Fic: Cavern (Stargate: Atlantis)
John doesn’t understand Rodney, sometimes.
When Rodney talks, it’s fast and enthusiastic, words like bullets cutting sharp through thoughts. A speed that leaves John dizzy and a fast-tracking intelligence that John always has the urge to match, wit for wit, blow by blow - but he can’t.
There’s only so much intelligence he can show in the tilt of an eyebrow, the calculated scoff, and sometimes he feels like he’s being deliberately dense. That he’s not understanding on purpose.
Rodney’s body language he doesn’t understand, either.
It all feels the same, even though it’s all different - cues in hunched shoulders, open eyes, a hand poised in midair, still as Rodney’s mouth opens, his mind running at a million miles a second. The emotions are open, on the surface, there for anyone to find. But what’s underneath…a core of loyalty and stubborn courage, under a face of bald-faced fear and instinctive self-preservation.
Why? Why?
It’s quiet here; John slides his palm flat on the side of the P90, the metal heated under warm sunlight. Rodney’s face is red from exertion.
“It’s not here,” Rodney pants, “I can’t explain it,” but his eyes say something different. I’m sorry, maybe, or you think I’m an idiot, don’t you. Or maybe just this is your fault, because Rodney blames him, seems to blame him for everything.
“You sure you can’t find it?” John finds himself asking.
Rodney shrugs. “There’s a power signature,” he says. “It should be here.”
“Keep looking.”
John’s watch slides over perspiration; ninety degrees, maybe more. He’ll be glad to get back to Atlantis, cool climate-controlled hallways.
Hours later, and a panel found, overgrown with weeds and vines. Rodney pulls ineffectually; the vegetation barely shifts. He’s breathing too hard, looks dizzy. John pulls him into the shade.
“Drink,” with a pushed water canteen.
Rodney takes it, a grateful look over the rim - what else does that mean? Grateful, for what? For the water, or for the offering, the attention?
The panel lights up halfway through clearing. John can feel the thrum echo through the corners of his mind. Still strange, almost an invasion, but slowly, steadily growing familiar. The controls of the machines drift below his mind. He can’t hear them, but he can grasp them, he can pull them to the light and speak in their tongues.
John eases fingertips on the panel. He can’t find the function, but he can activate, he can feel the switch - if he just pushed -
“Not yet,” says Rodney, and John shifts back, pulls out his knife again.
When he does, though, the panel opens, the inside dark and moist and cool, with a hint of spice and comfort.
“We’re going in,” he murmurs, to his radio. “You guys keep at the jumper.”
A grunted acknowledgement from Ronon, another from Teyla, and John ducks into the cave. The entrance is narrow, but it widens, a faint glow of illumination from all around and yet from nowhere.
“Oh wow,” breathes Rodney, “it’s on the walls.”
Ancient writing. Scrawled, by hand, and messy, compared to the neat machine-printed type John has grown accustomed to, as though this were by eager teenagers or careless adults. The rock has grown around it, like a button holding back a piece of fabric, and the water sparkles as it drips.
“What is it, do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
Their voices echo, thrum, murmur back through the cavern. John once explored an Indian village, carved into a cliff in the middle of a vast desert of oranges and reds, in the presence of pure history. He feels it now. There’s something so old about this place, something foreign even to Atlantis.
Rodney touches the stone with a reverence that John can breathe, right in with the oxygen.
“Someone did this by hand,” he says, in awe. “We have to find the translation,” and in an instant he has his computer, open and alive, stylus between fingers turning clammy with the cool.
John steps close to Rodney with a yearning to know, the urge to understand what he doesn’t understand yet. Is it the cave?
Rodney half-turns back, and John is too close, of course, but Rodney doesn’t even seem to notice. “These two are names,” Rodney explains, “with some kind of sigil in between them, I’ve never seen it before. It must have a kind of cultural meaning to the Ancients, not a professional one.”
“Like slang?”
Rodney nods.
Graffiti, or a wall of memory. A cavern of memory. Maybe a network of memory, etched into stone, grown with water and darkness.
Their eyes grow used to it, eventually, the glow of the entrance unbearably bright in the dim of underground, and they huddle together in the glow of the computer, translation programs running.
Graffiti. Memory. A written, tactile record, the soul of a place that never dies.
“Why do you think they’d do this?” Rodney asks. “Put a place on the mainland, so far away from the city.”
“I don’t know.”
