My 1st SGA Fic
Aug. 28th, 2005 09:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneEeep.
Okay. So I am so very, very intimidated, but I wrote fic in my shiny new fandom because I know no other way of celebrating your beloved new fandom than to write fic in it. And of course, since I came for the humor and the snark, I had to bring out a big container o' angst for my first time. Ooops.
Anyway. Here goes nothing:
Title: Control
Spoilers: Through "Trinity"
Summary: John, Rodney, control: the perfect ménage à trois. Told in drabbles, the control freak’s favorite story form.
Part I: Control (These Hands)
I.
It’s quite simple, really. There’s a job that needs doing; he’s the best man for the job; he has to do it. Inspiration, realization, actualization. His hands on the keys, ten fingers. The only ones he trusts.
(There are, of course, certain tasks better suited to others. When a situation arises for which he is less than adept--flying, shooting, running, waiting, being brave, being kind, being respectful, being diplomatic, performing acts of selfless self-sacrifice, being charming, being modest, holding back, looking on the bright side, taking no for an answer--he knows enough to let go, step back.)
II.
He doesn’t have the gene.
(He walks into the room and sees it all lit up, blue and glowing, beautiful and perfect. A world of knowledge, distilled. The man sitting there has his mouth open, lips parted in surprise, but it’s nothing, nothing compared to the jolt that shoots through Rodney: shock and envy and pure, guttural lust, for that, for what--
His fingers at his sides twitch like the dead frogs in that idiotic biology class, their pale, limp bodies juiced with electrical current. Charged.
Did I do that? says the man.)
The chair stays dead beneath his fingertips.
III.
When the gun goes off, he doesn’t feel the bullet’s sting. When he falls, he doesn’t feel the air rush past his ears, or the bite of the ground against his back. The punch skips away like a flat stone on calm water.
Cocoon of glowing green armor, shimmering around him like a halo. He can feel it, a pleasant tingle, across every inch of his skin. He’s protected. He can’t get hurt. He won’t--
touch taste have hold feel hurt
--have any reason to worry, ever again.
It’s all under control. Nothing, no one, can touch him.
He’s invulnerable.
IV.
It doesn’t matter that everything worked out in the end. Doesn’t matter that he’s alive, that the Major is alive, that they’re all alive and here and whole; it means nothing, because he doesn’t trust himself anymore. It doesn’t matter how many times Elizabeth says it--Well done, Rodney--because for all of her life-affirming nods, there was a moment back there on the jumper, caught between everything and nothing, when he simply sat down, and he gave up.
Just like that.
And if he doesn’t trust himself to get the job done, well--then who can he trust?
V.
John listens to him. He likes that. The EMP, he says, and John gets it. He does what Rodney cannot do because Rodney is elsewhere, Rodney’s hands are tied, but John’s got his fingers wrapped firmly around the controls, and under his palms, the jumper soars.
(He clutches the railing and watches him walk away, warnings empty words on deaf ears. The Major has that sleepy-satisfied look in his eyes and Rodney wants to shake him until they roll back in his head, until he’s knocked some sense into him. Against the metal bar, his knuckles are turning white.)
VI.
Leadership.
(Is being an example for others. In the face of fear, being calm and reasonable--even if reasonable behavior is curling into a fetal ball.)
(Is not lashing out. People make mistakes all the time--it’s part of being human. It isn’t fair to hold them to the same high standards you hold yourself.)
(Is making the decisions no one else wants to. Decisions that get people killed. Leaving other people to die and saving your own ass--whether it was your intention or not. Your choice. Your result.)
He has a few observations on the subject of leadership.
VII.
It’s easier to do what needs doing than to stay behind and have to watch others risk themselves in your place.
It’s what he was trying to communicate to Radek. It’s the tiny flare of relief, buried beneath the fear, that he feels when he pulls the short piece of the pencil. It’s what he hopes Peter felt, in those last few moments before--
Now, finally, they are his hands on the chair controls, and if he had just a little more time, a couple more minutes, he’ll fix it so that no one else has to--
So long, Rodney.
VIII.
His hands--
want
to touch his wrists his arms his shoulders the points of his spine, feel the somatic shape of them, convince himself that he’s real. His other senses lie to him; he can’t trust his eyes. But with palms and fingertips--the scrape of blunt nails, even a sharp knuckle-sting--he’ll know that this isn’t just stress and lack of sleep and blind, mad hope playing tricks on his mind. Physical sensation, touch, the press of skin on skin: collating evidence with bruised digits, all of it, everything in one place, all they
need
--something to hold.
