Ficlet - Buzz
Here's a little bit of Rodney fic, hints of McShep, rated PG-13 at most. Spoilers for The Hive.
There are always voices in Rodney's head. Most of the time just one, his own, and even though his mouth, despite years of practice, can't always keep up with his brain, that voice, at least, is one he's used to. With the enzyme, though, it's a hundred times worse. His thoughts fly through his head at such speed that there's no way even he could ever make sense of them -- it's only because he's so determined that he continues to try.
And then when everything finally slows down, the withdrawal hits. His wrists are tied to the infirmary bed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his heart racing and his stomach in knots. "Please," Rodney begs Beckett, straining against the bindings, straining inside his head. "I'll do anything, anything you want. You want some kind of new medical equipment?" A thought strikes him and he latches onto it. "What about a machine that can bring people back from the dead? Or one that... one that stops aging? I can give you that, Carson. If anyone can, it's me, and you know it. You know it. Just give me a little bit, just enough to take the edge off."
Beckett shakes his head sadly and Rodney growls in anger, agony, arching off the bed. The abraded skin at his wrists is a welcome distraction from the way his body aches for the enzyme, every cell screaming for it.
Afterward, Rodney's exhausted but jittery, the last of the adrenaline he'll probably ever have shivering its way through his system. He manages to hold it together long enough to persuade Beckett that he's okay, then has to stop in a secluded corridor and slap his hands against the wall a dozen times, crying out, before he can continue on to find Elizabeth. If anyone's going to rescue Sheppard and Teyla and Ronon from Ford's stupid, stupid plan, it will have to be him.
There's the moment when there's nothing but the Daedalus, floating alone in space, and then the one after it when Rodney knows that he's really alone, that Sheppard and the rest of his team are gone. There are too many voices in his head then, too, most of them suggesting things like Maybe if you'd tried to... and If there'd just been another few seconds... and, the one that's his own, small and scared, I should have told him.
Rodney would give anything, then, to have let that voice speak when he'd had the chance.
But then, because Sheppard is Sheppard, he and Teyla and Ronon come waltzing through the gate into Atlantis, and even though it isn't until later that the four of them have a weary but smile-filled reunion, Rodney lets the other voices in his head talk. He listens with a distracted sense of wonder, caught up in the drop of water that clings to Sheppard's lower lip after he takes a swig from one of the bottles and then, suddenly, at the way his own hands are shaking.
"McKay?" Sheppard says, sharply, and then Rodney's looking up at him from the floor. Sheppard is kneeling next to him, face worried, reassuringly cool hand on Rodney's forehead. "Easy, Rodney, the doc's on his way."
"I didn't know what else to do," Rodney tries to explain, because Sheppard doesn't know, and he knows Sheppard doesn't know, and even if Sheppard did know, would that change anything?
Then Beckett is there with a gurney, and Rodney has somehow managed to get his hand around Sheppard's wrist and is refusing to let go of it with the same stubbornness he clings to whenever there's something important that he's trying to work out.
Sheppard goes along with it; goes along with Rodney to the infirmary, standing back and listening to Beckett explain what Rodney did and what happened after. Rodney listens to the story as if it's about someone else. He can hear Elizabeth and Teyla and Ronon talking somewhere on the other side of the room, but then they go away, and it's just Rodney and Sheppard and Beckett, who mutters under his breath and sticks Rodney with needles, showing no signs of sympathy whatsoever despite the fact that the inside of Rodney's elbow already looks like it's been used as a pincushion.
There's that sensation again, the one of everything slowing down, getting quiet. The voices are weeded out of Rodney's head one by one until there aren't any left at all, not even his own.
He doesn't care. John Sheppard is sitting next to his bed with his hand on Rodney's arm, talking to him.
It's the only voice Rodney needs.
There are always voices in Rodney's head. Most of the time just one, his own, and even though his mouth, despite years of practice, can't always keep up with his brain, that voice, at least, is one he's used to. With the enzyme, though, it's a hundred times worse. His thoughts fly through his head at such speed that there's no way even he could ever make sense of them -- it's only because he's so determined that he continues to try.
And then when everything finally slows down, the withdrawal hits. His wrists are tied to the infirmary bed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his heart racing and his stomach in knots. "Please," Rodney begs Beckett, straining against the bindings, straining inside his head. "I'll do anything, anything you want. You want some kind of new medical equipment?" A thought strikes him and he latches onto it. "What about a machine that can bring people back from the dead? Or one that... one that stops aging? I can give you that, Carson. If anyone can, it's me, and you know it. You know it. Just give me a little bit, just enough to take the edge off."
Beckett shakes his head sadly and Rodney growls in anger, agony, arching off the bed. The abraded skin at his wrists is a welcome distraction from the way his body aches for the enzyme, every cell screaming for it.
Afterward, Rodney's exhausted but jittery, the last of the adrenaline he'll probably ever have shivering its way through his system. He manages to hold it together long enough to persuade Beckett that he's okay, then has to stop in a secluded corridor and slap his hands against the wall a dozen times, crying out, before he can continue on to find Elizabeth. If anyone's going to rescue Sheppard and Teyla and Ronon from Ford's stupid, stupid plan, it will have to be him.
There's the moment when there's nothing but the Daedalus, floating alone in space, and then the one after it when Rodney knows that he's really alone, that Sheppard and the rest of his team are gone. There are too many voices in his head then, too, most of them suggesting things like Maybe if you'd tried to... and If there'd just been another few seconds... and, the one that's his own, small and scared, I should have told him.
Rodney would give anything, then, to have let that voice speak when he'd had the chance.
But then, because Sheppard is Sheppard, he and Teyla and Ronon come waltzing through the gate into Atlantis, and even though it isn't until later that the four of them have a weary but smile-filled reunion, Rodney lets the other voices in his head talk. He listens with a distracted sense of wonder, caught up in the drop of water that clings to Sheppard's lower lip after he takes a swig from one of the bottles and then, suddenly, at the way his own hands are shaking.
"McKay?" Sheppard says, sharply, and then Rodney's looking up at him from the floor. Sheppard is kneeling next to him, face worried, reassuringly cool hand on Rodney's forehead. "Easy, Rodney, the doc's on his way."
"I didn't know what else to do," Rodney tries to explain, because Sheppard doesn't know, and he knows Sheppard doesn't know, and even if Sheppard did know, would that change anything?
Then Beckett is there with a gurney, and Rodney has somehow managed to get his hand around Sheppard's wrist and is refusing to let go of it with the same stubbornness he clings to whenever there's something important that he's trying to work out.
Sheppard goes along with it; goes along with Rodney to the infirmary, standing back and listening to Beckett explain what Rodney did and what happened after. Rodney listens to the story as if it's about someone else. He can hear Elizabeth and Teyla and Ronon talking somewhere on the other side of the room, but then they go away, and it's just Rodney and Sheppard and Beckett, who mutters under his breath and sticks Rodney with needles, showing no signs of sympathy whatsoever despite the fact that the inside of Rodney's elbow already looks like it's been used as a pincushion.
There's that sensation again, the one of everything slowing down, getting quiet. The voices are weeded out of Rodney's head one by one until there aren't any left at all, not even his own.
He doesn't care. John Sheppard is sitting next to his bed with his hand on Rodney's arm, talking to him.
It's the only voice Rodney needs.