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texasdreamer01Rating: Teen
Fandoms: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: Rodney McKay, AR-1
Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, N Things, Character Study, Character Development, Angst, Epistolary, Background Characters - Freeform, Episode Coda, Episode: s01e01-02 Rising [Stargate Atlantis], Episode: S01E17 - Letters from Pegasus, The Siege (Stargate Atlantis), Episode: s03e14: Tao of Rodney, Episode: s04e09 - Miller's Crossing, Episode: s04e13 - Quarantine, Episode: s05e13 - Inquisition, Discussions of Suicide
Summary:
"Qui plume a, guerre a. - Voltaire"
None of them know anything about Atlantis, if it's there at all like they think it is, if the gate will even connect and then also deliver them in one piece, what they'll see when they get there - how long they'll survive at all. But the SGC is making it a requirement to leave some sort of contact for a next of kin, something everyone working there has to do, gate team or no, and the expedition is in that tentative middle ground between the two.
It felt… disingenuous to type this on a computer, impersonal and distant. Jeannie was the only one who would receive this, and despite their furious parting, he had hesitated over his keyboard. So here he sat, pen in hand - the nice one, the one he had kept a hold of since his last doctoral program, that needed its cartridge periodically refilled and was prone to leaking if he had it at the wrong angle.
The paper wasn't even nice, and he sat there, blinking at the printer paper that was purchased in bulk, a handful of sheets laid neatly in front of him. He couldn't reduce this down to a proof, formulaic, and neither could he tell her why he was writing this. The juxtaposition felt a little cruel, but he couldn't bear the thought of some random, American service member showing up at her door with nothing in hand but a flag and bland words of consolement.
Lifting his pen, placing it once more upon the paper, he gusted out a sigh. From the beginning, then.
Dear Jeannie,
If you are reading this...
He hadn't sent it along with the rest of the videos and messages that they had prepared to send back to Earth, or even the one video he had made and then immediately decided it was too mortifying to let anyone see. Why would he? His last message had already been written long before this, before they had even stepped foot onto the embarkation ramp in the SGC.
But he felt that, at some point, Jeannie would need… something. Maybe one day she would be allowed to know about this - she was certainly intelligent enough for it, being recruited to the SGC, even if she had insisted on dropping her entire academic career to have a family. Whether anyone would ever come to the Pegasus Galaxy and discover their fate, he didn't know, and the probability of it was laughably low.
A part of him insisted to live in hope, however, even with the axe of the Wraith's arrival looming over their heads. So he sucked in a breath, plugging the adapter in to his computer that would allow him to encode some information on a crystal. It wasn't anything important - he had checked - but it was a little more indelible than the USB he would be taping to it, locking both of them into a secured box in his lab.
The security was shit, objectively speaking, but he had to think ahead. Just in case.
Scrubbing at his eyes and blinking away the spots, he rested his hands over the keyboard, staring at the word document on his screen.
Dear Jeannie,
So you might have already gotten my other letter, but…
His hands ached. Typing an entire defense for Elizabeth had been well worth the effort, but it had taken its pound of flesh just the same as everything else he had done the past week. Meditation was advancing at a mediocre pace - he had figured out rather quickly that it had been Elizabeth's idea, and John was being a good sport about all of it, coaching him through the paces of Ascension on the slim chance it would work.
He had already calculated the odds; those sorts of things were never in his favour.
Withholding a sigh only because it would aggravate the off-again, on-again burgeoning migraine he was saddled with, he wondered what he should do. They didn't have wills, not really - all of that was standardized paperwork. Just another form, check a box here, fill in a line there. Maybe he would say something to John about that, give some final, last wishes about what to do.
But people relied on him to figure things out, which meant that was what he would do. Radek had been left with as many formulae as he could dredge up with his newly-heightened intelligence, Teyla had his good-bye, and Ronon had one less burden from his past. John would… John could do anything, even survive this.
There were lines of text on his computer, and for a moment he debated the brief lunacy of a video recording. Jeannie certainly knew enough about his job, now, and seeing Atlantis wouldn't be shocking to her, nor something that would end up so heavily redacted that the video would look caricatured if it wasn't kept in some archival box in an SGC basement for the next seventy-odd years.
Quirking his lips in a brief smirk, he blinked away the burning in his eyes, feeling the heaviness of his limited time. It was, at least, one more task he could do for everyone and relieve them of the dubious honour.
Dear Jeannie,
I'm glad you were able to see all of this, at least once. It's a brilliant opportunity, and…
The fear would never wear off, he thought. Not the cold dousing of it, a chill that permeated his heart even as he forced the outward effects of it into a little mental box every time it cropped up, needing to win the race against time. Todd had agreed to help, a debt of gratitude he didn't think he'd ever truly be able to pay off.
Would never begin to, if he let John have his way.
It was anger, too, that was wrapped around that fear, both threatening to strangle any sense out of him. His hands trembled as he flipped the cap off the camera, knowing that he needed to be quick in order to subvert whatever inane plan John likely had in mind but needing also to- to say one last goodbye. To someone. To him.
