Takes place early part of Ch. 29 in Language of Love ("Darkness and Light").
Pianissimo (Italian, n.) A passage marked to be performed very softly.
Bartolo Cristofori invented the piano around 1700 in Italy, unsatisfied by the lack of control that musicians had over the volume level of the harpsichord. So he switched out the plucking mechanism with a hammer, calling it clavicembalo col piano e forte or literally, a harpsichord that can play soft and loud noises. The "piano" part stuck as the name ever since.
When he feels charitable Rodney likes to imagine Cristofori would be filled with wonder and delight that one of the last descendants of his invention resides in a galaxy three million light-years from home. Or else spinning in his metaphorical grave, grieving at the pathetic excuse of a baby grand squatting in the commons of Atlantis. Not even a Steinway, for god's sake.
Still, beggars can't be choosers as the saying goes. This is one of only two actual pianos left in the known universe, salvaged from Old Earth before its untimely and explosive demise and donated to the colony by O'Neill at Grahme's request.
Though Rodney wouldn't give up his position as Atlantis Colony's Head of Science for anything he harbors a lingering resentment at not being chosen Witness by the Asgard instead of her. He's no sentimentalist when it comes to losing their former homeworld but he's sure he would've been much, much more appreciative of the titanic destructive forces at work while the planet tore itself apart.
He doesn't envy Grahme her nightmares, however.
Past midnight now, which even by Atlantis standards is considered late. The corridors and public spaces are empty save for a handful of Lantean Guard on patrol. Barring the occasional disaster or important scientific projects, most folk do tend to keep decent hours.
But then Rodney's not like most folk. As his favorite superhero is fond of saying, he is the night. Or something like that.
The commons are deserted when he emerges from the transporter alcove, meeting rooms and lounges dark save for strategic lighting here and there. Such as the one over the piano, located by the huge vidrium window dominating one side of the central gathering space used for periodic hooray-we're-not-dead-yet celebrations.
As the preeminent genius in two galaxies Rodney basks in the attention and glory that is his due but prefers privacy for this, the stars and moons of Lantea his sole companions. John thinks he's doing one of his overnight marathons in the lab, an illusion he maintains with help from 'Lantis, controlling lights and faking his location on the lifesigns monitor should his partner ever ask. For an Ancient-programmed AI she has good taste, clearly preferring his playing over Zelenka's, that crazy Czech Beethoven with his wild hair and glasses. He hogs it way too much during the day, but at least he's the one who keeps it in tune.
Rodney props his tablet up on the music holder and brings up the appropriate score he's been working on. Good thing he had the foresight to copy his extensive collection of classical MP3s and sheet music alike before being shipped off to Siberia in disgrace- then hauled right back to Cheyenne Mountain and Alpha Base for the pre-apocalypse chaos they called the Ingathering.
He can thank his parents- albeit grudgingly- for his interest in music. George and Louise McKay were too busy working middle-class jobs to adequately care for their genius children, though at least they managed to scrimp and save enough to pay for music lessons. Jeannie couldn't carry a tune to save her life but he enjoyed them immensely, once he realized he could use his gift for mathematics to study elements such as tempo, chord progression, form, and meter. He even cherished a secret dream of becoming a professional pianist and composer someday, showing his parents that yes, their own Meredith Rodney could actually make a living by using his talents and considerable intellect.
Those hopes were dashed when his teacher- whose name has since been erased from memory- flat out told him, "Meredith, your playing is technically perfect in every regard but it lacks a certain artistry. You're not putting enough heart into the work to make it as a soloist, though that doesn't eliminate a fulfilling career as a backup pianist-"
He doesn't remember anything else said after that, having kicked over the piano bench and storming out of the room in despair.
Soul-crushing news, to say the least. Music had been his primary escape from an appalling home life and hellish treatment from bullies at school. Fortunately his real talents lay in math and science; he had far better things to do, unraveling the mysteries of the universe instead of playing second-fiddle (so to speak) to the banal demands of star performers and the dull expectations of audiences. So music fell by the wayside while he pursued his true destiny in astrophysics.
