"Focal Point" (1/1)
Oct. 12th, 2007 02:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Focal Point” (1/1) Gen
Author: Kristen999
Character(s): Sheppard
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Drabble
Rating: K+
Words: 880
Spoilers: None
Summary: John must face facts.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inthekeyofd during one of my open drabble requests at my LJ though it might not be exactly what she wanted. Prompt at the end. One left to go!
Not betaed.
------------
He stands in the back of the line of the mess hall, allowing others to step in front of him. The dry erase board hangs a little off-center and the purple scribbled words are squished together at the end, forcing people to guess if desert tonight is supposed to be banana cake or pudding.
Sheppard really hopes its cake.
No one notices him closing one eye then the other. He orders the salisbury steak knowing it's served every Monday and he allows the person stuck with kitchen duty to pick the vegetables since they all taste like peas anyways.
He sits alone chewing on his rubbery meal and notices a heap of spaghetti on another person's plate on the next table. Sheppard stirs his fork idly, mixing the gravy and miniature green beans, unable to take his eyes off the hanging board.
He squints at the sloppy penmanship and sighs.
-----------
Sparring is a release of energy. For every day that he must remain neutral, or stoic about his decisions made for the good of the city, there's an hour where he can vent without saying a word. Teaching the latest crop of Marines new techniques gleamed from dozens of encounters with other races, recharges vital cylinders.
He deserves to pump up his ego.
Facing Teyla's banto sticks keeps him on his toes, sharpens reflexes, and allows him to accept a little punishment that can feel good sometimes.
When his back lands on the gym mat with a thud, ricocheting his bones and leaving him a little winded, he chalks it up to Ronon saving his life. He forgets to counter that move, but if there's a next time with an enemy, he'll live to fight another day.
Today he sits on the sidelines on the west pier nursing a sore shoulder from playing flag football with Lorne and his men. An icepack melts through his T-shirt, the wind chilling his body as he shuts his eyes to avert the rest of the game.
Lorne turns to let his CO know that once again the 'cocky fighter pilots' kicked some Marine ass--but Sheppard's already gone.
--------------------
Shaving can be a fruitless endeavor. The same genes that allow him to operate Ancient technology without thinking must be coded with the ability to accelerate the growth of his wild hair. He sports a permanent five o'clock shadow all the time and his rakish appearance has been the subject of many jokes during his military career.
Staring at the mirror, he spots a few tiny silver whiskers among the growing stubble along his cheekbones, accenting the ones in his head. He stands with a towel around his waist, water droplets running down his chest from a shower, and continues searching.
If he looks hard enough there's a faint pink scar across his sternum, it aches sometimes late at night. The days after that mark had been made, he'd been afraid to look at his reflection in any mirror. When he had gathered enough courage to, there wasn't a single gray hair to be found.
That had been last year, but things never remain the same.
---------------
Sheppard fiddles with the velvet-lined case, snapping open and close the leather top. He has a meeting with Rodney today to discuss progress reports on one of the unexplored and damaged parts of the city. His short sleeves are rolled up pasted his elbows; his gun rests along his hip along with his knife. Despite the normalcy, anxious fingers twirl the black wristband around in nervous energy.
There's a loud sigh in the doorway and McKay glowers at him, dropping off his laptop with a clatter.
“Will you just stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“With all this melodrama, it really doesn't suit you.”
“What?”
Rodney crosses his arms. “Just put them on.”
Sheppard attempts to hide the case, but McKay won't have any of it, snatching it away and pulling it out. “They're not that bad.”
“McKay.”
“It's not the end of the world, so stop sulking and wear them.”
“I'm not---”
“For Pete's sake, get over it. Unless you plan on pulling your socks up to your knees, wearing suspenders, and begin using a cane. Than I can safely say you're years away from the old folks home.”
Sheppard grabs the glasses, studying the thick, dark rims before slipping them on. They feel strange over his eyes, the lenses sharpening the clarity of the room. He knows deep down that this wouldn't affect his flight status; the correction to his vision is minimal.
Rodney studies him and the urge to pull them off is overwhelming.
“You can still be an insane pilot, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don't have to wear them all the time?”
“No.”
“Clark Kent wore them and still saved the day.”
Sheppard snorts, feigning nonchalance. “It's not that big of a deal really.”
“Of course not,” Rodney says, messing with his PDA.
He pulls them off, folding the frames. “I just wasn't sure what they mean.”
“They mean that Lt. Colonel Sheppard is flesh and blood. That he eats, sleeps, and needs things like glasses every once in a while. Doesn't change the man...just makes him more of a geek like the rest of us.”
“Now enough of the mid-life crisis, we have important things to do. Plus, I don't know what you're worrying about. You never have to fear about going bald,” Rodney adds.
Sheppard let's the last comment drop and stuffs the eye ware into one of his pockets; the object of his troubles feeling a bit lighter.
