New SGA story: Salutation to the Dawn part 1 of 4
Title: Salutation to the Dawn
Author: pierson
Recipient: mirabile_dictu
Pairing: Dex/Zelenka
Rating: R
Word Count: ~26,580
Disclaimer: Stargate: Atlantis, the characters and universe are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. All of above people/companies own the show and characters--I have only my affection for them, and make no profit.
Author's Notes: Written for mirabile_dictu for The Czech is in the Male Thing-a-Thon, with the prompts off-world, fearful, party and Ronon Dex/Radek Zelenka as the requested pairing. Beta by mice1900 and beledibabe. Lovely graphic by rosewildeirish.
Salutation To The Dawn
by Deirdre 2007-2008
Yesterday is but a dream, tomorrow but a vision. But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore, to this day. Such is the salutation to the dawn.
--Sanskrit proverb
The sun lays on his shoulders like a warm, lazy cat, and Radek luxuriates in it, feeling tension seep out of muscles tight as a clenched fist. A little breeze, cool and briny and moist, fingers through his hair, lifts the corner of the scientific journal spread on the table before him. A memory of other oceans galaxies away sifts over the surface of his mind: the Baltic, the Atlantic, the Pacific; none had the slightly sweet scent that only Atlantis possesses.
He weights down the corner of the journal with one of the three oranges at his elbow so that the breeze will not flip the pages and lose his place. Not that he would care, particularly; his mind is only half-engaged by the words, and only that much so because he knows and respects the author of the article. Moderately interesting reading, yes, but Radek’s time in Atlantis has propelled him light-years ahead of Chernyoskayav’s theories. Radek thinks of the mountain of his own notes, of all the possible papers he could write-if he writes steadily, he could publish monthly for years-and mourns for a brief moment the fact that he might possibly never be allowed to do so. Everything he’s learned and experienced is, as Rodney so quaintly puts it, classified as Burn Before Reading.
It is pointless to fret over things such as this, things beyond his control, and so Radek shuttles the thought away. Particularly pointless on such a lovely day, when the sky is so very blue, the breeze fresh and crisp, and he is, despite all odds, still alive to enjoy it. Alive at least for the moment; he does not care to calculate his chances for the coming weeks. So instead of dwelling on it, he blesses the person who had thought to bring tables and chairs from the mess out to the balcony, and congratulates himself that he has chosen an off-hour to have his lunch, a time that guarantees a measure of peace and quiet.
Quite unlike the argument he had left behind in Lab One, which had been all yelling and waving of arms and the rapid, angry squeak of markers on the whiteboards. Usually, he never has a disagreement with Zheng; she is calm and steady and competent, all traits he highly values, but today, ah, not so much with calmness. Radek knows only a smattering of Chinese, not nearly enough to follow exactly what she said, but he knows it involves his ancestry, and includes sheep and goats in a highly unpleasant and improbable manner, if only from the snickering coming from Tsilevich, who speaks fluent Mandarin and loves dearly all manner of insults and profanity.
The argument ended when Rodney declared everyone completely incompetent, and intellectually bankrupt and filled a whiteboard with equations of his own, all faultlessly correct, of course, which had unfortunately driven Radek’s irritation into full-blown anger. Radek had flung up his hands and left the lab, muttering his own insults under his breath. He swung by his quarters and picked up the journal and the oranges, and found his sunny spot out on the mess balcony. And he is most definitely not, as Rodney had taunted, sulking. He is regrouping, which is vastly different and much more dignified.
Radek slouches in his chair, closing his eyes and tipping his face up for the warm kiss of sunlight. He spends too much time inside, he decides; his skin is as pale as a pearl from lack of sun. Perhaps he should appreciate it more, both for himself and for those lost to them both before and during the siege of Atlantis. So many losses, all precious, but some more dear than others. He spends a moment thinking of Peter Grodin, of his smooth cultured voice and smoother warm skin, of the way his lips would part in a soft sigh when Radek touched him just so.
Radek blinks away the memory and straightens in his chair. So many new faces now, in places where he keeps expecting to see old friends and colleagues. At first it angered him, saddened him-people are not merely parts of a machine to be replaced when one is damaged or broken-but he considers himself a practical, pragmatic man who knows empty positions must be filled, and quickly, to keep Atlantis running smoothly, to keep everyone else safe. Though he may not like them, he has become accustomed to the changes life post-siege has brought to Atlantis.
He picks up one of the oranges and rolls it between his palms. This is one of the many good things about the comings and goings of the Daedalus: fresh produce. Apples and peaches and grapes and pineapple and bananas and grapefruit, and he has gorged himself on as much of it as he can. Chocolate is the most valued commodity for trade, but for him, it is fresh fruit, and the clever, the observant, have used this weakness against him mercilessly. And now, with this shipment of oranges, the first they have gotten of this particular fruit, he knows he might as well just roll over and show his soft belly to the wolves, give everyone what they ask of him, because, yes, he is just that helpless.
He sinks his thumbnail into the rind, gouging out a divot, and aromatic oils mist over his hands, rising to his nose. Such a wonderful smell, oranges; fresh and clean, and his mouth waters, just a little. He remembers holidays as a child, receiving oranges as gifts, remembers how his hands smelled for hours after he had devoured them, the taste of sticky sweet juice licked from his fingers, careful not to waste even one drop. He can feel one corner of his mouth crook in a half-smile at the memories.
With swift, deft motions he peels off the rind, leaving curls of orange and white skin on the table before him. The flesh is firm and springy beneath his fingers, and juice sprays as he sinks in his thumbs and splits the fruit in half. Juice rolls down the heel of his hand, and he raises his arm to chase the sweetness down his wrist, licking the path it takes before it reaches the pushed-up cuff of his uniform sleeve. Rodney will howl of allergies and attempted murder by citrus if he returns to the lab with any trace of it on his skin or clothing, and while normally he shrugs off McKay’s rants without a second thought, Radek feels stretched too thin, too brittle, to bear more of it today.
He pulls off a section and slips it between his lips. There is a microsecond of resistance, then his teeth break through the membrane, bite into the flesh, and sweet juice slides over his tongue. He closes his eyes and savors it, a happy hum low in his throat. It has been almost two years since he has had a fresh orange. The last was back at McMurdo, and he remembers Peter coming to him as he worked in the labs in one of the cold, late hours of the night and offering it to him with a little smile. He remembers how improbably warm Peter’s hand had been when his fingers had curled over the fruit, taking it from Peter’s palm, remembers returning that smile, with interest. He remembers how later that night, much later, with Peter’s long, lean body tucked warmly in around his own, Peter had laughed and teased of how easily Radek had sold his virtue. Radek had laughed with him, but it had been so much more than gift of fresh oranges; it had been a brilliant mind, smiling dark eyes, soft, curving lips and a surprisingly sweet nature that had bought his attentions. It had been much more than that which had kept them together until Peter’s death.
