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sga_flashficTITLE: Is Golden
AUTHOR: Tielan
SUMMARY: Silence means different things to each of them. But it's never silent when they're together.
CHARACTERS: Ronon, John, Teyla, Rodney.
RATING: PG-13
WORDCOUNT: ~550
Is Golden
To Ronon, silence meant the Wraith - the moment when the creatures of the planet on which he ran ceased to chirp, chatter, or rustle, hoping that the hunter now pacing through the forest sought prey other than themselves.
On worlds that were never truly silent - always the creatures of the forest, or the wind rustling straw grass, or the blizzard whistling ice and snow past his ears - Ronon listened for the silence and waited to hunt those who hunted him.
--
To John, silence meant Antarctica. It meant billions of years of ice and snow, glaciers and the freezing wind that played havoc with his chopper blades and chilly hell with his nose.
In his quarters at McMurdo base, John would sit on his bed and stare at Johnny Cash on the wall. Occasionally, people passed by the corridor outside, but their voices faded into nothing again. An iPod or MP3 player might have filled his ears with tunes, but the silence was a reminder of John's exile.
--
To Teyla, silence meant grief and pain. In a community of people, there was always noise - a child coughing in the night, the clank and scrape of utensils in cooking pots, repairs to tent and equipment.
Among communities that had been culled, the hushed silence would hang heavy over the empty camp, lacking the sounds of every day's work. Teyla would look out across the ravaged community and want to weep, want to rage, want to fight. Instead, she helped the survivors pick up the pieces to refit their lives as best they could.
--
To Rodney, silence meant the cold anger of paternal displeasure. His mother would slam doors and crash crockery, but his father would walk away, ignoring Rodney for hours on end.
In the McKay family, his dad's voice was the mood indicator for the whole family. When Kevin McKay was in a good mood, he chattered; when he was in a bad mood, he snapped. And when things were really, really bad, he ignored the household entirely, and Rodney lived with the silence and hated every empty moment.
--
Out on the balcony, Ronon's whittling away at a block of wood with one of his carving knives. The small, solid thunks of steel knife into solid wood are separated from each other by the clatter of the chips on the wood and the light patter of their fall to the floor.
In the chair by the window, John is idly strumming at his guitar, picking at strings as he hums beneath his breath. The light tap of his fingers on the body of the instrument is a faint percussive beat beneath the melody he plays.
Teyla sits sideways on a chair, an elbow resting against the back, one hand combing through her hair while the other turns the pages of a novel with a faint rustle. None of the guys has yet informed her that she's humming to John's playing, an unconscious counterpoint to the melody.
Beneath Rodney's fingertips, keys chatter as he writes up his latest notes, and mutters to himself at his conclusions. His computer beeps to inform him that email has come in, and with a clatter of keys, he opens it up and starts a reply.
It's not silence. It doesn't need to be.
- fin -
AUTHOR: Tielan
SUMMARY: Silence means different things to each of them. But it's never silent when they're together.
CHARACTERS: Ronon, John, Teyla, Rodney.
RATING: PG-13
WORDCOUNT: ~550
Is Golden
To Ronon, silence meant the Wraith - the moment when the creatures of the planet on which he ran ceased to chirp, chatter, or rustle, hoping that the hunter now pacing through the forest sought prey other than themselves.
On worlds that were never truly silent - always the creatures of the forest, or the wind rustling straw grass, or the blizzard whistling ice and snow past his ears - Ronon listened for the silence and waited to hunt those who hunted him.
--
To John, silence meant Antarctica. It meant billions of years of ice and snow, glaciers and the freezing wind that played havoc with his chopper blades and chilly hell with his nose.
In his quarters at McMurdo base, John would sit on his bed and stare at Johnny Cash on the wall. Occasionally, people passed by the corridor outside, but their voices faded into nothing again. An iPod or MP3 player might have filled his ears with tunes, but the silence was a reminder of John's exile.
--
To Teyla, silence meant grief and pain. In a community of people, there was always noise - a child coughing in the night, the clank and scrape of utensils in cooking pots, repairs to tent and equipment.
Among communities that had been culled, the hushed silence would hang heavy over the empty camp, lacking the sounds of every day's work. Teyla would look out across the ravaged community and want to weep, want to rage, want to fight. Instead, she helped the survivors pick up the pieces to refit their lives as best they could.
--
To Rodney, silence meant the cold anger of paternal displeasure. His mother would slam doors and crash crockery, but his father would walk away, ignoring Rodney for hours on end.
In the McKay family, his dad's voice was the mood indicator for the whole family. When Kevin McKay was in a good mood, he chattered; when he was in a bad mood, he snapped. And when things were really, really bad, he ignored the household entirely, and Rodney lived with the silence and hated every empty moment.
--
Out on the balcony, Ronon's whittling away at a block of wood with one of his carving knives. The small, solid thunks of steel knife into solid wood are separated from each other by the clatter of the chips on the wood and the light patter of their fall to the floor.
In the chair by the window, John is idly strumming at his guitar, picking at strings as he hums beneath his breath. The light tap of his fingers on the body of the instrument is a faint percussive beat beneath the melody he plays.
Teyla sits sideways on a chair, an elbow resting against the back, one hand combing through her hair while the other turns the pages of a novel with a faint rustle. None of the guys has yet informed her that she's humming to John's playing, an unconscious counterpoint to the melody.
Beneath Rodney's fingertips, keys chatter as he writes up his latest notes, and mutters to himself at his conclusions. His computer beeps to inform him that email has come in, and with a clatter of keys, he opens it up and starts a reply.
It's not silence. It doesn't need to be.
- fin -