[the flatlander attacks again]
Two things.
One: Spent way too much money in the city yesterday. On books, mostly. I bought Alice Walker's The Color Purple (which someone recommended, I think. [Where did I put that list, now?]), Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (because there was a sale [classics for two euros], and it was either this, Shakespeare, or Wuthering Heights, and frankly, my Shakespeare quota for this year is covered, thankyouverymuch, and Wuthering Heights made me want to do a cracktastic impersonation of Kate Bush right there in the middle of the store, so no), and Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife (which, judging by what was said on the back cover, sounded like a rip-off of Slaughterhouse Five, but I'll give it the benefit of doubt because it's been recommended by two persons so far and might still be quite good indeed). So.
Two: Um... a ficlet. Yay?
Title: a lost language
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis (*blinks* Whaaaat?)
Pairing: Beckett/McKay
Rating: Teen, because I can't stop cursing
Warnings: MUSH!! Also, severe abuse of the semi-colon and the word 'and'.
Rodney thinks: if Carson kissed him now, there would be no fireworks.
There would be no fireworks because, because it would be like... Ah, he's not good at this.
Rodney's never been a poet. He has a spike for a tongue, he knows, and there are no soft edges to it. He could split a man in two with just a word, he knows this too (or likes to think so, anyway). He takes pride in his verbal skills; a genius like him should never stumble over his words.
Shouldn't - but then there are moments like this, moments that require eloquence and softness and all those things fairy tales are made of. Rodney doesn't know anything about fairy tales. Rodney doesn't believe in fairy tales.
Except.
Except when there's a fear so great tearing at his chest that he thinks he might diffuse and a need to hold on; when all the events of the day -- fuck, the entire week, or better yet, make that a year. The entire year is what comes crashing down, and he gets hit over the head with all the realities of their situation, the realization of how thoroughly screwed they are stranded on this pitch black hole they call Atlantis so far away from home. He might explode; he might just go insane and yell and scream and kick until they lock him away somewhere padded and safe.
He would, he would, if there wasn't something to hold onto, something solid and kind, and Rodney finds himself clinging, opening gates, and then there are words he's never thought before.
For Carson is warm, and his hands are soothing, and the curve of his neck muffles the few strangled sobs Rodney lets through so that no one else will ever know (oh, god, fuck, this is so stupid, so incredibly, unbelievably stupid, don't you dare laugh, don't you, please, just...), and Carson doesn't sneer or taunt or laugh or, in fact, say anything at all apart from shhh and there, there and it's alright.
His hand rests on the back of Rodney's head until his breathing evens out, thumb drawing lazy circles just behind his ear. There's stubble scratching against Rodney's temple, and the press of Carson's chest against him is hard and real and familiar, and, and...
Rodney thinks: kissing Carson now would be like dipping his hand into the sparkling forest stream and watching the water twirl around his fingers; like lying on the grass with the last rays of summer sun dancing on your skin; like breathing.
And so he does.
One: Spent way too much money in the city yesterday. On books, mostly. I bought Alice Walker's The Color Purple (which someone recommended, I think. [Where did I put that list, now?]), Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (because there was a sale [classics for two euros], and it was either this, Shakespeare, or Wuthering Heights, and frankly, my Shakespeare quota for this year is covered, thankyouverymuch, and Wuthering Heights made me want to do a cracktastic impersonation of Kate Bush right there in the middle of the store, so no), and Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife (which, judging by what was said on the back cover, sounded like a rip-off of Slaughterhouse Five, but I'll give it the benefit of doubt because it's been recommended by two persons so far and might still be quite good indeed). So.
Two: Um... a ficlet. Yay?
Title: a lost language
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis (*blinks* Whaaaat?)
Pairing: Beckett/McKay
Rating: Teen, because I can't stop cursing
Warnings: MUSH!! Also, severe abuse of the semi-colon and the word 'and'.
Rodney thinks: if Carson kissed him now, there would be no fireworks.
There would be no fireworks because, because it would be like... Ah, he's not good at this.
Rodney's never been a poet. He has a spike for a tongue, he knows, and there are no soft edges to it. He could split a man in two with just a word, he knows this too (or likes to think so, anyway). He takes pride in his verbal skills; a genius like him should never stumble over his words.
Shouldn't - but then there are moments like this, moments that require eloquence and softness and all those things fairy tales are made of. Rodney doesn't know anything about fairy tales. Rodney doesn't believe in fairy tales.
Except.
Except when there's a fear so great tearing at his chest that he thinks he might diffuse and a need to hold on; when all the events of the day -- fuck, the entire week, or better yet, make that a year. The entire year is what comes crashing down, and he gets hit over the head with all the realities of their situation, the realization of how thoroughly screwed they are stranded on this pitch black hole they call Atlantis so far away from home. He might explode; he might just go insane and yell and scream and kick until they lock him away somewhere padded and safe.
He would, he would, if there wasn't something to hold onto, something solid and kind, and Rodney finds himself clinging, opening gates, and then there are words he's never thought before.
For Carson is warm, and his hands are soothing, and the curve of his neck muffles the few strangled sobs Rodney lets through so that no one else will ever know (oh, god, fuck, this is so stupid, so incredibly, unbelievably stupid, don't you dare laugh, don't you, please, just...), and Carson doesn't sneer or taunt or laugh or, in fact, say anything at all apart from shhh and there, there and it's alright.
His hand rests on the back of Rodney's head until his breathing evens out, thumb drawing lazy circles just behind his ear. There's stubble scratching against Rodney's temple, and the press of Carson's chest against him is hard and real and familiar, and, and...
Rodney thinks: kissing Carson now would be like dipping his hand into the sparkling forest stream and watching the water twirl around his fingers; like lying on the grass with the last rays of summer sun dancing on your skin; like breathing.
And so he does.