“Smells good. What is it?” The voice is low and rumbling, like thunder in distant hills, and Radek opens his eyes-when had he closed them?-to see a man standing before him. Radek is surprised; he’d not heard the tread of boots on the decking. Of course he recognizes him: Ronon Dex. Even with all the new personnel, this one stands out; tall, broad, with that leonine mane of long, matted ropes of hair--dreadlocks? he is not certain--and a serious, solemn face. He has heard Rodney talk of him with grudging respect, and he has heard Colonel Sheppard say how valuable he is to their team, to Atlantis. Radek has never before seen him so closely, and the effect is rather...intimidating.
However, Radek has lived his entire life shorter than most men, and has tried never to let it show that sometimes, yes, bigger men make him nervous. He is more successful at this at some times than at others. Tearing through schooling at an accelerated pace meant his schoolmates were always much larger, and not particularly amenable to his intelligence and youth, of the favor teachers showed him; he still remembers beatings suffered when he wasn’t quick enough to evade them. But that is a whole lifetime ago, and he should have no reason to fear this man who works with Rodney and Teyla and Colonel Sheppard, this man who has earned their trust. He firmly squelches the jitter as it curls in his belly, but when he speaks, he is still surprised at the levelness of his voice. “It is Earth fruit. In English, it is called an orange. Very sweet. I will share, if you would like.”
“Sure.” Ronon turns the chair opposite Radek around, and swings a leg over it, sitting and folding his arms across the chair back. His shoulders are like a mountain range, and his bared biceps swell with strength. Ronon could deconstruct him into his constituent atoms without raising a sweat, but when Radek’s eyes slide up arms and shoulders, back to Ronon’s still, watchful face, Radek does not think he will. Radek offers half of his peeled orange, and although his face is calm, and his hand is steady, he is certain Ronon still knows how nervous he feels within, because somehow, he manages to loom just a little less than he did before.
Ronon takes the fruit from him and instead of sectioning it, simply bites into it, squirting juice everywhere. Radek sets down the remainder of the orange and scrambles to get his journal out of the way, forgetting his nervousness and muttering under his breath as he wipes off with his sleeve spots of juice. He accidently knocks the orange peels off onto the decking, and he ducks down quickly to pick them up and pile them more neatly to the side.
The other half of his orange is gone.
Radek looks from the spot where it was, to where Ronon sits, licking juice from his fingers. Ronon’s face is still serious, but his eyes smile. Radek wavers between annoyance and amusement, not quite sure which way to turn, but finally chooses amusement. If Ronon can still have laughing eyes after the life he has led, well, Radek cannot hold a grudge against the minor theft.
Though he is annoyed that he did get only one slice from it.
“I may assume that you like it?” he asks with some asperity.
Ronon sucks juice from his thumb. “‘s good,” he says.
Radek snorts. “It is better if you take time to enjoy it instead of bolting it down like a starving dog.” His eyes slide over the impressive width of shoulders. “I hardly think that you are in any danger of starving.”
Ronon shrugs. “Maybe not now."
“Definitely not now,” Radek says, but tucks Ronon’s words into the back of his mind to ask Rodney of later. He picks up another orange and begins peeling it. “I will share this one as well. But I expect you to give it proper appreciation.” He glances up to see Ronon watching his hands work. When Ronon looks up in return, Radek notices he has clear brown-gold eyes, like dark amber, as sharp as a blade. Radek suspects they miss very little that goes on about him.
“You’re McKay’s friend. I’ve seen you with him. In the labs, and in the mess.”
“Ah, yes,” Radek replies. “I am Radek Zelenka.” Radek splits the peeled orange and hands half of it to Ronon.
"Zelenka,” Ronon repeats, as if tasting the syllables on his tongue. In spite of his low rumbling voice, he gives it a little curling lilt that makes it sound exotic, rather than ordinary, to Radek’s ears. “You a doctor, like McKay?”
“Yes. Astrophysics and wormhole theory, engineering of different types.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug, and he takes a bite of orange. “Always, since I was very young boy, I have taken things apart, wondered how and why they work. And how to make them work better.”
Ronon studies him a moment. “Do they? Work better, I mean, when you’re done?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes not. But usually, yes.” He looks up and offers a small smile.
The corners of Ronon’s mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but his eyes are lively. “You’re not like McKay.”
“Ah, no one is like Rodney,” Radek agrees. “He is very definitely one of a kind.”
“Sometimes you yell at each other.” Radek thinks this amuses Ronon, just from the tilt of his head. “I’ve heard it, passing in the halls.”
“Well. We have discussions. Sometimes, these discussions are conducted at a very loud volume,” Radek allows, because yes, it is very true.
“McKay’s loud out in the field, too. You and Sheppard are the only ones who can make him shut up.” Ronon’s eyes flick over Radek’s face, over his narrow shoulders, a quick, thorough assessment that dismisses him as any sort of threat and leaves Radek feeling both relieved and inexplicably annoyed. “You don’t look like someone who would fight with him like you do.”
Radek blinks. “Looks can often be deceiving, but I am certain you know that very well,” he replies mildly.
“Yeah, true enough.” And although Ronon’s faintly amused expression does not change, Radek has the feeling that something has subtly shifted in Ronon’s view of him, perhaps in his favor. “Did you come through the Ring with McKay and Sheppard, or later?”
“The Ring?” Radek can hear the capitalization in Ronon’s voice.
“The Ring of the Ancestors.” Ronon takes a bite of orange; after watching Radek, he has sectioned it carefully, to make it last longer. Radek watches as Ronon licks the juice from his fingers, and truly, that flash of pink against the brown of his fingers should not be so...absorbing. He realizes he stares and deliberately lowers his gaze to the fruit in his own hands.
“Ah. We call it the Stargate,” Radek says after a moment. “Yes. I came with the original group.” Unbidden, his eyes flick to the mess. He can hear the hum of many voices, an occasional laugh. It should be comforting, all these new people in the halls, the labs, the mess, the control room, but instead it seems only to underscore their losses. “There are so few of us left.”
“The Wraith are a terrible foe,” Ronon agrees.
“Not all losses were from the Wraith,” Radek replies. He can still feel how Johnson had gone limp in his arms that horrible day of the nanovirus, the sudden, heavy, boneless weight of Dumais’ body as he caught her when she fell. “We have lost people from the very beginning. So much we have learned here in the Pegasus galaxy, but the cost has been very dear.” Radek looks over the railing, out over the ocean, like wrinkled dark blue silk beneath the clear pale blue arch of sky. He puts down the last few slices of fruit; suddenly, it does not taste so sweet. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard to try and clear the prickly lump that seems lodged there. “I keep wondering if ever it gets any easier.”
“It doesn’t,” Ronon says, and Radek returns his gaze to Ronon’s serious face. “It never gets any easier to lose those you serve with. If it does, then something’s broken inside you.”
