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.fic: The Itinerant - McShep (PG) 1.1
Title: The Itinerant
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: (unrequited?) McShep, if you would like.
Rating/Warning: PGish.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Advertisements: coincidentally for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #47 (Writer's Choice). Companion to 3.10.
Notes: Woefully late birthday present for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
le_mot_mo. I was looking at my pictures from this summer and became sloppily nostalgic *hugs* Happy (late) birthday!
THE ITINERANT
John finds them when he’s helping Rodney pack up his quarters.
Despite his devotion to the technological wonders of the twenty-first century and beyond, Rodney has a strange love of paper: worn yellow legal pads that have developed equation leprosy, graph paper, the heavier parchment-like stuff they’ve picked up off-world, astrophysics journals (annotated with remarks like ‘you have GOT to be kidding me’ and ‘this guy = biggest moron EVER’), the card stock that carries Rodney’s scores of diplomas, certificates, awards, and photographs.
There’s a worn picture of Planck the Cat in the top drawer of Rodney’s desk, a newer one of Jeannie and Madison that Rodney never told John he has. Probably this is a good thing, because then otherwise it would have led to some awkward conversations and John would have had to pretend he hadn’t shown Jeannie Rodney’s message to her. He wonders briefly if Rodney asked Jeannie for the photograph, or if Jeannie had given it unasked, and figures it probably could have gone either way.
John takes out the photographs and sets them in a box, one ear out for Rodney’s admonishments – make sure they’re flat, and did you label that box? because I want to be able to find everything without having to hunt for it – and filters through the rest of the drawer’s contents. Spare headset, long-missing PDA, post-it note with KAVANAUGH MUST DIE scribbled on it, postcards fastened together by a rubber band.
He drops everything else in the box, not bothering to make sure it’s lying flat, and pulls the postcards to him. There’s at least thirty, maybe more, and he feels like he probably shouldn’t be prying, like this is more intimate than all the pictures of cats and siblings, and he has no idea why.
Rodney is rattling away in the other room, packing up his computer and books and talking to himself, part running commentary, part to-do list, and John very carefully undoes the rubber band so the postcards shuff gently against his palm as he flips through them.
One each from Tierra del Fuego and Christchurch, New Zealand – jumping-off points for the Antarctic base, John knows. A few from Russia – Moscow, Vladivostok, a printout of a digital photo with Noril’sk printed on the back – as well as France and Switzerland. Chicago, Colorado Springs, Cambridge (both England and Massachusetts), New York City, Sydney, Paris, Beijing, Los Angeles, and John flips over another card to double-check the location. Several of them have acronyms scribbled in the message area: FNAL, SSRL, CERN, SGC, BNL, PETRA.
“They’re, uh, places I’ve worked. I mean, I love particle accelerators, but some of them really aren’t picturesque. Though they are, actually – I mean, there’s a sort of symmetry to them that anyone with half a brain would appreciate, but it’s hard to find postcards of them anyway so I usually go to the nearest big city… And, well, yeah.”
Rodney’s standing in the doorway to his office, clutching his laptop case and shifting from foot to foot like he’s the one intruding. Very carefully, John sets the postcards down on the desk, and Rodney’s eyes follow them even as his mouth takes off again.
“Well, not really for some of them, but postcards of cornfields in Illinois aren’t as exciting as Chicago – that’s for Fermilab, by the way, I worked on the Tevatron accelerator for a few months – and I had to pick up postcards for Antarctica in New Zealand because it’s not like the penguins are selling them…” Rodneyesque, he slides from Warp 2 to full stop in a single breath and stares at Sheppard for a moment.
“You’ve been around,” John says.
“Sort of.” Rodney seems to come to a decision, drops his laptop in a chair and stumps up to his desk. Quick hands scoop the postcards back up, shuffling them together. Rodney has nice hands, clever, good at everything. “I guess you know what it’s like, military kid and all.”
“Yeah.” Mostly he remembers being angry about the constant moves until he was twelve; after that, he’d stopped caring. “But my dad didn’t change assignments every few months.” No, they’d stayed in one place long for John to get used to it and make friends, and then Hey, John, your dad’s been reassigned to Edwards. Yes, in California, on the other side of the country.
“Well, there seems to be a worldwide shortage of geniuses,” Rodney tells him. “It’s a supply-demand problem. See this one?” He holds up a postcard of the Alps. “CERN, 1990. I did part of my dissertation work there.”
“Which dissertation was this?”
“Astrophysics.” Rodney holds up his index finger, so that was doctorate number one. Rodney’s collected advanced degrees like other people collect stamps or, you know, STDs. “I was supposed to go back to work on the new supercollider, but I got sidetracked by the Stargate project.”
