A.N: Based on Sparktober bingo prompts: Lower Decks/Background Characters + DHD + Kid Fic + "Do you know what time it is?"
Wow, it's been a while since I've actually finished something. Feels good!
Chuck Campbell was a guy who lived his life in the middle. Most obviously, his station was in the middle of the control room, in the centermost tower of Atlantis, and he derived a certain amount of comfort from the mental image of the whole city spread out around him like a perfectly balanced top. He was in the middle of two different perspectives, between those who dismissed him as little more than a glorified doorman and those who flocked around him as a source of insider knowledge. It wasn't accident that had earned him a tidy profit in coffee and chocolate rations and chem-lab hooch as the city's chief bookie. Because, more than anything, Chuck was in the middle of the action. If the city had a nerve center, he was right there when the synapses fired. He saw and heard it all. Incoming travelers, outgoing teams, long-range sensor scans and threats—both implied and explicit—over radio transmission. (How long their Genii "allies" would go without betraying them was always a good source of income when Chuck's stash got low.)
Yes, he was well placed. He had the galaxy at his fingertips and Dr. Weir's office in his line of sight. In fact, the path to her office took most people right by his console, and he got to see who went in confident and came out chastened, who hurried in eager to share new developments or discoveries and who shuffled in under sentence. At some point or another, most expedition personnel found themselves called into that office at least once, though of course the department heads were the most frequent visitors, Doctors McKay and Beckett especially. However, the one person who trod the path past Chuck's station most often—so much so that Chuck half expected to see military-issue boot treads worn into the floor—was Colonel Sheppard. It was natural, of course, the colonel being the city's second-in-command, its military leader. Frequent meetings were part of the job. Of course, that didn't stop the gossip-rapacious denizens of Atlantis from interpreting the time their two leaders spent together a different way.
The ongoing speculation about Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard's relationship—when it would start, when it would end, how long it had been going on without anybody knowing—had already been firmly established as a pillar of off-duty life when Chuck arrived with the first batch of new personnel on the Daedalus. Though, oddly enough, it had taken some time before the new recruits had been allowed to participate in that aspect of city life; there was a solidarity amongst those who had been through that first, isolated year and stuck around to tell about it, and Chuck had had unpleasant high-school flashbacks as he'd felt himself being assessed by them. Even once he'd been deemed worthy of placing his first bets, the topic of Sheppard and Weir was still off-limits. Anyone making jokes or offering colorful commentary within earshot of a member of the 'old guard' would get shut down with mother-bear fierceness, even though the staunch defenders might have been saying exactly the same thing amongst themselves a moment before. Chuck hadn't understood the reticence at first; what workplace this size didn't thrive on talking about the boss behind their back?
Then had come life on Atlantis: Wraith visitations, strange signals, Genii machinations, kidnappings, energy overloads, weird mutations and so much more, though most of it had the commonality of involving the frequent threat of imminent death. Maybe Chuck didn't always see the guns blazing or ships exploding, but he saw the struggle to decide whether to order the guns shot or the ships blown up. Whether to fight or draw back, to trust or suspect, to send or withhold. The weight of responsibility—for the city and often much more—hovered in the air of the control tower, yet it never landed on Chuck's shoulders. In Atlantis, their Atlas might have stood tall and lovely, but nonetheless Chuck could see the toll of the burden she carried. And the only time it seemed to lessen—the only time, even though she was often surrounded by people, that Dr. Weir didn't look alone—was when Colonel Sheppard was standing by her side.
-o-
When Chuck arrived for night shift, the control room lights had already shifted to their evening setting; the glow of the console crystals was warmer, more diffuse, and a soft purple-greenness seemed to settle over everything along with the nighttime hush. It was a languid, sleepy sort of atmosphere, as if the entire tower were settling in for an evening's rest. The entire tower, that is, except for the glass-walled office across the walkway. As Chuck rolled back his chair and set down his coffee, he wasn't surprised to glance over and see Doctor Weir still sitting at her desk, lamp burning, laptop open. Only one mug beside her, but Chuck was sure it had seen multiple refills by this point, so it was no proper indicator of caffeinated status. Some nights, she would notice the shift change, give Chuck a nod or wave or even step over to say a few words. Not tonight, though. Engrossed in whatever she was doing, she never looked up from her computer screen, save to scribble a few notes off to one side. Sometimes Chuck wondered whether or not she'd outlast the night shift and work straight till dawn; it had never happened yet, but still, he didn't feel safe betting that it never would.
