Twist in the knife
Type: mini-genfic, mainly hurt no comfort
Spoilers: Abstract spoilers for Critical Mass
and The Storm/The Eye
There was a scar on Rodney’s arm that haunted him. The problem with razor-sharp knife wounds deliberately placed close to each other is that it leaves no flesh to stitch together neatly and cleanly. You’re left with a thick, ropey, pink scar that catches when you dry yourself after a shower, when you pull on your clothes or when you try, futilely, to moisturise it smooth.
There weren’t any plastic surgeons on Atlantis.
Rodney had been tortured and he’d been ashamed of himself for caving after a mere three, flesh-parting slices.
There were plastic surgeons on Earth.
But he kept the scar to remind him. He wasn’t too
sure of what. To remind him that he was fallible, a coward, and that he had
stood been Kolya and Elizabeth when the man had aimed
Kolya walked through his dreams, dead, black eyes and icy resolution. It didn’t matter that his minion had carried out the cutting. It had been at Kolya’s orders.
Rodney rolled over in his bed.
He hated himself more, though, for not standing up for his convictions and stopping them.
Rodney gave up sleeping.