Fic : Responsible by keefaq
Title: Responsible
Author: keefaq
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Completed : Dec. 2007
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Word Count- ~7000 words
Spoilers: Up to and including Miller's Crossing
Betaed with insight and amazing speed by lilac_way
Summary: After Miller’s Crossing, John struggles with his feelings of responsibility for Wallace, Todd, Rodney, and Atlantis in general.
“Whatever a man does, he’s bound to take some risks.”
- Fred Gipson, Old Yeller
It’s after midnight when John finally gives up on sleep. His brain won’t stop replaying the day’s events-Rodney’s willingness to sacrifice himself, his own frantic scramble to lock Rodney out of the lab, his conversation with Wallace. He pulls on his pants and t-shirt, and pads out into the hall barefoot with no clear idea where he’s going.
He knocks on Rodney’s door very softly, conflicted about waking him, but when there is no immediate answer he calls through the door rather loudly, “Rodney. Are you awake?”
He feels the lock click over and palms open the door. The lights are low and Rodney is half sitting up in bed, bare-chested, covers pooled at his waist. “What?”
He doesn’t know what to say. He steps forward and sits down at the foot of the bed, hands in his lap.
“What’s wrong?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just…couldn’t sleep.” He looks down at his hands, then back at Rodney who continues to sit silently looking back at him. After a minute he shifts over and lifts the covers, making a little inviting motion with his hand. John pulls his legs up onto the bed and slides under the covers, putting his head tentatively against Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney seems all right with that. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t pull away either, so John wraps his arm across Rodney’s chest and relaxes into sleep at last.
****
It’s still dark when he wakes up and glances at the clock. 5:45. He always wakes up at the same time, even on a Saturday morning like this one when he’s off duty. He gets up quietly so as not to disturb Rodney and goes into the bathroom to relieve himself, but when he comes out Rodney is awake and watching him cross back to the bed. He lies down again and nestles his head onto Rodney's shoulder, replacing his arm carefully, and Rodney continues to lie passively, moving neither away nor closer.
After a few minutes John shifts his head onto Rodney’s stomach, and Rodney doesn’t move or make a sound, so that seems to be ok, too. He rests one hand on the inside of Rodney’s leg near his knee. Rodney is silent and still, but the muscle in his leg feels relaxed and John wants... just wants...so much. He is afraid to go any further and, of course he can’t think of a thing to say, and why is Rodney not talking anyway? He props himself up slightly so he can see. Rodney is just lying there on his back, eyes closed, looking relaxed and comfortable. He doesn’t know what to make of that. “Rodney?” and thank god his voice sounds normal, if a bit uncertain.
Rodney opens his eyes and lifts his head to look down at him for a moment before dropping back onto his pillow. His voice is pitched low when he finally speaks. “Whatever, John. Anything you want.”
He lifts his hips slightly to help when John pulls his boxers down and off. John brings his mouth down and feels Rodney getting hard as he begins to suck. He opens his pants to relieve the tremendous pressure on his own cock. Rodney is silent again but his hand comes down to stroke his hair and he’s thrusting up against John’s mouth rough and perfect.
He starts squeezing his own cock in rhythm. It only takes a few strokes and he’s coming all over Rodney’s leg. Rodney whimpers and thrusts harder. He feels the warm thickness of come against the back of his mouth then and swallows slowly, savoring the aftershocks as Rodney slows and goes still again, breathing heavily. He lets go and lays his head back on Rodney’s stomach, luxuriating in the feel of Rodney gently stroking his hair.
When he wakes again it’s almost nine. He can hear the shower running. He goes into the bathroom to relieve himself again, then stands around wondering what to do. He doesn’t have his toothbrush or clean clothes. Rodney is la la laing the theme from Brahms Hungarian Dance #5 and he finds himself softly humming along until Rodney snaps the shower door open and motions him in. Rodney’s hair is wet and the shampoo isn’t completely rinsed out, suds trailing down one side of his face, and John suddenly realizes they haven’t even kissed, and he wants to know if Rodney would be weird about kissing, so he steps under the water and leans in to find out.
Rodney braces himself against the back wall of the shower and brings both of his hands to the back of John’s neck, and it isn’t weird at all. It’s wonderful, until Rodney suddenly pulls back, grabs the shampoo and spritzes it onto John’s hair, pushing him under the water and massaging his head, saying, “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Which is weird, but then Rodney being weird is not unfamiliar and the way he is being pushed around is oddly comforting.
He pulls Rodney under the spray with him. “You’ve got soap in your hair,” he says, rinsing it out, and then, “My mother used to play that piece all the time.”
“Hmm? Oh, the Brahms? I’ve always liked it better than the Liszt Rhapsodies myself. For one thing, it’s playable. You never told me your mother played the piano.”
“You never told me you couldn’t play Liszt.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t play …” Then, “Well, ok, I couldn’t. But Liszt was a fucking crazy man.”
He has to put his sweat pants and t-shirt from the night before back on. “Listen, I want to go get some clean clothes-”
“Right, sure." Rodney pulls him back as he’s about to leave. “Wait.” He fumbles around in a drawer, pulling out a life signs detector he apparently keeps there. “Ok, coast is clear,” but he stops John from leaving again.
“What? Oh-” Kissing again, which, ok, Rodney apparently doesn’t mind that he hasn’t brushed his teeth.
By the time he gets to the mess hall Rodney has already gotten two trays and enough food for three people. He doesn’t mind putting his back to the room when he’s across from Rodney because Rodney’s panic meter is set so low that he knows he’ll see any problem on Rodney’s face as fast as he could discern it by scanning the area himself. So he sits down and grabs one of the three muffins still on the trays. Rodney’s finishing up the fourth one. “I’ve got a few things I want to look into in the lab. What are you planning on doing today?” Rodney asks through a mouthful of muffin.
“It’s my day off. I was planning on doing nothing.”
“Hm. Want to hang out getting in my way in the lab for awhile?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” Rodney’s knee brushes against his and he has a warm feeling when he doesn’t have to pull away. He leans back in his chair and lets Rodney’s chatter wash over him, something about low power levels in some newly explored part of the city and what Radek has been trying to do about it. When they finish eating he follows down to the lab. It’s quiet, mostly empty, just Radek and one other scientist he doesn't recognize. When Rodney pauses in the doorway he bumps into him.
Radek looks up. “Ah, at last. Where have you been? I have sent you many files. Sit and look.” Rodney sits down and begins looking at one of the laptops. John pulls up a chair next to him so as to be able to get in his way as much as possible.
Rodney shoots him a look he doesn’t get. “What?” earns him an eyeroll.
When Radek walks over to the other side of the room Rodney whispers, “Jesus, get a grip. What happened to your famous poker face? And stop being so close everywhere I go. You’re practically wearing the t-shirt saying ‘I slept with genius.’ Radek isn’t a complete idiot about that kind of stuff, you know.”
He can feel his face heating up and he slides his chair back a bit. “Sorry.” He looks around for something to distract himself with. There’s a small round Ancient looking thing on the desk. “What’s this?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. Radek found it a couple of days ago. I tried to activate it, but all it did was make my hand tingle a little. Go ahead, see if you can get anything out of it. It was lying out loose in one of the empty bedrooms, so I doubt if it’s dangerous. ”
John picks it up and examines it more closely. It’s made of some wood-like material, highly polished. His hand tingles as Rodney had said, but nothing else seems to happen.
He looks back at Rodney’s laptop, trying not to stare at his hands or think about the way they had stroked through his hair. And now he’s annoying Rodney. Is Rodney already having second thoughts? It suddenly and painfully occurs to him that Rodney had been filled with gratitude when he’d returned from earth, feeling that John had done so much for him…but he’d invited John to trail along to the lab, he wouldn’t…he tries to wrench his thoughts into a different slot.
The first time ever he’d been on a plane is the only time he’d seen his maternal grandmother. They’d flown to New York for his Uncle’s funeral. His mother hated flying, fortifying herself for the ordeal with several stiff drinks, then thankfully stopped complaining and slept most of the way. He’d been awake, watching everything he could see out the window. He hadn’t been afraid at all.
But it is his grandmother he’s remembering, long wide black skirt, turning to speak in her native Italian to some of the older relatives, the house filled with relatives, all these people he didn’t know, had never known, wouldn’t know. His mother wanders around carrying a cup of coffee smelling strongly of licorice, muttering and gesturing to herself.
He sees his grandmother’s face, tight, pinched with disapproval, as she pulls him to her. “Let me see the boy,” the overwhelming smell of some cheap perfume as she grabs his chin and turns it toward her, then shoves him roughly away with a scornful laugh, “He looks just like his father.” He has no idea what he’s done, but the sense of wrongness is sharp and acrid, leaving him confused and uncertain.
