Wassail 3/3
And it's done.
Carson turned around and came back--a journey of two and a half steps. "Dr. Hawser can see you tomorrow afternoon. He needs to do some research on child abuse, it's not his area. In the mean time, he suggests you get a little drunk and go back to the synthesizer."
~*~
Ronon was waiting when Carson came back to the party. He was leaning against the wall, looking unsettled. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Everything is fine," Carson said, mindful of patient confidentiality, but certain that it meant a hell of a lot less here, where health was a matter of national security, and team members had a better moral claim on one another than most family did back home.
"McKay's not going to go berserk or anything?"
Carson rolled his eyes. "You're completely batshit, you and Sheppard both." He reconsidered. "It would be easier to deal with, wouldn't it? If he were under some alien influence than if he's just genuinely hurting."
Ronon shrugged. He followed Carson over to the punch bowl: something like cherry juice, slightly alcoholic, delightfully cold. "Try the little cakes," Ronon suggested.
"Is Rodney all right?" Laura asked, coming up behind them.
Carson grimaced. "No, he's dropped dead in the restroom, but I figured why ruin the party by making an announcement."
It was just the sort of thing a grumpy Rodney would accuse someone of, and she laughed. In a weird, tormenting-older-sister way, she was completely devoted to Rodney. She was waiting for Rodney to stop being creeped out over the body-sharing thing. Being in the same room with her was often more than he could handle, though, and Carson suspected that it would be a long wait.
Glowering, Ronon stepped between Carson and Laura. She laughed good naturedly and raised her hands in surrender. Ronon waited until she backed away and then turned to Carson. "I think I should challenge her formally," he said.
"I really wish you'd stop saying that," Carson said. "Obviously, you can take anyone on the base except maybe Teyla. But I really don't want you to. And that's a terrible basis for a relationship."
Ronon's eyes widened. He looked hurt and suddenly horrifyingly young. "I wouldn't fight her. Not *fight* her. Not with intent. Not your own people, with the Wraith out there--"
Carson closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Ronon's people had had only one goal. Ronon himself had one over-riding priority. He wouldn't waste one the precious soldiers on his own side fighting her over something personal.
"I get up in public and display what I have to offer you. She gets up and displays what she has to offer...actually, we don't have all that much, but I'm better looking than she is, and I can offer you better protection."
Carson made a miserable squeak. "That's not a great basis for a relationship either."
Ronon nodded at some inner satisfaction. "Mostly it's a way to humiliate the competition."
"Well," Carson said weakly, "you are much better looking." Ronon preened, and Carson added hurriedly, "But I think a formal challenge really isn't necessary. She was a very good sport about the whole thing."
Ronon rolled his eyes tolerantly. "The whole 'gay' thing. Nobody could possibly be that stupid." Because no one in Ronon's experience would ever refuse a relationship--or even casual sex--simply because of gender. There were lots of roles and moralities gender did influence, but who you slept with wasn't one of them.
Carson patted Ronon's shoulder. "Think of it as a kind of cultural defect."
Ronon leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You don't look defective to me." He liberated Carson's cup and took a large swallow of punch. "So what is this long feast all about, anyway?"
Carson sighed. Ronon asked at least once a day. "No, there is no boxing on Boxing Day. And it's a lot of different holidays. And each one means different things to different people."
"What does it mean to you?"
Carson took the cup back. "Memories from my childhood. A chance to be...sappier to friends than it's normally polite to be. A reminder of all those things that..."
"What things?" Ronon asked.
Rodney came stalking into the room. He flung himself down at the synthesizer and began to play "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Although Rodney's touch was firm and confident, the music sounded hopeful and almost tentative. Carson closed his eyes for a moment. "It's a reminder that all those things we try for the rest of the year, it's a reminder of what they mean. Love. Compassion. Kindness. Brotherhood. Forgiveness. Hope."
Ronon nodded. "It's hard to remember those sometimes."
"It's hard to live up to."
"Not for you," Ronon said. His eyes were earnest.
"Of course for me! For everyone."
"When I was a stranger, you were compassionate. You feared me, but you didn't hesitate to help me. I assaulted your people, held them prisoner...and you forgave me."
