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.two untitled SGA and SPN scraplets (now with third!)
Two scraplets of fic to prove to myself I can indeed write something that isn't an article review or a proposal for something.
scraplet 1: McKay/Sheppard
Written as commentfic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dogeared's post of a really lovely David Ray poem. You can, if you want, construe this as a possible future following from I'm a Stranger Here Myself, but it really can happen after, well... almost anything. Very domestic and, dare I say it, happy.
After:
“So, what do you think?” John is leaning over Rodney’s shoulder, breath soft across his cheek.
“It’s very… Spartan.”
“That’s the point.” Warm and teasing, that’s John, all drawl and rough affection.
“Yes, well, too much of a good thing does exist.”
Rodney peers at the listing doubtfully, and the picture from the real estate office is crumpled, damp circle on it where Rodney’s coffee mug had been. The house, half-devoured by ivy and out in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t need the help to look unprepossessing. No air conditioning, Rodney suspects, miles from the nearest decent grocery store, and no internet, exactly like the backwater planets he’d gotten used to visiting.
Ocean view, though, through the trees and down a hill, close enough to hear the waves on a quiet night.
“It kind of needs some repair work.” John gestures at the picture, the bare, weather-beaten wood, barely visible under the ivy. “Sort of.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rodney snaps. “It’s fine the way it is.”
Which, and John knows this, is Rodney’s way of saying perfect.
scraplet 2: Dean
Written because I rewatched "Heart" before going to bed last night and was all wibbly and stuff. Quite introspective, and maybe not Dean at all, but I got to thinking.
In the blank space between Sam closing the door and the tick of the old clock on the wall, he remembers the gun going off.
One bullet, a sound he’s heard, can remember hearing, since he was a kid, clearer now than his mother’s voice. Metal is mostly what he remembers, metal and salt.
Sam is bitterly silent as he undresses, and he has to know Dean’s watching, but he doesn’t turn around. Dean can see the tight lines on his back as Sam shoves his sweater into his duffel bag. He should tell him that there’s blood on there still, it’ll get all over the clean stuff and will be hell to get out, but Dean keeps quiet.
Creak of old bedsprings as Sam collapses like he was falling, dying, dead. Desperate, he listens to Sam’s breath, listens as he’s always done, even when Sam had gone away to school. In-out, in-out, though Sam is almost completely quiet, shallow breaths made around sorrow. Dean doesn’t say anything.
He knows the ritual: they won’t talk about it, Sam will withdraw and be silent and contrary and emo until Dean beats it out of him.
Only Dean doesn’t know if he can, because if he does, he’ll get Sam-logic: we’re the same, Madison and I, and if I ever turn, you’ll have to kill me.
He hates Sam-logic. Hates the long silence even more, both of them knowing the other’s awake and that better, more well-adjusted people would be talking right now, but they can’t break it.
Dean turns over, ending the conversation they aren’t having, and tries to find the blank space, not the space of waiting for a bullet, but the pause before falling over into sleep.
scraplet 3: More McKay/Sheppard
Originally written forsheafrotherdon's kissing commentfic challenge, reposted here for packrat purposes. More happiness.
He likes days like today, these mornings when everything is slow and warmth-drugged, and in the striations of sunlight through the window Rodney is still and silent. (He likes them because on Atlantis they come so rarely.) Serenity never lasts long--Rodney can go from zero to sixty, asleep to snark in a heartbeat--but now he's all quiescence now, hands expressive only of sleep.
Rodney tastes like morning and quiet when John kisses him, all laziness, and Rodney's mouth slants open in soft surprise as he fumbles into wakefulness with hands that curve clumsily around the nape of John's neck. Sleep-warm both of them, and the early sun promises heat, but John doesn't feel like fighting with the covers, doesn't feel like much of anything except settling against Rodney and trading kisses that pace themselves to the slow two-count of the sea below.
