Work Text:
Two Trains
by Victoria Chang
Kansas City and St. Louis
are 240 miles apart. A train
leaves Kansas City traveling
at 60 miles an hour; another
leaves St. Louis at the same time,
traveling at 40 miles an hour.
Question: which train will be
farther from St. Louis when
the trains meet? Does it matter
that the woman on the faster
train is married to an archaeologist
who has dug up an old coin?
That he spends his days and nights
in his office studying the girl
on the coin? Or that the woman
could have an overnight bag
at her feet and the lover not?
Answer: when the trains meet,
know if the girl on the coin is
barefoot, her legs dangling off
an old dock, or whether she is wearing
a skirt, or whether the lover on
the train has a suitcase with all of his
belongings under his seat.
Rodney runs awkwardly, he knows; he was teased enough as a child, but he also runs fast, not as fast as Ronon, of course, but who the hell does? Not even Teyla, and he's tickled to see Sheppard's knock-kneed stride is almost as awkward as his own. He's sweating, his hair matted to his forehead, and he doesn't dare take the time to glance behind him. Ronon can run almost as fast backwards as he can forwards; every now and then he spins in place and does so. The look on Ronon's face tells Rodney that he needs to keep running, and in fact needs to speed up. Ronon's eyes slide over Rodney, but they don't stick, and for that Rodney is grateful; he's pretty sure it means he isn't in immediate danger. Like: two-strides-away danger. Or maybe it means Ronon's given up on him.
Rodney runs faster.
His chest aches, his lungs feel like over-stretched rubber bands, and his throat is dry so when he breathes he makes a scary wheezing noise, like when he was a kid getting an asthma attack, except in reverse because he can get the CO2 out, he just can't seem to suck in enough O2 to make a difference. He's running on glycogen now, desperately anaerobic, frightened and exhilarated. Yeah, exhilarated, because there's the jumper, an ugly lumpy thing but beautiful in Rodney's eyes that are tearing from the cold and from being smacked in the face by a branch when he didn't duck quickly enough.
He flings himself inside, dodging out of Sheppard's way, who hits the controls with unnecessary force, but the jumper forgives the colonel and instantly they're rising, Rodney can see the trees shrink to twigs beneath them and yeah, there they are, "Assholes!" he bellows even though they can't hear him. "Barbarians!"
Sheppard is laughing, Teyla takes Rodney's hand to help Ronon pull him not ungently into his seat. "You tell 'em, Rodney," Sheppard says, smirking. Rodney ignores him, digging through his pockets to find a tissue to wipe away the sweat and dirt he can feel streaked on his face. He's still heaving for air.
"Assholes," he mutters this time. "Haven't they heard of peaceful explorers hoping to trade? Is that code for throw spears at us? Do we look dangerous? Never mind," he adds, because yeah, actually they do look dangerous, and by now, after hanging with these warriors for over a year, he probably looks dangerous through osmosis, or at least by association.
He studies Sheppard, happy to see his face is smeared with sweat, eyelashes beaded with it, and a red mark across his left cheek, circles of sweat under his arms and around his waist. Rodney finger combs his hair while studying his team leader's tousled mess; if Sheppard tries to twist his hair into Ronon-like dreadlocks, he, Rodney, will personally shave his head, and he bets Weir would help.
The image makes him chuckle to himself, which draws a full-bore smile from Sheppard. Teyla pats Rodney's shoulder, and Ronon says, "Gettin' faster, McKay."
"Well, if I am, it's out of terror; I had no idea what excellent exercise constant fear could be. We should put together a DVD of our greatest moments in terror, sell it back on Earth. You wouldn't believe what women in the United States will do to themselves for a trim figure."
"You an expert on women in the US?" Sheppard asks.
"One could hardly miss the messages embedded in the trashy television you so generously export to the world."
"Dial the gate, Rodney," is all Sheppard says, and just like that, they're back, they're home.
"Quick, quick," he says as they exit the puddle jumper. "I need to get back to the lab, but must shower; no use giving Kavanagh more ammunition, not that I actually care, but the grime from that planet is unpleasant."
"Colonel?" Weir asks. Rodney slows to a stop, but can't stop jiggling from foot to foot.
"Nothin' to report," Sheppard says, standing hipshot and looking amazingly good for someone with dirt smeared across his face. "They were less than interested in the possibility of trade."