"Oh, Ronon."
Ronon smiled down at him. He could be amazingly sentimental. Carson realized that if he didn't get them out of there, a very embarrassing public display of affection would probably ensue. "Shall we call it a night, then?" he whispered.
They left as Rodney was playing "White Christmas," doing things to the song Carson hadn't guessed were possible.
~*~
It was the mistake that jarred Rodney back to wakefulness; a B flat where an A should have been. He gasped and reached again for the note, and for the first time felt the ache in his hands.
Oh.
He pulled his hands in, gasping has he tried to make a fist.
"Hey? How about a break? And the other half of your prescription."
Rodney looked up. Sheppard was standing beside him holding out a mug of punch. "Thank you," Rodney whispered. He felt a little light-headed. The punch was sweet and wet, and Rodney held the cup between his palms and drained it in a single breath. "Oh," he said.
"You okay?" Sheppard asked.
Rodney nodded. Looking around, he saw that the party had thinned considerably. How long had he been playing?
"More punch?" Sheppard asked.
Carefully, Rodney put the cup down and gently flexed his fingers. Sheppard took one of the hands. "Hey," Rodney protested, anticipating how much worse he ache could get.
"We should get you some ice. Or some very cold water."
Oh. Rodney nodded tiredly. "Merry Christmas," he muttered.
"Hey. Rodney. You were good."
"Yes, I was," Rodney said softly. "I was an artist." He patted air in the direction of the synthesizer and stood up.
Sheppard turned it off and followed Rodney out of the rec room. "I was really good," Rodney said. He hummed a few bars of 'We Three Kings of Orient Are.' I was incredible. I'll be better when I rig together a decent sound system."
His sideways glance caught Sheppard smiling. "I *was* good," Rodney said sharply. "I mean, I always knew I was good at things that just required intelligence, but--but--"
"You were brilliant," Sheppard said, clapping his shoulder lightly. "For what it's worth from a guy who plays the guitar very badly."
Rodney sighed and flexed his sore fingers. He let Sheppard select the destination on the transporter. Ice water was probably a very good idea. "No passion. No heart. Technically perfect...."
"Rodney--" John protested.
Suddenly, Rodney couldn't look at him. "There's probably other...things I can do. Other things that require...art."
"Right! Let's test you again at the firing range. We'll make a sharpshooter of you yet."
The doors opened, but before Sheppard could step out, Rodney planted himself in the opening. They were standing close enough that Rodney had to look up a little. "There's probably other things I can do really well," he said again. He stepped forward, letting the doors close behind him. "Artistically, even. Beautifully."
"Um?" Sheppard said, staring.
"I thought you were the closest thing I had to a friend. And I didn't want to screw that up for nothing. Because love is an art, too. It takes passion and...feeling to be good at it."
Sheppard blinked. "Rodney, you've got friends."
Oh. Right. Of course. Rodney nodded, kind of stunned by the warmth rising in his belly. Elizabeth. Radek. Carson. He had friends. There's an art to *being* friends, and Rodney-- "Yeah. I have friends. But I don't--John, I don't think you're one of them."
"Oh. No. I think maybe I'm not."
It was a matter of centimeters. Rodney leaned forward, closed that tiny distance. John's lips were warm and sort of chapped. John's hand came up at once, closed on the back on Rodney's neck. It felt, oh, so sweet, so bright. It felt like getting five percent more efficiency out of the city's shields. It felt like playing Mozart. It felt like ZPM equations. Rodney gasped, and John's tongue whispered along the edge of Rodney's teeth. Oh, god, this, all along. It had been art all along. "I could be really good at loving you. I mean, I didn't--I didn't *know*. John--"
Sheppard pulled back, his hands coming up to cradle Rodney's face. "Easy there, sport. You just drank on an empty stomach. And then there was the whole nervous breakdown thing--"
Rodney closed his eyes, his heart sinking. "You're still angry. And okay, right, I can see, I mean, I manipulated you, I endangered you, and that was when I thought we were just sort of friends. I know this is a big risk, and I have a lot of bad habits. *I* didn't even think I could do this before, and I haven't exactly been practicing--"
He couldn't talk with Sheppard kissing him, and after a moment he forgot to want to.
