trinityofone (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trinityofone) wrote2006-05-22 06:28 pm
trinityofone) wrote2006-05-22 06:28 pm
SGA Fic: Misery to Man
Hey, it’s LJ MPREG DAY! And (unfortunately?) I cannot resist a challenge.
Title: Misery to Man
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Warnings: MPreg
Length: ~1500 words
Summary: “It’s science’s answer to reincarnation,” he said. “Well, alien technology’s, anyway.”
Misery to Man
They still sleep in the same bed, but now everyone knows. They think it’s sweet. They touch Rodney’s soft head, curled against John’s shoulder—the women especially, that slightly melty look in their eyes. “Does he have nightmares?” they ask, sympathetic.
John will nod. “Sometimes.”
But never like John does.
Rodney was dying. He’d been poisoned. The same stew as everyone else, and not a hint of citrus, but he’d suffered some allergic reaction, his face going red, then white. The EpiPen had done nothing. Ronon and Teyla had gone for help, but John knew they were going to be too late. He could no longer see himself in Rodney’s eyes.
The Vaas were hovering over and around them, looking worried and guilty (although as far as John was concerned, not guilty enough). “Don’t just stand there—do something!” He kept shouting it: first, only inside his own head, but as Rodney’s grip loosened in his hand, it spilled out. “Dammit, there has to be something you can do.”
One of the Vaas stepped forward. He had forgotten her name, even though he usually learned names quite easily, carelessly. She blinked her large brown eye.
“There is something,” she said, her voice like dry grass. “Although I am not sure it will work with your species.”
“Well, we won’t know until we try, will we?” he snapped—they should have suggested this ages ago. It had been less than ten minutes since Rodney had fallen. “Explain it to me.”
She did.
John sat back on his heels, swallowing hard. His eyes shifted, almost unwillingly, to Rodney’s face: he wasn’t even sweating anymore. He looked very cold, and very still. A husk.
He turned back to the Vaas. “But I’m a man,” he said. Not a protest: a clarification, a concern.
She shook her head. “It does not matter,” she said, “so long as you are willing.”
He was. Of course he was.
“Where’s Rodney?” Elizabeth asked when he stepped back through the ‘gate.
For the first time, but far from the last, John’s hand went instinctively to his belly. Protective.
He explained it to them just as the Vaas had explained it to him. Well, not quite. There was a tightness in his voice that there hadn’t been in hers, and he worded things slightly differently.
“It’s science’s answer to reincarnation,” he said. He realized that he was cupping his stomach again and made himself stop. “Well, alien technology’s, anyway.”
Beckett wanted to run tests. John let him—he was going to need the doctor’s help with this, need him to stop looking so wide-eyed and scared. Elizabeth looked frightened, too, but her voice was all practiced calm as she peppered John with questions. Would Rodney age normally after he was born? Yes. Would he remember anything? No, although the Vaas said that some regained their memories when they hit puberty. Elizabeth frowned. So effectively, Rodney wasn’t...
She stopped abruptly, but John had already realized with a sharp suddenness exactly what Rodney wasn’t going to be. Himself. Any use to the mission. Not for a long, long time.
That aspect hadn’t even crossed John’s mind before now. He’d been too focused on saving Rodney, no matter what the cost; on ensuring that Rodney continued, no matter what the form. He still was.
Elizabeth looked at him sadly. She told him he’d been very brave.
John liked children, but would never have trusted himself to have any. There were too many things that could go wrong that he wouldn’t be able to fix, or worse, would only make worse, would turn out to be the cause of.
Luckily, Rodney had hated kids, so it never should have become a problem.
Things rarely happened like they should, John thought, sliding a hand across the curve of his belly. He could feel Rodney kicking. In some sick way, they were closer than they had ever been.
John missed him so much his jaw ached.
When he woke after the caesarean, John was convinced that while he was out, Atlantis had been taken over by pod people.
