Fic Post: Fragmentary, SGA

I’m starting to do that twitchy thing you do when you haven’t actively finished anything in a while. This is barely long enough to be a ficlet, but finished it is.

Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Not a one.
Feedback: Will be hugged like a puppy. Even if it bites.
Summary: Timing is everything.


Author’s Notes: Forgive me, Fandom, for I have committed the Sin of the Second Person. It felt weird in third. Also, the format is… unusual. Given the show in question, Hail Marys seem oddly appropriate. My apologies if this isn’t your cup of tea.

Also, since it was requested: By my count, there are three ways you can read this fic. Two of them do not end well. Still interested?



Fragmentary


(5)

It’s just gone mourning, and the light’s too low to see it all, but that’s okay. You don’t need to. It’s burned into your mind and your eyes and your voice. It’s not going anywhere. Neither are you.

No. You’ll just lay right down here and stay right down here and in a little while it’ll be okay. You wait for it.

It’ll be okay.

(and)

It’s gone morning, and the light’s not quite enough to show anything, but that’s alright. You’ve got warm skin against your palms and hot breath under your chin to tell you where you need to be.

You can’t stay. The day is calling, and there’ll be eyes soon. Too many, and not enough time. You always want more.

It’s okay, though. You’ll bide until sundown.



(4)

You move and weave like you know how. Teyla has the gate open. There’s blood, but it’s only yours. Until it isn’t.

It aches, or it will. Just an empty space and a body now, but later… No, not later. There won’t be one.

And then it’s two by two, and his eyes are on your level, and you’re the one who’ll blink first and last. Ronon is furious and far away, and then that snapping sound comes as space and time close on each other. He and Teyla might have gotten through.

Christ. Five minutes.

(and)

His arm brushes your side when he reaches past, and you choke on toothpaste and a laugh. His mouth twitches in the mirror, and it wasn’t an accident.

You spit and rinse and kiss the bridge of his shoulder, pull away and pull on clothes. You call out the time, and he makes a bad pun about relativity. You’re out the door before he turns around.

Ronon’s outside waiting. The first time it stopped you cold, until he smirked. Neither of you has ever said more. It’s perfect that way.

Only a quick jog this time. It’ll be a long day.




(3)

They were leaving. They were fucking leaving, and you wouldn’t ever have known they’d been there if…

If.

No if, though, just incoming and shards. You try ‘peaceful explorers’ and they aren’t interested, so now it’s not peaceful and the only exploring you’re looking to do is how fast a wormhole can engage.

Everything is between. Them between the MALP and your coming, you between them and leaving, and now them between you and home. So you shift the field, put them between you and Ronon and close the gaps.

There’s that sound of space flowing inside out, and just maybe this works. Maybe you make it.


(and)

You’ve had time to shower before the briefing, and he’s leaning a little your way now and then to catch your scent. You don’t ever tell him that you sit closer so that he can.

You watch the video one more time, and hear about air and soil and energy signatures. It’s nothing new, and you’ve already checked the layout and planned the tactics. No life-signs, not that it matters.

His calf is against yours, out of sight, as Elizabeth gives the final go ahead. When he stands, his fingers brush your elbow. It’s part dirty trick and part reassurance, and all of why he matters.

You watch him leave from the corner of your eye.




(2)

You line up in the gateroom, formation all your own but firing lines clear. Ronon and Teyla are loose and ready. Two years into the game and Rodney is, too. He’s got his sidearm holstered and the life-signs detector in hand, and that kind of trust still makes your breath come strange.

The gate becomes that vertical drowning surface that never gets old, and you walk through. It powers down, but you’re busy eyeing the guys eyeing you. No one moves.

They look from you to the gate to you, and you already know this is bad before the shouting starts. The little chips that fly up around you from their weapons are just punctuation.

It’s not until you’re crouched in the tree line that you see the ship. Can’t hold a candle to a jumper, but it’s hovering well enough. Idling.

As usual, your timing needs work.

(and)

Teyla’s leaving the armory as you’re going in, and that innocent look doesn’t fool you anymore. It might have, once, but not since she started arranging sparring times that match Rodney’s lab schedule. It means you waste less of your free time apart. There’s a reason this woman leads her people.

Now, she stresses ten minutes when she reminds you of the timeline. It’s supposed to be five, and you love your team.

Rodney’s at the back, already primed and armed. You’re careful to get your extra rounds loaded, your vest ready. You lay your weapons down and press him into a wall for five minutes. It’s not enough, but that warning bell at the back of your head is telling you it will have to be.

Like always, he holds the vest while you slip it on, hands you your sidearm. There’s ritual to it. Neither of you are superstitious, but you don’t need to be. It’s all real, whatever you believe. The vampires don’t fade with the light here, and the monsters sometimes look like you.



(1)

(or)
You’re looking at the door, counting down, and like always you start to leave. This time, though, he doesn’t let go. He calls you back, pulls you in, and his lips aren’t fast and done. They’re slow and right, and you lean in when you shouldn’t.

The vests cinch down tight, and there’s not much room between that lower edge and your skin. Just enough to get fingertips under, and he does. Your palms are on his head, smallest fingers on his neck and thumbs stroking his jaw.

You pull back, trade warm breath for a moment, and trace his lip with your tongue, lightly. He makes that low sound from the base of his throat, too soft for anyone but you to hear. The one that never fails to make you want too much.

Maybe just five more minutes. Maybe.