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sga_flashficTitle: My Best (Imaginary) Friend, by Meredith Rodney McKay, age 10
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
abscondinabox
Characters: Rodney, John
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~1,550
Warnings: spoilers for “McKay and Mrs. Miller”, as well as for SG-1’s “Redemption (part 2)”
Notes: I was binging on all oftardis80’s fabulous SGA artwork, and I ran across her idea about Rodney having been a Calvin-esque child, always imagining the grand adventures that he wasn’t having, never knowing that someday, he would. The idea sort of ate my brain.
Summary: The best part of Rodney’s (imaginary) adventures was the fact that he was never, never alone.
Rodney didn't know exactly why his parents fought all the time, just that they did. His concept of "Mom and Dad" was framed in bitter words and harsh critiques and (thinly) veiled disgust. He thought that maybe, probably, this was somehow his fault.
The piano was his first salvation: music, beautiful, perfectly ordered. When that didn't work—when his parents were really mad, at each other, or at him (but never at Jeannie)—his room was a good hiding place. But his imagination? That was even better.
Little Meredith Rodney McKay loved to imagine all the wild, exciting adventures that he wished he was having for real, instead of being stuck in his not-so-comfortable life. He liked to imagine how it would be when he was the world's greatest pianist, or to try and envision the most brilliant symphony in the history of anything. Sometimes, he pretended that he was a galactic explorer, or a superhero. In Rodney's dreams, he discovered life on other planets, solved mysteries, became famous, and did things that nobody in the WORLD had ever done, saw things nobody in the GALAXY had ever seen.
But he best part of Rodney’s (imaginary) adventures was the fact that he was never, never alone. Rodney’s best (and only) friend was with him, always; when Rodney explored the galaxy, his best (imaginary) friend was right by his side. His best friend was brave, and smart, and fierce. His best friend was the best person he knew.
The adventures that Rodney and his best friend had were better than anything else in the world. And Rodney promised himself that, someday, in between all the fame and fortune and packed recital halls filled with people adoring him and his music, he would really do those things. All of them.
(After parent-teacher conferences, Rodney sometimes heard his parents muttering things like "head in the clouds". Which was stupid, because, hello, his head was right here.)
On report cards, his primary-school teachers always noted that "Rodney does not play well with others". And yeah, fine, maybe he didn't have that many friends, not at school. It wasn't like he really had time, between homework and piano and taking care of Jeannie. The other kids weren't—he was smarter than them! They played stupid, boring games and they couldn't even handle basic stuff, like derivatives! They—they liked to pick on him, sometimes. Rodney liked to tell himself that he didn't care.
Because his best (imaginary) friend was smart, too—not like the other kids at school, the ones who were happy just kicking around a dumb ball at recess. His best (imaginary) friend didn't think he was weird at all. His best (imaginary) friend was always up for an adventure, loved exploring and discovering new things, and was always, always on Rodney's side.
Rodney practiced the piano every single day, even days when his parents weren't home to hold him to it, because music was easy the way math was easy, the way life wasn't. And when Rodney practiced, his best friend was there, slouching next to him, smiling and nodding his head in time. When Rodney did his homework, his best friend checked his answers and pointed out his mistakes (not that he made many). And when the other boy laughed, he wasn't laughing at Rodney, even when he was. He made Rodney want to laugh, too.
A lot of times they argued, and sometimes they shouted at one another and got mad. But it never lasted long, and then they would make up and go back to playing their (awesome) (complicated) (totally new and completely epic) games, to fighting aliens and saving the planet together. And maybe, just maybe, Rodney's best friend helped him to be braver—better—than he really was.
And then, when Rodney was twelve, his piano teacher told him to quit, and ruined everything.
"A fine clinical player." "No sense of the art." The words were burned into Rodney's brain. And he wasn't stupid, thank you, he knew— he knew what that meant.
Music was the one thing that he got, the one thing that he could do, for real, without thinking or worrying or being afraid. But apparently he'd been— wrong. Just.
Completely wrong, and he hated how stupid that made him feel.
So Rodney stopped playing the piano, and he started being right all the time. Because there wasn't any other way, because he wasn't ever going to feel— like that, ever again. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Rodney learned to love science, numbers, equations that flowed like music, physics as perfectly ordered as any sonata or minuet. He learned that he could use words as weapons; he learned that most people weren't worth his time. And if he was lonely, sometimes, he never admitted it.
He hadn't shut away the part of his mind that yearned for adventures in time and space, but he'd boxed up the boy who'd believed he'd actually get to have any. Probably he was up in the attic, gathering dust with Rodney's old piano books: equally abandoned.
(Sometimes, he missed his (best) imaginary friend. But by the time he had his first PhD, he'd mostly forgotten the whole thing.)
---
When Rodney is thirty-two, he learns about the Stargate. He spares a moment, one glorious moment, to bask in the fact that he'd been right, he'd been right, he'd been right. Holy shit.
