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mensa_auTitle: Schrodinger’s Equation
Pairing or Character(s): Mensa!John/Rod
SGA-verse or MENSA-verse: MENSA-verse
Warnings: A very psychotic version of the MENSA-verse, companion to Sweeten My Imagination. Rated R-ish due to imagery.
Word count: 614
Summary: John contemplates Rod, stars, and equations.
AN: Written for the “Getting to know you” challenge.
Schrodinger’s Equation
John Sheppard is not usually interested in people. They lack clear lines. They lack numbers that make sense. They lack just about everything of interest, except the ability to feel pain, but even then they can fail. They build up resistance to it.
No one has understood the clarity of death, of its equation, not even Carson, who prefers life and how he can twist it. Carson worries people, because he sees everything as a kind of Frankenstein’s monster, ripe for experimentation.
John really doesn’t mind, as long as he’s not the one being used as a tuning fork, feeling the vibrations and fractals of a scream in his own flesh.
But Rod…Sheppard wonders, sometimes, if the man really is human. He can see the equations of death and chaos as clearly as John, looks along the planning and implements it, sees the lines and the space with the cool eyes of detachment, and brings John’s death to fruition in all its beauty.
John sat in the chair because he wanted to see, to know, to find out if there really was more, or if Bianchi was right and with each added dimension came the element of chaos. Perhaps to someone else there was, but to him it was a coalescence of more than stars, more than a place in the universe. It was a succession of independent, arbitrary co-efficients, more than six, more than the absence of chaos that they were warned against by professors, so long ago. It was the equation of death, and it was surpassing in beauty, like Elizabeth said.
She saw the worlds for conquering, though, and that was different, but it was what Jackson liked in her, why he let her choose them for her team and let them go out to take what they could. Better, probably, to have them far away from Earth.
Jackson took the reports, but he never came near them. Odd, for the dictator of the world, but then John supposed it saved him having to worry about them. After all, he could always cut them off, if they became too much of a threat.
Could. Wouldn’t. John didn’t pretend to understand why, but he knew Jackson wanted them around - for something.
Rod said it was laziness and propinquity, but those aren’t answers, they’re words, they don’t link into patterns. They mean something to him, though, and if that keeps him focused on John’s numbers, that’s all that matters.
If John is death, Rod’s the scythe, with all his charm and incomprehensible moments of humanity where he gets his pleasure in twisting other people’s psyches, he’s a clean blade with an edge that would cut the strands of life from air, and John likes that, likes knowing he can rely on someone to look through his eyes and make it all happen as he’s foreseen in the patterns and numbers and stars.
He likes the warmth, too, the physicality that’s Rod in a good mood, sated with destruction. He likes the moments of feeling attached to something, when his brain can let go of the infinite and pursue something immediate and thoughtless.
Rod’s an untrustworthy bastard, John knows, but he can be relied on for that much.
Sometimes, it’s good to know someone whose only emotions are for themselves. There’s enough complications in the theory of chaos without adding to it.
Rod’s the Schrodinger equation, and there’s no love in that.
But there’s comfort.
iQt + (b/a)Qxx - 2abQRQ = 0; -iRt + (b/a)Rxx - 2abRQR = 0; (35), John thinks, as Rod’s teeth bite into the skin above his collarbone, commanding his attention.
They are the centre of the perfect round.
Pairing or Character(s): Mensa!John/Rod
SGA-verse or MENSA-verse: MENSA-verse
Warnings: A very psychotic version of the MENSA-verse, companion to Sweeten My Imagination. Rated R-ish due to imagery.
Word count: 614
Summary: John contemplates Rod, stars, and equations.
AN: Written for the “Getting to know you” challenge.
Schrodinger’s Equation
John Sheppard is not usually interested in people. They lack clear lines. They lack numbers that make sense. They lack just about everything of interest, except the ability to feel pain, but even then they can fail. They build up resistance to it.
No one has understood the clarity of death, of its equation, not even Carson, who prefers life and how he can twist it. Carson worries people, because he sees everything as a kind of Frankenstein’s monster, ripe for experimentation.
John really doesn’t mind, as long as he’s not the one being used as a tuning fork, feeling the vibrations and fractals of a scream in his own flesh.
But Rod…Sheppard wonders, sometimes, if the man really is human. He can see the equations of death and chaos as clearly as John, looks along the planning and implements it, sees the lines and the space with the cool eyes of detachment, and brings John’s death to fruition in all its beauty.
John sat in the chair because he wanted to see, to know, to find out if there really was more, or if Bianchi was right and with each added dimension came the element of chaos. Perhaps to someone else there was, but to him it was a coalescence of more than stars, more than a place in the universe. It was a succession of independent, arbitrary co-efficients, more than six, more than the absence of chaos that they were warned against by professors, so long ago. It was the equation of death, and it was surpassing in beauty, like Elizabeth said.
She saw the worlds for conquering, though, and that was different, but it was what Jackson liked in her, why he let her choose them for her team and let them go out to take what they could. Better, probably, to have them far away from Earth.
Jackson took the reports, but he never came near them. Odd, for the dictator of the world, but then John supposed it saved him having to worry about them. After all, he could always cut them off, if they became too much of a threat.
Could. Wouldn’t. John didn’t pretend to understand why, but he knew Jackson wanted them around - for something.
Rod said it was laziness and propinquity, but those aren’t answers, they’re words, they don’t link into patterns. They mean something to him, though, and if that keeps him focused on John’s numbers, that’s all that matters.
If John is death, Rod’s the scythe, with all his charm and incomprehensible moments of humanity where he gets his pleasure in twisting other people’s psyches, he’s a clean blade with an edge that would cut the strands of life from air, and John likes that, likes knowing he can rely on someone to look through his eyes and make it all happen as he’s foreseen in the patterns and numbers and stars.
He likes the warmth, too, the physicality that’s Rod in a good mood, sated with destruction. He likes the moments of feeling attached to something, when his brain can let go of the infinite and pursue something immediate and thoughtless.
Rod’s an untrustworthy bastard, John knows, but he can be relied on for that much.
Sometimes, it’s good to know someone whose only emotions are for themselves. There’s enough complications in the theory of chaos without adding to it.
Rod’s the Schrodinger equation, and there’s no love in that.
But there’s comfort.
iQt + (b/a)Qxx - 2abQRQ = 0; -iRt + (b/a)Rxx - 2abRQR = 0; (35), John thinks, as Rod’s teeth bite into the skin above his collarbone, commanding his attention.
They are the centre of the perfect round.
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