So, instead of working on my SeSa fic....
Dec. 1st, 2006 01:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cinaed...I wrote this. It's 1,000 words, and part of "Our Conversations Are Like Minefields," a fic I'm writing for/because of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blue_raven and her showing me those clips from Cold Squad, though this scene was inspired by a picture rosewildeirish posted, involving pi and a tattoo.
...Course, this fic is horribly depressing. It's set in the SG-1 "Absolute Power" universe, where Daniel Jackson's taken over the world. Yeah. Don't say I didn't warn you.
*
Rodney opens the door to Radek’s room and steps into a white-washed war zone. There is paper everywhere, covering every surface and layering the floor; some pieces crinkle under his feet as his pace falters. He glances around, brow furrowing. “Radek?”
“I’m going to lose it.” The soft whisper barely reaches his ears, the sentence filled with such obvious despair that something instantly tightens in Rodney’s chest. One of the mounds of paper moves and then Radek is staring at him, something desperate in his eyes and his mouth twisted as though he’s tasted something bitter. “I’m going to lose it,” he repeats, as though that should mean something, and maybe it should.
“Lose what?” Rodney keeps his voice steady even as he does a quick survey of the room. Nothing seems out of place, well, except that the paper should all be in notebooks rather than scattered everywhere. Then he looks at Radek and sees something like bruises on his arms and hands, and before he remembers that Radek doesn’t like being touched, he strides forward and grabs one of Radek’s too-thin wrists (he makes a mental note to start making absolutely sure Radek eats his meals). “What did you do--” But now he can see that Radek’s bruises are actually equations, scribbled with a felt pen -- an endless stream of numbers that trail up and down his arms and hands and probably beneath his shirt as well.
“I have to get it all down before I forget,” Radek is almost pleading now, looking at him with half-mad, wounded eyes that are more beast than human. “But there’s nothing-- nothing--”
The epiphany hits Rodney like a lightning bolt or perhaps a bunch to the gut, because he feels almost nauseous as he squeezes Radek’s wrist gently and supplies, “Nothing to write on?” He hadn’t even noticed Radek was getting low on notebooks.
A smile of desperate relief softens the lines of strain in Radek’s face. “Yes, and I can’t-- can’t reach--” His free hand flutters vaguely at his body, and Rodney realizes that under the other man’s clothes equations have been written onto every expanse of skin that Radek could reach. Those blue eyes suddenly brighten behind his glasses. “But you--”
Radek pulls away from him, his too-thin wrist slipping out of Rodney’s grip, and a moment later, the felt-pen is hovering over Rodney’s still out-stretched hand, and Radek looks so painfully hopeful that Rodney cannot bring himself to say no, even when Radek presses the pen down a bit too forcefully on his skin.
Watching that bent head, Radek’s brow creased in concentration and his quick, deft hand scribbling down “the map” of equations, Rodney knows that there will be uniquely-shaped bruises on his skin later, when he washes the ink away. He can’t bring himself to care all that much, at least not enough to tug his arm out of Radek’s grasp. He should care, he knows, because Jackson will see the bruises and question him about them tomorrow.
Instead, he watches as some of the desperation leaves Radek’s frame, and he keeps still, letting the other man jot down number after number on his skin in an endless stream-of-consciousness. He almost forgets to breathe when Radek runs out of space on his arms and carelessly tugs at Rodney’s shirt, wanting it off, wanting more room to draw his map. Rodney can feel his heart stutter and perhaps even stop for a beat or two, and then it starts up again, quick and unsteady and loud in his ears.
Radek is gentler when he writes the equations on the expanse of Rodney’s chest and stomach, but that is somehow worse, because the soft press of the pen against his skin makes Rodney want to shiver or twist away from that damningly soft touch. He does neither, though he finally remembers to call out to the guard, who is standing in the doorway and peering in, expressionless.
The guard just nods and disappears from view when Rodney orders him to go to the store and get some notebooks. Now, as in right this second, damn it. He doesn’t want to think about Radek’s reaction should he run out of Rodney’s skin, so he doesn’t, retreats instead into the safety of his own head, where he can go over calculations from the day’s work and almost, almost forget that Radek is practically crouched in front of him, the pen pressing down light as a feather, soft as a lover’s caress.