“Look,” Rodney says, “It’s not that I’m not flattered about the whole staring thing, because really, I really am, but nonetheless you need to stop it right now.”
He forces his eyes down onto the lab table. “I think I’ll just, I’ve got some things I need to do, in my office…”
“That would be good.”
He scrambles out of the chair and away from the whole situation. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s got a bad feeling that he is fucking everything up. He doesn’t have any idea how to deal with Rodney. He knows how to take care of people, sure, to protect them, help them out, tell them what to do and make them like it. He’s tried to make his relationship with Rodney like that, but Rodney keeps helping him out, saving his ass and making him feel all needy and dependent and that is not, that is never going to work. He goes looking for someone to work out with, someone who can get him out of the very unpleasant space in his head. Rummaging around in there never does him any good at all.
But his mind keeps drifting to places he doesn’t want to go. Anything you want, Rodney had said. Rodney had been passive, letting him do whatever he wanted. There’d been nothing to indicate what Rodney wanted. Clearly Rodney doesn’t mind getting his dick sucked, but there is no reason to think he wants John in particular to do it.
He has a sudden flash of heat in his chest when he thinks about Rodney giving him permission to do anything he wanted, Rodney relaxed, stroking his head, thanking him. It makes him feel sick with shame. What was he thinking?
He spends the whole day trying to avoid Rodney and ruminating on what’s happened, what he’s done. He has to put it right. He can’t have Rodney feeling obligated to…it’s ridiculous. He skips supper, can’t think about eating. He finally decides to go down to the lab to try to smooth things over, thinks Rodney will want that, too. They’re friends, they can get past this. He’s made a mistake, he knows Rodney isn’t mad or anything, it’s not like he forced Rodney to…they just have to get past this.
Rodney gives him an appraising look when he comes in, which is a relief. Rodney clearly is going to let him be in charge of this. “How’s it going?” he asks, and his voice is just right, giving nothing away.
Rodney glances at him, a sharp glance, then looks back at his laptop. “It’s going fine,” he says, and his voice is bland, matching John’s tone exactly.
John lets out a breath. Rodney's making it easy. “You should call it a night soon, Rodney, he says, then “I’ll see you at breakfast, ok?”
Rodney nods, doesn’t look up again, and he escapes, relieved to get to his own room, his own bed. But he can’t sleep again so he gets up and reaches underneath, pulling out a small locked box. There are only a few things inside. He pushes aside the picture of his mother, pulls out a little box and opens it, looking at the heavy old silver ring with some sort of knotwork engraved on the top. He caresses the ring with his finger, then closes the box slowly and carefully.
He always sleeps in his boxers but for some reason tonight, he feels uncomfortable, as if an emergency is looming, and he doesn’t like to feel unprepared. He pulls his pants back on, then lies down again, feeling calmer. He wonders what McKay is thinking or doing, tells himself firmly that it will be okay. He knows Rodney isn’t angry or upset with him. What he did was wrong, yes, he took advantage of Rodney’s gratitude, and it’s a bit humiliating, but in another way he’s glad someone knows how he feels, that Rodney knows how he feels.
John looks around the restaurant. It isn’t strictly a gay establishment, but a lot of the customers are openly, some even stereotypically, gay. He waits for Steve to explain why he called. He’s never liked Steve that much, has nothing in common with the guy, has never understood what Cal saw in him; but he’s always polite. After Cal died, he hadn’t expected to ever see Steve again, so he was surprised when Steve called and asked to meet him for lunch. He was going to make an excuse to avoid him, until Steve told him Cal had left something for him.
He’s astonished when Steve pulls out the ring box, flips it open and holds it out to him.
“I can’t take that,” he says. “That’s the ring you gave him. You should bury it with him, or keep it yourself.”
“I don’t want it anymore,” Steve says. “We talked it over before he died. He wanted you to have it. Said he hoped you’d find someone you’d want to give it to someday.”
John hardly ever sleeps well, and it’s gotten worse lately. He wakes up exhausted and drags himself out of bed. He doesn’t want to face the day, and he takes a long time in the bathroom pulling himself together and turning off his thoughts. He pulls out clean clothing, transfers the contents of his pockets from yesterday’s pants into his new ones and grabs his laptop on his way out the door.
He skips breakfast.
****
He hasn’t named the Wraith. Won’t name him. The guards know that he visits frequently and sometimes takes him out of the cell to give him a chance to stretch his legs, and he makes sure they see he doesn’t bind his hands. He wants to establish a routine over a reasonable period of time while he tries to figure out what the fuck they’re going to do with him.
When he approaches the cell, he can see the Wraith tapping away at the laptop Rodney has given him. It’s connected to one of Rodney’s own computers, which has only a single folder they share, allowing the Wraith to work on the replicator coding with Rodney from the comfort of his homey little cell. Rodney has fixed up some special keyboard at the wraith’s suggestion, to make it fit his hands more naturally. The Wraith looks up and gives him a little nod. His face is drawn. John can see he’s growing weaker. He sits outside the cell, watching the Wraith work and thinking, but his thoughts don’t go anywhere useful.
He’s relieved to see the guards are the same ones who brought the Wraith through the gate. They won’t cause any trouble. They’re Pegasus oriented, their loyalty is to him. When he makes up a reason for them to turn their backs to the room, stresses the need for them to concentrate elsewhere, they don’t question him. He can feel Wallace’s commitment wavering. He uses all his calm certitude to counterbalance Wallace’s second thoughts, swallowing his distaste for touching so that he can put a hand to the small of Wallace’s back, steering him gently but firmly over to the Wraith, who is sitting propped up against the wall.
He guides Wallace to kneel, talking softly and reassuringly to him as if he is a small child. Wallace’s arm is clean, masculine, shaking. He steadies him, urges him forward. The Wraith’s feeding arm comes up and latches on to Wallace, who seems to have a sudden change of heart, trying to stagger back to his feet, but John reaches to the small of his back again, holding him in place, steadying him as the Wraith feeds. He hits his radio, calls for a medical team; it’s over that quickly. The guards haven’t seen a thing.
He’s startled by the voice in his ear. “Colonel Sheppard?”
The Wraith has stopped typing, has turned around and is staring at him. It takes him a minute to pull himself together. He’s usually able to push his memories away, but they seem to be assaulting him now. He speaks into his radio. “Yes, what is it?”
“You said we should notify you if Dr. McKay-um, Dr. McKay is out here sir, demanding to be let in.” he can hear Rodney’s sarcastic voice, though the words are muffled.
“It’s fine, let him in,” he says, shaking his head to try to clear his thoughts, which doesn’t help at all.
McKay barrels into the room, “What the fuck are you doing down here?” His voice feels loud in John’s head.
He pulls him to the side of the room away from the cell, even though the Wraith has turned back to his laptop and begun typing again. “I’m trying to get information out of our guest. Why are you here?”
“I’m checking out what you think you’re doing. What’s with telling the guards not to let me in here?”
“You have absolutely no reason to be here that I can think of.”
Rodney crosses his arms and huffs. “The guy saved my sister’s life.”
“He’s not a guy,” John says, against a faster tapping of the laptop keys. “ He’s an alien enemy who enjoys eating humans.”
Rodney sighs, runs his hand through his hair, gives John a curious look. John tries not to think about Rodney’s hands stroking his hair. “There must be something we can do.”
He can feel his face getting hard. “The Wraith is not your problem. It’s never been your problem,” he says. “Go back to work.” He turns away dismissively.
Rodney shoots him an intense look, but he doesn’t leave. “I just want to ask him if there’s any way we can…if there’s anything we can do.”
“Which would be pointless because we have no way of knowing when he’s lying.”
“You’re not planning something stupid are you?”
He doesn’t answer, raises an eyebrow.
“I know you wouldn’t…it wouldn’t make any sense to…”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t sacrifice myself to save him, Rodney. That’s ridiculous.”
“I know that,” Rodney says, studying him for a moment. “You wouldn’t have some Old Yeller sort of notion here, right?”
He laughs, makes it scornful. “Where do you get these ideas?” He can’t tell if Rodney believes him.
Rodney looks away first. “John,” he says, and he has a cold moment where he thinks Rodney is going to talk about them, but then, “The IOA has been talking to Sam. They want him back on earth, they want to study him.”
He’s got complete control of his face, he knows there’s nothing showing, gives a little nod, turns away. “That’s it then,” he says. Problem solved.
Rodney looks surprised, starts to say something and changes his mind. He starts toward the door, pauses and turns around. “Are you ok?” he asks.
