FIC: Fallout by Spacebabe
Author: spacebabe
Pairing: McShep
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~1,700
Spoilers: Allusion to Grace under pressure if you squint and look sideways
Notes: This is a sequel to my story Walking The Line. Should be okay to read on its own, however. Spell checked but unbeta'ed. If you see anything I missed, let me know, pretty please! :)
Fallout
by
Spacebabe
Rodney doesn't know much about oceanography, but he knows that the waters between Atlantis and the mainland are deep and cold, averaging around 9 cozy degrees C for much of the year, due to the strong currents that carry clear, cold water up from the polar regions. It's probably warmer in the water than it is in the air right now, he observes.
The sun has just disappeared all the way below the horizon when the silence of the radio changes in his ear, segueing momentarily into the barely discernable tone of high-frequency switching devices before crackling to real life.
"McKay, answer your fucking radio," Sheppard demands.
For a brief moment Rodney once again regrets that he brought the radio along at all. But the sentiment passes quickly, because he's many things, but irresponsible is not one of them.
"McKay." Sheppard's voice is laden with warning.
Rodney hasn't answered any of Sheppard's previous three (increasingly irritated) calls and isn't planning on answering this one either. In the case of a real emergency he has no doubt that he would be hailed by Sheppard as well as both Zelenka and Elizabeth, so the fact that it's only Sheppard that calls him lets him know the city isn't about to go under, and that's enough for him right now.
"What the hell did you do to the citywide sensors, Rodney?"
The frustration in his voice makes Rodney grin darkly. The sensors work perfectly, only they won't locate him. Atlantis may bend backwards for John Sheppard, but Rodney knows a little about how to sweet talk her, too, and he's made sure he'll be left alone until he doesn't want to be alone any longer.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back on the wide ledge that runs along the bottom of all buildings that face the piers. He's been out here a few times before. It's a good place when you want some time on your own. Hidden from view and protected from the wind that howls across the darkening waters. The bottle of Zelenka's homemade gut rot is heavy in his inner pocket. He's already pulled it out four times, getting as far as unscrewing the cap before that damn sense of responsibility interferes and puts a stop to it. He can't risk it. Can't risk being even a fraction off his game, because when he is, people usually end up dead.
It's not hubris, not an over-inflated ego. It's fact. Welcome to the life of Rodney McKay.
The alcohol tolerance he built up in Siberia must be shot all to hell by now he thinks grimly. Too bad. It had been pretty fun to drink people under the table. But times change and he can't take the risk of drinking himself into oblivion any longer, but it's clear he needs something. Some kind of relief. Badly. His nerves are all shot to hell. He can't sleep worth a damn. Slumber is an okay substitute for real sleep in a short term basis. Long term? Not so much. Sex would probably help nicely. Only one problem, his single source of sex is a rather big part of what's killing Rodney right now.
Beckett gave him sleeping pills a few weeks back, on the condition that he went to see Heightmeier. Rodney still feels decidedly uncomfortable sitting across from that damn woman, but he obediently goes. He wants to set a good example for his people. If she can help just one of them handle the stress, it's worth it. But he doesn't say much during their sessions, at least not about anything that matters, because even though there's that doctor-patient confidentiality deal, Rodney's not ready to talk to anyone about everything that's slowly eating away at him like acid on lead.
He realizes he's a hypocrite for encouraging his people to go to her with their problems and to be honest with her, when he himself gives her a run-around every time she gets a little too close to the sore spots. But how the hell can someone who's sitting in a damn office all day possibly understand what it's like?
"Rodney, come on, don't do this," Sheppard says.
And how the hell could such a person know what it feels like to plan in meticulous detail how to kill someone who's not even your enemy? Someone who's wormed himself deeper under your skin than anyone else, ever? Rodney takes a deep breath to try to dissolve the tightness that coils around his chest.
"I talked to Zelenka," Sheppard says then. His words carry a terrible calm.
Rodney's stomach knots painfully as he hears the words Sheppard doesn't say. He stares rigidly down at his boots, at the frost on the ground, and the ache in his bones takes a sharp step forward. He can feel the words inside, raw and desperate to get out. I didn't want to, I really didn't, but it seemed to be the only way. You understand, don't you? Atlantis would have been lost, and there was no other way. I had no choice. But he keeps quiet, even though it goes against his very nature, because Sheppard doesn't need his guilt. He's got enough of his own, and that's why Rodney can't talk to him right now.
He was okay for almost a week, but for some reason that changed today. It's gotten progessively worse, and right now he's at a point where he's afraid that if he starts talking, his mouth will take over and he won't be able to stop, and how do you tell someone you spent half an hour calculating how much power you have to bleed from the Mark II generator to make sure Atlantis didn't crumble into a million pieces when it blew, and at the same time making sure that the explosion would be powerful enough to ensure there was absolutely no way that the people trapped on the wrong side of the blast doors could survive? Because that would ultimately have been kinder than leaving the seven of them stuck in there to die a few hours later, blast injured, sick and in excruciating pain from the inevitable radiation poisoning.
