Scenes from an Unseen Life by Delilah [Reviews - 87]
Chapter or Story - Text Size +
Category: Slash Pairings > McKay/Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Rating: R
Genres: AU - Alternate Universe
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 16506; Completed: Yes
Summary: And John pouted, which was on his list of things he really regretted he could no longer see. Because John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel, with his lips pursed out and shoulders slightly slumped was the exact incarnation of the best five-year-old's pout he had ever witnessed.
For C, who misses Blind Justice and who I know won't mind that I shared. Warning: Blind Rodney ahead.
***
"He is not going through the 'gate."
"I don't think that's your decision, Colonel. Or am I not allowed to go to meetings either now?"
John snorted. "Of course you're allowed to go to meetings, Rodney. Don't be stupid."
"I would claim it is impossible for me to be stupid," retorted Rodney, his speech going even more rapid-fire and clipped, his hands weighing the two words against each other midair. "Genius. Stupid. They're mutually exclusive." The hand cupped as if actually holding the word genius – not surprisingly – won.
As usual, he was right even if John couldn't see it. Although that was a rather reversed observation -- being as he was the one to whom the stained glass panels of the conference room were nothing more than an arty, impressionistic swirl of muted, muddy darks, with the occasional shard of light throwing painful splashes of color screaming in flashes of garbled visual pain: sharp needle-like dots of white, slower burning dashes of orange. The shock of it made him stagger slightly, drew Carson's attention – a pressure of warmth along his right side. Blindsight. Bodily radar for the visually impaired. He'd often wondered if it had been John -- not that that thought didn't bring a shiver – but if it had been John, would Atlantis have whispered directions in his ear, guiding him gently with the innate feel John alone seemed to possess?
"Come along, Rodney."
Beckett had a tendency to grasp and haul him without warning, exercising some medical right of touch that he seemed to think he'd earned by keeping him alive when Zelenka's hand had slipped and the alien grenade (because that's what the ominously lemon-shaped object had turned out to be) had exploded in his face, taking most of his vision and leaving in its place the artistic kaleidoscope he was ill-equipped to appreciate and the hundreds of skirmishes he'd fought since: Carson's bent toward overprotection, Kavanaugh's claim he was no longer capable of heading Science, now John's refusal to even consider the fact that he alone possessed the skills to wrench a damn unused ZPM from the housing the first-contact team had described.
He could see in his mind, damn it. Zelenka's careful description – and mired in guilt as he was, Zelenka's descriptions were always careful, if still a little frantic and accented – drew, in his mind, intricate diagrams of black on white. His occipital lobe worked just fine, thank you, and he could see the flat face of the wall's side, see the curious alien rivets like shining, black dots, could see where the pathways of the interface locked the device into place. Given words, he could still see.
"Sit down," finished Beckett, hand drawing Rodney's to his elbow, his movement intersecting with a beam of morning sunlight, transforming the motion into a sudden, slightly stinging slash of blue. A blink and it was gone, leaving only muddy grays in infinite shades that, with a Sheppard-like twist, he'd begun to name in strange American colloquialisms.
Orienting himself – in meetings, in the gate room, in the damn confusion of the cafeteria – took time and effort and was an annoyance, his brain needing the processing time for something more galactically useful than a seating chart, which he'd begun to wish they'd simply supply him and save him time.
"I'm going," he repeated, snagging the chair Beckett brought under his hands. "I'm the best man for the job."
If this didn't have quite the strength of conviction behind it that he used to be able to manage, well, there were – even he admitted – some casualties to having things blow up in your face.
"Let's be reasonable, gentlemen," floated across the table. Elizabeth's diplomatic tone, which meant John was somewhere with his face scrunched up in consternation, probably rolling his eyes.
Not knowing which way to glare made it less effective, but Rodney managed to put a reasonable depth of sarcasm into, "I see that look, Colonel."
Of course that carried little weight even when he could see, but he could hear uncomfortable shifting, probably not actually from Sheppard's direction, but enough movement to give his ego a small boost that he still had ways of making the recalcitrant squirm.
Just, perhaps not a certain colonel.
"Rodney," John began, exasperation twinged in the tone.
Rodney fixed on the direction, facing a little to his left. "Do I have to get the ADA in here?"
He could hear John shift, leaning back in the chair, probably crossing his damn hands behind his neck in that alpha-male grunt thing he did, baring his belly to attack to prove no one would dare. "I don't think that's enforceable in the Pegasus galaxy."
Rodney waved a hand. "Not the American Disabilities Act, you idiot. The Atlantean Disabilities Association."
"You formed an association?" clarified John. "What is it, an association of one?"
"Seven, actually," Rodney retorted, fingers of his right hand flicking in an emphatic count. "Gordon has diabetes. Unbeguan—"
"Gentlemen," Elizabeth tried again.
"Going," repeated Rodney. If you sounded like that's all there was to it, often it was true.
"Colonel," asked Weir, trying formality as nothing else had worked, "do you have a good reason you feel Dr. McKay shouldn't assist—"
"Apart from the obvious?"
"Which is?" sneered Rodney.
"Obvious," John finished.
***
In the end, of course, he won.
And John pouted, which was on his list of things he really regretted he could no longer see. Because John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel, with his lips pursed out and shoulders slightly slumped was the exact incarnation of the best five-year-old's pout he had ever witnessed.
