A/N: This is unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine. And there are bound to be some, since this was written at the buttcrack of night. (That's around midnight for those of you unfamiliar.) If you can, please leave some feedback. I was thinking about why Rodney is so snarky and arrogant all the time and the one idea that kept popping up into my mind was that he was overcompensating. But for what? And thus sprang forth this fic. Enjoy.
It's midnight in Atlantis—or, at least, the equivalent of midnight in the Pegasus Galaxy. Almost everyone is asleep now, except for the guards who are stoically and silently standing guard. And for the faint sounds of metal clicks. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. He counted silently in his head, completing his reps. Sitting up, he decided to move to the punching bag.
Atlantis certainly wasn't equipped with all the gym equipment that existed, but besides the sparring room, there were a couple of machines, and traditional free weights. He breathed methodically, beads of sweat beginning to form at his hairline. He darted, trying to be light on his feet, striking at the bag quickly but harshly. And even with all the distraction, he couldn't get his father's voice out of his head. Not even his father's voice. Just the essence of his family, his utterly tragic family that he hated and loved at the same time, that he wanted to abandon but remember. A soft, bitter laugh escaped from his throat. Rodney McKay was nothing if not a contradiction.
His father knew how to disarm him completely with just a look, with just a sigh. One flicker of those brown eyes and a soft, resigned sigh made his feelings quite clear. He was disappointed. And his father was disappointed often. And all his mother could do was tell him that he was smart, exceptionally smart, and brilliant, and that it was just a phase. Your father'll get over it, Rodney, she said in that soft manner of speaking that was hers. She half-sighed. It's just—he just doesn't know what to say to you. And it's not as if he blames him for everything that he feels his wrong with him because he doesn't. He should hate the bastard, but he doesn't.
Each strike he makes at the punching bag, he sees his father's face. His jaw clenches with loathing and he tries not to just pummel the thing out of complete use. Not that he would be capable of it. He was smart, but what did intelligence have to do with anything? According to his father, nothing. That was probably why he had no mirrors in his room. He could see, just imagine the amount of DNA in him, the amount of his father's DNA that he had, that he could see, that he could notice that made him hate himself.
He remembered it clearly. He had been sitting at his desk in his room doing his homework, and studying for a bit. Reading a bit on quantum physics simply because the subject had piqued his interest. Rodney, his father had said in that gruff voice of his, pushing the door open. Rodney, what—what's the matter with you? And he had looked up in that weak, naïve way of his. "What d'ya mean, Dad?" he had said with the slowly developing voice of an eleven-year-old. Son, you're in here all the time, reading books and studying all the time. Why don't you ever play sports or something? I mean, you've got to learn how to be a man one day. Why don't you play with other boys your age? You know, some football or something? And so, like the eager-to-please idiot he was, he went out for hockey and ended up not making the team. His mother had commended him for trying, but his father—oh, his father had just cast him that leer of disapproval, heaved that familiar sigh of disappointment of his, and expressed in no uncertain terms that he believed his son to be a failure. Less than a man. And that had stung the most. He had remembered crying late that night, pinching himself so hard that the marks lasted for a week. After all, boys didn't cry. They weren't supposed to.
He takes methodical breaths, slick sweat falling from his hairline, slipping down the slope of his neck. He feels sticky and warm and a vague sense of loathing for himself. He stops, pulling off the gloves with an almost animalistic brute strength that he knows he doesn't have, but wants to believe that he has. He reaches for the jump rope, and chooses to push himself until he feels like he's going to collapse. He knows this isn't healthy. In fact, he can probably trace the very roots of all these problems and go to Heightmeyer and fix them himself, but he doesn't want to. He's disappointed in himself just like his father was disappointed in him. Carrying on the family tradition. The jump rope begins to click against the floor.
When he was in high school, his father began to discuss the options of his future with him. His father pushed the military. Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, anything, son. You name it, they got it. They'll train you, and you'll come out looking better than ever. You learn discipline, respect. You gain strength, brotherhood. And they'll even pay for your education. You don't even have to serve in wartime. But he had seen the flaws of his father's plan. He had realized that his purpose in life was more than just grabbing an AK-47 or something as destructive off the walls, without a name, but merely a number, going off to fight an unknown enemy. Peacetime or not, everyone goes into a battle sometime. He had wanted to do something in science. Heal the world, not kill it. And the fact that he was at Atlantis now with military personnel is amusing. He doesn't fail to see the irony.
Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. He trips on the rope. His legs feel sore. He stops, grits his teeth, breathing roughly through his mouth for a few seconds. He starts again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The singing warmth burns through his legs, and he has to bite his tongue against the pain. But he has to keep going. He wants to hit a hundred. He has to do this. For himself. For his father, the son-of-a-bitch. He scoffs. Mainly for himself. He never was good at being altruistic.
He stops, and flings the jump rope on the ground with a bit more force than necessary. He brought no water, and though he is absolutely parched, he refuses himself water. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. His father's voice is ringing in his head, like it always does when he can't sleep, and he hates it. He just wants to exorcise his damn demons, or rather, he wants Heightmeyer to exorcise them for him because it's her damn job. But he can't help but feel the tightness in his chest at the feeling of disappointing his father once again.
And maybe that's why he secretly hates Sheppard. Friend or not, he'll always harbor a jealousy towards the other man. Sheppard was everything that his father wanted him to be: strong, courageous, athletic, masculine. He trudges painstakingly to his quarters, his legs resisting him every step of the way. A grim smile illuminates his face. Father is 4 Ohms. Legs are 2 Ohms. He wants to laugh but there's nothing to laugh about except his own pathetic self. And maybe that's why he acts like he does. If he has to be miserable, might as well drag everyone else down with him. He just collapses on the bed for four hours of needed sleep. And all he sees is black.