He has to meet Rodney’s eyes of course. He can’t run around avoiding him as if it’s his fault. “I’m fine, he says, voice steady as always. He should leave it there, but he doesn’t. He tries for casual. “What do you and the Wraith talk about?” he asks.
Rodney stares at him. “Mostly the import-export business he dreams of opening when this little interlude is over,” he says. “What did you think?”
He knows the turn is dangerously sharp a minute too late and they’re losing altitude. They’re all dead if he can’t level out the helicopter, and it’s sluggish as the bottom drops out and the impact is upon them so that he only knows he’s successful because he’s still alive. He smells fuel, knows the tanks have ruptured in the crash. There’s a lot of yelling.
“John!” Rodney is shaking him. “What is wrong with you?” he asks, and John comes back to himself, looks around, wonders how Rodney crossed the room so quickly. He shrugs Rodney’s hand off his arm.
Coming down in a controlled crash is spectacularly difficult in the mountains of Afghanistan, the visibility near zero, a complete whiteout; and it would be a lot easier if Rodney would shut the fuck up, but he keeps jerking at John’s arm as if he doesn’t know he needs his fucking arm to keep the copter level, it’s the most important thing if they’re going to survive.
He opens his eyes in the infirmary, hears Keller say, “he’s conscious,” and Rodney’s in his face immediately.
“Have you been fooling with something I don’t know about?” Rodney asks. It’s hard to think, to push the memories aside and focus on Rodney’s question. He puts his hand in his pocket, sees the detention hall from his tenth grade school, knows for a second it’s not real, but then he’s lost again. The teacher, he can’t remember his name, is asking him questions, trying to get to know him. It’s annoying. Someone’s digging around in his pockets. He hears Rodney’s triumphant, “Ah ha!”
It’s comfortable here, safe and warm. He lies on his back, staring up at the blackness above, listening to the music. It’s a good day when his mother gets out of bed and dresses, makes breakfast, sits down to play like this. The sound is all around him, her sound.
Someone is nudging him, calling him, but when he looks around he is alone. He closes his eyes. He knows the name of this piece, his mother has taught him all the names. Once she even tried to teach him to play, but she got impatient with his fingers stiff and hesitant on the keys, pushed him aside saying, maybe when you’re older, and went back to playing herself. It’s fine, though. He has no interest in learning to play, he doesn’t need to play as long as she will play for him.
“The device is off, why is he still under its influence?”
“Certain personality types are more susceptible,” a Goa’uld says, and he opens his eyes, back in the infirmary. He has no idea how much time has passed, but there are more people here now. He sees a tall, very old woman leaning over him speaking in a weak, quavery but recognizably Goa’uld voice, telling him to wake up. She’s removing one of those healing devices from her hand, and he realizes she must be a Tokra. Beside her is another cot, and Rodney is lying on it, equipment strapped to his head, but his eyes are open, aware. “John,” he says, “don’t slip away from us again,” but he is slipping away, he can hear the piano still in the background, and he wantsto go. He closes his eyes. He can hear Rodney faintly say, “He’s gone again, put me back under.” And he’s back under, under the piano, safe, hidden.
Something, someone is pulling at him, calling his name, but he shrugs them off and rolls onto his side, concentrating on the music. He feels free.
He doesn’t know how long he lies there listening before he notices the music has changed. It’s no longer Brahms, it’s Liszt, the Hungarian Rhapsody #2. He knows it from recordings; his mother never plays Liszt. The music is transparent, powerful, impossibly perfect. It penetrates him, pulls him out of his cocoon, and he wiggles out from under the piano. He’s not surprised to see Rodney sitting hunched over, fingers flying over the keys, lost in the music. He remembers that Rodney can’t play Liszt, that he never could. He knows he’s not five years old anymore, his mother is long dead, and this isn’t real. At least the piano playing isn’t.
He opens his eyes and closes them quickly against the chaos of too much light and sound. He hears the Tokra’s grating monotone issuing orders, and then Keller’s triumphant, “He’s back.”
“They’re both back,” the Tokra says and that gets him to open his eyes again, looking around for Rodney, who is sitting up and pushing Keller’s hands off, pulling on the strap across his forehead, looking around, settling on him.
“You ok?”
He nods, of course he’s ok, just weak and irritable. He wants out of the infirmary, away from all these people. His mind is clear and he knows he’s really back this time. Amazingly it’s the Tokra who steps forward and grabs him under the arm, though her own arm trembles with age. “Can you stand?” she asks, and he nods again, he can and does. “All right,” she says, and he’s glad it’s her with her impersonal voice, because he feels exposed and he doesn’t want anyone close right now.
But she pulls him over to Rodney, and Rodney wants to grab hold of him to steady him. He backs up and pulls himself together, stands up straight and motions Rodney back. “I’m ok, really,” he says. His voice sounds stiff and unnatural even to himself.
“Both of you, get out of here and get some rest,” the Tokra says, and then to Rodney, “he shouldn’t be alone for a while.”
So Rodney walks beside him back to his quarters, follows him in, and John just wants him to go away. He turns his back and draws in a shaky breath. “ Look, thank you,” he says “for what you did. We’re even again ok? I just need to get some rest and I’ll be myself again.”
But Rodney doesn’t leave, of course. He stands there fidgeting, paces around. “We were lucky to get you out of there,” he says. “The Tokra, Shanterre, she’s been studying a device just like the one you’ve been carrying around in your pocket. Not so brilliant of you, by the way. She didn’t want to come all this way. She’s old, her symbiote is dying, she’s dying, and she didn’t want to travel. But Sam talked her into helping. The device is supposed to help people retrieve memories, not take over your brain like that.”
He nods into the awkward silence, wishes Rodney would leave. He just wants some time to regroup, get some rest. “Listen,” he says.
But Rodney steps closer, leans in all solicitous, says, “John?” in that intimate way that he can’t stand, then reaches out and just lightly touches his wrist, and that’s it, he can’t… his self control is gone and he twists around. He’s always thought going weak in the knees was just an expression, but he’s on the floor, trembling, hands scrabbling at Rodney’s belt and Rodney stumbles back with a shocked look on his face, saying, “What are you….are you crazy?” But John is beyond caring; he’s pushing against Rodney and pulling him in at the same time.
Rodney shoves him off roughly and says, “Look, stop. I can’t do this.” John’s on all fours on the floor, gasping, trying not to sob with frustration.
Rodney has the good sense not to touch him again, backs up and sits on the edge of the bed, saying, “Jesus, all I did was touch your wrist,” which makes him change from crying to laughing, because it’s true and he must be out of his mind or something. “I hate to say this, but we have to talk,” Rodney says, which makes him laugh harder. “You’re really fucked up, you know that?” Rodney says softly, and then, almost maliciously, “You’re one fucked up repressed homosexual moron.” This somehow helps him get a grip on his emotions, and he rocks back to sit on the floor, looking up at Rodney who is staring at him as if he’s a bizarre and unpredictable alien. “Are you going to punch me out?”
“What?” he asks, “No, of course not.”
“Listen, I just can’t do this,” Rodney says, and he nods, because he knows, he knows he fucked up again.
“I know,” he says, and then he starts babbling. “I know you don’t, that you’re not… I don’t usually go around making passes at straight guys, I’m just, I’m tired, it won’t happen again. You just need to give me some space for a bit, I’ll stop-“
Rodney interrupts him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to apologize here, “ he says. “I know I took advantage of your gratitude. But you’re right, I’m a fucking moron. I thought… I actually thought you wanted me as much as I want you, and it wasn’t until later that I realized, when I thought about what you said and I realized you’d let me do anything I wanted, because I didn’t… I thought you wanted… I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to take advantage of your gratitude.”
He runs out of things to say. Rodney is glaring at him. “You want me that much?” He sounds surprised, and John remembers that no matter how many times he gets it wrong, Rodney’s vision of him as some kind of hero never falters.
“What gave it away? The way I totally lost my mind because you touched my fucking wrist? Or the way I came all over you because you let me suck your dick?”
Rodney drops his head into his hands and rubs his temples for a minute, then suddenly reaches out and grabs him, pulling him onto the bed.
How strange and amazing it is to have Rodney shove him down on his back and then crawl up and lean down over him, taking his mouth like it’s his property, kissing him aggressively. He is completely frantic again, arching up against Rodney’s body, moaning, losing himself and trying to touch everywhere. Rodney drops his elbows onto the bed on either side of his head and keeps kissing him hard and bossily. He finally pulls back from the kiss and looks down at John, his face wild. John keeps writhing around trying to get more body contact. Rodney is gasping for breath and saying, “Jesus, John.”