“No postcards from Pegasus, though.” They’ll be inspected once they’re back at SGC. No photographs, no souvenirs, no presents for the kids, not even an “I SURVIVED A WRAITH CULLING AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT” shirt. This last disappoints him greatly.
He says this, too, and Rodney laughs. Really laughs, which Rodney usually doesn’t do; most of the time he snickers, or emits this grunt that reminds John of some animal in pain. And it’s odd, standing here at the end of their time in Atlantis, in Rodney’s office, and Rodney’s laughing about a stupid, imaginary t-shirt.
“Too bad we can’t import tava beans,” Rodney’s saying now. “I’m going to miss them.”
“Now I know you’re lying about that.”
“You’re right. I’m really going to miss the MREs. I wonder if I could persuade the requisition people at Area 51 to…” He trails off, rubber band knotted around his fingers like one-handed cat’s cradle.
“I need to finish packing. Can’t get stuff done with all the talking... Seriously, I don’t know why I let you sidetrack me.” Not like talking has ever stopped Rodney from getting stuff done – ever, in his life, probably – but Rodney’s mouth snaps shut and he’s off like a shot, rushing across the room and out the door.
Area 51 for Rodney and they’re shipping John back to SGC in Colorado. He wonders if the reality of this has just hit Rodney, if he’s somehow managed to live in some kind of scientist-space where reality is selectively filtered, unlike John, who’s lived with burning anger and frustration for the past twenty-four hours.
Rodney’s taken the postcards with him and those were the last things in the drawer, so John shuts it and then shuts the box. Has to hunt (ironic, this) for a piece of paper and tape, because he can’t forget to label the box so Rodney can find everything the second he wants it. Do they even have tape? Somewhere, he hopes. If football is the cornerstone of Western civilization, then duct tape is what keeps it stuck together.
And, knowing the way the past couple of days have gone, ever since they fished those Ancients out of the dark nothingness at Midway, he’s most likely already packed the tape away and forgotten where he put it.
This wouldn’t happen if you labeled the boxes, Rodney reminds him snottily.
Great.
John’s about to turn away and start hunting for the stupid fucking tape – when he sees it: a thin, square envelope made out of Athosian paper from the mainland. And because he’s already invaded Rodney’s privacy once today, he doesn’t feel too bad about opening it.
A picture: Rodney and John on one of the west-looking balconies. A party after they’d beaten off the Wraith during their first year, and the photo is a bit blurry. Carson took the picture, John remembers, and had been unsteady between alcohol and his worry over breaking Rodney’s camera (“It’s not an Ancient digital camera, Carson, for crying out loud, just take the stupid picture”), but it's still a good picture, with the both of them looking somewhere between happy, elated, and exhausted, and their arms are around each other's shoulders.
On the back Rodney’s scribbled something, and for a second John thinks it’s another mysterious acronym.
US.
-end-
In other news: Something long and plottish for once, maybe soon. For now, my brain feels like it either wants to implode or run in a thousand directions at once.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: (unrequited?) McShep, if you would like.
Rating/Warning: PGish.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Advertisements: coincidentally for
wordclaim50 challenge #47 (Writer's Choice). Companion to 3.10.Notes: Woefully late birthday present for
le_mot_mo. I was looking at my pictures from this summer and became sloppily nostalgic *hugs* Happy (late) birthday!THE ITINERANT
John finds them when he’s helping Rodney pack up his quarters.
Despite his devotion to the technological wonders of the twenty-first century and beyond, Rodney has a strange love of paper: worn yellow legal pads that have developed equation leprosy, graph paper, the heavier parchment-like stuff they’ve picked up off-world, astrophysics journals (annotated with remarks like ‘you have GOT to be kidding me’ and ‘this guy = biggest moron EVER’), the card stock that carries Rodney’s scores of diplomas, certificates, awards, and photographs.
There’s a worn picture of Planck the Cat in the top drawer of Rodney’s desk, a newer one of Jeannie and Madison that Rodney never told John he has. Probably this is a good thing, because then otherwise it would have led to some awkward conversations and John would have had to pretend he hadn’t shown Jeannie Rodney’s message to her. He wonders briefly if Rodney asked Jeannie for the photograph, or if Jeannie had given it unasked, and figures it probably could have gone either way.
John takes out the photographs and sets them in a box, one ear out for Rodney’s admonishments – make sure they’re flat, and did you label that box? because I want to be able to find everything without having to hunt for it – and filters through the rest of the drawer’s contents. Spare headset, long-missing PDA, post-it note with KAVANAUGH MUST DIE scribbled on it, postcards fastened together by a rubber band.