"Would another approach be a possibility?" she asks.
"I sincerely doubt they have anything to offer us," Rodney says; he got sand in his shorts when he stumbled over that log en route back to the jumper and it's chafing. He wants to jump up and down to shake it out of his trouser legs, but restrains himself.
"They appear to need our help more than we need theirs," Teyla says, and Rodney rolls his eyes.
"Fine, fine," he says. "We'll offer them help and they'll be so grateful that they'll provide us an adequate supply of wooden spears. In the interim, I'd like to clean up and get back to work. Would that be possible?"
"Go, go, Rodney. We'll debrief later."
"Thank you," he says, and leaves them behind. Part of him wants to stay and listen to what they discuss, part of him wishes he'd stayed, but it's ridiculous to wish for what he cannot have, so he hurries to his quarters, showers, changes into blessedly sand-less underwear, and finally, finally returns to his lab, shouting, "Radek! Radek!" as he walks in even though he really has nothing to say to Radek, but he likes his company, and maybe he'll have something to report to Rodney.
When Rodney had been brought into the Stargate program, he'd spent several nights at the SGC reading up on the project. Again and again he found the phrase, "Stargate opened by Daniel Jackson," so that first night he logically assumed that Daniel Jackson was another astrophysicist, although he did wonder why he'd never heard of him before -- surely someone of that ability would have published, and Rodney read everything in his field, even the stupid things, if only for joke-fodder, but he'd never heard of this guy.
When he discovered that Daniel Jackson was in fact a linguist and an archaeologist, he literally groaned in dismay. How could a fucking social scientist open a stargate? What did "open" mean in this context? Did he simply translate the name accurately? No wonder Rodney had never heard of him, but he couldn't admit that; Daniel was much loved at the SGC, by soldiers and scientists alike, or so it seemed to Rodney, who admitted he wasn't much loved by anybody in or out of the SGC.
Now Colonel Carter was another matter entirely; she was an astrophysicist, a fine one, if a bit overly confident in her judgment, and oh, the idiotic things she'd done to override the protocols of the stargate, it was a miracle NORAD hadn't disappeared in a puff of smoke years ago. But Rodney was here now; he'd do his best to restrain her worst excesses, and she was a delight to look at, especially when telling him to suck a lemon.
He beamed after her. What an ass on that woman.
He remembered meeting Sam; he wasn't dead, after all, and he certainly remembered meeting Teal'c when he'd finally been recovered from the buffer, much to Rodney's surprise, and he remembered meeting Colonel O'Neill, because O'Neill's reputation had preceded him, plus his name had been all over the reports Rodney studied. How he'd gone to blow up the stargate on the other side, the side that proved to be Abydos, and had lied, nearly destroying his career in the military. He liked O'Neill, and feared him a little, which Rodney considered wise. Anyone who was willing to blow up an entire planet should be feared.
But he never could quite recall the first time he met Daniel Jackson. He'd read so much about him that he started to dream about him, difficult considering he'd never seen so much as a photo of him, so he finally succumbed to curiosity and read his files. A floppy-haired, youngish man with oversized glasses and a shy smile. "Well," Rodney had said; he did remember that much, but that wasn't really meeting Daniel, so that moment remained lost.
Here's what Rodney can't remember: "Sam!" he had bellowed as he walked into the lab; it smelt beautifully of coffee, fresh, strong, good coffee, and that stopped him dead; he froze, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. "Oh, Samantha," he said, opening his eyes, and there was Daniel Jackson. He resembled Sam: that was the first thing Rodney thought, before anything else, and then he recognized Daniel from the photos he'd found in the files. "Oh," he said.
"You must be Rodney McKay," Daniel had said, stretching out his hand. Rodney took it, surprised by the firmness. This was the lost child, the archaeologist who'd been laughed out of academia and into the most secret organization in the history of the modern world. "Good to meet you. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
Of course Rodney would.
Here's what Rodney can remember: Dr. Jackson quickly became Daniel, because he was Daniel and didn't stand on formalities; he'd never called Rodney Dr McKay except when he introduced him to visiting dignitaries, and when they were German he'd introduced Rodney as Herr Professor Doktor, which was even better to Rodney's thinking, why couldn't English use multiple honourifics? He and Daniel would both be Doctor Doctors, and that would be fun, plus one up over Sam, although she was Major Doctor or Doctor Major, neither he nor Daniel ever figured that out to their satisfaction.