Radek nods. He looks down and realizes he has knotted his fingers together, tightly enough that the skin over his knuckles is white. With a conscious effort, he relaxes them. As keenly as he feels the losses, he knows Rodney feels them more; Rodney, in spite of the way he drives them, berates them, feels himself responsible for every one of his staff, and takes the losses very hard. The losses of Peter, of Gaul, he had taken personally; he’d had trouble looking Radek in the eye for a very long time after Peter’s death. Radek had tried to tell him it was not truly his fault, and he could not blame Rodney for such impossible circumstances. When the command staff had gone back to Earth to debrief, Rodney had left Radek in charge of the science division, and he had inherited the entire load of worry, the concern for each and every one under his supervision. He'd been immensely grateful that while there had been accidents and injuries-such things are inevitable when working with alien equipment-he had lost no one in those six long weeks.
His radio earpiece chirps, and Radek taps it. “Zelenka here.”
“Are you quite finished sulking?” Rodney’s voice is sharp and impatient, familiar.
“I am not sulking,” Radek replies, and his eyes flick to Ronon when he hears an amused little grunt.
“Oh, please. I know sulking when I see it, and you’re most definitely sulking.”
“Perhaps then I am, and if so, you surely should recognize it. I model it after your own frequent bouts of juvenile behavior,” Radek says, just as sharply.
“Ha, ha, very amusing. Whatever you’re calling it, stop doing it, and come back to Lab One. Zheng has decided to show some marginal shred of intelligence and initiative, and has worked around the original problem. She needs your input before Simpson and Cabrera get hold of it and screw it ten ways to Sunday. You know they will if you don’t get down here, and soon. I’m far too busy to babysit them. That’s your job.”
Radek accepts the compliment, oblique though it is, because Rodney seldom offers them directly. He runs a hand over his face, through his wind-tossed hair. His own weariness and melancholia make no difference; the work is always here, waiting, and most of the time, he welcomes it and the diversion from his thoughts that it gives him. “Very well. I will be there shortly.” And because he cannot resist, he adds, “I will bring you a gift of an orange.”
“I’m sure you can hear me rolling about the floor in laughter here.” Rodney’s voice sounds scathing, but that is nothing out of the ordinary, so Radek dismisses it with ease. “Just haul your ass down here now. And bring that new journal you got from the *Daedalus.* Don’t even try to deny you have it. I’m certain there’s articles in it that fairly beg for derision and mockery, and after working all morning with these hairless apes, I can use a laugh. Are you still dawdling in the mess? If you are, bring me coffee.”
Radek is not surprised that Rodney knows where he is; he seems to know where he is at all times. He suspects that Rodney has a life signs detector within reach constantly and has programmed it to read his specific signature. “The last time I checked, I was not your errand boy, and I am fairly certain that has not changed in the past hour or so. If you wish coffee, get it yourself, or page the cafeteria personnel to bring it to you.”
Ronon makes a little sound that sounds almost like a rusty chuckle. Radek taps his earpiece, and severs the connection before Rodney can formulate a reply. The wind has shifted, and stirs in Ronon’s hair. It brings him Ronon’s scent: heat and musk and leather. It is really quite pleasant, organic; Radek has not smelled anything but the mechanical, man-made scents of his labs, the sharp ozone of electronics, the tang of oils and lubricants, the metallic bite of tools and equipment, for so long. The sun slides over Ronon’s shoulders and down the muscled curves of his honey-brown arms in a bright warm caress. He is, Radek suddenly realizes, young and very handsome, his face strongly, pleasingly angled, the cut of his jawline as sharp as the huge knife at his belt. For a heartbeat, two, Radek wonders what his soft, full mouth would taste like beneath the sweetness of oranges.
It is, he is sure, a very bad idea to contemplate that.
“I must go now,” Radek says, and pushes away from the table. He picks up the journal, rolls it up and tucks it beneath his arm, picks up the one remaining orange for later.
“Off for more...discussions?” The glint in Ronon’s eyes is sly, and Radek can’t help the curl of his own mouth.
"And at some volume, I am certain,” Radek replies. One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “We work well together, Rodney and I, despite appearances. And if he shouts at me I am unafraid to shout back, just as loudly.”
“He likes you. I’ve heard him say so.”
One of Radek’s eyebrows quirks up. “Really.” He can hear the dry disbelief in his own voice.
“Well,” Ronon amends, “he says you’re not as stupid as the rest. I’m guessing that’s what he means.”
Ronon unfolds from his chair, his movements sure and graceful, fluid as water. Radek doesn’t take a step back, though a part of him wishes most desperately to do so. Ronon towers over him, easily twenty centimeters taller and half again as wide as Radek, his body sleek and muscular, imposing and beautiful. This close Radek can feel the heat radiating from him. Oh, Radek thinks, his brain stuttering to an abrupt halt as Ronon’s scent, heady and male, fills his nose and curls down into his chest. He has not touched another since Peter’s death months ago, but now, he has a wild wish to touch, to see his pale hands slide over Ronon’s dark skin, to discover if it is as soft and smooth as it looks.
But, no. Such thoughts, such desires, can only lead to trouble, and it is best to dismiss them outright, or to only bring them out late at night when he lies alone beneath his blankets. Even if Ronon were to share such desires, a man such as he would not look at him in such a way; Radek has no illusions about himself.
“Probably shouldn’t make him wait any longer. He gets mouthy if he doesn’t get his way,” Ronon says with the air of one who has been on the receiving end of Rodney’s impatience many times before. Radek is not surprised it has not taken him long to get to that point.
Radek runs a hand over the back of his neck, and his shaggy hair curls over his fingers. “True enough. Here,” he says, and offers his last orange to Ronon. He will not have time to eat it, and Ronon had seemed to truly savor it as much as Radek does. “Please take this and enjoy it.”
“Thought you were going to give this to McKay,” Ronon says, his head tipped to the side in bird-like curiousity.
“No,” Radek says, and the corners of his mouth tug upward. “That was a joke; Rodney is very allergic to this fruit and others like it. As it is, I must stop by my quarters, wash and change my shirt before I go back to the lab. So, I would be pleased if you accepted it.”
“Okay,” Ronon says. He shifts from one foot to the other, the little movement unsure, telling, and Radek remembers that most likely no one has been kind, has freely given him anything in possibly years. That, Radek thinks, is very sad because he is certain that Ronon is more than what he appears, much more than muscle and ferocious will to survive. Though he says little, his eyes are quick and intelligent. “Thanks.”
Radek puts the orange in his hand, which is huge and warm, callused from using weapons, nicked and scarred from his rough life. Radek nods up at him then walks briskly back into the mess hall. Within, Radek bows to the inevitable, and a few honeyed words later and a promise to send someone to look at one of their misbehaving cooling units, the cafeteria staff will deliver coffee and various pastries to Lab One. He is not certain, however, how many will be obviously lemon or orange-based, because the staff is still justifiably annoyed with Rodney for his last outburst. But he has done what he can, and most certainly, a Rodney plied with coffee and snacks is a much more pleasant man to be around.