Then the Big Quake and Zero Hour happened, and music became a valuable source of entertainment and release valve among the survivors. Even Alpha Base had its share of dances and impromptu concerts to blow off steam; Caldwell for all his faults as CO wasn't that much a stick-in-the-mud when it came to matters of morale. Rodney surprised himself by taking up the piano again after so many years, sneaking into the rec room where the base's electronic keyboard was stored in the middle of the night, with headphones and small portable lamp so as not to alert security. Playing in secret the same way he's doing now in Atlantis, for his own enjoyment.
He sits on the bench and flexes his fingers, making sure the position of his hands and feet are correct before trying a few exploratory chords and warm-up exercises. Then he launches into the first piece, a light, childlike tune by Robert Schumann.
Talent works, genius creates. A quote by him that Rodney finds entirely apt.
Yes, he's more than just some plodding technician. Truly an artisan among astrophysicists, utilizing the very forces underpinning the universe to benefit humanity in both galaxies. Surely he would've earned a Nobel Prize several times over by now with all his important discoveries- if such an award still existed. But these days the satisfaction of ensuring they'll live another day will have to do.
The music flows under his fingertips, a perfect stream of melody, Schumann to Bach to Mozart. No useless minions or bungling marines or life-threatening escapades to interrupt him. Nothing matters but the night, the music, and himself.
He lets the last notes hang in the semi-darkness when he's finished. Playing has a way of clearing his mind, a respite from the whirring, reeling nature of his thoughts. The only other activity that can get him to this state is making love with John, though that has an added bonus of sharpening his appetite. This nourishes his soul instead, the closest to achieving perfection other than with a well-balanced equation.
Soft clapping breaks the reverent silence.
"Alright, who's there? Show yourself this instant." If it's John, Rodney's screwed because he'll just blab it all over the city. But if it's one of his minions they're even more screwed, right into waste-reclamation duty and cold showers for life.
"Just me." Grahme steps forward, light glinting off the rim of her glasses. "Sorry for interrupting but I couldn't help myself. That was so beautiful."
He squirms under the unexpected praise. "Ah yes, well. Thank you." He realizes he's noodling out a chord with one hand and hastily stops. "I don't make a habit of this, you understand. I'm busier than you can possibly believe. Saving the city on a regular basis takes up most of my valuable time."
"Oh, I'm sure it does." As dry and facetious as O'Neill, sometimes. Like uncle like niece.
He scowls. "And I suppose you think music and physics are completely incompatible."
"Actually, I don't. Einstein played the violin, didn't he? Maybe he heard the music of the spheres in more than one way."
"Mmm, yes. So he did."
They lapse into a mutual awkward silence. Neither of them are good at small talk.
They're not friends, but they're not not-friends either. Not-exactly-friends, perhaps.
In private he admits a grudging respect for her as Domina since Operation Astria, initializing and testing the Ancient defense system for Huy-Braesealis on New Earth. And she also saved Atlantis by bringing the modified instruction code that restored the city while she was in a fugue state, though he's sure he would've figured out a solution on his own, sooner or later.
The Athosians hold her in the same regard as they do John, who calls her the little sister he never had. Which makes no sense whatsoever since they don't resemble each other in the slightest. She hates heights and can't do equations, for god's sake. Nothing else in common save for the Domini thing.
As for what she has in common with Rodney himself, well. According to MacGyver (hair as ridiculous as Sheppard's, technically competent though no Ph.D. to his name and an inexplicable fetish for turning garbage into useful stuff) she's a fellow alumna of the hard-knocks school for gifted children. A knack for cutting right to the heart of a problem with meaningful questions and wry understated observations. Not as hot as Carter (what does she see in an insane grouch like O'Neill anyway?) but attractive enough in a disarming fashion.
All the words in the English language and there isn't a single one that adequately describes this not-not-friendship of theirs. As a linguist she might know of a better term, though the notion of a "social scientist" is as laughable and oxymoronic to Rodney as medicine, the same level of imprecise mumbo-jumbo.
"So," he ventures, "why are you stalking Atlantis at night, instead of cuddling in bed with your fiancé?"
