FIC: Your Last Best Chance, by such_heights
Your Last Best Chance
by such_heights
PG-13 ; 2800 words ; spoilers through 5x14
Other friends make out drunkenly at parties, they apparently kiss when at death's maw most dire. It's a long time since anyone's accused either of them of being functional, after all.
Rodney doesn't know when this started.
Actually, no. That's a lie. He knows exactly when it started, remembers everything about the first time it happened - Wraith all over the city, and his plans failing even with Sheppard in that chair, and then Sheppard had got a look in his eyes that had somehow made Rodney feel even more terrified than he already was. He'd leaped upright, then paused for a fraction of a second, looking torn between saying something and bolting from the room. He had then settled for something else entirely, kneeling down to where Rodney was still crouched over his equipment, reaching out curl one hand around the back of Rodney's neck, fingers clutching at his hairline, then pulling Rodney up and half off his knees. Sheppard had kissed him then, quick and fierce, before muttering "so long, Rodney", jumping to his feet and sprinting away.
Rodney had yelled after him, but to no avail, and next thing he knew Sheppard was on his way to blow himself up, and that was when it really felt like the world was falling apart, even more than the days spent waiting for the Wraith's arrival. Evidently, Sheppard had a whole troupe of guardian angels working overtime on him, however, because he came back in one piece.
If it had been anyone else in this or any other galaxy, Rodney might have expected the incident to come up in conversation. But Sheppard was, after all, the unrivalled gold medallist in the 'Let's Never Speak Of This' Olympics, and Rodney wouldn't really have it any other way.
In the end, he pretty much put it down to Sheppard being crazy (a given), and Rodney being conveniently placed at the time. Last kiss for the condemned man and all that. Sheppard probably would have accosted just about anybody.
And if everything about it stayed vivid in Rodney's memory, well. For one, he's a genius who remembers an awful lot of things, and for another that whole intense period of 'oh god oh god we're all going to die' is probably going to stay seared into his brain for the rest of time.
*
Then it became, well, a thing. Both Sheppard's suicide runs, and the kissing incidents beforehand.
Not that it was exactly a weekly event (else Rodney would surely have had heart failure long before now - due to Sheppard nearly dying, obviously, not the other thing), but it continued to occur. Terrible danger, Rodney out of solutions, and Sheppard coming up with a new and inventive way to obliterate himself for the good of the galaxy. Rodney yelled, Sheppard snapped back, and then Sheppard grabbed his wrist, or ran a thumb along Rodney's jaw, or simply held onto his jacket and pulled until they were kissing, before he took one last run into the great beyond.
Then, somehow, Sheppard doesn't die, and later they don't talk about it, and then the whole cycle repeats itself. Other friends make out drunkenly at parties, they apparently kiss when at death's maw most dire.
It's a long time since anyone's accused either of them of being functional, after all.
Years pass, traditions start in various forms, and though Rodney would choose beer on the pier over John's reoccurring dances with death any day, if they must have one half of the equation then the other will follow, that sudden and now-familiar feeling of John's gasping breath against his mouth, and hands on skin, Rodney willing with all the might he has that touch alone can somehow give John luck and bring him home again.
It's worked so far, anyway.
*
Rodney's pretty sure that on the list of the very worst things that could happen (and though he's fallen short of committing such a thing to hard drive, the list definitely does exist), Michael invading Atlantis is right up there, probably top ten, because Jesus, Teyla, and Rodney had known that without evidence of the most concrete kind, the idea that Michael was dead and gone was much too good to be true.
Spectacularly bad day to start with, then, and now things are going from bad to worse because that's just the way the Pegasus galaxy works, and all because of two damn jumpers he didn't get around to fixing. And so here they are, and John's gone all kamikaze again, and oh how Rodney hates this.
Truthfully, he can't really do anything but cling to the irrational belief that it's going to be all right, because flying against all reason is wrapped up in the very nature of John Sheppard and since Rodney's let himself get swept away with it thus far, stopping now seems out of question. He reaches out for John, who looks up, and Rodney can only pray he gets what he's trying to say - this is my fault and I'm so tremendously sorry, and I'm here, and I'll be your good luck charm if you'll let me, because maybe if they stick to the trend, no matter how superstitious, they'll pull off the impossible again.
John hesitates, and from the looks of things, John's frozen expression, at this point Rodney's the only one relying on this whole 'kiss me so you don't die' thesis, but he's past caring under the circumstances. And yes, thank you, John extends his hand and maybe that'll do.
