Major Evan Lorne has a secret hidey-hole in Atlantis that he likes to escape to when the endless drag of paperwork gets to be too much or Parrish gets it into his head that they should go back to the planet of the human-size Venus Flytraps for “-just one more specimen, Major, please.” It’s a balcony high up in one of the empty buildings lining the West Pier. He likes to watch the sun set, to smear red and gold paint across a clean white canvas and know he’ll never be able to capture the beauty.
Today, the ordinary calm stillness of his sanctuary is cut by the hum of a puddlejumper, but Lorne doesn’t mind. The ship skims gently along the surface of the ocean like a skipping stone before making several smooth flips and shooting off into the horizon.
Lorne can tell it’s Sheppard flying. He’s flown with a lot of pilots, but he can say without reserve that Sheppard is one of the very best. Sheppard flies like the jumper is a piece of himself, like poetry through motion.
Lorne doesn’t think the Marines really understand that. To them a pilot is a pilot is a pilot, although they’d probably be able to see the difference if they ever saw Sheppard flying side by side with an ordinary Air Force pilot. Lorne understands the difference instinctively.
“That was some nice flying today, sir,” Lorne says admiringly over dinner, and Sheppard smiles, bright and solid with joy. Lorne feels it like the press of Sheppard’s hand against his shoulder.
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Five times John's men were proud to have him as a CO (part 3)
Date: 2009-06-20 08:18 pm (UTC)Major Evan Lorne has a secret hidey-hole in Atlantis that he likes to escape to when the endless drag of paperwork gets to be too much or Parrish gets it into his head that they should go back to the planet of the human-size Venus Flytraps for “-just one more specimen, Major, please.” It’s a balcony high up in one of the empty buildings lining the West Pier. He likes to watch the sun set, to smear red and gold paint across a clean white canvas and know he’ll never be able to capture the beauty.
Today, the ordinary calm stillness of his sanctuary is cut by the hum of a puddlejumper, but Lorne doesn’t mind. The ship skims gently along the surface of the ocean like a skipping stone before making several smooth flips and shooting off into the horizon.
Lorne can tell it’s Sheppard flying. He’s flown with a lot of pilots, but he can say without reserve that Sheppard is one of the very best. Sheppard flies like the jumper is a piece of himself, like poetry through motion.
Lorne doesn’t think the Marines really understand that. To them a pilot is a pilot is a pilot, although they’d probably be able to see the difference if they ever saw Sheppard flying side by side with an ordinary Air Force pilot. Lorne understands the difference instinctively.
“That was some nice flying today, sir,” Lorne says admiringly over dinner, and Sheppard smiles, bright and solid with joy. Lorne feels it like the press of Sheppard’s hand against his shoulder.