untitled [aftermath], by sin, for the enclosed spaces challenge
with thanks to nemoinis, coreopsis and merryish
untitled [aftermath]
It was hard. Harder than he'd thought, and harder than it should have been, to walk away and leave Rodney in Beckett's care. They'd relied on each other so much in the past few days that it seemed wrong not to have Rodney muttering complaints in his ear as he walked back to his quarters.
But Rodney needed that leg taken care of, not to mention the painkillers that only Carson could provide, while John only needed a shower and some codeine to dull the pain in his ribs. That, and to remember not to move too fast, because the only thing that was going to help him heal was time.
He sighed. At least they didn't have to worry about not having that anymore. They had all the time in the world now they were back home. Time to heal. Time to think.
The whoosh of the door was a welcome relief, and John dropped his belt and holster on the table without a backward glance as he headed toward the bathroom. He needed to get the dirt and grime of the last couple of days off his skin, not to mention the dried blood -- his own and Rodney's -- that flaked from his clothes and rimed the flesh under his nails.
He hissed when he leaned over to untie his boots, but clenched his teeth and got through it with only a few more needle-sharp stabs of pain and a lot of swearing. Tossing them carelessly to the side, he stepped into the shower and turned his face up to the spray that hit him after only a thought. Sometimes having the gene was a blessing.
And sometimes, having it was a curse.
If he didn't have it, he wouldn't have been here, wouldn't have come halfway across the goddamn universe. Wouldn't have had to take command, wouldn't have had to face the Wraith or the Genii. He would've been safe in his isolation, with nothing but plains of ice and snow between him and the horizon.
And he sure as fucking hell wouldn't have had to drag McKay back through the wormhole with a gunshot wound in the leg.
Fuck. He scrubbed his hands over his face and leaned against the wall of the shower. He knew what this was, he knew how to deal. Been there, done that, but it didn't make any difference when the shaking started and his knees began to buckle. Delayed reaction, shock, battle fatigue -- whatever the hell you wanted to call it -- it was proof against his rationalisations, against his evasions. It cared nothing for the ways he tried to explain it away while he slid down the wall to slump on the floor, the water a veil he could hide behind as it streamed from his hair.
God, he'd gotten cocky. He'd gotten cocky -- they'd made it out of the damn cell, albeit with a little help from some friends -- and let his guard down once they were in sight of the gate. He'd just been so glad to feel fresh air on his face, to see the light of satisfaction back in Rodney's eyes again, but he should have known better. Hell, he did know better. They were never home free until they set foot in Atlantis again, but he'd let his guard down and Rodney had almost died because of it. After everything they'd been through.
John laughed and the harsh sound clawed at his chest, a jagged pain. He'd almost had Rodney measured for a body bag instead of an infirmary bed, and the very thought brought the return of the nausea he'd been fighting off since they arrived back in the city. Dumb luck. That's all it was. Dumb fucking luck. John pushed the hair from his eyes and rested his forehead against his knees. God, thoughts of the alternative endings to their little escapade kept playing themselves in his mind.
God, so close to losing him. If Rodney hadn't been turning, if the bullet had hit the artery instead of going through the meat of his upper thigh --
John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes reminding himself that, yes, it could have been different, but it wasn't. He was alive. Rodney was alive. Hell, Rodney was more than alive, he was chipper enough to have been voicing his complaints about everything from the way his pants were ruined to how much he hated the Genii to the fact that someone in the laundry had obviously been using salt or something to clean the infirmary linens because the sheets were going to make him break out in hives and could someone at least go get his own from his room. Not to mention the voluble complaints about the ham-handness of the medical staff. It was only once the morphine kicked in that Rodney slowed down and then suddenly fell asleep.
He'd almost had a heart attack when that happened. One minute he was having his ribs checked out and listening to Rodney complain and then silence. And all he could think of, the only thing that came to mind was the worst case scenario. Beckett must have seen the change in his expression because before he could get his head wrapped around it and his body in gear to check on Rodney, Carson's hands had clamped down on his shoulders as he calmly pointed out the true reality of the situation.
He never wanted to have to go through that again, but dwelling on the might have beens was doing no one any good. Not himself, not Rodney, not the rest of the people he needed to look after. Sure, they were a little banged up and worse for wear, but they were alive. Learn from your mistakes and move on.
John sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to relax, pushing away the doubts and the fears and the demons still lurking inside his head. Time for enough for those later, but not now. Now was about washing the dirt of captivity off and then going back to check on Rodney.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he sighed ruefully as he brought his focus back to the here and now, his physical discomfort finally registering. Plucking at the soaked material of his pants, he shook his head ruefully.
You know, showering does actually work a lot better when you get rid of your clothes first.
He wasn't sure when his internal voice of reason had started to sound like Rodney -- and there was something vaguely unfair about that given the circumstances -- but right now, he was glad of it. It grounded him and brought him back where he needed to be.
Soaking wet and thankful that at least he'd taken his boots off before stepping into the shower.
John chuckled weakly at his own idiocy and awkwardly shucked his pants, his t-shirt following with a pained hiss and a wet splat soon after. Pushing himself to his feet, he lifted his face to the spray once more.
