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It felt odd to be looking for a job again, having thrown himself at an Air Force career, headlong; but John had discovered that it was quite capable of bouncing him out again, whenever it pleased, and landing him flat on his ass. So here he was, a lot closer to forty than he was comfortable acknowledging, going through the weary rounds of applications and interviews and smiling until his face begged for mercy.
Of all the places he’d taken a wild stab at, he hadn’t expected even so much as a polite refusal from this one; let alone an actual interview.
Dr Elizabeth Weir had greeted him with a smile and a warm, but businesslike, handshake, before running him through the basics.
“We’re looking for some rather unusual qualities in our test pilot. As I’m sure you’re aware, our company is based on utilising the principles of a brand new and somewhat … misunderstood discipline. You would therefore be required, not simply to be exceptionally gifted at math, but willing to embrace what many people would still consider impossible.
“Tell me, what do you know about harmonic physics?”
John prudently put aside about half of what he’d heard about it - that it was palpable nonsense, an elaborate con, pure hocus pocus, and other less than flattering epithets - and focused on the bare facts.
“It’s a method of using music, and the underlying mathematical structures, to break new ground in technology. I can’t say that I understand the finer points of it, but from what I’ve researched,” - hastily googled, after getting the interview, with an increasingly raised eyebrow - “the field is fascinating. And yielding very impressive results.”
“More impressive than most people can accept.” Dr Weir gave John a searching look, then nodded. “But I have a feeling that you won’t be one of them. I’ve read your files, Mr Sheppard - all of them - and I have to say that I’m impressed. Would you like to come and meet Daisy?”
John put on his best ‘hire me, I’m charming’ smile and nodded, following her with an outward calm that hid his whirlwind of emotions at the mention of his files. There was a huge black mark all over those; the fact that this seemed to be considered a point in his favour, rather than grounds for throwing out his application, was something he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about.
The thought consumed him enough to allay most of his curiosity about ‘Daisy’ until he was stood right in front of her: a sleek and impressive machine, made of pure solid ‘aerodynamic’, which he promptly fell in love with at sight.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The speaker had popped up out of nowhere and it was only John’s Air Force training, and experience, which prevented him from leaping back and squeaking like a rubber duck, unexpectedly stomped.
“The world’s first genuinely all-terrain vehicle. Ground, air, sea, underground, and, of course, space. Fully adaptable to any imaginable conditions, including frozen, molten and existentially indeterminate. Completely environmentally friendly and comes equipped with a hyperdrive, inertial dampeners, and a state of the art coffee machine.”
The newcomer patted the craft with evident affection, while John was split between a surge of appreciation for the man’s infectious enthusiasm, captivating eyes and broad shoulders, and his attempt to work out just how much of that was a joke.
“Rodney, Mr Sheppard hasn’t signed any non-disclosure agreements yet. Maybe you shouldn’t go revealing the coffee machine?”
Rodney waved a dismissive hand at Dr Weir.
“I’m sure he’ll be discreet.” He paused, a sudden doubt hitting his face like a hurricane. “You will, right?”
“I’ll take the secret of the coffee machine to my grave.”
John held out his hand impulsively, for a firm handshake. And, if he didn’t actually say out loud, that this felt like the start of a beautiful friendship, well, the swelling music in the background did that for him.
Hmm. There really was some swelling music.
“Oh, that’s just residue from the creative process. Perfectly harmless, but headphones are available if you find it a nuisance. Here, come and look inside …”
“Rodney. Maybe give him a chance to say yes or no, yet.”
Dr Weir gave John a conspiratorial grin and there was really no way he was ever going to say no to this. Not when he felt like … not quite so much that he’d come home, but that home had marched right up to him, slung an arm over his shoulder and said ‘mine’.
~~~
“ … huge welcome to the inventor of a wild new craze in physics … Dr Rodney McKay!”
Rodney had used to love the idea of being famous. Actually, he still did love the idea. His face on magazines, his name all over journals, his place in the history books getting thoroughly carved out and secured.
But the actual, day to day, realities of it were … tedious. At best.
It didn’t help that over half the people who interviewed him had no idea what he actually did. Which was why - as Elizabeth had pointed out - he was doing all this publicity in the first place. Trying to get word out there; explain things properly and in his own words, not in those of his rivals and critics; to demonstrate and demystify what seemed to most people nothing short of magic.
“But why do I have to waste my time on this? Why not Radek, or Teyla, or you? Someone a little …”
“Less valuable?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and Rodney’s righteous indignation deflated. It was frustrating how easily she could do that. Especially after he’d built up a really satisfying head of steam.
