This tune was composed by Spencer the Rover,
as valiant a man as ever left home,
he had been much reduced which caused great confusion,
and that was the reason he started to roam.
- Spencer the Rover (trad)
All the Good Stories
By EllieV
Prologue
They sat in the mess in what clichés called "a companionable silence." At least, Weir was silent because she was eavesdropping on Beckett's and McKay's conversation four tables away. Sheppard was silent because he wasn't talking, nor was he listening to anything. At least, she didn't think so. He wasn't all that companionable really. He was reading, one hand shoveling food into his mouth. The book wasn't War and Peace. She suspected that Lt Colonel Sheppard had originally brought along rather more personal items than the one allowed. After settling into Atlantis people had started pooling their books to make a library. There weren't many real books even though the Daedelus was now making regular runs between Pegasus and Earth, and people could have personal items shipped. They had a lot of e-books and readers and someone had cheekily downloaded all of Project Gutenberg onto a computer. But Sheppard, she noticed, always had a hardcover—and didn't share them.
"May I join you, Colonel?" she had said.
"Sure," he replied, not putting the book down nor even looking up. She wasn't certain if he actually realized it was her. The book was obviously enthralling. This one didn't have a dust jacket and she couldn't make out the writing on the spine. It looked old and worn, the lettering pealing and faded. Tuning out of Rodney and Carson's sniping, curiosity got the better of her.
"What are you reading?" she asked.
"Mmmm?" he mumbled.
"Book. Reading. You. Colonel," she enunciated.
"Elizabeth." He put the book down carefully, as though it was precious, the way someone would handle a delicate rose to prevent the petals falling. He smiled at her. "How was your day, Dr Weir? Mine was boring. Wraith darts, getting shot at, nothing new." He glanced over at Beckett and McKay, who were now pointing fingers at each other. "What are they arguing about now?" Sheppard toyed with his fork. "Hey, do you think we have enough food for a fight?"
She frowned at the non-sequiturs and craned her neck a little to peer at the spine. She could make out "...of the ... Revo …." Revolting? Revocation? Revolution? He waved a hand in front of her face to get her attention and smiled again, an evil, mischievous little boy grin. It was Distraction No. 2 in her list of John Sheppard smiles, second only to Distraction No. 1, the "I don't want to talk about it." She fell for the smile as usual, looking back at him just as he flipped some mashed potato at her from his fork, grabbed his book and bolted, laughing, from the room.
He was so juvenile. As she wiped the mess from her jacket she noticed the suppressed grins around her. Even Rodney and Carson had stopped their finger pointing. Juvenile but, as Carson pointed out to her later, John Sheppard was good for morale.
Thus nature has no love for solitude, and always leans, as it were, on some support;
and the sweetest support is found in the most intimate friendship.
- Marcus Tullius Cicero