Chapter Text
Rodney McKay's attention was reluctantly pulled from the Theoretical Equations textbook he had been immersed in for the past hour. He blinked in confusion at the readjustment as he made the mental swim back up to the real world. Cocking his head to one side, he heard the voices again and, finally realizing what had drawn his attention, frowned in concern at the commotion occuring somewhere outside the library door.
He had ventured from his room to the townhouse's library to review its pitifully inadequate stock of volumes on mathematics. It should have been safe. It was late afternoon and Father and Kavanagh were both out at their clubs, or their sporting parlors, or wherever it was they chose to spend their days which had made it safe for Rodney to wander the house. Or so he had assumed.
He hesitated before the door to the library. Could he sneak past whoever was out there? Should he wait here in the library and hope that whoever was making a fuss outside would leave? As Rodney paused uncertainly, the question was taken out of his hands as the library door swung open, forcing him to jump back to avoid being hit.
Hodgkins stood in the frame of the entrance, apologetic. "I'm sorry Master Rodney but there is a gentleman here who insists on speaking with a member of the McKay family." The butler held out a calling card to Rodney, clasped between pristinely gloved fingers.
Rodney drew back, eyeing the proffered card in alarm. "Did you tell him father isn't at home right now?" He did not want to entertain some crony of father's or drinking buddy of Kavanagh's.
"Ah, yes Sir, the gentleman was informed that both your father and Master Kavanagh are presently out. However, he then requested you."
Rodney shrank back even more. "He asked for me?"
"Yes Sir," Hodgkins looked truly sorry. The elderly butler had always had a soft spot for Rodney, an intellectual boy who had lacked the desire and skill to pursue the more athletic accomplishments his father so valued. The intellectual boy had been intimidated both mentally and physically until he had become a timid, though still stubbornly intellectual, young man.
"I, oh, uh, can you tell him I'm not at home as well?" Rodney asked apprehensively.
"I'm afraid, Master Rodney, the gentleman caller is aware that you are currently in residence. He indicated as such upon his arrival." The butler's eyes were kind as he delivered the news.
Rodney's alarm skyrocketed. How could a stranger possibly know that he was at home? Well, he silently admitted, it wouldn't be very hard considering that he rarely left the premises of the McKay townhouse when his family was in London. More importantly though, why would a stranger care enough to find out?
"Master Rodney, the gentleman is in the blue salon," the butler informed him gently.
"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you Hodgkins," Rodney dug up a wan smile of reassurance for the butler, finally accepting the proffered calling card. Hugging his books to himself for comfort he followed the dignified butler down the hallway towards the entrance of the Blue Salon as he glanced nervously down at the card. It was plain and elegant, a cream color with heavy masculine print spelling out the name Mister John Verrington Sheppard. Sheppard? Did he know any Sheppards? After searching his excellent memory Rodney concluded that he did not, in fact, know the name. Of course, that didn't mean much really. As his father often informed him contemptuously, if it wasn't found in a book, his useless son had no knowledge of it. Rodney ruefully acknowledged that in this at least, father had a point.
He reluctantly let Hodgkins escort him into the Blue Salon and took in a deep, hopefully calming, breath as the butler announced in his sonorous voice, "The Honorable Rodney McKay," before backing out of the room and closing the doors with a slow and measured dignity leaving Rodney alone with...uhm, no one?
Rodney frowned, puzzled, his eyes scanning the seemingly empty room. He began to brighten hopefully. Maybe this John Sheppard had gotten impatient and left. Maybe...oh. The hopeful notion was quickly dispersed when a figure rose up from a chair set in the corner where the afternoon shadows had managed to cloak his presence. Rodney felt his breath catch as the stranger began to approach him. He was tall, intimidatingly handsome, clothed impeccably in what even Rodney recognized was the Corinthian style, the man's cravat a perfect, subtle creation. The only thing the least uncivilized about the other man's appearance was his hair, thick and black as ink, standing up in odd tufts and somehow appealing.
Rodney's thoughts turned self-consciously towards his own attire, his usual basic breeches, plain white shirt and no neck cloth. Resisting the urge to wipe at the ink smudges staining the front of his shirt he offered a tentative smile to the other man. Then his eyes met the stranger's gaze and, smile fading, he quickly revised his initial opinion. The cold green eyes that pierced him weren't civilized at all. And they were studying him with a coolness that made his heart sink. It was a look he was very familiar with receiving from both father and Kavanagh but somehow receiving it from this complete stranger twisted at something deep inside. It was a look of icy contempt.
Rodney drew back instinctively from the disdain, hugging his books tighter to his chest for comfort. He tried to find the words to greet the other man but his awkward tongue stumbled and Rodney stayed miserably silent, unable to do anything but continue to stare at this John Sheppard who was frowning now, as if puzzled by what he saw.