“Actually, I was thinking … more competent with people.” He slumped down on a chair, the exhaustion of the whole thing getting to him. It was all very well to say ‘just be nice’ but he didn’t always have an accurate baseline of what ‘nice’ actually looked like and could easily stray from ‘so polite it hurts’ to ‘people now actively want to kill me’ in one ill-chosen sentence.
Elizabeth’s look switched to something more sympathetic.
“I know it’s not your … preferred area. But it really does need to be you, Rodney. For one thing, you’re still the only person who has a truly strong enough grasp of all the aspects of the technology to explain it properly.”
Right, he was, wasn’t he? Even Radek got stuck on the really fiddly bits, sometimes; and as for his abysmal quantum symphonics …
“You’re the authoritative voice in the matter.”
Rodney felt a small, proud surge of ‘authoritative’, strutting importantly through his inner organs.
“And it’s your name on the tin, your original idea. People prefer to hear things from the source. Also…”
Elizabeth sighed and folded her hands diplomatically.
“I did consider the alternatives.
“I can’t do it, personally, because my expertise isn’t nearly technical enough. Radek’s temper is actually not much better than yours and, while he might be superficially nicer, you just know he wouldn’t be able to resist keeping up a running stream of insults in Czech, if someone pissed him off. Possibly even if they didn’t.
“And Teyla has stated that if anyone tries to exploit her ability to be a sane, diplomatic human being, by shoving her in front of the cameras, then she will make sure that the first interviewer who insults her intelligence, gets an impromptu martial arts demonstration.”
Rodney digested this.
“So … I’m actually the least worst option for public relations?”
“Unfortunately so.”
“Huh.” He mulled it over, for a second, pulling it this way and that; and decided he could treat it as a win. “Well. Some people are just naturally more gifted than others …”
Of course, it wasn’t feeling so much like a win, right now: not after a radio, then television, interview, almost back to back, when he really should be actually working on his inventions, not explaining them.
Still, there was no denying that he liked to talk and that this part of the job gave that particular hobby full rein.
“I’m hardly the first person to have noticed the connection between mathematics and music. Melodies can be plotted out in graphs and equations. The Golden Ratio is central to many compositions. There is a deep connective tissue, between even the simplest of tunes and the very building blocks of science.”
“Right. So, are you saying that humming Three Blind Mice in just the right way can … turn off gravity or something?”
His interviewers for this one had chosen ‘faintly bewildered by everything’ as their particular questioning style and Rodney was beginning to wonder whether it was too late to rip a leaf from Zelenka’s book and start insulting them in his saltiest Québécois French (or, on reflection, perhaps one of the more obscure languages he’d picked up bits and pieces of, over the years).
“That’s … not quite where I was going, no. But, I suppose there’s a grain of truth in there. The fact is, that … while this is a vast oversimplification … if you use exactly the right notes, in a carefully calculated order, you have the key to creating the sort of technology which sci fi authors have been dreaming of for decades.”
“Wow!”
His interviewers looked suitably impressed and Rodney decided he would graciously refrain from insults.
“So … can you play us a spaceship on the piano?”
~~~
“So, I saw your interview yesterday …”
There was nobody, John had found, who could do a full-body flinch like Rodney. Watching him - pretty much always - was like watching a masterclass in emotional interpretive dance.
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Thought you did pretty well, actually. Under the circumstances.”
Rodney looked surprised, then pleased. Which was very much what John was going for.
Some people found their ideal of beauty in sunsets, mountains, or breathtaking works of art. John was rapidly finding his own, in the happiness of Rodney McKay.
Which was far easier to find than his reputation would suggest.
Sure, his default mode was sarcastic and impatient, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. John had discovered that one item on his list of ‘Things Which Make Rodney Happy’ was an enthusiastically fought game of snark tennis, in which the players batted their witty remarks back and forward, until, either one party struck out, or play was tragically interrupted by an imminent explosion.
(Okay, that was only one time, but given that Rodney had gone very pale and had to do some desperate things with a laptop, an accordion and a bassoon, to ‘prevent the annihilation of this, and possibly neighbouring, realities’, it had rather stuck in John’s mind).
Other things which made the ‘Happy Rodney’ list were: discovering new things; disproving old things; being right; being so incredibly right; music in general; music where it intersected with math and physics; food; friends; food with friends; cats; Batman; and a wide array of t-shirts which were not nearly as amusing as Rodney thought they were (but twice as endearing for it).
And, of course, being told ‘well done’.
