Microclimates of a City
Title: Microclimates of a City
Author: Angel Levaithan
Disclaimer: The characters of Atlantis aren't mine.
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows she rarely gives a completely perfect performance, but when she’s on, she’s on and it’s there and brilliant and second nature.
Notes: Contains mentions of developments discussed in
the_uncharteds verse.
Early evening on Christmas Eve, he finds himself on her doorstep, having travelled halfway across the city without thinking of where he was headed. It’s as if the world fades back in around him as he rings the doorbell and steps back onto the pavement. Radek can’t actually remember whether he planned this or has even had a single sensible thought during the journey. He doesn’t really know why he’s here.
But he does. He does.
He doesn’t expect her to answer the door; to be home at all. So when she appears in her dressing-gown, there’s little else he can do but stare, a little bewildered, as she tugs the fleecy garment more tightly around herself against the bitter winter cold.
“Radek.”
He’s smiling before he knows it, in response to the quirk of her lips that develops into a smooth curve and lights up her eyes. It takes few moments for him to put together a response, considering his somewhat absent state and the fact that she’s right there, when he presumed she would be in a crowded house somewhere being quietly festive.
But she’s quietly right in front of him instead.
“I thought you would be spending your time off with your family,” she says.
His smile turns rueful. “I thought the same of you.”
She doesn’t ask why he’s not with his family; why he’s not halfway round the world and here instead or by chance or accident. Of course she doesn’t. He’s learned that she only ever asks questions of others when she isn’t quite involved. But he’s here and she’s here and she... is. Involved. There braving the chill and offering no explanation for why she’s alone on Christmas Eve. She never invites inspection of herself; always deflects attention. He wonders if that’s why he’s just standing there and not asking questions. It wouldn’t fit – her, him, them – if he did.
Kate steps aside and holds the door open a little more. “Come inside?”
He doesn’t answer. He just goes. Just does.
-
You can be the best damn Velma Kelly the world of theatre has ever seen and yet you won’t get much back for it if you’re on the West End. Rather a bitter thought for the season of goodwill (and all that damned jazz), Teyla chides herself, but it suits her mood and it suits the grey chill of London.
Oh, it’s her first theatrical lead and she’s grateful, of course she is. She’ll go out and give it her best until she breaks. It’s what the community has come to expect of her, after all. She’s worked her way up; proven herself capable and reliable and everything that’s desirable in an actress, but it doesn’t change the facts.
It isn’t Velma who pulls in the crowds at the Cambridge. It’s Roxie and whoever they’ve stunt-cast this time. Some little blonde darling who has won some silly singing competition or been on a reality show. It doesn’t matter whether she can sing or act, as long as she can keep the audiences’ eyes on her one way or another. And whilst Velma is step perfect, doesn’t drop a note and is aching from effort, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t Teyla they’re watching and she knows it. She’s worked and worked and the media darling of the moment waltzes in and...
She knows she rarely gives a completely perfect performance, but when she’s on, she’s on and it’s there and brilliant and second nature. She never lets her frustration show. They’re all in the same boat, really, or so she tells herself. It’s a vicious world out there. She can’t begrudge anyone taking whatever they can get for whatever they can do.
Teyla yanks her scarf off as she trots up the last flight of stairs; somewhere along the line manages to use the key to the flat instead of simply ploughing through the door. Bag flung to the floor, scarf thrown behind her, her jacket soon joins them as she stalks across the main room and pins a surprised Ronon to the far wall.
Surprise soon fades and he’s there and he knows how much of her heart and soul goes into her work and he’s completely focused on her, her, her...
-
Shannon toddles about the living area of her parents’ flat, stopping every few steps to steady herself or just topple over, ready to push herself back up and regain momentum. Waving her arms, she dances in her own little way, to an old cast recording of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. She doesn’t remember last Christmas, but this time round, at just over a year old, she’s sure she hasn’t quite discovered everything new just in this room alone.
There’s the tree, for a start, and all the odd, brightly coloured shapes beneath it that she gets carted away from every time she decides she might try tearing at one of them. She thinks that something must give her intentions away. Maybe she makes a funny face or something. Then again, it does take her several tries to get across to the tree in the first place.
Mummy’s watching her now. She pretends not to notice, just like she pretends that Mummy can actually hit some of the notes in the current song she sometimes sings to. She likes Mummy’s voice, but really, she’s not so good at these songs. Daddy is better, but he’ll only sing to them and be silly to amuse her when Mummy isn’t there. Shannon isn’t sure why, but he went an odd shade of red the time they were caught caterwauling together – she with off-key babbling and hardly melodious shrieks (she thought she sounded pretty good, though) – to this whole Joseph and the Coat thing.
She decides it’s time to make a dash for the tree again and points herself in that direction. Shannon has taken no more than two steps before Daddy scoops her up and she shouts protest. Just what on earth is the point in encouraging her to master walking if people are only going to stop her making a break for it?
But then she’s in Mummy’s lap and Daddy has his arms around them both. Oh. Well. Perhaps it’s not so bad. They’re both here and not rushing about and she’s not left with Nanny Abigail again. Nanny isn’t so bad, not really, but she’s not Mummy or Daddy.
Shannon settles and yawns. She knows everything will go back to crazy in a couple of days, like it always does. But it’s not so bad.