She grimaces and looks away. "Too many nightmares."
"You seem to be plagued by those lately. This lack of sleep's not healthy, you know."
"You're one to talk. How many times has John hauled you out of the lab late at night, anyway?"
He plays a few peremptory chords. "None of your business. I have a perfectly good reason for my insomnia."
The eyebrow she raises is loaded with irony. "And I don't? You do know why I'm here in Atlantis, right? Because of what happened to me in Sidon?"
Yes. Yes, he does. Unfortunately.
She heaves an exasperated sigh, the kind Elizabeth makes when he's done something both completely brave and utterly foolhardy at the same time. "Right. See you later."
"Where are you going?"
"Outside," heading for the sliding door to the balcony. "I need some fresh air. If you want to keep playing go right ahead, I won't bother you anymore."
Well, if she insists.
Rodney strings a few chords together in a major key, frowns and replays it in a minor one. Better.
He hasn't tried his hand at composing for a long time but the annual memorial service is coming up in a couple months and there's this heart-wrenching piece he's been working on in honor of the fallen, an engaging melody that even for a select private audience ought to evoke-
He stops playing.
Oddly enough the calm and clarity he gained earlier allows his thoughts to momentarily focus outwards, working his way through the nebulous, electron-cloud realm of other-people's-feelings. Until he achieves a limited sort of empathy with Grahme where she's standing by the stained-glass door.
He's not normally clued in to the nuances of body language but even in the moonlight he can read the fear and despair and desperation etched into every line of her face and the slumped posture of her petite form, the soul-deep weariness that comes with enduring beyond the limits of the physically- if not mentally- possible. Similar to what John reveals only when he's asleep, unconsciously releasing his mask of laconic flippancy. So okay, maybe they do have something else in common.
Oh yes, he heard about her and Sidon. They all have, though only in broad general terms like torture and pain.
When the rescue mission had returned to New Earth they'd beamed up to visit her in the orbiting Asgard ship before leaving for Atlantis. Jackson had hovered anxiously by her side as they peeked at her in the healing chamber, an opaque white swirling mist covering most of her body.
Teyla murmured a prayer to the Ancestors for her recovery. Carson quietly engaged Fraiser in voodoo-speak about a treatment plan. Even Ronon and Lorne on crutches looked concerned, each in their own fashion.
It was the second time he'd ever seen his partner almost moved to tears as he gently patted the clear cover. "Looking forward to seeing ya when you wake up, little sis," was all he said.
She's been to hell and back, just like so many others who've gone through the Gate in either galaxy. Rodney can relate, more than she could possibly realize. He can no longer count on one hand the times either he or John were separated from the team, tortured and used only for their intellect (himself) or genes (John's ridiculously high ATA expression). The post-traumatic stress never gets any easier to deal with, which is why he vastly prefers insomnia to nightmares.
Still, it's a good thing they have each other when they can't bear it alone. Grahme ought to be glad she has Jackson, for the same reason.
"Oh, come back here," he snaps, scooting over on the bench. "It's too distracting thinking of you on the balcony in the dark. John would blame me for not paying attention if you fall off and die."
She raises her head, regarding him with a faint ironic smile. "I didn't know you cared for my safety. I'm touched."
He snorts. "Please. I'll never hear the end of it if anything happens to you, least of all from your overprotective uncles and fiancé. Elizabeth will probably have me dumped on some godforsaken Siberia-like planet with an orbital Gate and leave me there to rot."
"Not a fitting fate for the greatest genius in two galaxies," she dryly agrees.
"Precisely. So get over here before I change my mind."
She perches awkwardly on one end, folding her hands on her lap. "I didn't know you could play the piano. Did you want to be a performer growing up?"
"At one point. I like to keep my hand in from time to time. You?" He lightly runs his fingers over the keys, wondering if she's going to ask more pointless and painful questions.
"Of course. As a kid I used to daydream about becoming a famous singer. You know, Billboard chart-topper and everything. Had a pretty good voice for it too, enough to get into high school choir and the occasional soloist spot. Even sang in a band with some friends for a couple years before graduation."