IX.
She moves him with an odd sort of grace: languid and loose where he is tight tight tight. He wants to theorize that this is because she is a woman, but he’s seen men move like that (seen a man move like that) and he’s forced to conclude that the fault, if there is one, lies with him. When she’s gone, he sits clenching and unclenching his fingers. When his hands are in motion he thinks he can shake the feeling; idle, the bones crack, the knuckles tense, the fingers curl to form fists of uselessness, heavy at his sides.
X.
His hands are tied--literally tied. The wooden bar bites into his shoulder blades; his wrists are going numb. You’re asking me to do the impossible, he says, again and again, I can’t. And he knows his eyes are screaming it: his fear, that he will have to make an unspeakable decision, that he will let them all down. But John just looks at him, drawls, You really suck at lying, Rodney, and with a single sentence, makes a liar out of him, after all.
John trusts him. To get them out of this, against all odds--he trusts him.
XI.
I’ve never asked this of you before, he says.
(--The ZPM is in his hands and then the ZPM isn’t in his hands--)
He says, But I think I’ve earned it.
(--The clip is in his hands and then the clip isn’t in his hands--)
Trust me.
(--The solution is in his hands and then it isn’t in his hands, it’s been taken away from him, he’s lost it, Elizabeth’s respect, John’s, John--)
The doors slide shut on Colonel Sheppard’s chameleon grin. At his sides, Rodney’s hands are twitching and empty. Empty.
He never had him in the first place.
XII.
He doesn’t know what to think. He hates that. “Do you have anything better to do, McKay?” the Colonel asks, and there it is, knot squeeze clench, because of course he doesn’t, he’s like a little kid with all his toys taken away, having a time-out. So he has no choice when Sheppard grabs him, fingers a loose ring around his wrist, and hauls him bodily toward the jumper bay.
He has time for an indignant “Hey!” and then John’s hands are covering his.
*************
Go on to Part II: Control (Bring Her Down)
Okay. So I am so very, very intimidated, but I wrote fic in my shiny new fandom because I know no other way of celebrating your beloved new fandom than to write fic in it. And of course, since I came for the humor and the snark, I had to bring out a big container o' angst for my first time. Ooops.
Anyway. Here goes nothing:
Title: Control
Spoilers: Through "Trinity"
Summary: John, Rodney, control: the perfect ménage à trois. Told in drabbles, the control freak’s favorite story form.
Part I: Control (These Hands)
I.
It’s quite simple, really. There’s a job that needs doing; he’s the best man for the job; he has to do it. Inspiration, realization, actualization. His hands on the keys, ten fingers. The only ones he trusts.
(There are, of course, certain tasks better suited to others. When a situation arises for which he is less than adept--flying, shooting, running, waiting, being brave, being kind, being respectful, being diplomatic, performing acts of selfless self-sacrifice, being charming, being modest, holding back, looking on the bright side, taking no for an answer--he knows enough to let go, step back.)
II.
He doesn’t have the gene.
(He walks into the room and sees it all lit up, blue and glowing, beautiful and perfect. A world of knowledge, distilled. The man sitting there has his mouth open, lips parted in surprise, but it’s nothing, nothing compared to the jolt that shoots through Rodney: shock and envy and pure, guttural lust, for that, for what--
His fingers at his sides twitch like the dead frogs in that idiotic biology class, their pale, limp bodies juiced with electrical current. Charged.
Did I do that? says the man.)
The chair stays dead beneath his fingertips.
III.
When the gun goes off, he doesn’t feel the bullet’s sting. When he falls, he doesn’t feel the air rush past his ears, or the bite of the ground against his back. The punch skips away like a flat stone on calm water.
Cocoon of glowing green armor, shimmering around him like a halo. He can feel it, a pleasant tingle, across every inch of his skin. He’s protected. He can’t get hurt. He won’t--
touch taste have hold feel hurt
--have any reason to worry, ever again.
It’s all under control. Nothing, no one, can touch him.
He’s invulnerable.
IV.
It doesn’t matter that everything worked out in the end. Doesn’t matter that he’s alive, that the Major is alive, that they’re all alive and here and whole; it means nothing, because he doesn’t trust himself anymore. It doesn’t matter how many times Elizabeth says it--Well done, Rodney--because for all of her life-affirming nods, there was a moment back there on the jumper, caught between everything and nothing, when he simply sat down, and he gave up.
