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stargateficrecShow: SGA
Rec Category: John Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Pairings: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Categories: emotional h/c, episode related, episode s05e06: the shrine
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Words: 2,959
Author's Journal: n/a
Author's Website: SodaliteScribe on AO3
Link: Asymptote (the long arc of almost)
Author’s summary: John doesn’t say the truth. Not in words. He says it in ritual: the jacket, the pier, the beer. He says it by staying—when Rodney forgets everything but his name, when goodbye is the one thing John refuses to allow, and staying is the only thing he’s ever been sure of.
Why This Must Be Read: I can’t express how much this fic touched me! You experience it through John’s eyes and soul, and it makes your heart pound in your throat. Every single word feels so expressive, so urgent, and just so right. As you read, the episode plays out before your eyes, everything laid bare—each puzzle piece falling into place. It’s not a fix-it yet, but the feelings ring true on so many levels, and reading them fills your heart to the brim. It’s a beautiful fic, and it will stay with you forever.
The lab was dark, except for the pale flicker of Rodney’s face on the screen. John watched it without sound this time — he didn’t need the words anymore. He wasn’t watching to learn anything new. He was watching because he didn’t know how not to. He’d memorized every frame. The way Rodney’s mouth quirked on the fourteenth digit of Pi. The tired joke about forgetting his own name. And then — near the end — the part that still caught him off guard, even now. I love you. Not to John. To Keller, behind the camera. A quiet offering, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.
He’d flown rescue missions blind, landed jumpers in hurricanes, disarmed bombs with seconds to spare — and yet here he was, watching old footage like if he stared hard enough, he could reverse entropy.
He hadn’t blinked in too long. His eyes felt scrubbed raw, the screen stinging them like static. He knew he shouldn’t keep watching it. It didn’t help. It never helped. But if he could just—if he could see the moment again, maybe it would sting less. Maybe he’d stop imagining what it would sound like if Rodney had said it to him. John paused the frame. Studied Rodney’s face. Traced the deepening widow’s peak, the shape of his mouth, imagined what it might feel like pressed to his jaw. Then hated himself for it.
Rec Category: John Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Pairings: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Categories: emotional h/c, episode related, episode s05e06: the shrine
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Words: 2,959
Author's Journal: n/a
Author's Website: SodaliteScribe on AO3
Link: Asymptote (the long arc of almost)
Author’s summary: John doesn’t say the truth. Not in words. He says it in ritual: the jacket, the pier, the beer. He says it by staying—when Rodney forgets everything but his name, when goodbye is the one thing John refuses to allow, and staying is the only thing he’s ever been sure of.
Why This Must Be Read: I can’t express how much this fic touched me! You experience it through John’s eyes and soul, and it makes your heart pound in your throat. Every single word feels so expressive, so urgent, and just so right. As you read, the episode plays out before your eyes, everything laid bare—each puzzle piece falling into place. It’s not a fix-it yet, but the feelings ring true on so many levels, and reading them fills your heart to the brim. It’s a beautiful fic, and it will stay with you forever.
The lab was dark, except for the pale flicker of Rodney’s face on the screen. John watched it without sound this time — he didn’t need the words anymore. He wasn’t watching to learn anything new. He was watching because he didn’t know how not to. He’d memorized every frame. The way Rodney’s mouth quirked on the fourteenth digit of Pi. The tired joke about forgetting his own name. And then — near the end — the part that still caught him off guard, even now. I love you. Not to John. To Keller, behind the camera. A quiet offering, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.
He’d flown rescue missions blind, landed jumpers in hurricanes, disarmed bombs with seconds to spare — and yet here he was, watching old footage like if he stared hard enough, he could reverse entropy.
He hadn’t blinked in too long. His eyes felt scrubbed raw, the screen stinging them like static. He knew he shouldn’t keep watching it. It didn’t help. It never helped. But if he could just—if he could see the moment again, maybe it would sting less. Maybe he’d stop imagining what it would sound like if Rodney had said it to him. John paused the frame. Studied Rodney’s face. Traced the deepening widow’s peak, the shape of his mouth, imagined what it might feel like pressed to his jaw. Then hated himself for it.