Finally, when it became clear Rodney was not going to speak, the stranger raised an eyebrow and, with a sardonic smile, spoke in a soft, slow drawl. "You're Rodney McKay?" The question held a disbelieving note as the man continued to study him coolly.
"I, uh, well yes," Rodney forced out, tentatively studying the man. What could Mr. Sheppard want with him? And why would a man he'd never met look at him with such disdain? Unless, Rodney's heart sank at the thought, perhaps he was, after all, one of father or Kavanagh's crony's, regaled by contemptuous stories about the pitiful youngest McKay son. The thought made Rodney want to cringe.
The man, Sheppard, had paused, as if waiting for Rodney to continue. When it became clear that Rodney was going to remain mute, he shook his head and, scowling, strode closer. He paused as he noticed Rodney backing away. Eyes narrowing, he tilted his head slightly in consideration as he studied Rodney intently. "My name is John Sheppard. Do you know who I am?"
"No," Rodney forced himself to meet the man's eyes. Years with father and Kavanagh had taught him that showing fear or nervousness before a domineering man only made things worse. He still wasn't very good at pretending to be brave. But he could try. "Are you...are you a friend of father's?" he asked, offering a hesitant try at a smile.
He flinched away from the bark of harsh laughter that followed. "I consider that an insult McKay," Sheppard sneered Rodney's last name, the ice back in his eyes. "Were you trying to be insulting?" The question was silky with casual menace. The man stepped closer now, invading Rodney's personal space and causing Rodney to back up in alarm, stopping only when his back hit the entrance door with a solid thud.
"I, no! I, I wasn't trying to, I...what did I say?" His usually rapid mind was stuttering at the closeness of the stranger, currently held at bay only by the armful of books Rodney was clutching desperately before him like a shield. Sheppard leaned in menacingly and Rodney couldn't suppress a cringe as he huddled behind his books. This was usually when father hit him.
Sheppard, however, paused, clearly taken aback by Rodney's reaction. Instead of hitting him, he moved back, giving Rodney a little space. Rodney looked up at the man's face, relieved and surprised at the unusual turn of familiar events. He noticed Sheppard staring down at the books Rodney was clutching so tightly. The man nodded his head in indication. "May I?"
Confused by the change in topic Rodney nodded warily, reluctant to hand over his precious books but not wanting to set the stranger off again. He watched as Sheppard handled the volumes, reading the titles with a frown. Rodney noticed absently that the man had elegant sun-darkened hands, the backs showing dark hair, the fingers long and unexpectedly slender. Father and Kavanagh both had brutal hands, large and punishing. His own hands were large but unskilled at holding anything besides a book or a pen. He watched as Sheppard finished his perusal and, looking back up, captured Rodney's eyes, offering him a simple quirked smile. It wasn't exactly friendly but it wasn't hostile and Rodney felt himself relax a bit.
"I wasn't aware the McKays knew how to read anything besides sporting journals and betting forms," Sheppard commented dryly.
Rodney felt a flush rising up his face. Father and Kavanagh were always taunting him about his bookish ways, saying that the only types of reading materials real men perused were the London Times and men's sporting magazines. "I like mathematics," he responded stiffly, breaking eye contact to stare down at the floor, not wanting to see the inevitable derision sure to return to the stranger's gaze.
"Why?"
Rodney glanced back up at Sheppard, startled into it by the blunt question. He was startled further by the look of frank inquiry that was the only thing the other man's gaze held now.
"What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly, confused at the question.
"Why do you like mathematics?" The response was unexpectedly patient.
Rodney could only blink in surprise for a moment. In his entire memory, no one had ever asked him that question. No one.
"Because it's beautiful," he finally answered truthfully, meeting the stranger's gaze fully for the first time. He didn't realize how much his love of mathematics shone from his eyes.
Sheppard eyed him in thoughtful silence before slowly handing the books back to Rodney who hugged them thankfully back against his chest. After a moment, Sheppard rang the servant's bell, nodding curtly when Hodgkins re-entered the Blue Salon. "My things," he ordered and they both continued to wait in silence until the butler reappeared with a footman bearing the other man's hat and overcoat. Sheppard swiftly donned his outdoor apparel and, turning, tipped his hat to Rodney. Rodney thought for a brief moment that the man was going to depart in silence but Sheppard paused at the entrance and offered him a bitter smile. "Tell your father I'll be back tomorrow at four." His eyes cooled. "I expect him to be here." And then he was gone.
Quickly moving to the window of the front parlor, Rodney parted the curtains as, drawn by a certain fascination, he stared after the departing figure of the man who quickly disappeared into the dusky evening.
What a strange and intimidating man. He didn't seem like a friend of father or Kavanagh's. He certainly didn't seem to like father very much. Rodney wondered if he would see John Sheppard again tomorrow.