White Sands (Post Secret challenge)
Title: White Sands
Author: amothea
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R
Warning: Deals with aftermath of a rape. Not graphic.
Word Count: 1,770
Author Note: I'd like to thank kyrieane and inyron for their help in beta reading this story.
Rodney stared at the postcard in his hands, emotions held tightly inside. All the pieces of a puzzle falling into place.
He'd come back from lunch and found, sitting on the keys of his laptop, a picture of a high moon gleaming onto sand dunes; “White Sands National Park” was written in a small font in the upper corner. Curious, he turned the card over and read, One summer on a family vacation, I was kidnapped, raped, and dumped half dead in the desert. It wasn't signed, but Rodney recognized John's handwriting.
Rodney continued to stare at the card until his science staff drifted in from lunch, talking amongst themselves as they got back to work. Reluctantly, he slid the postcard under his laptop and focused on his current project. But it was a completely wasted effort, he realized after an hour passed with little progress. He couldn't take his mind off the damned postcard.
He'd hacked John's personnel record his first week in Atlantis, once he realized he knew next to nothing about the Major who was now in charge of the military operations in Atlantis. He found nothing to indicate a kidnapping or an injury that extreme, at least not until after he joined the military - after that his life expectancy plummeted. One risky mission after another, a few bad calls, and now Atlantis.
He tried to imagine John as a gawky teenager, all bones, sharp angles, irresistible grin, hair out of control. He could all too easily imagine some man, or men, taking him and hurting him. How that grin would fade, how helpless he must have felt. Not having had any hope for rescue. No military training, no real physical strength. Rodney felt sick.
Unable to stay in the lab, he closed his laptop, stuffed it into his bag, swiped the postcard off the table, and left the lab. Two years into this mission, his people knew what they needed to do, and they'd do it without his supervision. Though he'd never admit it to anyone.
He dumped his laptop in his room, stripped off his grey jacket, clutched the postcard in his damp hand, and began his search for John. It took him up to command, the cafeteria, John's number one favorite balcony, the Puddle Jumper bay, the gym, the weapons locker, and the firing range. Frustrated, Rodney went back up to command. No one questioned him using the city computers to search for John, one of the perks of his position.
The transporter and his own brisk pace had him out at the pier the Genii shot to hell in less than ten minutes. John was leaning against the railing, and from the doorway, Rodney watched as the wind pressed against John and drifted around, gently caressing his hair, while plastering his jacket to his arm. It wasn't winter yet, but the wind made it colder and the air sharper. John must have heard the door open but he didn't turn around or say anything even when Rodney joined him at the rail.
The chill raised goosebumps on his arms and his chest; he ignored the discomfort and leaned his arms on the rail, looking at the beautiful picture, the words on the back already burned into his memory.
"I didn't know what to do with this," Rodney said, and handed the card to John. "I'm not sure if this is your way of saying you don't want to do sleep with me anymore, or if it means something else?"
When John didn't say anything, just stared out at the sea, Rodney nervously filled the silence. "I mean, I never got a postcard when someone wanted to dump me, but there's a first time for everything, you know?"
A faint grin ghosted across John's lips. "That isn't why I gave you the card, Rodney." John stood straight, no longer leaning against the railing.
Rodney took the card when John passed it back to him, and their fingers touched. A jolt of longing, concern, and passion hit him, and his hand trembled, resisting the temptation to reach up and rest on the nape of John's neck. It took him a few months to get past the not-blonde, military, and male before he'd admit John had this affect on him.
"I don't have any big secrets to share back," Rodney said. "Nothing like this anyway."
"I didn't do this to get a secret from you."
"I wish you hadn't told me," Rodney scowled. "I can't get it out of my head now." He held the postcard out over the ocean, "I don't know what to do, or how to react. I don't want to hurt you."
John nodded, and leaned his forearms back on the railing. "Just be yourself. I've had over a decade to come to terms with this."
"I don't think you have," Rodney said bluntly. "You're friendly but you don't let anyone close, but a lot of people are like that so maybe that's okay - but I've read your service record. Does death-wish mean anything to you?"
"I don't..."
"Oh, please! Do you want me to go and print out my proof?" Rodney scoffed at John's pathetic attempts to make what happened to him seem unimportant.
John shook his head, his eyes growing frostier by the second, and his jaw setting in an all-too-familiar stubborn tilt. "I shared that information so you'll let up about fucking me."
It took a second for John's words to penetrate. Furious, he gripped the rail in his fist, trying hard to resist the urge to punch John. "And you thought this was the best way to do it?" Rodney asked quietly, before he let go of the rail and grabbed John's shoulder, pulled him away from the rail, and shouted, "You asshole! If you're so damned afraid of gay sex why the hell are you even with me?" He slapped the postcard against John's chest. John had no choice but to grab it before the wind picked it up and carried it away.
Rodney turned away, stomach trembling, afraid that if he looked at John another second he'd punch him. He hated feeling like he'd somehow abused John by asking his lover what should be a perfectly reasonable question. He didn't press on this issue and John never said it made him uncomfortable. He refused to feel guilty for having sex with John; he wasn't the one that raped him all those years ago.
