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.fic: The Ensign Theory - PG McKay, Sheppard
Title: The Ensign Theory
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Character(s): McKay, Sheppard. Smattering of Beckett.
Rating/Warnings: PGish. And definite warning for first-time SGA writer.
Disclaimer: Eh. Not mine. SciFi & co's.
Advertisements: post-2.14 "Grace Under Pressure." References to 1.12 "The Defiant One."
Notes: Just posting this here for now... I have no idea where this came from, or what the hell I'm doing. Character study, I suppose, because Rodney is neat and I like him. Also, "Grace Under Pressure" was really cool.
THE ENSIGN THEORY
He’d found it. He'd found the answer.
It had taken him most of a twitchy, restless night in the infirmary and a missed breakfast – which occasioned a Look and smart comment from Sheppard (“So did hell freeze over last night, Rodney?”) – but he’d figured it out, goddammit. Of course, the answer was perfectly obvious once he’d realized what it was.
The answer was the Starfleet ensign, the second one from the left, the one in blue who always bought it on some away mission. It didn’t matter how – being vaporized by a hostile alien weapon, being eaten by a hostile alien, being crushed under a pile of fake alien rocks – but the second ensign from the left, the one in the blue uniform, always died.
Ah, Star Trek. Always so useful. And most people thought it was all a bunch of crap.
He wondered if the Enterprise bought its ensigns in bulk, like cat food. Or toilet paper.
Not that he ever bought toilet paper in bulk.
But one could never have too much toilet paper.
Distracting himself. He was distracting himself again. Back on track.
The Ensign Theory explained so much: why Griffin drowned himself, why Abrams and Gaul died on that Wraith ship.
Why Gaul shot himself, and for crying out loud, he’d thought he was past that. He’d had a year, more than a year even, to get the hell over it, and he had no idea why the memory of Gaul lying there, half his head blown away and go, Rodney, just go hanging in the air, still bothered him. No, no idea at all.
Was there a Tomb of the Unknown Ensign somewhere in the Federation, a memorial to all those fallen, nameless blue-uniformed science drones? Rodney doubted it.
He’d made Sheppard go back for Gaul, even though they’d had to ride hours back to Atlantis with Gaul’s tarp-covered body rotting silently in the back. Not that decay could be smelled that early, of course, but Gaul had smelled like the Wraith ship and blood, and Rodney was sure he’d smelled GSR when they’d loaded Gaul into the jumper. And that was pretty much what death smelled like, he thought: the Wraith ship, coppery blood, and the sweet stench of his own failure.
Sighing, he watched Beckett wandering off to some obscure recess in his office, most likely in search of some arcane medical device with which to torture him. It was practically alchemy. Witch-doctoring, even.
“Are you going to let me out any time soon or do you like my company that much?” he asked.
“I’m not doing this for my health, Rodney, believe me.” Beckett’s voice drifted out from behind the partition, tone a peculiar mix of infinite patience and annoyance. “I want to make sure there was no permanent damage from the hypoxia and concussion.” A significant pause. “Brain damage, you understand.”
“Even with brain damage I could do the Mensa tests in my sleep,” Rodney muttered and turned over on his side. It wasn’t much, but it was movement, and considering the sources of diversion in the infirmary, it was pretty damn exciting.
And thinking about how pathetic that was, well, it was better than thinking about Griffin and Gaul and all the rest of them.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sheppard said from his corner of the infirmary. He’d been there since... well, since Rodney could remember waking up. At least since then, if not before. If he were any other person, Rodney McKay would have considered it a touching gesture.
If, of course, he were any person other than Rodney McKay.
As it was, he rolled his eyes. “I know it wasn’t my fault.” It was stupid Zelenka’s fault for chickening out on test-flying that jumper. It was the Ancients’ fault for building such an unreliable piece of crap in the first place. It was Griffin’s fault for closing off the rear compartment and deciding to go for a swim in a thousand feet of water.
“It’s really great, knowing that your brush with death hasn’t changed you at all. You’re still arrogant, a jerk, and... oh, a bastard. Almost forgot that.”
“Yeah, well.” There was more to that, but Rodney really had no idea what to say. It takes one to know one? He tried that, and got a sarcastic, pained wince.
Mercifully, though, Sheppard didn’t say anything about the incredible lameness of Rodney’s comeback, only smirked, shrugged, and shifted to lean more comfortably against a pylon. And to watch him, which Rodney found deeply disturbing.
“It’s the Ensign Theory,” Rodney said at last, when the silence became intolerable. After about ten seconds.
“Y’know, once you start up with all that theory stuff I sort of zone out.” Sheppard straightened a bit, though, and he sounded anything but disinterested. Like Rodney was going to confess to him, and that... well, that was amusing.
“It’s not science,” Rodney said crossly, “it’s Star Trek. Like Murphy’s Law.”