An hour into his shift, and he was well settled into the rhythm of it when he caught a flash of motion in Weir's office. A figure stepped through the side door, and in the middle-of-the-night stillness Chuck could just make out what was said.
"Do you know what time it is?" asked Colonel Sheppard, standing in front of her desk, hands propped scoldingly on his hips.
This, at last, tore her from her work. "John?" She blinked up at him in confusion. "What are you…?" Sheppard tapped at his watch and she winced as she peered at her computer screen. "Oh."
"You would think the person who came up with the schedule would know that work days don't actually last twenty-four hours."
She scrubbed her hands over her face and, though Chuck couldn't see the color of her skin, he thought from the tilt of her head that she might be blushing.
"Ah, but you see," she said, "days here are twenty-six hours long, so…" She gave up. "I know. It's just nice when it gets quiet and I know no one's going to interrupt." She gave a pointed look at the man standing over her.
Either what was said next was too low for Chuck to hear, or Sheppard had no response. Either way, Weir laughed as she rose from her chair, shutting her laptop.
"You know," said Sheppard, "if you're finding yourself burdened with a lot of extra free time, I can help with that."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I mean... I can teach you golf or… or something."
She smiled. "I'd like that. I haven't been golfing in years." The smile turned teasing as she rounded her desk. "However, I do seem to recall that it requires a few things like land, grass, eighteen holes…"
"Okay, fine. So maybe it's not exactly the full experience. But I'll have you know that the J. Sheppard Driving Range is the finest one in this galaxy."
"The J. Sheppard…" She gave a snort of laughter. "That sounds official. Do I need to requisition a plaque for the door?"
"No, but you could approve that request to let me build a course on the mainland." He reached to flip the switch on the desk lamp that she had left burning.
"Nice try, but I'm not that sleep deprived."
He gave an exaggerated snap of his fingers as they exited out onto the walkway. "Dang, I knew I should have waited another hour."
"Try bringing me coffee next time," she said. Though the walkway was plenty big enough for two, they were walking so close that their shoulders brushed together.
As they neared, Chuck fixed his gaze on his laptop, the picture of innocent industry.
"That's never worked before," said Sheppard, a suspicious edge to his voice.
"Who knows?" she said playfully. "Maybe one day it will. Good night, Chuck."
He looked up, his finely-tuned 'I'm just over here minding my own business' face firmly in place. "G'night, ma'am. Colonel."
Sheppard waved at him, but continued to speak to Weir. "Tell you what: I'll start small. You get at least seven hours of sleep and tomorrow I'll bring you the biggest latte the mess can whip up."
"You know, you're not exactly slumbering away right now either. Why are you up so late?"
He shrugged with a non-committal sort of noise. "I always am."
"John…" she said sternly, and the two of them disappeared down the stairs that led to the personnel quarters.
Chuck turned back to his station. He opened a password protected file on his laptop and made a notation of the time for the morning round of 'how much of an insomniac is Doctor Weir?' bets. Small time stuff, the sort where the main form of payment was an extra pastry. But, as his fingers tapped across the keys, Chuck thought he knew the true odds on the biggest wager in the entire Atlantis betting pool, the one that continued un-dampened even though he'd never allowed it in his own books. Out of respect, yes—for all Weir and Sheppard gave to the city, a little privacy in such a matter was the least they were owed—but also for the same reason he didn't take any McKay meltdown wagers on lemon-merengue pie Thursday: betting was no fun if you knew you were going to win.
-o-
One evening during Chuck's second year on the job, Colonel Sheppard had swung by at the start of Chuck's shift and covertly slipped him a stack of comic books. They were veterans from another unsuccessful battle to convince Dr. McKay that Marvel was better than DC, mostly Fantastic Four with a few others mixed in. As Chuck had thumbed through the comics in those quiet, slumbering hours when the city lights went soft and purple, he had discovered The Watcher. Oversized cranium and toga-party outfit aside, Chuck had found in the character a kindred spirit, someone else who understood the privilege of being at the epicenter of epic events and watching them unfold, unseen by most but not unseeing. Yet the passing years, with all their accompanying dangers, only highlighted one of the key differences between Chuck and his comics counterpart: the Watcher chose his passivity; Chuck often had no other option, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.