He remembered standing in a tiny bathroom in a less-than-adequate hotel in Moscow, staring into the flyblown mirror, Daniel pressed next to him, and he remembered comparing the blue of their eyes; his paler; like water, Daniel said, como aqua, comme l'eau, Daniel's a more vivid blue, like his personality, not that Rodney would ever confess that to Daniel or to anyone else. Daniel hid behind glasses, refusing to try contacts, insisting they were impossible to wear through the stargate, they froze and popped out of his eyes, which didn't explain why he didn't wear them on Earth, but Rodney thought he knew, he knew that too many bad things had happened to Daniel over the years and the heavy metal frames and thick plastic lenses were a layer of protection against the world.
He remembered that Daniel spelled like a Brit, and measured temperatures in Celsius, and that he liked the Tragically Hip, even though he'd been born and raised in Egypt by American parents. He remembered that Daniel loved Sam as a sister, so Rodney could never express his lecherous thoughts about her without being punched in the arm. He remembered that Daniel had been married and lost his wife in the most horrific way possible, that she'd been killed by a trusted friend, and he remembered that Daniel not only forgave that friend but that he loved and respected him.
"Rodney," Weir's voice comes over the comm; he taps it on and grunts, continuing to type as quickly as he can, she's insisted he finish this stupid report before returning to his calculations. "Rodney, please come to my office."
"Not finished yet," he says. "I'll email it to you the minute it's ready."
"Yes, and thank you, I appreciate your diligence, but I need you to come to my office."
He takes a deep breath to argue, but Sheppard's voice interrupts. "Get your ass up here, Rodney. Don't make me send Ronon after you. Or Teyla," he adds before Rodney can speak.
"I'm on my way," he lies, continuing to type; he's almost finished, almost finished, and now he's finished, he hits "save" one last time and shoots it off in an email, smug that the report will arrive before he does. He glances longingly around the lab; so many projects that he finds so interesting, it would be hard to prioritize if he used desire as the criterion, but no, here in Atlantis the priorities are more easily set: will this keep us alive a bit longer, or that? Focus is achievable, one of his subordinates had once said, someone from Poland, he thought, anyway, English was her second language, but she was right, focus is achievable in the Pegasus Galaxy.
By now he's in the transporter, huffing a bit because he really is hurrying; as much as he rolls his eyes and excoriates the bureaucracy that's apparently required in any governmental agency like the stargate project, he also has learned to respect Elizabeth, enough that he craves her approval, so it's a delicate dance he performs for his ego: not to obey her too quickly but not to directly disobey. Strange how the word "obey" has even entered his vocabulary; he blames that on all his years with the US military, only with Sheppard has he started to relax a bit.
And now he's striding into Weir's office, "Yes, yes," he's saying as he turns the corner, "What is it that's so important you have to pull me away from ensuring the continuation of life as we know it?" or that's what he means to say but he can't, all words have left his mouth and apparently his brain because he just stands there, inside the door that Atlantis had slid open for him so obligingly, a trick he never tires of, and Daniel is smiling across the room at him, his eyes hidden behind his glinting glasses.
"Hey," Daniel says, and Rodney jerks his head up, not cool the way Sheppard does it when he greets someone, but enough to let Daniel know he's heard.
"Ah, Rodney. I know you know Dr. Jackson, and this is Colonel Mitchell, also from the SGC; they have important information for us about the political situation in the Milky Way," but as soon as Weir says "political" Rodney turns off his hearing and studies Daniel, who is slowly working his way through the crowded room to Rodney.
"Chocolate," Daniel whispers to him. "Coffee. Chocolate-covered coffee beans. We brought supplies, a truckload."
Rodney can't say what he wants to, and he certainly can't do what he wants to, so he lets Daniel do all the talking for now, and when Daniel squeezes his wrist, he feels his face redden a bit, and he knows that Sheppard is watching them, but he can hardly catch his breath, it's as if all that running around on alien worlds hasn't improved his lung capacity and running speed because he might pass out from lack of O2 right here in Elizabeth's nicely appointed office.
"Hey," Daniel says again, and then turns. "Dr. Weir, Colonel Mitchell is better qualified to discuss the military situation; perhaps Rodney could show me to my quarters?"