“I see.” Sheppard’s tone, however, suggested otherwise.
“Oh, nevermind.” So Sam – his subconscious, whatever – was right. He didn’t trust these people. They’d done a lot to earn his trust, saving his life and all, but he hadn’t felt like paying up, hadn't found the confidence to, and didn’t know if he ever would.
At long last, Beckett emerged from the bowels of his office and prevented Rodney from having to explain himself or search for something else to say. He rolled back over and watched suspiciously as Carson looked over some medical hieroglyphics.
“Well?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like there’ll be any lasting damage. No memory loss, no change in coordination.” Carson paused. “You didn’t eat this morning, though.”
“So I missed one meal out of, like, thousands. It’s not the end of the world.”
Beckett shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, you may have a headache for a few more days... simple painkillers should take care of it.”
And what about the stinging sensation of guilt, Doctor? I don’t suppose you have anything for that. He kept that to himself, though, offered Beckett a thank-you and his best patronizing grin, and left the infirmary with head held high. Sheppard trailed him out, unnervingly and obnoxiously silent, and Rodney couldn’t – couldn’t – keep himself from stopping, turning, and demanding to know what Sheppard wanted.
“You ever want to hang out, watch football... let me know, huh?” Casual, and even with suspicion and cynicism operating at full capacity, Rodney couldn’t detect anything beyond typical Sheppardian unconcern.
“Hockey, maybe,” Rodney said, unwillingly. Besides, it wasn’t like his off-duty hours were all that exciting.
“Cool,” Sheppard said, and turned.
“Oh, Griffin’s memorial is this afternoon on the Daedalus. You coming?”
“Yeah... yeah...” He had absolutely no intention of going – like there was even a body to send out an airlock in the first place – but Sheppard didn’t need to know that. “I’ll be in my office until then.”
“Cool,” Sheppard said again and walked away.
At least, came the unexpected thought, Griffin gets a funeral.
Rodney headed for his office and the safety of equations.
-end-
In other news: Will try very hard to have the latest WaT thing posted by Wednesday, depending on new semester stuff and how much reading my profs decide to load me down with. Sex is so complicated. *whiffles*
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Character(s): McKay, Sheppard. Smattering of Beckett.
Rating/Warnings: PGish. And definite warning for first-time SGA writer.
Disclaimer: Eh. Not mine. SciFi & co's.
Advertisements: post-2.14 "Grace Under Pressure." References to 1.12 "The Defiant One."
Notes: Just posting this here for now... I have no idea where this came from, or what the hell I'm doing. Character study, I suppose, because Rodney is neat and I like him. Also, "Grace Under Pressure" was really cool.
THE ENSIGN THEORY
He’d found it. He'd found the answer.
It had taken him most of a twitchy, restless night in the infirmary and a missed breakfast – which occasioned a Look and smart comment from Sheppard (“So did hell freeze over last night, Rodney?”) – but he’d figured it out, goddammit. Of course, the answer was perfectly obvious once he’d realized what it was.
The answer was the Starfleet ensign, the second one from the left, the one in blue who always bought it on some away mission. It didn’t matter how – being vaporized by a hostile alien weapon, being eaten by a hostile alien, being crushed under a pile of fake alien rocks – but the second ensign from the left, the one in the blue uniform, always died.
Ah, Star Trek. Always so useful. And most people thought it was all a bunch of crap.
He wondered if the Enterprise bought its ensigns in bulk, like cat food. Or toilet paper.
Not that he ever bought toilet paper in bulk.
But one could never have too much toilet paper.
Distracting himself. He was distracting himself again. Back on track.
The Ensign Theory explained so much: why Griffin drowned himself, why Abrams and Gaul died on that Wraith ship.
Why Gaul shot himself, and for crying out loud, he’d thought he was past that. He’d had a year, more than a year even, to get the hell over it, and he had no idea why the memory of Gaul lying there, half his head blown away and go, Rodney, just go hanging in the air, still bothered him. No, no idea at all.
Was there a Tomb of the Unknown Ensign somewhere in the Federation, a memorial to all those fallen, nameless blue-uniformed science drones? Rodney doubted it.
He’d made Sheppard go back for Gaul, even though they’d had to ride hours back to Atlantis with Gaul’s tarp-covered body rotting silently in the back. Not that decay could be smelled that early, of course, but Gaul had smelled like the Wraith ship and blood, and Rodney was sure he’d smelled GSR when they’d loaded Gaul into the jumper. And that was pretty much what death smelled like, he thought: the Wraith ship, coppery blood, and the sweet stench of his own failure.
Sighing, he watched Beckett wandering off to some obscure recess in his office, most likely in search of some arcane medical device with which to torture him. It was practically alchemy. Witch-doctoring, even.
“Are you going to let me out any time soon or do you like my company that much?” he asked.