The hollow silence of the open channel is a veil of white noise at the edge of hearing, and Rodney presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. In the end, they'd been able to stop the explosion altogether, and he hadn't had to kill Sheppard or the other six expedition members trapped with the generator. His calculations, black on white, had gotten lost in the chaos afterwards. He doesn't know who found them, or where, but they had been lying next to his laptop after lunch today. He'd taken one look at his own chicken scratches and walked out.
"You did what you had to do," Sheppard says in his ear. They must be on a private channel, he realizes, or Sheppard would never mention this. "Don't get me wrong," Sheppard continues, "I'm thrilled to still be around, but you made the right decision. You did what you had to do."
Rodney's breath comes in choppy puffs of white condensate. He doesn't want to hear that calm, reasonable voice telling him what he planned to do is okay. Because it's not. It's wrong on a cosmic scale and just thinking about it is enough to make him sick.
"Come on," Sheppard says tiredly. "Answer. At least, I don't know, just click the radio. I won't triangulate your position, I promise. But Carson is worried, and when I left, Kavanagh was trying to stage a coup to take over in the labs after hearing you had dropped off the face of the city. I'm afraid it might turn ugly if he corners Zelenka." There's a pause. He's obviously waiting for an answer. When it doesn't come, a heavy sigh rides the radio waves. "Dammit, Rodney. If I find you lying dead somewhere with a broken neck a few weeks from now, I will kill you myself."
Rodney slowly reaches up and taps his radio. He doesn’t say anything, just taps it off again after a moment.
Sheppard is silent for a long time. "Thank you," he finally says, and there is relief in those two words.
After a five long seconds the radio goes dead in Rodney's ear, and he knows he's alone again.
He swallows hard. He came here for solitude, for silence, but now that he's gotten Sheppard off his back and is pretty much guaranteed those very things, they suddenly seem terribly overrated. He sits down heavily on the cold ground. The last flaming colors are fading from the horizon, displaced by the deep blue that soon will darken into black and wrap itself around Atlantis.
If the crisp air and the rising darkness hears his silent misery, they don't mention it.
~ The End ~
Pairing: McShep
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~1,700
Spoilers: Allusion to Grace under pressure if you squint and look sideways
Notes: This is a sequel to my story Walking The Line. Should be okay to read on its own, however. Spell checked but unbeta'ed. If you see anything I missed, let me know, pretty please! :)
Fallout
by
Spacebabe
Rodney doesn't know much about oceanography, but he knows that the waters between Atlantis and the mainland are deep and cold, averaging around 9 cozy degrees C for much of the year, due to the strong currents that carry clear, cold water up from the polar regions. It's probably warmer in the water than it is in the air right now, he observes.
The sun has just disappeared all the way below the horizon when the silence of the radio changes in his ear, segueing momentarily into the barely discernable tone of high-frequency switching devices before crackling to real life.
"McKay, answer your fucking radio," Sheppard demands.
For a brief moment Rodney once again regrets that he brought the radio along at all. But the sentiment passes quickly, because he's many things, but irresponsible is not one of them.
"McKay." Sheppard's voice is laden with warning.
Rodney hasn't answered any of Sheppard's previous three (increasingly irritated) calls and isn't planning on answering this one either. In the case of a real emergency he has no doubt that he would be hailed by Sheppard as well as both Zelenka and Elizabeth, so the fact that it's only Sheppard that calls him lets him know the city isn't about to go under, and that's enough for him right now.
"What the hell did you do to the citywide sensors, Rodney?"
The frustration in his voice makes Rodney grin darkly. The sensors work perfectly, only they won't locate him. Atlantis may bend backwards for John Sheppard, but Rodney knows a little about how to sweet talk her, too, and he's made sure he'll be left alone until he doesn't want to be alone any longer.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back on the wide ledge that runs along the bottom of all buildings that face the piers. He's been out here a few times before. It's a good place when you want some time on your own. Hidden from view and protected from the wind that howls across the darkening waters. The bottle of Zelenka's homemade gut rot is heavy in his inner pocket. He's already pulled it out four times, getting as far as unscrewing the cap before that damn sense of responsibility interferes and puts a stop to it. He can't risk it. Can't risk being even a fraction off his game, because when he is, people usually end up dead.
It's not hubris, not an over-inflated ego. It's fact. Welcome to the life of Rodney McKay.