When Rodney is thirty-four, he steps through his first wormhole. It isn't a fun trip, but even so. Another planet. His inner twelve year-old can't stop grinning, despite the fact that the morons on SG-11 have managed to get themselves into the kind of scrape that takes every bit of his considerable genius to solve. (He finds out, later, that the only reason they'd tapped him was because Sam Carter had been offworld at the time. He's both irritated and weirdly grateful.) They hustle him back to Siberia, afterwards, but his mouth aches for days and days with the smile he'd been biting back. He's got a reputation, dammit.
When Rodney is thirty-six, a lot of things happen. He finds (okay, he helps find) the lost city of Atlantis. And then he goes there. He flies spaceships (admittedly, he's not great at it) and fights vampires, and he gets to study the Stargates and the other technology left behind by the Ancients—living, breathing physics, so pure it takes his breath away. He's simultaneously scared to death and more fiercely excited than he's ever been in his entire life.
And, when Rodney is thirty-six, he meets Major John Sheppard.
Major Sheppard, who slouches. Who's smart (six factorial, not that complicated, but still, apparently there's a brain under that ridiculous hair), who's good, who loves Atlantis as much as Rodney does.
When Rodney finds the personal shield, the Major's the one he picks to help him test it, because he thinks that maybe Sheppard's the one who'll see it for what it really is, a discovery, rather than just a chance to beat up on Doctor McKay. His wide-open, honest grin looks idiotic, but Rodney's pretty sure he's wearing the same expression when Sheppard pushes him off the balcony and he bounces. How is that not cool?
Sheppard, who's on his side even when he probably shouldn't be. John, who teaches him how to be braver—better—than he is. John, his awesome, best (real, real) friend.
---
Eventually, Rodney will sit down at a dusty grand piano. Maybe they'll be offworld, or maybe the piano will have arrived on the Daedalus for the "betterment" of the expedition members: it won't matter, overmuch. What will matter is that he'll finally be ready to run his hand reverently over the keys, to take a deep breath, and start to play.
He'll be rusty, at first, and unsure. He'll wonder if he should just quit now, while he can still walk away, brush it off. And maybe he will, for a little while. But he'll always come back. His fingers, used to flying over keys of a different sort, will pick out melody and harmony, will remember. Rodney will remember. He'll close his eyes and let the music—his music—carry him away.
And when he opens them, John will be slouching on the bench beside him, smiling and nodding his head in time. And Rodney will think to himself, I really did it, all of it, and he'll laugh and laugh and laugh.
end
Author:
abscondinaboxCharacters: Rodney, John
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~1,550
Warnings: spoilers for “McKay and Mrs. Miller”, as well as for SG-1’s “Redemption (part 2)”
Notes: I was binging on all of
tardis80’s fabulous SGA artwork, and I ran across her idea about Rodney having been a Calvin-esque child, always imagining the grand adventures that he wasn’t having, never knowing that someday, he would. The idea sort of ate my brain. Summary: The best part of Rodney’s (imaginary) adventures was the fact that he was never, never alone.
Rodney didn't know exactly why his parents fought all the time, just that they did. His concept of "Mom and Dad" was framed in bitter words and harsh critiques and (thinly) veiled disgust. He thought that maybe, probably, this was somehow his fault.
The piano was his first salvation: music, beautiful, perfectly ordered. When that didn't work—when his parents were really mad, at each other, or at him (but never at Jeannie)—his room was a good hiding place. But his imagination? That was even better.
Little Meredith Rodney McKay loved to imagine all the wild, exciting adventures that he wished he was having for real, instead of being stuck in his not-so-comfortable life. He liked to imagine how it would be when he was the world's greatest pianist, or to try and envision the most brilliant symphony in the history of anything. Sometimes, he pretended that he was a galactic explorer, or a superhero. In Rodney's dreams, he discovered life on other planets, solved mysteries, became famous, and did things that nobody in the WORLD had ever done, saw things nobody in the GALAXY had ever seen.
But he best part of Rodney’s (imaginary) adventures was the fact that he was never, never alone. Rodney’s best (and only) friend was with him, always; when Rodney explored the galaxy, his best (imaginary) friend was right by his side. His best friend was brave, and smart, and fierce. His best friend was the best person he knew.
The adventures that Rodney and his best friend had were better than anything else in the world. And Rodney promised himself that, someday, in between all the fame and fortune and packed recital halls filled with people adoring him and his music, he would really do those things. All of them.
(After parent-teacher conferences, Rodney sometimes heard his parents muttering things like "head in the clouds". Which was stupid, because, hello, his head was right here.)
On report cards, his primary-school teachers always noted that "Rodney does not play well with others". And yeah, fine, maybe he didn't have that many friends, not at school. It wasn't like he really had time, between homework and piano and taking care of Jeannie. The other kids weren't—he was smarter than them! They played stupid, boring games and they couldn't even handle basic stuff, like derivatives! They—they liked to pick on him, sometimes. Rodney liked to tell himself that he didn't care.