"Could we finish this somewhere else?" Sheppard asked, pulling away at last. "Like your quarters? Or my quarters? Or someplace more comfortable than this elevator?"
"Transporter. Right. Yes. Anywhere."
~*~
Carson had a wreath of needle-leaf beside his door and one of the small holiday altars set up in his quarters: the mother and father and the baby, not the elaborate candles or the decorated tree. Carson kept insisting that the man wasn't the father, only the mother's husband, but Ronon didn't see the distinction. He also didn't understand why a baby was a major symbol of benevolence and morality. Yes, a newborn had no evil in its heart and was blissfully untouched by fear of the Wraith, but a baby also had no kindness, no generosity, and no courage. Carson had given up trying to explain.
Carson locked the door behind them and dimmed the lights. He wasn't as gifted with the Ancestor's technology as Sheppard, but the city still knew him. "Are you hungry, Love? Did you get enough to eat at the party?"
It was a new habit, checking to see if he was hungry. For so long, Ronon had simply eaten whatever chance presented and ignored the pain in his belly when there was nothing. "I ate," he said.
Carson reached up and palmed Ronon's cheek in a warm hand. "Something else, then," he asked softly, and Ronon shivered.
"Yes, please." He closed his eyes, leaned down, tasted warmth and sweetness and safety. "Real," whispered, brushing his cheek against Carson's temple. "Maybe I do believe in your miracles. If you're real...."
Carson sighed, pulling him in closer. "Ah, lad. When I finally do disappoint you, remember--I warned you, I'm not nearly half what you think I am."
Ronon groaned softly and nuzzled his neck. "I already know you are a very strange man from a very, very strange people." He laughed a little. "You worship trees...and fat men in red--"
"You!" Carson hissed, his fingers trailing up Ronon's ribs. "Well, you have a point, actually." He shoved hard, knocking Ronon backwards onto the soft, narrow bed. Ronon let himself fall. "We're very strange people. If I were you, I'd be worried about what I might do to you next."
Ronon nodded seriously. "I hope it's kinky."
Carson turned the lights the rest of the way off.
~end
Carson turned around and came back--a journey of two and a half steps. "Dr. Hawser can see you tomorrow afternoon. He needs to do some research on child abuse, it's not his area. In the mean time, he suggests you get a little drunk and go back to the synthesizer."
~*~
Ronon was waiting when Carson came back to the party. He was leaning against the wall, looking unsettled. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Everything is fine," Carson said, mindful of patient confidentiality, but certain that it meant a hell of a lot less here, where health was a matter of national security, and team members had a better moral claim on one another than most family did back home.
"McKay's not going to go berserk or anything?"
Carson rolled his eyes. "You're completely batshit, you and Sheppard both." He reconsidered. "It would be easier to deal with, wouldn't it? If he were under some alien influence than if he's just genuinely hurting."
Ronon shrugged. He followed Carson over to the punch bowl: something like cherry juice, slightly alcoholic, delightfully cold. "Try the little cakes," Ronon suggested.
"Is Rodney all right?" Laura asked, coming up behind them.
Carson grimaced. "No, he's dropped dead in the restroom, but I figured why ruin the party by making an announcement."
It was just the sort of thing a grumpy Rodney would accuse someone of, and she laughed. In a weird, tormenting-older-sister way, she was completely devoted to Rodney. She was waiting for Rodney to stop being creeped out over the body-sharing thing. Being in the same room with her was often more than he could handle, though, and Carson suspected that it would be a long wait.
Glowering, Ronon stepped between Carson and Laura. She laughed good naturedly and raised her hands in surrender. Ronon waited until she backed away and then turned to Carson. "I think I should challenge her formally," he said.
"I really wish you'd stop saying that," Carson said. "Obviously, you can take anyone on the base except maybe Teyla. But I really don't want you to. And that's a terrible basis for a relationship."
Ronon's eyes widened. He looked hurt and suddenly horrifyingly young. "I wouldn't fight her. Not *fight* her. Not with intent. Not your own people, with the Wraith out there--"
Carson closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Ronon's people had had only one goal. Ronon himself had one over-riding priority. He wouldn't waste one the precious soldiers on his own side fighting her over something personal.
