Rigel (n) : awesomesaucery

Title: “Ever Falling Dust” (The “McKay’s Metaphysics” Remix)
Author: Rigel
Disclaimer: Not mine (alas!) Don’t sue
Rating: G
Categories: AU, Gen, SGA
Spoilers: “Progeny” and “The Real World”
Wordcount: 1736
Thanks: To my awesome betas abyssinia4077 and naelany for such a speedy lookover!
A/N: Written for kormantic who wrote such a lovely and evocative story that I had to write my own version of it for the gateverse_remix ficathon
Also, consider this an AU, as it’s based on a speculative fic written before the finale and as I’ve not seen any of season 3… All mistakes are my own :D

Original Fic: McKay’s Metaphysics by kormantic
Picture the Original Fic was Based On: Lanterns

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"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." - Confucius

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The windows were edged in a rime of hard frost. The delicate lacelike fringe sparkled with reflected light against the fathomless black of the void.

Teyla tapped her finger against the glass, ignoring the sensation of burning cold that crept across her skin. She had the absent thought that she could somehow dislodge the ice and send it spinning into space to join the other detritus that still clung to Atlantis like a burr.

The false Atlantis, the Asuran Atlantis, had been destroyed. Its scattered remnants drifted alongside them in space. It was now a shining cluster of twisted wreckage that stretched above and below, enveloping the city within a cloud of nanite-infested metal.

Rodney McKay and the other scientists had attempted to trap the hazardous remains within an energy field.

“Herd them into the sun. Let the giant flaming ball of spontaneous fusion reactions take care of it for us.” He had said, or rather blurted in a harried tone. A slight frown had furrowed his brow as he furiously typed commands into a console. She had stood by, as others frantically worked to halt the looming disaster, with her fists balled at her side feeling utterly useless.

Occasionally pieces had tumbled away in haphazard eddies as they were caught by the gravitational pull of the planet. They had died in fiery streaks across the pale blue curve of the sky below them, before winking out of existence. The charred trails of wispy vapor that had marked their passage had quickly dissipated.

She had watched them, tracking their doomed trajectory and trying not to think about the increasing possibility of mirroring their fate.

Decaying orbit, her mind had whispered. She ignored it.

Rodney was, as he said, working on avoiding it. Even now, after thirty hours without sleep, she knew he would be impatiently pacing in front of a machine as it compiled data for him.

He was probably throwing orders out to his team and ignoring the muttered imprecations of Dr Zelenka, as they worked on finding a way to power the shield so the city would survive re-entry.

There was nothing she could do except wait.

She set a lit candle on the sill of her window, taking care to position it precisely in the center, before rising. Leaning forward, she exhaled softly against the glass, so that her breath condensed, opaque and milky on the surface. She sketched a quick symbol into the frost, a ward of protection that called upon the Ancestors to watch over them.

The flame guttered slightly as she left her chamber.

The corridors were empty, shrouded in shadows and the glow of the emergency lighting. Atlantis was unnaturally quiet, as though the vast stretches of space had swallowed the ambient sounds. Even her own footsteps seemed muffled to her ears as she made her way back to the command center.

John Sheppard stood silhouetted in the doorway, hovering at the edge of the hive of activity within. He leaned casually, one shoulder propped up against the metal frame and with his arms crossed over his chest. But she could read the tired lines of his body, the tense and exhausted slump that he held in check and knew that he was pushing himself to his limits.

She coughed to alert him to her presence, and when he didn’t react, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

“Teyla.” He turned his face toward her but didn’t move.

She inclined her head. “John,” she replied softly. She didn’t ask the question that hovered at her lips; the answer was in his eyes. No change.

“Your hands are cold,” he observed.

“Yes.” She chafed her palms against each other, suppressing a shiver. Her hands still felt chilled. Dead man’s hands – the thought came to her unbidden. Lorne and Simpson lay dead in the morgue shrouded in the black plastic that she had helped draw around them. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He gave her a searching look. “It’s cold.”

She looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

Rodney was standing in the middle of the control room. He cradled a datapad in his arms but he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t lost in thought either, he was just standing. His stillness unnerved her, Rodney was the kind of man who was always moving, always talking - always predicting impending doom. She ignored the negative thought and watched John as he watched Rodney. His face was impassive but the force of his resolve was palpable in the air, as though he was compelling his last reserves of energy to sustain Atlantis.