Not so bad at all.
Fin
Author: Angel Levaithan
Disclaimer: The characters of Atlantis aren't mine.
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows she rarely gives a completely perfect performance, but when she’s on, she’s on and it’s there and brilliant and second nature.
Notes: Contains mentions of developments discussed in
the_uncharteds verse.Early evening on Christmas Eve, he finds himself on her doorstep, having travelled halfway across the city without thinking of where he was headed. It’s as if the world fades back in around him as he rings the doorbell and steps back onto the pavement. Radek can’t actually remember whether he planned this or has even had a single sensible thought during the journey. He doesn’t really know why he’s here.
But he does. He does.
He doesn’t expect her to answer the door; to be home at all. So when she appears in her dressing-gown, there’s little else he can do but stare, a little bewildered, as she tugs the fleecy garment more tightly around herself against the bitter winter cold.
“Radek.”
He’s smiling before he knows it, in response to the quirk of her lips that develops into a smooth curve and lights up her eyes. It takes few moments for him to put together a response, considering his somewhat absent state and the fact that she’s right there, when he presumed she would be in a crowded house somewhere being quietly festive.
But she’s quietly right in front of him instead.
“I thought you would be spending your time off with your family,” she says.
His smile turns rueful. “I thought the same of you.”
She doesn’t ask why he’s not with his family; why he’s not halfway round the world and here instead or by chance or accident. Of course she doesn’t. He’s learned that she only ever asks questions of others when she isn’t quite involved. But he’s here and she’s here and she... is. Involved. There braving the chill and offering no explanation for why she’s alone on Christmas Eve. She never invites inspection of herself; always deflects attention. He wonders if that’s why he’s just standing there and not asking questions. It wouldn’t fit – her, him, them – if he did.
Kate steps aside and holds the door open a little more. “Come inside?”
He doesn’t answer. He just goes. Just does.
-
You can be the best damn Velma Kelly the world of theatre has ever seen and yet you won’t get much back for it if you’re on the West End. Rather a bitter thought for the season of goodwill (and all that damned jazz), Teyla chides herself, but it suits her mood and it suits the grey chill of London.
Oh, it’s her first theatrical lead and she’s grateful, of course she is. She’ll go out and give it her best until she breaks. It’s what the community has come to expect of her, after all. She’s worked her way up; proven herself capable and reliable and everything that’s desirable in an actress, but it doesn’t change the facts.
It isn’t Velma who pulls in the crowds at the Cambridge. It’s Roxie and whoever they’ve stunt-cast this time. Some little blonde darling who has won some silly singing competition or been on a reality show. It doesn’t matter whether she can sing or act, as long as she can keep the audiences’ eyes on her one way or another. And whilst Velma is step perfect, doesn’t drop a note and is aching from effort, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t Teyla they’re watching and she knows it. She’s worked and worked and the media darling of the moment waltzes in and...
She knows she rarely gives a completely perfect performance, but when she’s on, she’s on and it’s there and brilliant and second nature. She never lets her frustration show. They’re all in the same boat, really, or so she tells herself. It’s a vicious world out there. She can’t begrudge anyone taking whatever they can get for whatever they can do.
Teyla yanks her scarf off as she trots up the last flight of stairs; somewhere along the line manages to use the key to the flat instead of simply ploughing through the door. Bag flung to the floor, scarf thrown behind her, her jacket soon joins them as she stalks across the main room and pins a surprised Ronon to the far wall.
Surprise soon fades and he’s there and he knows how much of her heart and soul goes into her work and he’s completely focused on her, her, her...
-
Shannon toddles about the living area of her parents’ flat, stopping every few steps to steady herself or just topple over, ready to push herself back up and regain momentum. Waving her arms, she dances in her own little way, to an old cast recording of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. She doesn’t remember last Christmas, but this time round, at just over a year old, she’s sure she hasn’t quite discovered everything new just in this room alone.
There’s the tree, for a start, and all the odd, brightly coloured shapes beneath it that she gets carted away from every time she decides she might try tearing at one of them. She thinks that something must give her intentions away. Maybe she makes a funny face or something. Then again, it does take her several tries to get across to the tree in the first place.
Mummy’s watching her now. She pretends not to notice, just like she pretends that Mummy can actually hit some of the notes in the current song she sometimes sings to. She likes Mummy’s voice, but really, she’s not so good at these songs. Daddy is better, but he’ll only sing to them and be silly to amuse her when Mummy isn’t there. Shannon isn’t sure why, but he went an odd shade of red the time they were caught caterwauling together – she with off-key babbling and hardly melodious shrieks (she thought she sounded pretty good, though) – to this whole Joseph and the Coat thing.
She decides it’s time to make a dash for the tree again and points herself in that direction. Shannon has taken no more than two steps before Daddy scoops her up and she shouts protest. Just what on earth is the point in encouraging her to master walking if people are only going to stop her making a break for it?
But then she’s in Mummy’s lap and Daddy has his arms around them both. Oh. Well. Perhaps it’s not so bad. They’re both here and not rushing about and she’s not left with Nanny Abigail again. Nanny isn’t so bad, not really, but she’s not Mummy or Daddy.
Shannon settles and yawns. She knows everything will go back to crazy in a couple of days, like it always does. But it’s not so bad.
Not so bad at all.
Fin