Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Category/Rated: Slash, PG
Year/Length: 2008/ ~458 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Prompt: McKay/Woolsey, piano and/or music. *g*
The thick cigarette smoke in the room hangs like a blue haze in the dim light. It makes it hard for Richard to make out the other people in the room, which he really doesn't appreciate. He's jumpy enough as it is. Is it really so much to ask to at least have well lighted areas to move through as he tries to find all the missing members of his staff? Apparently it is.
The antidote spray canister in his hand is awkward, and Richard shifts his grip on it again. Keller still hasn't managed to give him a good explanation for why he was one of the few people unaffected by the alien narcotic. He's really starting to wish that he had been. Everyone on this city is entirely too hard to track down when drugged out of their minds and tripping the light fantastic.
But there is definitely noise in this room. Richard can hear the soft murmur of voices, slightly slurred, and the clink of glasses. Mostly, though, he hears the soft, clear notes of something that sounds almost like a piano. The notes are slightly too sharp for the instrument Richard's familiar with.
Richard takes a deep breath, braces himself, and steps into the room. And that's when the singing starts. Richard pauses, wondering who exactly in the city sings jazz. More importantly, who sings jazz like that. It's a woman's voice, slow and thick and sweet. It sends shivers down Richard's spine, especially when paired with the almost-piano.
Richard shakes himself, and makes himself keep moving into the room, drawing his shoulders up. All he has to do is spray them. And then this will all be over. Until he has to go find the next group, anyway. Richard swallows, raises the canister, and pauses again.
The smoke has cleared enough for him to see what's going on. The instrument in the middle of the room doesn't look anything like a piano. It's all smooth silver lines, almost completely circular, with a slight dip in the middle.
Teyla is laying across the instrument on her back, her head tilted back against the side, her hair hanging down in a thick fall to the floor. Her hands are on her stomach, twisting up in the fabric of her dress. She's singing, and, well, one mystery solved there.
And, sitting behind the instrument, eyes closed and head tilted back, is Rodney McKay. He's swaying gently from side to side, hands moving over keys that Richard can't see, and while Richard is positive that his attention should be focused on Teyla, he can't seem to take his eyes off of McKay.
Richard swallows heavily, shaking himself, raising the canister and spraying the room.
The music stops.
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