FIC: Stargate Atlantis
Guys, I don't even know what this is. Like all of my writing lately, creative and academic, I have no idea if the words on the page make any sense at all. Good luck with that! :) I just know I have homework to do, and this wouldn't leave me alone, so now maybe at least I can get those papers written.
Title: Him That I Love, I Wish to be Free (Even From Me)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): Unrequited McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Keller
Rating: PG for the slightest bad language
Summary: John is invited to the Millers for Christmas.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you might recognize.
Warnings/Spoilers: General season five spoilers. (I haven't seen past the middle of the season, so nothing really specific past "The Shrine." Possibly for "Brain Storm," but I haven't seen it, so nothing particular.) I try hard not to make Keller a bad person here, so if you want to bash her, you might want to go elsewhere. Quick wash beta, so all mistakes are mine. Title is from Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Approx. 3,070 words.
John had known from the beginning that the whole trip was a bad idea. That hadn't stopped him from going along, obviously, because in these situations John is helpless; going along is what he does. Slow and easy, no sudden movements. It's just a quick energy burst to go through the gate; three magazines, four packages of pretzels and a nap on the flight to Toronto; a short drive to Jeannie's house that John has made before, in much worse circumstances. So he buckles up for the ride, keeps his arms inside the vehicle at all times. And if he finds it ironic at all that he's carrying Jennifer Keller's luggage along with his own as he shuffles behind Rodney on the slightly icy walk, he hides it in the crook of his smile, the tilt of his hip as he shakes Caleb's hand.
Rodney had managed to cajole (scam, batter, harass) the powers that be at the SGC into more Earth downtime; John supposes that's what happens when you save Earth from its inevitable doom -- his own shore leave has accrued and accrued and accrued for the same reason. So Rodney had planned Christmas at his sister's for reasons John didn't want to examine too closely. There were inklings of fear left over Rodney's illness, as well as excitement over Keller, and neither of those subjects were ones that John liked to heft in his hands all that often, feel the weight and smooth edges of them before he placed them down carefully in the hidden corners of his own heart. Whether it was Rodney or Jeannie or Jennifer's idea to invite him, too, John didn't really care much; it was the invitation of the suddenly and rightly blessed to one in need, and whether John was content with that need or not wasn't for the asker to consider. So John had shrugged and said, "Sure," to Rodney's bright-eyed invitation, and quietly steeled himself.
Jeannie is clearly thrilled that they're there. She's bustling around the kitchen, almost a blond, curly blur, making coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for Madison, handing cookies to Rodney and taking the sugar from Caleb. John doesn't blame her. She had nearly lost her brother to a frightening illness not too long before, and to a lonely, companionless existence before even that. This is the woman who told Rodney that Katie Brown was his last, best chance out of love, and of course it's that same love that has her joking easily with Jennifer Keller over Rodney's preference for milk over dark chocolate (the heathen). John wishes he could hate her, but it's not possible, not when she slides a mug of coffee just the way he likes it across the counter at him, has Madison pick a marshmallow out of the bag of colored ones just for him (she gives him green). John takes the marshmallow from Madison with a grin that makes her giggle and listens to Rodney babble some about Zelenka's new theory about the radiation emitted from sector 571, gripping his mug so hard that his knuckles turn white.
It's not until he's tucked away on the twin bed in the downstairs office that John lets out a breath he doesn't know he's holding. He's strangely comforted by the amount of light in the room; moonlight is streaming through the thin curtains on the windows. Everything is cast in shades of gray and silver, and John lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. The house is quiet, but John can't help but catalog everyone anyway: Madison in her room at the top of the stairs, tucked away in shades of yellow and green, nightlight sparkling like fairy dust; Jeannie and Caleb in the master suite, cozy in blue, pink socks on Jeannie's feet; Rodney and Jennifer pointedly together in the guest room. John unconsciously listens for Rodney snoring, like Rodney always does when he's exhausted, though of course he'll never hear it an entire floor away. He falls asleep still listening.
***
John and Madison are the first ones up the next morning. John has been up since before six, drinking coffee in the kitchen and quietly reading the paperback he had bought at the airport. Madison's head peeks around the corner of the cabinets and John smiles, lets her sneak up on him before she pounces on his leg and yells, "Merry Christmas Eve Day!"
John puts his coffee down and scoops a willing, if wiggling, Madison into his lap. "Merry Christmas Eve Day to you, too!" he says before settling her onto his knee. Madison giggles, clearly delighted by the attention. "Do you want anything to eat?" he asks.