Then Zelenka's on the radio, plans have done a 180 and John's very much not dead, not today. Suddenly alone in the jumper, Rodney sits down in the pilot's seat, and if his hands are a little shaky for a moment there's no one there to see. And even though they have a good plan and John's just fine, all the tension he'd been winding around himself doesn't seem to have gone away, just shunted to the side.
That's for later. For now, Rodney lays his hands on the ship's controls, and takes flight. Time to save the day again.
*
They've both had long days surrounded by idiots - John's been helping Teyla attempt to instil some sense of inter-planetary diplomacy in the new recruits, and as for Rodney, seeing as the only times he's not confronted by stupidity on all sides tend to involve very desolate planets and missions with just his team, today's been pretty standard.
And the default response to the feeling of wanting to shoot everyone lies in watching other people do just that, so Rodney's holed up in John's quarters with the latest mindless slice of Hollywood and life on Earth that's being passed around the city. Rodney's not paying too much attention, because otherwise he'll only spend the duration casting aspersions on whoever they clearly didn't hire to do any basic research into the laws of physics, and that rarely goes down well with his fellow viewers.
But there are explosions, so John's happy, and Rodney's happy.
The conclusion appears to hang on a series of incredible fortuitous coincidences and some impeccable timing. Rodney would scoff, were it not for the fact that his life is made of nick-of-times and one-last-shots, because they've made million to one chances into an artform, Rodney and his team and his city.
The credits roll, so he checks the time and gets up. "Right," he says, "I should get going."
"What, where?" John looks up, confused. "I thought you were off for the rest of the night."
"No, I am. Only I was planning on going --" he waves a hand around a little "-- I was going to swing by the infirmary, Jennifer's shift's finishing in a few minutes."
"Oh, okay," comes John's easy reply as he turns away to shut off the DVD player.
"I --" Christ. Rodney's insides are churning, and when he thinks about it, it doesn't have very much to do with meeting Jennifer and a lot to do with walking out of here. "Uh," he starts again. "Can I -- have you got any --" he gestures uselessly towards the bathroom.
"Hmm? Sure, knock yourself out."
Rodney escapes as John calls, "Go easy on the products, all right? Try not to asphyxiate her," to his retreating back.
"Yeah yeah," Rodney mutters, flicking on the bathroom light and resting his hands on the counter, staring at himself in the mirror.
This is ridiculous. This is Not The Plan. Because the plan is Jennifer, and it's a plan that appears to have chances of success high enough to make it even worth contemplating. Rodney likes her, really likes her, wants to do this right, with care and forethought and all of that. But he's hiding out in a bathroom, heart pounding like a kid with a crush, and it's not her doing.
Rodney rattles through the cupboards, wondering if John has any kind of magic spray that will somehow make this all work itself out. Then he realises that everything in here is only going to smell of Sheppard, which definitely won't improve matters given the circumstances.
This is all stupendously unhelpful. Way to go yet again, McKay. Because it's not like John's had anything but all the time in the world to say something, and he never has. Because there is nothing to say, clearly, and the kamikaze-kissing thing is evidently not to be dwelled on, nor noteworthy in the slightest. Rodney absolutely should not have this lingering feeling of perverse disappointment from the Michael siege of a few weeks ago.
All the same, he figures that before he goes, it really wouldn't hurt to present John with one last wide-open goal. He splashes water on his face, glances blearily at himself in the mirror again, and walks back in.
"Do you think it's a good idea?" he asks as he enters.
John frowns for a second. "Yeah, I guess - she's probably fed up of all the sick people, you'll be a breath of fresh, healthy air or something."
"No no, I mean, in general. Me and Keller."
John looks physically pained at his opinion on the matter being consulted. "'Course it's a good idea. She's . . . nice." John's own expression saves Rodney from protesting that pathetic attempt. "Okay," he amends, "she's not just nice, she's -- you know, smart, pretty, all of that. And hey, I hear she's Teyla's star pupil right now, so she could probably kick your ass."
"And that's a quality I should be searching for?"
"Absolutely," John tells him, grinning.
Rodney really should get going. "Right," he says. But his feet don't seem to want to move, and so he starts talking again. "You're sure?" he asks. "Because if you've got any objections, if there's anything you'd like to say --" Rodney laughs, a laugh that's aiming for nonchalance but mostly comes out the side of achingly nervous. "I think it's basically speak now or forever hold your peace time."
