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{ PG | John/Rodney }
| podfic available |
written for amireal’s Bruise Challenge
*
John thought that being Earthside might help Rodney, might make him forget about explosions and dead friends. He thought Rodney should fly out to see his sister, should spend a lot of money on toys for his niece, should maybe stop in to visit his cat.
But the longer they stay, the older Rodney looks. Tired and worn, bruised around the eyes.
John keeps thinking ‘it could have been worse’ - Teyla could have died, the whole mess hall could have been lost, the tower could have fallen, the explosion could have taken out the entire infirmary, could’ve killed Carson before he’d overridden his lock-out.
Losing Rodney, though, losing him like this, to ghosts and guilt and insomnia? It’s almost worse.
John watches Rodney, hunched over his laptop, strong back bowed under the weight of his loss. All John wants is to reach out to him, to span the broad surface with his hands, to strengthen Rodney’s shoulders with the gentleness of his hands…
But he and Rodney aren’t like that.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in the doorway of Rodney’s temporary SGC quarters. John barely gets a glimpse of dull blue eyes before Rodney turns his attention back to the laptop. “What are you doing?” John asks. He peers over Rodney’s shoulder and any kind words he might have had choked and died somewhere around his heart.
“What the hell, Rodney!” John slams the laptop closed, making Rodney wince but right now, he doesn’t care - he’s too angry for tact. “Where did you get this!”
“It’s surveillance video,” Rodney replies, like that’s any kind of answer at all.
Rage flares in John’s muscles and he yanks Rodney out of his chair, slams him against the wall. He pushes hard against Rodney, pushes into his personal space.
“What were you thinking, McKay?” he demands. Rodney shrugs, apathetic, and John is helpless to keep the anger from washing away, allows heartache to fill its place. His hands release their bruising grip on Rodney’s shoulders and cup his head instead, bringing their foreheads together in unconscious imitation of another world’s customs.
“You should never have seen that,” John scolds. He shudders against the memory of the slow-motion crawl of the explosion, of Carson there one moment and gone the next.
Rodney’s hands grip John’s arms, holding him steady, holding him close. They stay that way for a long time; when John finally pulls away, he’s not sure how long they’ve been standing there, but he can see it’s been long enough to straighten Rodney’s back, to rub the bruise-dark colour from under Rodney’s eyes.
“You should get some sleep,” John tells him. “We’re heading home tomorrow.”
Rodney nods jerkily, relieved, and John waits at the door until Rodney has crawled onto the too-small mattress. John turns off the lights but pauses before leaving.
“Good night, Rodney,” he calls back into the room.
Rodney stirs, shifts to face him. “Good night…John.”
John watches Rodney settle back down before he leaves, and as the door slides quietly shut behind him, he thinks ‘maybe we are like that, after all’.