Wow, this story has been sitting unfinished on my hard drive for years. I don't even remember what originally inspired it, but all of the sudden I wanted to finish it. So I hope you enjoy this little Rodney and John friendship fic.
There's a piano in Atlantis.
It sits in a small, indoor amphitheatre in the east section that's built for good acoustics and small audiences. A glossy black grand piano, center stage.
No one quite remembers how it got there. Word was that a SCG team member had died in the line of duty and had left his possessions to the Stargate program. And since someone at some point had requested a musical instrument for leisure purposes, the piano had made its way to another galaxy.
And so if one happens to be passing by on stroll at the right time, they might hear the soft strains of music floating out room from a marine relieving stress, or a group of scientists playing together with various small instruments brought from Earth. Sometimes you can even hear people singing along with the tune being played.
It was under these circumstances that Lt. Col. John Sheppard, on his morning run through the city, happened to pass by the amphitheater during one of those moments when it was occupied.
Slowing down as he neared the doorway, John could hear someone playing the piano. He thought it a bit odd that anyone would be practicing so early in the morning, but then again, a lot of the Atlantis personnel worked odd hours.
When Sheppard had first started his run that morning, unaccompanied by Ronan who was helping the Athosians on the mainland, he had been feeling laden down by frustration and guilt. Frustration because one of the marines under his command had died protecting Sheppard's team on their last mission and guilt for the same reason. He knew that all the men and women on the base understood what they were signing up for; there was always danger lurking in the shadows of the unknown. But that never lessened the blow when, inevitably it seemed, someone got too close to the darkness and was snatched by it. Sgt. Gary Reed was only the latest casualty in that battle, but somehow it stung all the more when the life offered up was in protection of John's own.
Shaking off the morbid turn his thoughts were taking, John stepped into the open doorway, keeping to the shadows as not to disturb the person seated on the stage. The amphitheater was dimmed but for the simple backlighting of the raised platform.
Who he saw sitting there was a bit of a shock.
Dr. Rodney McKay was situated at the piano, head bowed and eyes closed, gently rocking to movement of his arms as his hands deftly brushed over the keys. McKay's head was slightly tilted to one side as if listening for something underneath the melody he produced, his mouth pulled tight at the corners in concentration. The classical chords John had heard in the corridor shifted into something softer and more mournful that John didn't recognize.
McKay had mentioned off-hand a few times over the years that his parents had forced music lessons on him during his formative years and that his teacher had pronounced him a "proficient but clinical" pianist. Sheppard had never given more than a passing thought about Rodney's claim to musical talent; mostly he thought that McKay was stroking his own ego, as the scientist was prone to do. But as he listened to the forlorn melody that filled the empty space, John had to admit that his best friend was more musically gifted than he had given him credit for.
John almost huffed with incredulity. Their Rodney, a musician? But the evidence was right in front of him. He leaned back against the wall and studied the picture as a whole – the music and the man.
John was willing to bet if he had heard Rodney play something before their time on Atlantis, or even a year into their space adventure, the music he produced would still have been good, maybe even great, but ultimately cold and distant. There would have been no emotional depth or resonance because that McKay had no concept of what it was to pour his heart into the song. The old McKay would execute the piece to perfection, but the soul wouldn't exist – not because Rodney was unfeeling, but because he didn't know how to translate what he felt into proper musical expression.
Not this Rodney.
This Rodney had been forged in the fires of the Pegasus Galaxy. This Rodney had fought, bled, and almost died to protect his friends. This Rodney had saved Atlantis more times than anyone could count. This man had made a new family for himself, despite his own best efforts to drive people way. He had lost more colleagues than anyone in his field had a right to, but he also saved more lives than anyone could claim to. This Rodney had gotten past all of John's defenses and became the brother that he couldn't live without.
Rodney McKay had been changed from the inside out by his time on Atlantis. It showed in the way his fingers feathered out the subtle emotion of the melody, drawing the piece to a close with a soft, deep chord.