"I didn't mean it that way, Rodney." John sounded weary and a little exasperated. "I like men. I like what we do. I just wanted you to understand why there are some things I'm uncomfortable doing." John still had the picture held to his chest, "I've never told anyone else before." His voice dipped low, the wind almost obscuring his last sentence.
"Well, maybe you should have," Rodney said, turning to face John again. "Have you had any counseling?" Rodney didn't see any shame in therapy.
A muscle in John's jaw ticked, Rodney tilted his own jaw, knowing he was right.
"There are some things, Rodney...." John stopped, "After I got out of the hospital, my dad went to great lengths to hide what happened. There was no one. And after a few years, it was just something that happened. I got over it."
"Your father was wrong to do that, you were just a kid. It wasn't your fault." Before John could respond, Rodney added, "And you're obviously not 'over it' if certain aspects of sex still make you uncomfortable."
"Maybe you're right," John conceded.
Rodney's anger deflated. "I hate what happened to you. I wish I could kill the guy that hurt you."
"Guys," John corrected, not looking at him. "I wish I could kill them too. It happened when I was fourteen, and I still remember the details so clearly." He laughed softly to himself, but it sounded more like a sob he couldn't release.
Rodney didn't know what to say; he didn’t want to deal with this, he wanted to go back to his room, eat his last stash of Frito chips, watch a movie, and pretend that John was never young enough for anyone to hurt or take advantage of.
He wanted to go back three nights, to quick blowjobs, a shower together, John slowly fucking him into his mattress. Kissing his shoulders, mouthing the back of his neck, which drove him crazy. To strong hands holding his hips in just the right angle. To lying in bed together afterwards, John spooned behind him, breathing heavily, their fingers intertwined against his chest. He ached with the realization that he loved John, and John figured it out first.
Rodney moved to stand next to John, close enough for their shoulders to rub, and for Rodney to see the card words on the back of the card. John traced them with his fingertip. "I don't want to end what we have," Rodney said softly. "I'm happy with you and I think I make you happy too, most days. I'm willing to give you time if you need it, or to listen if you want to talk."
The tension in John's shoulders eased; Rodney hadn't really noticed how tightly John had held himself until then. The strain around his eyes eased too.
"If we’re going to have this talk, I prefer to do it out of the wind and cold," John said, letting the postcard loose. The wind picked it up and carried it a short distance before gravity pulled it close enough for the waves to grab it.
John patted him on the shoulder, and Rodney followed him off the pier and back to his room, where he spent the next two hours listening to the hardest words he had to hear.
-end-
Author: amothea
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R
Warning: Deals with aftermath of a rape. Not graphic.
Word Count: 1,770
Author Note: I'd like to thank kyrieane and inyron for their help in beta reading this story.
Rodney stared at the postcard in his hands, emotions held tightly inside. All the pieces of a puzzle falling into place.
He'd come back from lunch and found, sitting on the keys of his laptop, a picture of a high moon gleaming onto sand dunes; “White Sands National Park” was written in a small font in the upper corner. Curious, he turned the card over and read, One summer on a family vacation, I was kidnapped, raped, and dumped half dead in the desert. It wasn't signed, but Rodney recognized John's handwriting.
Rodney continued to stare at the card until his science staff drifted in from lunch, talking amongst themselves as they got back to work. Reluctantly, he slid the postcard under his laptop and focused on his current project. But it was a completely wasted effort, he realized after an hour passed with little progress. He couldn't take his mind off the damned postcard.
He'd hacked John's personnel record his first week in Atlantis, once he realized he knew next to nothing about the Major who was now in charge of the military operations in Atlantis. He found nothing to indicate a kidnapping or an injury that extreme, at least not until after he joined the military - after that his life expectancy plummeted. One risky mission after another, a few bad calls, and now Atlantis.
He tried to imagine John as a gawky teenager, all bones, sharp angles, irresistible grin, hair out of control. He could all too easily imagine some man, or men, taking him and hurting him. How that grin would fade, how helpless he must have felt. Not having had any hope for rescue. No military training, no real physical strength. Rodney felt sick.
Unable to stay in the lab, he closed his laptop, stuffed it into his bag, swiped the postcard off the table, and left the lab. Two years into this mission, his people knew what they needed to do, and they'd do it without his supervision. Though he'd never admit it to anyone.
He dumped his laptop in his room, stripped off his grey jacket, clutched the postcard in his damp hand, and began his search for John. It took him up to command, the cafeteria, John's number one favorite balcony, the Puddle Jumper bay, the gym, the weapons locker, and the firing range. Frustrated, Rodney went back up to command. No one questioned him using the city computers to search for John, one of the perks of his position.
The transporter and his own brisk pace had him out at the pier the Genii shot to hell in less than ten minutes. John was leaning against the railing, and from the doorway, Rodney watched as the wind pressed against John and drifted around, gently caressing his hair, while plastering his jacket to his arm. It wasn't winter yet, but the wind made it colder and the air sharper. John must have heard the door open but he didn't turn around or say anything even when Rodney joined him at the rail.