“I’m not doing this for my health, Rodney, believe me.” Beckett’s voice drifted out from behind the partition, tone a peculiar mix of infinite patience and annoyance. “I want to make sure there was no permanent damage from the hypoxia and concussion.” A significant pause. “Brain damage, you understand.”
“Even with brain damage I could do the Mensa tests in my sleep,” Rodney muttered and turned over on his side. It wasn’t much, but it was movement, and considering the sources of diversion in the infirmary, it was pretty damn exciting.
And thinking about how pathetic that was, well, it was better than thinking about Griffin and Gaul and all the rest of them.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sheppard said from his corner of the infirmary. He’d been there since... well, since Rodney could remember waking up. At least since then, if not before. If he were any other person, Rodney McKay would have considered it a touching gesture.
If, of course, he were any person other than Rodney McKay.
As it was, he rolled his eyes. “I know it wasn’t my fault.” It was stupid Zelenka’s fault for chickening out on test-flying that jumper. It was the Ancients’ fault for building such an unreliable piece of crap in the first place. It was Griffin’s fault for closing off the rear compartment and deciding to go for a swim in a thousand feet of water.
“It’s really great, knowing that your brush with death hasn’t changed you at all. You’re still arrogant, a jerk, and... oh, a bastard. Almost forgot that.”
“Yeah, well.” There was more to that, but Rodney really had no idea what to say. It takes one to know one? He tried that, and got a sarcastic, pained wince.
Mercifully, though, Sheppard didn’t say anything about the incredible lameness of Rodney’s comeback, only smirked, shrugged, and shifted to lean more comfortably against a pylon. And to watch him, which Rodney found deeply disturbing.
“It’s the Ensign Theory,” Rodney said at last, when the silence became intolerable. After about ten seconds.
“Y’know, once you start up with all that theory stuff I sort of zone out.” Sheppard straightened a bit, though, and he sounded anything but disinterested. Like Rodney was going to confess to him, and that... well, that was amusing.
“It’s not science,” Rodney said crossly, “it’s Star Trek. Like Murphy’s Law.”
“I see.” Sheppard’s tone, however, suggested otherwise.
“Oh, nevermind.” So Sam – his subconscious, whatever – was right. He didn’t trust these people. They’d done a lot to earn his trust, saving his life and all, but he hadn’t felt like paying up, hadn't found the confidence to, and didn’t know if he ever would.
At long last, Beckett emerged from the bowels of his office and prevented Rodney from having to explain himself or search for something else to say. He rolled back over and watched suspiciously as Carson looked over some medical hieroglyphics.
“Well?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like there’ll be any lasting damage. No memory loss, no change in coordination.” Carson paused. “You didn’t eat this morning, though.”
“So I missed one meal out of, like, thousands. It’s not the end of the world.”
Beckett shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, you may have a headache for a few more days... simple painkillers should take care of it.”
And what about the stinging sensation of guilt, Doctor? I don’t suppose you have anything for that. He kept that to himself, though, offered Beckett a thank-you and his best patronizing grin, and left the infirmary with head held high. Sheppard trailed him out, unnervingly and obnoxiously silent, and Rodney couldn’t – couldn’t – keep himself from stopping, turning, and demanding to know what Sheppard wanted.
“You ever want to hang out, watch football... let me know, huh?” Casual, and even with suspicion and cynicism operating at full capacity, Rodney couldn’t detect anything beyond typical Sheppardian unconcern.
“Hockey, maybe,” Rodney said, unwillingly. Besides, it wasn’t like his off-duty hours were all that exciting.
“Cool,” Sheppard said, and turned.
“Oh, Griffin’s memorial is this afternoon on the Daedalus. You coming?”
“Yeah... yeah...” He had absolutely no intention of going – like there was even a body to send out an airlock in the first place – but Sheppard didn’t need to know that. “I’ll be in my office until then.”
“Cool,” Sheppard said again and walked away.
At least, came the unexpected thought, Griffin gets a funeral.
Rodney headed for his office and the safety of equations.
-end-
In other news: Will try very hard to have the latest WaT thing posted by Wednesday, depending on new semester stuff and how much reading my profs decide to load me down with. Sex is so complicated. *whiffles*
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“It’s really great, knowing that your brush with death hasn’t changed you at all. You’re still arrogant, a jerk, and... oh, a bastard. Almost forgot that.”
So true, and also so very Sheppard.
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I just finished Scrap of Humanity and am in such love with you.
Absolutely brilliant.
I'm off to read the sequel, now.
*smooch*
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You wrote SGA fic! Woo! This is very in-character Rodney.
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Seriously, that would freak the hell right out of me.
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And I particularly liked: He wondered if the Enterprise bought its ensigns in bulk, like cat food. Or toilet paper.
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ensign theory
That line was really like a slap - when it seemed Rodney was getting a handle on things and then there's that. Really nicely done.
Re: ensign theory