There was a prevailing opinion that Rodney ‘Did I mention I was a genius?’ McKay didn’t need anything to swell his already substantial ego, but John was beginning to hold a different opinion. He thought, rather, that his ego had swollen in one particular direction, that of Being the Smartest Man in the Universe, because Rodney genuinely believed that was all he had going for him and leaned into it, for all he was worth; and that it therefore needed, not so much a complete puncturing - destroying the single pillar of his self-worth and crushing him into dust and despair - but merely some healthy shifting and redistribution.
Though John didn’t need to tell him that he’d done a great job on Daisy; Rodney was more than aware.
The infatuation which John had initially conceived for the craft - he thought of Daisy as a spaceship, first and foremost, with a really cool set of extras - had only increased with time and learning all her quirks and tricks. The small inner section, for pilot and passengers, was the only part of the ship which remained static and unchanging. Everything else was subject to a fluid shifting of shape and functionality, according to need. There was nothing clunky or mechanical-feeling about the change, no set of painstaking, awkward and visible steps, but a smooth, flowing naturalness, like water; like elegant music.
It was truly remarkable. And sometimes - though he would never admit this to Rodney - it really did feel like magic.
“That’s one of the reasons why she is under wraps for now,” Radek Zelenka, Rodney’s second in the labs, had told him. “Until the more mundane uses of the technology are accepted and normalised. It is … a process.”
Radek had also told him that Daisy had originally been familiarly referred to as Chitty Chitty Bang Bang by the team, because of its array of capabilities; until Rodney vetoed it, on the grounds of a lack of proper dignity.
“Then he promptly named her after his first cat.”
Whatever the name, John couldn’t now conceive of life without her. But Daisy wasn’t the only reason that John kind of wanted to give the Air Force a gift basket, these days, for kicking him out and leading him to wind up here.
He didn’t make lists of happiness-inducement for just anybody.
If only Rodney was capable of taking a hint, when it was heavily thrown at him.
“You could always try just … asking him out?” Teyla had suggested, with a slightly bemused frown, before she had gotten to know John better.
Teyla Emmagan had a PhD in Music Theory, an ethereal singing voice and a practised air of gentle patience, which made it all the more effective when she lost her temper at you. It was at that point that everyone remembered that she was very, very proficient in martial arts. John had heard rumours that she’d actually punched one of the security guys over some unpleasant comments.
(He’d heard another rumour, about her removing both of his kidneys with one blow, but he felt it was safe to dismiss that one).
(Probably).
For all his very genuine math skills, John had never quite worked out how harmonic physics actually worked and the exact relation of musical notes to technological miracles; but he was fully aware that Teyla was a key part of the team. They had become friends almost immediately - after persuading her that his opening spiel about football and ferris wheels was not some sort of bad chat-up line, but more of a panic reaction to the weirdness of everything - and she was the one person whom John had actually told, in almost actual words (as opposed to just with his eyes, his actions, his wistful, yearning sighs) how he felt about Rodney.
She still didn’t quite understand his inability to just spit it the hell out, like a rational human being, but he had, at least, her sympathies.
“Your case is not a hopeless one, at least. Rodney has taken to you faster than I recall his ever doing to anyone before. And becoming true friends, that is the most important step towards love.”
“Right, and I don’t want to mess that up. But …”
Teyla eyed him thoughtfully.
“But you also want to … how did Radek put it … bang him stupid?”
John was not a blushing man, as a rule; but it turned out that he could be really quite spectacularly good at it, on occasion.
“Teyla!”
“Am I wrong?”
“I wouldn’t have put it … quite like that.”
“Which is part of the problem. Rodney is a romantic soul at heart, I think … but he also greatly appreciates directness. I do not think he would be offended by your propositioning him, even if he isn’t actually interested.”
“I know, but …”
John waved a sort of abstract symbol in the air, hoping to illustrate his thought processes, without actually having to explain them.
“But then he would know?”
“Right.”
It was hard to explain exactly how the thought of that felt to John … having that part of him permanently open to view, his love all vulnerable and naked before Rodney’s gaze, without having a counterpart to shelter in.
Rodney wouldn’t take advantage - he would likely simply be flattered and a little overpleased with himself for a bit, before letting the whole thing drop - but John had never been as much afraid of Rodney’s reactions, as his own. His own awareness that he was known, down to his most secret and ticklish places.
It didn’t matter that Teyla and Radek knew already, because they didn’t; not really. They were aware that he had a crush. But they didn’t know - as Rodney would, if John told him - the absolute depths of his feelings; how far John would go for him; how Rodney already meant more to him than space, than flying, than life.