They were alive. That was all that mattered.
untitled [aftermath]
It was hard. Harder than he'd thought, and harder than it should have been, to walk away and leave Rodney in Beckett's care. They'd relied on each other so much in the past few days that it seemed wrong not to have Rodney muttering complaints in his ear as he walked back to his quarters.
But Rodney needed that leg taken care of, not to mention the painkillers that only Carson could provide, while John only needed a shower and some codeine to dull the pain in his ribs. That, and to remember not to move too fast, because the only thing that was going to help him heal was time.
He sighed. At least they didn't have to worry about not having that anymore. They had all the time in the world now they were back home. Time to heal. Time to think.
The whoosh of the door was a welcome relief, and John dropped his belt and holster on the table without a backward glance as he headed toward the bathroom. He needed to get the dirt and grime of the last couple of days off his skin, not to mention the dried blood -- his own and Rodney's -- that flaked from his clothes and rimed the flesh under his nails.
He hissed when he leaned over to untie his boots, but clenched his teeth and got through it with only a few more needle-sharp stabs of pain and a lot of swearing. Tossing them carelessly to the side, he stepped into the shower and turned his face up to the spray that hit him after only a thought. Sometimes having the gene was a blessing.
And sometimes, having it was a curse.
If he didn't have it, he wouldn't have been here, wouldn't have come halfway across the goddamn universe. Wouldn't have had to take command, wouldn't have had to face the Wraith or the Genii. He would've been safe in his isolation, with nothing but plains of ice and snow between him and the horizon.
And he sure as fucking hell wouldn't have had to drag McKay back through the wormhole with a gunshot wound in the leg.
Fuck. He scrubbed his hands over his face and leaned against the wall of the shower. He knew what this was, he knew how to deal. Been there, done that, but it didn't make any difference when the shaking started and his knees began to buckle. Delayed reaction, shock, battle fatigue -- whatever the hell you wanted to call it -- it was proof against his rationalisations, against his evasions. It cared nothing for the ways he tried to explain it away while he slid down the wall to slump on the floor, the water a veil he could hide behind as it streamed from his hair.
God, he'd gotten cocky. He'd gotten cocky -- they'd made it out of the damn cell, albeit with a little help from some friends -- and let his guard down once they were in sight of the gate. He'd just been so glad to feel fresh air on his face, to see the light of satisfaction back in Rodney's eyes again, but he should have known better. Hell, he did know better. They were never home free until they set foot in Atlantis again, but he'd let his guard down and Rodney had almost died because of it. After everything they'd been through.
John laughed and the harsh sound clawed at his chest, a jagged pain. He'd almost had Rodney measured for a body bag instead of an infirmary bed, and the very thought brought the return of the nausea he'd been fighting off since they arrived back in the city. Dumb luck. That's all it was. Dumb fucking luck. John pushed the hair from his eyes and rested his forehead against his knees. God, thoughts of the alternative endings to their little escapade kept playing themselves in his mind.
God, so close to losing him. If Rodney hadn't been turning, if the bullet had hit the artery instead of going through the meat of his upper thigh --
John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes reminding himself that, yes, it could have been different, but it wasn't. He was alive. Rodney was alive. Hell, Rodney was more than alive, he was chipper enough to have been voicing his complaints about everything from the way his pants were ruined to how much he hated the Genii to the fact that someone in the laundry had obviously been using salt or something to clean the infirmary linens because the sheets were going to make him break out in hives and could someone at least go get his own from his room. Not to mention the voluble complaints about the ham-handness of the medical staff. It was only once the morphine kicked in that Rodney slowed down and then suddenly fell asleep.
He'd almost had a heart attack when that happened. One minute he was having his ribs checked out and listening to Rodney complain and then silence. And all he could think of, the only thing that came to mind was the worst case scenario. Beckett must have seen the change in his expression because before he could get his head wrapped around it and his body in gear to check on Rodney, Carson's hands had clamped down on his shoulders as he calmly pointed out the true reality of the situation.
He never wanted to have to go through that again, but dwelling on the might have beens was doing no one any good. Not himself, not Rodney, not the rest of the people he needed to look after. Sure, they were a little banged up and worse for wear, but they were alive. Learn from your mistakes and move on.
John sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to relax, pushing away the doubts and the fears and the demons still lurking inside his head. Time for enough for those later, but not now. Now was about washing the dirt of captivity off and then going back to check on Rodney.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he sighed ruefully as he brought his focus back to the here and now, his physical discomfort finally registering. Plucking at the soaked material of his pants, he shook his head ruefully.
You know, showering does actually work a lot better when you get rid of your clothes first.
He wasn't sure when his internal voice of reason had started to sound like Rodney -- and there was something vaguely unfair about that given the circumstances -- but right now, he was glad of it. It grounded him and brought him back where he needed to be.
Soaking wet and thankful that at least he'd taken his boots off before stepping into the shower.
John chuckled weakly at his own idiocy and awkwardly shucked his pants, his t-shirt following with a pained hiss and a wet splat soon after. Pushing himself to his feet, he lifted his face to the spray once more.
They were alive. That was all that mattered.