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.fic: A Moving Piece of Sun - McKay/Sheppard (PG13) 1.1.
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aesc and anna_luna
Title: A Moving Piece of Sun
By: HF, with art byanna_luna
Word Count: c.2300
Characters/Pairings: Sheppard; bit of McKay/Sheppard at the end.
Rating/Warnings: PG13; angst, nothing too horrible.
Disclaimers: Not mine, alas.
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artword challenge #05 (Wooden Horse) and wordclaim50 challenge #41 (Sight). You can DL the song file here, and should, because it's a cool song.
Notes: I worked withanna_luna on this challenge. We'd both decided to do something John-centric, and what's kind of strange is we had similar initial ideas as to what to do with him and didn't know it! Originally I was going to write something focusing more on John's past, and why he does what he does, but somewhere, somehow, that ended up not happening, and instead the fic ended up playing with the images of the song more than the narrative elements--darkness, searching, the transition between death and life, losing and finding. After seeing the glimpse of the artwork Anna sent me, I was surprised as to how close we'd been in terms of approach before I went and changed my mind. Consequently, the complete fic tries to bring John's past back in a little more.
fic glimpse.
graphics; Anna's notes.
A MOVING PIECE OF SUN
He’s always wanted to be a pilot. Always, ever since he can remember.
Always, and it strikes him as bizarre, thinking that this desire had brought him here, a dark room on Atlantis.
* * *
They’d gone back for Rodney twice. The first time the hive ship hadn’t cleared off yet – hoping, Ronon had pointed out, that they’d return for a fallen teammate. The second time the ship had left, left the small village smoking and ruined, no survivors that they could see.
The medical kits they’d brought in trade for grain were where they’d been first set down, the withered body of the village elder – Ylias, John remembered, who had been more than generous – lying next to them.
“Still full,” Teyla had said, opening one. “But…”
They’d left the medical kits there: trust the Wraith to put a tracker in them, or poison-pill them somehow. John had spared a brief thought for Carson, who’d been dismayed at the size of the requisition to begin with, and Weir, who would demand to know why ten fully-stocked medkits had been left behind on Etresca.
No Rodney. Ten useless medical kits found, one astrophysicist still missing.
He could hear the Wraith laughing.
John had kept them hunting far past a reasonable time, covering far too much ground with too few people – Teyla and Ronon, himself, a handful of Marines.
They’d turned up a spent flare, a wrapper from a chocolate bar a mile from the village, the wrong direction from the puddle jumper. Tracks away, slow and dragging – exhaustion, John had thought, watching Ronon scout ahead of him. Desperation, maybe, the distance between footprints that of a man trying to run.
Green light from the infrared goggles, puke-green Rodney had said once, and John felt sick.
At the forest edge the tracks stopped.
Just… stopped. No broken underbrush, no tracks Ronon or John could find to tell them Rodney had made it to the woods. Just stopped right there, at the border of trees and meadow.
“Wraith transporter,” Ronon had said tensely, glancing up at the sky. “Looks like.”
“Looks like isn’t is,” John had snapped.
Not long after that they’d left, gone back to Atlantis. No supplies for a longer stay, but John had looked back two steps away from the puddle jumper’s onramp, into a darkness his goggles couldn’t even half penetrate. Rodney out there somewhere, dissolved in all that black.
He’s in his room now, not even trying to sleep. They’re going back tomorrow, Weir mercifully agreeing that getting Rodney back is a priority. Whether she’s agreed for Atlantis’ sake or for him, John can’t say and doesn’t want to.
His quarters are dark, dark as dead Etresca’s night. Should cut on some light, John thinks; it’s better than being blind, only the feeling of covers under him, the odd weight of his own body telling him he hasn’t vanished. It’s a sensation he can remember from his childhood, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted above his head, high as space, as his bedroom ceiling, close enough for him to reach out and touch, no walls there.
Like the star map that had appeared the first time he’d sat down in that Ancient device, lines and galaxies weaving together, light-years compressed into inches. Like staring at the night sky with the naked eye, no way to tell how far away a star or a planet may be.
No distance, depth, perspective. John’s pretty sure he’s dangerously close to losing that last. Two days since Rodney’d gone missing, two days that feel like years, and talk about losing perspective.
Unfair, he tells himself, even though it’s a stupid kid-thought. You lose people. It’s war out there, and he’s lost comrades before. That, unexpectedly, makes him angry, even though he’d been going for resignation.