As Radek leaves the mess, he deliberately does not look back out into the warm sunny day, does not look back at Ronon. He does not think about his low, rumbling voice, his serious face, his eyes that smile even when his mouth does not. Instead, he turns his mind to calculations and equations, and if they are colder thoughts they are far safer ones, and he can find a measure of comfort in their cool precision.
ooOoo
Radek watches the diagnostics scrolling rapidly over the screen of his notebook, but when he hears Rodney’s fingers snap impatiently, he reaches for the tool he knows Rodney wants and puts it in his hand, eyes never leaving the screen. In this section of the city heavily-damaged by the siege that they are trying to reclaim, the floor is cold and his knees ache from sitting cross-legged so long, but those are familiar complaints, easily ignored.
Rodney’s knee bumps his a little as he wriggles further into the wall console; he is already half buried within it, and for someone who lists claustrophobia amongst his myriad complaints, it does not seem to be bothering him overly much. Radek had offered to do the actual physical work-he is appreciably smaller than Rodney who is, as Colonel Sheppard once said, built like a linebacker-but Rodney had insisted and as they have already had two arguments before lunch, Radek had merely shrugged and let Rodney worm his way into the small space. Privately, Radek had thought Rodney would most likely get his hugely inflated head stuck in there, but so far, Rodney has been fortunate.
The tool emerges again, poking Radek in the knee and he takes it, replacing it with another. That one disappears for a second then returns, prodding him in the knee again before Radek takes it and peers at it. Ah, wrong. Rodney snaps his fingers again and without thinking about it, Radek gives him another tool. Rodney’s hand disappears again and after a moment Radek hears muffled swearing but then all the red lights on his notebook screen flip sequentially to green, one column after another. Lovely.
“Yes, very good,” Radek says, and pats Rodney’s knee absently. Because of the sheer volume of work, they do not often work together much now; oddly, he has missed it. He sets the notebook off to the side amidst the jumble of tools from his backpack then rocks to his feet with a grunt; five years ago he would have gotten up with no effort.
Rodney squirms trying to back himself out of the console and it is an amusing sight, much like an inchworm in reverse. He can hear Rodney swearing again, colorfully and creatively, and with a grin Radek reaches down, snags the sheet Rodney’s lying on, grabs a booted ankle, and heaves backwards. The squawk Rodney makes as he slides free is well worth the back strain.
“Wow,” Rodney says, blinking owlishly. “Not unlike the birth process, I’m thinking.”
“Only breech,” Radek adds. He steps forward and offers Rodney a hand, and they pull him to his feet. Radek bites his tongue to keep from laughing; Rodney’s hair has fluffed out in many directions, and he looks like a very large, very cross chicklet.
“Oh, stop it,” Rodney says peevishly, and makes an effort to smooth down his hair. Rodney has a feline fastidiousness that has always amused Radek, given how often they spend their time dirty while working. “As if you have any room to talk. I sincerely doubt you’ll make the cover of GQ with that unruly mop of yours.”
“Maybe not GQ,” Radek says before stepping over to his scattered tools. He begins packing them neatly into his backpack. He slants an amused look at Rodney, busy replacing the wall panel they had removed to access the inner workings. “Perhaps IQ.”
“You Eastern Europeans are really weird,” Rodney replies, bending to pack away his own tools. “And besides, if anyone would be on the cover of IQ, I’m obviously the first choice, given that I am one of the premier minds of my generation.”
“In two galaxies, even,” Radek says with painful earnestness, and widens his eyes dramatically when Rodney scowls at him. “What? I am agreeing with you. I would think you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, please. Stop trying to look innocent. It doesn’t work-you only manage to look demented. I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been innocent of anything.” The words are gruff, but Radek catches the twitch of the corner of Rodney’s mouth.
“I am wounded, Rodney, truly.” Radek melodramatically lays a hand over his heart, then grins when Rodney rolls his eyes so hard it should be audible.
“Right.” Rodney picks up the sheet, folds it, and tucks it into his bag. Radek closes down the notebook and stores it away, carefully coils his lines and wires, then stands and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “If you’re finally finished dawdling about,” Rodney says crisply, “I have actual work waiting for me. Who knows what incredible discovery is just waiting for me to return to the lab to...discover it.”
“Ah, yes. Work to do, egos to crush,” Radek says and yes, there goes the arrogant tilt of Rodney’s chin, the amused glitter of his bright blue eyes.
“Well. I can’t think of a more productive or entertaining way to spend an afternoon.” Rodney picks up his duffle bag of equipment and Radek watches the smooth flex of biceps, shown to good effect by the short-sleeved uniform shirts Rodney wears. This is new, and surprisingly impressive; the changes have been so gradual that Radek has not really noticed until now. Of course, Rodney will never be as physically imposing as Ronon, or Major Lorne (he has heard Simpson say that Lorne is “built like a brick shithouse,” and although he thinks it does not sound like very much of a compliment, he knows it is meant as such), or really, any of the other soldiers, but still-well. Most interesting.
“I have always said you had a retarded sense of fun,” Radek says. He powers up the console and yes, he can hear the low, almost subliminal hum of rerouted power. The lights come up slowly, soft like the moments just after dawn, and he feels the whisper of fresher air across the nape of his neck as environmental systems come fully back online. Later in the afternoon he will return and recheck readings, perhaps recalibrate and fine-tune the settings, but for the moment it looks very good. It will be a blessing to reclaim the lab space; they are all crowded together now as they were in the very beginning, and tempers are short.
“Nonsense. My sense of humor is acutely sharp while on the other hand, your sense of humor is sophomoric, at best. Such a waste of what little intellect you possess.” Rodney takes a moment to look around, sharp eyes flicking over the bank of indicator lights, then nods to himself and stalks off down the hallway. Yes, Radek thinks: the view, which was pleasing before, has definitely improved over the past few months.
“You must admit the Jell-O incident was amusing,” Radek says and trots to catch up. “Juvenile, perhaps, but amusing.”
“Well. Yes,” Rodney replies and breaks out into a pleased, sunny grin that strips years from his face. “Of course, I still deny all knowledge of anything even remotely related to that.”
Inside the transporter, Radek rocks from heels to toes and back. His arm brushes against Rodney’s, and he can feel the warmth even through the layers of shirt sleeves. “Understandably, you must. But the balloon aspect of it was genius.”
“Did you expect anything less of me?” Rodney asks, and pushes the button that will deliver them closest to the labs.
“Certainly not,” Radek replies as the flash of light takes them. “After all, you are the premier intellect in two galaxies.”
“Yes, I....hey, wait a minute.”
“With an acutely sharp sense of humor,” Radek adds, stepping out into the hallway and turning left to go to the labs.
