Work Text:
What think you I have taken my pen to
record?
Not the battle-ship, perfect-model'd,
majestic, that I saw to day arrive in the
offing, under full sail,
Nor the splendors of the past day--nor the
splendors of the night that envelopes
me—Nor the glory and growth of the
great city spread around me,
But the two young men I saw to-day on the
pier, parting the parting of dear
friends.
The one to remain hung on the
other's neck and passionately kissed
him—while the one who to
depart tightly prest the one
to remain in his arms.
Evan doesn't mean to see them.
He'd taken his easel and paints out early today, wanting to capture the way the sunrise glints and reflects against the city's spires, the play of light and shadow at the opening of the day. The wind blows across through the high balcony he's chosen, crisp air fluttering the edges of his watercolor paper where they're not clipped down; the sky is pure and cloudless, colors just beginning to paint across its canvas with the coming of the sun.
He's fully set up when he notices it, out of the corner of his eye: movement on another balcony, far enough away that he can't hear anything from it, a few floors down and offset on the parallel tower, but close enough that it's immediately apparent who the two figures are.
Dr. McKay slides his arms around Colonel Sheppard's neck, tilting his head up and bringing their lips together in a long, lingering kiss. Colonel Sheppard, for his part, has one hand on the small of Dr. McKay's back, the other on his shoulder, holding him close. From the east, the rising sun lights them up with oranges reflecting from the city's stained glass, an otherworldly glow enveloping their embrace—though neither of them seems to have noticed anything outside of the bubble of space they've created around themselves.
The other reason, of course, that Evan had come out so early today is because there's a scheduled departure, the Daedalus turning to make its way back to the Milky Way with some Atlantis personnel at the end of their contracts, along with Colonel Sheppard, who's been called back to the SGC for annual reporting. Evan will be taking over the Colonel's duties for the month or so that he'll be gone, between the Daedalus trip and the packed schedule of meetings the SGC and military brass will surely have in store for him.
A month away, and just the previous night they'd had a conversation about it, Sheppard saying in his opaque, roundabout way that he'd be missing the city, missing Pegasus, missing his team. Now, though, Evan understands what had been behind those words; that the Colonel has one specific person that he's really going to miss. It's not a surprise, really, to see the two of them together: it feels like confirmation, like sense suddenly made of an unusual relationship he'd observed ever since the first day he'd set foot in Atlantis. Idly, Evan wonders if Dr. Zelenka knows; wishes it was the sort of gossip he'd be at liberty to share during one of the military-science board game nights.
As the kiss winds down, McKay resting his head on Sheppard's shoulder as Sheppard's hand slides up to cup the nape of McKay's neck, Evan realizes abruptly that he's started sketching, the pencil scratching across his paper without his own conscious input. As much as the moment he's witnessing is something obviously private, there's something so precious about it, so delicate and loaded, that he can't help the desire to capture it in living color.
Evan continues sketching out the details: the way McKay's eyes have closed, how he's pressed his face into Sheppard's neck; the way Sheppard's posture, always loose, seems to almost melt into McKay, holding him tight and close. How after a few long moments held in their embrace, Sheppard's mouth is moving, and he says something that makes McKay laugh, the corners of his mouth turning up, his fingers twisting restlessly in the hem of Sheppard's shirt.
Finally, they pull away from each other, McKay giving Sheppard a watery smile, saying something that makes Sheppard nod and pat him on the shoulder, tilting his head toward the balcony door.
Evan stays for a while after they've left, taking the sketch and putting it into full color, the soft glow of the sunrise blinking off of the city's glass reflected and refracted over the two men, locked in an embrace—he's painted from far enough away that there aren't really details, nothing that could be considered incriminating, but Evan still stashes the finished piece in the portfolio he keeps in the very back of his closet, somehow feeling like it's something he needs to hold onto.
And it pays off: fifteen years later, on yet another beautiful Atlantis day, down on the pier with the sun making the water glitter diamond-bright, he'll present the painting, framed, as a wedding gift.