It seems like forever and Radek is writing what feels like a five or maybe a six on his spine by the time the guard returns with an armful of brand-new notebooks. Radek almost leaps at him, eyes going wide and feverish with joy, and immediately he forgets all about Rodney and the guard.
Rodney watches for another moment, notes how the pen is almost a blur as Radek writes and writes and writes, the way Radek’s face has gone soft and his eyes distant. Then he picks up the shirt from where Radek had carelessly tossed it and retreats from the room, closing the door softly behind him so as not to break Radek’s concentration.
The crimson and gold striped wallpaper almost hurts his eyes after all that white, and he rubs at his eyes for a moment. “When dinner’s served, make sure he eats his meal. I don’t think he’s been remembering to eat.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard says, and his voice is just as empty as his face is.
When Rodney looks at him, there is nothing there, not a single flicker of emotion. Even his eyes are blank. Rodney resists the urge to grab a fistful of the guard’s hair and tug him down, twist him violently until his neck bent and Rodney could see if he has the infamous white scar on the back of his neck. The urge makes his hands ache and his fingers twitch; he tucks his hands in his pockets and says coldly, “See that you do.”
Later, he spends hours under the showerhead, scrubbing ineffectually at the equations that smudge but never quite come off -- he should have known better than to give Radek a pen with permanent ink, honestly. After a while, he gives up. The equations have smeared themselves into unreadable smudges, the stains on his now-raw skin making Rodney seem black-and-blue and damaged. He will have quite a time trying to explain them to Jackson tomorrow, but there is nothing else to be done, he supposes. He will just have to hope Jackson is amused by the incident.
He turns off the shower and leans against the tiled wall for a moment, closing his eyes as the feather-soft touch of pen against skin taunts him, a sense-memory which makes his chest ache again, the tightness from earlier returning. Rodney forces himself to breathe, to chase the sense-memory away with cold, unemotional calculations that Jackson will expect to be perfected by the morning.
After that night, he makes certain that Radek always has more notebooks than he could fill in an entire week, much less in a single day. Radek never runs out of paper again.
blue_raven and her showing me those clips from Cold Squad, though this scene was inspired by a picture rosewildeirish posted, involving pi and a tattoo. ...Course, this fic is horribly depressing. It's set in the SG-1 "Absolute Power" universe, where Daniel Jackson's taken over the world. Yeah. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Rodney opens the door to Radek’s room and steps into a white-washed war zone. There is paper everywhere, covering every surface and layering the floor; some pieces crinkle under his feet as his pace falters. He glances around, brow furrowing. “Radek?”
“I’m going to lose it.” The soft whisper barely reaches his ears, the sentence filled with such obvious despair that something instantly tightens in Rodney’s chest. One of the mounds of paper moves and then Radek is staring at him, something desperate in his eyes and his mouth twisted as though he’s tasted something bitter. “I’m going to lose it,” he repeats, as though that should mean something, and maybe it should.
“Lose what?” Rodney keeps his voice steady even as he does a quick survey of the room. Nothing seems out of place, well, except that the paper should all be in notebooks rather than scattered everywhere. Then he looks at Radek and sees something like bruises on his arms and hands, and before he remembers that Radek doesn’t like being touched, he strides forward and grabs one of Radek’s too-thin wrists (he makes a mental note to start making absolutely sure Radek eats his meals). “What did you do--” But now he can see that Radek’s bruises are actually equations, scribbled with a felt pen -- an endless stream of numbers that trail up and down his arms and hands and probably beneath his shirt as well.
“I have to get it all down before I forget,” Radek is almost pleading now, looking at him with half-mad, wounded eyes that are more beast than human. “But there’s nothing-- nothing--”
The epiphany hits Rodney like a lightning bolt or perhaps a bunch to the gut, because he feels almost nauseous as he squeezes Radek’s wrist gently and supplies, “Nothing to write on?” He hadn’t even noticed Radek was getting low on notebooks.