John's very still at that, his expression very closed for a moment, just long enough for Rodney to think that maybe. Then John claps him on the shoulder, smile bright and encouraging. "Just go get the girl already!"
There it is, that's his answer, all wrapped up and neat and no more questions to ask. Then Rodney looks at John, really looks, and his jaw drops a little.
"That's your suicide run face," he blurts.
John steps back, startled. "What?"
"That's -- that's exactly how you looked in the underwater bay, that's your noble sacrifice and stupid heroics face."
John looks wary and confused. "You know, it's really not."
"But it is. God." Rodney stares at John some more. "You look --" He's not sure how his voice has dropped so low. "You look how I imagine you would, if there was something you wanted but you -- but you were giving it away."
"Rodney," John says with such despair that it's a certain yes, "you should go, you'll miss her. Just -- drop it, okay?"
"No," Rodney says. "I will not." And he can't, not when every nerve in his body is thrumming with uncertain hope.
"Please," John says, "you don't--"
Rodney cuts him off with just a look. "You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
"No. I don't - I didn't want --"
"To 'jeopardise our friendship'? Please."
"I would never," John says, voice hoarse and broken and honest.
God, how Rodney loves him.
The thought hits him like a thunderclap, like an exploding star, like the rush of the event horizon. It's nigh on enough to send him careening into a wall.
"You are, without a doubt, the single most ridiculous excuse for a human being I have ever met," he says to John, and kisses him.
John's eyes are wide open with shock, which is how Rodney realises his own eyes are open too, and wow, awkward. So he lets his eyes fall shut, the world falling away to nothing but the unmoving and insistent press of his mouth against John's.
It takes John a moment, but then Rodney feels the change, like he finally gets it, and he moves his arms, one hand tracing the line of Rodney's shoulder while the other reaches up to cup his face.
Then something in Rodney suddenly clenches in dread, and he pulls away, thrown.
"What--" John starts, and Rodney grabs his elbow for fear he's about to bolt out of his own room.
"Ah," Rodney says. "I don't know." He catches himself reaching for his ear-piece, then he realises. "Because this is normally an interlude seconds before you try to blow yourself up. So, my subconscious must be currently convinced something terrible is about to happen."
"What?" John asks again.
"You've gone and-- conditioned me, or something." Rodney narrows his eyes. "What else have you secretly Pavlov'd me into?"
"Clearly not a lot," John answers, in a voice that says jumper bay.
"Oh my God, I will fix the jumpers," Rodney says fervently. "I will fix all the jumpers, I will install X-Wing vs. Death Star simulations and fully-integrated surround systems and everything else, anything you want."
John laughs, ducking his head. "I think we're supposed to do our jobs in there, sometimes."
"Yes, but not all the time," Rodney counters. "Anyway."
"I'm sorry," John says suddenly. "About all of that."
"The conditioning of fear? Yeah, so you should be, I can see this being something of a problem."
"No, I mean, the whole thing, I really shouldn't have done that."
Rodney shrugs. "I didn't mind. Well --" he indicates the space between them, "clearly. Figured it was just a Sheppard thing, you know, grab whoever's closest for good luck or whatever."
John frowns. "No, that's not it. It was only ever--"
You is apparently a word outside of the limitations of John's vocabulary of emoting, but the implication's clear and Rodney gapes a little.
"Wait, you mean, every time since--?"
"Since," John agrees.
"I'd never have guessed," Rodney admits.
"That was kind of the point."
"So, why? Why did you do that?"
John twitches a little, and Rodney half-considers forfeiting the question and kissing him again, but he's still trying to fit it all together in his head, and he really wants the answer.
"Because every time I've thought that I had to-- I wanted something to take with me. Some last, best thing to have, and that's been - and that is--" The last word falls short again.
"Oh." Rodney doesn't know what to say. "I'm glad," he manages. "That I could -- be that."
John steps forward this time, occupied in grabbing Rodney at the hips and hauling him close.
"And you're sure?" he asks, face inches away from Rodney's.
"Exceptionally sure, yes," Rodney replies. "Really. Very, very much so."
Their lives are ones of victories against all odds, of so-unlikely-it-might-just-work and one in a million chances. This is all of those things and more, and that's what makes Rodney certain that it's right.
