FIC: Silent Night by Spacebabe
Title: Silent Night
Author: Spacebabe
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~ 1,500
Summary: John. Rodney. A campfire. Marshmallows. What can I say. This time of year brings out the sweetness in me.
A/N: Thanks go to henrycat for her usual excellent work on an early version of this. As always some rewriting was done and any mistakes that remain are all mine. I take full responsibility for them. If you see something, dear reader, please let me know and I will fix it.
Silent Night
by Spacebabe
The night was very dark. The campfire spat and crackled in the pit, and ambers floated towards the sky. Beyond the treetops, stars were everywhere. Millions of them. The Boar. Four bright stars in a cluster. Follow the invisible line across the night sky to the Sun's Servant (it looked almost like Cassiopeia). Above it and to the right, the Holy Tree.
A foreign sky that was starting to feel startlingly much like home.
John ran his hand over the rough piece of wood in his hands, following the crudely carved lines with his fingers for a moment before returning the blade to it. He glanced over at Rodney. "Now that you're here, aren't you glad you tagged along?"
"Oh, yes," Rodney said, his voice muffled behind his hand as he applied another layer of bug repellant. He rubbed the oily liquid onto his face, into his hair, and down his neck. "Deliriously so."
"Come on. It's not that bad." The knife bit smoothly into the pale wood.
"I could be working right now, you know," Rodney said. "I could be back in Atlantis inventing things, discovering things, doing real work. But no, I'm here, wasting my time with you--"
"Gee, thanks, McKay."
"--being eaten alive by all kinds of blood-sucking insects. And also, my ass is going numb."
John brushed a wood chips from his knees. "As late as yesterday, you were begging me to schedule a mission to get away from Simpson and her merry carolers." He reached over and rotated the stick with his two marshmallows a quarter turn.
The Daedalus had brought a shipment a few weeks ago and he'd managed to get his hands on two bags before they were gone.
It had been the bribe with which he'd convinced Rodney to come at all.
Rodney closed his eyes in momentary disgust. "If I hear 'Santa Baby' one more time..." His shoulder brushed against John’s as he leaned over, squinting at the collection of little figures on the ground. "What are you doing?"
John shrugged. Using the tip of the knife, he gave the figure in his hands eyes. Then a mouth (he gave it a happy tilt). "Just felt like doing something with my hands, that's all."
Rodney picked up one of John's earlier creations. He turned it over in his hand. "Is this a dog?"
"No," John frowned.
"A troll?"
"It's a nativity scene," John muttered. "At least the beginning of one."
"I escape into the wilderness, but not even here can I get away from the Christmas crazies," Rodney sighed. He turned the wood figure over in his hands again. "I didn't realize nativity scenes had trolls."
"It's not a troll," John snapped. He hissed as the tip of the knife slipped. A drop of dark blood slowly appeared where it had scratched his skin of his finger. "It's a camel."
"Don't quit your day job, Joseph," Rodney snorted.
"I'd like to see you do better," John said sullenly. He sucked at the side of his finger to soothe the sting.
"No, thanks," Rodney said and returned the troll-- camel, dammit, camel-- to its spot next to the lone king. "I know my limitations. I'd be more likely to take my thumb off than to coax something looking even remotely like--"
He broke off and scrambled over to his stick.
"No!"
His stick drew an arc of bright, orange light in the air as he pulled it from the fire and waved the burning marshmallow around.
John snickered around his finger. "That's what you get for dissing my nativity," he said.
Rodney blew frantically at the flames until they went out.
"Dammit," he muttered. He poked gloomily at the charred, gooey remains of the marshmallow with the tip of his finger. "I told you I was never any good at this." He gave the marshmallow a last disapproving glare before he discarded it in the darkness behind them with a disgusted grunt.
"Good thing I'm a pro," John grinned. He stabbed the tip of the knife into a log and reached over for his own stick.
His marshmallows were perfect. Golden and sticky and just perfectly done. He pulled one off, juggling it a little as it burned his fingers.
Chewing, he held out the stick with his remaining marshmallow at Rodney, who made two futile grabs for it as John grinningly pulled it just out of reach at the last moment.
"Bastard," Rodney growled under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest, looking away.
"Language, McKay, language," John tsk'ed.
Rodney ignored him, his shoulders set stubbornly.
"Come on," John said. He held out the stick again. Wiggled it when Rodney didn't move to take it. "You want it or not?" He kept it there until Rodney gave him a baleful glare and snatched it from his hands.
"Bastard," Rodney muttered again.
"Hey. I let you have it, didn't I?"
"You should clean that, you know," Rodney said around the marshmallow. He nodded at John's hand.
"What? This?" John flexed his fingers. "It's just a scratch."
"Mm-hmm. Just a scratch, huh." Rodney licked his fingers. "That's what's everyone says until they develop gangrene or go septic and their hands fall off."
"Jeez, Rodney. Try not to be so positive about things. It's not healthy."
"Optimism is so over-rated." Rodney snagged his backpack and started rummaging through it. He made a satisfied sound as he found whatever he was looking for.
