Sleepless by dogeared (Amnesty 2006/Exhaustion Challenge)
Title: Sleepless
Author: dogeared
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG
Summary: Sleeping in a strange bed can be hard. 1,160 words.
It was the third night, or maybe only the second, and it was near dawn. Or it wasn't. John didn't know, and opening his eyes to check his watch or to look out the little window to see if the sky was lightening seemed like a monumental effort. What he did know was that Rodney had just repeated his routine of waking up, flopping noisily over onto his other side, and falling back asleep for the fourteenth time that night. John kept his eyes determinedly shut, but sleep seemed impossibly far away.
* * *
"Just tell me that you don't think those are the most ridiculously rock-like beds you've ever slept on." Rodney was complaining over breakfast, again, but he'd seemed a little more subdued each subsequent morning of their week-long stay on P42-6K5.
When Ronon said, "I've slept on rocks," Rodney just sighed.
"See, at least it's a bed, Rodney. Could be worse." John gave him a look that said, hey, I'm amused and alert and well-rested. Rodney scowled back, then yawned enormously. John slapped him on the shoulder and clenched his jaw to stifle his own yawn.
* * *
The next night, after what seemed to John like hours of shifting and creaking and rustling from Rodney's side of the room, Rodney finally flung off his blankets completely and lay on the bare mattress. He might even have been panting a little, but it was hard to tell for sure, and John practiced lying still and quiet and thinking cool thoughts and tuned out Rodney's mutterings about furnaces masquerading as guest rooms.
* * *
Another morning, Rodney ranted for fifteen solid minutes (John admitted to himself that he was a little impressed) about the accommodations-"I swear these are even narrower than our beds in Atlantis-I feel like if I move an inch the wrong way, I'll end up on the floor!"-and his aching joints, pausing only for bites of something suspiciously like sausage and grits, and then hardly said anything else for the rest of the day.
* * *
By the sixth night, John figured he'd had just about as much as he could take. His eyes were dry and scratchy and his skin felt stretched as thin as his patience. He'd snapped at Rodney whenever they were in the same room all day, but Rodney was doing delicate work despite the deep purple smudges under his eyes, so John did his best to save both their nerves and mostly tried to make himself scarce, wandering the village and the surrounding woods with Ronon and leaving Teyla to watch over Rodney.
John had even entertained the idea of foisting Rodney off on Teyla for their last night, but where Rodney'd been quiet and hunched at breakfast, summoning the energy for one brief comment about scratchy homespun linens before going back to staring blankly at his cup of the licorice-flavored local tea ("It will invigorate you, Dr. McKay!" insisted their hosts), he was downright mean at dinner, blown way past sarcastic, snarling indiscriminately at everyone and everything, spearing savagely at his plate of stewed greens. John had twin urges to hold up his hands and say, "Whoa, buddy," and to punch his lights out, but, really, Teyla didn't deserve Rodney when he was like this, and when he fumbled his cutlery and nearly knocked the pitcher of water on their table into her lap, John said, "You know what? I think it's past your bedtime. Let's go," and led the way back to their room.
"What-are you mad at me? Look, I'm sorry, but I'm working on a serious lack of sleep, here," Rodney gestured despondently, "and my back's been killing me for days - "
"Join the club, Rodney," John muttered.
"Is this about last night? I already apologized for waking you up, Colonel, but there were these noises, sort of skittering, and fluttering . . . "
John ran a hand over his face, calluses against stubble, and it sounded like sandpaper. "I know, Rodney." He did know, because he'd been awake, too, listening to the noises (and trying to come up with rational explanations for them) and practically sensing Rodney's wide, wide open eyes, until Rodney had hissed "Colonel, do you hear that?" and John had told him to go to sleep, already.
Rodney slumped into the chair in the corner, looking deflated and defeated, and John gathered up the last frayed edges of his compassion.
"Look, Rodney, we just have to get you through one more night, you can finish up your repairs tomorrow, and then you'll be back on Atlantis, sleeping in your nice, soft, slightly wider bed - " John paused and surveyed the little room, hands on his hips.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said, and dumped the blankets off his bed and out of the way (Rodney's were, of course, already piled on the floor at the foot of his bed), then shoved his bed toward Rodney's. He threw Rodney's set of blankets back on the joined beds, sideways, and chucked Rodney's pillow at him.
Rodney blinked at him blearily. "Come on, Rodney," John urged. "See? This way you can get comfortable, stretch out, whatever. You won't be so cramped." John watched as Rodney stood up sluggishly, clumsily toeing off his shoes and tugging off his jacket, letting his pants fall into a puddle on the floor. He had a near miss slipping his socks off, listing so far to port that he almost toppled over, but he righted himself and sat down heavily on the edge of one of the beds. He managed, through a jaw-cracking yawn, "But what about you?"
"Uh . . . " John ran a hand through his hair and tried not to yawn back at Rodney.
"We'll both sleep here, that's just, uh, that's just fine, just - " Rodney seemed to run out of steam, and finally tucked himself under the blankets, curling into a tight ball and keeping carefully to his side. "God, I'm tired."