"Anything yet?"
"No, ma'am."
Elizabeth gave a tight nod, her face equally strained as she stepped away, moving towards her customary spot on the railing overlooking the stargate below. The windows were dark; most personnel were likely asleep by now, but even though the city systems had shifted to their evening settings, the control room snapped with a tension that no soft lighting could soothe.
"So, we just wait?" whispered a voice from Chuck's left.
He turned to look at Martinez, one of the newbie techs fresh off the Daedalus. It was her first day, and she had been assigned to shadow him. He nodded. "Nothing else we can do."
Martinez sat on her hands and bit at her lip as she cast wide, uncertain eyes over the control room. Staff moved from console to console, every station fully manned despite the late hour. Chuck felt sorry for her, a bit. Atlantis was a lot to take in at the best of times, and having to deal with a crisis after less than forty-eight hours on the job was unfortunate. But not unusual. Better she learn what she was getting into now.
"Does, uh… I take it this sort of thing happens a lot?"
Several flippant, easing answers trotted through Chuck's mind, but as he glanced at his computer—the screen still blank, waiting for the message that should have come through hours ago—it just didn't feel right. "Yeah," he answered with a sigh. "In one form or another."
Martinez nodded towards Elizabeth, keeping her voice low. "She takes it pretty personal, doesn't she?"
Chuck glanced at the newbie and, in spite of the solemnity of the situation, felt an urge to laugh. His mouth quirked into a sad, fond smile as he looked towards his boss. He'd lost count by now of how many times they'd lived through the same scenario, how many private vigils he'd seen her keep on that little spit of balcony. "Always has."
He took a deep breath and was reaching for his coffee when the top chevron of the stargate activated with its deep digital clang. For an instant, time stopped, the air thickening like tree sap to amber, and then everyone exploded into motion. Elizabeth spun around and reached Chuck's console in two strides, her knuckles going white as she gripped the ledge. He stared at his monitor, at the empty IDC box ringed with a pulsing, anxious light. Rapid as a Pegasus gate dialed, it seemed an eternity before the ring lit up with the full sequence and splashed into glowing blue life, and another eon before Chuck's screen filled with an incoming code.
He smiled at the familiar set of numbers, and that seemed to be confirmation enough.
Relief poured from Elizabeth's voice as she cried, "Open it!", already moving towards the stairs.
Heart pounding, Chuck lunged for the iris control and stood to watch as the wayward team stepped through the event horizon, home at last. A little battered, maybe, a little bruised, but all present and all upright; in Pegasus that counted as an unequivocal win.
Face beaming, Elizabeth dashed down the steps, towards the gate, and didn't hesitate a moment before launching herself into Colonel Sheppard's arms. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" she asked breathlessly.
"Sorry I'm late," said Sheppard, eyes squeezing shut as he held her tighter, burying his face in her hair.
Martinez peered at the scene, looking pleased, as fit the general mood of the room, but also confused. "I thought Colonel Sheppard was the military commander."
"He is," said Chuck. "He's also her husband."
Chuck swallowed through a suddenly tight throat as he watched the exchange of embraces that took place as Elizabeth greeted the rest of the team. This sort of thing—trouble, worry, reunion—wasn't exactly a rare occurrence. It had all happened before and would likely happen again. But this part… this part never got old. And he was glad he got to see it.
-o-
If there had been one constant about Chuck's job over the years, it was the fact that most people didn't seem to understand it. Even though he did far more than just press a few buttons on the DHD—as the constant stream of diagnostics, maintenance (which even his two engineering degrees and the McKay-Certified Crash Course in Ancient Tech that Chuck had taken before he left Earth didn't always cover) and various tasks related to the half-dozen different fields of study encompassed by the little phrase "stargate operations" would attest—the 'doorman' stereotype persisted.
At first, when he was still as green as the panels on his uniform, the comments had bothered Chuck. "Must be nice," someone (usually wearing blue) would say over their shoulders to him in the lunch line, "getting to sit around, waiting for someone to take a trip and then hitting a few buttons." And how often did that happen? A half-dozen times a day? And hey, someone had to be around to open and close the iris: that big button wasn't going to push itself! It's a tough job, amiright? Man, Kavanaugh had been a jerk.