Because his best (imaginary) friend was smart, too—not like the other kids at school, the ones who were happy just kicking around a dumb ball at recess. His best (imaginary) friend didn't think he was weird at all. His best (imaginary) friend was always up for an adventure, loved exploring and discovering new things, and was always, always on Rodney's side.
Rodney practiced the piano every single day, even days when his parents weren't home to hold him to it, because music was easy the way math was easy, the way life wasn't. And when Rodney practiced, his best friend was there, slouching next to him, smiling and nodding his head in time. When Rodney did his homework, his best friend checked his answers and pointed out his mistakes (not that he made many). And when the other boy laughed, he wasn't laughing at Rodney, even when he was. He made Rodney want to laugh, too.
A lot of times they argued, and sometimes they shouted at one another and got mad. But it never lasted long, and then they would make up and go back to playing their (awesome) (complicated) (totally new and completely epic) games, to fighting aliens and saving the planet together. And maybe, just maybe, Rodney's best friend helped him to be braver—better—than he really was.
And then, when Rodney was twelve, his piano teacher told him to quit, and ruined everything.
"A fine clinical player." "No sense of the art." The words were burned into Rodney's brain. And he wasn't stupid, thank you, he knew— he knew what that meant.
Music was the one thing that he got, the one thing that he could do, for real, without thinking or worrying or being afraid. But apparently he'd been— wrong. Just.
Completely wrong, and he hated how stupid that made him feel.
So Rodney stopped playing the piano, and he started being right all the time. Because there wasn't any other way, because he wasn't ever going to feel— like that, ever again. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Rodney learned to love science, numbers, equations that flowed like music, physics as perfectly ordered as any sonata or minuet. He learned that he could use words as weapons; he learned that most people weren't worth his time. And if he was lonely, sometimes, he never admitted it.
He hadn't shut away the part of his mind that yearned for adventures in time and space, but he'd boxed up the boy who'd believed he'd actually get to have any. Probably he was up in the attic, gathering dust with Rodney's old piano books: equally abandoned.
(Sometimes, he missed his (best) imaginary friend. But by the time he had his first PhD, he'd mostly forgotten the whole thing.)
When Rodney is thirty-two, he learns about the Stargate. He spares a moment, one glorious moment, to bask in the fact that he'd been right, he'd been right, he'd been right. Holy shit.
When Rodney is thirty-four, he steps through his first wormhole. It isn't a fun trip, but even so. Another planet. His inner twelve year-old can't stop grinning, despite the fact that the morons on SG-11 have managed to get themselves into the kind of scrape that takes every bit of his considerable genius to solve. (He finds out, later, that the only reason they'd tapped him was because Sam Carter had been offworld at the time. He's both irritated and weirdly grateful.) They hustle him back to Siberia, afterwards, but his mouth aches for days and days with the smile he'd been biting back. He's got a reputation, dammit.
When Rodney is thirty-six, a lot of things happen. He finds (okay, he helps find) the lost city of Atlantis. And then he goes there. He flies spaceships (admittedly, he's not great at it) and fights vampires, and he gets to study the Stargates and the other technology left behind by the Ancients—living, breathing physics, so pure it takes his breath away. He's simultaneously scared to death and more fiercely excited than he's ever been in his entire life.
And, when Rodney is thirty-six, he meets Major John Sheppard.
Major Sheppard, who slouches. Who's smart (six factorial, not that complicated, but still, apparently there's a brain under that ridiculous hair), who's good, who loves Atlantis as much as Rodney does.
When Rodney finds the personal shield, the Major's the one he picks to help him test it, because he thinks that maybe Sheppard's the one who'll see it for what it really is, a discovery, rather than just a chance to beat up on Doctor McKay. His wide-open, honest grin looks idiotic, but Rodney's pretty sure he's wearing the same expression when Sheppard pushes him off the balcony and he bounces. How is that not cool?
Sheppard, who's on his side even when he probably shouldn't be. John, who teaches him how to be braver—better—than he is. John, his awesome, best (real, real) friend.
Eventually, Rodney will sit down at a dusty grand piano. Maybe they'll be offworld, or maybe the piano will have arrived on the Daedalus for the "betterment" of the expedition members: it won't matter, overmuch. What will matter is that he'll finally be ready to run his hand reverently over the keys, to take a deep breath, and start to play.
He'll be rusty, at first, and unsure. He'll wonder if he should just quit now, while he can still walk away, brush it off. And maybe he will, for a little while. But he'll always come back. His fingers, used to flying over keys of a different sort, will pick out melody and harmony, will remember. Rodney will remember. He'll close his eyes and let the music—his music—carry him away.
And when he opens them, John will be slouching on the bench beside him, smiling and nodding his head in time. And Rodney will think to himself, I really did it, all of it, and he'll laugh and laugh and laugh.