Rodney mutters something that might be 'morning' or 'more,' or only pre-coffee incoherence that turns into a sigh against John's lips, a sleepy nip at his chin, another kiss--slow, methodical, working John's mouth like an equation--that says happiness.
scraplet 1: McKay/Sheppard
Written as commentfic for
dogeared's post of a really lovely David Ray poem. You can, if you want, construe this as a possible future following from I'm a Stranger Here Myself, but it really can happen after, well... almost anything. Very domestic and, dare I say it, happy.After:
“So, what do you think?” John is leaning over Rodney’s shoulder, breath soft across his cheek.
“It’s very… Spartan.”
“That’s the point.” Warm and teasing, that’s John, all drawl and rough affection.
“Yes, well, too much of a good thing does exist.”
Rodney peers at the listing doubtfully, and the picture from the real estate office is crumpled, damp circle on it where Rodney’s coffee mug had been. The house, half-devoured by ivy and out in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t need the help to look unprepossessing. No air conditioning, Rodney suspects, miles from the nearest decent grocery store, and no internet, exactly like the backwater planets he’d gotten used to visiting.
Ocean view, though, through the trees and down a hill, close enough to hear the waves on a quiet night.
“It kind of needs some repair work.” John gestures at the picture, the bare, weather-beaten wood, barely visible under the ivy. “Sort of.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rodney snaps. “It’s fine the way it is.”
Which, and John knows this, is Rodney’s way of saying perfect.
scraplet 2: Dean
Written because I rewatched "Heart" before going to bed last night and was all wibbly and stuff. Quite introspective, and maybe not Dean at all, but I got to thinking.
In the blank space between Sam closing the door and the tick of the old clock on the wall, he remembers the gun going off.
One bullet, a sound he’s heard, can remember hearing, since he was a kid, clearer now than his mother’s voice. Metal is mostly what he remembers, metal and salt.
Sam is bitterly silent as he undresses, and he has to know Dean’s watching, but he doesn’t turn around. Dean can see the tight lines on his back as Sam shoves his sweater into his duffel bag. He should tell him that there’s blood on there still, it’ll get all over the clean stuff and will be hell to get out, but Dean keeps quiet.
Creak of old bedsprings as Sam collapses like he was falling, dying, dead. Desperate, he listens to Sam’s breath, listens as he’s always done, even when Sam had gone away to school. In-out, in-out, though Sam is almost completely quiet, shallow breaths made around sorrow. Dean doesn’t say anything.
He knows the ritual: they won’t talk about it, Sam will withdraw and be silent and contrary and emo until Dean beats it out of him.
Only Dean doesn’t know if he can, because if he does, he’ll get Sam-logic: we’re the same, Madison and I, and if I ever turn, you’ll have to kill me.
He hates Sam-logic. Hates the long silence even more, both of them knowing the other’s awake and that better, more well-adjusted people would be talking right now, but they can’t break it.
Dean turns over, ending the conversation they aren’t having, and tries to find the blank space, not the space of waiting for a bullet, but the pause before falling over into sleep.
scraplet 3: More McKay/Sheppard
Originally written for
sheafrotherdon's kissing commentfic challenge, reposted here for packrat purposes. More happiness.He likes days like today, these mornings when everything is slow and warmth-drugged, and in the striations of sunlight through the window Rodney is still and silent. (He likes them because on Atlantis they come so rarely.) Serenity never lasts long--Rodney can go from zero to sixty, asleep to snark in a heartbeat--but now he's all quiescence now, hands expressive only of sleep.
Rodney tastes like morning and quiet when John kisses him, all laziness, and Rodney's mouth slants open in soft surprise as he fumbles into wakefulness with hands that curve clumsily around the nape of John's neck. Sleep-warm both of them, and the early sun promises heat, but John doesn't feel like fighting with the covers, doesn't feel like much of anything except settling against Rodney and trading kisses that pace themselves to the slow two-count of the sea below.
Rodney mutters something that might be 'morning' or 'more,' or only pre-coffee incoherence that turns into a sigh against John's lips, a sleepy nip at his chin, another kiss--slow, methodical, working John's mouth like an equation--that says happiness.
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re: #2: Awwwwwwwwwwwww!
*is very eloquent*
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