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sga_flashfic2005-07-21 10:57 pm
sinden.livejournal.com) wrote in sga_flashfic2005-07-21 10:57 pm
Entry tags:
fidelis by sin [amnesty challenge/abandonment]
title: fidelis
author: sin
pairing: markham/stackhouse
notes: set post-Rising.
With huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
julad, hnix and coreopsis for the beta and setting my tenses straight and to nemoinis for the original bunny.
fidelis
They're all the worse for wear. Worse for the Wraith, worse for Pegasus, and Markham wonders if they'll be able to come back from this.
He expected danger. They all did. It went with the territory of working at the SGC. New planets were nothing special, pick a day and they were probably a million light years away from where they started that morning. The technology was really nothing new, just on a grander scale than they were used to. There was a niggling sense of warmth that came with being able to walking into a room and lights turned on spontaneously to welcome him. Aliens weren't all that strange either. After Cheyenne Mountain it felt a little like old home week to find bad guys to match the Goa'uld. It would have been a bit anti-climactic to come all this way -- on a potential one way trip -- and find nothing more threatening than wildlife.
What they hadn't expected was to be so easily outmatched. They'd stood up to the Goa'uld, it shouldn't have been that difficult, but nothing had prepared them for the race that had almost beaten the Ancients.
It was almost like he could see the shellshock sinking in. Here less than a day and already they were rudderless, Sumner dead and an Air Force puke in charge. Not that Sheppard hadn't shown some smarts, but he wasn't a Marine. His code was different.
But maybe not so much if the scuttlebutt going around was true.
Sumner had been a tightass, by the book that he loved to hit you with, bastard of a commander but Markham couldn't imagine what it would've been like to watch his life being sucked away until the only help you could give was a bullet. It was different when someone got snaked. They weren't there anymore, not so you could see, so it was like killing a stranger with a familiar face. But being witness to it all just draining away --
Markham felt ice shiver down his spine. It didn't bear thinking about because that way led to places he really did not want to go. He was a Marine, dammit. Semper fi. Running into harm's way was his job.
He knew it was stupid, would be deemed idiotic by most of the brains trust that they'd come with to explore the city -- Marines were jarheads, were grunts, all they were good for was cannon fodder -- well, fuck them. They were still head in the clouds, 'look at the shiny technology!', out of touch with the realities of the situation. Familiarity might breed contempt for them, but for him, it was a reminder of all the things he'd sworn to uphold. It was the bedrock on which he stood. Hoo-ya.
"Sergeant."
Markham turned, back straightening instinctively. No salute, but still respectful. Major Sheppard looked even more the worse for wear then the rest of them, but Markham thought that was to be expected. Air Force. Like they know what spit and shine is. "Sir?"
"You have the gene, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'll expect you in the jumper bay at 0600. You're going to learn to fly."
Markham blinked and watched Sheppard walk away, trying to form a response. He was a Marine, he jumped out of things, he didn't fly them. That was what the guys who didn't want to get their hands dirty did. It was --
Aiming a mock salute at Sheppard's rapidly retreating back, he muttered. "Well, fuck."
He was going to get so much shit from his squad for this.
--
The resignation lasts for about as long as it takes to get to his quarters, his head full of possible scenarios, but the sight of Stackhouse sitting on his rack in the corner blows the images clear.
On first glance there's nothing that should cause the frisson of alarm that's skating along his skin, raising the hair on his arms. Marine. Bed. Nothing odd there. They'd been doubled up because of lack of space, so it's not like he's surprised to see Stackhouse. It's how Markham's seeing him, the posture raises his hackles, the slump of spine belying the almost prayerful hang of head and hands. But the real kicker is the ragged rise and fall of Stackhouse's back, the way the muscles stand out in relief under his t-shirt.
Worse for wear? This is stretched to breaking point.