Madison shakes her head. "Nah. Mom'll make pancakes when she gets up."
"Oh, well. Pancakes," John says because, well, pancakes.
Madison nods, and John chews his lip briefly. "You want to play or something while we wait?"
"Playdough?" Madison looks up at John hopefully.
"Sure," John says. Madison is up and off his lap in an instant.
"I'll go get it, Uncle John," Madison says quickly.
John catches her arm gently, just enough to turn her around so she knows he's talking to her. "Uh. It's just John, okay? Madison?"
Madison looks confused for a minute, but her face brightens after a second, "Okay, John," she chirps, not one to have her potential playdough moments wasted.
"Okay," John agrees quietly as she skips out of the room.
***
By the time Rodney and Jennifer come downstairs, the kitchen is a busier place. Jeannie is making pumpkin pancakes at the stove while also dictating a last minute grocery store list to Caleb. John has built a decent looking jet out of orange playdough , and Madison has made numerous snakes, one snowman in a rather garish yellow, and is currently working on some pancakes of her own.
"Merry Christmas Eve Day!" Madison shouts as Jennifer and Rodney enter the kitchen, arms flying briefly over her head. Jeannie grins.
Rodney blinks, but quickly replies, almost automatically, "Merry Christmas Eve Day, Madison." He veers off toward the stove, swiping a piece of bacon off the plate Jeannie is making, earning himself a slap on the shoulder for his trouble.
Jennifer smiles and sits down at the table, reaching into a playdough pot and scooping out a handful of blue playdough. "Are you excited about Christmas, Madison?" she asks, rolling the playdough into a ball between her palms.
"Yes," Madison answers slowly, pushing some playdough flat beneath her palm. "There will be presents, and lights, and Christmas trees and you and Uncle Mer and John are here and we're going to have lots of fun."
Jennifer nods. "Fair enough," she says, clearly amused. She puts her ball of playdough down on the table in front of her and scoops out more blue.
"Whatcha making?" Madison asks, moving on to pounding out some red playdough.
"A snowman," Jennifer replies easily, continuing to roll another ball out between her palms.
Madison looks up, perplexed, and John instinctively goes still at his end of the table.
"I already made a snowman," Madison says, pointing at her yellow man, who is listing slightly to the right.
"Well, we can both make one, right?" Jennifer says. "I grew up in a place where there was lots of snow in winter, just like here, so I like snowmen. You like snowmen, too, don't you?"
Madison's face suddenly goes stubborn; it's a McKay look that John recognizes -- he's seen it on Rodney's face plenty of times. "But I already made one. We don't need two."
"Madison." Jeannie's voice and face have "warning" written all over them.
"Mommy --"
"But two is a good number. That way your snowman will have a friend," Jennifer says.
"That's right," Rodney says, coming around the table and standing behind Jennifer, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Everyone needs friends." Jennifer smiles up at him briefly.
"Or you could just let the kid have her snowman and make something else," John says in a low voice, pinching the tail end of his plane's left wing. He doesn't need to look up to know that Rodney's jaw has snapped tight; he can hear it from where he's sitting. He looks up anyway and sees Rodney's set jaw, the slight surprise around Keller's eyes.
The sound of pancake batter sizzling in the skillet is the only sound in the kitchen for a moment, until Caleb comes over to the table, too. "You know, I think our pancakes are about ready, so why don't we put the playdough away for now?"
"Daddy --" Madison starts.
"You can keep out whatever you want to save, Maddy, to work on later," Caleb says, clearly having fought this fight before.
"S'okay," Madison says, sorting her pancakes back into their various containers by color. Rodney circles back for more coffee and Jennifer follows him, asking for a mug of her own. John puts his own plane away, and as he stands up to help Madison put the playdough containers back in their basket, he stuffs the beginnings of Jennifer's snowman into the blue container before putting it away.
***
Later, once it gets dark, the adults take Madison out to drive around the neighborhood and see the Christmas lights. John declines to join them; he's not sure there would have been room for him, anyway, especially in the Prius, and it's Jennifer who deserves the slot. He waves from the front step as they drive off, cold in just his white Oxford and dark jeans. On impulse, instead of going back into the house he grabs the keys to the rental car that are sitting on the small table in the entryway and jogs to the car, starting the ignition with a roar. He backs out of the driveway not sure where he is going, which is fine by him.