"I get up in public and display what I have to offer you. She gets up and displays what she has to offer...actually, we don't have all that much, but I'm better looking than she is, and I can offer you better protection."
Carson made a miserable squeak. "That's not a great basis for a relationship either."
Ronon nodded at some inner satisfaction. "Mostly it's a way to humiliate the competition."
"Well," Carson said weakly, "you are much better looking." Ronon preened, and Carson added hurriedly, "But I think a formal challenge really isn't necessary. She was a very good sport about the whole thing."
Ronon rolled his eyes tolerantly. "The whole 'gay' thing. Nobody could possibly be that stupid." Because no one in Ronon's experience would ever refuse a relationship--or even casual sex--simply because of gender. There were lots of roles and moralities gender did influence, but who you slept with wasn't one of them.
Carson patted Ronon's shoulder. "Think of it as a kind of cultural defect."
Ronon leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You don't look defective to me." He liberated Carson's cup and took a large swallow of punch. "So what is this long feast all about, anyway?"
Carson sighed. Ronon asked at least once a day. "No, there is no boxing on Boxing Day. And it's a lot of different holidays. And each one means different things to different people."
"What does it mean to you?"
Carson took the cup back. "Memories from my childhood. A chance to be...sappier to friends than it's normally polite to be. A reminder of all those things that..."
"What things?" Ronon asked.
Rodney came stalking into the room. He flung himself down at the synthesizer and began to play "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Although Rodney's touch was firm and confident, the music sounded hopeful and almost tentative. Carson closed his eyes for a moment. "It's a reminder that all those things we try for the rest of the year, it's a reminder of what they mean. Love. Compassion. Kindness. Brotherhood. Forgiveness. Hope."
Ronon nodded. "It's hard to remember those sometimes."
"It's hard to live up to."
"Not for you," Ronon said. His eyes were earnest.
"Of course for me! For everyone."
"When I was a stranger, you were compassionate. You feared me, but you didn't hesitate to help me. I assaulted your people, held them prisoner...and you forgave me."
"Oh, Ronon."
Ronon smiled down at him. He could be amazingly sentimental. Carson realized that if he didn't get them out of there, a very embarrassing public display of affection would probably ensue. "Shall we call it a night, then?" he whispered.
They left as Rodney was playing "White Christmas," doing things to the song Carson hadn't guessed were possible.
~*~
It was the mistake that jarred Rodney back to wakefulness; a B flat where an A should have been. He gasped and reached again for the note, and for the first time felt the ache in his hands.
Oh.
He pulled his hands in, gasping has he tried to make a fist.
"Hey? How about a break? And the other half of your prescription."
Rodney looked up. Sheppard was standing beside him holding out a mug of punch. "Thank you," Rodney whispered. He felt a little light-headed. The punch was sweet and wet, and Rodney held the cup between his palms and drained it in a single breath. "Oh," he said.
"You okay?" Sheppard asked.
Rodney nodded. Looking around, he saw that the party had thinned considerably. How long had he been playing?
"More punch?" Sheppard asked.
Carefully, Rodney put the cup down and gently flexed his fingers. Sheppard took one of the hands. "Hey," Rodney protested, anticipating how much worse he ache could get.
"We should get you some ice. Or some very cold water."
Oh. Rodney nodded tiredly. "Merry Christmas," he muttered.
"Hey. Rodney. You were good."
"Yes, I was," Rodney said softly. "I was an artist." He patted air in the direction of the synthesizer and stood up.
Sheppard turned it off and followed Rodney out of the rec room. "I was really good," Rodney said. He hummed a few bars of 'We Three Kings of Orient Are.' I was incredible. I'll be better when I rig together a decent sound system."
His sideways glance caught Sheppard smiling. "I *was* good," Rodney said sharply. "I mean, I always knew I was good at things that just required intelligence, but--but--"
"You were brilliant," Sheppard said, clapping his shoulder lightly. "For what it's worth from a guy who plays the guitar very badly."
Rodney sighed and flexed his sore fingers. He let Sheppard select the destination on the transporter. Ice water was probably a very good idea. "No passion. No heart. Technically perfect...."