And, since he’s going to continue on this course, he thinks (predictably) I should have done something. Should have turned the puddle jumper around. A great piece of Ancient technology and it had been goddamned useless when it counted.
But then, the Ancients were… well, only human, John supposes. Had been; not many are around anymore. And having the gene doesn’t mean having superpowers – at least, he hasn’t been able to fly, or see through people’s clothes – and having the gene doesn’t make him a god, Ascension or no Ascension.
He thinks maybe Rodney could have stumbled through some weird time-warp force-field thingy, where months are minutes in the real world. A place where he’ll be safe and be forced to meditate and live in depressingly primitive surroundings. It’s been known to happen.
More often, of course, you lose people, and what a goddamned stupid expression that is. Lose, like misplacing socks or car keys, not lose for good, a permanence he can’t contemplate right now. He’s lost friends before, comrades, and somewhere between flight school and his room in Atlantis he’s acquired some of the peace of mind that only comes with recognizing one’s own mortality and that of others.
John hates the thought of losing Rodney.
Maybe because Rodney’s not military. He doesn’t have that peace, probably never will; John can still remember the look on Rodney’s face back on that desert planet when Gaul had died, pain and guilt he’d never once thought Rodney was capable of feeling. Which was, John reflects, a pretty damn low opinion to have of anyone. Passing regret for John, who hadn’t known the two scientists, something else, he suspects, for Rodney, who’d never had the privilege of watching his friends be blown up. That’s why; Rodney, as a civilian, had been his responsibility.
Had been a friend. Is a friend, John reminds himself. Is, is, is.
He ends up staying awake to the tune of thoughts like these, and they play through his head as he bullies Elizabeth into authorizing another trip back to Etresca to look – one more time, Elizabeth, we can spare a jumper for a few hours, it’s Rodney for God’s sake – as he rounds up Teyla and Ronon, some of the marines on duty.
Unsteady hands on the jumper’s controls, and his hands haven’t been this shaky since he’d climbed into the cockpit of an F16 for the first time. Nerves, those had been, and they’d smoothed out the second the engines fired up, and ever since planes and flying things have been home for him.
This unsteadiness is different. John forces himself to concentrate, to hold on to his patience as the tech dials in the address for Etresca and gives them the go-ahead. He barely hears Elizabeth’s good luck over the comm..
The stargate is in high geosynchronous orbit above Etresca, and the planet’s rings shine, starlight reflected off bright disks of planetary dust and gas. Ylias’ settlement is, more or less, directly below the gate. Convenient, if you’re a Wraith ship looking for a snack.
Landing is uneventful, Rodney’s tired, desperate path through the field a little faded from a night of heavy dew and they pick it up easily. No more Etrescans to greet them, no Rodney either. Wordlessly, Teyla and one of the marines head off to the east and south through the forest. Ronon ghosts along by John’s side, silent as always, for which John is grateful. And he hasn’t once questioned why they’re doing this, if maybe John isn’t being objective, and John’s grateful for that, too.
You don’t leave a man behind. He’d told Elizabeth that once, hadn’t told her that, quite often, he’d had to. He’d used to listen to his dad and his dad’s friends talking about this dead soldier, this one lost in Korea, that one over the South China Sea and knew that loss was inevitable. And he’d discovered it for himself, is rediscovering it now, probably, as he and Ronon plow through the undergrowth.
“Found something,” Ronon says, pausing by the base of a tree.
“It’s mud, Ronon.”
Ronon’s dark eyes fix on him for a moment, impatient, telling John that Ronon hasn’t heard the joke. “Someone’s covering their tracks,” he says after a moment. “They’re good, but they’ve missed this.”
And then John sees this: a field-issue boot print.
Next to it: candy bar wrapper, its foil bright in an unexpected flash of sun through the canopy.
* * *
Growing up, his favorite toys had been airplanes.
(Grown up, his favorite toys are still airplanes.)
John remembers going through squadrons of these plastic foam planes, graduating to the more expensive plastic models when he got an allowance, but the foam ones… So light they were almost weightless in a seven-year-old’s hand, amazing to stand there and watch the wind catch them and take them off on unpredictable flights through the back yard. Probably his earliest memory is doing exactly that, letting the breeze lift the plane out of his hand, the wood light as a feather, wanting to be on that plane, be it, tossed upward by a sudden draft and pitched over the fence.
