Spoilers: None specifically.
Summary: She waits all day, second guessing her choice and by night fall they give him over to her and she sees just what she has inflicted – but there is no other way. Darkfic, McKay/Weir.
A/N: Thanks to Fanwoman & LittleKnux for beta reading this. The lyrics are from the song Elysium by Portishead and all copyright goes to those who wrote them, i.e. not me.
No one has said what the truth should be, and no one decided that I'd feel this way.
He never says a thing. Words long gone, forcibly removed – now they take great pains to rip the scream from his hoarse throat. I never thought I'd feel this way, but I feel pleased to hear his terrified howls, because every day I wonder if he will return. The noises emanating from across the corridor are the only sounds he makes and the only way I know he's still alive when he is not with me.
I had never thought I'd cherish the moments alone with him so much, and I'm still not sure if it's truly him that I love during those times or if it's simply that we're both alive and together – some semblance of what used to be normality. When we're together, we can almost pretend that we're the people whose names we keep, like I am still Elizabeth, Elizabeth Weir, the leader of the Atlantis expedition, and that I'm just here with my Chief of Science. It's a blatant lie because we're not those people anymore, but it doesn't hurt too much to pretend sometimes; to put on the act and try to forget the suffering.
If you felt as I, would you betray yourself? But you can't deny how I feel, and you can't decide for me.
I wonder, if our roles were reversed, if you would feel the same way; if you'd treasure me the same way and yet condemn me. My silence is what prompts yours. You dare not speak in case of shame - yours, mine, ours - and I won't release you from the torment. Only you hurt, physically, but I suffer too, guilt overriding all else, knowing I could take away the pain once and for all.
I think you'd prefer it if I didn't care. I see the fear in your eyes when, on occasion, I talk about helping you. You'd do anything for me, and all I have to do is keep asking you to. If I stop, you won't be able stop yourself from giving in, and so I keep on ordering what's right even as I am reminded daily the reasons why I should call it all off. It's the only control I have left, a responsibility forced upon me. They don't torture me, not physically, but then responsibility can bear down harder than any blow against me, worse because it's self inflicted. I'm his taskmaster as much as the man who cracks the whip and yanks the chains and does unspeakable things; they never stop reminding me, calling out periodically – callous voices taunting me that I can put an end to this, set things straight, if only I'd give them what they want.
No one should fear what they cannot see, and no one's to blame; it's just hypocrisy.
I'm always in the grip of fear, tears steady on the horizon, waiting to fall unseen. But never when he is here, when he can hear. Neither of us can see in the darkness of the cell, but if I were to make a sound, I know he'd hear. Both of us have adjusted to life here, acutely aware of every scrape of the bolts on the door moving, the signal that the day is begun or ended, and the scuttling of things better left in the dark, things unclean. I hear him slump into the room, and I move silently to his body, pulling him up, my hands all over him, checking the damage, ignoring the moans as I examine him as best as possible in next to no light. Today, he has no more physical wounds, and somehow that speaks of a worse torture than I can imagine - one that leaves no wounds, no scars but that can make a grown man tremble.
I take him into my arms carefully, aware that this is because of me, aware of my hypocrisy: that I care but do nothing to prevent this cruelty. All I do is pick up the pieces afterwards, tending to him, being his only friend, if I'm allowed to call myself that. He accepts my embrace gratefully, hand curling in my shirt, tugging me closer. I don't cry, but I think he knows that whenever I am silent it's to hide the wavering of my voice, should I speak, for every other moment that I can, I talk to him, filling the unbearable silence, the void left that's so unnatural considering he's Rodney McKay. Nothing should be able to shut him up, probably not even me.
It's written in your eyes, and how I despise myself. But you can't deny how I feel, and you can't decide for me.
Occasionally, there is a fraction of light let in by the window; moonlight possibly, for the sun is never bright enough on this godforsaken planet to provide anything good enough to cast more than a slight glimmer on the far wall. It's those nights that I can see his blue eyes staring at me, begging me for something he will never ask for because it is against his nature. I could love him with all my heart ,but I can never save him. I can't even save myself; I'm wasting away day by day, heart and mind both in denial, mind trying to forget the terrors, trying to excuse them and heart, wanting simplicity, to not feel.
And it's your heart that's so wrong, mistaken; you'll never know, your feathered sacred self.
It would be easier for both of us to not care, instead we both hold onto the other, prolonging whatever is to be of us. Neither wants to let go, so we carry on, and we steal moments together in the darkness. Bittersweet kisses, the kind we could not share were we anywhere else. Lips colliding, quick and fervent , forced affairs hidden from those who watch nearly all the time; it's only in the darkness and the moonlit nights that we can sit close, keeping warm and staving off the insanity of the rest of the hours of the day.
But you can't deny how I feel, and you can't decide for me.
This is hell, with a strange mix of heaven painfully sliced into it. I hate myself for feeling this way, for craving the time that I think of as purely ours, the only time we are in control. The time when, ironically, I choose to loosen my carefully managed facade a fraction and reveal a little of what I kept so closely guarded, cursing my old habits, that I hid my feelings when there was no true need to. Now they seem precious, but we have so little time to share the truth before it must all be concealed once more. I hate myself for praying for the night to stay forever, forsaking the daytime and the consequences to my resolution, but to no avail. They are worthless wishes, wasted, because our captors are unrelenting in their mission against us ,and rescue isn't forthcoming, just like our confessions or release.
And you can't deny how I feel, and why should you decide for me.
I hear the sounds of the guards returning, the screech of the unoiled door as it opens slowly, and I withdraw myself, to move to the other end of the room before they come to extract him – but my hand lingers on his cheek for just as long as I can manage without getting caught, and I say sorry, apologising for everything; for being strong and weak at the same time, for doing what is right and yet wronging him. For supporting him, loving him, whilst condemning him; and worst of all for finding happiness, still, in this nightmare.