Everyone who had been freaked out before now seemed delighted. Elizabeth made an ecstatic announcement over the city-wide com system. Teyla, Cadman—even Ronon and Lorne—stopped by to coo. Carson beamed at John as he lowered the baby into his arms, and John tried to beam back, to look like he was anything other than disappointed with what he’d been given. That tiny calm face topped in blond peach fuzz, snoring peacefully against his chest—it wasn’t Rodney. He wanted Rodney.
Still: he held the baby, and he rocked him, and he cradled his soft head. He could still do that. Protect him. Now more than ever, to make up for how he’d failed before.
‘
Rodney was reading before he was a year and a half old; he wasn’t even toilet trained yet. Both Radek and Elizabeth were delighted with him, getting books sent over for him on the Daedalus. As long as there was never any talk of sending Rodney back on it, John didn’t mind.
He’d always liked the way Rodney’s eyes lit up with wonder when he discovered something new. Now everything was new, everything was a discovery, and John’s heart ached in his chest as he watched Rodney’s clumsy, grasping fingers. He held tight to Rodney’s other hand, tiny in his, and walked with him wherever he wanted to go.
“This is stupid,” Rodney had said, “this isn’t safe,” but his eyes burned brightly with the wonder of discovery as his clever, sure hands swept over John’s body.
“I know,” John had said, and “I don’t care”; and time had stilled, like a held breath, as they’d learned each other: the first time of many, he’d thought, of many, many more.
Rodney had never liked the crib some of the Marines had built him; even when he was very small, he’d preferred to sleep curled at John’s side, his hand gripped tightly around one of John’s fingers. John hadn’t minded: it had seemed safer, to keep him close.
The older Rodney got, the less safe it seemed.
“Spend the night,” Rodney had said, voice soft, a little hoarse. His hand trailed across John’s side as he rolled over: over his ribs and the slight jut of his hip, and down, over his belly. His hand caught on John’s for a moment but John had to get up, had to pull away.
“You know I can’t,” he said. He didn’t need to say why.
Rodney watched him pull on his boots. “John,” he said at one point, like he’d meant to say something else, something else entirely.
John gave him one last kiss before he left. He said, “I’ll see you soon.”
Rodney uncurls from around John’s side as John lowers him onto the bed. His eyelids flutter open, lashes impossibly long against soft, still babyish cheeks. He looks confused. “Where’s Radek?” he asks. He’d been “working” with Zelenka before he fell asleep.
“Back in the lab,” John says, stripping off his jacket. “It’s late, buddy, you should get some sleep.”
Whatever protest Rodney’s about to make is interrupted by an enormous yawn. Instead he nods sleepily, and curls into a more comfortable position against the pillow.
When John slips into bed later, Rodney’s eyes open a crack. He fumbles for John’s hand even as John moves without thinking: kisses him softly, on the top of his head.
“Love you,” Rodney mumbles.
John’s chest is a hollow drum. “I love you, too,” he says, because that’s what children need to hear. Because it’s true.
The Vaas had come to Atlantis once, to check on them both, make sure there were no complications. The Vaas who had helped him (John still didn’t know her name) had sat with John for a while and watched Rodney run and play. He had a tiny working model of the Orion that Radek had built for John to give to him: “His father’s spaceship,” Zelenka had explained, and John had gone still and silent, had almost refused the gift.
But he knew Rodney would love it, so.
“He is progressing well,” the Vaas had said, calm flat voice from where she sat beside him. “Perhaps in a few more years, he will remember.”
“Yeah,” said John. “Maybe.”
He can’t say he doesn’t think about it. He thinks about it all the time. Rodney waking up beside him with knowledge in his eyes. He’d never had that. Not once. He’d always thought it was something he could live without.
Rodney sleeps soundly, his lips, just starting to go crooked, curved upward into a smile. John wonders what he dreams about. If in his dreams, there is even a frisson of memory—anything, of who he was, of what they had been.