Standing here now is like being on one of those planes, out of control, stomach just waiting for the next unexpected roll, the next sharp drop. Anticipation, the distant, thready thought Is this going to be it? He wonders if Ronon’s picked up on his anxiety, if he senses the reasons for it, reasons that run deeper than duty or responsibility.
Not that it matters, suddenly, what Ronon may or may not be thinking.
Because Rodney’s right there, dried blood dark on the sleeve of his field uniform, small tears and scrapes, a bandage on his forehead, saying something cranky and undiplomatic, bright and real against the dark possibility of loss. Limping a bit, one boot gone and replaced by an awkward-looking bandage. Despite the limp he’s pushing through the knot of Etrescans, presence abrupt and unexpected, and for a moment John is at a loss.
“Dr. Livingston, I presume?” he asks. He’s quick on the recovery.
“Did you find the candy wrapper?” Rodney asks, and Rodney’s nervous too. Rodney’s always nervous, but this is different.
“You know most places fine you for littering,” John says.
“Extenuating circumstances. My comm. unit was broken and, surprise, these people – “ a pause to indicate the handful of Etrescan refugees who’ve come to greet them “ – didn’t have the tools necessary to fix it.”
“You mean you couldn’t fix it with a piece of gum and some twine? I’m disappointed.”
“Me, too.” Rodney’s expression hovers between apologetic and annoyed. “It’s kind of hard to fix something when someone’s completely obliterated it.”
“An arrow,” a young man says. “I thought he was attempting to contact the Wraith.”
“Yes, because I felt bad the Wraith couldn’t manage to kill me the first time they tried, so I wanted to make sure they got another chance.” Rodney gives the young man a withering, impatient look before he turns back to John and Ronon. “Fortunately, one of the Etrescans was one we met in the village; they brought me here.”
‘Here’ is a series of low buildings clustered around the feet of gigantic trees, their roofs almost completely hidden by the underbrush. A place of safety, and apparently the Etrescans were good at covering their tracks.
“So, listen, Colonel… You’re Mr. Wilderness, but I’m not. You think we could get back to Atlantis now?”
“You mean you don’t want to go native?” John grins, has to, at Rodney’s face, a mixture of horror and irritation, mouth thin the way Rodney’s mouth gets when he’s working himself up into a fit of temper.
And there’s something under this, this back-and-forth at the border of being lost and being found. Something, John thinks, that’s the reason why he insisted on coming back, why Rodney not being there hadn’t been something he could tolerate, why looking at him, dry blood and limp and crazy smile and all, is like being pulled abruptly out of freefall.
“I’ve always wondered what people did before they invented central air,” Rodney says after a moment, subdued, hesitant, like he’s found this something too and doesn’t know what to do with it. “Can we go now?”
“Say thank you to the nice people first, Rodney.”
Rodney does, with enough unwillingness to convince John he’s going to be okay, because even more than bad science Rodney hates public displays of emotion. Later, in private, he’ll tell John that five Etrescans picked up from where he’d collapsed at the forest’s edge, recognizing him from the city and unsure whether to leave him to die or take him, and fortunately they’d decided the latter.
For now, though, Rodney thanks the young Etrescan for destroying vital equipment and advises him to ask questions first, shoot later in future. Ronon radios Teyla, tells them Rodney’s safe and sound, and they’re on their way back to the jumper. Teyla’s congratulations come, static-distorted and faint, in reply.
Walking back is good. Quiet, which is new and strange – even Ronon seems surprised at Rodney’s lack of complaints – slow, because of Rodney’s ankle. Quiet and slow, two things John usually can’t stand, but now they seem okay.
* * *
Quiet and slow is how it turns out, starting with that walk, the night following their return when Rodney tells John what happened after they’d been separated in the initial attack.
Quiet and slow a few nights later, dark again in John’s room, and this time the darkness is okay too, and dissolving in it is fine, Rodney there to tell him he’s still there, that he’s alive.
-end-
In other news: I have an exceptionally cruel headache from proofreading all day. Am going to a dark place of my own now. With a bottle of Tylenol, as opposed to Rodney. *sigh*
aesc and anna_lunaTitle: A Moving Piece of Sun
By: HF, with art by
anna_lunaWord Count: c.2300
Characters/Pairings: Sheppard; bit of McKay/Sheppard at the end.
Rating/Warnings: PG13; angst, nothing too horrible.
