Hegira by kellifer (PG-13)
Apr. 23rd, 2011 03:12 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, Sam Carter, Jack O'Neill, Carson Beckett
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Author's Website:
Link: Hegira
Why This Must Be Read:
This story has resided in my 'To Be Recced' folder forever because I was struggling with how to classify it here. It's a Stargate AU with SG-1 crossover elements with a not-quite-human-anymore John, which could have placed it in the John Sheppard recs, but there is a strong Rodney POV, which could also place it in the Rodney McKay recs. I finally settled on McKay/Sheppard because there's a love story included with the action/adventure that I've enjoyed rereading too many times to count.
Excerpt:
At the beginning of all things, there is only you and me
He was sleeping.
Rodney was propped up on one elbow, watching John from his own bed. That was John’s rule. Apart from their fevered lovemaking, they never shared the same bed. He supposed he could understand. When John was asleep, it was obvious he was something other than human. Most of the time they both indulged in selective denial, but they couldn't in this one thing.
John lay on his side, one fist in front of his face, the other resting just under his chin. His legs were curled so his knees almost touched his neck. There was no rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders, no small sleep sounds. There wasn't even the slightest ticking beneath the pale skin of his neck that would betray a pulse beneath. Lying on the bed, he resembled a child's doll, cast aside after a long day at play.
Rodney got up from his own small, cramped motel bed that smelled faintly of other people’s sweat. He dropped into the only chair in the motel room and picked up a battered science journal four years out of date he had been trying to skim. After re-reading the same paragraph three times he put it back down and looked at John again.
John didn't know that sometimes Rodney watched like this.
Rodney supposed what he did was closer to study. He assumed John would never know. During the daylight hours, John would not wake for anything, even if Rodney went to his bed and shook him. There were a couple of times they had had to vacate the places they had been staying in quickly and with no forewarning. Rodney had tried to rouse John the first time. He had learned to simply scoop John into his arms and do the best he could after that.
It wasn’t hard considering John was nothing but a lean veneer of muscle stretched over bone, and lighter still than he probably should have been for all that.
Rodney was no closer to knowing exactly what John was. During the day, left to his own devices and thoughts, he worried that this was because some small part of him didn’t really want to know. Being with John was made easier with ignorance. Everything became muted and unimportant and the world lost its colour when he wasn't in it. Rodney knew it was corny but he couldn't explain it better. Nothing in his life made sense any longer, except John’s place in it, and the fierce need to protect what and who John was.
He stood, crossed to John’s bed and sank down on it. He moved a hand underneath the single, scratchy sheet and brushed fingers over John’s chest. Underneath the smattering of hair, it was smooth and perfect... and cold. Almost like marble. He moved his hand and splayed his fingers slightly off-centre where he should have been able to feel the steady thump of a heartbeat and the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest beneath his palm.
There was nothing.
Rodney lost count of the number of times he had thought John wouldn't wake up in the morning, but he always did. Goose flesh rose on Rodney’s arm and he realised that touching John was leeching the warmth from his skin.
The only thing he was sure of was that John seemed unchangeable. John sometimes cut his skin or his hair, saying that he wanted to try something different, give himself character. The cuts healed fast, the hair grew back even faster. The first time John had shaved his head and had woken up the next day with the same damn cowlick, he hadn’t said a word, simply stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door and hadn’t emerged for three hours.
The sun had gone down while he was lost in thought and when Rodney looked at John again, green eyes were slitted open, searching Rodney’s face, trying to capture a stray thought.
"You sleep like the dead," Rodney deadpanned.
"Very funny," John sighed.
...
Rec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Characters:: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Sam Carter, Jack O'Neill, Carson Beckett
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Het/Slash/Gen: Slash
Warnings: None
Author on LJ:
kellifer_ficAuthor's Website:
Link: Hegira
Why This Must Be Read:
This story has resided in my 'To Be Recced' folder forever because I was struggling with how to classify it here. It's a Stargate AU with SG-1 crossover elements with a not-quite-human-anymore John, which could have placed it in the John Sheppard recs, but there is a strong Rodney POV, which could also place it in the Rodney McKay recs. I finally settled on McKay/Sheppard because there's a love story included with the action/adventure that I've enjoyed rereading too many times to count.
Excerpt:
At the beginning of all things, there is only you and me
He was sleeping.
Rodney was propped up on one elbow, watching John from his own bed. That was John’s rule. Apart from their fevered lovemaking, they never shared the same bed. He supposed he could understand. When John was asleep, it was obvious he was something other than human. Most of the time they both indulged in selective denial, but they couldn't in this one thing.
John lay on his side, one fist in front of his face, the other resting just under his chin. His legs were curled so his knees almost touched his neck. There was no rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders, no small sleep sounds. There wasn't even the slightest ticking beneath the pale skin of his neck that would betray a pulse beneath. Lying on the bed, he resembled a child's doll, cast aside after a long day at play.
Rodney got up from his own small, cramped motel bed that smelled faintly of other people’s sweat. He dropped into the only chair in the motel room and picked up a battered science journal four years out of date he had been trying to skim. After re-reading the same paragraph three times he put it back down and looked at John again.
John didn't know that sometimes Rodney watched like this.
Rodney supposed what he did was closer to study. He assumed John would never know. During the daylight hours, John would not wake for anything, even if Rodney went to his bed and shook him. There were a couple of times they had had to vacate the places they had been staying in quickly and with no forewarning. Rodney had tried to rouse John the first time. He had learned to simply scoop John into his arms and do the best he could after that.
It wasn’t hard considering John was nothing but a lean veneer of muscle stretched over bone, and lighter still than he probably should have been for all that.
Rodney was no closer to knowing exactly what John was. During the day, left to his own devices and thoughts, he worried that this was because some small part of him didn’t really want to know. Being with John was made easier with ignorance. Everything became muted and unimportant and the world lost its colour when he wasn't in it. Rodney knew it was corny but he couldn't explain it better. Nothing in his life made sense any longer, except John’s place in it, and the fierce need to protect what and who John was.
He stood, crossed to John’s bed and sank down on it. He moved a hand underneath the single, scratchy sheet and brushed fingers over John’s chest. Underneath the smattering of hair, it was smooth and perfect... and cold. Almost like marble. He moved his hand and splayed his fingers slightly off-centre where he should have been able to feel the steady thump of a heartbeat and the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest beneath his palm.
There was nothing.
Rodney lost count of the number of times he had thought John wouldn't wake up in the morning, but he always did. Goose flesh rose on Rodney’s arm and he realised that touching John was leeching the warmth from his skin.
The only thing he was sure of was that John seemed unchangeable. John sometimes cut his skin or his hair, saying that he wanted to try something different, give himself character. The cuts healed fast, the hair grew back even faster. The first time John had shaved his head and had woken up the next day with the same damn cowlick, he hadn’t said a word, simply stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door and hadn’t emerged for three hours.
The sun had gone down while he was lost in thought and when Rodney looked at John again, green eyes were slitted open, searching Rodney’s face, trying to capture a stray thought.
"You sleep like the dead," Rodney deadpanned.
"Very funny," John sighed.
...