He drops everything else in the box, not bothering to make sure it’s lying flat, and pulls the postcards to him. There’s at least thirty, maybe more, and he feels like he probably shouldn’t be prying, like this is more intimate than all the pictures of cats and siblings, and he has no idea why.
Rodney is rattling away in the other room, packing up his computer and books and talking to himself, part running commentary, part to-do list, and John very carefully undoes the rubber band so the postcards shuff gently against his palm as he flips through them.
One each from Tierra del Fuego and Christchurch, New Zealand – jumping-off points for the Antarctic base, John knows. A few from Russia – Moscow, Vladivostok, a printout of a digital photo with Noril’sk printed on the back – as well as France and Switzerland. Chicago, Colorado Springs, Cambridge (both England and Massachusetts), New York City, Sydney, Paris, Beijing, Los Angeles, and John flips over another card to double-check the location. Several of them have acronyms scribbled in the message area: FNAL, SSRL, CERN, SGC, BNL, PETRA.
“They’re, uh, places I’ve worked. I mean, I love particle accelerators, but some of them really aren’t picturesque. Though they are, actually – I mean, there’s a sort of symmetry to them that anyone with half a brain would appreciate, but it’s hard to find postcards of them anyway so I usually go to the nearest big city… And, well, yeah.”
Rodney’s standing in the doorway to his office, clutching his laptop case and shifting from foot to foot like he’s the one intruding. Very carefully, John sets the postcards down on the desk, and Rodney’s eyes follow them even as his mouth takes off again.
“Well, not really for some of them, but postcards of cornfields in Illinois aren’t as exciting as Chicago – that’s for Fermilab, by the way, I worked on the Tevatron accelerator for a few months – and I had to pick up postcards for Antarctica in New Zealand because it’s not like the penguins are selling them…” Rodneyesque, he slides from Warp 2 to full stop in a single breath and stares at Sheppard for a moment.
“You’ve been around,” John says.
“Sort of.” Rodney seems to come to a decision, drops his laptop in a chair and stumps up to his desk. Quick hands scoop the postcards back up, shuffling them together. Rodney has nice hands, clever, good at everything. “I guess you know what it’s like, military kid and all.”
“Yeah.” Mostly he remembers being angry about the constant moves until he was twelve; after that, he’d stopped caring. “But my dad didn’t change assignments every few months.” No, they’d stayed in one place long for John to get used to it and make friends, and then Hey, John, your dad’s been reassigned to Edwards. Yes, in California, on the other side of the country.
“Well, there seems to be a worldwide shortage of geniuses,” Rodney tells him. “It’s a supply-demand problem. See this one?” He holds up a postcard of the Alps. “CERN, 1990. I did part of my dissertation work there.”
“Which dissertation was this?”
“Astrophysics.” Rodney holds up his index finger, so that was doctorate number one. Rodney’s collected advanced degrees like other people collect stamps or, you know, STDs. “I was supposed to go back to work on the new supercollider, but I got sidetracked by the Stargate project.”
“No postcards from Pegasus, though.” They’ll be inspected once they’re back at SGC. No photographs, no souvenirs, no presents for the kids, not even an “I SURVIVED A WRAITH CULLING AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT” shirt. This last disappoints him greatly.
He says this, too, and Rodney laughs. Really laughs, which Rodney usually doesn’t do; most of the time he snickers, or emits this grunt that reminds John of some animal in pain. And it’s odd, standing here at the end of their time in Atlantis, in Rodney’s office, and Rodney’s laughing about a stupid, imaginary t-shirt.
“Too bad we can’t import tava beans,” Rodney’s saying now. “I’m going to miss them.”
“Now I know you’re lying about that.”
“You’re right. I’m really going to miss the MREs. I wonder if I could persuade the requisition people at Area 51 to…” He trails off, rubber band knotted around his fingers like one-handed cat’s cradle.
“I need to finish packing. Can’t get stuff done with all the talking... Seriously, I don’t know why I let you sidetrack me.” Not like talking has ever stopped Rodney from getting stuff done – ever, in his life, probably – but Rodney’s mouth snaps shut and he’s off like a shot, rushing across the room and out the door.
Area 51 for Rodney and they’re shipping John back to SGC in Colorado. He wonders if the reality of this has just hit Rodney, if he’s somehow managed to live in some kind of scientist-space where reality is selectively filtered, unlike John, who’s lived with burning anger and frustration for the past twenty-four hours.
