Eighteenish by seperis (NC-17)
Nov. 2nd, 2010 03:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danceswithgary posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
stargateficrecShow: SGA
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: Highlight: Torture, temporary character death
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seperis
Author's Website: Indulgence at Illuminated Text
Link: Eighteenish
Why This Must Be Read:
An alien ritual goes wrong because the Ancients forgot to clean up after themselves again, so Rodney takes care of that for them, and the universe will never be the same. I love the slow reveal in this story, along with the subtle horror, that leads to a very satisfying and fitting ending.
Excerpt:
Rodney finally looks for him when he doesn't answer the radio; it's hours past dinner and he's still awake, sparking with impatient energy that demands release. He'd blame adolescent hormones, but then he'd have to admit that the doctor's got a point.
Going by his quarters, Rodney picks up his satchel where he squirreled away the chocolate and beer he stole from the messhall, pulling absently at the too-large sweatpants that threaten to slide down his hips with every step, ignoring boots that no longer fit. He checks the lifesign detector before he goes back in the hall; night shift's a little paranoid about them being out on their own.
He goes by the gateroom, studying the darkened gate, techs still swarming the platform, running test after test. Zelenka catches his eye briefly, a wry smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Rodney slips out the door before Zelenka can see him grin.
Atlantis hides him while he searches, closing warm and safe around him like an old, familiar blanket, leading him with brightened lights and warming floors.
He's never looked at the city before, not really, not like this; high ceilings glazed in bronze and copper; wide windows staining the floor with every color of the rainbow, leaving abstract shapes on his feet and knees as he wades through moonlight. He closes his eyes just to feel the city humming beneath his bare feet, following the thrum of the power conduits like a voice that guides him more surely than his eyes ever could. He's always known the city like his hand, the precise geometric shape of its corridors and rooms, the pattern of its growth from a lonely outpost in lifeless space that matured into gleaming modern towers and glass spirals made of air and light.
But he'd never felt Atlantis quite like this, ageless and ancient and new, this city that's older than his homeworld.
He can feel the transition from youth to age in the hum of energy, the changing shapes of windows and doors; Ancients went through architectural renaissances like every other culture, heavy stone replaced by wood, by metal and glass, by crystal; but the farther he goes, the older it feels. The walls are thicker, built by less skilled hands, bare of decoration, clean and straight and warmer, too, though Rodney can't quite explain why. The doorways are shaped in domed arches, teardrop-shaped spires, some cross of remembered Middle Eastern culture in the careful details on the frames. Before they were Ancients, they were people still searching, seeking something that it would be thousands of years before they found.
Pressing a palm to the wall, Rodney thinks he can feel how old it is, warm and thrumming in welcome. The lights rise briefly in greeting, a quick flash that leaves him squinting and a little breathless, pushing away with the tips of his fingers, delighted all anew with how quickly the city responds to him now. She answers in soft lights, dimming behind him, brighter before; floors warming for his step; a pull like a voice calling him home. Putting the detector away, Rodney lets the city guide him.
Into a transporter; down a flight of curved metal stairs, dull with dust that's older than his planet; herded gently from damaged areas where water or time left stains waist high on the walls, broken control panels blinking on and off in warning; down, until the sea is rising around him in dark green and endless black behind walls made of windows.
Sheppard's curled before them, staring out, bathed in moody Atlantean light. Rodney almost smirks. It figures.
"John."
...
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: Highlight: Torture, temporary character death
Author on LJ:
seperisAuthor's Website: Indulgence at Illuminated Text
Link: Eighteenish
Why This Must Be Read:
An alien ritual goes wrong because the Ancients forgot to clean up after themselves again, so Rodney takes care of that for them, and the universe will never be the same. I love the slow reveal in this story, along with the subtle horror, that leads to a very satisfying and fitting ending.
Excerpt:
Rodney finally looks for him when he doesn't answer the radio; it's hours past dinner and he's still awake, sparking with impatient energy that demands release. He'd blame adolescent hormones, but then he'd have to admit that the doctor's got a point.
Going by his quarters, Rodney picks up his satchel where he squirreled away the chocolate and beer he stole from the messhall, pulling absently at the too-large sweatpants that threaten to slide down his hips with every step, ignoring boots that no longer fit. He checks the lifesign detector before he goes back in the hall; night shift's a little paranoid about them being out on their own.
He goes by the gateroom, studying the darkened gate, techs still swarming the platform, running test after test. Zelenka catches his eye briefly, a wry smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Rodney slips out the door before Zelenka can see him grin.
Atlantis hides him while he searches, closing warm and safe around him like an old, familiar blanket, leading him with brightened lights and warming floors.
He's never looked at the city before, not really, not like this; high ceilings glazed in bronze and copper; wide windows staining the floor with every color of the rainbow, leaving abstract shapes on his feet and knees as he wades through moonlight. He closes his eyes just to feel the city humming beneath his bare feet, following the thrum of the power conduits like a voice that guides him more surely than his eyes ever could. He's always known the city like his hand, the precise geometric shape of its corridors and rooms, the pattern of its growth from a lonely outpost in lifeless space that matured into gleaming modern towers and glass spirals made of air and light.
But he'd never felt Atlantis quite like this, ageless and ancient and new, this city that's older than his homeworld.
He can feel the transition from youth to age in the hum of energy, the changing shapes of windows and doors; Ancients went through architectural renaissances like every other culture, heavy stone replaced by wood, by metal and glass, by crystal; but the farther he goes, the older it feels. The walls are thicker, built by less skilled hands, bare of decoration, clean and straight and warmer, too, though Rodney can't quite explain why. The doorways are shaped in domed arches, teardrop-shaped spires, some cross of remembered Middle Eastern culture in the careful details on the frames. Before they were Ancients, they were people still searching, seeking something that it would be thousands of years before they found.
Pressing a palm to the wall, Rodney thinks he can feel how old it is, warm and thrumming in welcome. The lights rise briefly in greeting, a quick flash that leaves him squinting and a little breathless, pushing away with the tips of his fingers, delighted all anew with how quickly the city responds to him now. She answers in soft lights, dimming behind him, brighter before; floors warming for his step; a pull like a voice calling him home. Putting the detector away, Rodney lets the city guide him.
Into a transporter; down a flight of curved metal stairs, dull with dust that's older than his planet; herded gently from damaged areas where water or time left stains waist high on the walls, broken control panels blinking on and off in warning; down, until the sea is rising around him in dark green and endless black behind walls made of windows.
Sheppard's curled before them, staring out, bathed in moody Atlantean light. Rodney almost smirks. It figures.
"John."
...