The emptiness gnaws at John. Maybe once, there was peace here, but now the peace is shrouded, veiled behind a stream of figures that John doesn’t understand.
Their hands brush, by accident, and Rodney looks away.
“Rodney?” John asks.
“Nothing, it’s nothing, okay?”
He’s always complaining - this much John knows; this much he can interpret. When he’s complaining, maybe, maybe it’s fine, and when he’s not -
“Rodney, talk to me.”
Across from him, the computer illuminates a silhouette, a frown, hunched eyebrows. John moves closer.
“No,” says Rodney. “It’s just - nothing.”
Their eyes meet.
Once I walked through the streets, John thinks, out to the black, flowing with a language I couldn’t understand, and yet, and yet -
A mother, picking up a child, her voice sharp. A young man, arms crossed, eyes downcast. A girl, her chin outthrust, hips tilted, lingering for a moment with hair tossing in the breeze.
Sometimes you don’t have to speak a language to understand it.
He kisses Rodney, the computer digging into his ribs. Pain with pleasure, always; Rodney scowls against him, but his mouth softens, eases, fits into John’s own. He licks, more, a little more, and then Rodney’s lips part, and their tongues -
Slides the computer aside, shifts forward, devours, and is devoured in return.
This language I speak.
“What, what was that?” Rodney gasps, his fingers trembling where they rest against John’s neck.
“Something to remember,” smiles John, and he seeks Rodney out again, almost blindly, with a flaring need that he’s never seen, never perceived except in the dark of night, alone. But he shines, bright as a star, undimmed by the weather, the wear and tear of endless days.
Read between the lines, spaces between words, reverse and mirror the meaning until it’s true.
“We need to talk about this,” says Rodney.
Are you sure you know what you want?
There’s a language that only you speak-
A palm between Rodney’s legs; a shocked gasp, widened eyes, and a strange edge of desperation against John’s tongue.
John can’t help but think that here, even cloaked from the past with a gap too large to fully bridge, there’s something about this that will hold fast, maybe for millennia. Timeless, here.
“We don’t need to talk,” with a nip at Rodney’s neck, because there’s nothing they can say in words that they can’t say here, now, with this a thousand times clearer.
“Okay,” Rodney agrees, finally melting into John’s touch.
Perfect, John thinks, this is perfect, and he holds on.
When Rodney talks, it’s fast and enthusiastic, words like bullets cutting sharp through thoughts. A speed that leaves John dizzy and a fast-tracking intelligence that John always has the urge to match, wit for wit, blow by blow - but he can’t.
There’s only so much intelligence he can show in the tilt of an eyebrow, the calculated scoff, and sometimes he feels like he’s being deliberately dense. That he’s not understanding on purpose.
Rodney’s body language he doesn’t understand, either.
It all feels the same, even though it’s all different - cues in hunched shoulders, open eyes, a hand poised in midair, still as Rodney’s mouth opens, his mind running at a million miles a second. The emotions are open, on the surface, there for anyone to find. But what’s underneath…a core of loyalty and stubborn courage, under a face of bald-faced fear and instinctive self-preservation.
Why? Why?
It’s quiet here; John slides his palm flat on the side of the P90, the metal heated under warm sunlight. Rodney’s face is red from exertion.
“It’s not here,” Rodney pants, “I can’t explain it,” but his eyes say something different. I’m sorry, maybe, or you think I’m an idiot, don’t you. Or maybe just this is your fault, because Rodney blames him, seems to blame him for everything.
“You sure you can’t find it?” John finds himself asking.
Rodney shrugs. “There’s a power signature,” he says. “It should be here.”
“Keep looking.”
John’s watch slides over perspiration; ninety degrees, maybe more. He’ll be glad to get back to Atlantis, cool climate-controlled hallways.
Hours later, and a panel found, overgrown with weeds and vines. Rodney pulls ineffectually; the vegetation barely shifts. He’s breathing too hard, looks dizzy. John pulls him into the shade.
“Drink,” with a pushed water canteen.
Rodney takes it, a grateful look over the rim - what else does that mean? Grateful, for what? For the water, or for the offering, the attention?
The panel lights up halfway through clearing. John can feel the thrum echo through the corners of his mind. Still strange, almost an invasion, but slowly, steadily growing familiar. The controls of the machines drift below his mind. He can’t hear them, but he can grasp them, he can pull them to the light and speak in their tongues.
