Isis (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} isiscolo) wrote,@ 2005-08-04 21:49:00 |
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| Entry tags: | crossover, fic, sga |
Stargate Atlantis xover fic: Burning (Kavanagh/Montag, R)
Title: Burning
Author: Isis (isiscolo)
Pairing: Dr. Kavanagh (Stargate Atlantis) / Guy Montag (Fahrenheit 451)
Rating: R
Length: about 1350 words
Spoilers: vaguely for season 2 of SGA
Notes: For the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
ithurtsmybrain pairing list that ate fandom current round, pairing#364. If you don't recall the Bradbury book, there's a summary here, but actually all you need is a vague idea about it to get this fic. Thanks to fabularasa for beta (earth!) and encouragement.
Sometimes he thinks he'd like to see the whole place in flames. Atlantis burning to the waterline, and wouldn't that be a sight? Of course the hybrid metal alloys the city was constructed from probably don't burn. But still.
That would show them, wouldn't it. Those jarheads who act like they own the place. That asshole McKay. That cunt Weir, and honestly, what was she still doing in charge? The lieutenant who recorded their messages must have cut his part from the transmission, that was probably it. He should have known Weir would never let him send it to the SGC.
It doesn't bother him that his own laboratory would burn with the rest. Even his own research, because they won't let him publish, fucking security clearance bullshit, and there goes any chance at a Nobel, right there.
It's a good daydream, but he can only lean back in his chair with his eyes closed for so long; then he gets back to work.
He whirls angrily at the sound of footsteps, because he hates being bothered while he's in his laboratory.
"Dr. Kavanagh?" The man holds out a hand. "Guy Montag. I've been reading your notes on using a platinum catalyst to increase the naquadah energy yield. Brilliant work, there."
He inclines his head, only slightly mollified by the compliment. Montag is wearing a SGC-standard lab coat; one of the new scientists that came in on the Daedalus, no doubt. "So you're working on the energy problem, too?" he says, to be polite, but he's thinking: if he steals my theory I'm going to publish before he can, security clearance or no security clearance.
"Whatever you need me to do, Dr. Kavanagh," Montag says, giving him a conspiratorial smile. "You're doing the most important work here in Atlantis. Some of us appreciate that."
Well, I'll be damned, he thinks. Because they never have appreciated him, never listened to him, and when something goes right it's always McKay who takes the credit. But somebody must have been paying attention at the SGC, for them to send him an assistant. Maybe now he can actually get something done.
He's getting a lot of things done, as it turns out. A lot of late nights in the lab, Montag quietly working just out of his sight, titrating the test solutions, running the yield calculations, bringing him coffee. The equations suggest they can increase the generator power almost by a factor of two, if they can just determine the right matrix and the right solvent.
Platinum, molybdenum steel, monel; acetone, methanol, toluene. Montag has made a number of intelligent suggestions, and Kavanagh worries, a bit, that he might be angling for his job. He hears Simpson and Zelenka talking with McKay in the hallway, low, earnest voices that trail off into silence at his approach, and his gut clenches into a tight ball of mistrust. When he accidentally knocks a beaker of kerosene off the bench, he blames Montag.
Montag cleans up the shattered glass without being asked.
Dr. Carolyn Eisentritt is a meteorologist; she's modelling the planet's weather, designing a system of sensors so they can predict the next big storm a little earlier next time. She's also almost as tall as Kavanagh, with honey-blonde hair and deep blue eyes, and the way her hips move when she walks down the hall is pure poetry.
She's eating by herself tonight in the mess hall, so he takes his tray over to her table. "I've got a good CD of Prokofiev, the St. Petersburg Symphony Orchestra," he says. "Come over after dinner and listen to it with me?"
God, her eyes are beautiful. Even when they're looking at him, as they are now, with a mixture of scorn and pity. "I've told you. I'm not interested in going out with you."
"It's not 'going out.' Just listening to music," he lies, because of course it's just a pretext, of course he wants that honeyed hair brushing against his skin, those long legs wrapped around him.
"Yeah, right. You're so pathetic," she says, and gets up, taking her food with her.
He goes back to the lab in a white-hot fury, thinking of Carolyn Fucking Eisentritt flying out to check on her sensors and crashing her jumper into the Atlantian ocean - no, into a fucking mountain, ramming into the rocks, going up in a big ball of flame. He slams the door behind him, and he thought he'd be alone, but there's Montag in the corner with his feet propped on the desk, reading an old issue of J. Electrochem. Soc.
"You're still here," Kavanagh says.
Montag shrugs. "Waiting for you." He puts the journal down carefully, almost with reverence, then slides to his feet with a smooth, easy motion. "Don't waste your time on that bitch," he says.
Kavanagh frowns, wondering how Montag knows about Carolyn. Has he said anything to him? He can't remember.
"She doesn't respect you," Montag says, coming towards him. "None of them do." His eyes are frank, confident, warm; he reaches out a hand and caresses Kavanagh's shoulder, draws him close. He smells a bit like kerosene.
When Montag kisses him it knocks his eyeglasses awry, and when he lifts his hand to adjust them Montag intercepts him, plucks the glasses off, places them on the lab bench. Montag is not as pretty as Carolyn but Carolyn won't kiss him and Montag will. They back up against a worktable which thank God is mostly clear of anything breakable, anything that could get in the way, because Montag has him pinned, almost, devouring him with hot and hungry kisses. He moans when Montag's hand undoes his pants, moans again when Montag drops to his knees. He closes his eyes and lets it happen, thrusts into Montag's mouth, and when he comes he is not thinking of Carolyn at all.
They are working through the night, because Kavanagh got an idea and Montag ran the model and agrees that it looks good. He uses tweezers to lift the sliver of naquadah, all he's allowed to use for testing purposes, and carefully slots it into the copper matrix.
"There," he says with satisfaction. "How's the radiation level?"
"Holding steady," says Montag, and points at the dots moving across the screen in an orderly phalanx. Kavanagh holds out a hand, and Montag gives him the beaker of kerosene.
When he wakes up in the infirmary he hears a beep, beep, beep and Beckett is there in an instant. "Don't move," Beckett says, but Kavanagh moves to adjust his glasses, because for some reason his vision's terribly blurry, and every nerve in his arm screams with pain.
"What happened?" he says, or tries to say, because his mouth doesn't move correctly, his lips don't obey him, and it hurts, it all hurts, and Beckett moves towards him with a big syringe, and he sinks back into cushioned sleep.
The second time he wakes up Beckett is bending over him with his hands full of gauze. It takes a moment to realize that the gauze is being unreeled from his arm, bit by bit, as though he were an Egyptian mummy.
"What happened?" he croaks, and this time it comes out almost correctly.
"What happened?" an incredulous voice repeats from his other side, and he turns his head laboriously to see McKay glaring at him, his arms crossed. "Where did you get your degree, Wal-Mart? What the hell were you thinking?"
"Rodney," says Beckett, warningly, but McKay ignores him. "You're lucky you only blew up your own lab. Naquadah in kerosene? What the hell were you trying to do, Kavanagh, kill us all?"
Oh God, he thinks, and says: "Montag. Is he all right?"
"Who the hell is Montag?" says McKay.
He's confined to quarters in the Daedalus, but that's okay, he's got a window. He presses his face to it to watch as they take off into the dawn. For a moment the city's windows glow red with a thousand fires, catching the rising sun; then the Daedalus slants sharply upward, and Atlantis recedes behind them.
