14 Valentines 4: Light On (John/Rodney, G)
Title: Light On
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
Word Count: ~700
Warnings: Wing!fic
Summary: "Leave a light on," John says, "so I can find you again," and Rodney does.
Notes: This was written for emeraldteal because she guessed which one of the sga_santa stories was mine. Her prompt was John/Rodney, Light On. Again, this story has nothing to do with today's essay on 14valentines.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Four: Reproductive Rights and Motherhood, in which bunnymcfoo writes this: The simple fact of the matter is that women who have access to reproductive health services and who can choose when and if to become pregnant, are healthier, live longer, and have a higher chance to pursue higher education and careers.
ETA: Download Light on as podfic! *hearts winkingstar*
~~~
Cover by cybel
Light On
John is a creature of the air, and Rodney both loves and hates him for that. He drifts to Rodney's house maybe twice a year, three times if Rodney's lucky, his smirk tired and his wings drooping with exhaustion. He always comes at night, and he never stays more than a few days. Then the wind tugs at him again, urging him to leave, and Rodney knows better than to ask him to stay.
"Leave a light on," John says, "so I can find you again," and Rodney does. Always, day and night, a lamp burning in his room, candles on the window sills. He leaves them on even when he goes out; wonders if perhaps the blaze of the house on fire would be light enough to call John back early. But nothing ever happens; the candles flicker their welcome whenever Rodney returns from his errands, but they don't make him feel any less lonely.
It's probably why he offered John harbour that first time. He likes that his house stands remote amidst a sea of trees; likes that the noise of civilisation doesn't reach him there. But the silence drives him too far inside his own head every once in a while, and that's when he opens his door to half-dead strangers who clearly don't belong on the ground.
Who clearly don't belong with him.
He tries to imagine John's journey sometimes, catching every updraft and seeing the world painted silver by the moon; tries to picture John dipping down to every light he sees in case it is Rodney's. He can't quite manage, mostly because it would mean that John needs something, needs him, and he knows that John is happiest without a tether.
Sometimes, he wonders what it is that keeps John coming back to him at all.
"Leave a light on," John says, and Rodney does. He lights his lamp and his candles, and he stares into the night sky long after the rustle of wings has died away, and waits for the wind to carry John his way again.
~~~
It's strange, John thinks as he circles down to the sloping rectangle of Rodney's roof, strange to think he might have a home here. The only home his kind usually knows is the night sky, the only familiar mark the moon.
He's never been welcome anywhere, before. To think that Rodney waits for him fills John with both awe and a strangely elusive fear that flutters out of his reach whenever he tries to stomp it down, only to return and settle back inside his ribcage; an odd bird nesting just behind his heart.
But Rodney does wait for him, and he lets John inside just like he did that first time, when John had crashed down on his back porch. He blows out the candles, quenches the lamp, and lets John lie down on top of him, wings spread over them like a living blanket. And John takes a deep breath, smells paraffin and candle smoke, and feels guilty.
It's not that he needs the light to find Rodney's house again. He doesn't. He needs the light to know if he's still welcome.
He's afraid of the night when the windows will be dark. When the porch will be empty, the back door shut. John's getting tired of flying, but it's all he has. It's all the bird behind his heart will let him have, and there are things that a moth shouldn't ask for. Has no right to ask for.
But Rodney… Rodney doesn't call him a moth. Rodney calls him a night-flyer. Rodney touches the black marks on his wings and calls them interesting, which John has learned means beautiful. Rodney touches him, careful and slow and like John might break, but while John does feel brittle sometimes, it's not because of Rodney. It's never been because of Rodney.
Outside, the wind picks up. Rodney glances at the windows, at the swaying trees beyond the glass; and his lips are pressed together, his shoulders hunched.
And John opens his mouth and, over the storm of his own heartbeat, hears himself say, "I… can I stay?"
Rodney's face lights up, brighter than any candle, and the bird flies away into the night.
