Drabble marathon: #2.
#2. More Always Sleep With My Guns, because C. said, And I would like the morning after. Follows directly on the heels of #1; I suspect there may have been conspiring. SGA AU, McKay/Sheppard, safe for work.
John and sleep don't have more than a passing acquaintance most nights, but whether it's the near-death exhaustion or the post-sex afterglow or the soft rise and fall of Rodney's back against his chest, he slides straight under like someone's opened a trap door up beneath him. It's blank, silent bliss, without a single dream.
Up until the moment someone starts screaming on the other side of the wall.
It happens so fast that John doesn't even catch the shift; one second, unconsciousness, the next, he's on his side with the Glock aimed dead center at the dim rectangle of the doorway, using his shoulders to block Rodney, cramming him back against the wall. The pounding of his own heart lends a rapid backbeat to the oscillating wail bleeding through from the unit behind them, but the curtained windows are bulletproof and John reinforced the sheetrock himself -- if someone's coming for Rodney, they're going to have to come through the door.
"Oh god, oh god, oh--" Rodney chants against John's neck, then cuts himself off before John has to. John strains his ears for any sound to indicate that his unit's been compromised, catching nothing -- no movement, no alarm, no change in the air flow to indicate that the doors have been opened. Just that muffled voice, rising and falling, and the steady background hiss of -- of ...
"Is that the shower?" Rodney hisses, incredulous. John rolls to a sitting position to stare at the wall, then thumbs the safety on and flops back onto his pillow, arm draped over his eyes.
"Jesus fucking christ," he says.
Rodney makes an infuriated noise and pushes John's arm back off his face, staring down at him in betrayal and accusation. "Oh my god, is this a PTSD thing? Do you wake up like that every morning? Am I going to wake up like that every morning?"
"Okay, first," John says, and reaches back over his head to slide the gun back into the holster strapped to the bed frame, "you're paying me for my vigilance here, so let's maybe not go knocking it, and second, no, because none of my real neighbors start singing in the shower at--" he fumbles for the clock on the nightstand-- "jeez, seven a.m. in the morning."
Rodney drops back onto one elbow, considering this. His hair's flattened into a strange part on one side, and his eyes are still puffy from sleep. "What, you never noticed the next townhouse over is rented to some would-be American Idol?" he demands, but there's some sheepishness watering down the ire, like the wrath autopilot is shutting down as his brain comes online.
John scrubs a hand over the bristling ends of his own hair, then squints and rubs sleep out of the corner of his eye. "I haven't slept here since before I went freelance, I didn't ..." On the other side of the wall, the virtuoso hoots through a long, warbling run, and John's mouth snaps shut as his mind filters out the hook.
Above him, Rodney goes stiff. "Holy shit," he asks in a whisper, "is he singing--"
"That Whitney Houston song?" John supplies, appalled, then hears himself follow with, "Wait, that's a guy?"
Rodney blinks; his lip twitches. A small, choked noise forces its way out of his throat and then they both just lose it completely. Rodney crams his face into the crook of John's neck, wheezing out a demented, high-pitched cackle, and John waves purposelessly in the air above his face as he tries to stop snorting. Under them, the crappy bed's squeaking madly. They eventually run out of breath and get quiet, and the guy next door picks that moment to really let fly with the key change, and they're off again, and in the middle of the snickering fit John rolls over and kisses him, feeling Rodney's chest jump and swell with a deep breath as he slides a hand over John's bare shoulders, one knee sliding in between John's thighs.
"Um, good morning," Rodney mumbles against John's mouth, and John pulls back, feeling weirdly happy and pretty stupid for it.
"Breakfast?" He tips his head toward the door in a manner he hopes is laid-back. "There's still that frozen pizza."
"Hmm," Rodney says, considering. He sweeps a hand down the length of John's spine. John gives in and lets his back curve into the touch, and Rodney's eyes visibly lose focus. "Maybe not just yet," he says, voice a little ragged. "It's not as though it'll get cold if we wait."