Rodney’s taken the postcards with him and those were the last things in the drawer, so John shuts it and then shuts the box. Has to hunt (ironic, this) for a piece of paper and tape, because he can’t forget to label the box so Rodney can find everything the second he wants it. Do they even have tape? Somewhere, he hopes. If football is the cornerstone of Western civilization, then duct tape is what keeps it stuck together.
And, knowing the way the past couple of days have gone, ever since they fished those Ancients out of the dark nothingness at Midway, he’s most likely already packed the tape away and forgotten where he put it.
This wouldn’t happen if you labeled the boxes, Rodney reminds him snottily.
Great.
John’s about to turn away and start hunting for the stupid fucking tape – when he sees it: a thin, square envelope made out of Athosian paper from the mainland. And because he’s already invaded Rodney’s privacy once today, he doesn’t feel too bad about opening it.
A picture: Rodney and John on one of the west-looking balconies. A party after they’d beaten off the Wraith during their first year, and the photo is a bit blurry. Carson took the picture, John remembers, and had been unsteady between alcohol and his worry over breaking Rodney’s camera (“It’s not an Ancient digital camera, Carson, for crying out loud, just take the stupid picture”), but it's still a good picture, with the both of them looking somewhere between happy, elated, and exhausted, and their arms are around each other's shoulders.
On the back Rodney’s scribbled something, and for a second John thinks it’s another mysterious acronym.
US.
-end-
In other news: Something long and plottish for once, maybe soon. For now, my brain feels like it either wants to implode or run in a thousand directions at once.
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He so does! And that makes me happy XD
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Really, really lovely. I like how quiet it is, and how practical they are on the surface. Thanks for sharing.
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Oh, no :) At least, I hope not, but then I'm not the best person to legislate on what is weird or not... Whenever I'm nervous (which is also usually when I'm talking), I tend to play with whatever's nearby. Rubber bands are best for twisting, but I have severely mangled many a paperclip in my day.
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Also, John deserves that t-shirt. If I were his friend, I would totally have one made for him.
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fully-articulated and extremely realistic Sheppard and McKay action figures...no subject
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And I want to lick your icon's shoulder, oh yes.
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But on the other hand I think John finally caught a clue. What I get from this fic is that they both know there's something there that could someday be more then just friendship, but they never got to that point. There's just idle thinking about nice hands and prying into someone else's stuff in order to get a last glimpse of something private from the other person. The way John's packing Rodney's stuff is very intimate. And when he finds the picture he finds the first evidence that Rodney knows too. They both do, but they won't act upon it.
*sigh* As you can see I'm in a kind of an analysing mood these days. I keep analysing fics to death. All this to say that this is a wonderful story that breathes melancholy and I'm very honoured that it's my birthday present. Thank you so very much! *smooch*
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There are so many aspects to explore, that wasn't explored in the ep itself. It's often the quiet moments or the moments where much is unspoken that leaves me smiling and saying "Awww..."
I'm amused that his cat is named Planck - I love all the variety of names that authors have come up with! I especially love the touch of the photo of them together and John remembering who took it and the circumstances of it!
John and Rodney wouldn't "talk" about not seeing each other but I think they'd both feel some sort of loss internally.
(and oh dear I've said a lot, eh?)
Great story :)
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love all the variety of names that authors have come up with!
And not just Planck... Planck the Cat :D That's his full name. I would love to know what Rodney's named his cat, just because it's one of those microscopic details that could have so much to say about what he's like.
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But hey, you want one of the frame of Ben Franklin's house from Philadelphia, I defintely have that still.
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Postcards are great... small, highly portable art for perpetual students *g*
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I'm in Texas now. I should go find an armadillo card.
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I love this. *saves to memories*
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Niiice.
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Rodney, loud and irritating scientist that he is, somehow manages to be all three of these things so effortlessly that I'm constantly confounded. No wonder John loves him.
Carson being scared to use anything that Rodney hands him
Carson and his anxiety are terribly cute. I just want to hug him.
And... ZOMG NUDE VIRGIN!
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And Carson and Rodney inspire many fan-hugs from me. >>>hugs!<<<
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hee! Boofhead!
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Eeee! *is happy, just reading that* Sometimes I like writing things that aren't fully resolved, but I just know everything's going to be okay. And the way this ends, maybe things won't be, but I can't believe that.
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I really like this, how John can poke into Rodney's things without Rodney objecting, how John seems to need to do the poking around. It's like they're getting one last good "dose" of each other before separating.
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It's like they're getting one last good "dose" of each other before separating.
Poor boys, addicted and they don't know it :/
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Speaking of pictures, I love your icon. Cato! Heh.
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RL is being evil at the moment, but in my scraps of free time I am working on something post-Return II :D (Though it's a follow-up for another story, but maybe this one will get something too!)