Fic Post: Sense Memory, SGA
So, you know that story I was whining about last night? Long about the crack of dawn, it decided it wanted to be written after all. Apparently my muse has no respect for my continuing efforts to become diurnal. If the rest of the world would just go to sleep at 6am and wake up at noon I'd be in great shape. As I don't foresee that one happening any time soon, I'm screwed. Anyway, here's the weird little thing that clammered to be written. I have no beta, and thus feel the need to beg pitiously. Anybody willing to read over this one critically before I try posting it to a comm? It's under 2,000 words, McShep in nature, and a follow up to Trinity. I'll probably change a million things before I'm happy with it, in any case. Even if you'd rather not officially beta, all comments are appreciated.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McShep, although lots of people show up in a non-romantic context
Rating: PG-13? A tiny bit of cussing. You've heard worse, trust me.
Genre: Drama, character piece
Spoilers: Trinity, vague season two-ish bits
Summary: What you miss when you're looking.
Sense Memory
What he sees are the looks Sheppard and Weir exchange at briefings, every time he makes a proposal. They are cautious, and knowing. They are wary. He sees the pinch to Elizabeth’s mouth as she readies her measured responses. Ever the diplomat, she avoids emotional confrontations, and has ever since he and Sheppard came back through the gate from Doranda. Almost. She allowed herself only one session of raised voices, and then locked her vocal fury away. He believes it is because he is still too valuable to alienate entirely, but wonders if this is merely another symptom of his hubris. He sees the careful way that Sheppard does not look at him when Weir speaks, and understands it. Sheppard is afraid Rodney will ask the impossible of him again. He hasn’t yet realized that Rodney does not make a mistake twice. His errors are unique, if grand.
What he does not see are the looks Sheppard and Weir exchange behind his back. These are solemn, and painful. They are worried. Elizabeth catalogues his downcast eyes and tight posture and decides he is not regrouping as he must. She needs him to be fully there, fully himself, and he isn't. It frightens her that he is so unbalanced, and she has no way to call him on it. She doesn't know how to bring back his pride when it's both the cure and the disease. She realized shortly after she’d done it that loud and forceful had been the wrong approach, that his giving up the weapon was the ultimate signal of defeat. It was too little, too late by then, and nothing she said to him after could change what happened. She still doesn't know what she should have done, only that there must have been a point at which to say no without leaving unanswered questions. It is so difficult to draw lines here. The ocean around them keeps erasing her watermarks, and sometimes she wonders at the person she is becoming. He had frightened her so badly, though. What he does not see are her nightmares, where he and John die for their mutual faith in him.
*******
What he hears are the sudden silences when he walks into a room. He expected it in the labs, where everyone had had a front row seat to his meltdown and disgrace. He insulted and endangered enough of his staff to earn their distrust, and everything they might be saying about him. Zelenka, in particular, is disturbingly quiet. Rodney can’t blame him, and wishes he could. Other places, though, he hadn't been prepared for. The dining hall is a fresh hell. It's large enough for people to feel some safety to resume their conversations, quietly, and assume he cannot hear them. He can’t, really - not the words themselves - but then, he doesn’t need them. He can guess. He’s taken to sitting with Ronon, who never said much to begin with. Dex doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s an odd kind of camaraderie that develops between them, these two fearful curiosities.
What he doesn't hear are the actual words said. Most of them are more nervous than deprecating. Scientists are trained to debate, sometimes heatedly. No real advancement has ever been made without controversy. This is part of an established tradition, although the stakes are higher out here. It’s intrinsic to the Pegasus galaxy experience: when it is good, it is very very good, and when it is bad, people die. Those who have been in Atlantis since the beginning long ago came to understand that life here is fast and loose, and that the science often must be as well. McKay had always seemed somehow outside of the rules, and to discover he is not is unsettling. Those few comments with a more malicious bent are silenced quickly and with minimal fanfare. They come almost exclusively from the newer crew members, and usually die quietly when they come into contact with the older hands. The very limited number which reach Radek’s ears meet a more strident fate. The new people are rapidly learning to fear the Czech.