John's been in Toronto before, of course, though because of a crisis with the Millers -- not much time for sightseeing. John's still not interested in sightseeing, but there's something about driving around in the dark, in the quiet, that's comforting to him. It's anonymous. The roads are fairly clear; most people are at home, or with their families. John goes faster than he should, especially considering the snow and ice. He skids slightly on a patch of black ice but after military helicopters, jets, puddlejumpers, Wraith darts, hive ships and combat, a bit of black ice on a Toronto road is not enough to even slow him down.
He drives for a long time, not really keeping track of time. He's gone through rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods; nothing about the poor neighborhoods made him feel unsafe, but the huge houses of the wealthy had made his skin prickle up in recognition. The deepening night lets John know that it's far past the time that the Millers have gotten home. Part of him hopes that they didn't wait for him to eat dinner, but the other part doesn't care. He didn't bring his cell phone with him, but he wouldn't use it even if he had. He really doesn't want to talk to anyone who knows him right now.
On impulse, John drives up to a building he's passed several times before. He doesn't know quite why he parks the car and gets out, but he does; he also takes a bulletin from an usher and sits in a pew at the back, on the aisle. It's not as if he had meant to go to the Christmas Eve service, but the church was right there, and the lights seemed inviting.
John's smart enough to know that it's an actual impulse, not a conversion experience. He had spent most of his childhood, and much of his adolescence, in churches like this on Christmas Eve. The liturgy, the ceremony, is familiar. John can sing the songs without needing the hymnal; he can say the prayers without even having to resort to searching his memory or merely mumbling along. His place in the back is quiet, far from the ringing bells and the choir. Even during the passing of the peace John can just shake hands and nod with a few people who smile at him benignly. The girl who plays Mary in the nativity scene looks vaguely like Madison, all huge blue eyes. John takes his candle for the singing of Silent Night, and even lights it from the candle of his neighbor, an elderly lady who smiles at him, her hand shaking just the slightest bit as she tries to hold the candle steady enough for him to light his own candle by it.
Still, John blows his candle out and slips it into his pocket as he exits the church in the dark before the hymn is over.
***
It's after midnight before John pulls the car in front of the Miller house. There are still lights on, two upstairs and one in the kitchen, even though it's past midnight; the church service had been at eleven, and had gone on for a while.
John goes into the house through the kitchen door, which is open. Jeannie is sitting at the table, tying a bow onto a gift neatly wrapped in paper that has little penguins all over it. She barely looks up at John as he comes in, but says, "There's a plate in the fridge for you if you want it. Turkey."
John doesn't want it, but he says, "Thanks." He goes over to the sink, takes a glass out of the drying rack and fills it with water.
Jeannie pulls another box up onto the table, starts choosing ribbon from bucket next to her. "Madison missed you tonight."
John sighs, rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead. "No one ever said I wasn't an asshole, Jeannie."
Jeannie glances over at him, wry surprise in the very Rodney-like tilt of her mouth. "While we're on the subject, next time you want to undermine me in front of my daughter, don't."
John sighs again, walks over to the table and sits down, glass between his hands. "Understood."
"Can I ask where you were tonight?" Jeannie asks.
"Church," John answers.
Jeannie snips off a section of gold ribbon. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she says.
John smiles slightly, pulls the bulletin out of his back pocket and throws it on the table.
Jeannie's eyes widen. "Oh. I didn't know you were religious."
"I'm not," John says easily. He's really not; he doesn't understand how a supposedly good and merciful God would allow even half of the horrors John has seen first hand, in not only one but two galaxies.
Jeannie hums.
"Habit, I guess," John says, the words suddenly choking him.
Something in his voice makes Jeannie look up. "Your family religious?"
"My mom," comes out of John's clogged throat before he can stop it.
"Ah," Jeannie says.
"She always took us, especially on Christmas. Just the way she was raised, I guess." John shrugs, uncomfortable. Raised the only girl out of six children, all army brats whose own mother followed their father from base to base. Raised to go to church and raised to really believe, John has always thought, even when she married her own army husband, though at least he had the money to bring her out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog that was her life before that. Their father had always been a member of the Episcopal church in D.C. because it was the thing to do, because everyone was, but their mother, well . . . she wasn't a member just because of her husband.
"Rodney's never told me much about your family," Jeannie says.
"Rodney doesn't know much about my family," John replies.
