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fandomocweeklyFandom: Stargate Atlantis (adjacent)
Characters: Original Female Character, Rodney McKay, offhanded mentions of others
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence. Drinking.
Word Count (optional): 1089
Notes: Can be read either shippy or non-shippy!
Her research (Mentor? Advisor? Partner-in-crime? Friend?) held the papers, flipping through them. He paused for a full minute on one page (a new record for slowest reading, she thought), mouthing something to himself. Then, turning to a whiteboard, sketching out the equations - only stopping when the marker squeaked its last breath, the red ink hollow then nothing. Muttering under his breath, he grabbed a black pen and began where he ended. He stood back, looking it over. When he turned around, his eyes - baby blue, containing the morning sky, the universe, and all its untold mysteries - sparkled with newfound wonder.
"You're right!"
--
When she didn't move, he only said "We all do."
And at that, she walked out the door.
--
Jeltsje held onto a microphone.
The stage below her shuddered with bass, chrome and steel glinting off of the sunlight. It was hard to see the crowd; she didn't want to. No one there was cheering for her. They wanted her to fail, for her to give them an excuse to assault the stage, drag her off, and ritually execute her for failing to provide the correct dopamine levels they needed for thriving - as was apparently part of their society.
Well. She wouldn't give them a reason, as much as she wanted to. She grit her teeth and continued belting out lyric after lyric, songs ingrained on her heart she never wanted to voice to the people she knew, songs about how dark life was, how she wanted to die, how the world would be better off without her in it because despite her best efforts all she was and all she ever could amount to could be summed up with a man at a bar telling her drunk ass she should get lost, and-
She made eye contact with someone in the crowd.
Baby blue eyes.
Like broken robin's eggs, or the soft blue sky of a mid-morning funeral service, staring up at her, forgetting his mission because of what she was saying about herself.
The next words choked their way out of her throat, and the crowd went wild.
--
Jeltsje held onto hope.
That despite the prognosis - despite watching him fight a war in his mind, seizures wracking his body every hour with his only response to demand amphetamines in a voice not entirely his own, to bark orders at people who had just as much of an idea of what was happening as he did - he'd pull through. He always did. Ok, well, maybe that one alternative universe he died prematurely, saving the people around him, but that was there, and this was her universe, and damn it she could be selfish for once and scream at the stars above to just give her this one thing.
"No, you've got it wrong," she barked, snapping her fingers at a harried nurse in a familiar, inherited way, "just give him five more minutes under this current dose and then drug him up, okay? He's almost got it figured out," she handed the scientist a fresh red dry erase marker as he swore at the squeaks the black one made, "just have a little bit of faith in him and his massive ego."
"But-"
"Let the man concentrate." Jeltsje whispered. "Please."
--
Jeltsje held onto a sheet of paper.
It wasn't as glamorous as the previous ones. No ink and eraser smudges, no equations with Latin and Greek symbols alike, no turn-As and Q.E.Ds, and only a single polysyllabic word in sight. It was printed on the best cardstock the local "office supply store" (read: an aisle in a dingy grocery store that thought remodeling was a fad from the 80s) had in mind.
"Jeltsje Askelson, you have been promoted to full time teacher in science and math, grades 9-12."
She blinked. "Is this... Casagranda, is this really-"
"Yes, dear." An older woman, middle aged with overdone makeup, beamed at her. The others on the committee, mostly men of varying ages, all nodded their rare approval. "The board has decided, after your performance this year and especially after how you handled yourself during our students' times of crisis, that this is not only well deserved, but," she cleared her throat at seeing some men shift uncomfortably, "far overdue."
Each syllable was like a song to the young woman. It might not have been glamorous - hell, it might not even pay well - but she was carving out a life for herself.
A life she wanted to live.
And she even had someone who she could tell the news to. And not just him, either: her niece, her students, her bandmates from her past life.
Tears sprang to her emerald eye, and she hid behind the sheet of paper. "Thank you," she choked out, "thank you so much. Thank you for not giving up on me."
Characters: Original Female Character, Rodney McKay, offhanded mentions of others
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence. Drinking.
Word Count (optional): 1089
Notes: Can be read either shippy or non-shippy!
Jeltsje held onto a ream of papers.