John twists around, pulling off his t-shirt. Rodney’s trying to help him but he’s just getting in the way until John pushes him off and says, “Look, just take your own clothing off, ok?” But then he can’t let Rodney go, he’s gone again, hands going everywhere, his mouth latched onto Rodney, he’s rubbing himself against Rodney’s leg. “You fucking idiot, ‘ Rodney says. “Do you seriously think I get hard-ons for people out of gratitude? That I have sex with people as some kind of payment? That sounds like something you would do, and believe me, I’m nothing like you.” He pushes John off roughly and stands up, taking his own shirt off, his face hard again. “Are you going to freak out and run away?” he asks. “Cause I don’t think I can take it. Well, actually, I can take it, but I don’t want to.”
“Rodney,” he says, “I’m not going to freak out. I wasn’t freaking out before, I thought you didn’t want to... You were pushing me away, in the lab, don’t you remember that? You pushed me away.”
“Idiot,” Rodney says, and it sounds like an endearment. “I was trying to keep you from outing yourself. Because if you get kicked out of the military and thrown out of the galaxy, I’ll have to come with you, and I’d rather not leave here.”
Rodney kisses him carefully, one hand down between his legs, opening his pants, touching his cock, and he slams himself into Rodney’s fist, gasping. “Easy, “ Rodney says, but it’s too late, he’s coming that quickly. Rodney smiles a little smugly, says, “You know you’re a pretty lousy lay.” He’s gasping against Rodney’s chest, and then, “Can you seriously not know I’m in love with you?” Rodney says quietly into the silence.
He twists aside, doing up his pants quickly, because he knows he can’t say a fucking word. He sits up, gets his breathing under control. Rodney is still, the silence is murder. He pulls open the drawer in his bedside table roughly and shoves the little box at Rodney, who flips it open and sucks in his breath. “What? What is this? You’re kidding me, right?” John can’t look at him, because Rodney still sounds closed off and he can’t decipher his tone. He doesn’t say anything else for a minute, just sits looking at the ring and not at John. John feels like he may never move again.
Finally, finally Rodney takes the ring out and looks at it closely, “This is…this looks expensive,” he says, and John has no idea what that means.
“I didn’t pay for it,” he says.
Rodney meets his eye. “Someone gave it to you?”
“Not like that, not, just a friend, a friend passed it on to me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Rodney says, “Really it is.” He clears his throat. There’s still something in his expression, something that John doesn’t like to see there. “It’s too small,” he says, holding the ring out away from himself and John doesn’t know what he’ll do if Rodney tries to hand it back to him. “I know,” Rodney says, and he pulls off his ID chain, the one with the allergy alerts on it, and threads the ring through the chain, puts it back around his neck.
“I want you to fuck me.” John reaches back into the drawer and scrabbles around, pulling out lube and condoms. “Do you want to?”
Rodney snorts, takes John’s hand and places it on his dick, pushes John’s hand down onto himself and arches up at the same time. “Yes, I want,” he says, but his voice is almost impersonal.
He helps John off with his clothing. John feels a little resentful. Rodney’s so controlled and he can’t even take his clothing off without help. He watches Rodney take his own pants off and fold them, put them aside neatly, and John wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, rubbing it in. He takes the lube and spreads it on his fingers. John doesn’t think about who else Rodney has done this with, pushes his curiosity away. He stops thinking about anything when Rodney pushes a finger inside him a little roughly. “This is important to you,” Rodney says calmly. He adds a second finger.
John tries to meet his eye, but Rodney is staring down at his body. “You’re very beautiful,” he says.
John doesn’t understand why that isn’t a good thing. He has a bad feeling. “Is this real?” he asks.
Rodney shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “Does it matter?”
He reaches down and pushes Rodney’s fingers away. “I’m ready,” he says. “Stop fooling around and just do it.”
Rodney doesn’t argue, rubs a small gob of lube over himself and starts pushing into him. John can’t help grunting a little. It hurts. “You’re crushing my leg,” he says. Rodney leans to the side slightly, and he frees his trapped leg, wraps himself around Rodney and tries to pull him in further, but Rodney pushes away, pulls out slightly and then pushes back in again roughly. John takes a breath, waits for his body to adjust, but Rodney doesn’t give him time, pulls out and slams all the way in.
His fingers are digging into the small of Rodney’s back. “You’re mad at me,” he says inanely.
Rodney snorts. “I’m furious,” he says. He pulls back slowly this time, slides back in, holds still. John lets his breath out. He can feel a muscle in Rodney’s thigh twitching.
“The Tokra said not everyone was at risk of getting drawn into that device,” Rodney says. John feels cold suddenly, wishes he hadn’t pushed for an explanation he probably doesn’t want to hear. Rodney is looking down, watching as he fucks John, tortures him in slow motion. He’s getting hard again, and he wonders again how Rodney can be so controlled. It’s almost insulting.
“People with weak social ties. People who have nothing to anchor them in the real world. People who want to go away,” Rodney is saying, and he finally understands.
“No.”
“You did. I felt it. Under the piano. You wanted me to go away so you could stay there.
“I thought…”
Rodney still isn't moving. “You thought what? That you could use your amazing charm and persuasive abilities to make me do something I really didn’t want to do? That’s pretty arrogant.” He’s stroking John’s thigh tenderly. “ I’m a grown man, you know. I’m perfectly responsible for my own actions. So you nudged me a little, I wanted you; maybe I wanted a nudge. I wanted you to help me along to what I wanted to do anyway. That doesn’t make you responsible,” he says. “Who did you do it for? Yourself or me?”
“Both of us,” he says. “I did it for both of us.”
Rodney starts moving again, fucking him slowly, studying his face, but he doesn’t care what his face is giving away, what sounds he makes. “I want to anchor you,” Rodney says.
“You do.”
Rodney moves a little faster. His eyes lose focus and John can feel his balls tightening up. He puts his legs around Rodney’s back and urges him on, forgetting everything in the feeling of Rodney finally letting go and pounding into him like he means it.
Later they sleep. When John wakes up, he slips away quietly, cleans himself up and tries to pull himself together. Rodney is still asleep when he leaves.
The Wraith isn’t typing anymore. He seems to have lost interest in the project, lost interest in everything really. He’s bent forward in his chair. John can see how weak and exhausted he is. He sits and watches him, but nothing changes. There’s no more time to stall off the inevitable, and John closes off the part of himself that would prevent him from acting. He knows it’s his responsibility and there’s no escape from it, no way he can allow himself to pass it off to the SGC.
He’s just getting slowly to his feet when the door opens and Rodney comes in. Before he can ask why the guard let him through he sees that Rodney is escorting the Tokra, who steps toward him and says, “I just wanted to take my leave of you formally, Colonel." He puts on his patient face and gives her a tight nod, but his brain is whirring in dismay at Rodney’s presence.
The Tokra looks startled suddenly and she glances at the Wraith, who has turned around in his chair and is staring at her. Near death or not, she can move surprisingly fast and she has crossed the cell while John is still trying to puzzle out what is happening. The Wraith’s feeding arm comes up and John’s gun is in his hand, he’s moving to get an angle for a clean shot. He doesn’t know why the Tokra has thrown herself into the Wraith’s attack, but she’s made this easy, all the moral dithering gone. He waits for her to arch back in agony so that he can gain space to shoot, but the Tokra does not arch backward in agony, not at all. She leans into the Wraith, and his non-feeding hand comes up around her back like an embrace. They’re pressed so close together there’s no way he can get off any decent kind of shot.
It’s not like any feeding he’s ever seen before. The Tokra is clearly getting younger. The Wraith drops his arms and she steps back slightly. Her hands come up onto his forearms, he’s looking down at her with adoration. Her white hair has become a deep chestnut. She’s standing straight and firm, but the ecstatic look fades to puzzlement and then dismay. “Shartaan” she says, “My symbiote. He’s gone, dead. You killed him.” She shakes her head, looks down at the smooth skin of her hands, inspects them palms up, then palms down. “How did you-”
“He killed the symbiote?” Rodney asks.
The Tokra’s eyes are wide and filled with tears. “Shartaan was ready to leave this life,” she says. “His greatest grief was that his death would also mean mine. But to go like this, giving me this.” She makes no effort to stop her tears from spilling over, they stream down her face.
The Wraith looks at them. “Are there more of these…symbiote… creatures in your galaxy?”
Rodney snorts. “A few.”
“Then I would be happy to go there,” the Wraith says. “Though I sense I will not have to feed again for a long time. These symbiotes are far more satisfying than any human I’ve fed on. My people are going to lose all interest in humans when they find out about this.”
Rodney’s hands are flapping around violently. “Do you know what this means?” he asks.
John does know, he knows. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the wall. It’s not only the Tokra who feels younger and stronger. “I think I’ll call you Todd,” he says.