"Oh." Jeannie runs the scissors down the ribbon to make it curly.
"Look -- " John shifts in his seat a little.
"I just thought you were close, that's all," Jeannie says. It's perfectly innocent, but it makes John shake.
"We are," John says. We were, the voice inside of him echoes.
"Okay," Jeannie says easily, but John wonders what she's thinking, wonders what Rodney tells Jeannie that he doesn't know about, what Rodney tells Keller that he doesn't know about.
"My mom." John swallows. "My mom killed herself."
Jeannie stops what she's doing with the ribbon, turns to look at John, her mouth a perfect "o" just like her brother's when he's surprised.
"Three days before Christmas. I was nine."
"John --" Jeannie reaches out to touch John's arm, but he moves it out of her reach.
"Left the car running in the garage; carbon monoxide poisoning. We'd gone shopping with my grandmother, so we were supposed to be gone all day. But I felt sick, so my grandmother dropped me back off early."
"You found her," Jeannie finishes for him, and John is so glad, so glad she does.
John nods.
"God, John, I had no idea . . ."
John shrugs, swallows. When he looks up, his eyes are dry. "I don't talk about it." He takes a deep swallow of his water.
There's silence in the kitchen; John can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the rumble of the ice maker.
"It wasn't your fault," Jeannie says softly. Her voice, her face are soft. Hers is the face of a mother, and it's more than John can bear; it's more than anyone has ever said to him about it; it's the most anyone has ever done to reassure him, and it's too much.
John stands, more slowly than he had anticipated, as though if he moves too fast he'll break apart.
"You should tell Rodney." Jeannie's looking up at him, completely open.
John shakes his head.
"John --"
"No," John manages. No. He can't tell Rodney, especially not now, not with Keller in the picture, not with Rodney's happiness and contentment in her hands; not when they are visiting family, laughing softly with each other, giving joint Christmas gifts.
"No," he says again, patting Jeannie gently on the shoulder as he passes her on the way out of the kitchen.
John falls asleep long after he hears Jeannie go to bed, the pressure in his chest crushing him into the small mattress.
***
The next morning, unwrapping the blu-ray edition of The Dark Knight he has received from Rodney and Jennifer, John thinks that Jeannie is the closest he'll ever get to telling Rodney. He thinks that might just have to be enough, and says thank you for the gift.
Title: Him That I Love, I Wish to be Free (Even From Me)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing(s): Unrequited McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Keller
Rating: PG for the slightest bad language
Summary: John is invited to the Millers for Christmas.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you might recognize.
Warnings/Spoilers: General season five spoilers. (I haven't seen past the middle of the season, so nothing really specific past "The Shrine." Possibly for "Brain Storm," but I haven't seen it, so nothing particular.) I try hard not to make Keller a bad person here, so if you want to bash her, you might want to go elsewhere. Quick wash beta, so all mistakes are mine. Title is from Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Approx. 3,070 words.
John had known from the beginning that the whole trip was a bad idea. That hadn't stopped him from going along, obviously, because in these situations John is helpless; going along is what he does. Slow and easy, no sudden movements. It's just a quick energy burst to go through the gate; three magazines, four packages of pretzels and a nap on the flight to Toronto; a short drive to Jeannie's house that John has made before, in much worse circumstances. So he buckles up for the ride, keeps his arms inside the vehicle at all times. And if he finds it ironic at all that he's carrying Jennifer Keller's luggage along with his own as he shuffles behind Rodney on the slightly icy walk, he hides it in the crook of his smile, the tilt of his hip as he shakes Caleb's hand.
Rodney had managed to cajole (scam, batter, harass) the powers that be at the SGC into more Earth downtime; John supposes that's what happens when you save Earth from its inevitable doom -- his own shore leave has accrued and accrued and accrued for the same reason. So Rodney had planned Christmas at his sister's for reasons John didn't want to examine too closely. There were inklings of fear left over Rodney's illness, as well as excitement over Keller, and neither of those subjects were ones that John liked to heft in his hands all that often, feel the weight and smooth edges of them before he placed them down carefully in the hidden corners of his own heart. Whether it was Rodney or Jeannie or Jennifer's idea to invite him, too, John didn't really care much; it was the invitation of the suddenly and rightly blessed to one in need, and whether John was content with that need or not wasn't for the asker to consider. So John had shrugged and said, "Sure," to Rodney's bright-eyed invitation, and quietly steeled himself.
