silverfoxity replied to your post “heyy so your tags on a post said you live in the uk.. so do i, just...”
I feel this so hard. I'm most likely encouraged and slightly forced to fuck off in a couple of days and honestly, I can not for the LIFE OF ME figure out why I've spent half my life trying to more here. Actual laugh-crying thinking about how I've fought so hard for this only to manage to get here in good time to be told to fuck off because the UK doesn't like nasty immigrants. Talk about destroying those rose tinted glasses and turning them to dust.
Friend, I feel exactly where you’re coming from, and I’m really sorry that it’s come to this. People have voted for Brexit for many, many reasons (so I am told, as I did not vote Leave) but unfortunately the narrative has been entirely twisted into that of anti-immigrant rhetoric. It’s very convenient to scapegoat foreigners for a country’s systemic problems, and that’s exactly what has happened here. It is nasty, and it is wrong, but unfortunately that is the reality of politics today :( But take some assurance that you most likely won’t be given the cold shoulder - there are supposed to be policies in coming into place to help EU citizens confirm their immigration status within the UK. And though this may be an unstable moment in European history, I’m sure that all will rectify itself in good time, and hopefully nobody’s lives will be changed too drastically.
gosh I remember this christianity craziness happening last year too, I'm so sorry. I may not be religious but that doesn't mean I'm going to judge you or get upset that you are? especially on your own blog? you have the right to express yourself and your beliefs.
Yeah, I remember being quite upset last year but I feel like I’m handling it better this year. I’m not angry or anything about people leaving, but I am frustrated by the reason.
I’d get it if I suddenly started preaching about the Bible and stuff, but that’s never gonna happen ‘cause that’d be annoying as hell. Maybe once or twice a year (Easter and Christmas) I’ll post a gifset or something, but that’s about it.
Gonna answer some replies that I got, just to put everything into one post, ‘cause a) I don’t want to spam you guys and b) I don’t want this to become a whole thing, so I’ll leave it after this post (that is to say, I won’t be replying to anything about this after this post, but I really appreciate all of your support).
@silverfoxityI legit didn’t even realize you posted anything saying that you’re Christian and I just checked and I’m still not really sure so obviously you weren’t really pushing it xD Dude people are assholes and they’ll use any reason to excuse it. The rest of us know you’re awesome regardless of spirituality :)
Haha yeah, I really wasn’t pushing it at all. I just posted a gifset from the mini-series Jesus Of Nazareth sort of to say “This is why I celebrate Easter” and then continued with my regular blogging.
@johnvapnerThat’s good, you didn’t need them anyway.
Indeed! I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
so @silverfoxity wanted some angst and i am ALWAYS here to deliver
inspired by this post (by @alloverthegaf) about how insecurities in fic is awesome (also whump but that’s a given)
here we go i guess. it’s mostly under the cut because it’s nearly 2,000 words total
From a theoretical standpoint, Rodney McKay has no right to complain. He’s always had something to lord over someone, whether it was his intelligence or his arrogance. Rodney isn’t afraid to tell the world his feelings… in theory.
The room is awash with golden light, yet the instrument stands, polished black surface tinged with gold. Ivory keys refract the barest hint of light, morphing them into an orange hue. It’s been years since he touched a piano. Years since he felt the slide of smooth keys on his fingertips, the slight catch of his fingers on the meticulously polished surface.
The last time he touched a piano, he’d done nothing but wipe an insultingly stupid performance ‘pianist’s’ fingerprints from the side of the grand. He’d yelled for nigh-on thirty minutes about proper piano maintenance, all while staring down the weedy guy calling himself an ‘artist’.
He was barely more than a twig, all slim shoulders and ill-fitting suit, and Rodney sneered down at him. Sneered and spat his words, all smug crackles of satisfaction popping in his chest, until it all came to an end.
‘If you know so much about it why don’t you just play the goddamn thing?’ the tiny man demanded, face unhealthily purple with what Rodney was certain must be ire. ‘I bet you play like shit – only the amateurs who can’t play would be such assholes!’