Now the comments had softened, turned into questions: wasn't it boring, spending so much time in the same spot, doing the same things, pressing those same buttons? Didn't he see those gate symbols in his sleep? (Though if any work-related ephemera haunted his dreams, surely it was the phrase 'unauthorized off-world activation!') Why did he stay in such a tiny job?
As to that, there were as many answers as there were pathways in the control crystal he was working on. The tower wore its midnight calm, and Chuck found his work swiftly completed, his repairs finished with a tidy efficiency that even McKay wouldn't be able to find fault with.
Chuck set the computer to run a final diagnostic and was just leaning back, arms raised in a much-needed stretch, when a familiar rolling rumble met his ears. He swiveled towards the approaching office chair and gripped the back to steady it as young Connor Sheppard climbed aboard, a canvas bag clutched in one hand.
"Hey, Uncle Chuck."
"Hey, little man." Chuck glanced at the clock on his laptop. "Do you know what time it is?"
The boy pursed his lip and stared up at the ceiling. "Hmm… No?" he said innocently, but the quick, eager glance gave him away.
"Uh-huh, sure," said Chuck.
"Whatcha doing?"
Changing the subject. Classic deflection.
"What are you doing out of bed?"
Connor shrugged.
"Your mom and dad are gonna freak out, you know that, right?" Which, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Chuck realized might be the appeal.
Another shrug. "So, what are you doing?"
Chuck sighed and gave the simple explanation.
The boy nodded sagely. "Important work."
Chuck's mouth twitched up in a smile. "Exactly. Which is why I need to get back to it and why you–"
"I won't bother you. I'll be quiet."
And he would, too, at least as long as a six year old could bear it. He was in general a good kid, with a child-like implacability about keeping his word once given.
Chuck pushed back his chair and stood. "That's not the point. It's late. Come on, I'll take you back."
Connor didn't look up, only planted a slipper-clad foot against the console and kicked his chair into a spin. "Have you seen the new DHD?" Another shove, into a faster spin.
Chuck made a grab for the chair back, missed. "New DHD?" He tried again and the whirling jerked to a stop.
Connor looked up at him, not appearing the least bit dizzy. "The one Uncle Rodney built for Rachel's birthday."
The memory of a week-old conversation clicked with a measure of relief. "Oh, that." Not that he would have been surprised if McKay had suddenly decided to "upgrade" the current model without warning. Still, after so many years, Chuck felt he had earned a bit of advance notice. "No, I haven't seen it yet."
"It lights up and has crystals inside and everything. Rachel says if you hooked it up to a real stargate, it would really work. I don't think I believe her, though."
Chuck wasn't so sure. Dr. McKay building his five year old daughter a fully working—if scaled down—replica of a DHD as a birthday present seemed entirely on-brand. He was about to say something complimentary to that effect when he noticed the way Connor was fiddling with the pull-string on the small bag he held, twirling it around his fingers until the cords threatened to snap. A sudden glower had come over his young face, and Chuck suspected the boy's eyes were green in a metaphorical as well as literal sense.
Chuck sat back down. "You're probably right. I'm sure it's just a toy."
Connor gave a skeptical 'hmmm.'
"Hey," said Chuck, gesturing at the canvas bag. "How 'bout I play you one game before I take you back?"
Connor's expression lightened and he peered at Chuck from the corner of his eyes. "Two out of three?"
Chuck held out his fist. Scissors beat paper. "Fine! But if your mom ships me off to some deserted planet for keeping you up so late, I'm telling her it's your fault."
Grinning, Connor upended the bag onto the ledge of the console. Triangular wooden tiles spilled out, worn from use but each one still beautifully carved and painted with its own constellation. The game was simple, and mostly one-sided, but it had become a tradition. Connor would arrange seven of his tiles into a gate address and Chuck would input it into the computer to see if it matched an actual planet. If it didn't, the point went to Chuck; if it did, Connor, and the game went into bonus round where they would each speculate on the nature of the planet, how many people and what kind of animals lived there, etc. and whoever was closest to the information in the database would win five bonus points. Then, though Connor didn't know this, the address would go into a special file on Chuck's computer, a kind of digital push-pin map of 'places to go' that he planned on presenting to Connor when he got old enough to gate travel on his own.