Jeannie is clearly thrilled that they're there. She's bustling around the kitchen, almost a blond, curly blur, making coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for Madison, handing cookies to Rodney and taking the sugar from Caleb. John doesn't blame her. She had nearly lost her brother to a frightening illness not too long before, and to a lonely, companionless existence before even that. This is the woman who told Rodney that Katie Brown was his last, best chance out of love, and of course it's that same love that has her joking easily with Jennifer Keller over Rodney's preference for milk over dark chocolate (the heathen). John wishes he could hate her, but it's not possible, not when she slides a mug of coffee just the way he likes it across the counter at him, has Madison pick a marshmallow out of the bag of colored ones just for him (she gives him green). John takes the marshmallow from Madison with a grin that makes her giggle and listens to Rodney babble some about Zelenka's new theory about the radiation emitted from sector 571, gripping his mug so hard that his knuckles turn white.
It's not until he's tucked away on the twin bed in the downstairs office that John lets out a breath he doesn't know he's holding. He's strangely comforted by the amount of light in the room; moonlight is streaming through the thin curtains on the windows. Everything is cast in shades of gray and silver, and John lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. The house is quiet, but John can't help but catalog everyone anyway: Madison in her room at the top of the stairs, tucked away in shades of yellow and green, nightlight sparkling like fairy dust; Jeannie and Caleb in the master suite, cozy in blue, pink socks on Jeannie's feet; Rodney and Jennifer pointedly together in the guest room. John unconsciously listens for Rodney snoring, like Rodney always does when he's exhausted, though of course he'll never hear it an entire floor away. He falls asleep still listening.
***
John and Madison are the first ones up the next morning. John has been up since before six, drinking coffee in the kitchen and quietly reading the paperback he had bought at the airport. Madison's head peeks around the corner of the cabinets and John smiles, lets her sneak up on him before she pounces on his leg and yells, "Merry Christmas Eve Day!"
John puts his coffee down and scoops a willing, if wiggling, Madison into his lap. "Merry Christmas Eve Day to you, too!" he says before settling her onto his knee. Madison giggles, clearly delighted by the attention. "Do you want anything to eat?" he asks.
Madison shakes her head. "Nah. Mom'll make pancakes when she gets up."
"Oh, well. Pancakes," John says because, well, pancakes.
Madison nods, and John chews his lip briefly. "You want to play or something while we wait?"
"Playdough?" Madison looks up at John hopefully.
"Sure," John says. Madison is up and off his lap in an instant.
"I'll go get it, Uncle John," Madison says quickly.
John catches her arm gently, just enough to turn her around so she knows he's talking to her. "Uh. It's just John, okay? Madison?"
Madison looks confused for a minute, but her face brightens after a second, "Okay, John," she chirps, not one to have her potential playdough moments wasted.
"Okay," John agrees quietly as she skips out of the room.
***
By the time Rodney and Jennifer come downstairs, the kitchen is a busier place. Jeannie is making pumpkin pancakes at the stove while also dictating a last minute grocery store list to Caleb. John has built a decent looking jet out of orange playdough , and Madison has made numerous snakes, one snowman in a rather garish yellow, and is currently working on some pancakes of her own.
"Merry Christmas Eve Day!" Madison shouts as Jennifer and Rodney enter the kitchen, arms flying briefly over her head. Jeannie grins.
Rodney blinks, but quickly replies, almost automatically, "Merry Christmas Eve Day, Madison." He veers off toward the stove, swiping a piece of bacon off the plate Jeannie is making, earning himself a slap on the shoulder for his trouble.
Jennifer smiles and sits down at the table, reaching into a playdough pot and scooping out a handful of blue playdough. "Are you excited about Christmas, Madison?" she asks, rolling the playdough into a ball between her palms.
"Yes," Madison answers slowly, pushing some playdough flat beneath her palm. "There will be presents, and lights, and Christmas trees and you and Uncle Mer and John are here and we're going to have lots of fun."
Jennifer nods. "Fair enough," she says, clearly amused. She puts her ball of playdough down on the table in front of her and scoops out more blue.
"Whatcha making?" Madison asks, moving on to pounding out some red playdough.
"A snowman," Jennifer replies easily, continuing to roll another ball out between her palms.
Madison looks up, perplexed, and John instinctively goes still at his end of the table.
"I already made a snowman," Madison says, pointing at her yellow man, who is listing slightly to the right.