Sheppard remained as still as possible while McKay's hands came to a halt on the keys. After a moment of reflective silence, Rodney's voice drifted to him with a firm, but not edged, "I know you're there, Sheppard."
Then McKay's ice blue eyes lifted to meet John's gaze and Sheppard read the depth of his friend's emotion in that stare. It was almost too much to handle, given the rocky state of his own feelings.
"I was just passing by on my run and thought I'd check out who was up here." He gave Rodney an inquisitive look. "Not usually anyone here this early in the morning."
McKay gave a humorless chuckle that caused John to frown at the sound of it. "Not who you were expecting, I take it?"
John sidled up to the platform, leaning both hands on the edge as he looked up at his teammate. "Maybe not. I didn't realize…" He trailed off, not really sure how to finish given all he had just witnessed.
"That I have other talents besides constantly saving the galaxy from imploding every other week? That I might have hobbies that don't include unraveling the mysteries of Ancient technology all day, every day? That I…"
"Yeah, yeah, McKay, you made your point," John stated, a little sharper than he had intended.
Rodney's mouth snapped shut into an annoyed line, but he must have seen something in Sheppard's frame that kept him from spitting out an acerbic retort. Instead he sighed and brushed a hand over the top of the ivories. "Ever since this has been here, I've come to practice when I need to sort out a problem that's eating at me or to clear my head, you know?" Rodney gave a meaningful glance to John's running uniform and Sheppard nodded back. "But early morning's the only time I know no one will be around to hear my crappy playing."
John heard and understood the accusatory tone in Rodney's voice. "Ronon's on the mainland, remember? I took a different route today." He lifted his hands in apology but made sure he held Rodney's gaze when he said, "But I don't think your playing's crappy, Rodney. In fact, I thought it was really good. Was that a classical piece at the end there? I didn't recognize it."
The emotion was back in McKay's eyes. His teammate looked away and fiddled with the keys. John was not used to this hesitant, almost shy side to Rodney that came out sometimes. When both of their walls were down and they were just two guys not sure how to communicate what they were feeling. It was times like this he really wished Teyla would just show up with exactly the right words to say.
Rodney sighed again and cast a guarded expression in John's direction before admitting, "It's not classical. I made it up, just now." The blunt delivery was almost a challenge, as if he didn't think Sheppard could find him capable of creating his own music.
And while it did take John a little by surprise, as had most of the last twenty minutes, he also had no doubt that a mind as complex as Rodney's, that mind that dreamt of countless possibilities and solved endless problems, could produce a profound symphony.
John grinned up at his best friend, even though it was tinged with loss. "I think Reed would've been honored, Rodney."
McKay's shoulders caved inward, bowed a little more under the weight of yet another person that had died to make sure they lived. "This helps me remember them, John. This reminds me that there's more to life than just finding the next piece of cool tech or surviving the next mission." Rodney met John's eyes once again. "It reminds me that they didn't all die for nothing."
John's throat tightened with emotion, and he tried to come up with anything to say in response, but Rodney abruptly stood from the bench and closed the lid over the keys with a sharp snap. When he turned back to Sheppard, McKay's expression said that the subject was now closed.
Clearing his throat slightly, John inquired, "Breakfast?"
Rodney's eyes brightened a little at the prospect. "Absolutely." Then he frowned and pointed an accusatory finger in Sheppard's direction. "Don't you dare breathe a word of this to the others. I'm not some second-rate, wannabe musician like some of the other scientists that wander in here looking to play in a group medley. I'd rather have this for myself."
"Sure, McKay," John placated, "I won't tell a soul."
"Humph, somehow I don't believe you."
"Well then I guess you'll just have to trust me."
"Trust a hot-headed flyboy with no sense of self-preservation? Ha! As if…"
The sound of their bickering followed them down the corridor while some of the weight of their loss was left to the strains of mournful music.
There's a piano in Atlantis.
No one quite remembers how it got there.
But they're thankful for it, all the same.