Rodney stopped, and his muscles twitched with the sudden lack of movement; lack of anything, really. Not until the satisfaction began to sour at the edges, stains creeping in from the sides and consuming it – consuming him – until he was nothing but a mass of useless amateur. He swallowed, or at least tried, and it would help if his fucking throat would just get the memo already. Rodney chokes on it, takes a slightly unstable breath. It was enough for the mentally challenged pianist to notice, and he sneered back up at Rodney. His stupidly smooth face and sharp eyes bored into him, and Rodney grit his teeth against the urge to break out into an explanation.
‘Just like I thought,’ the little shit crowed, smarmy and pretentious. ‘Get out of here. A moron like you can’t tell me what to do.’
The words were on the tip of his tongue, burning into him. ‘Miss Jeferson, I can do better, I promise. Please please let me stay – I can be better, I can, I promise just please –‘
Rodney swallowed it, shoved it straight back down into the useless box it came from. Inhaling through burning lungs, he shook off the clutch of his own ribcage and turned on his heel. His hand clutched so hard at his own wrist he had to wear long sleeves for a week.
Rodney watches the piano now, the pristine black casing covering the intricate workings of such a beautiful instrument. His cheeks burn, and he barely stops himself taking another step, once he realizes he’s moving. There’s something sitting heavy in his gut, reaching up into his throat, and he can’t force himself any closer. If he sits in the chair, he’ll ruin it.
Just like before.
Rodney can’t tear his eyes from the piano. Barely feels the impact of the doorframe against his shoulder, the bleed of pain into his system. When he finally manages to turn, he makes his way back to the lab. A problem, math, theory: that’ll fix him. Will stop the fucking black hole in his chest, sucking everything away from him. He’s always been good at science. Always been told he’s good. Science is the once place people never doubted him. At least, not until Samantha Carter. And then, just like everything else in his life – like his piano artistry, interpersonal relations, his own goddamn home of all things – his proficiency was cast into doubt. Now, Rodney sees it in the eyes of his colleagues, his teammates, his friends, and he can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the pity, the uncertainty, the panic. Can’t stand knowing they don’t think he’s good enough to fix anything he puts his mind to.
He doesn’t know how long it takes him, but he makes it back to the lab. At least here, he can be in peace. He can pretend he isn’t his own worst enemy. Pretend he sleeps at night, instead of staring up at the ceiling and wondering why he can’t be better. Why he can’t even pretend for others anymore.
Slumping down into his chair, Rodney reaches for the hours-cold cup of coffee, hoping there’s some left in it. No luck. He swallows again, tries to keep the pressure in his chest from bursting out of him at maximum velocity.
‘Ah, Rodney,’ Radek greets, pushing up his glasses as he leans over the bench adjacent, writing a couple of lines into an empty box before glancing up again.
‘What?’ McKay snaps, too aggressively. He just can’t keep it down, can’t keep it at bay anymore. It’s building inside of him, and his jaw is stiff with the effort of keeping it back.
‘You are sad,’ Radek states, and Rodney instantly glares at him. Something inside of him rejoices – someone cares enough to notice him – but the rest pushes back, ready to fight.
‘No I’m not,’ Rodney snaps, too loud.
Radek snorts. ‘Yes, and I am not Czech. Stop lying, Rodney.’ Radek regards him for a moment, but when he speaks his voice is softer. ‘You saw the piano, hm?’
Ignoring the comment, Rodney searches forlornly in his coffee cup, hoping more will magically appear.
‘Teyla and Colonel Sheppard ordered it for you,’ Radek says, too casual, and hands him a steaming hot cup of fresh coffee.
Gulping down a burning mouthful of bitterness, Rodney grumbles, ‘and let me guess whose idea it was.’
‘No idea,’ Radek replies, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘I have always wished to see you play. Despite what your instructor said, I believe you will be an adequate player.’
‘Adequate?’ Rodney squawks, indignant. ‘I’ll have you know I was the best –‘
Smiling, Radek steals the coffee cup and drinks the rest of it, waving his hands at him. Rodney isn’t even angry.
and onto number two!
Daniel would love to say he remembers to eat. Would love to say that when he does, he eats healthy; tries his hardest to take care of himself.
He doesn’t.
Daniel Jackson has an excellent memory. He can remember the most obscure runes in dialects scholars forget. And yet, he forgets to eat an apple when he’s hungry, or drink when he’s thirsty.