How there was a melody in his heart, which felt like Rodney, and he wanted to sing it forever.
John would rather cartwheel naked in front of multitudes, with his goods wrapped up in a bow, then ever allow this sort of thought process to be revealed. So; stoic pining it was then.
He could do that, more or less forever.
And, maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t hurt.
~~~
Rodney had lost music once - no, worse, he had given it away - and his relief and gratitude that he had found it again and been able to, not only embrace it, but actually combine it with his other passion, science, so that each enriched the other, was immense (and only mildly dented by the fact that he repeatedly had to deny accusations of witchcraft).
Before that, he had gotten lost, for a while, in the coldness and bitterness of rivalry and a selfishness he deeply regretted; however necessary it had seemed at the time. He had been bruised too often and put up his barriers too strong and too high; and he wasn’t yet at the point where he could lay them all down again, if he ever would be; but it was better, now. Unimaginably better.
Elizabeth and music had saved him; the one by being his friend, when no one else would, and the other by providing something he hadn’t even realised was missing. In some ways, the realisation of how music could open up the universe and make it dance, was almost a secondary thing. It was the way it made him feel, when he had touched the piano keys for the first time since he was twelve and he realised that it didn’t matter what anyone else said, or even whether he was any good; music was important to him and cutting it out of his life, was like cutting off a chunk of his own capacity for joy.
Rodney was a very smart man, but even the smartest people had blind spots. It took a good long while to realise that he was thinking of John Sheppard like a nocturne, and even longer to really grasp what that meant.
But when he did, well, there was no way he was making the same mistake twice; no chance of him throwing Sheppard away, because of cowardice and pride.
Rodney had been in the middle of developing a transporter beam, via the means of particle jazz, when the truth about his feelings burst open in his mind and started a loud, insistent chorus. It was not easy to tear himself away from the intricacies of his work (and the catchy bebop beat); but this was important.
It took him a day to write the nocturne and another one to pick and fuss at it and glare at the notes, until they came sort of close to how he imagined it in his head (playful, yet with plunging, troubled depths; soaring, with grace and speed and just an edge of wild desperation; anchoring, like an embrace without question or judgement). Then he invited John over to his house; not an uncommon thing these days, as they had an ongoing chess tournament (which Rodney was absolutely, definitely, not losing).
“Surprised you’re ready to get your ass kicked again so soon. Thought you were still sulking after the last match.”
“I don’t sulk. And, for your information, I was going easy on you last time. Next time you’ll be receiving my full chess-based fury.”
Sheppard gave him a look laced with amusement and what Rodney was desperately hoping was exactly the sort of fondness he was imagining it to be. The sort which made his heart do things which were highly inappropriate outside the confines of a cheap romance paperback.
“I’ll be sure to brace myself.”
Rodney coughed and tried not to think about these words in any non-chess-related context.
“I, um, didn’t invite you here for a match, actually.”
Rodney led John to his music room: the leisure music room, not the work one, where music was strictly about sounds and feelings and itself, not about coaxing wonders from the universe.
He sat at the piano; unsuccessfully, at first, because of some terror-related leg issues, but, on the second go, he managed it almost like a functional human being.
“This is, um. This is for you.”
When his fingers hit the keys, all of his nervousness flew away. Whatever John thought, whether he returned Rodney’s feelings or not, whether this was the end of a beautiful partnership or the beginning of something which scoffed at mere ‘beauty’ and carved out its own term, a few dozen notches beyond; that didn’t matter for the space of the music. It was real and true and joyful, just to get to exist: even if only for this one time and this time only.
When Rodney was done, he took a deep breath; closed his eyes, to absorb the echoes of that last sweet note and kiss it goodbye; and then turned towards John.
There was this weird thing John did sometimes, where his eyes were so full of emotion they shone out and bloomed, a radiant beacon, while the rest of his face grimaced like an uncomfortable chaperone, attempting to stop its charges from such wanton and untoward behaviour.
But, this time, John’s whole face had taken its cue from his eyes and he was openly, beautifully, happy.
“Rodney …”
Rodney moved towards John and John moved towards him, more graceful than a spaceship, more flowing than music, more right and perfect than even the most elegant equation.
They kissed, and there was a gentle shift in the universe; so pronounced that Rodney wondered, almost seriously, whether he needed to branch out into the field of romantic physics.
How many kisses would it take to turn off gravity? Or to fly them to the stars?
“Let me show you my song for you.”
John took Rodney’s hand; and mouth; and heart; and they fell into music, like a twining harmony, which would echo through their lives, forever.