There's a smile blooming out across John's features, one of the completely open rarities that Rodney's always kept stored away somewhere without even noticing. And now he realises that the look on John's face is all for him, and so there's no calculation left to make, no questions left to ask, nothing left to do but take John's face between his hands and kiss him again.
by such_heights
PG-13 ; 2800 words ; spoilers through 5x14
Other friends make out drunkenly at parties, they apparently kiss when at death's maw most dire. It's a long time since anyone's accused either of them of being functional, after all.
Rodney doesn't know when this started.
Actually, no. That's a lie. He knows exactly when it started, remembers everything about the first time it happened - Wraith all over the city, and his plans failing even with Sheppard in that chair, and then Sheppard had got a look in his eyes that had somehow made Rodney feel even more terrified than he already was. He'd leaped upright, then paused for a fraction of a second, looking torn between saying something and bolting from the room. He had then settled for something else entirely, kneeling down to where Rodney was still crouched over his equipment, reaching out curl one hand around the back of Rodney's neck, fingers clutching at his hairline, then pulling Rodney up and half off his knees. Sheppard had kissed him then, quick and fierce, before muttering "so long, Rodney", jumping to his feet and sprinting away.
Rodney had yelled after him, but to no avail, and next thing he knew Sheppard was on his way to blow himself up, and that was when it really felt like the world was falling apart, even more than the days spent waiting for the Wraith's arrival. Evidently, Sheppard had a whole troupe of guardian angels working overtime on him, however, because he came back in one piece.
If it had been anyone else in this or any other galaxy, Rodney might have expected the incident to come up in conversation. But Sheppard was, after all, the unrivalled gold medallist in the 'Let's Never Speak Of This' Olympics, and Rodney wouldn't really have it any other way.
In the end, he pretty much put it down to Sheppard being crazy (a given), and Rodney being conveniently placed at the time. Last kiss for the condemned man and all that. Sheppard probably would have accosted just about anybody.
And if everything about it stayed vivid in Rodney's memory, well. For one, he's a genius who remembers an awful lot of things, and for another that whole intense period of 'oh god oh god we're all going to die' is probably going to stay seared into his brain for the rest of time.
*
Then it became, well, a thing. Both Sheppard's suicide runs, and the kissing incidents beforehand.
Not that it was exactly a weekly event (else Rodney would surely have had heart failure long before now - due to Sheppard nearly dying, obviously, not the other thing), but it continued to occur. Terrible danger, Rodney out of solutions, and Sheppard coming up with a new and inventive way to obliterate himself for the good of the galaxy. Rodney yelled, Sheppard snapped back, and then Sheppard grabbed his wrist, or ran a thumb along Rodney's jaw, or simply held onto his jacket and pulled until they were kissing, before he took one last run into the great beyond.
Then, somehow, Sheppard doesn't die, and later they don't talk about it, and then the whole cycle repeats itself. Other friends make out drunkenly at parties, they apparently kiss when at death's maw most dire.
It's a long time since anyone's accused either of them of being functional, after all.
Years pass, traditions start in various forms, and though Rodney would choose beer on the pier over John's reoccurring dances with death any day, if they must have one half of the equation then the other will follow, that sudden and now-familiar feeling of John's gasping breath against his mouth, and hands on skin, Rodney willing with all the might he has that touch alone can somehow give John luck and bring him home again.
It's worked so far, anyway.
*
Rodney's pretty sure that on the list of the very worst things that could happen (and though he's fallen short of committing such a thing to hard drive, the list definitely does exist), Michael invading Atlantis is right up there, probably top ten, because Jesus, Teyla, and Rodney had known that without evidence of the most concrete kind, the idea that Michael was dead and gone was much too good to be true.
Spectacularly bad day to start with, then, and now things are going from bad to worse because that's just the way the Pegasus galaxy works, and all because of two damn jumpers he didn't get around to fixing. And so here they are, and John's gone all kamikaze again, and oh how Rodney hates this.
Truthfully, he can't really do anything but cling to the irrational belief that it's going to be all right, because flying against all reason is wrapped up in the very nature of John Sheppard and since Rodney's let himself get swept away with it thus far, stopping now seems out of question. He reaches out for John, who looks up, and Rodney can only pray he gets what he's trying to say - this is my fault and I'm so tremendously sorry, and I'm here, and I'll be your good luck charm if you'll let me, because maybe if they stick to the trend, no matter how superstitious, they'll pull off the impossible again.
John hesitates, and from the looks of things, John's frozen expression, at this point Rodney's the only one relying on this whole 'kiss me so you don't die' thesis, but he's past caring under the circumstances. And yes, thank you, John extends his hand and maybe that'll do.
