Oh, he'd changed in some ways. They all had. It was inevitable; you don't go through experiences like the ones that they'd shared without it affecting you for better or for worse. Thankfully, most of their changes were for the better. Elizabeth liked to think of herself as an optimist. They'd learned to trust each other; to work as a team. People who could depend on each other. People that saved each other.
And in return, they were more open with each other; more honest. Elizabeth found herself saying things that would have seemed like a shocking breach of protocol months before. Talking with them as if they were friends instead of fellow members of an expedition.
But in all the basic ways, Rodney McKay was exactly the same. Overbearing, arrogant and short-tempered. He'd never learned the words "please" or "thank you", and he probably never would. He was impatient, difficult to work with, unwilling to compromise, and those were his good points. And for some reason, she wouldn't have him any other way.
She'd been warned about him before stepping through that gate. They'd predicted that she'd end up wanting to strangle him before the week was out. She'd regret having him there, much less putting him in a position of power. Power corrupts, they said. And with an attitude like his, he was already halfway there.
Elizabeth had faith in her abilities. If she could handle interplanetary negotiations, she could handle one overconfident scientist. Except Rodney never needed to be handled. What he needed was a very long leash to do exactly what he was meant to be doing in the first place. And if he went a little too far…well, she wasn't above yanking on that leash just a little, to pull him back from whatever mistake he was about to make.
That was her plan in theory, anyway. In practice, she suspected that he'd turn the tables on her.
It wasn't the most professional of thoughts, but she was looking forward to it.
It wasn't that she liked him more than John, really. It was impossible to dislike John. He was just determined to make you like him, no matter what. He was easy to get along with, and completely devoted to his team and this mission. He loved Ferris wheels and football. How could you not like that?
But with John, everything existed on the surface. After all this time, none of them really knew him. And that's how he liked it. So that's how it had to be.
She had to admit to herself that she liked John. But she was fascinated by Rodney.
She'd always loved the complicated types. There was more work involved, which meant that the payoff was greater. If you could get past the exterior and find what lies beneath the surface—that just made them more interesting. Rodney complained, talked quickly and was full of allergies and panicked reactions. You get past that and find that the complaints are usually rooted in some form of (slightly twisted) logic; if you listen long enough, his language starts to make sense; and he exaggerates his symptoms, but never lies about them. You get past that and find that he'll complain, but he'll also risk his life for yours; everything he says has a point if you just wait for it; and his hypochondria is a good distraction when you're worrying about the bigger picture.
Everything he does has a point, if you just wait for it.
Maybe that's what intrigued her. That sleight-of-hand that she never saw coming until the cards were staring her in the face. She could never get the hang of it; with her, everything was laid out on the table right from the beginning. She didn't know how to distract and then surprise the way he did. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know; she was comfortable with her own methods of getting things done. That didn't mean she was incapable of admiring other ways.
She couldn't help but laugh at herself. She liked that he was different, because it made them more alike. None of this made sense. Then again, it never had. And maybe that was just something else to think about.
She thinks too much.
He can always tell; when she sets down her pencil and rubs her forehead, just like that. That's when she's stopped focusing and started over-analyzing. It's become more and more frequent the longer they've been here.
Sometimes he thinks that coming to Atlantis was the best thing that ever happened to Elizabeth Weir. And sometimes he thinks it's the worst.
She's changed; that was a given, of course. They've all changed in so many ways that it would be pointless to try and catalogue them. Even he's changed, as reluctant as he is to admit it. There's a difference between having that information thrown at you, and realizing it on your own. Either way, the basics have remained the same. He likes to think that he's still the same Rodney McKay that stepped through that gate—just with a little added polish. Everyone can stand to use some polish, right?
Of course, Elizabeth was a diplomat to her fingertips before they'd even thought of finding Atlantis. If there was anyone who could stand to use less polish, it would be her. Sometimes he'd like to see her laugh. Not the polite, slightly amused smiles that she gave them sometimes, when John did his usual "I'm here to charm the natives and hopefully trade for beer" routine. He'd like to see her actually laugh; leaning against the walls for support, because it's either that or sink to the floor. Laughing until she had to wipe away tears. That breathless, deep laughter that takes over every part of the body, leaving you helpless and completely exposed.
Elizabeth never let her guard down enough to laugh like that. She wouldn't risk leaving herself exposed. Not even with them.
Rodney likes to think of them as a family, of sorts. A slightly dysfunctional, somewhat awkward, emotionally unstable family. In other words, a typical family—just smarter. Well, some of them, anyway. But in all the ways that counted, they had a sort of bond, for lack of a better word. This experience had bound them together just as much as familial ties ever could. Although that could possibly make Elizabeth the mother of this group, and then that would make John the father, and he'd be damned if John was going to be the dad of this expedition. They'd all end up clocking hours in Heightmeyer's office if that was the case.
Besides, where would that leave him? Some step-uncle that just shows up for the occasional family reunion?
He'd never admit this to anyone, but sometimes he felt left out of things. It seemed as if the dynamic/struggle between John and Elizabeth left no room for him. He didn't see John trying to pull off a coup or anything of the kind, just…testing the waters, trying to find his limits and limitations. John lived by the right thing to do. Elizabeth tried to reconcile the right thing with the best thing.
Rodney could've told her that sometimes the right thing and the best thing were so far apart that they might as well have been in different galaxies.
He thought about that, sometimes—just opening his mouth and saying whatever came to mind. Contrary to popular belief, he did practice some restraint. Otherwise, he would go straight to her office, close the door and tell her to breathe. That since their first day here, she'd been holding her breath, crossing her fingers and everything else she could think of to keep them going for the greater good. And that she didn't have to fight this hard every single step of the way. Save the Hail Marys for the bigger battles, and just breathe through the smaller ones. It was advice he could probably take advantage of, and it was on his to-do list, after 'Win the Nobel several times over' and 'Get my cat back.'
But he planned on it eventually. Breathing, that is. As soon as he found the right moment.
He went from moment to moment as casually as most people went from day to day. In science, that was just something you did. You went from hypothesis to proof; simulations to tests; thought to idea. The moment before and the moment during were some of the best moments of his life. He carried that into everything he did—there were moments you almost died, and moments where you didn't. Moments where you didn't know if you could pull it off, and moments where you did. He worried about eventual life-sucking death via Wraith and explosions and shootings and everything else that people worried about—as long as he wasn't busy with a moment of discovery or confusion or a thousand other moments that he cycled through.
He used to wonder what people did when they had no moments. Watching Elizabeth through the window, he thought that maybe he knew.