John eases fingertips on the panel. He can’t find the function, but he can activate, he can feel the switch - if he just pushed -
“Not yet,” says Rodney, and John shifts back, pulls out his knife again.
When he does, though, the panel opens, the inside dark and moist and cool, with a hint of spice and comfort.
“We’re going in,” he murmurs, to his radio. “You guys keep at the jumper.”
A grunted acknowledgement from Ronon, another from Teyla, and John ducks into the cave. The entrance is narrow, but it widens, a faint glow of illumination from all around and yet from nowhere.
“Oh wow,” breathes Rodney, “it’s on the walls.”
Ancient writing. Scrawled, by hand, and messy, compared to the neat machine-printed type John has grown accustomed to, as though this were by eager teenagers or careless adults. The rock has grown around it, like a button holding back a piece of fabric, and the water sparkles as it drips.
“What is it, do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
Their voices echo, thrum, murmur back through the cavern. John once explored an Indian village, carved into a cliff in the middle of a vast desert of oranges and reds, in the presence of pure history. He feels it now. There’s something so old about this place, something foreign even to Atlantis.
Rodney touches the stone with a reverence that John can breathe, right in with the oxygen.
“Someone did this by hand,” he says, in awe. “We have to find the translation,” and in an instant he has his computer, open and alive, stylus between fingers turning clammy with the cool.
John steps close to Rodney with a yearning to know, the urge to understand what he doesn’t understand yet. Is it the cave?
Rodney half-turns back, and John is too close, of course, but Rodney doesn’t even seem to notice. “These two are names,” Rodney explains, “with some kind of sigil in between them, I’ve never seen it before. It must have a kind of cultural meaning to the Ancients, not a professional one.”
“Like slang?”
Rodney nods.
Graffiti, or a wall of memory. A cavern of memory. Maybe a network of memory, etched into stone, grown with water and darkness.
Their eyes grow used to it, eventually, the glow of the entrance unbearably bright in the dim of underground, and they huddle together in the glow of the computer, translation programs running.
Graffiti. Memory. A written, tactile record, the soul of a place that never dies.
“Why do you think they’d do this?” Rodney asks. “Put a place on the mainland, so far away from the city.”
“I don’t know.”
The emptiness gnaws at John. Maybe once, there was peace here, but now the peace is shrouded, veiled behind a stream of figures that John doesn’t understand.
Their hands brush, by accident, and Rodney looks away.
“Rodney?” John asks.
“Nothing, it’s nothing, okay?”
He’s always complaining - this much John knows; this much he can interpret. When he’s complaining, maybe, maybe it’s fine, and when he’s not -
“Rodney, talk to me.”
Across from him, the computer illuminates a silhouette, a frown, hunched eyebrows. John moves closer.
“No,” says Rodney. “It’s just - nothing.”
Their eyes meet.
Once I walked through the streets, John thinks, out to the black, flowing with a language I couldn’t understand, and yet, and yet -
A mother, picking up a child, her voice sharp. A young man, arms crossed, eyes downcast. A girl, her chin outthrust, hips tilted, lingering for a moment with hair tossing in the breeze.
Sometimes you don’t have to speak a language to understand it.
He kisses Rodney, the computer digging into his ribs. Pain with pleasure, always; Rodney scowls against him, but his mouth softens, eases, fits into John’s own. He licks, more, a little more, and then Rodney’s lips part, and their tongues -
Slides the computer aside, shifts forward, devours, and is devoured in return.
This language I speak.
“What, what was that?” Rodney gasps, his fingers trembling where they rest against John’s neck.
“Something to remember,” smiles John, and he seeks Rodney out again, almost blindly, with a flaring need that he’s never seen, never perceived except in the dark of night, alone. But he shines, bright as a star, undimmed by the weather, the wear and tear of endless days.
Read between the lines, spaces between words, reverse and mirror the meaning until it’s true.
“We need to talk about this,” says Rodney.
Are you sure you know what you want?
There’s a language that only you speak-
A palm between Rodney’s legs; a shocked gasp, widened eyes, and a strange edge of desperation against John’s tongue.
John can’t help but think that here, even cloaked from the past with a gap too large to fully bridge, there’s something about this that will hold fast, maybe for millennia. Timeless, here.
“We don’t need to talk,” with a nip at Rodney’s neck, because there’s nothing they can say in words that they can’t say here, now, with this a thousand times clearer.
“Okay,” Rodney agrees, finally melting into John’s touch.
Perfect, John thinks, this is perfect, and he holds on.