Just like that.
And if he doesn’t trust himself to get the job done, well--then who can he trust?
V.
John listens to him. He likes that. The EMP, he says, and John gets it. He does what Rodney cannot do because Rodney is elsewhere, Rodney’s hands are tied, but John’s got his fingers wrapped firmly around the controls, and under his palms, the jumper soars.
(He clutches the railing and watches him walk away, warnings empty words on deaf ears. The Major has that sleepy-satisfied look in his eyes and Rodney wants to shake him until they roll back in his head, until he’s knocked some sense into him. Against the metal bar, his knuckles are turning white.)
VI.
Leadership.
(Is being an example for others. In the face of fear, being calm and reasonable--even if reasonable behavior is curling into a fetal ball.)
(Is not lashing out. People make mistakes all the time--it’s part of being human. It isn’t fair to hold them to the same high standards you hold yourself.)
(Is making the decisions no one else wants to. Decisions that get people killed. Leaving other people to die and saving your own ass--whether it was your intention or not. Your choice. Your result.)
He has a few observations on the subject of leadership.
VII.
It’s easier to do what needs doing than to stay behind and have to watch others risk themselves in your place.
It’s what he was trying to communicate to Radek. It’s the tiny flare of relief, buried beneath the fear, that he feels when he pulls the short piece of the pencil. It’s what he hopes Peter felt, in those last few moments before--
Now, finally, they are his hands on the chair controls, and if he had just a little more time, a couple more minutes, he’ll fix it so that no one else has to--
So long, Rodney.
VIII.
His hands--
want
to touch his wrists his arms his shoulders the points of his spine, feel the somatic shape of them, convince himself that he’s real. His other senses lie to him; he can’t trust his eyes. But with palms and fingertips--the scrape of blunt nails, even a sharp knuckle-sting--he’ll know that this isn’t just stress and lack of sleep and blind, mad hope playing tricks on his mind. Physical sensation, touch, the press of skin on skin: collating evidence with bruised digits, all of it, everything in one place, all they
need
--something to hold.
IX.
She moves him with an odd sort of grace: languid and loose where he is tight tight tight. He wants to theorize that this is because she is a woman, but he’s seen men move like that (seen a man move like that) and he’s forced to conclude that the fault, if there is one, lies with him. When she’s gone, he sits clenching and unclenching his fingers. When his hands are in motion he thinks he can shake the feeling; idle, the bones crack, the knuckles tense, the fingers curl to form fists of uselessness, heavy at his sides.
X.
His hands are tied--literally tied. The wooden bar bites into his shoulder blades; his wrists are going numb. You’re asking me to do the impossible, he says, again and again, I can’t. And he knows his eyes are screaming it: his fear, that he will have to make an unspeakable decision, that he will let them all down. But John just looks at him, drawls, You really suck at lying, Rodney, and with a single sentence, makes a liar out of him, after all.
John trusts him. To get them out of this, against all odds--he trusts him.
XI.
I’ve never asked this of you before, he says.
(--The ZPM is in his hands and then the ZPM isn’t in his hands--)
He says, But I think I’ve earned it.
(--The clip is in his hands and then the clip isn’t in his hands--)
Trust me.
(--The solution is in his hands and then it isn’t in his hands, it’s been taken away from him, he’s lost it, Elizabeth’s respect, John’s, John--)
The doors slide shut on Colonel Sheppard’s chameleon grin. At his sides, Rodney’s hands are twitching and empty. Empty.
He never had him in the first place.
XII.
He doesn’t know what to think. He hates that. “Do you have anything better to do, McKay?” the Colonel asks, and there it is, knot squeeze clench, because of course he doesn’t, he’s like a little kid with all his toys taken away, having a time-out. So he has no choice when Sheppard grabs him, fingers a loose ring around his wrist, and hauls him bodily toward the jumper bay.
He has time for an indignant “Hey!” and then John’s hands are covering his.
*************
Go on to Part II: Control (Bring Her Down)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-28 05:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-28 05:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-28 05:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-28 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-28 07:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-29 06:04 pm (UTC)I'm glad I'm writing too! God, you have no idea how glad I am to be writing anything.
Your basking shark freaks me out, even though I know they do not eat people.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-29 06:08 pm (UTC)Ah, do you not know the origin of my basking shark icon?
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-26 08:36 am (UTC)