Disclaimers: Not mine, alas.
Advertisements: For
artword challenge #05 (Wooden Horse) and wordclaim50 challenge #41 (Sight). You can DL the song file here, and should, because it's a cool song.Notes: I worked with
anna_luna on this challenge. We'd both decided to do something John-centric, and what's kind of strange is we had similar initial ideas as to what to do with him and didn't know it! Originally I was going to write something focusing more on John's past, and why he does what he does, but somewhere, somehow, that ended up not happening, and instead the fic ended up playing with the images of the song more than the narrative elements--darkness, searching, the transition between death and life, losing and finding. After seeing the glimpse of the artwork Anna sent me, I was surprised as to how close we'd been in terms of approach before I went and changed my mind. Consequently, the complete fic tries to bring John's past back in a little more.fic glimpse.
graphics; Anna's notes.
A MOVING PIECE OF SUN
He’s always wanted to be a pilot. Always, ever since he can remember.
Always, and it strikes him as bizarre, thinking that this desire had brought him here, a dark room on Atlantis.
They’d gone back for Rodney twice. The first time the hive ship hadn’t cleared off yet – hoping, Ronon had pointed out, that they’d return for a fallen teammate. The second time the ship had left, left the small village smoking and ruined, no survivors that they could see.
The medical kits they’d brought in trade for grain were where they’d been first set down, the withered body of the village elder – Ylias, John remembered, who had been more than generous – lying next to them.
“Still full,” Teyla had said, opening one. “But…”
They’d left the medical kits there: trust the Wraith to put a tracker in them, or poison-pill them somehow. John had spared a brief thought for Carson, who’d been dismayed at the size of the requisition to begin with, and Weir, who would demand to know why ten fully-stocked medkits had been left behind on Etresca.
No Rodney. Ten useless medical kits found, one astrophysicist still missing.
He could hear the Wraith laughing.
John had kept them hunting far past a reasonable time, covering far too much ground with too few people – Teyla and Ronon, himself, a handful of Marines.
They’d turned up a spent flare, a wrapper from a chocolate bar a mile from the village, the wrong direction from the puddle jumper. Tracks away, slow and dragging – exhaustion, John had thought, watching Ronon scout ahead of him. Desperation, maybe, the distance between footprints that of a man trying to run.
Green light from the infrared goggles, puke-green Rodney had said once, and John felt sick.
At the forest edge the tracks stopped.
Just… stopped. No broken underbrush, no tracks Ronon or John could find to tell them Rodney had made it to the woods. Just stopped right there, at the border of trees and meadow.
“Wraith transporter,” Ronon had said tensely, glancing up at the sky. “Looks like.”
“Looks like isn’t is,” John had snapped.
Not long after that they’d left, gone back to Atlantis. No supplies for a longer stay, but John had looked back two steps away from the puddle jumper’s onramp, into a darkness his goggles couldn’t even half penetrate. Rodney out there somewhere, dissolved in all that black.
He’s in his room now, not even trying to sleep. They’re going back tomorrow, Weir mercifully agreeing that getting Rodney back is a priority. Whether she’s agreed for Atlantis’ sake or for him, John can’t say and doesn’t want to.
His quarters are dark, dark as dead Etresca’s night. Should cut on some light, John thinks; it’s better than being blind, only the feeling of covers under him, the odd weight of his own body telling him he hasn’t vanished. It’s a sensation he can remember from his childhood, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted above his head, high as space, as his bedroom ceiling, close enough for him to reach out and touch, no walls there.
Like the star map that had appeared the first time he’d sat down in that Ancient device, lines and galaxies weaving together, light-years compressed into inches. Like staring at the night sky with the naked eye, no way to tell how far away a star or a planet may be.
No distance, depth, perspective. John’s pretty sure he’s dangerously close to losing that last. Two days since Rodney’d gone missing, two days that feel like years, and talk about losing perspective.
Unfair, he tells himself, even though it’s a stupid kid-thought. You lose people. It’s war out there, and he’s lost comrades before. That, unexpectedly, makes him angry, even though he’d been going for resignation.
And, since he’s going to continue on this course, he thinks (predictably) I should have done something. Should have turned the puddle jumper around. A great piece of Ancient technology and it had been goddamned useless when it counted.