The days he does remember, Daniel makes a stop on the way to work. The coffee shop is open practically 24/7, and he may be its most loyal customer. Daniel has long stopped going elsewhere. The coffee does the job, and their scones are the best he’s ever tasted. He likes the blueberry ones the best, and he always makes sure to eat it as quickly as he can so Jack doesn’t steal it from him.
So it’s just another morning when Daniel wanders in at ten to 6 in the morning. He hadn’t really slept, not after the last mission. Spending time on desert worlds brought back… unsavoury memories. He can’t process the information anymore, and he finds himself awake, tossing and turning in a bed too large for just himself, cold. When he finally breathes evenly again, Daniel tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t matter, and he’ll be okay. Jack doesn’t notice, when Daniel can’t smile some days. Doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Sam spends too long trying to catch his eye, trying to ask him without words. He avoids her. Teal’c stands too close to him, glowers at anyone who gets too close, and reaches a hand out to ground him just when he needs it. But Daniel doesn’t need bodyguards, and he shakes them off, reaches for the cold knot of hatred in his chest and tells himself they don’t need him. Tells himself the only reason they stay is because they need his skills as a linguist. Nothing more, nothing less. On freezing nights, he clutches that thought tight. Lets himself curl up, lets the misery seep from his core and infect every tiny facet of him. Daniel doesn’t know if he feels most or least like himself in those moments.
Daniel makes his usual order, seats himself in a booth in the corner, pulling his coat tighter around himself. Snow clings to his jacket, melting slowly. He can’t take it off right now, and he wishes he could, if only to save the fabric-coated seats. But he’s too cold without it, and Daniel huddles in, munching on his scone.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been before the waitress approaches him, leans over, and tops up his coffee. He leans away, trying to keep his wet coat away from her. Somehow, her chest still manages to brush his shoulder, and he says, ‘I’m so sorry, you’re all wet now, let me just,’ and reaches for a napkin to see what he can do.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, giving him a smile. Her eyes are bright and alive, especially considering the hour. ‘I like being wet,’ she confides, giving him a giggle and stopping his hand when he holds up the napkin. Her hand is soft and gentle around his wrist, almost a caress. She leans in further, and places a slip of paper on the table. A mobile phone number is written on the upward face in meticulous script. Daniel turns back to her, eyes wide. It’s clear now, exactly why she always pays him so much attention. Clear as the finest crystal.
Daniel is an idiot.
The panic kicks in next, scrabbling at his chest and pushing wildly at his insides. He should have known – should have seen it coming. But then, he wasn’t worth it, and he knew it. Knew it better than he’d ever known anything. Besides, even Sha’uri hadn’t wanted him of her own volition – this waitress couldn’t know what she was getting.
Daniel doesn’t remember what he says, or how he gets out of there. Just remembers thinking I’ll miss those scones as he runs out into the snow, and keeps running.
He slips on the snow-slick bitumen too many times to count, and doesn’t remember dragging himself up again. All he recalls is the pierce of ice-cold air into his lungs, running him through from the inside out. Still, though, he almost can’t feel it, beyond the rawness in his throat, the streams of icy water at the corner of his eyes, and the frozen mass lying just behind his ribcage, barely managing a sluggish beat.
When Jack finally finds him, curled up on a bench in a park he’s never been to, Daniel barely remembers how to breathe. Can’t, beyond the pressure in his chest. When his heart beats, it aches like he’s been stabbed. Or maybe like he imagined he’s had a heart and it’s been gone all along.
Jack says, ‘Daniel,’ and all he can do is gasp, at the touch of Jack’s hands, burning like fire on his exposed neck. ‘What have you done to yourself, Danny?’ Jack asks, voice hushed. There’s no one else here, but it feels right. Yet Daniel can’t take it, can’t take the look in Jack’s eyes, the knowledge that Jack cares about him, deems him worthy of care.
‘Jack,’ he chokes, and Jack shushes him. Draws him in, a hand on the back of his head and arms solid around him. Daniel clings to him and can’t admit to himself that he’s worth caring about, but at least he knows someone will be there for him if he ever does.