“Oh, shut up,” Rodney snaps, and Radek laughs at him.
oo0oo
Part Two
Author: pierson
Recipient: mirabile_dictu
Pairing: Dex/Zelenka
Rating: R
Word Count: ~26,580
Disclaimer: Stargate: Atlantis, the characters and universe are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. All of above people/companies own the show and characters--I have only my affection for them, and make no profit.
Author's Notes: Written for mirabile_dictu for The Czech is in the Male Thing-a-Thon, with the prompts off-world, fearful, party and Ronon Dex/Radek Zelenka as the requested pairing. Beta by mice1900 and beledibabe. Lovely graphic by rosewildeirish.
Salutation To The Dawn
by Deirdre 2007-2008
Yesterday is but a dream, tomorrow but a vision. But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore, to this day. Such is the salutation to the dawn.
--Sanskrit proverb
The sun lays on his shoulders like a warm, lazy cat, and Radek luxuriates in it, feeling tension seep out of muscles tight as a clenched fist. A little breeze, cool and briny and moist, fingers through his hair, lifts the corner of the scientific journal spread on the table before him. A memory of other oceans galaxies away sifts over the surface of his mind: the Baltic, the Atlantic, the Pacific; none had the slightly sweet scent that only Atlantis possesses.
He weights down the corner of the journal with one of the three oranges at his elbow so that the breeze will not flip the pages and lose his place. Not that he would care, particularly; his mind is only half-engaged by the words, and only that much so because he knows and respects the author of the article. Moderately interesting reading, yes, but Radek’s time in Atlantis has propelled him light-years ahead of Chernyoskayav’s theories. Radek thinks of the mountain of his own notes, of all the possible papers he could write-if he writes steadily, he could publish monthly for years-and mourns for a brief moment the fact that he might possibly never be allowed to do so. Everything he’s learned and experienced is, as Rodney so quaintly puts it, classified as Burn Before Reading.
It is pointless to fret over things such as this, things beyond his control, and so Radek shuttles the thought away. Particularly pointless on such a lovely day, when the sky is so very blue, the breeze fresh and crisp, and he is, despite all odds, still alive to enjoy it. Alive at least for the moment; he does not care to calculate his chances for the coming weeks. So instead of dwelling on it, he blesses the person who had thought to bring tables and chairs from the mess out to the balcony, and congratulates himself that he has chosen an off-hour to have his lunch, a time that guarantees a measure of peace and quiet.
Quite unlike the argument he had left behind in Lab One, which had been all yelling and waving of arms and the rapid, angry squeak of markers on the whiteboards. Usually, he never has a disagreement with Zheng; she is calm and steady and competent, all traits he highly values, but today, ah, not so much with calmness. Radek knows only a smattering of Chinese, not nearly enough to follow exactly what she said, but he knows it involves his ancestry, and includes sheep and goats in a highly unpleasant and improbable manner, if only from the snickering coming from Tsilevich, who speaks fluent Mandarin and loves dearly all manner of insults and profanity.
The argument ended when Rodney declared everyone completely incompetent, and intellectually bankrupt and filled a whiteboard with equations of his own, all faultlessly correct, of course, which had unfortunately driven Radek’s irritation into full-blown anger. Radek had flung up his hands and left the lab, muttering his own insults under his breath. He swung by his quarters and picked up the journal and the oranges, and found his sunny spot out on the mess balcony. And he is most definitely not, as Rodney had taunted, sulking. He is regrouping, which is vastly different and much more dignified.
Radek slouches in his chair, closing his eyes and tipping his face up for the warm kiss of sunlight. He spends too much time inside, he decides; his skin is as pale as a pearl from lack of sun. Perhaps he should appreciate it more, both for himself and for those lost to them both before and during the siege of Atlantis. So many losses, all precious, but some more dear than others. He spends a moment thinking of Peter Grodin, of his smooth cultured voice and smoother warm skin, of the way his lips would part in a soft sigh when Radek touched him just so.
Radek blinks away the memory and straightens in his chair. So many new faces now, in places where he keeps expecting to see old friends and colleagues. At first it angered him, saddened him-people are not merely parts of a machine to be replaced when one is damaged or broken-but he considers himself a practical, pragmatic man who knows empty positions must be filled, and quickly, to keep Atlantis running smoothly, to keep everyone else safe. Though he may not like them, he has become accustomed to the changes life post-siege has brought to Atlantis.
He picks up one of the oranges and rolls it between his palms. This is one of the many good things about the comings and goings of the Daedalus: fresh produce. Apples and peaches and grapes and pineapple and bananas and grapefruit, and he has gorged himself on as much of it as he can. Chocolate is the most valued commodity for trade, but for him, it is fresh fruit, and the clever, the observant, have used this weakness against him mercilessly. And now, with this shipment of oranges, the first they have gotten of this particular fruit, he knows he might as well just roll over and show his soft belly to the wolves, give everyone what they ask of him, because, yes, he is just that helpless.
He sinks his thumbnail into the rind, gouging out a divot, and aromatic oils mist over his hands, rising to his nose. Such a wonderful smell, oranges; fresh and clean, and his mouth waters, just a little. He remembers holidays as a child, receiving oranges as gifts, remembers how his hands smelled for hours after he had devoured them, the taste of sticky sweet juice licked from his fingers, careful not to waste even one drop. He can feel one corner of his mouth crook in a half-smile at the memories.
With swift, deft motions he peels off the rind, leaving curls of orange and white skin on the table before him. The flesh is firm and springy beneath his fingers, and juice sprays as he sinks in his thumbs and splits the fruit in half. Juice rolls down the heel of his hand, and he raises his arm to chase the sweetness down his wrist, licking the path it takes before it reaches the pushed-up cuff of his uniform sleeve. Rodney will howl of allergies and attempted murder by citrus if he returns to the lab with any trace of it on his skin or clothing, and while normally he shrugs off McKay’s rants without a second thought, Radek feels stretched too thin, too brittle, to bear more of it today.
He pulls off a section and slips it between his lips. There is a microsecond of resistance, then his teeth break through the membrane, bite into the flesh, and sweet juice slides over his tongue. He closes his eyes and savors it, a happy hum low in his throat. It has been almost two years since he has had a fresh orange. The last was back at McMurdo, and he remembers Peter coming to him as he worked in the labs in one of the cold, late hours of the night and offering it to him with a little smile. He remembers how improbably warm Peter’s hand had been when his fingers had curled over the fruit, taking it from Peter’s palm, remembers returning that smile, with interest. He remembers how later that night, much later, with Peter’s long, lean body tucked warmly in around his own, Peter had laughed and teased of how easily Radek had sold his virtue. Radek had laughed with him, but it had been so much more than gift of fresh oranges; it had been a brilliant mind, smiling dark eyes, soft, curving lips and a surprisingly sweet nature that had bought his attentions. It had been much more than that which had kept them together until Peter’s death.