But then, the Ancients were… well, only human, John supposes. Had been; not many are around anymore. And having the gene doesn’t mean having superpowers – at least, he hasn’t been able to fly, or see through people’s clothes – and having the gene doesn’t make him a god, Ascension or no Ascension.
He thinks maybe Rodney could have stumbled through some weird time-warp force-field thingy, where months are minutes in the real world. A place where he’ll be safe and be forced to meditate and live in depressingly primitive surroundings. It’s been known to happen.
More often, of course, you lose people, and what a goddamned stupid expression that is. Lose, like misplacing socks or car keys, not lose for good, a permanence he can’t contemplate right now. He’s lost friends before, comrades, and somewhere between flight school and his room in Atlantis he’s acquired some of the peace of mind that only comes with recognizing one’s own mortality and that of others.
John hates the thought of losing Rodney.
Maybe because Rodney’s not military. He doesn’t have that peace, probably never will; John can still remember the look on Rodney’s face back on that desert planet when Gaul had died, pain and guilt he’d never once thought Rodney was capable of feeling. Which was, John reflects, a pretty damn low opinion to have of anyone. Passing regret for John, who hadn’t known the two scientists, something else, he suspects, for Rodney, who’d never had the privilege of watching his friends be blown up. That’s why; Rodney, as a civilian, had been his responsibility.
Had been a friend. Is a friend, John reminds himself. Is, is, is.
He ends up staying awake to the tune of thoughts like these, and they play through his head as he bullies Elizabeth into authorizing another trip back to Etresca to look – one more time, Elizabeth, we can spare a jumper for a few hours, it’s Rodney for God’s sake – as he rounds up Teyla and Ronon, some of the marines on duty.
Unsteady hands on the jumper’s controls, and his hands haven’t been this shaky since he’d climbed into the cockpit of an F16 for the first time. Nerves, those had been, and they’d smoothed out the second the engines fired up, and ever since planes and flying things have been home for him.
This unsteadiness is different. John forces himself to concentrate, to hold on to his patience as the tech dials in the address for Etresca and gives them the go-ahead. He barely hears Elizabeth’s good luck over the comm..
The stargate is in high geosynchronous orbit above Etresca, and the planet’s rings shine, starlight reflected off bright disks of planetary dust and gas. Ylias’ settlement is, more or less, directly below the gate. Convenient, if you’re a Wraith ship looking for a snack.
Landing is uneventful, Rodney’s tired, desperate path through the field a little faded from a night of heavy dew and they pick it up easily. No more Etrescans to greet them, no Rodney either. Wordlessly, Teyla and one of the marines head off to the east and south through the forest. Ronon ghosts along by John’s side, silent as always, for which John is grateful. And he hasn’t once questioned why they’re doing this, if maybe John isn’t being objective, and John’s grateful for that, too.
You don’t leave a man behind. He’d told Elizabeth that once, hadn’t told her that, quite often, he’d had to. He’d used to listen to his dad and his dad’s friends talking about this dead soldier, this one lost in Korea, that one over the South China Sea and knew that loss was inevitable. And he’d discovered it for himself, is rediscovering it now, probably, as he and Ronon plow through the undergrowth.
“Found something,” Ronon says, pausing by the base of a tree.
“It’s mud, Ronon.”
Ronon’s dark eyes fix on him for a moment, impatient, telling John that Ronon hasn’t heard the joke. “Someone’s covering their tracks,” he says after a moment. “They’re good, but they’ve missed this.”
And then John sees this: a field-issue boot print.
Next to it: candy bar wrapper, its foil bright in an unexpected flash of sun through the canopy.
Growing up, his favorite toys had been airplanes.
(Grown up, his favorite toys are still airplanes.)
John remembers going through squadrons of these plastic foam planes, graduating to the more expensive plastic models when he got an allowance, but the foam ones… So light they were almost weightless in a seven-year-old’s hand, amazing to stand there and watch the wind catch them and take them off on unpredictable flights through the back yard. Probably his earliest memory is doing exactly that, letting the breeze lift the plane out of his hand, the wood light as a feather, wanting to be on that plane, be it, tossed upward by a sudden draft and pitched over the fence.
Standing here now is like being on one of those planes, out of control, stomach just waiting for the next unexpected roll, the next sharp drop. Anticipation, the distant, thready thought Is this going to be it? He wonders if Ronon’s picked up on his anxiety, if he senses the reasons for it, reasons that run deeper than duty or responsibility.
