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.fic: Scale of Perfection - McKay/Sheppard (PG) 1.1
Scale of Perfection. Companion to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dogeared's lovely Any Other Day. c. 350 words.
When Beckett's Tylenol proves useless, and John's at the point of seriously considering asking Ronon to knock him out, Rodney bursts out with his I have good hands and an offer that isn't so much an offer as it is rambling, hand-punctuated explanation. John agrees, because he knows what Rodney says is true: he's seen those hands trace out technicalities, hysteria, concern, as they coax solutions from thin air. For all that they dart and flicker, they fly steady when it counts, delicate with circuitry and wires when Rodney's piecing together some miracle or other, dialogue of flesh and crystal and metal.
His headache makes standing up feel like going zero-G, the room spinning away into greyness and the pain spiking bright behind his eyes. Movement becomes a study in caution as he turns his chair around and collapses into it, his body tensing because now it expects everything, even Rodney and his magic fingers, to hurt.
Rodney's fingers ghost over his forehead, down his temples, over the vein that feels like it's going to explode, and then there's pressure, so sweet John almost gasps with it, pushing back against that deep, mean hurt. They're callused fingers, knowledgeable fingers, a lifetime of building and typing (and fighting now) in them, and they travel over his temple, through his hair, down his neck to shoulders that have gone taut against the pain. Clever, wonderful, definitely Rodney fingers, moving in patterns that make John grin to think about.
Music, maybe, silent curving of notes up and down the scale, or maybe geometry: concentrics, nautilus curves with their Fibonacci series, Rodney's fingers making fractals, these low, buried hypnotic iterations of pressure. Bows, arcs and whorls that remind John of flying. They overlay pattern and rhythm atop the chaos of pain, smooth, slow, circle circle, returning, smooth slow, another tight curve over John's right temple where the pain refuses to let go, pacing themselves, John realizes hazily when the world smooths away into quiet, to the quiet, rhythmic sigh of the sea.
dogeared's lovely Any Other Day. c. 350 words.When Beckett's Tylenol proves useless, and John's at the point of seriously considering asking Ronon to knock him out, Rodney bursts out with his I have good hands and an offer that isn't so much an offer as it is rambling, hand-punctuated explanation. John agrees, because he knows what Rodney says is true: he's seen those hands trace out technicalities, hysteria, concern, as they coax solutions from thin air. For all that they dart and flicker, they fly steady when it counts, delicate with circuitry and wires when Rodney's piecing together some miracle or other, dialogue of flesh and crystal and metal.
His headache makes standing up feel like going zero-G, the room spinning away into greyness and the pain spiking bright behind his eyes. Movement becomes a study in caution as he turns his chair around and collapses into it, his body tensing because now it expects everything, even Rodney and his magic fingers, to hurt.
Rodney's fingers ghost over his forehead, down his temples, over the vein that feels like it's going to explode, and then there's pressure, so sweet John almost gasps with it, pushing back against that deep, mean hurt. They're callused fingers, knowledgeable fingers, a lifetime of building and typing (and fighting now) in them, and they travel over his temple, through his hair, down his neck to shoulders that have gone taut against the pain. Clever, wonderful, definitely Rodney fingers, moving in patterns that make John grin to think about.
Music, maybe, silent curving of notes up and down the scale, or maybe geometry: concentrics, nautilus curves with their Fibonacci series, Rodney's fingers making fractals, these low, buried hypnotic iterations of pressure. Bows, arcs and whorls that remind John of flying. They overlay pattern and rhythm atop the chaos of pain, smooth, slow, circle circle, returning, smooth slow, another tight curve over John's right temple where the pain refuses to let go, pacing themselves, John realizes hazily when the world smooths away into quiet, to the quiet, rhythmic sigh of the sea.