You had friends? he wants to ask, but holds his tongue instead. Too snide a remark for their current level of candor. He sits a little straighter, opening a text editor on the tablet and making a few notes. "Yes, well, no doubt living near Hollywood encouraged dreams of instant stardom."
An offhanded shrug. "Not really, it was just for fun. We knew our limitations."
He feared he'd already reached his as a boy, no thanks to the piano teacher. Fortunately he since learned better. "At least you had the sense to stick with your strengths in the long run. Language and cultures and all that."
"I thought I knew what they were, back then," she admits in a soft voice, her expression distant. "But I don't anymore. Sidon nearly broke me. I'm not even sure I can put myself back together again."
"But you didn't break, did you? You're still here, and sane. Or as much as one can be in an insane universe like this." The words coming out of his mouth surprise him; this kinder, gentler Rodney McKay isn't a side he shows often to not-exactly-friends. But she needs encouragement so he presses on, struggling to find advice he can offer within the bounds of their not-not-friendship.
He eventually falls back on the subject nearest and dearest to his heart and mind. Well okay, one of them. "Look, in physics there's a measurement called yield strength which determines how stubborn or malleable an object can be, or rather the point at which it ceases to be elastic and instead becomes rigid enough to break. It helps people choose appropriate materials for construction. An object's yield strength is determined by what's known as the tensile test."
To his surprise she nods. "I've heard of it, Uncle Mac explained it to me once. The material is mercilessly pulled at both ends, and the test determines the relationship between the stress to which the object is subjected and the strain it suffers as a consequence."
"Exactly. Whatever material undergoes the test initially behaves like an elastic and stretches, and when the stress is released goes back to its original length. However, excessive stress can deform a material permanently. Too much and the material will suffer a tragic fracture and break."
"Your point being?"
He straddles the bench, facing her. "Think of what you went through as the same thing, a tensile test. Your mind and body were pushed to the limit but ultimately proved you are more elastic than you realize. You didn't break. You," pointing at her for emphasis, "did not break. You're not breaking now. Your yield strength is greater than you think. You will survive this."
She stares at him for a while like he's nuts, which is totally uncalled for because he's being very rational right now. Then a corner of her mouth curls up. "Not the kind of advice I expected to hear from you in a million years, McKay. But I appreciate the support. Can't say as I share your optimism, though."
He waves away her skepticism. "Believe me or not, I don't care. I know I'm right, I'm a genius. Consider yourself honored, because I don't give pep talks like this to just anyone."
She chuckles. "Now that sounds like the McKay I know. I still remember you called me pipsqueak once."
"That was before you and Huy-Brasealis became friends. For what it's worth I'm sorry about what happened to you in Sidon." And with that he's reached his limit of honesty, sincerity and sympathy for the night.
"Thanks." She tilts her head, regarding him with wry humor. "You have hidden depths, you know that? There's some heart to go with that brilliant mind of yours."
He harrumphs and stands abruptly. "Yes, well, don't go blabbing it around Atlantis, okay? I have a reputation for not having one, after all." Outside the moons are gone and his watch shows the time as 0130. Whoops, later than he thought. "We'd better turn in," scooping up his tablet and tucking it under his arm. "I have a mission first thing after breakfast. You and Jackson will simply have to cope without me."
"I think we'll manage." She stands up, yawns and stretches. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. And- McKay?"
"Mmm?"
She hesitates, then leans in and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the pep talk. And you can play the piano for me anytime, it was truly beautiful. Sleep well."
He ducks his head, unexpectedly touched by both the gesture and the compliment. "Oh, um. Right. You too."
They're not friends. Yet they're not not-friends, either. And they have more in common than he originally thought.
A quattro mani is the Italian term for two people playing simultaneously on the same piano. Which is himself and John, in their fashion.
What he and Grahme have- well, it's more like a piano duo, isn't it? Same tune but on separate instruments.
Cristofori might even say it's a kind of harmony.
See Wikipedia or your preferred search engine for information on the German pianist and composer Robert Schumann (1810-1856) and Yield Strength in engineering.