The chill raised goosebumps on his arms and his chest; he ignored the discomfort and leaned his arms on the rail, looking at the beautiful picture, the words on the back already burned into his memory.
"I didn't know what to do with this," Rodney said, and handed the card to John. "I'm not sure if this is your way of saying you don't want to do sleep with me anymore, or if it means something else?"
When John didn't say anything, just stared out at the sea, Rodney nervously filled the silence. "I mean, I never got a postcard when someone wanted to dump me, but there's a first time for everything, you know?"
A faint grin ghosted across John's lips. "That isn't why I gave you the card, Rodney." John stood straight, no longer leaning against the railing.
Rodney took the card when John passed it back to him, and their fingers touched. A jolt of longing, concern, and passion hit him, and his hand trembled, resisting the temptation to reach up and rest on the nape of John's neck. It took him a few months to get past the not-blonde, military, and male before he'd admit John had this affect on him.
"I don't have any big secrets to share back," Rodney said. "Nothing like this anyway."
"I didn't do this to get a secret from you."
"I wish you hadn't told me," Rodney scowled. "I can't get it out of my head now." He held the postcard out over the ocean, "I don't know what to do, or how to react. I don't want to hurt you."
John nodded, and leaned his forearms back on the railing. "Just be yourself. I've had over a decade to come to terms with this."
"I don't think you have," Rodney said bluntly. "You're friendly but you don't let anyone close, but a lot of people are like that so maybe that's okay - but I've read your service record. Does death-wish mean anything to you?"
"I don't..."
"Oh, please! Do you want me to go and print out my proof?" Rodney scoffed at John's pathetic attempts to make what happened to him seem unimportant.
John shook his head, his eyes growing frostier by the second, and his jaw setting in an all-too-familiar stubborn tilt. "I shared that information so you'll let up about fucking me."
It took a second for John's words to penetrate. Furious, he gripped the rail in his fist, trying hard to resist the urge to punch John. "And you thought this was the best way to do it?" Rodney asked quietly, before he let go of the rail and grabbed John's shoulder, pulled him away from the rail, and shouted, "You asshole! If you're so damned afraid of gay sex why the hell are you even with me?" He slapped the postcard against John's chest. John had no choice but to grab it before the wind picked it up and carried it away.
Rodney turned away, stomach trembling, afraid that if he looked at John another second he'd punch him. He hated feeling like he'd somehow abused John by asking his lover what should be a perfectly reasonable question. He didn't press on this issue and John never said it made him uncomfortable. He refused to feel guilty for having sex with John; he wasn't the one that raped him all those years ago.
"I didn't mean it that way, Rodney." John sounded weary and a little exasperated. "I like men. I like what we do. I just wanted you to understand why there are some things I'm uncomfortable doing." John still had the picture held to his chest, "I've never told anyone else before." His voice dipped low, the wind almost obscuring his last sentence.
"Well, maybe you should have," Rodney said, turning to face John again. "Have you had any counseling?" Rodney didn't see any shame in therapy.
A muscle in John's jaw ticked, Rodney tilted his own jaw, knowing he was right.
"There are some things, Rodney...." John stopped, "After I got out of the hospital, my dad went to great lengths to hide what happened. There was no one. And after a few years, it was just something that happened. I got over it."
"Your father was wrong to do that, you were just a kid. It wasn't your fault." Before John could respond, Rodney added, "And you're obviously not 'over it' if certain aspects of sex still make you uncomfortable."
"Maybe you're right," John conceded.
Rodney's anger deflated. "I hate what happened to you. I wish I could kill the guy that hurt you."
"Guys," John corrected, not looking at him. "I wish I could kill them too. It happened when I was fourteen, and I still remember the details so clearly." He laughed softly to himself, but it sounded more like a sob he couldn't release.
Rodney didn't know what to say; he didn’t want to deal with this, he wanted to go back to his room, eat his last stash of Frito chips, watch a movie, and pretend that John was never young enough for anyone to hurt or take advantage of.
He wanted to go back three nights, to quick blowjobs, a shower together, John slowly fucking him into his mattress. Kissing his shoulders, mouthing the back of his neck, which drove him crazy. To strong hands holding his hips in just the right angle. To lying in bed together afterwards, John spooned behind him, breathing heavily, their fingers intertwined against his chest. He ached with the realization that he loved John, and John figured it out first.
Rodney moved to stand next to John, close enough for their shoulders to rub, and for Rodney to see the card words on the back of the card. John traced them with his fingertip. "I don't want to end what we have," Rodney said softly. "I'm happy with you and I think I make you happy too, most days. I'm willing to give you time if you need it, or to listen if you want to talk."
The tension in John's shoulders eased; Rodney hadn't really noticed how tightly John had held himself until then. The strain around his eyes eased too.
"If we’re going to have this talk, I prefer to do it out of the wind and cold," John said, letting the postcard loose. The wind picked it up and carried it a short distance before gravity pulled it close enough for the waves to grab it.
John patted him on the shoulder, and Rodney followed him off the pier and back to his room, where he spent the next two hours listening to the hardest words he had to hear.
-end-