"Well, we can both make one, right?" Jennifer says. "I grew up in a place where there was lots of snow in winter, just like here, so I like snowmen. You like snowmen, too, don't you?"
Madison's face suddenly goes stubborn; it's a McKay look that John recognizes -- he's seen it on Rodney's face plenty of times. "But I already made one. We don't need two."
"Madison." Jeannie's voice and face have "warning" written all over them.
"Mommy --"
"But two is a good number. That way your snowman will have a friend," Jennifer says.
"That's right," Rodney says, coming around the table and standing behind Jennifer, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Everyone needs friends." Jennifer smiles up at him briefly.
"Or you could just let the kid have her snowman and make something else," John says in a low voice, pinching the tail end of his plane's left wing. He doesn't need to look up to know that Rodney's jaw has snapped tight; he can hear it from where he's sitting. He looks up anyway and sees Rodney's set jaw, the slight surprise around Keller's eyes.
The sound of pancake batter sizzling in the skillet is the only sound in the kitchen for a moment, until Caleb comes over to the table, too. "You know, I think our pancakes are about ready, so why don't we put the playdough away for now?"
"Daddy --" Madison starts.
"You can keep out whatever you want to save, Maddy, to work on later," Caleb says, clearly having fought this fight before.
"S'okay," Madison says, sorting her pancakes back into their various containers by color. Rodney circles back for more coffee and Jennifer follows him, asking for a mug of her own. John puts his own plane away, and as he stands up to help Madison put the playdough containers back in their basket, he stuffs the beginnings of Jennifer's snowman into the blue container before putting it away.
***
Later, once it gets dark, the adults take Madison out to drive around the neighborhood and see the Christmas lights. John declines to join them; he's not sure there would have been room for him, anyway, especially in the Prius, and it's Jennifer who deserves the slot. He waves from the front step as they drive off, cold in just his white Oxford and dark jeans. On impulse, instead of going back into the house he grabs the keys to the rental car that are sitting on the small table in the entryway and jogs to the car, starting the ignition with a roar. He backs out of the driveway not sure where he is going, which is fine by him.
John's been in Toronto before, of course, though because of a crisis with the Millers -- not much time for sightseeing. John's still not interested in sightseeing, but there's something about driving around in the dark, in the quiet, that's comforting to him. It's anonymous. The roads are fairly clear; most people are at home, or with their families. John goes faster than he should, especially considering the snow and ice. He skids slightly on a patch of black ice but after military helicopters, jets, puddlejumpers, Wraith darts, hive ships and combat, a bit of black ice on a Toronto road is not enough to even slow him down.
He drives for a long time, not really keeping track of time. He's gone through rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods; nothing about the poor neighborhoods made him feel unsafe, but the huge houses of the wealthy had made his skin prickle up in recognition. The deepening night lets John know that it's far past the time that the Millers have gotten home. Part of him hopes that they didn't wait for him to eat dinner, but the other part doesn't care. He didn't bring his cell phone with him, but he wouldn't use it even if he had. He really doesn't want to talk to anyone who knows him right now.
On impulse, John drives up to a building he's passed several times before. He doesn't know quite why he parks the car and gets out, but he does; he also takes a bulletin from an usher and sits in a pew at the back, on the aisle. It's not as if he had meant to go to the Christmas Eve service, but the church was right there, and the lights seemed inviting.
John's smart enough to know that it's an actual impulse, not a conversion experience. He had spent most of his childhood, and much of his adolescence, in churches like this on Christmas Eve. The liturgy, the ceremony, is familiar. John can sing the songs without needing the hymnal; he can say the prayers without even having to resort to searching his memory or merely mumbling along. His place in the back is quiet, far from the ringing bells and the choir. Even during the passing of the peace John can just shake hands and nod with a few people who smile at him benignly. The girl who plays Mary in the nativity scene looks vaguely like Madison, all huge blue eyes. John takes his candle for the singing of Silent Night, and even lights it from the candle of his neighbor, an elderly lady who smiles at him, her hand shaking just the slightest bit as she tries to hold the candle steady enough for him to light his own candle by it.
Still, John blows his candle out and slips it into his pocket as he exits the church in the dark before the hymn is over.
***
It's after midnight before John pulls the car in front of the Miller house. There are still lights on, two upstairs and one in the kitchen, even though it's past midnight; the church service had been at eleven, and had gone on for a while.