Author: keefaq
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Completed : Dec. 2007
Disclaimer: Transformative work
Word Count- ~7000 words
Spoilers: Up to and including Miller's Crossing
Betaed with insight and amazing speed by lilac_way
Summary: After Miller’s Crossing, John struggles with his feelings of responsibility for Wallace, Todd, Rodney, and Atlantis in general.
“Whatever a man does, he’s bound to take some risks.”
- Fred Gipson, Old Yeller
It’s after midnight when John finally gives up on sleep. His brain won’t stop replaying the day’s events-Rodney’s willingness to sacrifice himself, his own frantic scramble to lock Rodney out of the lab, his conversation with Wallace. He pulls on his pants and t-shirt, and pads out into the hall barefoot with no clear idea where he’s going.
He knocks on Rodney’s door very softly, conflicted about waking him, but when there is no immediate answer he calls through the door rather loudly, “Rodney. Are you awake?”
He feels the lock click over and palms open the door. The lights are low and Rodney is half sitting up in bed, bare-chested, covers pooled at his waist. “What?”
He doesn’t know what to say. He steps forward and sits down at the foot of the bed, hands in his lap.
“What’s wrong?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just…couldn’t sleep.” He looks down at his hands, then back at Rodney who continues to sit silently looking back at him. After a minute he shifts over and lifts the covers, making a little inviting motion with his hand. John pulls his legs up onto the bed and slides under the covers, putting his head tentatively against Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney seems all right with that. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t pull away either, so John wraps his arm across Rodney’s chest and relaxes into sleep at last.
****
It’s still dark when he wakes up and glances at the clock. 5:45. He always wakes up at the same time, even on a Saturday morning like this one when he’s off duty. He gets up quietly so as not to disturb Rodney and goes into the bathroom to relieve himself, but when he comes out Rodney is awake and watching him cross back to the bed. He lies down again and nestles his head onto Rodney's shoulder, replacing his arm carefully, and Rodney continues to lie passively, moving neither away nor closer.
After a few minutes John shifts his head onto Rodney’s stomach, and Rodney doesn’t move or make a sound, so that seems to be ok, too. He rests one hand on the inside of Rodney’s leg near his knee. Rodney is silent and still, but the muscle in his leg feels relaxed and John wants... just wants...so much. He is afraid to go any further and, of course he can’t think of a thing to say, and why is Rodney not talking anyway? He props himself up slightly so he can see. Rodney is just lying there on his back, eyes closed, looking relaxed and comfortable. He doesn’t know what to make of that. “Rodney?” and thank god his voice sounds normal, if a bit uncertain.
Rodney opens his eyes and lifts his head to look down at him for a moment before dropping back onto his pillow. His voice is pitched low when he finally speaks. “Whatever, John. Anything you want.”
He lifts his hips slightly to help when John pulls his boxers down and off. John brings his mouth down and feels Rodney getting hard as he begins to suck. He opens his pants to relieve the tremendous pressure on his own cock. Rodney is silent again but his hand comes down to stroke his hair and he’s thrusting up against John’s mouth rough and perfect.
He starts squeezing his own cock in rhythm. It only takes a few strokes and he’s coming all over Rodney’s leg. Rodney whimpers and thrusts harder. He feels the warm thickness of come against the back of his mouth then and swallows slowly, savoring the aftershocks as Rodney slows and goes still again, breathing heavily. He lets go and lays his head back on Rodney’s stomach, luxuriating in the feel of Rodney gently stroking his hair.
When he wakes again it’s almost nine. He can hear the shower running. He goes into the bathroom to relieve himself again, then stands around wondering what to do. He doesn’t have his toothbrush or clean clothes. Rodney is la la laing the theme from Brahms Hungarian Dance #5 and he finds himself softly humming along until Rodney snaps the shower door open and motions him in. Rodney’s hair is wet and the shampoo isn’t completely rinsed out, suds trailing down one side of his face, and John suddenly realizes they haven’t even kissed, and he wants to know if Rodney would be weird about kissing, so he steps under the water and leans in to find out.
Rodney braces himself against the back wall of the shower and brings both of his hands to the back of John’s neck, and it isn’t weird at all. It’s wonderful, until Rodney suddenly pulls back, grabs the shampoo and spritzes it onto John’s hair, pushing him under the water and massaging his head, saying, “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Which is weird, but then Rodney being weird is not unfamiliar and the way he is being pushed around is oddly comforting.
He pulls Rodney under the spray with him. “You’ve got soap in your hair,” he says, rinsing it out, and then, “My mother used to play that piece all the time.”
“Hmm? Oh, the Brahms? I’ve always liked it better than the Liszt Rhapsodies myself. For one thing, it’s playable. You never told me your mother played the piano.”
“You never told me you couldn’t play Liszt.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t play …” Then, “Well, ok, I couldn’t. But Liszt was a fucking crazy man.”
He has to put his sweat pants and t-shirt from the night before back on. “Listen, I want to go get some clean clothes-”
“Right, sure." Rodney pulls him back as he’s about to leave. “Wait.” He fumbles around in a drawer, pulling out a life signs detector he apparently keeps there. “Ok, coast is clear,” but he stops John from leaving again.
“What? Oh-” Kissing again, which, ok, Rodney apparently doesn’t mind that he hasn’t brushed his teeth.
By the time he gets to the mess hall Rodney has already gotten two trays and enough food for three people. He doesn’t mind putting his back to the room when he’s across from Rodney because Rodney’s panic meter is set so low that he knows he’ll see any problem on Rodney’s face as fast as he could discern it by scanning the area himself. So he sits down and grabs one of the three muffins still on the trays. Rodney’s finishing up the fourth one. “I’ve got a few things I want to look into in the lab. What are you planning on doing today?” Rodney asks through a mouthful of muffin.
“It’s my day off. I was planning on doing nothing.”
“Hm. Want to hang out getting in my way in the lab for awhile?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” Rodney’s knee brushes against his and he has a warm feeling when he doesn’t have to pull away. He leans back in his chair and lets Rodney’s chatter wash over him, something about low power levels in some newly explored part of the city and what Radek has been trying to do about it. When they finish eating he follows down to the lab. It’s quiet, mostly empty, just Radek and one other scientist he doesn't recognize. When Rodney pauses in the doorway he bumps into him.
Radek looks up. “Ah, at last. Where have you been? I have sent you many files. Sit and look.” Rodney sits down and begins looking at one of the laptops. John pulls up a chair next to him so as to be able to get in his way as much as possible.
Rodney shoots him a look he doesn’t get. “What?” earns him an eyeroll.
When Radek walks over to the other side of the room Rodney whispers, “Jesus, get a grip. What happened to your famous poker face? And stop being so close everywhere I go. You’re practically wearing the t-shirt saying ‘I slept with genius.’ Radek isn’t a complete idiot about that kind of stuff, you know.”
He can feel his face heating up and he slides his chair back a bit. “Sorry.” He looks around for something to distract himself with. There’s a small round Ancient looking thing on the desk. “What’s this?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. Radek found it a couple of days ago. I tried to activate it, but all it did was make my hand tingle a little. Go ahead, see if you can get anything out of it. It was lying out loose in one of the empty bedrooms, so I doubt if it’s dangerous. ”
John picks it up and examines it more closely. It’s made of some wood-like material, highly polished. His hand tingles as Rodney had said, but nothing else seems to happen.
He looks back at Rodney’s laptop, trying not to stare at his hands or think about the way they had stroked through his hair. And now he’s annoying Rodney. Is Rodney already having second thoughts? It suddenly and painfully occurs to him that Rodney had been filled with gratitude when he’d returned from earth, feeling that John had done so much for him…but he’d invited John to trail along to the lab, he wouldn’t…he tries to wrench his thoughts into a different slot.
The first time ever he’d been on a plane is the only time he’d seen his maternal grandmother. They’d flown to New York for his Uncle’s funeral. His mother hated flying, fortifying herself for the ordeal with several stiff drinks, then thankfully stopped complaining and slept most of the way. He’d been awake, watching everything he could see out the window. He hadn’t been afraid at all.
But it is his grandmother he’s remembering, long wide black skirt, turning to speak in her native Italian to some of the older relatives, the house filled with relatives, all these people he didn’t know, had never known, wouldn’t know. His mother wanders around carrying a cup of coffee smelling strongly of licorice, muttering and gesturing to herself.
He sees his grandmother’s face, tight, pinched with disapproval, as she pulls him to her. “Let me see the boy,” the overwhelming smell of some cheap perfume as she grabs his chin and turns it toward her, then shoves him roughly away with a scornful laugh, “He looks just like his father.” He has no idea what he’s done, but the sense of wrongness is sharp and acrid, leaving him confused and uncertain.
