Ficlet: The Man Who Rose From Earth
You guys are awesome. Yesterday's conversation was (and still is!) fascinating reading, and it's already given me a bunch of new fic ideas, which I can't say I really need right now. ;-) But, y'know, I'm kind of compulsive about the writing, so here's one, based a little off something natroga said about what would make John happy.
Title: The Man Who Rose From Earth
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: 850 words
Summary: Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
The Man Who Rose From Earth
Afterward, Radek says, “Colonel Sheppard, I am so terribly sorry.” Elizabeth says, “How did this happen?” Carson says, “I’m, I’m sure we’ll find a way to fix it?”
John just laughs and laughs and laughs.
He doesn’t notice Rodney. Rodney, who’s not saying anything at all. Who stares.
John comes back with his hair even messier than normal. His mouth aches from smiling too long into the wind. His back aches, too, but it’s a good ache. An ache he’s earned.
He trips, laughing, over the balcony rail, and almost runs smack into Rodney.
“Carson’s looking for you,” is all Rodney says.
Carson assures him that they’re still working on a way to fix the problem. Halfway through this speech he stops, stares John in the face. Sees his wind-mussed hair and his wind-flushed cheeks. “I’ll...I’ll not make it a priority, then,” he says, and John’s grin is genuine; his thank you even more so.
Some of the Marines give him a hard time, the weirdness almost making them forget that he’s their CO. “Oh, look, it’s the X-Men,” one of them says when John and Ronon show up at the gym.
John’s trained himself to let these things roll off his back, but that’s even easier now. “Jealous?” he asks, smirking. ‘Cause if they’re not, they should be.
Also, they should remember that even if John were not their CO, Ronon can totally kick their asses.
There are some petty annoyances, sure. Shirts and jackets and tac vests are a problem, but Ronon, who’s remarkably adept at sewing when he wants to be, helps Teyla rework John’s clothes with some Athosian fabric. Radek, still stuttering apologies, presents him with a new vest that he designed himself. John moves to a different room with a bigger shower.
He thinks it’ll bother him that he can’t sleep on his back, but it doesn’t. He wakes up in the morning with his face pressed into the pillow, having slept soundly and dreamed of flying. Then he gets up and stretches, and the dream carries on into the waking world: the ever-strengthening muscles in his shoulder blades flexing as he flaps his wings, as he opens the doors to the balcony, steps out, and soars.
There are no words to describe this. This perfect, unrestrained happiness. Spiralling down toward the sea, then arcing up into the vast, curving sphere of the sky. On his own energy, his own terms. Flying.
No words.
His feet touch down on the balcony and Rodney is waiting for him. “Hey,” he says, though it takes him a moment to find the word. The wind has swept his voice away.
Rodney doesn’t say “hey” back. He says-mouth set, a firm, thin line, like he’s never smiled into the wind at all; he says, “Sometimes I think you’ll fly away and we’ll never see you again. You’ll disappear into the sky. Or the sea.”
John just shakes his head. He isn’t Icarus, and his wings aren’t made of wax.
Rodney says, “We’re going offworld tomorrow. You can try to come again. Elizabeth will agree.”
A second shake of John’s head. That was another, not-so-petty annoyance. Offworld, too many people took one look at him and tried to either worship him as an angel or destroy him as a demon. In Pegasus, their common humanity is one of the only things they have to trade upon; John no longer quite fits the bill.
John remembers Caldwell’s face when he told him that the Daedalus would no longer be able to ferry him back home, to Earth. For a moment, he’d done his best to look saddened. Then he hadn’t even bothered anymore.
Rodney is watching him, blue eyes sweeping over his face, seemingly uninterested in the broad stretch of feathers and bone extending from his back. John tilts his head, curious.
“Sheppard,” Rodney says. He sounds upset. John looks at Rodney’s feet, stuck firmly on the ground, and he can understand why. “John...”
John swallows, tastes his tongue in his mouth. “You could come with me,” he says. Because there are no words to describe what it’s like, but he still thinks, sometimes, that he’d like someone else to know. To share it.
Bowed head, Rodney stares down at his shoes. “You know I can’t.”
John doesn’t know any such thing. He knows the sky and the breeze and his feet lifting off the ground. He knows what it’s like to get what you wanted, to not have to be afraid anymore.
It starts to rain then, soft warm spring drops, falling. Instinctively, John lifts up his wings, drawing Rodney close against his bare chest, sheltering them both.
“Come back,” Rodney whispers. “Stay.”
You know I can’t, he thinks, and for a moment there is a pang of sadness in the endless current of joy he’s been riding, twisting and turning in the breeze.
But the drops of water beat gently down, and he feels it in every feather: smiling as, like Rodney’s words and the lost look in his eyes, they slide harmlessly off his back.
natroga: I don't think [John] has long term goals. I mean, it's practically canon, seeing as his whole ambition in life seemed to be flying. Or maybe that's the answer. He really just wants to fly.
trinityofone: John wingfic would be, like, the most angst-free wingfic ever. Hmm. *kind of wants to write it*
...And I did. Except I kind of messed up the angst-free part. Um. Well, John is happy, anyway.
