Stories I'm not going to write, part whatever
You know what I want to write? Rodney McKay as a fallen angel.
Except, you know, he didn't so much fall as stomp off when it turned out that humanity was basically just making one great big mess of things and God just let them, which was wrong, wrong, so very wrong. And short-sighted. Bordering on stupid, even, and hey, if the smartest mind in three spheres wasn't allowed to utter a little constructive criticism, he didn't want to stay in Heaven, anyway.
But since he hadn't actively disobeyed the Lord or committed blasphemy, Rodney was granted three miracles to earn his way up again. He huffed and sneered and was secretly grateful, because while humanity had such interesting things as Batman and mango pudding and wormhole physics (a field in which they were wrong, wrong, so very wrong), well, heading for imminent destruction, anyone? Chances were high that sooner rather than later, Rodney would be grateful for any chance to leave that sphere behind and go back home.
He thought of using the first miracle to get the Jaffa out of the Stargate buffer, except that would be such a small scale thing to waste it on, so he didn't. Instead he nudged (bludgeoned, really) the attractive-ish (no human could ever look truly beautiful to eyes that had seen the Creator of Everything) blonde scientist in the right direction; an imparting of wisdom that got him exiled.
Déjà vu.
But Rodney decided to be a good sport about it all, and he did make it on an expedition to another galaxy (even if he was never allowed to be quite smart enough to earn himself the recognition he deserved, namely prizes and female attention, or male, he wasn't picky) so all in all, he could live with the supposed disgrace. And Atlantis was surprisingly fun, not the least because humanity in this corner of the middle sphere wasn't quite as loud and brash as back on Earth, and also because of Major Sheppard. Sheppard was entirely human, proud and wilful and surprisingly noble if challenged, and also fierce and possessive and a lot of fun.
It was the fun part that threw Rodney. Humans weren't supposed to be interesting, except in a general, what-the-heck-are-they-doing-now kind of way. But these were, and Rodney ended up making friends, several of them, and he didn't even think of the pathetically small scale when he used his first miracle to save them.
This was his miracle: raising a shield to keep a wave from shattering Atlantis. As miracles went, it was a pitiful thing, selfishly protecting Rodney's home and a mere handful of souls. That was still more than his next miracle would achieve, though of course Rodney didn't know that at the time.
He just kept on saving lives by means of his brain (incidentally, his own life was almost always among the ones he saved, so sadly his actions didn't count for anything) and learning more about humans in general (who, fine, might be a little less of a waste of time and effort than he'd thought, but only by a small margin) and Major Sheppard in particular.
Sheppard was fascinating. Hopelessly messed up but determined to do the Right Thing (and you could hear the capital letters in his voice), earnestly self-sacrificing one moment and smirking at Rodney the next. And he seemed to like Rodney, honestly like him, and fine, that experience had enough of a novelty value that Rodney might have been basking in it. A little. And despite his repetitive skirting the edge of breaking one of the more important Commandments (namely: thou shalt not murder), every angel who was worth his wings (and Rodney had been worth at least two sets) could see that John Sheppard had a good heart.
He also couldn't help appreciate the irony of Sheppard teaching him how to fly. Even if doing it from inside a machine instead of under his own power barely deserved the name.
This was Rodney's second miracle: sending the Daedalus's engines into overdrive to keep a man from blowing himself up.
It was all right, he told himself when he heard Sheppard's voice over the comm. He still had one miracle left. He'd just have to make it count, make it grand, spectacular; make it worth Divine Forgiveness and a trip back home.
Except… The tranquillity and living beauty of Heaven was naturally preferable to the constant threat of imminent demise and the cold appeal of Atlantis, but… And being surrounded by angels, listening to the voice of the Lord would be so much more rewarding than the squawk of radios and the demands that he explain this, fix that, and yet…
And then he blew up five sixths of a solar system, which not only interfered with God's creation but also slighted his friendship with Sheppard, the second of which shocked him by turning out to be the bigger hurt. Swept under by a feeling of longing so intense it ached, deep in the bottom of his lungs where it made his breath rasp, Rodney wanted nothing more but to go home.
Rodney's third miracle was this: he looked at Sheppard, shot dead by a Wraith in disguise inside a virtual environment, and brought him back to life. It was a miracle so small it went by unnoticed, not even a blip on the cosmic scale. It was a spark of electricity to coax a heart back into beating, only a thought, not even a touch. It was changing the setting from kill to stun after the fact to keep the Wraith from wondering why the human was breathing.
It was the most selfish thing Rodney had ever done.
And John knew. John Sheppard, dead and standing at the gates of Heaven, had been sent back because of Rodney's interference, and he knew. And he stared at Rodney like one would at an apparition (or, perhaps, an angel), and he bickered with Rodney like one would with a good friend, and later, back on Atlantis, he touched Rodney like one would a lover, his palms brushing over Rodney's bare shoulder blades (where his wings would have been, his wings, his beautiful-) with all the pressure of a falling feather.
"Do you want to come home?" Jeannie asked, her sudden inspiration nothing but a means for Heaven to check up on him. "I think you can, if you want to."
And Rodney thought of the topmost sphere, quiet and made of beauty and peace. And he thought of John, the living movement of a heartbeat and a different kind of peace altogether. He thought of touches that didn't hold a single trace of divinity, and of a trust and closeness unlike anything he'd ever known.
"No," he said, and his shoulders relaxed as the phantom weight of wings fell away. "No, I'm good."
And all the way across the mess, though he couldn't possibly have heard them, John Sheppard lifted his head, and grinned.