John wonders if the Vaas is right, if someday, not too terribly long from now, Rodney will remember everything.
On good days, John prays he never does.
Title: Misery to Man
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Warnings: MPreg
Length: ~1500 words
Summary: “It’s science’s answer to reincarnation,” he said. “Well, alien technology’s, anyway.”
Misery to Man
They still sleep in the same bed, but now everyone knows. They think it’s sweet. They touch Rodney’s soft head, curled against John’s shoulder—the women especially, that slightly melty look in their eyes. “Does he have nightmares?” they ask, sympathetic.
John will nod. “Sometimes.”
But never like John does.
Rodney was dying. He’d been poisoned. The same stew as everyone else, and not a hint of citrus, but he’d suffered some allergic reaction, his face going red, then white. The EpiPen had done nothing. Ronon and Teyla had gone for help, but John knew they were going to be too late. He could no longer see himself in Rodney’s eyes.
The Vaas were hovering over and around them, looking worried and guilty (although as far as John was concerned, not guilty enough). “Don’t just stand there—do something!” He kept shouting it: first, only inside his own head, but as Rodney’s grip loosened in his hand, it spilled out. “Dammit, there has to be something you can do.”
One of the Vaas stepped forward. He had forgotten her name, even though he usually learned names quite easily, carelessly. She blinked her large brown eye.
“There is something,” she said, her voice like dry grass. “Although I am not sure it will work with your species.”
“Well, we won’t know until we try, will we?” he snapped—they should have suggested this ages ago. It had been less than ten minutes since Rodney had fallen. “Explain it to me.”
She did.
John sat back on his heels, swallowing hard. His eyes shifted, almost unwillingly, to Rodney’s face: he wasn’t even sweating anymore. He looked very cold, and very still. A husk.
He turned back to the Vaas. “But I’m a man,” he said. Not a protest: a clarification, a concern.
She shook her head. “It does not matter,” she said, “so long as you are willing.”
He was. Of course he was.
“Where’s Rodney?” Elizabeth asked when he stepped back through the ‘gate.
For the first time, but far from the last, John’s hand went instinctively to his belly. Protective.
He explained it to them just as the Vaas had explained it to him. Well, not quite. There was a tightness in his voice that there hadn’t been in hers, and he worded things slightly differently.
“It’s science’s answer to reincarnation,” he said. He realized that he was cupping his stomach again and made himself stop. “Well, alien technology’s, anyway.”
Beckett wanted to run tests. John let him—he was going to need the doctor’s help with this, need him to stop looking so wide-eyed and scared. Elizabeth looked frightened, too, but her voice was all practiced calm as she peppered John with questions. Would Rodney age normally after he was born? Yes. Would he remember anything? No, although the Vaas said that some regained their memories when they hit puberty. Elizabeth frowned. So effectively, Rodney wasn’t...
She stopped abruptly, but John had already realized with a sharp suddenness exactly what Rodney wasn’t going to be. Himself. Any use to the mission. Not for a long, long time.
That aspect hadn’t even crossed John’s mind before now. He’d been too focused on saving Rodney, no matter what the cost; on ensuring that Rodney continued, no matter what the form. He still was.
Elizabeth looked at him sadly. She told him he’d been very brave.
John liked children, but would never have trusted himself to have any. There were too many things that could go wrong that he wouldn’t be able to fix, or worse, would only make worse, would turn out to be the cause of.
Luckily, Rodney had hated kids, so it never should have become a problem.
Things rarely happened like they should, John thought, sliding a hand across the curve of his belly. He could feel Rodney kicking. In some sick way, they were closer than they had ever been.
John missed him so much his jaw ached.
When he woke after the caesarean, John was convinced that while he was out, Atlantis had been taken over by pod people.