“Smells good. What is it?” The voice is low and rumbling, like thunder in distant hills, and Radek opens his eyes-when had he closed them?-to see a man standing before him. Radek is surprised; he’d not heard the tread of boots on the decking. Of course he recognizes him: Ronon Dex. Even with all the new personnel, this one stands out; tall, broad, with that leonine mane of long, matted ropes of hair--dreadlocks? he is not certain--and a serious, solemn face. He has heard Rodney talk of him with grudging respect, and he has heard Colonel Sheppard say how valuable he is to their team, to Atlantis. Radek has never before seen him so closely, and the effect is rather...intimidating.
However, Radek has lived his entire life shorter than most men, and has tried never to let it show that sometimes, yes, bigger men make him nervous. He is more successful at this at some times than at others. Tearing through schooling at an accelerated pace meant his schoolmates were always much larger, and not particularly amenable to his intelligence and youth, of the favor teachers showed him; he still remembers beatings suffered when he wasn’t quick enough to evade them. But that is a whole lifetime ago, and he should have no reason to fear this man who works with Rodney and Teyla and Colonel Sheppard, this man who has earned their trust. He firmly squelches the jitter as it curls in his belly, but when he speaks, he is still surprised at the levelness of his voice. “It is Earth fruit. In English, it is called an orange. Very sweet. I will share, if you would like.”
“Sure.” Ronon turns the chair opposite Radek around, and swings a leg over it, sitting and folding his arms across the chair back. His shoulders are like a mountain range, and his bared biceps swell with strength. Ronon could deconstruct him into his constituent atoms without raising a sweat, but when Radek’s eyes slide up arms and shoulders, back to Ronon’s still, watchful face, Radek does not think he will. Radek offers half of his peeled orange, and although his face is calm, and his hand is steady, he is certain Ronon still knows how nervous he feels within, because somehow, he manages to loom just a little less than he did before.
Ronon takes the fruit from him and instead of sectioning it, simply bites into it, squirting juice everywhere. Radek sets down the remainder of the orange and scrambles to get his journal out of the way, forgetting his nervousness and muttering under his breath as he wipes off with his sleeve spots of juice. He accidently knocks the orange peels off onto the decking, and he ducks down quickly to pick them up and pile them more neatly to the side.
The other half of his orange is gone.
Radek looks from the spot where it was, to where Ronon sits, licking juice from his fingers. Ronon’s face is still serious, but his eyes smile. Radek wavers between annoyance and amusement, not quite sure which way to turn, but finally chooses amusement. If Ronon can still have laughing eyes after the life he has led, well, Radek cannot hold a grudge against the minor theft.
Though he is annoyed that he did get only one slice from it.
“I may assume that you like it?” he asks with some asperity.
Ronon sucks juice from his thumb. “‘s good,” he says.
Radek snorts. “It is better if you take time to enjoy it instead of bolting it down like a starving dog.” His eyes slide over the impressive width of shoulders. “I hardly think that you are in any danger of starving.”
Ronon shrugs. “Maybe not now."
“Definitely not now,” Radek says, but tucks Ronon’s words into the back of his mind to ask Rodney of later. He picks up another orange and begins peeling it. “I will share this one as well. But I expect you to give it proper appreciation.” He glances up to see Ronon watching his hands work. When Ronon looks up in return, Radek notices he has clear brown-gold eyes, like dark amber, as sharp as a blade. Radek suspects they miss very little that goes on about him.
“You’re McKay’s friend. I’ve seen you with him. In the labs, and in the mess.”
“Ah, yes,” Radek replies. “I am Radek Zelenka.” Radek splits the peeled orange and hands half of it to Ronon.
"Zelenka,” Ronon repeats, as if tasting the syllables on his tongue. In spite of his low rumbling voice, he gives it a little curling lilt that makes it sound exotic, rather than ordinary, to Radek’s ears. “You a doctor, like McKay?”
“Yes. Astrophysics and wormhole theory, engineering of different types.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug, and he takes a bite of orange. “Always, since I was very young boy, I have taken things apart, wondered how and why they work. And how to make them work better.”
Ronon studies him a moment. “Do they? Work better, I mean, when you’re done?”
“Sometimes. And sometimes not. But usually, yes.” He looks up and offers a small smile.
The corners of Ronon’s mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but his eyes are lively. “You’re not like McKay.”
“Ah, no one is like Rodney,” Radek agrees. “He is very definitely one of a kind.”
“Sometimes you yell at each other.” Radek thinks this amuses Ronon, just from the tilt of his head. “I’ve heard it, passing in the halls.”
“Well. We have discussions. Sometimes, these discussions are conducted at a very loud volume,” Radek allows, because yes, it is very true.
“McKay’s loud out in the field, too. You and Sheppard are the only ones who can make him shut up.” Ronon’s eyes flick over Radek’s face, over his narrow shoulders, a quick, thorough assessment that dismisses him as any sort of threat and leaves Radek feeling both relieved and inexplicably annoyed. “You don’t look like someone who would fight with him like you do.”
Radek blinks. “Looks can often be deceiving, but I am certain you know that very well,” he replies mildly.
“Yeah, true enough.” And although Ronon’s faintly amused expression does not change, Radek has the feeling that something has subtly shifted in Ronon’s view of him, perhaps in his favor. “Did you come through the Ring with McKay and Sheppard, or later?”
“The Ring?” Radek can hear the capitalization in Ronon’s voice.
“The Ring of the Ancestors.” Ronon takes a bite of orange; after watching Radek, he has sectioned it carefully, to make it last longer. Radek watches as Ronon licks the juice from his fingers, and truly, that flash of pink against the brown of his fingers should not be so...absorbing. He realizes he stares and deliberately lowers his gaze to the fruit in his own hands.
“Ah. We call it the Stargate,” Radek says after a moment. “Yes. I came with the original group.” Unbidden, his eyes flick to the mess. He can hear the hum of many voices, an occasional laugh. It should be comforting, all these new people in the halls, the labs, the mess, the control room, but instead it seems only to underscore their losses. “There are so few of us left.”
“The Wraith are a terrible foe,” Ronon agrees.
“Not all losses were from the Wraith,” Radek replies. He can still feel how Johnson had gone limp in his arms that horrible day of the nanovirus, the sudden, heavy, boneless weight of Dumais’ body as he caught her when she fell. “We have lost people from the very beginning. So much we have learned here in the Pegasus galaxy, but the cost has been very dear.” Radek looks over the railing, out over the ocean, like wrinkled dark blue silk beneath the clear pale blue arch of sky. He puts down the last few slices of fruit; suddenly, it does not taste so sweet. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard to try and clear the prickly lump that seems lodged there. “I keep wondering if ever it gets any easier.”
“It doesn’t,” Ronon says, and Radek returns his gaze to Ronon’s serious face. “It never gets any easier to lose those you serve with. If it does, then something’s broken inside you.”
