Once More, With Feeling
Summary: Rodney makes an unexpected discovery, and John learns a little more about his friend.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, all back-story is canon. Well, most back-story. And the Waltz in A Flat Minor is one of my favorite pieces, so Rodney has adopted it.
A/N: Pre-ship, or just friendship. And I've been wanting to write something about Rodney's kind of traumatic piano experience since I learned about it, so…there you go! Hope you enjoy.
At first, McKay didn't know what to make of the big, almost cathedral-like room—or hall, rather—tucked away in one of the outermost arms of Atlantis. It was certainly enough to keep the people who specialized in architecture busy for months—the walls were laid with large, polished pipes of all different sizes running up towards the ceiling, and the windows were overlaid with the type of stained glass they'd seen elsewhere. Pretty, but useless—and then Rodney looked to the center of the room, at where the pipes were coming from, and a chill ran up his spine.
He was six years old, and cold, and tired, and grumpy. His parents weren't religious, and neither was he, but his grandmother was a devout Catholic and nothing would do but she took her grandson to church every other Sunday morning. It was one of the times—not the only one—when he was really jealous of Jeannie. His parents had put their foot down on Grandma waking the three-year-old up at 5:30 in the morning.
He grumbled, small and petulant, dragging on the hand that clutched his wrist and propelled him forward into the church. And then, as he followed his grandmother to her pew, wanting to be pretty much anywhere else, but especially back in bed, he saw the organ.
It certainly wasn't the small, actually pretty pathetic instrument that had been in the church. This thing was huge, with layers and rows and 3-dimensional shapes of buttons and keys, a maze of wires and tubing of carefully crafted elegance. But it was enough like it to be recognizable, and Rodney felt himself pulled towards the organ without being able to stop himself. There was some dust on the sleek cover over the main keyboard, but not much, and it slid back with a faint, murmuring whisper.
"McKay?" Zelenka called from the doorway, and Rodney waved an impatient hand over his shoulder. "It's fine, it's fine…"
"What is it?" The Czech sounded curious, both as to the nature of the instrument and the way Rodney was so drawn to it, and despite himself a little glimmer of frustration swept through the scientist. "Nothing important, Zelenka. Look, just…go check the next room, okay?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dammit, I'm sure. Go on. Shoo. Scram. Be elsewhere."
He could hear Zelenka and the marine escort leave, their hesitant footsteps proceeding down the hallway—and then Rodney lifted his hands and carefully, almost reverentially, started to play.
He had stayed after the service on that day, which pleased his grandmother—she thought he had gotten religion. He hadn't, at least not the type she was talking about. Very much—years, in fact—later, he would think about how the organ was maybe another kind of religion, but that wasn't now. Now was him running up to the instrument, barely looking at the man who had been playing during the hymns, and running a finger over the keys in a stumbling trill.
"Meredith!" his grandmother said, sounding scandalized, but he didn't care—the touch of his fingers on the keys, his, Meredith Rodney McKay, had sent a ripple of sound through the church, and all he could hear was the wonder of it.
Rodney spent a lot of his free time in the room, in the weeks after they found it. He wasn't getting much less sleep than usual, he reasoned, and it was worth it to hear the music coming back. The first time he had tried to play, he had stumbled and faltered less than a minute into the Waltz in A Flat Major. It had been over twenty years since he played, Rodney reasoned to himself. He was bound to make some mistakes. But with agonizing slowness, he felt his fingers readjust to the melodies, and he started to remember the notes he had thought were lost. He could spend hours in there, sitting on a chair "borrowed" from the cafeteria, eyes open at first, straining at some point beyond the walls, then, eventually, closing as he played. The room had obviously been built for concerts—the echo was fantastic, bouncing the sound through the pipes and down from the ceiling until everything—player and instrument—was immersed inside it. Rodney was in his own world when he played—which was why the voice, three weeks after he found the organ, surprised him so badly.
"Great acoustics. I think Captain Johnson brought his electric guitar—we should get a band going in here."
Rodney whirled around, hand on his heart. "Colonel! Jesus!"
Sheppard stood there, propping up a doorway, looking criminally nonchalant. "Hey, Rodney. What'cha doing?"