When he drops his gear on his own bed, Stackhouse doesn't even look up, but Markham knows he's heard. Stackhouse is just trying to keep it together, to stop himself from flying apart. It hangs in the room like a summer storm and all Markham can think is that if he doesn't do something, he's going to be fighting Stackhouse to stop him from getting his gun.
Not going to happen. They've lost enough people today, they don't need to lose anymore.
He's not sure about the best approach, not here. At home, back on Earth, they'd round up the rest of the platoon to take care of Stackhouse's squad, especially the fire teams that lost men. There'd be booze, war stories and some hastily hidden tears -- but it's not something they can indulge in here. They're at war and due diligence has to come first, but this is a brother Marine, in pain and most probably doubting himself.
More importantly, this is his bunkmate and friend.
His initial thought is to offer support with a hand on Stackhouse's shoulder, but something steers him elsewhere.
Stackhouse's hair is like velvet under his fingers and Markham almost jerked his hand back when Stackhouse gulps at the touch. It's a harsh sound, full of pain and choked tears. "Stacks --"
He doesn't continue, doesn't need to, because Stackhouse's shoulders are shaking and his hands are grabbing at Markham's jacket, pulling him closer until Stackhouse can press his face tight against Markham's belly. He doesn't begrudge Stackhouse the release, but Markham's surprised how quiet he is, nothing more than shuddering breaths, as Markham feels the dampness of tears soaking through the material. It feels like there should be more, but Stackhouse's grief is rather like Stackhouse himself, light-footed and almost silent.
There's nothing he can do but accept. To do otherwise would be disrespectful, to Stackhouse and to the men that were lost, so cradling Stackhouse's head in his hands feels like a benediction.
Whether Stackhouse understands it, well, they can deal with that later.
Markham can feel the tension in Stackhouse's neck starting to fade, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing smoothing out, settling again, deeper and more regular. The storm has lessened, but as he feels the twist of Stackhouse's fingers against his belt, Markham realises that it's far from over. Stackhouse is still teetering on the brink of falling, not as close as before, but still in danger.
When Stackhouse raises his face to look at him, the dampness on his face flashes white in the light for a second and Markham can see that danger lingering in his eyes. Markham shakes his head, his hands coming to rest on Stackhouse's and holding tight before the other man can pull away. "I don't need this, but you do."
Stackhouse pulls back and wipes at his tears and Markham knows that he's going to protest, but he forestalls whatever the argument was going to be by pushing Stackhouse back onto his rack and reaching for the fastening of Stackhouse's pants. He's always had quick hands and before Stackhouse can get out more than a few words, Markham has his hand down Stackhouse's pants and is stroking him through the fabric of his briefs.
The gasp of breath that puffs against his cheek makes Markham smile. Just a small one, a twist of lips that he hides before it turns sad. He knows what this is and he knows that sometimes when you reach a threshold of pain all that could save you from it is a different kind of pain. A twist, a turn, a deft flick of thumb and squeeze of fingers and that pain becomes something else altogether.
Grief is cold silence, mourning alone, while this is warmth and comfort and awkwardness. Angles and planes that don't quite connect but do the job. It isn't about passion or lust, but it's about a closeness that stops you from getting lost and it's about trusting that someone will come find you if you do.
But, for him, there's a type of disassociation to it, too. The sense of it, but with an overlay of physical reality that's soft skin and even softer moans -- and in this as well Stackhouse is quiet. Markham wonders if it's a natural thing or comes from shared barracks, but the thought is fleeting as Stackhouse arches and shudders under his hands, the fingers of one hand still twisting in Markham's jacket.
Stackhouse's breathing is still a little ragged, but in a much better way than earlier, Markham thinks, as he grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and shakes it out over Stackhouse. Stackhouse should sleep now and Markham won't have to worry about hiding their guns before he lies down himself. It's not perfect, but it's definitely better and that's really all he can hope for.
The hand on his jacket shifts to his arm and Markham looks down at it, knowing what Stackhouse is trying to say. Stackhouse, who's now curled onto his side, a smear of dampness still streaked across his cheek.