---------------
This was forinthekeyofd who wanted:
Okay, here's one, Rodney wants John to read to him..wearing his glasses. (not exactly what she wanted but what my muse went with)
Author: Kristen999
Character(s): Sheppard
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Drabble
Rating: K+
Words: 880
Spoilers: None
Summary: John must face facts.
Notes: Written for
inthekeyofd during one of my open drabble requests at my LJ though it might not be exactly what she wanted. Prompt at the end. One left to go!Not betaed.
------------
He stands in the back of the line of the mess hall, allowing others to step in front of him. The dry erase board hangs a little off-center and the purple scribbled words are squished together at the end, forcing people to guess if desert tonight is supposed to be banana cake or pudding.
Sheppard really hopes its cake.
No one notices him closing one eye then the other. He orders the salisbury steak knowing it's served every Monday and he allows the person stuck with kitchen duty to pick the vegetables since they all taste like peas anyways.
He sits alone chewing on his rubbery meal and notices a heap of spaghetti on another person's plate on the next table. Sheppard stirs his fork idly, mixing the gravy and miniature green beans, unable to take his eyes off the hanging board.
He squints at the sloppy penmanship and sighs.
-----------
Sparring is a release of energy. For every day that he must remain neutral, or stoic about his decisions made for the good of the city, there's an hour where he can vent without saying a word. Teaching the latest crop of Marines new techniques gleamed from dozens of encounters with other races, recharges vital cylinders.
He deserves to pump up his ego.
Facing Teyla's banto sticks keeps him on his toes, sharpens reflexes, and allows him to accept a little punishment that can feel good sometimes.
When his back lands on the gym mat with a thud, ricocheting his bones and leaving him a little winded, he chalks it up to Ronon saving his life. He forgets to counter that move, but if there's a next time with an enemy, he'll live to fight another day.
Today he sits on the sidelines on the west pier nursing a sore shoulder from playing flag football with Lorne and his men. An icepack melts through his T-shirt, the wind chilling his body as he shuts his eyes to avert the rest of the game.
Lorne turns to let his CO know that once again the 'cocky fighter pilots' kicked some Marine ass--but Sheppard's already gone.
--------------------
Shaving can be a fruitless endeavor. The same genes that allow him to operate Ancient technology without thinking must be coded with the ability to accelerate the growth of his wild hair. He sports a permanent five o'clock shadow all the time and his rakish appearance has been the subject of many jokes during his military career.
Staring at the mirror, he spots a few tiny silver whiskers among the growing stubble along his cheekbones, accenting the ones in his head. He stands with a towel around his waist, water droplets running down his chest from a shower, and continues searching.
If he looks hard enough there's a faint pink scar across his sternum, it aches sometimes late at night. The days after that mark had been made, he'd been afraid to look at his reflection in any mirror. When he had gathered enough courage to, there wasn't a single gray hair to be found.
That had been last year, but things never remain the same.
---------------
Sheppard fiddles with the velvet-lined case, snapping open and close the leather top. He has a meeting with Rodney today to discuss progress reports on one of the unexplored and damaged parts of the city. His short sleeves are rolled up pasted his elbows; his gun rests along his hip along with his knife. Despite the normalcy, anxious fingers twirl the black wristband around in nervous energy.
There's a loud sigh in the doorway and McKay glowers at him, dropping off his laptop with a clatter.
“Will you just stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“With all this melodrama, it really doesn't suit you.”
“What?”
Rodney crosses his arms. “Just put them on.”
Sheppard attempts to hide the case, but McKay won't have any of it, snatching it away and pulling it out. “They're not that bad.”
“McKay.”
“It's not the end of the world, so stop sulking and wear them.”
“I'm not---”
“For Pete's sake, get over it. Unless you plan on pulling your socks up to your knees, wearing suspenders, and begin using a cane. Than I can safely say you're years away from the old folks home.”
Sheppard grabs the glasses, studying the thick, dark rims before slipping them on. They feel strange over his eyes, the lenses sharpening the clarity of the room. He knows deep down that this wouldn't affect his flight status; the correction to his vision is minimal.
Rodney studies him and the urge to pull them off is overwhelming.
“You can still be an insane pilot, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don't have to wear them all the time?”
“No.”
“Clark Kent wore them and still saved the day.”
Sheppard snorts, feigning nonchalance. “It's not that big of a deal really.”
“Of course not,” Rodney says, messing with his PDA.
He pulls them off, folding the frames. “I just wasn't sure what they mean.”
“They mean that Lt. Colonel Sheppard is flesh and blood. That he eats, sleeps, and needs things like glasses every once in a while. Doesn't change the man...just makes him more of a geek like the rest of us.”
“Now enough of the mid-life crisis, we have important things to do. Plus, I don't know what you're worrying about. You never have to fear about going bald,” Rodney adds.
Sheppard let's the last comment drop and stuffs the eye ware into one of his pockets; the object of his troubles feeling a bit lighter.
---------------
This was for
inthekeyofd who wanted:Okay, here's one, Rodney wants John to read to him..wearing his glasses. (not exactly what she wanted but what my muse went with)