The alcohol tolerance he built up in Siberia must be shot all to hell by now he thinks grimly. Too bad. It had been pretty fun to drink people under the table. But times change and he can't take the risk of drinking himself into oblivion any longer, but it's clear he needs something. Some kind of relief. Badly. His nerves are all shot to hell. He can't sleep worth a damn. Slumber is an okay substitute for real sleep in a short term basis. Long term? Not so much. Sex would probably help nicely. Only one problem, his single source of sex is a rather big part of what's killing Rodney right now.
Beckett gave him sleeping pills a few weeks back, on the condition that he went to see Heightmeier. Rodney still feels decidedly uncomfortable sitting across from that damn woman, but he obediently goes. He wants to set a good example for his people. If she can help just one of them handle the stress, it's worth it. But he doesn't say much during their sessions, at least not about anything that matters, because even though there's that doctor-patient confidentiality deal, Rodney's not ready to talk to anyone about everything that's slowly eating away at him like acid on lead.
He realizes he's a hypocrite for encouraging his people to go to her with their problems and to be honest with her, when he himself gives her a run-around every time she gets a little too close to the sore spots. But how the hell can someone who's sitting in a damn office all day possibly understand what it's like?
"Rodney, come on, don't do this," Sheppard says.
And how the hell could such a person know what it feels like to plan in meticulous detail how to kill someone who's not even your enemy? Someone who's wormed himself deeper under your skin than anyone else, ever? Rodney takes a deep breath to try to dissolve the tightness that coils around his chest.
"I talked to Zelenka," Sheppard says then. His words carry a terrible calm.
Rodney's stomach knots painfully as he hears the words Sheppard doesn't say. He stares rigidly down at his boots, at the frost on the ground, and the ache in his bones takes a sharp step forward. He can feel the words inside, raw and desperate to get out. I didn't want to, I really didn't, but it seemed to be the only way. You understand, don't you? Atlantis would have been lost, and there was no other way. I had no choice. But he keeps quiet, even though it goes against his very nature, because Sheppard doesn't need his guilt. He's got enough of his own, and that's why Rodney can't talk to him right now.
He was okay for almost a week, but for some reason that changed today. It's gotten progessively worse, and right now he's at a point where he's afraid that if he starts talking, his mouth will take over and he won't be able to stop, and how do you tell someone you spent half an hour calculating how much power you have to bleed from the Mark II generator to make sure Atlantis didn't crumble into a million pieces when it blew, and at the same time making sure that the explosion would be powerful enough to ensure there was absolutely no way that the people trapped on the wrong side of the blast doors could survive? Because that would ultimately have been kinder than leaving the seven of them stuck in there to die a few hours later, blast injured, sick and in excruciating pain from the inevitable radiation poisoning.
The hollow silence of the open channel is a veil of white noise at the edge of hearing, and Rodney presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. In the end, they'd been able to stop the explosion altogether, and he hadn't had to kill Sheppard or the other six expedition members trapped with the generator. His calculations, black on white, had gotten lost in the chaos afterwards. He doesn't know who found them, or where, but they had been lying next to his laptop after lunch today. He'd taken one look at his own chicken scratches and walked out.
"You did what you had to do," Sheppard says in his ear. They must be on a private channel, he realizes, or Sheppard would never mention this. "Don't get me wrong," Sheppard continues, "I'm thrilled to still be around, but you made the right decision. You did what you had to do."
Rodney's breath comes in choppy puffs of white condensate. He doesn't want to hear that calm, reasonable voice telling him what he planned to do is okay. Because it's not. It's wrong on a cosmic scale and just thinking about it is enough to make him sick.
"Come on," Sheppard says tiredly. "Answer. At least, I don't know, just click the radio. I won't triangulate your position, I promise. But Carson is worried, and when I left, Kavanagh was trying to stage a coup to take over in the labs after hearing you had dropped off the face of the city. I'm afraid it might turn ugly if he corners Zelenka." There's a pause. He's obviously waiting for an answer. When it doesn't come, a heavy sigh rides the radio waves. "Dammit, Rodney. If I find you lying dead somewhere with a broken neck a few weeks from now, I will kill you myself."
Rodney slowly reaches up and taps his radio. He doesn’t say anything, just taps it off again after a moment.
Sheppard is silent for a long time. "Thank you," he finally says, and there is relief in those two words.
After a five long seconds the radio goes dead in Rodney's ear, and he knows he's alone again.
He swallows hard. He came here for solitude, for silence, but now that he's gotten Sheppard off his back and is pretty much guaranteed those very things, they suddenly seem terribly overrated. He sits down heavily on the cold ground. The last flaming colors are fading from the horizon, displaced by the deep blue that soon will darken into black and wrap itself around Atlantis.
If the crisp air and the rising darkness hears his silent misery, they don't mention it.
~ The End ~