Markham smiles, one not so twisted and sad this time. "Hoo-ya."
author: sin
pairing: markham/stackhouse
notes: set post-Rising.
With huge thanks to
julad, hnix and coreopsis for the beta and setting my tenses straight and to nemoinis for the original bunny.fidelis
They're all the worse for wear. Worse for the Wraith, worse for Pegasus, and Markham wonders if they'll be able to come back from this.
He expected danger. They all did. It went with the territory of working at the SGC. New planets were nothing special, pick a day and they were probably a million light years away from where they started that morning. The technology was really nothing new, just on a grander scale than they were used to. There was a niggling sense of warmth that came with being able to walking into a room and lights turned on spontaneously to welcome him. Aliens weren't all that strange either. After Cheyenne Mountain it felt a little like old home week to find bad guys to match the Goa'uld. It would have been a bit anti-climactic to come all this way -- on a potential one way trip -- and find nothing more threatening than wildlife.
What they hadn't expected was to be so easily outmatched. They'd stood up to the Goa'uld, it shouldn't have been that difficult, but nothing had prepared them for the race that had almost beaten the Ancients.
It was almost like he could see the shellshock sinking in. Here less than a day and already they were rudderless, Sumner dead and an Air Force puke in charge. Not that Sheppard hadn't shown some smarts, but he wasn't a Marine. His code was different.
But maybe not so much if the scuttlebutt going around was true.
Sumner had been a tightass, by the book that he loved to hit you with, bastard of a commander but Markham couldn't imagine what it would've been like to watch his life being sucked away until the only help you could give was a bullet. It was different when someone got snaked. They weren't there anymore, not so you could see, so it was like killing a stranger with a familiar face. But being witness to it all just draining away --
Markham felt ice shiver down his spine. It didn't bear thinking about because that way led to places he really did not want to go. He was a Marine, dammit. Semper fi. Running into harm's way was his job.
He knew it was stupid, would be deemed idiotic by most of the brains trust that they'd come with to explore the city -- Marines were jarheads, were grunts, all they were good for was cannon fodder -- well, fuck them. They were still head in the clouds, 'look at the shiny technology!', out of touch with the realities of the situation. Familiarity might breed contempt for them, but for him, it was a reminder of all the things he'd sworn to uphold. It was the bedrock on which he stood. Hoo-ya.
"Sergeant."
Markham turned, back straightening instinctively. No salute, but still respectful. Major Sheppard looked even more the worse for wear then the rest of them, but Markham thought that was to be expected. Air Force. Like they know what spit and shine is. "Sir?"
"You have the gene, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'll expect you in the jumper bay at 0600. You're going to learn to fly."
Markham blinked and watched Sheppard walk away, trying to form a response. He was a Marine, he jumped out of things, he didn't fly them. That was what the guys who didn't want to get their hands dirty did. It was --
Aiming a mock salute at Sheppard's rapidly retreating back, he muttered. "Well, fuck."
He was going to get so much shit from his squad for this.
--
The resignation lasts for about as long as it takes to get to his quarters, his head full of possible scenarios, but the sight of Stackhouse sitting on his rack in the corner blows the images clear.
On first glance there's nothing that should cause the frisson of alarm that's skating along his skin, raising the hair on his arms. Marine. Bed. Nothing odd there. They'd been doubled up because of lack of space, so it's not like he's surprised to see Stackhouse. It's how Markham's seeing him, the posture raises his hackles, the slump of spine belying the almost prayerful hang of head and hands. But the real kicker is the ragged rise and fall of Stackhouse's back, the way the muscles stand out in relief under his t-shirt.
Worse for wear? This is stretched to breaking point.
When he drops his gear on his own bed, Stackhouse doesn't even look up, but Markham knows he's heard. Stackhouse is just trying to keep it together, to stop himself from flying apart. It hangs in the room like a summer storm and all Markham can think is that if he doesn't do something, he's going to be fighting Stackhouse to stop him from getting his gun.