"Rodney--" John protested.
Suddenly, Rodney couldn't look at him. "There's probably other...things I can do. Other things that require...art."
"Right! Let's test you again at the firing range. We'll make a sharpshooter of you yet."
The doors opened, but before Sheppard could step out, Rodney planted himself in the opening. They were standing close enough that Rodney had to look up a little. "There's probably other things I can do really well," he said again. He stepped forward, letting the doors close behind him. "Artistically, even. Beautifully."
"Um?" Sheppard said, staring.
"I thought you were the closest thing I had to a friend. And I didn't want to screw that up for nothing. Because love is an art, too. It takes passion and...feeling to be good at it."
Sheppard blinked. "Rodney, you've got friends."
Oh. Right. Of course. Rodney nodded, kind of stunned by the warmth rising in his belly. Elizabeth. Radek. Carson. He had friends. There's an art to *being* friends, and Rodney-- "Yeah. I have friends. But I don't--John, I don't think you're one of them."
"Oh. No. I think maybe I'm not."
It was a matter of centimeters. Rodney leaned forward, closed that tiny distance. John's lips were warm and sort of chapped. John's hand came up at once, closed on the back on Rodney's neck. It felt, oh, so sweet, so bright. It felt like getting five percent more efficiency out of the city's shields. It felt like playing Mozart. It felt like ZPM equations. Rodney gasped, and John's tongue whispered along the edge of Rodney's teeth. Oh, god, this, all along. It had been art all along. "I could be really good at loving you. I mean, I didn't--I didn't *know*. John--"
Sheppard pulled back, his hands coming up to cradle Rodney's face. "Easy there, sport. You just drank on an empty stomach. And then there was the whole nervous breakdown thing--"
Rodney closed his eyes, his heart sinking. "You're still angry. And okay, right, I can see, I mean, I manipulated you, I endangered you, and that was when I thought we were just sort of friends. I know this is a big risk, and I have a lot of bad habits. *I* didn't even think I could do this before, and I haven't exactly been practicing--"
He couldn't talk with Sheppard kissing him, and after a moment he forgot to want to.
"Could we finish this somewhere else?" Sheppard asked, pulling away at last. "Like your quarters? Or my quarters? Or someplace more comfortable than this elevator?"
"Transporter. Right. Yes. Anywhere."
~*~
Carson had a wreath of needle-leaf beside his door and one of the small holiday altars set up in his quarters: the mother and father and the baby, not the elaborate candles or the decorated tree. Carson kept insisting that the man wasn't the father, only the mother's husband, but Ronon didn't see the distinction. He also didn't understand why a baby was a major symbol of benevolence and morality. Yes, a newborn had no evil in its heart and was blissfully untouched by fear of the Wraith, but a baby also had no kindness, no generosity, and no courage. Carson had given up trying to explain.
Carson locked the door behind them and dimmed the lights. He wasn't as gifted with the Ancestor's technology as Sheppard, but the city still knew him. "Are you hungry, Love? Did you get enough to eat at the party?"
It was a new habit, checking to see if he was hungry. For so long, Ronon had simply eaten whatever chance presented and ignored the pain in his belly when there was nothing. "I ate," he said.
Carson reached up and palmed Ronon's cheek in a warm hand. "Something else, then," he asked softly, and Ronon shivered.
"Yes, please." He closed his eyes, leaned down, tasted warmth and sweetness and safety. "Real," whispered, brushing his cheek against Carson's temple. "Maybe I do believe in your miracles. If you're real...."
Carson sighed, pulling him in closer. "Ah, lad. When I finally do disappoint you, remember--I warned you, I'm not nearly half what you think I am."
Ronon groaned softly and nuzzled his neck. "I already know you are a very strange man from a very, very strange people." He laughed a little. "You worship trees...and fat men in red--"
"You!" Carson hissed, his fingers trailing up Ronon's ribs. "Well, you have a point, actually." He shoved hard, knocking Ronon backwards onto the soft, narrow bed. Ronon let himself fall. "We're very strange people. If I were you, I'd be worried about what I might do to you next."
Ronon nodded seriously. "I hope it's kinky."
Carson turned the lights the rest of the way off.
~end