John let Rodney pull his hand close and felt cool wetness swipe over his skin, dipping between his fingers and over his knuckles. "My own Florence Nightingale," he mumbled.
"Shut up." Rodney took one more round with the disinfectant wipe before he stuffed it back into its single pack and tucked it away in a pocket of his backpack. "Hold up," he instructed. A band-aid wrapped around John's finger a moment later.
"Thanks."John squinted at Rodney's handiwork in the flickering firelight.
"I wasn't doing it for you."
John raised an eyebrow.
"Not everything is about you, you know," Rodney huffed.
"Sure. Okay. If you say so," John said.
He offered Rodney a marshmallow straight from the bag and went back to working on his nativity scene with a final amused shake of the head. An ox and an ugly shepherd later, he heard Rodney shift on the sleeping bag. Glancing up, he saw Rodney settle on his stomach, cheek resting on his hands.
"It would be a shame," Rodney mumbled into the sleeping bag.
"What?" John asked, his knife coming to a rest. "What would be a shame?"
The fire hissed and spat as a log re-settled in the pit. A swarm of embers rose into the darkness. Rodney said nothing, just closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
John threw a tiny (not quite) pine cone at Rodney. It hit just above his ear. "Hello. Ground control to Rodney. What would be a shame?" John asked again.
Nothing.
John took aim again. Shoulder. Ear. Shoulder again.
Rodney pushed up on his elbow, batting the next cone away in the air with impressive precision. "What are you five years old? Stop that!"
"Sure," John said agreeably. He tossed another. It got stuck in Rodney's hair. "As soon as you tell me what it is that would be a shame," he said.
Rodney picked the cone from his hair and threw it into the flames. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"
John grinned. "Nope."
"Your hands," Rodney finally said. "I just happen to think it would be a shame if they fell off, okay." He put his head down again, facing away from John.
"On behalf on my hands, I thank you for your concern," John smiled and bowed his head deeply.
"Yeah, well, I kinda like them," Rodney mumbled.
John put Mary down carefully. Hesitating only a moment, he reached out. He let his hand brush lightly over the fine hairs at the nape of Rodney's neck. The hair there was as soft as he'd imagined.
"My hands kinda like you, too," he said.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Rodney's lips were sweet and warm and sticky from marshmallows, and John found he didn't mind the hard, uneven ground under the sleeping bag.
Not at all.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Silvery morning mist still hugged the fields and the trees when the jumper came to pick them up.
Rodney spent the entire trip back to Atlantis complaining about his back, and John just grinned, because the troll, the sheep, and the rest of the nativity posse spent the trip stuffed deep in Rodney's backpack, and that was as much a declaration of love as anything.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
~ The End ~
Author: Spacebabe
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~ 1,500
Summary: John. Rodney. A campfire. Marshmallows. What can I say. This time of year brings out the sweetness in me.
A/N: Thanks go to henrycat for her usual excellent work on an early version of this. As always some rewriting was done and any mistakes that remain are all mine. I take full responsibility for them. If you see something, dear reader, please let me know and I will fix it.
Silent Night
by Spacebabe
The night was very dark. The campfire spat and crackled in the pit, and ambers floated towards the sky. Beyond the treetops, stars were everywhere. Millions of them. The Boar. Four bright stars in a cluster. Follow the invisible line across the night sky to the Sun's Servant (it looked almost like Cassiopeia). Above it and to the right, the Holy Tree.
A foreign sky that was starting to feel startlingly much like home.
John ran his hand over the rough piece of wood in his hands, following the crudely carved lines with his fingers for a moment before returning the blade to it. He glanced over at Rodney. "Now that you're here, aren't you glad you tagged along?"
"Oh, yes," Rodney said, his voice muffled behind his hand as he applied another layer of bug repellant. He rubbed the oily liquid onto his face, into his hair, and down his neck. "Deliriously so."
"Come on. It's not that bad." The knife bit smoothly into the pale wood.
"I could be working right now, you know," Rodney said. "I could be back in Atlantis inventing things, discovering things, doing real work. But no, I'm here, wasting my time with you--"
"Gee, thanks, McKay."
"--being eaten alive by all kinds of blood-sucking insects. And also, my ass is going numb."
John brushed a wood chips from his knees. "As late as yesterday, you were begging me to schedule a mission to get away from Simpson and her merry carolers." He reached over and rotated the stick with his two marshmallows a quarter turn.
The Daedalus had brought a shipment a few weeks ago and he'd managed to get his hands on two bags before they were gone.
It had been the bribe with which he'd convinced Rodney to come at all.
Rodney closed his eyes in momentary disgust. "If I hear 'Santa Baby' one more time..." His shoulder brushed against John’s as he leaned over, squinting at the collection of little figures on the ground. "What are you doing?"
John shrugged. Using the tip of the knife, he gave the figure in his hands eyes. Then a mouth (he gave it a happy tilt). "Just felt like doing something with my hands, that's all."
Rodney picked up one of John's earlier creations. He turned it over in his hand. "Is this a dog?"
"No," John frowned.
"A troll?"
"It's a nativity scene," John muttered. "At least the beginning of one."