Not that it matters, suddenly, what Ronon may or may not be thinking.
Because Rodney’s right there, dried blood dark on the sleeve of his field uniform, small tears and scrapes, a bandage on his forehead, saying something cranky and undiplomatic, bright and real against the dark possibility of loss. Limping a bit, one boot gone and replaced by an awkward-looking bandage. Despite the limp he’s pushing through the knot of Etrescans, presence abrupt and unexpected, and for a moment John is at a loss.
“Dr. Livingston, I presume?” he asks. He’s quick on the recovery.
“Did you find the candy wrapper?” Rodney asks, and Rodney’s nervous too. Rodney’s always nervous, but this is different.
“You know most places fine you for littering,” John says.
“Extenuating circumstances. My comm. unit was broken and, surprise, these people – “ a pause to indicate the handful of Etrescan refugees who’ve come to greet them “ – didn’t have the tools necessary to fix it.”
“You mean you couldn’t fix it with a piece of gum and some twine? I’m disappointed.”
“Me, too.” Rodney’s expression hovers between apologetic and annoyed. “It’s kind of hard to fix something when someone’s completely obliterated it.”
“An arrow,” a young man says. “I thought he was attempting to contact the Wraith.”
“Yes, because I felt bad the Wraith couldn’t manage to kill me the first time they tried, so I wanted to make sure they got another chance.” Rodney gives the young man a withering, impatient look before he turns back to John and Ronon. “Fortunately, one of the Etrescans was one we met in the village; they brought me here.”
‘Here’ is a series of low buildings clustered around the feet of gigantic trees, their roofs almost completely hidden by the underbrush. A place of safety, and apparently the Etrescans were good at covering their tracks.
“So, listen, Colonel… You’re Mr. Wilderness, but I’m not. You think we could get back to Atlantis now?”
“You mean you don’t want to go native?” John grins, has to, at Rodney’s face, a mixture of horror and irritation, mouth thin the way Rodney’s mouth gets when he’s working himself up into a fit of temper.
And there’s something under this, this back-and-forth at the border of being lost and being found. Something, John thinks, that’s the reason why he insisted on coming back, why Rodney not being there hadn’t been something he could tolerate, why looking at him, dry blood and limp and crazy smile and all, is like being pulled abruptly out of freefall.
“I’ve always wondered what people did before they invented central air,” Rodney says after a moment, subdued, hesitant, like he’s found this something too and doesn’t know what to do with it. “Can we go now?”
“Say thank you to the nice people first, Rodney.”
Rodney does, with enough unwillingness to convince John he’s going to be okay, because even more than bad science Rodney hates public displays of emotion. Later, in private, he’ll tell John that five Etrescans picked up from where he’d collapsed at the forest’s edge, recognizing him from the city and unsure whether to leave him to die or take him, and fortunately they’d decided the latter.
For now, though, Rodney thanks the young Etrescan for destroying vital equipment and advises him to ask questions first, shoot later in future. Ronon radios Teyla, tells them Rodney’s safe and sound, and they’re on their way back to the jumper. Teyla’s congratulations come, static-distorted and faint, in reply.
Walking back is good. Quiet, which is new and strange – even Ronon seems surprised at Rodney’s lack of complaints – slow, because of Rodney’s ankle. Quiet and slow, two things John usually can’t stand, but now they seem okay.
Quiet and slow is how it turns out, starting with that walk, the night following their return when Rodney tells John what happened after they’d been separated in the initial attack.
Quiet and slow a few nights later, dark again in John’s room, and this time the darkness is okay too, and dissolving in it is fine, Rodney there to tell him he’s still there, that he’s alive.
-end-
In other news: I have an exceptionally cruel headache from proofreading all day. Am going to a dark place of my own now. With a bottle of Tylenol, as opposed to Rodney. *sigh*
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Oh, the angst! For a moment I thought Rodney was not going to make it(Kasper Hauser was murdered after all). I love how you incorporated the glimpse I sent you, the joy of flight. I love how you contrasted the darkness, John on his own and then with Rodney. This was fantastic.
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For a moment I thought Rodney was not going to make it
Eeek! I love angst, but not that much angst :D My rule is, the characters can be put through all sorts of torment, but they're always happy in the end :)
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Wonderful stuff. :o)
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If none of this makes any sense, please just know that I love this story. :)
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Oh, it made perfect sense. *meebles happily* So glad you liked it!
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