“Look,” Rodney says, “It’s not that I’m not flattered about the whole staring thing, because really, I really am, but nonetheless you need to stop it right now.”
He forces his eyes down onto the lab table. “I think I’ll just, I’ve got some things I need to do, in my office…”
“That would be good.”
He scrambles out of the chair and away from the whole situation. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s got a bad feeling that he is fucking everything up. He doesn’t have any idea how to deal with Rodney. He knows how to take care of people, sure, to protect them, help them out, tell them what to do and make them like it. He’s tried to make his relationship with Rodney like that, but Rodney keeps helping him out, saving his ass and making him feel all needy and dependent and that is not, that is never going to work. He goes looking for someone to work out with, someone who can get him out of the very unpleasant space in his head. Rummaging around in there never does him any good at all.
But his mind keeps drifting to places he doesn’t want to go. Anything you want, Rodney had said. Rodney had been passive, letting him do whatever he wanted. There’d been nothing to indicate what Rodney wanted. Clearly Rodney doesn’t mind getting his dick sucked, but there is no reason to think he wants John in particular to do it.
He has a sudden flash of heat in his chest when he thinks about Rodney giving him permission to do anything he wanted, Rodney relaxed, stroking his head, thanking him. It makes him feel sick with shame. What was he thinking?
He spends the whole day trying to avoid Rodney and ruminating on what’s happened, what he’s done. He has to put it right. He can’t have Rodney feeling obligated to…it’s ridiculous. He skips supper, can’t think about eating. He finally decides to go down to the lab to try to smooth things over, thinks Rodney will want that, too. They’re friends, they can get past this. He’s made a mistake, he knows Rodney isn’t mad or anything, it’s not like he forced Rodney to…they just have to get past this.
Rodney gives him an appraising look when he comes in, which is a relief. Rodney clearly is going to let him be in charge of this. “How’s it going?” he asks, and his voice is just right, giving nothing away.
Rodney glances at him, a sharp glance, then looks back at his laptop. “It’s going fine,” he says, and his voice is bland, matching John’s tone exactly.
John lets out a breath. Rodney's making it easy. “You should call it a night soon, Rodney, he says, then “I’ll see you at breakfast, ok?”
Rodney nods, doesn’t look up again, and he escapes, relieved to get to his own room, his own bed. But he can’t sleep again so he gets up and reaches underneath, pulling out a small locked box. There are only a few things inside. He pushes aside the picture of his mother, pulls out a little box and opens it, looking at the heavy old silver ring with some sort of knotwork engraved on the top. He caresses the ring with his finger, then closes the box slowly and carefully.
He always sleeps in his boxers but for some reason tonight, he feels uncomfortable, as if an emergency is looming, and he doesn’t like to feel unprepared. He pulls his pants back on, then lies down again, feeling calmer. He wonders what McKay is thinking or doing, tells himself firmly that it will be okay. He knows Rodney isn’t angry or upset with him. What he did was wrong, yes, he took advantage of Rodney’s gratitude, and it’s a bit humiliating, but in another way he’s glad someone knows how he feels, that Rodney knows how he feels.
John looks around the restaurant. It isn’t strictly a gay establishment, but a lot of the customers are openly, some even stereotypically, gay. He waits for Steve to explain why he called. He’s never liked Steve that much, has nothing in common with the guy, has never understood what Cal saw in him; but he’s always polite. After Cal died, he hadn’t expected to ever see Steve again, so he was surprised when Steve called and asked to meet him for lunch. He was going to make an excuse to avoid him, until Steve told him Cal had left something for him.
He’s astonished when Steve pulls out the ring box, flips it open and holds it out to him.
“I can’t take that,” he says. “That’s the ring you gave him. You should bury it with him, or keep it yourself.”
“I don’t want it anymore,” Steve says. “We talked it over before he died. He wanted you to have it. Said he hoped you’d find someone you’d want to give it to someday.”
John hardly ever sleeps well, and it’s gotten worse lately. He wakes up exhausted and drags himself out of bed. He doesn’t want to face the day, and he takes a long time in the bathroom pulling himself together and turning off his thoughts. He pulls out clean clothing, transfers the contents of his pockets from yesterday’s pants into his new ones and grabs his laptop on his way out the door.
He skips breakfast.
****
He hasn’t named the Wraith. Won’t name him. The guards know that he visits frequently and sometimes takes him out of the cell to give him a chance to stretch his legs, and he makes sure they see he doesn’t bind his hands. He wants to establish a routine over a reasonable period of time while he tries to figure out what the fuck they’re going to do with him.
When he approaches the cell, he can see the Wraith tapping away at the laptop Rodney has given him. It’s connected to one of Rodney’s own computers, which has only a single folder they share, allowing the Wraith to work on the replicator coding with Rodney from the comfort of his homey little cell. Rodney has fixed up some special keyboard at the wraith’s suggestion, to make it fit his hands more naturally. The Wraith looks up and gives him a little nod. His face is drawn. John can see he’s growing weaker. He sits outside the cell, watching the Wraith work and thinking, but his thoughts don’t go anywhere useful.
He’s relieved to see the guards are the same ones who brought the Wraith through the gate. They won’t cause any trouble. They’re Pegasus oriented, their loyalty is to him. When he makes up a reason for them to turn their backs to the room, stresses the need for them to concentrate elsewhere, they don’t question him. He can feel Wallace’s commitment wavering. He uses all his calm certitude to counterbalance Wallace’s second thoughts, swallowing his distaste for touching so that he can put a hand to the small of Wallace’s back, steering him gently but firmly over to the Wraith, who is sitting propped up against the wall.
He guides Wallace to kneel, talking softly and reassuringly to him as if he is a small child. Wallace’s arm is clean, masculine, shaking. He steadies him, urges him forward. The Wraith’s feeding arm comes up and latches on to Wallace, who seems to have a sudden change of heart, trying to stagger back to his feet, but John reaches to the small of his back again, holding him in place, steadying him as the Wraith feeds. He hits his radio, calls for a medical team; it’s over that quickly. The guards haven’t seen a thing.
He’s startled by the voice in his ear. “Colonel Sheppard?”
The Wraith has stopped typing, has turned around and is staring at him. It takes him a minute to pull himself together. He’s usually able to push his memories away, but they seem to be assaulting him now. He speaks into his radio. “Yes, what is it?”
“You said we should notify you if Dr. McKay-um, Dr. McKay is out here sir, demanding to be let in.” he can hear Rodney’s sarcastic voice, though the words are muffled.
“It’s fine, let him in,” he says, shaking his head to try to clear his thoughts, which doesn’t help at all.
McKay barrels into the room, “What the fuck are you doing down here?” His voice feels loud in John’s head.
He pulls him to the side of the room away from the cell, even though the Wraith has turned back to his laptop and begun typing again. “I’m trying to get information out of our guest. Why are you here?”
“I’m checking out what you think you’re doing. What’s with telling the guards not to let me in here?”
“You have absolutely no reason to be here that I can think of.”
Rodney crosses his arms and huffs. “The guy saved my sister’s life.”
“He’s not a guy,” John says, against a faster tapping of the laptop keys. “ He’s an alien enemy who enjoys eating humans.”
Rodney sighs, runs his hand through his hair, gives John a curious look. John tries not to think about Rodney’s hands stroking his hair. “There must be something we can do.”
He can feel his face getting hard. “The Wraith is not your problem. It’s never been your problem,” he says. “Go back to work.” He turns away dismissively.
Rodney shoots him an intense look, but he doesn’t leave. “I just want to ask him if there’s any way we can…if there’s anything we can do.”
“Which would be pointless because we have no way of knowing when he’s lying.”
“You’re not planning something stupid are you?”
He doesn’t answer, raises an eyebrow.
“I know you wouldn’t…it wouldn’t make any sense to…”
He sighs. “I wouldn’t sacrifice myself to save him, Rodney. That’s ridiculous.”
“I know that,” Rodney says, studying him for a moment. “You wouldn’t have some Old Yeller sort of notion here, right?”
He laughs, makes it scornful. “Where do you get these ideas?” He can’t tell if Rodney believes him.
Rodney looks away first. “John,” he says, and he has a cold moment where he thinks Rodney is going to talk about them, but then, “The IOA has been talking to Sam. They want him back on earth, they want to study him.”
He’s got complete control of his face, he knows there’s nothing showing, gives a little nod, turns away. “That’s it then,” he says. Problem solved.
Rodney looks surprised, starts to say something and changes his mind. He starts toward the door, pauses and turns around. “Are you ok?” he asks.
