Fic: Cracked Lens (SGA, Weir/Zelenka PG) 1/1
Title: Cracked Lens
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Weir/Zelenka
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, nor am I making any money off of this. Also, written on a glass of Bogel Petit Syrah, fwiw.
Spoilers: Set between The Lost Boys and The Hive.
Summary: It is raining today on Atlantis.
Notes: A bit of unrequited Zelenka/Weir, I fear, with hints of other pairings. For fanfic100 prompt #4, Insides.
Radek tugs another crystal free from the console, too apathetic to feel true dismay at the blackened crack that scores through its center. Today, it is raining on Atlantis, a steady shush-shush-shush against the thin outer skin of her ceilings, a constant drip-swish-drop down the eyes of her multi-colored panes. Thankfully, it has none of the fury of the great storm a year ago, but still it matches the mood of everyone inside.
He sighs and lifts the crystal to the light, and admits to himself that it is only an excuse to peer through its cloudy window to beyond. Elizabeth is meeting with Major Lorne yet again, pressed forward against her desk to catch any possibility of hope in his report.
Sometimes, when Radek is not feeling kind, he wonders how Lorne can make any progress at all on his search since Elizabeth seems to have him constantly at her side. He knows that is not true, however, and most times he hopes along with her.
He is a man of science, of course, his feet firmly planted in reality, but on days like today it does not seem so fanciful to say that even Atlantis herself cries. The pall that descended when McKay and Sheppard and the others did not return has not lessened, and Elizabeth feels it the most of all. The city of legends and her queen, beautiful ladies twinned in their grief. Radek will not begrudge either of them hope, from wherever it comes.
And when Radek sees her lips lift a bit, the furrowing line across her brow ease at whatever it is that Lorne said, he turns back to his crystal, reminding himself of his work. Ten-thousand year-old parts do not grow on ten-thousand year-old dead trees, no matter how much they all wish, and he is the one who must find ways around that fact.
He doesn't look up again until after her door swishes several times and he hears the soft push of her feet against the decking. She stands at the balcony rail, as she often does, hands white as they clench on the metal. Though he cannot see, he knows her eyes are full of pain as she stares at the wondrous gate.
That is when Radek always packs up his tools and leaves, every time. Most days, most times, he hopes with her, and hopes for anything to ease her pain-even one of Lorne's mischievous smiles.
But when she stands as widow-in-waiting, then he knows himself for a small, small man.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Weir/Zelenka
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, nor am I making any money off of this. Also, written on a glass of Bogel Petit Syrah, fwiw.
Spoilers: Set between The Lost Boys and The Hive.
Summary: It is raining today on Atlantis.
Notes: A bit of unrequited Zelenka/Weir, I fear, with hints of other pairings. For fanfic100 prompt #4, Insides.
Radek tugs another crystal free from the console, too apathetic to feel true dismay at the blackened crack that scores through its center. Today, it is raining on Atlantis, a steady shush-shush-shush against the thin outer skin of her ceilings, a constant drip-swish-drop down the eyes of her multi-colored panes. Thankfully, it has none of the fury of the great storm a year ago, but still it matches the mood of everyone inside.
He sighs and lifts the crystal to the light, and admits to himself that it is only an excuse to peer through its cloudy window to beyond. Elizabeth is meeting with Major Lorne yet again, pressed forward against her desk to catch any possibility of hope in his report.
Sometimes, when Radek is not feeling kind, he wonders how Lorne can make any progress at all on his search since Elizabeth seems to have him constantly at her side. He knows that is not true, however, and most times he hopes along with her.
He is a man of science, of course, his feet firmly planted in reality, but on days like today it does not seem so fanciful to say that even Atlantis herself cries. The pall that descended when McKay and Sheppard and the others did not return has not lessened, and Elizabeth feels it the most of all. The city of legends and her queen, beautiful ladies twinned in their grief. Radek will not begrudge either of them hope, from wherever it comes.
And when Radek sees her lips lift a bit, the furrowing line across her brow ease at whatever it is that Lorne said, he turns back to his crystal, reminding himself of his work. Ten-thousand year-old parts do not grow on ten-thousand year-old dead trees, no matter how much they all wish, and he is the one who must find ways around that fact.
He doesn't look up again until after her door swishes several times and he hears the soft push of her feet against the decking. She stands at the balcony rail, as she often does, hands white as they clench on the metal. Though he cannot see, he knows her eyes are full of pain as she stares at the wondrous gate.
That is when Radek always packs up his tools and leaves, every time. Most days, most times, he hopes with her, and hopes for anything to ease her pain-even one of Lorne's mischievous smiles.
But when she stands as widow-in-waiting, then he knows himself for a small, small man.