If he failed… no, he couldn't think like that. He shook his head, bolstering himself with a quick inhale of breath before carefully positioning the camera and pressing the recording button.
"Hi," He said, smiling. It fell off of his face quickly, and he resisted the urge to follow it by ducking his head, "So- so. Don't be mad, okay? I'm sorry, but… this isn't an order you can give, John. Not this time. There's only one way out of this, and I don't expect anyone else to do it."
He paused, exhaling shakily, "This is my fault. If I hadn't- anyway. I can fix this. It's what I do, right? I fix things. Just… just promise me something."
The blinking light was his only audience, and he let himself imagine it that way, instead of whatever face John would be making when he found this tape. Tilting his head up, knowing how it would be perceived, that he had made this exact action a hundred times before and hoping the familiarity would help, he said, "Take care of Jeannie, alright?"
He waited for just a beat, letting his own words settle in himself, then reached forward, stopping the recording with a click of a button. There wasn't time to wait, anymore. Digging his keycard out of his pocket, he exited the room.
It had been close. Knowing that Atlantis still had protocols in place that could physically divide the entire expedition and leave them helpless did more than rankle him - it made him realize how much faith he had put into the city's programming. That had been a mistake, and one they had nearly all paid dearly for.
After finding out how they escaped death by a thread once more, with no other threat than their own ignorance, saved by the equally as intangible improbability of John finding a way to save them when he sat there and could accomplish nothing, he found himself determined to account for that, as well. It found him once more staring at a word document, the impartiality of text settling some of his nerves.
Nobody would have ever known, is the kicker. The Daedalus would have arrived to a city full of dead people, so innocuous and presumably a Pandora's box that might relegate them to a permanent stay in the Pegasus galaxy from some disease they couldn't bring back to the Milky Way galaxy and wouldn't have the facilities on board for a full epidemiological investigation.
He grit his teeth, deleting the brief sentence he had up and deciding to start over again. The ring that Katie rejected sat heavily in his pocket, a weight he couldn't bring himself to part with at the moment, his sister's words ringing in his ears. If there was anything that he had learned today, it was to stick with what he was good at, and focus on that.
Dear Jeannie,
My job has a funny sense of humor. Well, not funny, per se, but…
Learning the diagnosis, after knowing there was something wrong, but unable to pinpoint precisely what, felt like the crudest of sucker punches. It was a struggle to pull together enough presence of mind, his mind feeling like it was leaking out of his ears, a sieve that was rusting in real time.
He could already see what he was losing first. The innocuous things, background details he took for granted. Give it a day or two, he knew, and people's faces would start to look like a stranger's, their names escaping him until everything was so foreign that he would inevitably fail to grapple with the terror that would accompany it. The feeling wasn't a new one, but it had been rigidly compartmentalized over the course of venturing out on his own and obtaining several degrees - there would always be a new scenery, a new background, and a new coterie of peers and morons to contend with.
Now, though, when he had finally begun to settle and call somewhere home, it was being ripped away from him an hour at a time. He was already piling on the cups of coffee, hoping with a degree of spite that the caffeine might poison the parasite and leave the rest of his mind intact, if it wasn't some Goa'uld-type situation that would end up killing him, anyway.
Hah. At least that would be a quick death. He reminded himself to speak to Ronon about that, to- to arrange something, and then allowed himself a brief moment to curl up where he sat on his bed, hands over his face just to stifle the wave of grief that he might not remember to speak to Ronon.
Breathing in and out the way he had been taught, he calmed himself enough to wipe roughly at his face, suppressing the hiccup that would only devolve into a sob if he let it. His laptop was next to him, and he grabbed it, making himself face the truth of the situation before he forgot to do this, too.
Dear Jeannie,
It's been a while, hasn't it? I know they called for you, because you're my next of kin, but…
Calling Atlantis, and by extension, the Pegasus galaxy, home was one thing. Having it hammered in by way of kidnapping and a farce of a trial had been a deeply unpleasant realization that mere skill in scientific endeavours would not be enough to win the war against the Wraith. No, they had to win the war against the rest of this galaxy, too, as the outsiders nobody seemed to want to understand.
He clenched his hands again, aware of how narrowly they had escaped a pitiful, hand-washing excuse of an execution. Maybe Elizabeth could have outargued their jailers with unenviable finesse, and maybe Sam could have thumped logic down on them with a resolute pragmatism honed by years of experience in SG-1, but Woolsey had accurately identified the source and meaning of the corruption they faced down. The man's handling of it had been crude, but there had been nothing but a thin veneer of polish on the horseshit to begin with.
Maybe the man was right, and this boded well as a turning point against the Wraith - if they could convince the Coalition, the Coalition would do all the pertinent arguing for them. He swallowed down the bile that accompanied the fear that they had yet another thing to be wary of whenever they ventured off Atlantis. Kidnapping was one thing, sure, he could understand what drove people to that, but to be forced to live an entire lifetime in abject helplessness, knowing what was going on in the wider galaxy?
That was something he couldn't abide by. It was what drove him once more to his laptop, opening up the word program and wondering what he could possibly put down, this time.