He has to meet Rodney’s eyes of course. He can’t run around avoiding him as if it’s his fault. “I’m fine, he says, voice steady as always. He should leave it there, but he doesn’t. He tries for casual. “What do you and the Wraith talk about?” he asks.
Rodney stares at him. “Mostly the import-export business he dreams of opening when this little interlude is over,” he says. “What did you think?”
He knows the turn is dangerously sharp a minute too late and they’re losing altitude. They’re all dead if he can’t level out the helicopter, and it’s sluggish as the bottom drops out and the impact is upon them so that he only knows he’s successful because he’s still alive. He smells fuel, knows the tanks have ruptured in the crash. There’s a lot of yelling.
“John!” Rodney is shaking him. “What is wrong with you?” he asks, and John comes back to himself, looks around, wonders how Rodney crossed the room so quickly. He shrugs Rodney’s hand off his arm.
Coming down in a controlled crash is spectacularly difficult in the mountains of Afghanistan, the visibility near zero, a complete whiteout; and it would be a lot easier if Rodney would shut the fuck up, but he keeps jerking at John’s arm as if he doesn’t know he needs his fucking arm to keep the copter level, it’s the most important thing if they’re going to survive.
He opens his eyes in the infirmary, hears Keller say, “he’s conscious,” and Rodney’s in his face immediately.
“Have you been fooling with something I don’t know about?” Rodney asks. It’s hard to think, to push the memories aside and focus on Rodney’s question. He puts his hand in his pocket, sees the detention hall from his tenth grade school, knows for a second it’s not real, but then he’s lost again. The teacher, he can’t remember his name, is asking him questions, trying to get to know him. It’s annoying. Someone’s digging around in his pockets. He hears Rodney’s triumphant, “Ah ha!”
It’s comfortable here, safe and warm. He lies on his back, staring up at the blackness above, listening to the music. It’s a good day when his mother gets out of bed and dresses, makes breakfast, sits down to play like this. The sound is all around him, her sound.
Someone is nudging him, calling him, but when he looks around he is alone. He closes his eyes. He knows the name of this piece, his mother has taught him all the names. Once she even tried to teach him to play, but she got impatient with his fingers stiff and hesitant on the keys, pushed him aside saying, maybe when you’re older, and went back to playing herself. It’s fine, though. He has no interest in learning to play, he doesn’t need to play as long as she will play for him.
“The device is off, why is he still under its influence?”
“Certain personality types are more susceptible,” a Goa’uld says, and he opens his eyes, back in the infirmary. He has no idea how much time has passed, but there are more people here now. He sees a tall, very old woman leaning over him speaking in a weak, quavery but recognizably Goa’uld voice, telling him to wake up. She’s removing one of those healing devices from her hand, and he realizes she must be a Tokra. Beside her is another cot, and Rodney is lying on it, equipment strapped to his head, but his eyes are open, aware. “John,” he says, “don’t slip away from us again,” but he is slipping away, he can hear the piano still in the background, and he wantsto go. He closes his eyes. He can hear Rodney faintly say, “He’s gone again, put me back under.” And he’s back under, under the piano, safe, hidden.
Something, someone is pulling at him, calling his name, but he shrugs them off and rolls onto his side, concentrating on the music. He feels free.
He doesn’t know how long he lies there listening before he notices the music has changed. It’s no longer Brahms, it’s Liszt, the Hungarian Rhapsody #2. He knows it from recordings; his mother never plays Liszt. The music is transparent, powerful, impossibly perfect. It penetrates him, pulls him out of his cocoon, and he wiggles out from under the piano. He’s not surprised to see Rodney sitting hunched over, fingers flying over the keys, lost in the music. He remembers that Rodney can’t play Liszt, that he never could. He knows he’s not five years old anymore, his mother is long dead, and this isn’t real. At least the piano playing isn’t.
He opens his eyes and closes them quickly against the chaos of too much light and sound. He hears the Tokra’s grating monotone issuing orders, and then Keller’s triumphant, “He’s back.”
“They’re both back,” the Tokra says and that gets him to open his eyes again, looking around for Rodney, who is sitting up and pushing Keller’s hands off, pulling on the strap across his forehead, looking around, settling on him.
“You ok?”
He nods, of course he’s ok, just weak and irritable. He wants out of the infirmary, away from all these people. His mind is clear and he knows he’s really back this time. Amazingly it’s the Tokra who steps forward and grabs him under the arm, though her own arm trembles with age. “Can you stand?” she asks, and he nods again, he can and does. “All right,” she says, and he’s glad it’s her with her impersonal voice, because he feels exposed and he doesn’t want anyone close right now.
But she pulls him over to Rodney, and Rodney wants to grab hold of him to steady him. He backs up and pulls himself together, stands up straight and motions Rodney back. “I’m ok, really,” he says. His voice sounds stiff and unnatural even to himself.
“Both of you, get out of here and get some rest,” the Tokra says, and then to Rodney, “he shouldn’t be alone for a while.”
So Rodney walks beside him back to his quarters, follows him in, and John just wants him to go away. He turns his back and draws in a shaky breath. “ Look, thank you,” he says “for what you did. We’re even again ok? I just need to get some rest and I’ll be myself again.”
But Rodney doesn’t leave, of course. He stands there fidgeting, paces around. “We were lucky to get you out of there,” he says. “The Tokra, Shanterre, she’s been studying a device just like the one you’ve been carrying around in your pocket. Not so brilliant of you, by the way. She didn’t want to come all this way. She’s old, her symbiote is dying, she’s dying, and she didn’t want to travel. But Sam talked her into helping. The device is supposed to help people retrieve memories, not take over your brain like that.”
He nods into the awkward silence, wishes Rodney would leave. He just wants some time to regroup, get some rest. “Listen,” he says.
But Rodney steps closer, leans in all solicitous, says, “John?” in that intimate way that he can’t stand, then reaches out and just lightly touches his wrist, and that’s it, he can’t… his self control is gone and he twists around. He’s always thought going weak in the knees was just an expression, but he’s on the floor, trembling, hands scrabbling at Rodney’s belt and Rodney stumbles back with a shocked look on his face, saying, “What are you….are you crazy?” But John is beyond caring; he’s pushing against Rodney and pulling him in at the same time.
Rodney shoves him off roughly and says, “Look, stop. I can’t do this.” John’s on all fours on the floor, gasping, trying not to sob with frustration.
Rodney has the good sense not to touch him again, backs up and sits on the edge of the bed, saying, “Jesus, all I did was touch your wrist,” which makes him change from crying to laughing, because it’s true and he must be out of his mind or something. “I hate to say this, but we have to talk,” Rodney says, which makes him laugh harder. “You’re really fucked up, you know that?” Rodney says softly, and then, almost maliciously, “You’re one fucked up repressed homosexual moron.” This somehow helps him get a grip on his emotions, and he rocks back to sit on the floor, looking up at Rodney who is staring at him as if he’s a bizarre and unpredictable alien. “Are you going to punch me out?”
“What?” he asks, “No, of course not.”
“Listen, I just can’t do this,” Rodney says, and he nods, because he knows, he knows he fucked up again.
“I know,” he says, and then he starts babbling. “I know you don’t, that you’re not… I don’t usually go around making passes at straight guys, I’m just, I’m tired, it won’t happen again. You just need to give me some space for a bit, I’ll stop-“
Rodney interrupts him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to apologize here, “ he says. “I know I took advantage of your gratitude. But you’re right, I’m a fucking moron. I thought… I actually thought you wanted me as much as I want you, and it wasn’t until later that I realized, when I thought about what you said and I realized you’d let me do anything I wanted, because I didn’t… I thought you wanted… I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to take advantage of your gratitude.”
He runs out of things to say. Rodney is glaring at him. “You want me that much?” He sounds surprised, and John remembers that no matter how many times he gets it wrong, Rodney’s vision of him as some kind of hero never falters.
“What gave it away? The way I totally lost my mind because you touched my fucking wrist? Or the way I came all over you because you let me suck your dick?”
Rodney drops his head into his hands and rubs his temples for a minute, then suddenly reaches out and grabs him, pulling him onto the bed.
How strange and amazing it is to have Rodney shove him down on his back and then crawl up and lean down over him, taking his mouth like it’s his property, kissing him aggressively. He is completely frantic again, arching up against Rodney’s body, moaning, losing himself and trying to touch everywhere. Rodney drops his elbows onto the bed on either side of his head and keeps kissing him hard and bossily. He finally pulls back from the kiss and looks down at John, his face wild. John keeps writhing around trying to get more body contact. Rodney is gasping for breath and saying, “Jesus, John.”