Radek nods. He looks down and realizes he has knotted his fingers together, tightly enough that the skin over his knuckles is white. With a conscious effort, he relaxes them. As keenly as he feels the losses, he knows Rodney feels them more; Rodney, in spite of the way he drives them, berates them, feels himself responsible for every one of his staff, and takes the losses very hard. The losses of Peter, of Gaul, he had taken personally; he’d had trouble looking Radek in the eye for a very long time after Peter’s death. Radek had tried to tell him it was not truly his fault, and he could not blame Rodney for such impossible circumstances. When the command staff had gone back to Earth to debrief, Rodney had left Radek in charge of the science division, and he had inherited the entire load of worry, the concern for each and every one under his supervision. He'd been immensely grateful that while there had been accidents and injuries-such things are inevitable when working with alien equipment-he had lost no one in those six long weeks.
His radio earpiece chirps, and Radek taps it. “Zelenka here.”
“Are you quite finished sulking?” Rodney’s voice is sharp and impatient, familiar.
“I am not sulking,” Radek replies, and his eyes flick to Ronon when he hears an amused little grunt.
“Oh, please. I know sulking when I see it, and you’re most definitely sulking.”
“Perhaps then I am, and if so, you surely should recognize it. I model it after your own frequent bouts of juvenile behavior,” Radek says, just as sharply.
“Ha, ha, very amusing. Whatever you’re calling it, stop doing it, and come back to Lab One. Zheng has decided to show some marginal shred of intelligence and initiative, and has worked around the original problem. She needs your input before Simpson and Cabrera get hold of it and screw it ten ways to Sunday. You know they will if you don’t get down here, and soon. I’m far too busy to babysit them. That’s your job.”
Radek accepts the compliment, oblique though it is, because Rodney seldom offers them directly. He runs a hand over his face, through his wind-tossed hair. His own weariness and melancholia make no difference; the work is always here, waiting, and most of the time, he welcomes it and the diversion from his thoughts that it gives him. “Very well. I will be there shortly.” And because he cannot resist, he adds, “I will bring you a gift of an orange.”
“I’m sure you can hear me rolling about the floor in laughter here.” Rodney’s voice sounds scathing, but that is nothing out of the ordinary, so Radek dismisses it with ease. “Just haul your ass down here now. And bring that new journal you got from the *Daedalus.* Don’t even try to deny you have it. I’m certain there’s articles in it that fairly beg for derision and mockery, and after working all morning with these hairless apes, I can use a laugh. Are you still dawdling in the mess? If you are, bring me coffee.”
Radek is not surprised that Rodney knows where he is; he seems to know where he is at all times. He suspects that Rodney has a life signs detector within reach constantly and has programmed it to read his specific signature. “The last time I checked, I was not your errand boy, and I am fairly certain that has not changed in the past hour or so. If you wish coffee, get it yourself, or page the cafeteria personnel to bring it to you.”
Ronon makes a little sound that sounds almost like a rusty chuckle. Radek taps his earpiece, and severs the connection before Rodney can formulate a reply. The wind has shifted, and stirs in Ronon’s hair. It brings him Ronon’s scent: heat and musk and leather. It is really quite pleasant, organic; Radek has not smelled anything but the mechanical, man-made scents of his labs, the sharp ozone of electronics, the tang of oils and lubricants, the metallic bite of tools and equipment, for so long. The sun slides over Ronon’s shoulders and down the muscled curves of his honey-brown arms in a bright warm caress. He is, Radek suddenly realizes, young and very handsome, his face strongly, pleasingly angled, the cut of his jawline as sharp as the huge knife at his belt. For a heartbeat, two, Radek wonders what his soft, full mouth would taste like beneath the sweetness of oranges.
It is, he is sure, a very bad idea to contemplate that.
“I must go now,” Radek says, and pushes away from the table. He picks up the journal, rolls it up and tucks it beneath his arm, picks up the one remaining orange for later.
“Off for more...discussions?” The glint in Ronon’s eyes is sly, and Radek can’t help the curl of his own mouth.
"And at some volume, I am certain,” Radek replies. One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “We work well together, Rodney and I, despite appearances. And if he shouts at me I am unafraid to shout back, just as loudly.”
“He likes you. I’ve heard him say so.”
One of Radek’s eyebrows quirks up. “Really.” He can hear the dry disbelief in his own voice.
“Well,” Ronon amends, “he says you’re not as stupid as the rest. I’m guessing that’s what he means.”
Ronon unfolds from his chair, his movements sure and graceful, fluid as water. Radek doesn’t take a step back, though a part of him wishes most desperately to do so. Ronon towers over him, easily twenty centimeters taller and half again as wide as Radek, his body sleek and muscular, imposing and beautiful. This close Radek can feel the heat radiating from him. Oh, Radek thinks, his brain stuttering to an abrupt halt as Ronon’s scent, heady and male, fills his nose and curls down into his chest. He has not touched another since Peter’s death months ago, but now, he has a wild wish to touch, to see his pale hands slide over Ronon’s dark skin, to discover if it is as soft and smooth as it looks.
But, no. Such thoughts, such desires, can only lead to trouble, and it is best to dismiss them outright, or to only bring them out late at night when he lies alone beneath his blankets. Even if Ronon were to share such desires, a man such as he would not look at him in such a way; Radek has no illusions about himself.
“Probably shouldn’t make him wait any longer. He gets mouthy if he doesn’t get his way,” Ronon says with the air of one who has been on the receiving end of Rodney’s impatience many times before. Radek is not surprised it has not taken him long to get to that point.
Radek runs a hand over the back of his neck, and his shaggy hair curls over his fingers. “True enough. Here,” he says, and offers his last orange to Ronon. He will not have time to eat it, and Ronon had seemed to truly savor it as much as Radek does. “Please take this and enjoy it.”
“Thought you were going to give this to McKay,” Ronon says, his head tipped to the side in bird-like curiousity.
“No,” Radek says, and the corners of his mouth tug upward. “That was a joke; Rodney is very allergic to this fruit and others like it. As it is, I must stop by my quarters, wash and change my shirt before I go back to the lab. So, I would be pleased if you accepted it.”
“Okay,” Ronon says. He shifts from one foot to the other, the little movement unsure, telling, and Radek remembers that most likely no one has been kind, has freely given him anything in possibly years. That, Radek thinks, is very sad because he is certain that Ronon is more than what he appears, much more than muscle and ferocious will to survive. Though he says little, his eyes are quick and intelligent. “Thanks.”
Radek puts the orange in his hand, which is huge and warm, callused from using weapons, nicked and scarred from his rough life. Radek nods up at him then walks briskly back into the mess hall. Within, Radek bows to the inevitable, and a few honeyed words later and a promise to send someone to look at one of their misbehaving cooling units, the cafeteria staff will deliver coffee and various pastries to Lab One. He is not certain, however, how many will be obviously lemon or orange-based, because the staff is still justifiably annoyed with Rodney for his last outburst. But he has done what he can, and most certainly, a Rodney plied with coffee and snacks is a much more pleasant man to be around.
