Standard Disclaimers: I don't own Once Upon a Time or Stargate: Universe. This is not an attempt to make money.
Author's Note: I got hooked by Once Upon a Time and went to SG:U to see more of Robert Carlyle. This fic is the result of comparing the two characters in my head. I have a very very rough vision of snippets that could follow this – but may or may not continue. We'll see if inspiration strikes.
"Son-of-a…." Dr. Nicholas Rush was not a happy camper. Actually, since he lacked any outdoor supplies (except for the basics that went with his military fatigues) he wasn't really any sort of a camper at all.
If one had to hazard a guess, given the bruise on his forehead and the blood from his split lip, he was more like a kind of victim. The drying blood on his knuckles and dirt under his nails probably categorized him as a victim that had fought back, but since there was rapidly darkening alien sky above him it was clear that he was a victim who had fought back and lost.
He'd been lured out to examine the wreck of an unknown alien ship on an inhospitable planet and was promptly jumped by the brute-in-the-making called Colonel Young.
There may have been some sarcasm and unrepentant fact-slapping by him during this process, as well as an attempted braining by a rock, but that was not really the point.
The point was that he was alone on a deserted planet, abandoned by the Colonel who'd had the audacity to finally get a backbone now and, as a result, leave him to die.
While Destiny jumped away.
While his Destiny jumped away.
HIS Destiny.
A flutter of panic rose from his gut, tickling his throat, but he ruthlessly shoved it down.
There was an art to transforming nearly any unwelcome emotion into soothing anger, and it was one that Dr. Rush had spent several years cultivating. It was second nature by now and he often reveled in the strength and surge of energy it usually provided. Of course, the harder the feelings were to transform, the less satisfying it was in the end.
Exhaustion was easiest, sorrow hardest.
Which, now that he thought of it, might be why he worked so damn hard all the time.
He snorted and tramped up the slope that led to the alien ship, wiping the blood from his nose.
No. That wasn't it. He worked so hard because there were goals to be accomplished. Goals that only he could see the end of and that only he, apparently, understood the urgency for.
What he didn't understand, not now and not ever, was why everyone else couldn't just get the hell out of his way while he did that?
He scowled, features twisting. The crows feet at his eyes and the lines around his mouth jumped into further prominence, as if to lend their support to the antagonistic expression. Enough. He had a Leatherman, an alien ship that was currently battened down tight and no doubt filled with technology that he'd never seen before, and about three days of life.
There was no time to waste on cursing.
But the first time he sliced his hand open trying to get the hatch open, he did so anyway.
The temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees and he shivered under the looming hulk of the ship. The hatch above his head was still firmly closed, locked into place. He'd brought along a flashlight from Destiny, but with no place to prop it up and two hands needed, it was proving difficult to keep working with so little to illuminate his way.
He hadn't given up yet. That wasn't in his nature. No, not that he was incapable of giving up. He was no bull-headed moron incapable of reacting and modifying a plan in response to change. Even if that modification meant accepting the inevitable. It was only that nothing was inevitable yet.
He could still get the ship open in the morning.
He could still repair it to the point of flight, communications, or gate dialing.
He could also fail to do anything but make more scratches in that hull, kill himself trying to sort out the flight controls, or gate into oblivion.
Rush chose to focus on the more optimistic options for as long as he was able.
He did not think about what Colonel Young had told the rest of the ship about him.
He did not think about the fact that the ship he had invested so much of his hopes, energy, and self into was some place he'd likely never see again.
He did not think of the fact that, if he did die out here alone, it would be somewhat poetic justice. Alone. Abandoned.
Gloria wouldn't approve of the symmetry. She hadn't had a vindictive bone in her body. But she was dead.
He could approve of it on her behalf.
Despair ever so deftly nudged at him, enticing him to take a deeper dive into the familiar numbing waters of self-pity.
He rallied, though, summoning up irritation once more as his ally. "God," he groaned and leaned his head back against the cold stone behind him. Dust pattered down over his shoulders, "I'd sell my soul for a bloody cigarette right now."
"It's a deal."
Rush's eyes flew open and he stared, disbelieving at a gruesomely smiling figure suddenly standing in front of him. The man/creature/alien was leaning ever so casually against a boulder as if he'd been there for hours.
"Though, if I were you," it spoke, voice a lilting, mocking, sing-song as it raised its hand and waggled a cigarette at him, "I'd aim a little hi-gher…"
Rush stood up slowly. His eyes narrowed as he took in the glittering skin, the leather pants, and the expectant hard eyes. Dr. Nicolas Rush's lips quirked and he cleared his throat. "What, exactly," he said evenly, "did you have in mind?"