*******
What he smells is the scent that is almost gone from his bed. It's sweat and gun oil, a hint of sex somewhere in the mix. John always smelled like summer in the morning, sleep-warm and musky and just a little like cut grass. Rodney never figured out how that was possible, given that they live on an island of steel. He won’t discover the answer now. The empirical data is fading. John is fading, and Colonel Sheppard has no scent. Not one which Rodney can get close enough to detect, anyway. He fears the sweat and gun oil would be there still, and that the rest wouldn’t. That the best wouldn’t.
What he doesn’t smell is the incense that Teyla burns in her prayers. These come at the close of each day, after she has had her exertions with the Colonel. She watches his reaction times shorten and his form grow leaner, fiercer. She might applaud such progress if she were blinder. His level of practice has ever been evident in the success of his defenses. His defenses now are nearly perfect, and his attacks are swiftly coming to equal them. Her people have long understood the balance that must be struck between thought and action; sometimes it is necessary to reduce one so that the other, more immediately essential, may increase. Sheppard is sacrificing all thought, producing only action. As an avoidance strategy it is without fault; as a way of life it is problematic at best. She prays for many things, each evening, and among them is the hope that the Colonel will not lose himself to the rhythm of this battle.
*******
What he tastes are ashes. He’d always believed only the poetically inclined could do so, and God knows he is anything but. Poetry is, after all, a form of art, albeit one of the few he has never envied. Now, though, there are ashes on his tongue. They leave their grit in his throat and nose when he breathes. Collins is ashes now. John very nearly was. The universe knows Rodney should have been ashes, too, and is reclaiming him a little at a time. Dust to dust.
What he does not taste are the powerbars that somehow ubiquitously appear in his vicinity. Since he isn’t paying much attention to aesthetics these days, and never was prone to overanalyze the feeding process, this is not surprising. Somewhere in his mind is a vague wonder that they are always his favorites, as much as he has a preference. A lifetime of military service and seven years without it have taught Ronon the value of food. They have also taught him to speak without words, if he must speak at all. Their hardest and deepest lesson is to hate isolation, to find worth in companionship. Food is the currency of life. To share one is to protect the other. Dex expresses himself best in this language.
*******
What he feels is heavy. He can't say he's tired, because sleep doesn't come and he doesn't wish for it. Instead, there is a weight that lies upon him and drags every piece of him toward the ground. His shoulders hunch under it. His mouth seems to bear it unevenly, one side more vulnerable than the other. He struggles to brace his eyelids against the assault, because they serve him far better open. His people have done calculations - he has done calculations - on the gravity of this planet, and found it to be very slightly less than Earth’s. Not enough to be felt by any one person, but enough to allow a city to fly just the tiniest bit more easily. He has wondered if this is why the Ancients chose to remain here for so long. Just now, it feels like one more thing Atlantis denies him, when he cannot feel at all lighter. Even a natural gene would not change this fact, and yet he resents his bastard status nonetheless.
What he does not feel is the hand that almost lands on his shoulder, or the breath that wants to be on the nape of his neck. These occur most often at precisely two in the morning, every morning, when Sheppard casually wanders through the halls and coincidentally into the science labs. Rodney never has slept much, and does so less now. Because he does not know when to look behind him, he misses Sheppard’s narrowed eyes and firmly pressed lips. He misses when they open, and when they close again without a sound having been uttered. He misses the decisive set of Sheppard’s shoulders as he turns to leave, and the far more irresolute look that comes back over those shoulders more often than not. He misses Sheppard, in all senses of the word.
*******
What he knows is that this is exactly like Earth, where he was the ultimate blend of wunderkind and fuck-up. What he doesn’t know is that this is nothing like that at all. In time, he will.