Then Zelenka's on the radio, plans have done a 180 and John's very much not dead, not today. Suddenly alone in the jumper, Rodney sits down in the pilot's seat, and if his hands are a little shaky for a moment there's no one there to see. And even though they have a good plan and John's just fine, all the tension he'd been winding around himself doesn't seem to have gone away, just shunted to the side.
That's for later. For now, Rodney lays his hands on the ship's controls, and takes flight. Time to save the day again.
*
They've both had long days surrounded by idiots - John's been helping Teyla attempt to instil some sense of inter-planetary diplomacy in the new recruits, and as for Rodney, seeing as the only times he's not confronted by stupidity on all sides tend to involve very desolate planets and missions with just his team, today's been pretty standard.
And the default response to the feeling of wanting to shoot everyone lies in watching other people do just that, so Rodney's holed up in John's quarters with the latest mindless slice of Hollywood and life on Earth that's being passed around the city. Rodney's not paying too much attention, because otherwise he'll only spend the duration casting aspersions on whoever they clearly didn't hire to do any basic research into the laws of physics, and that rarely goes down well with his fellow viewers.
But there are explosions, so John's happy, and Rodney's happy.
The conclusion appears to hang on a series of incredible fortuitous coincidences and some impeccable timing. Rodney would scoff, were it not for the fact that his life is made of nick-of-times and one-last-shots, because they've made million to one chances into an artform, Rodney and his team and his city.
The credits roll, so he checks the time and gets up. "Right," he says, "I should get going."
"What, where?" John looks up, confused. "I thought you were off for the rest of the night."
"No, I am. Only I was planning on going --" he waves a hand around a little "-- I was going to swing by the infirmary, Jennifer's shift's finishing in a few minutes."
"Oh, okay," comes John's easy reply as he turns away to shut off the DVD player.
"I --" Christ. Rodney's insides are churning, and when he thinks about it, it doesn't have very much to do with meeting Jennifer and a lot to do with walking out of here. "Uh," he starts again. "Can I -- have you got any --" he gestures uselessly towards the bathroom.
"Hmm? Sure, knock yourself out."
Rodney escapes as John calls, "Go easy on the products, all right? Try not to asphyxiate her," to his retreating back.
"Yeah yeah," Rodney mutters, flicking on the bathroom light and resting his hands on the counter, staring at himself in the mirror.
This is ridiculous. This is Not The Plan. Because the plan is Jennifer, and it's a plan that appears to have chances of success high enough to make it even worth contemplating. Rodney likes her, really likes her, wants to do this right, with care and forethought and all of that. But he's hiding out in a bathroom, heart pounding like a kid with a crush, and it's not her doing.
Rodney rattles through the cupboards, wondering if John has any kind of magic spray that will somehow make this all work itself out. Then he realises that everything in here is only going to smell of Sheppard, which definitely won't improve matters given the circumstances.
This is all stupendously unhelpful. Way to go yet again, McKay. Because it's not like John's had anything but all the time in the world to say something, and he never has. Because there is nothing to say, clearly, and the kamikaze-kissing thing is evidently not to be dwelled on, nor noteworthy in the slightest. Rodney absolutely should not have this lingering feeling of perverse disappointment from the Michael siege of a few weeks ago.
All the same, he figures that before he goes, it really wouldn't hurt to present John with one last wide-open goal. He splashes water on his face, glances blearily at himself in the mirror again, and walks back in.
"Do you think it's a good idea?" he asks as he enters.
John frowns for a second. "Yeah, I guess - she's probably fed up of all the sick people, you'll be a breath of fresh, healthy air or something."
"No no, I mean, in general. Me and Keller."
John looks physically pained at his opinion on the matter being consulted. "'Course it's a good idea. She's . . . nice." John's own expression saves Rodney from protesting that pathetic attempt. "Okay," he amends, "she's not just nice, she's -- you know, smart, pretty, all of that. And hey, I hear she's Teyla's star pupil right now, so she could probably kick your ass."
"And that's a quality I should be searching for?"
"Absolutely," John tells him, grinning.
Rodney really should get going. "Right," he says. But his feet don't seem to want to move, and so he starts talking again. "You're sure?" he asks. "Because if you've got any objections, if there's anything you'd like to say --" Rodney laughs, a laugh that's aiming for nonchalance but mostly comes out the side of achingly nervous. "I think it's basically speak now or forever hold your peace time."