Though there was still a ways to go before that day. Watching as Connor sorted through the pile, Chuck smiled, thinking of a different birthday, years ago, of Colonel Sheppard stopping by his station after a trip to New Athos and proudly laying out the tiles for inspection.
"For teaching Connor gate addresses. What do you think?"
"He'll love them, Colonel. They're perfect."
"Well, you ought to know better than anybody if they weren't." Sheppard had begun packing up the tiles, but half-way through he'd paused, a curious half-grin on his face as he ran his thumb over the carving. "Life's a weird thing, you know that? Most kids play with alphabet blocks…"
"And some kids play with symbols from highly advanced alien technology," Chuck replied with a smile.
Sheppard cinched up the bag and shook his head with a grin. "It shouldn't floor me; Elizabeth downloaded the Ancient ABCs before he was even born. He'll know more about this place than I do by the time he's three." The colonel seemed both delighted and terrified at the prospect.
Chuck noticed a tile had escaped the gathering and handed it over. "And now he'll always know how to get back home."
As promised, Connor and Chuck played through three rounds, gaining two new planets for the secret list. Chuck was just about to put his foot down for real about bedtime when an impulse struck him. "Wanna dial one up?"
Connor's eyes went wide. "Really?" He was normally forbidden from touching any of the controls, as much to guard against an untrained (and powerful) ATA gene as any childish antics.
"Not all the way, but you can input an address if you want."
Connor scrambled out of his chair and dashed around Chuck, slowing with an almost reverential air as he approached the crystal dialing keys.
"Just don't hit engage!" If his bosses found out that he'd actually let their seven-year-old open a wormhole to another planet in the middle of the night, he really would be in trouble.
Connor stretched out a hand for the first crystal, eyes wide, biting his lip. He pressed the key and as soon as it lit up, his face split into a grin. Small, nimble hand hopping from crystal to crystal, he sped through the rest of the address, symbols two through seven glowing into life at his touch. Then his hand shot towards the golden-orange button in the center. Chuck's heart leapt into his chest, everything moving in slow motion as he reached for Connor's arm.
Connor froze, his hand a scant inch above the activate button, and turned to Chuck with a grin. "Just kidding."
Chuck slumped against the console with a groan. "You're killing me, kid." Connor laughed, and Chuck was satisfied that Rachel McKay's birthday present had been entirely forgot.
"Alright, seriously now. Time for bed."
This time, Connor complied, collecting his tiles and allowing himself to be ushered towards the stairs at the back of the control room. Their footsteps—booted thumps followed by soft slippered flaps—clattered out a steady rhythm on the stairs until they made the turn at the landing and everything went silent.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across her chest, the sash of her pink robe trailing on the floor, was Connor's mother.
Chuck heard a small 'uh-oh' from behind him.
"I was just on my way to bring him back," said Chuck.
Elizabeth didn't speak, only fixed her eyes on her son and raised an eyebrow. The boy trudged down the stairs, a man condemned. She jerked her head in the direction of the family quarters. "Bed. Now."
As Connor obeyed, his slippers giving an extra shuffle against the tile floor, Elizabeth turned to Chuck, the sternness melting from her expression. "Thanks, Chuck," she said.
"No problem."
She sighed, rubbing at her neck as if it was sore, and gave him a half-smile. "You know, you do have enough seniority by now that you don't have to work the night shift any more."
He shrugged. "I've kind of gotten used to it. Think I'd miss the quiet."
"Hmm. Quiet. I remember that."
Chuck smiled. "Longing for the old days?"
Her gaze went down the hall, to the small figure swinging a bag as he walked. "Not a chance." She shook her head. "Still… if you ever do change your mind about the late nights, let me know. I'll get Rodney to put a stronger lock on our door." Rolling her eyes with a smirk, she gave Chuck's shoulder a grateful squeeze and bid him good-night.
Chuck made his way back to his station, the stillness seeming extra quiet after the buzz of youth. His fingers grazed over the smooth Atlantean crystal of the DHD as he went to clear the address Connor had partly entered, and he smiled. All those snide comments over the years were, in a way, true. His world had a certain scope: it was defined by those thirty-six keys. That group of symbols. Those constellations. But it wasn't small at all.