This was what I dreamt last night. I have no idea how, or why, or for what reason this infected my head, but now it will not leave me alone.
(Because you see on his more charitable days, Rodney will refer to his parents as 'eccentric.' (On days when he's feeling less charitable, he refers to them using language that makes Elizabeth wince, but that's neither here nor there.) It wasn't really that he minded the fact that they thought trekking from one small town to the next was an appropriate lifestyle to lead while trying to raise two young children, or the fact that, for most of his childhood, indoor plumbing was not a recurring feature. (Though neither of those things were really what he'd call enjoyable) What he did mind was that they were more interested in the mating lives of caribou than they were in the lives of their offspring, that by the age of five, he'd seen more of the Territories than any sane person would ever want to, and that it was really, really fucking cold up there. (Rodney's respiratory system has always been delicate.)
By the age of seven, Rodney had seen more tundra than most seasoned Arctic explorers, and had spent more birthdays than he cared to remember inside an igloo. (Though whenever he mentions that, the Colonel always seems to think he's joking, for some unfathomable reason. Rodney never jokes when he's talking about the cruel and unusual lack of birthday cake which haunted his childhood) By the age of nine, he was so brainwashed that he actually rejoiced that they got to overwinter in a tiny little frontier town that gloried in the name of Tuktoyatuk, and go to school in a one room building with the five other kids who lived there.
The McKays didn't stay in town for long (not once Rodney succeeded in making a fully-functioning atomic bomb for the school's tiny science fair; a feat which gained the attention of more than a few security agencies given that, well, he was a ten-year-old living in a town of three hundred odd people somewhere in the Arctic Circle), but it was still long enough for Rodney to make one of the few lasting friendships of his childhood.
Not lasting in the sense that they knew one another for a very long time (because once his parents found out that Rodney was a bona fide genius, Mensa approved, and that Jeannie wasn't far behind, they moved south to Edmonton and one hell of a lot less snow), but in the sense that Rodney sometimes thought of him with a lot more fondness than he usually thought of others, and he sometimes thought of Rodney with a lot less vindictiveness than people usually thought of Rodney. And there were letters and postcards and the occasional phonecall exchanged (well, when one of them could write from whichever classified location he'd been posted to, and when the other was within a hundred miles or so of a post-office) whenever they got a chance.
Friends, but not close, and not always in touch. Which was why, when the Daedalus docked with its latest load of equipment (Put it down gently, I said. Is English too difficult for you? Would you prefer French? Russian? Pig Latin?), supplies (Oh thank god, peanut M&Ms), and personnel (My god, you actually got your PhD from clown school, didn't you), Rodney wasn't expecting a tall, straight figure in red serge to emerge from the ship, carrying a duffel bag and accompanied by what he could have sworn was a... wolf?
And then the other man looks up, and sees him, and says "Rodney? Rodney McKay?" and Rodney lets out a little laugh that's half a surprised hiccup and says "Ben?" (next to him John says "Is that a wolf?"), right before Ben comes over to hug Rodney, and Rodney can smell him, like clean pine and fresh snow and the place he never really thought of as home)
Something something. Why can't I just edit my essay like a good child?
no subject
(Because you see on his more charitable days, Rodney will refer to his parents as 'eccentric.' (On days when he's feeling less charitable, he refers to them using language that makes Elizabeth wince, but that's neither here nor there.) It wasn't really that he minded the fact that they thought trekking from one small town to the next was an appropriate lifestyle to lead while trying to raise two young children, or the fact that, for most of his childhood, indoor plumbing was not a recurring feature. (Though neither of those things were really what he'd call enjoyable) What he did mind was that they were more interested in the mating lives of caribou than they were in the lives of their offspring, that by the age of five, he'd seen more of the Territories than any sane person would ever want to, and that it was really, really fucking cold up there. (Rodney's respiratory system has always been delicate.)
By the age of seven, Rodney had seen more tundra than most seasoned Arctic explorers, and had spent more birthdays than he cared to remember inside an igloo. (Though whenever he mentions that, the Colonel always seems to think he's joking, for some unfathomable reason. Rodney never jokes when he's talking about the cruel and unusual lack of birthday cake which haunted his childhood) By the age of nine, he was so brainwashed that he actually rejoiced that they got to overwinter in a tiny little frontier town that gloried in the name of Tuktoyatuk, and go to school in a one room building with the five other kids who lived there.
The McKays didn't stay in town for long (not once Rodney succeeded in making a fully-functioning atomic bomb for the school's tiny science fair; a feat which gained the attention of more than a few security agencies given that, well, he was a ten-year-old living in a town of three hundred odd people somewhere in the Arctic Circle), but it was still long enough for Rodney to make one of the few lasting friendships of his childhood.
Not lasting in the sense that they knew one another for a very long time (because once his parents found out that Rodney was a bona fide genius, Mensa approved, and that Jeannie wasn't far behind, they moved south to Edmonton and one hell of a lot less snow), but in the sense that Rodney sometimes thought of him with a lot more fondness than he usually thought of others, and he sometimes thought of Rodney with a lot less vindictiveness than people usually thought of Rodney. And there were letters and postcards and the occasional phonecall exchanged (well, when one of them could write from whichever classified location he'd been posted to, and when the other was within a hundred miles or so of a post-office) whenever they got a chance.
Friends, but not close, and not always in touch. Which was why, when the Daedalus docked with its latest load of equipment (Put it down gently, I said. Is English too difficult for you? Would you prefer French? Russian? Pig Latin?), supplies (Oh thank god, peanut M&Ms), and personnel (My god, you actually got your PhD from clown school, didn't you), Rodney wasn't expecting a tall, straight figure in red serge to emerge from the ship, carrying a duffel bag and accompanied by what he could have sworn was a... wolf?
And then the other man looks up, and sees him, and says "Rodney? Rodney McKay?" and Rodney lets out a little laugh that's half a surprised hiccup and says "Ben?" (next to him John says "Is that a wolf?"), right before Ben comes over to hug Rodney, and Rodney can smell him, like clean pine and fresh snow and the place he never really thought of as home)
Something something. Why can't I just edit my essay like a good child?