I used to write crack comedy. Remember that? That was nice.
ETA: *sigh* Gratuitous porn sequel. *facepalm*
Title: The Man Who Rose From Earth
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: 850 words
Summary: Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
The Man Who Rose From Earth
Afterward, Radek says, “Colonel Sheppard, I am so terribly sorry.” Elizabeth says, “How did this happen?” Carson says, “I’m, I’m sure we’ll find a way to fix it?”
John just laughs and laughs and laughs.
He doesn’t notice Rodney. Rodney, who’s not saying anything at all. Who stares.
John comes back with his hair even messier than normal. His mouth aches from smiling too long into the wind. His back aches, too, but it’s a good ache. An ache he’s earned.
He trips, laughing, over the balcony rail, and almost runs smack into Rodney.
“Carson’s looking for you,” is all Rodney says.
Carson assures him that they’re still working on a way to fix the problem. Halfway through this speech he stops, stares John in the face. Sees his wind-mussed hair and his wind-flushed cheeks. “I’ll...I’ll not make it a priority, then,” he says, and John’s grin is genuine; his thank you even more so.
Some of the Marines give him a hard time, the weirdness almost making them forget that he’s their CO. “Oh, look, it’s the X-Men,” one of them says when John and Ronon show up at the gym.
John’s trained himself to let these things roll off his back, but that’s even easier now. “Jealous?” he asks, smirking. ‘Cause if they’re not, they should be.
Also, they should remember that even if John were not their CO, Ronon can totally kick their asses.
There are some petty annoyances, sure. Shirts and jackets and tac vests are a problem, but Ronon, who’s remarkably adept at sewing when he wants to be, helps Teyla rework John’s clothes with some Athosian fabric. Radek, still stuttering apologies, presents him with a new vest that he designed himself. John moves to a different room with a bigger shower.
He thinks it’ll bother him that he can’t sleep on his back, but it doesn’t. He wakes up in the morning with his face pressed into the pillow, having slept soundly and dreamed of flying. Then he gets up and stretches, and the dream carries on into the waking world: the ever-strengthening muscles in his shoulder blades flexing as he flaps his wings, as he opens the doors to the balcony, steps out, and soars.
There are no words to describe this. This perfect, unrestrained happiness. Spiralling down toward the sea, then arcing up into the vast, curving sphere of the sky. On his own energy, his own terms. Flying.
No words.
His feet touch down on the balcony and Rodney is waiting for him. “Hey,” he says, though it takes him a moment to find the word. The wind has swept his voice away.
Rodney doesn’t say “hey” back. He says-mouth set, a firm, thin line, like he’s never smiled into the wind at all; he says, “Sometimes I think you’ll fly away and we’ll never see you again. You’ll disappear into the sky. Or the sea.”
John just shakes his head. He isn’t Icarus, and his wings aren’t made of wax.
Rodney says, “We’re going offworld tomorrow. You can try to come again. Elizabeth will agree.”
A second shake of John’s head. That was another, not-so-petty annoyance. Offworld, too many people took one look at him and tried to either worship him as an angel or destroy him as a demon. In Pegasus, their common humanity is one of the only things they have to trade upon; John no longer quite fits the bill.
John remembers Caldwell’s face when he told him that the Daedalus would no longer be able to ferry him back home, to Earth. For a moment, he’d done his best to look saddened. Then he hadn’t even bothered anymore.
Rodney is watching him, blue eyes sweeping over his face, seemingly uninterested in the broad stretch of feathers and bone extending from his back. John tilts his head, curious.
“Sheppard,” Rodney says. He sounds upset. John looks at Rodney’s feet, stuck firmly on the ground, and he can understand why. “John...”
John swallows, tastes his tongue in his mouth. “You could come with me,” he says. Because there are no words to describe what it’s like, but he still thinks, sometimes, that he’d like someone else to know. To share it.
Bowed head, Rodney stares down at his shoes. “You know I can’t.”
John doesn’t know any such thing. He knows the sky and the breeze and his feet lifting off the ground. He knows what it’s like to get what you wanted, to not have to be afraid anymore.
It starts to rain then, soft warm spring drops, falling. Instinctively, John lifts up his wings, drawing Rodney close against his bare chest, sheltering them both.
“Come back,” Rodney whispers. “Stay.”
You know I can’t, he thinks, and for a moment there is a pang of sadness in the endless current of joy he’s been riding, twisting and turning in the breeze.
But the drops of water beat gently down, and he feels it in every feather: smiling as, like Rodney’s words and the lost look in his eyes, they slide harmlessly off his back.
natroga: I don't think [John] has long term goals. I mean, it's practically canon, seeing as his whole ambition in life seemed to be flying. Or maybe that's the answer. He really just wants to fly.
trinityofone: John wingfic would be, like, the most angst-free wingfic ever. Hmm. *kind of wants to write it*
...And I did. Except I kind of messed up the angst-free part. Um. Well, John is happy, anyway.
I used to write crack comedy. Remember that? That was nice.
ETA: *sigh* Gratuitous porn sequel. *facepalm*