"What does it look like?" McKay snapped back. He knew he was angrier than being startled called for—but it wasn't just that, was it? Sheppard was invading his music, taking Rodney's space and adjusting it around himself to fit.
But John was used to Rodney by now—more than used to him—and he let it slide off, walking towards the instrument. "I didn't know you could play. You're pretty good."
The scientist let the compliment slide off him, glowering at the little part of him that wanted to be flattered until it shut up and went away. "I learned when I was a kid."
"Nice." Sheppard just stood there for a moment, letting his hand trail down to the keys and brush over them without pressing down. "My mom wanted me to take lessons. Said it was culturally important."
"And did you?"
The colonel blinked, then flashed him a grin. "Nah. Too wimpy. Started playing football instead."
And wasn't that typical, Rodney thought sarcastically, resisting the urge to brush John's fingers away from the keyboard. "Well, some of us were more interested in being intelligent than athletic, Colonel." He desperately wanted him to take the hint, go away…but then, part of him, that same rebellious cluster of nerve cells, wanted him to stay.
"So, how long you been playing?"
The question dredged up a memory of pain he wanted to forget, danced it around in his head, and John saw the brief flash of—something—in his face. "Hey, sorry—"
"It's fine."
They sat there for a moment, awkward and unyielding, and then Rodney blinked and there it was.
He was in his piano teacher's room, feet swinging just above the carpet. It was small and square and beige in there, and it always smelled like carpet cleaner, but he didn't mind. At least, not enough to stop. He didn't think there was anything that would make him want to stop playing.
At first, he was all fired up for organ lessons. But his parents put their foot down on that one—a piano they could buy, maybe. An organ? Not a chance. So he learned on a small, slightly rickety wooden Yamaha, and tried not to mind how it never matched up to the church organ's tone and the way the sound had reverberated through his body. And it's not hard, because he loved playing. He loved the sense it makes, how very simple things like notes could come up with something so ephemerally gorgeous. He loved that he's the one that could make it happen. And, very lately, he had had a dream…of him, older, in a simple black suit. In the dream he crossed over a polished stage, sat down at the sleek lines of a grand piano, looked out at the sea of rapt audience faces and smiled, once. And then he started to play, and play, and the notes never seemed to end… Yes, Rodney wanted to be a concert pianist. He thought there couldn't be anything better in the world.
His teacher entered the room, looking straight and severe and narrow. "Meredith," she said in greeting, and he smiled back—and then his smile faded as, instead of coming over to correct his posture, she sat down on a chair near the piano bench.
"Meredith, I'd like to talk to you."
He looked back up at her, his twelve-year-old face awash with confusion, and she sighed. "Your mother told me that you would like to be a concert pianist. Is that true?"
He nodded, flushing in embarrassment, and this time her sigh was louder. "I hate to be the one to tell you this…but I think it's my duty as an instructor. Meredith…" The pause was fateful and killing… "You will never make be a concert pianist."
As the breath froze in his throat, she continued. "You're a good technical player, but you simply don't have a grasp of the emotion of pieces. Your playing…it can be mechanical. Usually is."
What could he say? What could he do, except nod, not saying a word, and then go home and tell his parents calmly enough that he was never going to play the piano again?
And for twenty-two years, he didn't.
"When I was taking lessons…I wanted to be a professional player. Do concerts, and recordings—and my teacher told me that my playing was "technical". That I would never be able to play professionally."
He saw, out of the corner of his eye, John's face tighten. "Well, I think you're great."
"Thanks," Rodney said, because he thought John meant it. Really meant it. And behind the words he could hears what wasn't being said—the anger on his behalf, the sympathy. Oddly enough, it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. And then he hesitated, and moved forward, and hesitated again. "Er…"
And then John said it for him, because he was used to Rodney, and he knew Rodney was useless at that sort of thing. "What would you say about having a student?"
Rodney snorted. "Presumptuous, aren't you?" But he willingly enough beckoned Sheppard over, and, after a moment's thought, placed the colonel's hands on top of his own, and started into the Waltz in A Flat Major.
He played it perfectly.