"Of course. Rodney, whichever guest quarters you think --"
"I'll take care of it," he answers promptly, and leaves, feeling Daniel at his heels, and they're nearly running, and he discovers he's laughing, and when they burst through the doors into the relative privacy of the long hallway they do run, Rodney passing the transporter, preferring to be chased by Daniel, laughing, spinning in place as if he were Ronon so he can run backwards and see Daniel's grin, hear his laugh, but the next transporter they approach he wills open and they dash inside, Daniel tumbling against him, and the doors close, and Daniel is here, he's in fucking Atlantis, in this tiny transporter, his hands on Rodney, his breath on Rodney's face, his mouth on Rodney's, his tongue hot against Rodney's, and Rodney groans with pleasure.
Rodney feels about seventeen years old, wild with hormones, ready to pop out of his trousers; he grabs Daniel's ass and pulls him hard against him; Daniel has biceps like a fucking longshoreman, he's been working out with Teal'c or something, and he's pressing Rodney against the warm walls of the transporter, and Rodney thinks he'll come right there from the pressure and angle of Daniel's cock against his.
Ronon builds the fire; they're camping out and Rodney is irritable because he could be working or at least sleeping in his comfortable bed, but no, they're camping out on this benighted world in the hopes of finding someone to trade with, or at least something to take back; even with the Daedalus and the occasional gate opening, they're still always concerned about food; what if something should happen and they were cut off again? It's a legitimate concern, one Rodney genuinely cares about, but shit shit shit, he hates sleeping offworld, especially in a galaxy populated by Wraith.
"Rodney, Teyla's speaking to you," Sheppard says, poking Rodney in the side in a particularly ticklish spot; how does he know that?
"Yes, yes? What can I do for you?"
"I wondered if you and Dr. Jackson were good friends," she asked.
"You would have no way of knowing since you took off with him to see Earth," Rodney says snottily, still bitter about the little time he'd had with Daniel the one time he'd returned to Earth. Sheppard pokes him again, less gently. "Hey! Okay, yes, we're great friends, but busy busy busy, you know how it goes."
Teyla gives him a long cool look, and Rodney blushes, grateful the firelight casts them all in a ruddy glow. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Yeah. We became friends on Earth."
"You sure disappeared with him," Ronon says, and now Rodney feels as red as a stoplight.
"Lots to discuss," he says. To his relief, Sheppard doesn't poke him again, although he immediately begins to worry what a lack of a poke could mean, whether it would be better to have been poked.
"You miss your friend," Teyla says kindly, and Rodney nods without looking up from the fire.
"He was supposed to be assigned to Atlantis," Sheppard tells Teyla, "but General O'Neill put the kibosh on it. Too valuable to waste here."
Rodney has a lot to say about that, but the words are forever locked away. O'Neill had actually told Rodney before he'd told Daniel that Daniel couldn't come. That had been as embarrassing a conversation as Rodney had ever had; he knew he wore his heart on his sleeve. Never could play poker, and he had stood in front of the general, nodding as if they were discussing the weather, certain that O'Neill was reading every thought right out of his head. "I'll tell Daniel next," O'Neill had finished. "Then, ah, then you guys go home."
"Yessir," Rodney had said, and wondered if he was suffering from a transient ischemic attack or if O'Neill had slugged him in the chest and he just couldn't remember it. He remained standing almost at attention until Daniel stuck his head in the lab. Daniel was better at hiding his feelings than Rodney, but he was red, too, and later Rodney discovered that Daniel's throat was sore and he was hoarse from bellowing his displeasure at O'Neill.
Here's what happened in the gateroom when Rodney left for Atlantis: Nothing.
Here's what happened in the men's room just prior to when Rodney left for Atlantis: Daniel had pushed Rodney into one of the stalls and kissed him so hard his teeth cut into Rodney's lip; he slid his hands into Rodney's shirt and down his trousers; he shoved his knee between Rodney's legs and thrust up against him. Neither man was hard but both were anxious, breathing like freight trains. Rodney's hands were as cold as ice, his heart pounding like a bass drum, his breath so ragged that he was light-headed. Daniel said things to him they'd never said before, but Rodney couldn't hear, he wouldn't hear, he had work to do and a galaxy to get to, so he kissed Daniel quiet, holding him so tightly he hoped he'd bruise Daniel's arms and hips, he left Daniel's lips swollen and bit hard on his collarbone.