Everyone who had been freaked out before now seemed delighted. Elizabeth made an ecstatic announcement over the city-wide com system. Teyla, Cadman—even Ronon and Lorne—stopped by to coo. Carson beamed at John as he lowered the baby into his arms, and John tried to beam back, to look like he was anything other than disappointed with what he’d been given. That tiny calm face topped in blond peach fuzz, snoring peacefully against his chest—it wasn’t Rodney. He wanted Rodney.
Still: he held the baby, and he rocked him, and he cradled his soft head. He could still do that. Protect him. Now more than ever, to make up for how he’d failed before.
‘
Rodney was reading before he was a year and a half old; he wasn’t even toilet trained yet. Both Radek and Elizabeth were delighted with him, getting books sent over for him on the Daedalus. As long as there was never any talk of sending Rodney back on it, John didn’t mind.
He’d always liked the way Rodney’s eyes lit up with wonder when he discovered something new. Now everything was new, everything was a discovery, and John’s heart ached in his chest as he watched Rodney’s clumsy, grasping fingers. He held tight to Rodney’s other hand, tiny in his, and walked with him wherever he wanted to go.
“This is stupid,” Rodney had said, “this isn’t safe,” but his eyes burned brightly with the wonder of discovery as his clever, sure hands swept over John’s body.
“I know,” John had said, and “I don’t care”; and time had stilled, like a held breath, as they’d learned each other: the first time of many, he’d thought, of many, many more.
Rodney had never liked the crib some of the Marines had built him; even when he was very small, he’d preferred to sleep curled at John’s side, his hand gripped tightly around one of John’s fingers. John hadn’t minded: it had seemed safer, to keep him close.
The older Rodney got, the less safe it seemed.
“Spend the night,” Rodney had said, voice soft, a little hoarse. His hand trailed across John’s side as he rolled over: over his ribs and the slight jut of his hip, and down, over his belly. His hand caught on John’s for a moment but John had to get up, had to pull away.
“You know I can’t,” he said. He didn’t need to say why.
Rodney watched him pull on his boots. “John,” he said at one point, like he’d meant to say something else, something else entirely.
John gave him one last kiss before he left. He said, “I’ll see you soon.”
Rodney uncurls from around John’s side as John lowers him onto the bed. His eyelids flutter open, lashes impossibly long against soft, still babyish cheeks. He looks confused. “Where’s Radek?” he asks. He’d been “working” with Zelenka before he fell asleep.
“Back in the lab,” John says, stripping off his jacket. “It’s late, buddy, you should get some sleep.”
Whatever protest Rodney’s about to make is interrupted by an enormous yawn. Instead he nods sleepily, and curls into a more comfortable position against the pillow.
When John slips into bed later, Rodney’s eyes open a crack. He fumbles for John’s hand even as John moves without thinking: kisses him softly, on the top of his head.
“Love you,” Rodney mumbles.
John’s chest is a hollow drum. “I love you, too,” he says, because that’s what children need to hear. Because it’s true.
The Vaas had come to Atlantis once, to check on them both, make sure there were no complications. The Vaas who had helped him (John still didn’t know her name) had sat with John for a while and watched Rodney run and play. He had a tiny working model of the Orion that Radek had built for John to give to him: “His father’s spaceship,” Zelenka had explained, and John had gone still and silent, had almost refused the gift.
But he knew Rodney would love it, so.
“He is progressing well,” the Vaas had said, calm flat voice from where she sat beside him. “Perhaps in a few more years, he will remember.”
“Yeah,” said John. “Maybe.”
He can’t say he doesn’t think about it. He thinks about it all the time. Rodney waking up beside him with knowledge in his eyes. He’d never had that. Not once. He’d always thought it was something he could live without.
Rodney sleeps soundly, his lips, just starting to go crooked, curved upward into a smile. John wonders what he dreams about. If in his dreams, there is even a frisson of memory—anything, of who he was, of what they had been.
John wonders if the Vaas is right, if someday, not too terribly long from now, Rodney will remember everything.
On good days, John prays he never does.
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