A smile of desperate relief softens the lines of strain in Radek’s face. “Yes, and I can’t-- can’t reach--” His free hand flutters vaguely at his body, and Rodney realizes that under the other man’s clothes equations have been written onto every expanse of skin that Radek could reach. Those blue eyes suddenly brighten behind his glasses. “But you--”
Radek pulls away from him, his too-thin wrist slipping out of Rodney’s grip, and a moment later, the felt-pen is hovering over Rodney’s still out-stretched hand, and Radek looks so painfully hopeful that Rodney cannot bring himself to say no, even when Radek presses the pen down a bit too forcefully on his skin.
Watching that bent head, Radek’s brow creased in concentration and his quick, deft hand scribbling down “the map” of equations, Rodney knows that there will be uniquely-shaped bruises on his skin later, when he washes the ink away. He can’t bring himself to care all that much, at least not enough to tug his arm out of Radek’s grasp. He should care, he knows, because Jackson will see the bruises and question him about them tomorrow.
Instead, he watches as some of the desperation leaves Radek’s frame, and he keeps still, letting the other man jot down number after number on his skin in an endless stream-of-consciousness. He almost forgets to breathe when Radek runs out of space on his arms and carelessly tugs at Rodney’s shirt, wanting it off, wanting more room to draw his map. Rodney can feel his heart stutter and perhaps even stop for a beat or two, and then it starts up again, quick and unsteady and loud in his ears.
Radek is gentler when he writes the equations on the expanse of Rodney’s chest and stomach, but that is somehow worse, because the soft press of the pen against his skin makes Rodney want to shiver or twist away from that damningly soft touch. He does neither, though he finally remembers to call out to the guard, who is standing in the doorway and peering in, expressionless.
The guard just nods and disappears from view when Rodney orders him to go to the store and get some notebooks. Now, as in right this second, damn it. He doesn’t want to think about Radek’s reaction should he run out of Rodney’s skin, so he doesn’t, retreats instead into the safety of his own head, where he can go over calculations from the day’s work and almost, almost forget that Radek is practically crouched in front of him, the pen pressing down light as a feather, soft as a lover’s caress.
It seems like forever and Radek is writing what feels like a five or maybe a six on his spine by the time the guard returns with an armful of brand-new notebooks. Radek almost leaps at him, eyes going wide and feverish with joy, and immediately he forgets all about Rodney and the guard.
Rodney watches for another moment, notes how the pen is almost a blur as Radek writes and writes and writes, the way Radek’s face has gone soft and his eyes distant. Then he picks up the shirt from where Radek had carelessly tossed it and retreats from the room, closing the door softly behind him so as not to break Radek’s concentration.
The crimson and gold striped wallpaper almost hurts his eyes after all that white, and he rubs at his eyes for a moment. “When dinner’s served, make sure he eats his meal. I don’t think he’s been remembering to eat.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard says, and his voice is just as empty as his face is.
When Rodney looks at him, there is nothing there, not a single flicker of emotion. Even his eyes are blank. Rodney resists the urge to grab a fistful of the guard’s hair and tug him down, twist him violently until his neck bent and Rodney could see if he has the infamous white scar on the back of his neck. The urge makes his hands ache and his fingers twitch; he tucks his hands in his pockets and says coldly, “See that you do.”
Later, he spends hours under the showerhead, scrubbing ineffectually at the equations that smudge but never quite come off -- he should have known better than to give Radek a pen with permanent ink, honestly. After a while, he gives up. The equations have smeared themselves into unreadable smudges, the stains on his now-raw skin making Rodney seem black-and-blue and damaged. He will have quite a time trying to explain them to Jackson tomorrow, but there is nothing else to be done, he supposes. He will just have to hope Jackson is amused by the incident.
He turns off the shower and leans against the tiled wall for a moment, closing his eyes as the feather-soft touch of pen against skin taunts him, a sense-memory which makes his chest ache again, the tightness from earlier returning. Rodney forces himself to breathe, to chase the sense-memory away with cold, unemotional calculations that Jackson will expect to be perfected by the morning.
After that night, he makes certain that Radek always has more notebooks than he could fill in an entire week, much less in a single day. Radek never runs out of paper again.