When they finally stumbled out of the men's room into the hallway, General O'Neill was standing outside, arms crossed, looking even more irritable than usual, but he said nothing to either of them, just tapped his watch and then walked to the gateroom. They followed more slowly, straightening their clothes, and just before they walked into the enormous room, smoke like dry ice wafting from the gate, Daniel squeezed Rodney's hand, and that was it for over a year.
"Gets lonely," Sheppard said after they'd crawled into their tent. Ronon and Teyla were still up, sipping the Athosian tea that Ronon had become addicted to, much to Rodney's disgust.
"Huh," Rodney said, trying to unpick the knot in his laces so he could kick off his boots and climb into his sleeping bag.
"Just, it's a long way home."
Success. He pulled off the boot, and then sat cross-legged rubbing his foot; Daniel had done that the night before he'd returned to Earth on the Daedalus, rubbed Rodney everywhere, scolding Rodney for not taking better care of himself, leaving written instructions for routines Rodney should start in the weight room, "in addition to all that aerobic exercise you claim you're getting," he'd said just before pushing Rodney back onto the bed, straddling him, and riding him into the first of three orgasms that night.
"Rodney?"
"What? What are you babbling about, Colonel?"
"I'd like you to look at me while I'm talking to you." Rodney sighed dramatically and raised his eyes. "I said, it gets lonely."
"Yes, yes, I heard you, I agree, you're lonely, I'm lonely, the entire Pegasus Galaxy is a Lonely-hearts Club; do you propose I write a marriage algorithm so we can pair up and live happily ever after?"
"What? No, I mean. Jesus, Rodney, you're such a pain in the ass."
"How long have you known me and you're just realizing this? I'm sure I told you when we met of my reputation. Can we go to sleep now?"
"Yeah, I wish you would."
"Well, thank you."
Rodney rubbed his other foot and then finally slid into the sleeping bag; it was cold, but he knew it would warm up quickly. He sighed, less dramatically this time and more with relief and even happiness that, if he had to sleep out, at least he was in a warm bag in a snug tent with a highly-competent colonel less than a metre away from him.
He'd never camped out with Daniel. They spent all their time indoors: in labs, in the gateroom, in museums, in restaurants, in coffeehouses, in bed. Theirs was an indoor relationship. He tried to imagine sharing a tent under the Pegasus stars with Daniel, but it was impossible. He closed his eyes and began to calculate how far away Daniel was from him by now: Three days on the Daedalus at hyperspeed . . .
"Thank you, Colonel," he said suddenly.
"Uh, you're welcome. What for?"
"You were trying to be nice. Thank you. Not many people -- well, anyway. I was a pain in the ass earlier." And a very nice ass it is, Rodney could imagine Daniel saying, but Sheppard wasn't Daniel and wouldn't agree. Although why shouldn't he? Rodney was proud of his ass, considered it his best feature.
"Just. I got the feeling. I'm not asking, you know, but it was obvious that you guys are, ah, good friends. And Teyla's right; it's obvious that you miss your friend."
Fuck. Rodney rolled onto his side and tried to see Sheppard in the pale light flickering into the tent from Ronon's fire. "What are you saying?"
"Nothing, really. Just that I get lonely for my friends, too. It's hard to be so far away from the people you love."
Rodney studied Sheppard. He was tempted to ask who Sheppard loved, but he knew enough to know that would be a hurtful question, and as annoying as Sheppard could be, Rodney didn't want to hurt him. "It is," he finally said, and rolled onto his back. "It's a fucking nightmare."
"Yeah," Sheppard said.
Rodney closed his eyes again. "Tomorrow will be better," he said, knowing it was untrue, knowing he was offering false hope and false comfort, but he'd keep running after Ronon and Teyla, knowing Sheppard was just behind him, and he'd keep practicing with Teyla's batons and with Sheppard's guns; he'd keep working long hours in the lab with Radek and the others; and he'd keep living for the day the gate would open whenever he wanted, just like sliding open a door in Atlantis, and he could come and go as he wished, just another transporter, and his friends would live in two galaxies, and he fell asleep wondering if Daniel left Earth on Tuesday at two and he left Atlantis on the previous Monday at eleven, how far from the gate would they be when they met, if they'd meet, and if they'd meet, how far from each other would they be at last, at last, at last.