*
ETA: ART! \o/
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
Word Count: ~700
Warnings: Wing!fic
Summary: "Leave a light on," John says, "so I can find you again," and Rodney does.
Notes: This was written for emeraldteal because she guessed which one of the sga_santa stories was mine. Her prompt was John/Rodney, Light On. Again, this story has nothing to do with today's essay on 14valentines.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Four: Reproductive Rights and Motherhood, in which bunnymcfoo writes this: The simple fact of the matter is that women who have access to reproductive health services and who can choose when and if to become pregnant, are healthier, live longer, and have a higher chance to pursue higher education and careers.
ETA: Download Light on as podfic! *hearts winkingstar*
~~~
Cover by cybel
Light On
John is a creature of the air, and Rodney both loves and hates him for that. He drifts to Rodney's house maybe twice a year, three times if Rodney's lucky, his smirk tired and his wings drooping with exhaustion. He always comes at night, and he never stays more than a few days. Then the wind tugs at him again, urging him to leave, and Rodney knows better than to ask him to stay.
"Leave a light on," John says, "so I can find you again," and Rodney does. Always, day and night, a lamp burning in his room, candles on the window sills. He leaves them on even when he goes out; wonders if perhaps the blaze of the house on fire would be light enough to call John back early. But nothing ever happens; the candles flicker their welcome whenever Rodney returns from his errands, but they don't make him feel any less lonely.
It's probably why he offered John harbour that first time. He likes that his house stands remote amidst a sea of trees; likes that the noise of civilisation doesn't reach him there. But the silence drives him too far inside his own head every once in a while, and that's when he opens his door to half-dead strangers who clearly don't belong on the ground.
Who clearly don't belong with him.
He tries to imagine John's journey sometimes, catching every updraft and seeing the world painted silver by the moon; tries to picture John dipping down to every light he sees in case it is Rodney's. He can't quite manage, mostly because it would mean that John needs something, needs him, and he knows that John is happiest without a tether.
Sometimes, he wonders what it is that keeps John coming back to him at all.
"Leave a light on," John says, and Rodney does. He lights his lamp and his candles, and he stares into the night sky long after the rustle of wings has died away, and waits for the wind to carry John his way again.
~~~
It's strange, John thinks as he circles down to the sloping rectangle of Rodney's roof, strange to think he might have a home here. The only home his kind usually knows is the night sky, the only familiar mark the moon.
He's never been welcome anywhere, before. To think that Rodney waits for him fills John with both awe and a strangely elusive fear that flutters out of his reach whenever he tries to stomp it down, only to return and settle back inside his ribcage; an odd bird nesting just behind his heart.
But Rodney does wait for him, and he lets John inside just like he did that first time, when John had crashed down on his back porch. He blows out the candles, quenches the lamp, and lets John lie down on top of him, wings spread over them like a living blanket. And John takes a deep breath, smells paraffin and candle smoke, and feels guilty.
It's not that he needs the light to find Rodney's house again. He doesn't. He needs the light to know if he's still welcome.
He's afraid of the night when the windows will be dark. When the porch will be empty, the back door shut. John's getting tired of flying, but it's all he has. It's all the bird behind his heart will let him have, and there are things that a moth shouldn't ask for. Has no right to ask for.
But Rodney… Rodney doesn't call him a moth. Rodney calls him a night-flyer. Rodney touches the black marks on his wings and calls them interesting, which John has learned means beautiful. Rodney touches him, careful and slow and like John might break, but while John does feel brittle sometimes, it's not because of Rodney. It's never been because of Rodney.
Outside, the wind picks up. Rodney glances at the windows, at the swaying trees beyond the glass; and his lips are pressed together, his shoulders hunched.
And John opens his mouth and, over the storm of his own heartbeat, hears himself say, "I… can I stay?"
Rodney's face lights up, brighter than any candle, and the bird flies away into the night.
*
ETA: ART! \o/