John twists around, pulling off his t-shirt. Rodney’s trying to help him but he’s just getting in the way until John pushes him off and says, “Look, just take your own clothing off, ok?” But then he can’t let Rodney go, he’s gone again, hands going everywhere, his mouth latched onto Rodney, he’s rubbing himself against Rodney’s leg. “You fucking idiot, ‘ Rodney says. “Do you seriously think I get hard-ons for people out of gratitude? That I have sex with people as some kind of payment? That sounds like something you would do, and believe me, I’m nothing like you.” He pushes John off roughly and stands up, taking his own shirt off, his face hard again. “Are you going to freak out and run away?” he asks. “Cause I don’t think I can take it. Well, actually, I can take it, but I don’t want to.”
“Rodney,” he says, “I’m not going to freak out. I wasn’t freaking out before, I thought you didn’t want to... You were pushing me away, in the lab, don’t you remember that? You pushed me away.”
“Idiot,” Rodney says, and it sounds like an endearment. “I was trying to keep you from outing yourself. Because if you get kicked out of the military and thrown out of the galaxy, I’ll have to come with you, and I’d rather not leave here.”
Rodney kisses him carefully, one hand down between his legs, opening his pants, touching his cock, and he slams himself into Rodney’s fist, gasping. “Easy, “ Rodney says, but it’s too late, he’s coming that quickly. Rodney smiles a little smugly, says, “You know you’re a pretty lousy lay.” He’s gasping against Rodney’s chest, and then, “Can you seriously not know I’m in love with you?” Rodney says quietly into the silence.
He twists aside, doing up his pants quickly, because he knows he can’t say a fucking word. He sits up, gets his breathing under control. Rodney is still, the silence is murder. He pulls open the drawer in his bedside table roughly and shoves the little box at Rodney, who flips it open and sucks in his breath. “What? What is this? You’re kidding me, right?” John can’t look at him, because Rodney still sounds closed off and he can’t decipher his tone. He doesn’t say anything else for a minute, just sits looking at the ring and not at John. John feels like he may never move again.
Finally, finally Rodney takes the ring out and looks at it closely, “This is…this looks expensive,” he says, and John has no idea what that means.
“I didn’t pay for it,” he says.
Rodney meets his eye. “Someone gave it to you?”
“Not like that, not, just a friend, a friend passed it on to me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Rodney says, “Really it is.” He clears his throat. There’s still something in his expression, something that John doesn’t like to see there. “It’s too small,” he says, holding the ring out away from himself and John doesn’t know what he’ll do if Rodney tries to hand it back to him. “I know,” Rodney says, and he pulls off his ID chain, the one with the allergy alerts on it, and threads the ring through the chain, puts it back around his neck.
“I want you to fuck me.” John reaches back into the drawer and scrabbles around, pulling out lube and condoms. “Do you want to?”
Rodney snorts, takes John’s hand and places it on his dick, pushes John’s hand down onto himself and arches up at the same time. “Yes, I want,” he says, but his voice is almost impersonal.
He helps John off with his clothing. John feels a little resentful. Rodney’s so controlled and he can’t even take his clothing off without help. He watches Rodney take his own pants off and fold them, put them aside neatly, and John wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, rubbing it in. He takes the lube and spreads it on his fingers. John doesn’t think about who else Rodney has done this with, pushes his curiosity away. He stops thinking about anything when Rodney pushes a finger inside him a little roughly. “This is important to you,” Rodney says calmly. He adds a second finger.
John tries to meet his eye, but Rodney is staring down at his body. “You’re very beautiful,” he says.
John doesn’t understand why that isn’t a good thing. He has a bad feeling. “Is this real?” he asks.
Rodney shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “Does it matter?”
He reaches down and pushes Rodney’s fingers away. “I’m ready,” he says. “Stop fooling around and just do it.”
Rodney doesn’t argue, rubs a small gob of lube over himself and starts pushing into him. John can’t help grunting a little. It hurts. “You’re crushing my leg,” he says. Rodney leans to the side slightly, and he frees his trapped leg, wraps himself around Rodney and tries to pull him in further, but Rodney pushes away, pulls out slightly and then pushes back in again roughly. John takes a breath, waits for his body to adjust, but Rodney doesn’t give him time, pulls out and slams all the way in.
His fingers are digging into the small of Rodney’s back. “You’re mad at me,” he says inanely.
Rodney snorts. “I’m furious,” he says. He pulls back slowly this time, slides back in, holds still. John lets his breath out. He can feel a muscle in Rodney’s thigh twitching.
“The Tokra said not everyone was at risk of getting drawn into that device,” Rodney says. John feels cold suddenly, wishes he hadn’t pushed for an explanation he probably doesn’t want to hear. Rodney is looking down, watching as he fucks John, tortures him in slow motion. He’s getting hard again, and he wonders again how Rodney can be so controlled. It’s almost insulting.
“People with weak social ties. People who have nothing to anchor them in the real world. People who want to go away,” Rodney is saying, and he finally understands.
“No.”
“You did. I felt it. Under the piano. You wanted me to go away so you could stay there.
“I thought…”
Rodney still isn't moving. “You thought what? That you could use your amazing charm and persuasive abilities to make me do something I really didn’t want to do? That’s pretty arrogant.” He’s stroking John’s thigh tenderly. “ I’m a grown man, you know. I’m perfectly responsible for my own actions. So you nudged me a little, I wanted you; maybe I wanted a nudge. I wanted you to help me along to what I wanted to do anyway. That doesn’t make you responsible,” he says. “Who did you do it for? Yourself or me?”
“Both of us,” he says. “I did it for both of us.”
Rodney starts moving again, fucking him slowly, studying his face, but he doesn’t care what his face is giving away, what sounds he makes. “I want to anchor you,” Rodney says.
“You do.”
Rodney moves a little faster. His eyes lose focus and John can feel his balls tightening up. He puts his legs around Rodney’s back and urges him on, forgetting everything in the feeling of Rodney finally letting go and pounding into him like he means it.
Later they sleep. When John wakes up, he slips away quietly, cleans himself up and tries to pull himself together. Rodney is still asleep when he leaves.
The Wraith isn’t typing anymore. He seems to have lost interest in the project, lost interest in everything really. He’s bent forward in his chair. John can see how weak and exhausted he is. He sits and watches him, but nothing changes. There’s no more time to stall off the inevitable, and John closes off the part of himself that would prevent him from acting. He knows it’s his responsibility and there’s no escape from it, no way he can allow himself to pass it off to the SGC.
He’s just getting slowly to his feet when the door opens and Rodney comes in. Before he can ask why the guard let him through he sees that Rodney is escorting the Tokra, who steps toward him and says, “I just wanted to take my leave of you formally, Colonel." He puts on his patient face and gives her a tight nod, but his brain is whirring in dismay at Rodney’s presence.
The Tokra looks startled suddenly and she glances at the Wraith, who has turned around in his chair and is staring at her. Near death or not, she can move surprisingly fast and she has crossed the cell while John is still trying to puzzle out what is happening. The Wraith’s feeding arm comes up and John’s gun is in his hand, he’s moving to get an angle for a clean shot. He doesn’t know why the Tokra has thrown herself into the Wraith’s attack, but she’s made this easy, all the moral dithering gone. He waits for her to arch back in agony so that he can gain space to shoot, but the Tokra does not arch backward in agony, not at all. She leans into the Wraith, and his non-feeding hand comes up around her back like an embrace. They’re pressed so close together there’s no way he can get off any decent kind of shot.
It’s not like any feeding he’s ever seen before. The Tokra is clearly getting younger. The Wraith drops his arms and she steps back slightly. Her hands come up onto his forearms, he’s looking down at her with adoration. Her white hair has become a deep chestnut. She’s standing straight and firm, but the ecstatic look fades to puzzlement and then dismay. “Shartaan” she says, “My symbiote. He’s gone, dead. You killed him.” She shakes her head, looks down at the smooth skin of her hands, inspects them palms up, then palms down. “How did you-”
“He killed the symbiote?” Rodney asks.
The Tokra’s eyes are wide and filled with tears. “Shartaan was ready to leave this life,” she says. “His greatest grief was that his death would also mean mine. But to go like this, giving me this.” She makes no effort to stop her tears from spilling over, they stream down her face.
The Wraith looks at them. “Are there more of these…symbiote… creatures in your galaxy?”
Rodney snorts. “A few.”
“Then I would be happy to go there,” the Wraith says. “Though I sense I will not have to feed again for a long time. These symbiotes are far more satisfying than any human I’ve fed on. My people are going to lose all interest in humans when they find out about this.”
Rodney’s hands are flapping around violently. “Do you know what this means?” he asks.
John does know, he knows. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the wall. It’s not only the Tokra who feels younger and stronger. “I think I’ll call you Todd,” he says.