John goes into the house through the kitchen door, which is open. Jeannie is sitting at the table, tying a bow onto a gift neatly wrapped in paper that has little penguins all over it. She barely looks up at John as he comes in, but says, "There's a plate in the fridge for you if you want it. Turkey."
John doesn't want it, but he says, "Thanks." He goes over to the sink, takes a glass out of the drying rack and fills it with water.
Jeannie pulls another box up onto the table, starts choosing ribbon from bucket next to her. "Madison missed you tonight."
John sighs, rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead. "No one ever said I wasn't an asshole, Jeannie."
Jeannie glances over at him, wry surprise in the very Rodney-like tilt of her mouth. "While we're on the subject, next time you want to undermine me in front of my daughter, don't."
John sighs again, walks over to the table and sits down, glass between his hands. "Understood."
"Can I ask where you were tonight?" Jeannie asks.
"Church," John answers.
Jeannie snips off a section of gold ribbon. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she says.
John smiles slightly, pulls the bulletin out of his back pocket and throws it on the table.
Jeannie's eyes widen. "Oh. I didn't know you were religious."
"I'm not," John says easily. He's really not; he doesn't understand how a supposedly good and merciful God would allow even half of the horrors John has seen first hand, in not only one but two galaxies.
Jeannie hums.
"Habit, I guess," John says, the words suddenly choking him.
Something in his voice makes Jeannie look up. "Your family religious?"
"My mom," comes out of John's clogged throat before he can stop it.
"Ah," Jeannie says.
"She always took us, especially on Christmas. Just the way she was raised, I guess." John shrugs, uncomfortable. Raised the only girl out of six children, all army brats whose own mother followed their father from base to base. Raised to go to church and raised to really believe, John has always thought, even when she married her own army husband, though at least he had the money to bring her out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog that was her life before that. Their father had always been a member of the Episcopal church in D.C. because it was the thing to do, because everyone was, but their mother, well . . . she wasn't a member just because of her husband.
"Rodney's never told me much about your family," Jeannie says.
"Rodney doesn't know much about my family," John replies.
"Oh." Jeannie runs the scissors down the ribbon to make it curly.
"Look -- " John shifts in his seat a little.
"I just thought you were close, that's all," Jeannie says. It's perfectly innocent, but it makes John shake.
"We are," John says. We were, the voice inside of him echoes.
"Okay," Jeannie says easily, but John wonders what she's thinking, wonders what Rodney tells Jeannie that he doesn't know about, what Rodney tells Keller that he doesn't know about.
"My mom." John swallows. "My mom killed herself."
Jeannie stops what she's doing with the ribbon, turns to look at John, her mouth a perfect "o" just like her brother's when he's surprised.
"Three days before Christmas. I was nine."
"John --" Jeannie reaches out to touch John's arm, but he moves it out of her reach.
"Left the car running in the garage; carbon monoxide poisoning. We'd gone shopping with my grandmother, so we were supposed to be gone all day. But I felt sick, so my grandmother dropped me back off early."
"You found her," Jeannie finishes for him, and John is so glad, so glad she does.
John nods.
"God, John, I had no idea . . ."
John shrugs, swallows. When he looks up, his eyes are dry. "I don't talk about it." He takes a deep swallow of his water.
There's silence in the kitchen; John can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the rumble of the ice maker.
"It wasn't your fault," Jeannie says softly. Her voice, her face are soft. Hers is the face of a mother, and it's more than John can bear; it's more than anyone has ever said to him about it; it's the most anyone has ever done to reassure him, and it's too much.
John stands, more slowly than he had anticipated, as though if he moves too fast he'll break apart.
"You should tell Rodney." Jeannie's looking up at him, completely open.
John shakes his head.
"John --"
"No," John manages. No. He can't tell Rodney, especially not now, not with Keller in the picture, not with Rodney's happiness and contentment in her hands; not when they are visiting family, laughing softly with each other, giving joint Christmas gifts.
"No," he says again, patting Jeannie gently on the shoulder as he passes her on the way out of the kitchen.
John falls asleep long after he hears Jeannie go to bed, the pressure in his chest crushing him into the small mattress.
***
The next morning, unwrapping the blu-ray edition of The Dark Knight he has received from Rodney and Jennifer, John thinks that Jeannie is the closest he'll ever get to telling Rodney. He thinks that might just have to be enough, and says thank you for the gift.