It felt odd, to be standing on the fringes of the fight and not be wielding a weapon. She felt like an old woman, left behind to usher the children to safety and tend to the wounds of the fallen.

She felt restless. Unnecessary. Her sense of duty demanded that she find a way to contribute but Rodney had already rebuffed her small advances and she wasn’t game to press him a third time.

A discarded candy bar wrapper caught her eye. It clung to the side of a forgotten coffee mug that rested on one of the consoles. Coffee and sugar, ‘the breakfast of champions’ as Rodney called it. He asserted that his entire career had been fuelled by power bars and Nescafé with the occasional bowl of ramen.

In fact he had fallen enthusiastically on the first shipment from Earth and had spent an afternoon acquainting her and Ronon with such delicacies as ‘shrimp’ and ‘roast pork’. The tiny packages of flavorings had fascinated her, with their crimped edges and the foreign symbols that were stamped on the cellophane. Everything from Earth was always so beautifully wrapped; it always seemed a shame to throw the plastic away.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Haven’t had time.” John shifted, and passed a hand through his hair to rub at a twinge in his neck.

“Perhaps I could prepare you and the others a meal,” she offered. “It would not be any trouble,” she added hastily.

“Sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We could make sandwiches. It’s easier than figuring out how to work the oven.”

“I could always heat up some of the MREs.”

“But I have the combination to the cold storage.”

She bit back a smile. Why not?

Ronon was already seated at one of the tables in the commissary. He was spinning one of his knives on its point, testing his reflexes by catching it just as it lost momentum and setting it spinning again. He nodded to them as they entered, halting the knife with the tip of one finger, the blade shining like a mirror.

He followed them to the kitchen and they set about collecting items from the racks. No-one spoke but they moved as a disciplined team, gathering what was needed and setting it out on a stainless steel bench. John disappeared for a while and came back carrying a pile of white cardboard boxes that he set purposefully to one side.

“Just something I’ve been saving,” he said, catching her querying glance.

Ronon lifted one of the lids and grinned, his smile wide and full, showing all his teeth.

“Later. They have to thaw.” John slapped away his hand and passed him a jar of mayonnaise. “Make yourself useful and open that.”

Ronon wrapped his hands around it and unscrewed the lid. It pulled free with a hollow pop. He handed it back with a slightly smug look.

“And the rest.” John motioned to the twenty or so jars lined up on the bench.

Teyla drew one of the loaves of bread toward herself and pulled a soft white slice from the plastic packaging. Normally she disdained the tasteless bread of Earth, deeming it inferior to goods leavened and baked with honest hands and not a machine. But she could understand the desire to eat food that was familiar and comforting. A last meal should evoke pleasure and thoughts of better times.

The bread smelled good, yeasty. And it yielded to her touch, springing back after she pressed it down.

She remembered Charin, and how she would settle her in her lap when she was a child and press her small hands around the hand stone, covering them with her own.

They sat before the hearth, the morning’s newly kindled blaze radiating warmth and light. Charin would run her fingers through the basket of grain set beside her and pull a handful out. The grain was scattered into the quern, then she would begin the chant. They pushed the stone on the downbeat and then pulled it back, rhythmically grinding the grain into flour until the day’s measure was filled.

She recalled how the wheaten taste of the grain would linger on her tongue and how over time she had learned to wield the stone on her own, and sing the legends of the Ancestors to herself in a low tone.

Stone to stone, before the dawn...

The memory was imprinted so strongly on her senses. She could almost feel Charin’s breath at her ear as she worked the stone and the sensation of the powdered flour that would cling to her fingers.

She let the ghosted images fall away and was almost surprised to see that she held a piece of bread cradled in her hands and not a smooth worn stone.

“You alright?” John’s face showed concern. She shrugged and gave a small smile as she smoothed the mayonnaise with a knife. “You looked a little lost there for a moment,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I was just…” She paused, considering her words.

“Wishing you were a million miles away.”

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s no place I would rather be.”

“Come on. Hungry hordes to feed.” He handed her a plate piled high with sandwiches and waved her away.

Hugging the plate to her chest, she moved carefully back through the corridors. She passed a set of glass doors that usually led out to one of the balconies and paused to gaze over at the tower.

She could see shadows flickering against the light that blazed out. The city flared like a beacon, the windows gleaming like a bank of lanterns set to illuminate a trail.

Hope welled within her and she stepped forward. There would be time, this shining city would endure just a little longer.

//End//