Grinning, John bends his neck to run his lips along the stubbled length of Rodney's throat. "Good point," he murmurs. "'Sides, it'd be a shame to waste the mood music."
John and sleep don't have more than a passing acquaintance most nights, but whether it's the near-death exhaustion or the post-sex afterglow or the soft rise and fall of Rodney's back against his chest, he slides straight under like someone's opened a trap door up beneath him. It's blank, silent bliss, without a single dream.
Up until the moment someone starts screaming on the other side of the wall.
It happens so fast that John doesn't even catch the shift; one second, unconsciousness, the next, he's on his side with the Glock aimed dead center at the dim rectangle of the doorway, using his shoulders to block Rodney, cramming him back against the wall. The pounding of his own heart lends a rapid backbeat to the oscillating wail bleeding through from the unit behind them, but the curtained windows are bulletproof and John reinforced the sheetrock himself -- if someone's coming for Rodney, they're going to have to come through the door.
"Oh god, oh god, oh--" Rodney chants against John's neck, then cuts himself off before John has to. John strains his ears for any sound to indicate that his unit's been compromised, catching nothing -- no movement, no alarm, no change in the air flow to indicate that the doors have been opened. Just that muffled voice, rising and falling, and the steady background hiss of -- of ...
"Is that the shower?" Rodney hisses, incredulous. John rolls to a sitting position to stare at the wall, then thumbs the safety on and flops back onto his pillow, arm draped over his eyes.
"Jesus fucking christ," he says.
Rodney makes an infuriated noise and pushes John's arm back off his face, staring down at him in betrayal and accusation. "Oh my god, is this a PTSD thing? Do you wake up like that every morning? Am I going to wake up like that every morning?"
"Okay, first," John says, and reaches back over his head to slide the gun back into the holster strapped to the bed frame, "you're paying me for my vigilance here, so let's maybe not go knocking it, and second, no, because none of my real neighbors start singing in the shower at--" he fumbles for the clock on the nightstand-- "jeez, seven a.m. in the morning."
Rodney drops back onto one elbow, considering this. His hair's flattened into a strange part on one side, and his eyes are still puffy from sleep. "What, you never noticed the next townhouse over is rented to some would-be American Idol?" he demands, but there's some sheepishness watering down the ire, like the wrath autopilot is shutting down as his brain comes online.
John scrubs a hand over the bristling ends of his own hair, then squints and rubs sleep out of the corner of his eye. "I haven't slept here since before I went freelance, I didn't ..." On the other side of the wall, the virtuoso hoots through a long, warbling run, and John's mouth snaps shut as his mind filters out the hook.
Above him, Rodney goes stiff. "Holy shit," he asks in a whisper, "is he singing--"
"That Whitney Houston song?" John supplies, appalled, then hears himself follow with, "Wait, that's a guy?"
Rodney blinks; his lip twitches. A small, choked noise forces its way out of his throat and then they both just lose it completely. Rodney crams his face into the crook of John's neck, wheezing out a demented, high-pitched cackle, and John waves purposelessly in the air above his face as he tries to stop snorting. Under them, the crappy bed's squeaking madly. They eventually run out of breath and get quiet, and the guy next door picks that moment to really let fly with the key change, and they're off again, and in the middle of the snickering fit John rolls over and kisses him, feeling Rodney's chest jump and swell with a deep breath as he slides a hand over John's bare shoulders, one knee sliding in between John's thighs.
"Um, good morning," Rodney mumbles against John's mouth, and John pulls back, feeling weirdly happy and pretty stupid for it.
"Breakfast?" He tips his head toward the door in a manner he hopes is laid-back. "There's still that frozen pizza."
"Hmm," Rodney says, considering. He sweeps a hand down the length of John's spine. John gives in and lets his back curve into the touch, and Rodney's eyes visibly lose focus. "Maybe not just yet," he says, voice a little ragged. "It's not as though it'll get cold if we wait."
Grinning, John bends his neck to run his lips along the stubbled length of Rodney's throat. "Good point," he murmurs. "'Sides, it'd be a shame to waste the mood music."