"I escape into the wilderness, but not even here can I get away from the Christmas crazies," Rodney sighed. He turned the wood figure over in his hands again. "I didn't realize nativity scenes had trolls."
"It's not a troll," John snapped. He hissed as the tip of the knife slipped. A drop of dark blood slowly appeared where it had scratched his skin of his finger. "It's a camel."
"Don't quit your day job, Joseph," Rodney snorted.
"I'd like to see you do better," John said sullenly. He sucked at the side of his finger to soothe the sting.
"No, thanks," Rodney said and returned the troll-- camel, dammit, camel-- to its spot next to the lone king. "I know my limitations. I'd be more likely to take my thumb off than to coax something looking even remotely like--"
He broke off and scrambled over to his stick.
"No!"
His stick drew an arc of bright, orange light in the air as he pulled it from the fire and waved the burning marshmallow around.
John snickered around his finger. "That's what you get for dissing my nativity," he said.
Rodney blew frantically at the flames until they went out.
"Dammit," he muttered. He poked gloomily at the charred, gooey remains of the marshmallow with the tip of his finger. "I told you I was never any good at this." He gave the marshmallow a last disapproving glare before he discarded it in the darkness behind them with a disgusted grunt.
"Good thing I'm a pro," John grinned. He stabbed the tip of the knife into a log and reached over for his own stick.
His marshmallows were perfect. Golden and sticky and just perfectly done. He pulled one off, juggling it a little as it burned his fingers.
Chewing, he held out the stick with his remaining marshmallow at Rodney, who made two futile grabs for it as John grinningly pulled it just out of reach at the last moment.
"Bastard," Rodney growled under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest, looking away.
"Language, McKay, language," John tsk'ed.
Rodney ignored him, his shoulders set stubbornly.
"Come on," John said. He held out the stick again. Wiggled it when Rodney didn't move to take it. "You want it or not?" He kept it there until Rodney gave him a baleful glare and snatched it from his hands.
"Bastard," Rodney muttered again.
"Hey. I let you have it, didn't I?"
"You should clean that, you know," Rodney said around the marshmallow. He nodded at John's hand.
"What? This?" John flexed his fingers. "It's just a scratch."
"Mm-hmm. Just a scratch, huh." Rodney licked his fingers. "That's what's everyone says until they develop gangrene or go septic and their hands fall off."
"Jeez, Rodney. Try not to be so positive about things. It's not healthy."
"Optimism is so over-rated." Rodney snagged his backpack and started rummaging through it. He made a satisfied sound as he found whatever he was looking for.
John let Rodney pull his hand close and felt cool wetness swipe over his skin, dipping between his fingers and over his knuckles. "My own Florence Nightingale," he mumbled.
"Shut up." Rodney took one more round with the disinfectant wipe before he stuffed it back into its single pack and tucked it away in a pocket of his backpack. "Hold up," he instructed. A band-aid wrapped around John's finger a moment later.
"Thanks."John squinted at Rodney's handiwork in the flickering firelight.
"I wasn't doing it for you."
John raised an eyebrow.
"Not everything is about you, you know," Rodney huffed.
"Sure. Okay. If you say so," John said.
He offered Rodney a marshmallow straight from the bag and went back to working on his nativity scene with a final amused shake of the head. An ox and an ugly shepherd later, he heard Rodney shift on the sleeping bag. Glancing up, he saw Rodney settle on his stomach, cheek resting on his hands.
"It would be a shame," Rodney mumbled into the sleeping bag.
"What?" John asked, his knife coming to a rest. "What would be a shame?"
The fire hissed and spat as a log re-settled in the pit. A swarm of embers rose into the darkness. Rodney said nothing, just closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
John threw a tiny (not quite) pine cone at Rodney. It hit just above his ear. "Hello. Ground control to Rodney. What would be a shame?" John asked again.
Nothing.
John took aim again. Shoulder. Ear. Shoulder again.
Rodney pushed up on his elbow, batting the next cone away in the air with impressive precision. "What are you five years old? Stop that!"
"Sure," John said agreeably. He tossed another. It got stuck in Rodney's hair. "As soon as you tell me what it is that would be a shame," he said.
Rodney picked the cone from his hair and threw it into the flames. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"
John grinned. "Nope."
"Your hands," Rodney finally said. "I just happen to think it would be a shame if they fell off, okay." He put his head down again, facing away from John.
"On behalf on my hands, I thank you for your concern," John smiled and bowed his head deeply.
"Yeah, well, I kinda like them," Rodney mumbled.
John put Mary down carefully. Hesitating only a moment, he reached out. He let his hand brush lightly over the fine hairs at the nape of Rodney's neck. The hair there was as soft as he'd imagined.
"My hands kinda like you, too," he said.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Rodney's lips were sweet and warm and sticky from marshmallows, and John found he didn't mind the hard, uneven ground under the sleeping bag.
Not at all.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Silvery morning mist still hugged the fields and the trees when the jumper came to pick them up.
Rodney spent the entire trip back to Atlantis complaining about his back, and John just grinned, because the troll, the sheep, and the rest of the nativity posse spent the trip stuffed deep in Rodney's backpack, and that was as much a declaration of love as anything.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
~ The End ~