Not going to happen. They've lost enough people today, they don't need to lose anymore.
He's not sure about the best approach, not here. At home, back on Earth, they'd round up the rest of the platoon to take care of Stackhouse's squad, especially the fire teams that lost men. There'd be booze, war stories and some hastily hidden tears -- but it's not something they can indulge in here. They're at war and due diligence has to come first, but this is a brother Marine, in pain and most probably doubting himself.
More importantly, this is his bunkmate and friend.
His initial thought is to offer support with a hand on Stackhouse's shoulder, but something steers him elsewhere.
Stackhouse's hair is like velvet under his fingers and Markham almost jerked his hand back when Stackhouse gulps at the touch. It's a harsh sound, full of pain and choked tears. "Stacks --"
He doesn't continue, doesn't need to, because Stackhouse's shoulders are shaking and his hands are grabbing at Markham's jacket, pulling him closer until Stackhouse can press his face tight against Markham's belly. He doesn't begrudge Stackhouse the release, but Markham's surprised how quiet he is, nothing more than shuddering breaths, as Markham feels the dampness of tears soaking through the material. It feels like there should be more, but Stackhouse's grief is rather like Stackhouse himself, light-footed and almost silent.
There's nothing he can do but accept. To do otherwise would be disrespectful, to Stackhouse and to the men that were lost, so cradling Stackhouse's head in his hands feels like a benediction.
Whether Stackhouse understands it, well, they can deal with that later.
Markham can feel the tension in Stackhouse's neck starting to fade, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing smoothing out, settling again, deeper and more regular. The storm has lessened, but as he feels the twist of Stackhouse's fingers against his belt, Markham realises that it's far from over. Stackhouse is still teetering on the brink of falling, not as close as before, but still in danger.
When Stackhouse raises his face to look at him, the dampness on his face flashes white in the light for a second and Markham can see that danger lingering in his eyes. Markham shakes his head, his hands coming to rest on Stackhouse's and holding tight before the other man can pull away. "I don't need this, but you do."
Stackhouse pulls back and wipes at his tears and Markham knows that he's going to protest, but he forestalls whatever the argument was going to be by pushing Stackhouse back onto his rack and reaching for the fastening of Stackhouse's pants. He's always had quick hands and before Stackhouse can get out more than a few words, Markham has his hand down Stackhouse's pants and is stroking him through the fabric of his briefs.
The gasp of breath that puffs against his cheek makes Markham smile. Just a small one, a twist of lips that he hides before it turns sad. He knows what this is and he knows that sometimes when you reach a threshold of pain all that could save you from it is a different kind of pain. A twist, a turn, a deft flick of thumb and squeeze of fingers and that pain becomes something else altogether.
Grief is cold silence, mourning alone, while this is warmth and comfort and awkwardness. Angles and planes that don't quite connect but do the job. It isn't about passion or lust, but it's about a closeness that stops you from getting lost and it's about trusting that someone will come find you if you do.
But, for him, there's a type of disassociation to it, too. The sense of it, but with an overlay of physical reality that's soft skin and even softer moans -- and in this as well Stackhouse is quiet. Markham wonders if it's a natural thing or comes from shared barracks, but the thought is fleeting as Stackhouse arches and shudders under his hands, the fingers of one hand still twisting in Markham's jacket.
Stackhouse's breathing is still a little ragged, but in a much better way than earlier, Markham thinks, as he grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and shakes it out over Stackhouse. Stackhouse should sleep now and Markham won't have to worry about hiding their guns before he lies down himself. It's not perfect, but it's definitely better and that's really all he can hope for.
The hand on his jacket shifts to his arm and Markham looks down at it, knowing what Stackhouse is trying to say. Stackhouse, who's now curled onto his side, a smear of dampness still streaked across his cheek.
Markham smiles, one not so twisted and sad this time. "Hoo-ya."
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