish that sentence. When McKay looks up, John is looking back at him, and he hopes it’s a glare as murderous as he feels. It must be, because McKay immediately drops his gaze to the board and doesn’t say anything else.
John feels a bit guilty, but he simply hadn’t been expecting that. It’s a sore spot that he’d rather not rub, and certainly, not with McKay present, baring his soul in a sudden, three-am-induced emotional hemorrhage. John rolls his shoulders, eases out some of the tension and makes his next move.
“Checkmate.”
McKay frowns, then purses his lips. John’s relieved – there’s no way McKay is up for another ass-kicking, not with the way their conversation petered out. So, it more than surprises John when McKay clears the board and begins setting his pieces up all over again, carefully arranging them on the squares. John can leave any time, he knows that. He pushes his chair closer in and picks up the white pieces. Best out of ten.
So, yeah. There's that. And I've been getting more and more back into Ray and Fraser. Because, really, I'm just not done with them yet. I was afraid I was, but apparently, I was wrong. And that kind of makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside, and whatnot.
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