But I'm not going to write this. Because it'd be silly.
Except, you know, he didn't so much fall as stomp off when it turned out that humanity was basically just making one great big mess of things and God just let them, which was wrong, wrong, so very wrong. And short-sighted. Bordering on stupid, even, and hey, if the smartest mind in three spheres wasn't allowed to utter a little constructive criticism, he didn't want to stay in Heaven, anyway.
But since he hadn't actively disobeyed the Lord or committed blasphemy, Rodney was granted three miracles to earn his way up again. He huffed and sneered and was secretly grateful, because while humanity had such interesting things as Batman and mango pudding and wormhole physics (a field in which they were wrong, wrong, so very wrong), well, heading for imminent destruction, anyone? Chances were high that sooner rather than later, Rodney would be grateful for any chance to leave that sphere behind and go back home.
He thought of using the first miracle to get the Jaffa out of the Stargate buffer, except that would be such a small scale thing to waste it on, so he didn't. Instead he nudged (bludgeoned, really) the attractive-ish (no human could ever look truly beautiful to eyes that had seen the Creator of Everything) blonde scientist in the right direction; an imparting of wisdom that got him exiled.
Déjà vu.
But Rodney decided to be a good sport about it all, and he did make it on an expedition to another galaxy (even if he was never allowed to be quite smart enough to earn himself the recognition he deserved, namely prizes and female attention, or male, he wasn't picky) so all in all, he could live with the supposed disgrace. And Atlantis was surprisingly fun, not the least because humanity in this corner of the middle sphere wasn't quite as loud and brash as back on Earth, and also because of Major Sheppard. Sheppard was entirely human, proud and wilful and surprisingly noble if challenged, and also fierce and possessive and a lot of fun.
It was the fun part that threw Rodney. Humans weren't supposed to be interesting, except in a general, what-the-heck-are-they-doing-now kind of way. But these were, and Rodney ended up making friends, several of them, and he didn't even think of the pathetically small scale when he used his first miracle to save them.
This was his miracle: raising a shield to keep a wave from shattering Atlantis. As miracles went, it was a pitiful thing, selfishly protecting Rodney's home and a mere handful of souls. That was still more than his next miracle would achieve, though of course Rodney didn't know that at the time.
He just kept on saving lives by means of his brain (incidentally, his own life was almost always among the ones he saved, so sadly his actions didn't count for anything) and learning more about humans in general (who, fine, might be a little less of a waste of time and effort than he'd thought, but only by a small margin) and Major Sheppard in particular.
Sheppard was fascinating. Hopelessly messed up but determined to do the Right Thing (and you could hear the capital letters in his voice), earnestly self-sacrificing one moment and smirking at Rodney the next. And he seemed to like Rodney, honestly like him, and fine, that experience had enough of a novelty value that Rodney might have been basking in it. A little. And despite his repetitive skirting the edge of breaking one of the more important Commandments (namely: thou shalt not murder), every angel who was worth his wings (and Rodney had been worth at least two sets) could see that John Sheppard had a good heart.
He also couldn't help appreciate the irony of Sheppard teaching him how to fly. Even if doing it from inside a machine instead of under his own power barely deserved the name.
This was Rodney's second miracle: sending the Daedalus's engines into overdrive to keep a man from blowing himself up.
It was all right, he told himself when he heard Sheppard's voice over the comm. He still had one miracle left. He'd just have to make it count, make it grand, spectacular; make it worth Divine Forgiveness and a trip back home.
Except… The tranquillity and living beauty of Heaven was naturally preferable to the constant threat of imminent demise and the cold appeal of Atlantis, but… And being surrounded by angels, listening to the voice of the Lord would be so much more rewarding than the squawk of radios and the demands that he explain this, fix that, and yet…
And then he blew up five sixths of a solar system, which not only interfered with God's creation but also slighted his friendship with Sheppard, the second of which shocked him by turning out to be the bigger hurt. Swept under by a feeling of longing so intense it ached, deep in the bottom of his lungs where it made his breath rasp, Rodney wanted nothing more but to go home.
Rodney's third miracle was this: he looked at Sheppard, shot dead by a Wraith in disguise inside a virtual environment, and brought him back to life. It was a miracle so small it went by unnoticed, not even a blip on the cosmic scale. It was a spark of electricity to coax a heart back into beating, only a thought, not even a touch. It was changing the setting from kill to stun after the fact to keep the Wraith from wondering why the human was breathing.
It was the most selfish thing Rodney had ever done.
And John knew. John Sheppard, dead and standing at the gates of Heaven, had been sent back because of Rodney's interference, and he knew. And he stared at Rodney like one would at an apparition (or, perhaps, an angel), and he bickered with Rodney like one would with a good friend, and later, back on Atlantis, he touched Rodney like one would a lover, his palms brushing over Rodney's bare shoulder blades (where his wings would have been, his wings, his beautiful-) with all the pressure of a falling feather.
"Do you want to come home?" Jeannie asked, her sudden inspiration nothing but a means for Heaven to check up on him. "I think you can, if you want to."
And Rodney thought of the topmost sphere, quiet and made of beauty and peace. And he thought of John, the living movement of a heartbeat and a different kind of peace altogether. He thought of touches that didn't hold a single trace of divinity, and of a trust and closeness unlike anything he'd ever known.
"No," he said, and his shoulders relaxed as the phantom weight of wings fell away. "No, I'm good."
And all the way across the mess, though he couldn't possibly have heard them, John Sheppard lifted his head, and grinned.
But I'm not going to write this. Because it'd be silly.