As Radek leaves the mess, he deliberately does not look back out into the warm sunny day, does not look back at Ronon. He does not think about his low, rumbling voice, his serious face, his eyes that smile even when his mouth does not. Instead, he turns his mind to calculations and equations, and if they are colder thoughts they are far safer ones, and he can find a measure of comfort in their cool precision.
ooOoo
Radek watches the diagnostics scrolling rapidly over the screen of his notebook, but when he hears Rodney’s fingers snap impatiently, he reaches for the tool he knows Rodney wants and puts it in his hand, eyes never leaving the screen. In this section of the city heavily-damaged by the siege that they are trying to reclaim, the floor is cold and his knees ache from sitting cross-legged so long, but those are familiar complaints, easily ignored.
Rodney’s knee bumps his a little as he wriggles further into the wall console; he is already half buried within it, and for someone who lists claustrophobia amongst his myriad complaints, it does not seem to be bothering him overly much. Radek had offered to do the actual physical work-he is appreciably smaller than Rodney who is, as Colonel Sheppard once said, built like a linebacker-but Rodney had insisted and as they have already had two arguments before lunch, Radek had merely shrugged and let Rodney worm his way into the small space. Privately, Radek had thought Rodney would most likely get his hugely inflated head stuck in there, but so far, Rodney has been fortunate.
The tool emerges again, poking Radek in the knee and he takes it, replacing it with another. That one disappears for a second then returns, prodding him in the knee again before Radek takes it and peers at it. Ah, wrong. Rodney snaps his fingers again and without thinking about it, Radek gives him another tool. Rodney’s hand disappears again and after a moment Radek hears muffled swearing but then all the red lights on his notebook screen flip sequentially to green, one column after another. Lovely.
“Yes, very good,” Radek says, and pats Rodney’s knee absently. Because of the sheer volume of work, they do not often work together much now; oddly, he has missed it. He sets the notebook off to the side amidst the jumble of tools from his backpack then rocks to his feet with a grunt; five years ago he would have gotten up with no effort.
Rodney squirms trying to back himself out of the console and it is an amusing sight, much like an inchworm in reverse. He can hear Rodney swearing again, colorfully and creatively, and with a grin Radek reaches down, snags the sheet Rodney’s lying on, grabs a booted ankle, and heaves backwards. The squawk Rodney makes as he slides free is well worth the back strain.
“Wow,” Rodney says, blinking owlishly. “Not unlike the birth process, I’m thinking.”
“Only breech,” Radek adds. He steps forward and offers Rodney a hand, and they pull him to his feet. Radek bites his tongue to keep from laughing; Rodney’s hair has fluffed out in many directions, and he looks like a very large, very cross chicklet.
“Oh, stop it,” Rodney says peevishly, and makes an effort to smooth down his hair. Rodney has a feline fastidiousness that has always amused Radek, given how often they spend their time dirty while working. “As if you have any room to talk. I sincerely doubt you’ll make the cover of GQ with that unruly mop of yours.”
“Maybe not GQ,” Radek says before stepping over to his scattered tools. He begins packing them neatly into his backpack. He slants an amused look at Rodney, busy replacing the wall panel they had removed to access the inner workings. “Perhaps IQ.”
“You Eastern Europeans are really weird,” Rodney replies, bending to pack away his own tools. “And besides, if anyone would be on the cover of IQ, I’m obviously the first choice, given that I am one of the premier minds of my generation.”
“In two galaxies, even,” Radek says with painful earnestness, and widens his eyes dramatically when Rodney scowls at him. “What? I am agreeing with you. I would think you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, please. Stop trying to look innocent. It doesn’t work-you only manage to look demented. I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been innocent of anything.” The words are gruff, but Radek catches the twitch of the corner of Rodney’s mouth.
“I am wounded, Rodney, truly.” Radek melodramatically lays a hand over his heart, then grins when Rodney rolls his eyes so hard it should be audible.
“Right.” Rodney picks up the sheet, folds it, and tucks it into his bag. Radek closes down the notebook and stores it away, carefully coils his lines and wires, then stands and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “If you’re finally finished dawdling about,” Rodney says crisply, “I have actual work waiting for me. Who knows what incredible discovery is just waiting for me to return to the lab to...discover it.”
“Ah, yes. Work to do, egos to crush,” Radek says and yes, there goes the arrogant tilt of Rodney’s chin, the amused glitter of his bright blue eyes.
“Well. I can’t think of a more productive or entertaining way to spend an afternoon.” Rodney picks up his duffle bag of equipment and Radek watches the smooth flex of biceps, shown to good effect by the short-sleeved uniform shirts Rodney wears. This is new, and surprisingly impressive; the changes have been so gradual that Radek has not really noticed until now. Of course, Rodney will never be as physically imposing as Ronon, or Major Lorne (he has heard Simpson say that Lorne is “built like a brick shithouse,” and although he thinks it does not sound like very much of a compliment, he knows it is meant as such), or really, any of the other soldiers, but still-well. Most interesting.
“I have always said you had a retarded sense of fun,” Radek says. He powers up the console and yes, he can hear the low, almost subliminal hum of rerouted power. The lights come up slowly, soft like the moments just after dawn, and he feels the whisper of fresher air across the nape of his neck as environmental systems come fully back online. Later in the afternoon he will return and recheck readings, perhaps recalibrate and fine-tune the settings, but for the moment it looks very good. It will be a blessing to reclaim the lab space; they are all crowded together now as they were in the very beginning, and tempers are short.
“Nonsense. My sense of humor is acutely sharp while on the other hand, your sense of humor is sophomoric, at best. Such a waste of what little intellect you possess.” Rodney takes a moment to look around, sharp eyes flicking over the bank of indicator lights, then nods to himself and stalks off down the hallway. Yes, Radek thinks: the view, which was pleasing before, has definitely improved over the past few months.
“You must admit the Jell-O incident was amusing,” Radek says and trots to catch up. “Juvenile, perhaps, but amusing.”
“Well. Yes,” Rodney replies and breaks out into a pleased, sunny grin that strips years from his face. “Of course, I still deny all knowledge of anything even remotely related to that.”
Inside the transporter, Radek rocks from heels to toes and back. His arm brushes against Rodney’s, and he can feel the warmth even through the layers of shirt sleeves. “Understandably, you must. But the balloon aspect of it was genius.”
“Did you expect anything less of me?” Rodney asks, and pushes the button that will deliver them closest to the labs.
“Certainly not,” Radek replies as the flash of light takes them. “After all, you are the premier intellect in two galaxies.”
“Yes, I....hey, wait a minute.”
“With an acutely sharp sense of humor,” Radek adds, stepping out into the hallway and turning left to go to the labs.
“Oh, shut up,” Rodney snaps, and Radek laughs at him.
oo0oo
Part Two