***
(tbc)
Chapter or Story - Text Size +
Category: Slash Pairings > McKay/Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Rating: R
Genres: AU - Alternate Universe
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 16506; Completed: Yes
Summary: And John pouted, which was on his list of things he really regretted he could no longer see. Because John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel, with his lips pursed out and shoulders slightly slumped was the exact incarnation of the best five-year-old's pout he had ever witnessed.
For C, who misses Blind Justice and who I know won't mind that I shared. Warning: Blind Rodney ahead.
***
"He is not going through the 'gate."
"I don't think that's your decision, Colonel. Or am I not allowed to go to meetings either now?"
John snorted. "Of course you're allowed to go to meetings, Rodney. Don't be stupid."
"I would claim it is impossible for me to be stupid," retorted Rodney, his speech going even more rapid-fire and clipped, his hands weighing the two words against each other midair. "Genius. Stupid. They're mutually exclusive." The hand cupped as if actually holding the word genius – not surprisingly – won.
As usual, he was right even if John couldn't see it. Although that was a rather reversed observation -- being as he was the one to whom the stained glass panels of the conference room were nothing more than an arty, impressionistic swirl of muted, muddy darks, with the occasional shard of light throwing painful splashes of color screaming in flashes of garbled visual pain: sharp needle-like dots of white, slower burning dashes of orange. The shock of it made him stagger slightly, drew Carson's attention – a pressure of warmth along his right side. Blindsight. Bodily radar for the visually impaired. He'd often wondered if it had been John -- not that that thought didn't bring a shiver – but if it had been John, would Atlantis have whispered directions in his ear, guiding him gently with the innate feel John alone seemed to possess?
"Come along, Rodney."
Beckett had a tendency to grasp and haul him without warning, exercising some medical right of touch that he seemed to think he'd earned by keeping him alive when Zelenka's hand had slipped and the alien grenade (because that's what the ominously lemon-shaped object had turned out to be) had exploded in his face, taking most of his vision and leaving in its place the artistic kaleidoscope he was ill-equipped to appreciate and the hundreds of skirmishes he'd fought since: Carson's bent toward overprotection, Kavanaugh's claim he was no longer capable of heading Science, now John's refusal to even consider the fact that he alone possessed the skills to wrench a damn unused ZPM from the housing the first-contact team had described.
He could see in his mind, damn it. Zelenka's careful description – and mired in guilt as he was, Zelenka's descriptions were always careful, if still a little frantic and accented – drew, in his mind, intricate diagrams of black on white. His occipital lobe worked just fine, thank you, and he could see the flat face of the wall's side, see the curious alien rivets like shining, black dots, could see where the pathways of the interface locked the device into place. Given words, he could still see.
"Sit down," finished Beckett, hand drawing Rodney's to his elbow, his movement intersecting with a beam of morning sunlight, transforming the motion into a sudden, slightly stinging slash of blue. A blink and it was gone, leaving only muddy grays in infinite shades that, with a Sheppard-like twist, he'd begun to name in strange American colloquialisms.
Orienting himself – in meetings, in the gate room, in the damn confusion of the cafeteria – took time and effort and was an annoyance, his brain needing the processing time for something more galactically useful than a seating chart, which he'd begun to wish they'd simply supply him and save him time.
"I'm going," he repeated, snagging the chair Beckett brought under his hands. "I'm the best man for the job."
If this didn't have quite the strength of conviction behind it that he used to be able to manage, well, there were – even he admitted – some casualties to having things blow up in your face.
"Let's be reasonable, gentlemen," floated across the table. Elizabeth's diplomatic tone, which meant John was somewhere with his face scrunched up in consternation, probably rolling his eyes.
Not knowing which way to glare made it less effective, but Rodney managed to put a reasonable depth of sarcasm into, "I see that look, Colonel."
Of course that carried little weight even when he could see, but he could hear uncomfortable shifting, probably not actually from Sheppard's direction, but enough movement to give his ego a small boost that he still had ways of making the recalcitrant squirm.
Just, perhaps not a certain colonel.
"Rodney," John began, exasperation twinged in the tone.
Rodney fixed on the direction, facing a little to his left. "Do I have to get the ADA in here?"
He could hear John shift, leaning back in the chair, probably crossing his damn hands behind his neck in that alpha-male grunt thing he did, baring his belly to attack to prove no one would dare. "I don't think that's enforceable in the Pegasus galaxy."
Rodney waved a hand. "Not the American Disabilities Act, you idiot. The Atlantean Disabilities Association."
"You formed an association?" clarified John. "What is it, an association of one?"
"Seven, actually," Rodney retorted, fingers of his right hand flicking in an emphatic count. "Gordon has diabetes. Unbeguan—"
"Gentlemen," Elizabeth tried again.
"Going," repeated Rodney. If you sounded like that's all there was to it, often it was true.
"Colonel," asked Weir, trying formality as nothing else had worked, "do you have a good reason you feel Dr. McKay shouldn't assist—"
"Apart from the obvious?"
"Which is?" sneered Rodney.
"Obvious," John finished.
***
In the end, of course, he won.
And John pouted, which was on his list of things he really regretted he could no longer see. Because John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel, with his lips pursed out and shoulders slightly slumped was the exact incarnation of the best five-year-old's pout he had ever witnessed.
***
(tbc)