After a moment, he decided to hell with it, putting down his thoughts. Maybe he would outlive his own letter, but in complete ignorance of the fact. Either way, this was something he could do, and that slim actions was something he could abide by.
Dear Jeannie,
You know the saying "be careful what you wish for"? Well, as it turns out…
Woolsey had re-instituted rest days, on a regimented schedule that he found actually helped him better maintain all of his departments. Once he had firmly established a myriad of safety protocols - idiot-proofing, really - he could even, mostly, enjoy his own days off.
It wasn't quite the union schedule Radek had been lobbying for, but compared to working 'round the clock, he would take it.
Teyla had been pleased to make meditation with him a regular occurrence, and he liked to think that it was because out of the rest of the team, he neither fell asleep nor treated it with superficial levels of ignorance. She had a knack for making it meaningful, which helped him gather and organize his thoughts a hell of a lot better than the periodical visits to the shrink that was supposed to help alleviate the burdens of duty, or whatever it was that was penciled into his psychiatric profile.
Often enough, they took the time after group training sessions as a team, a good way to wind down from the physical activity and let his thoughts spool out in a way that let the jitters of physical activity drain out of him. A part of him knew that Teyla would tease him for looking forward to sitting with her in a silent room, but equally he cherished this as much as racing cars with John or doing whatever came to Ronon's mind. Probably Teyla already knew this - she was smart like that.
After bidding her goodbye for the day and parting ways, he wondered what else he should do with his day. The lab was unappealing for the moment, and his mind was still lingering in that slow, unhurried pace.
Something pulls him back to his room, instead of heading to the mess for a meal. He's learned to follow this instinct, even if it does carry the tint of his ill-fated, lucky attempt at ascension. It makes him hum to himself, following the thread as he waves himself into his room, letting his feet carry him to his personal laptop.
Working like this is an infrequent occurrence, too much of his life relying up on the stringent adherence of logic in order to keep everyone, anyone, around him alive. It's a slow process to learn and take it easy - not the little physical indulgences of life, but to accept that his best is the best he can do regardless of success. The thought makes him breathe out a steadying sigh, lungs still acclimated to the soothing presence of Teyla, and he grabs a granola bar from his drawer, booting up his laptop.
The desktop stares at him, a generic background that draws no strong reaction out of him, so defaults to a vague sort of soothing his typically-overstressed mind can interpret. With a finger hovering over the trackpad, he debates whether to think, or… not-think.
He frowns at himself, curiosity winning out. Not-thinking it is.
Writing to Jeannie had become second-nature by now, but it isn't an email waiting to be queued up at the next dial-out that makes his fingers itch. Navigating to his file explorer, he goes to the under-sized folder that holds everything that, really, is truly personal.
Past letters - and recordings - sit there in neat, numerically-arranged order. On a whim, he opens up a new word document, the blinking of the cursor not nearly as anxiety-inducing as it usually is.
Dear Jeannie,
It's always wonderful to hear from you. Yes, even when we're disagreeing. I just wanted to say…
Notes:
The 8-track tape (formally Stereo 8; commonly called eight-track cartridge, eight-track tape, and eight-track) is a magnetic-tape sound recording technology that was popular[2] from the mid-1960s to the early 1980s, when the compact cassette, which pre-dated the 8-track system, surpassed it in popularity for pre-recorded music.[3][4][5]
The format was commonly used in cars and was most popular in the United States and Canada and, to a lesser extent, in the United Kingdom.[3][4][6] One advantage of the 8-track tape cartridge was that it could play continuously in an endless loop, and did not have to be "flipped over" to play the entire tape. After about 80 minutes of playing time, the tape would start again at the beginning. Because of the loop, there is no rewind. The only options the consumer has are play, fast forward, record, and program (track) change.[7]
[...]
The cartridge's dimensions are approximately 5.25 by 4 by 0.8 inches (13.3 cm × 10.2 cm × 2.0 cm). The magnetic tape is played at 3–3/4 inches per second (twice the speed of a cassette), is wound around a single spool, is about 0.25 inches (0.64 cm) wide and contains 8 parallel tracks. The player's head reads two of these tracks at a time, for stereo sound. After completing a program, the head mechanically switches to another set of two tracks, creating a characteristic clicking noise.[9]
- 8-track cartridge, Wikipedia
Summary translation: "To hold a pen is to be at war."
This was originally meant to be a series of snapshots of Rodney making recordings, but alas, the narrative meter preferred an epistolary format to end each scene (mostly), instead. It's a riff off of 5+1, which the title reflects, because there's eight scenes. I suppose this makes it a 7+1?
At any rate, the more I look at various episodes - such as the ones referenced here - the more I realize that Rodney is one of those very, very self-reliant types, to the point where such a virtue can teeter into a flaw. Looking into how that balances out, and Rodney's own self-awareness of this aspect of himself, made for an interesting plot. Why is Rodney self-reliant to such a strong degree? Well, there's a few ideas out there, both in canon and fanon, but that's a story for another time. Here, though, I wanted to illustrate my thoughts on how that struggle might pan out, and how that would influence his decisions and actions across many different scenarios.