Eager; her knuckles white, fingernails leaving indents in the marks alongside hastily scribbled red pen over pencil over black pen. The papers were white once upon a time, and now they told of stories only written in the stars. Proven hypotheticals. The exact mass a spheroid would have to be to come apart in a glorious cascade of carbon and silica to crown the binary planet system. The exact mass any spheroid would have to be. Knowing she was right was enough of a drug to keep her upright, a counterweight to the almost black bags under her eyes, so heavy, if only she could close them for a second-
Her research (Mentor? Advisor? Partner-in-crime? Friend?) held the papers, flipping through them. He paused for a full minute on one page (a new record for slowest reading, she thought), mouthing something to himself. Then, turning to a whiteboard, sketching out the equations - only stopping when the marker squeaked its last breath, the red ink hollow then nothing. Muttering under his breath, he grabbed a black pen and began where he ended. He stood back, looking it over. When he turned around, his eyes - baby blue, containing the morning sky, the universe, and all its untold mysteries - sparkled with newfound wonder.
"You're right!"
--
Jeltsje held onto a shot glass.
She knew each sip was killing braincells; it inspired her to down another. The counter was sticky. Not sticky like the dining hall's perfectly polished tables, nor the strange residue that always seemed to be present in her labs. Sticky like one too many others washed ashore, on this stupor filled island of bad choices. Who was she kidding, any allegories like that were wasted. The place had blinking LED lights mimicking neons, for crying out loud, they were too cheap to get the good ambiance!
When she didn't move, he only said "We all do."
And at that, she walked out the door.
--
Jeltsje held onto a microphone.
The stage below her shuddered with bass, chrome and steel glinting off of the sunlight. It was hard to see the crowd; she didn't want to. No one there was cheering for her. They wanted her to fail, for her to give them an excuse to assault the stage, drag her off, and ritually execute her for failing to provide the correct dopamine levels they needed for thriving - as was apparently part of their society.
Well. She wouldn't give them a reason, as much as she wanted to. She grit her teeth and continued belting out lyric after lyric, songs ingrained on her heart she never wanted to voice to the people she knew, songs about how dark life was, how she wanted to die, how the world would be better off without her in it because despite her best efforts all she was and all she ever could amount to could be summed up with a man at a bar telling her drunk ass she should get lost, and-
She made eye contact with someone in the crowd.
Baby blue eyes.
Like broken robin's eggs, or the soft blue sky of a mid-morning funeral service, staring up at her, forgetting his mission because of what she was saying about herself.
The next words choked their way out of her throat, and the crowd went wild.
--
Jeltsje held onto hope.
That despite the prognosis - despite watching him fight a war in his mind, seizures wracking his body every hour with his only response to demand amphetamines in a voice not entirely his own, to bark orders at people who had just as much of an idea of what was happening as he did - he'd pull through. He always did. Ok, well, maybe that one alternative universe he died prematurely, saving the people around him, but that was there, and this was her universe, and damn it she could be selfish for once and scream at the stars above to just give her this one thing.
"No, you've got it wrong," she barked, snapping her fingers at a harried nurse in a familiar, inherited way, "just give him five more minutes under this current dose and then drug him up, okay? He's almost got it figured out," she handed the scientist a fresh red dry erase marker as he swore at the squeaks the black one made, "just have a little bit of faith in him and his massive ego."
"But-"
"Let the man concentrate." Jeltsje whispered. "Please."
--
Jeltsje held onto a sheet of paper.
It wasn't as glamorous as the previous ones. No ink and eraser smudges, no equations with Latin and Greek symbols alike, no turn-As and Q.E.Ds, and only a single polysyllabic word in sight. It was printed on the best cardstock the local "office supply store" (read: an aisle in a dingy grocery store that thought remodeling was a fad from the 80s) had in mind.
"Jeltsje Askelson, you have been promoted to full time teacher in science and math, grades 9-12."
She blinked. "Is this... Casagranda, is this really-"
"Yes, dear." An older woman, middle aged with overdone makeup, beamed at her. The others on the committee, mostly men of varying ages, all nodded their rare approval. "The board has decided, after your performance this year and especially after how you handled yourself during our students' times of crisis, that this is not only well deserved, but," she cleared her throat at seeing some men shift uncomfortably, "far overdue."
Each syllable was like a song to the young woman. It might not have been glamorous - hell, it might not even pay well - but she was carving out a life for herself.
A life she wanted to live.
And she even had someone who she could tell the news to. And not just him, either: her niece, her students, her bandmates from her past life.
Tears sprang to her emerald eye, and she hid behind the sheet of paper. "Thank you," she choked out, "thank you so much. Thank you for not giving up on me."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 05:12 pm (UTC)