John's very still at that, his expression very closed for a moment, just long enough for Rodney to think that maybe. Then John claps him on the shoulder, smile bright and encouraging. "Just go get the girl already!"
There it is, that's his answer, all wrapped up and neat and no more questions to ask. Then Rodney looks at John, really looks, and his jaw drops a little.
"That's your suicide run face," he blurts.
John steps back, startled. "What?"
"That's -- that's exactly how you looked in the underwater bay, that's your noble sacrifice and stupid heroics face."
John looks wary and confused. "You know, it's really not."
"But it is. God." Rodney stares at John some more. "You look --" He's not sure how his voice has dropped so low. "You look how I imagine you would, if there was something you wanted but you -- but you were giving it away."
"Rodney," John says with such despair that it's a certain yes, "you should go, you'll miss her. Just -- drop it, okay?"
"No," Rodney says. "I will not." And he can't, not when every nerve in his body is thrumming with uncertain hope.
"Please," John says, "you don't--"
Rodney cuts him off with just a look. "You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
"No. I don't - I didn't want --"
"To 'jeopardise our friendship'? Please."
"I would never," John says, voice hoarse and broken and honest.
God, how Rodney loves him.
The thought hits him like a thunderclap, like an exploding star, like the rush of the event horizon. It's nigh on enough to send him careening into a wall.
"You are, without a doubt, the single most ridiculous excuse for a human being I have ever met," he says to John, and kisses him.
John's eyes are wide open with shock, which is how Rodney realises his own eyes are open too, and wow, awkward. So he lets his eyes fall shut, the world falling away to nothing but the unmoving and insistent press of his mouth against John's.
It takes John a moment, but then Rodney feels the change, like he finally gets it, and he moves his arms, one hand tracing the line of Rodney's shoulder while the other reaches up to cup his face.
Then something in Rodney suddenly clenches in dread, and he pulls away, thrown.
"What--" John starts, and Rodney grabs his elbow for fear he's about to bolt out of his own room.
"Ah," Rodney says. "I don't know." He catches himself reaching for his ear-piece, then he realises. "Because this is normally an interlude seconds before you try to blow yourself up. So, my subconscious must be currently convinced something terrible is about to happen."
"What?" John asks again.
"You've gone and-- conditioned me, or something." Rodney narrows his eyes. "What else have you secretly Pavlov'd me into?"
"Clearly not a lot," John answers, in a voice that says jumper bay.
"Oh my God, I will fix the jumpers," Rodney says fervently. "I will fix all the jumpers, I will install X-Wing vs. Death Star simulations and fully-integrated surround systems and everything else, anything you want."
John laughs, ducking his head. "I think we're supposed to do our jobs in there, sometimes."
"Yes, but not all the time," Rodney counters. "Anyway."
"I'm sorry," John says suddenly. "About all of that."
"The conditioning of fear? Yeah, so you should be, I can see this being something of a problem."
"No, I mean, the whole thing, I really shouldn't have done that."
Rodney shrugs. "I didn't mind. Well --" he indicates the space between them, "clearly. Figured it was just a Sheppard thing, you know, grab whoever's closest for good luck or whatever."
John frowns. "No, that's not it. It was only ever--"
You is apparently a word outside of the limitations of John's vocabulary of emoting, but the implication's clear and Rodney gapes a little.
"Wait, you mean, every time since--?"
"Since," John agrees.
"I'd never have guessed," Rodney admits.
"That was kind of the point."
"So, why? Why did you do that?"
John twitches a little, and Rodney half-considers forfeiting the question and kissing him again, but he's still trying to fit it all together in his head, and he really wants the answer.
"Because every time I've thought that I had to-- I wanted something to take with me. Some last, best thing to have, and that's been - and that is--" The last word falls short again.
"Oh." Rodney doesn't know what to say. "I'm glad," he manages. "That I could -- be that."
John steps forward this time, occupied in grabbing Rodney at the hips and hauling him close.
"And you're sure?" he asks, face inches away from Rodney's.
"Exceptionally sure, yes," Rodney replies. "Really. Very, very much so."
Their lives are ones of victories against all odds, of so-unlikely-it-might-just-work and one in a million chances. This is all of those things and more, and that's what makes Rodney certain that it's right.
There's a smile blooming out across John's features, one of the completely open rarities that Rodney's always kept stored away somewhere without even noticing. And now he realises that the look on John's face is all for him, and so there's no calculation left to make, no questions left to ask, nothing left to do but take John's face between his hands and kiss him again.