John stripped down to t-shirt and boxers and sat down on the other side of the bed. "Yeah, I haven't been sleeping that well either."
"I didn't know. You're all - " Rodney poked a hand out to wave it in the air, " - stoic."
John didn't say anything. He'd found something to prop open their window, so the room was pleasantly cool for a change. He turned off the lamp and settled down on the other side of the bed, feeling the tension radiating off Rodney in the dark.
"Hey, hey. Rodney. I think you're going to have to try and relax." John inched closer, reached out and smoothed a hand over and over Rodney's stiff shoulders, feeling warm skin under his shirt. And Rodney . . . unfolded a little, stretched out and leaned into John's space, and John let himself lean back. And John whispered, "Sleep well," and they did.
Author: dogeared
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG
Summary: Sleeping in a strange bed can be hard. 1,160 words.
It was the third night, or maybe only the second, and it was near dawn. Or it wasn't. John didn't know, and opening his eyes to check his watch or to look out the little window to see if the sky was lightening seemed like a monumental effort. What he did know was that Rodney had just repeated his routine of waking up, flopping noisily over onto his other side, and falling back asleep for the fourteenth time that night. John kept his eyes determinedly shut, but sleep seemed impossibly far away.
* * *
"Just tell me that you don't think those are the most ridiculously rock-like beds you've ever slept on." Rodney was complaining over breakfast, again, but he'd seemed a little more subdued each subsequent morning of their week-long stay on P42-6K5.
When Ronon said, "I've slept on rocks," Rodney just sighed.
"See, at least it's a bed, Rodney. Could be worse." John gave him a look that said, hey, I'm amused and alert and well-rested. Rodney scowled back, then yawned enormously. John slapped him on the shoulder and clenched his jaw to stifle his own yawn.
* * *
The next night, after what seemed to John like hours of shifting and creaking and rustling from Rodney's side of the room, Rodney finally flung off his blankets completely and lay on the bare mattress. He might even have been panting a little, but it was hard to tell for sure, and John practiced lying still and quiet and thinking cool thoughts and tuned out Rodney's mutterings about furnaces masquerading as guest rooms.
* * *
Another morning, Rodney ranted for fifteen solid minutes (John admitted to himself that he was a little impressed) about the accommodations-"I swear these are even narrower than our beds in Atlantis-I feel like if I move an inch the wrong way, I'll end up on the floor!"-and his aching joints, pausing only for bites of something suspiciously like sausage and grits, and then hardly said anything else for the rest of the day.
* * *
By the sixth night, John figured he'd had just about as much as he could take. His eyes were dry and scratchy and his skin felt stretched as thin as his patience. He'd snapped at Rodney whenever they were in the same room all day, but Rodney was doing delicate work despite the deep purple smudges under his eyes, so John did his best to save both their nerves and mostly tried to make himself scarce, wandering the village and the surrounding woods with Ronon and leaving Teyla to watch over Rodney.
John had even entertained the idea of foisting Rodney off on Teyla for their last night, but where Rodney'd been quiet and hunched at breakfast, summoning the energy for one brief comment about scratchy homespun linens before going back to staring blankly at his cup of the licorice-flavored local tea ("It will invigorate you, Dr. McKay!" insisted their hosts), he was downright mean at dinner, blown way past sarcastic, snarling indiscriminately at everyone and everything, spearing savagely at his plate of stewed greens. John had twin urges to hold up his hands and say, "Whoa, buddy," and to punch his lights out, but, really, Teyla didn't deserve Rodney when he was like this, and when he fumbled his cutlery and nearly knocked the pitcher of water on their table into her lap, John said, "You know what? I think it's past your bedtime. Let's go," and led the way back to their room.
"What-are you mad at me? Look, I'm sorry, but I'm working on a serious lack of sleep, here," Rodney gestured despondently, "and my back's been killing me for days - "
"Join the club, Rodney," John muttered.
"Is this about last night? I already apologized for waking you up, Colonel, but there were these noises, sort of skittering, and fluttering . . . "
John ran a hand over his face, calluses against stubble, and it sounded like sandpaper. "I know, Rodney." He did know, because he'd been awake, too, listening to the noises (and trying to come up with rational explanations for them) and practically sensing Rodney's wide, wide open eyes, until Rodney had hissed "Colonel, do you hear that?" and John had told him to go to sleep, already.
Rodney slumped into the chair in the corner, looking deflated and defeated, and John gathered up the last frayed edges of his compassion.
"Look, Rodney, we just have to get you through one more night, you can finish up your repairs tomorrow, and then you'll be back on Atlantis, sleeping in your nice, soft, slightly wider bed - " John paused and surveyed the little room, hands on his hips.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said, and dumped the blankets off his bed and out of the way (Rodney's were, of course, already piled on the floor at the foot of his bed), then shoved his bed toward Rodney's. He threw Rodney's set of blankets back on the joined beds, sideways, and chucked Rodney's pillow at him.
Rodney blinked at him blearily. "Come on, Rodney," John urged. "See? This way you can get comfortable, stretch out, whatever. You won't be so cramped." John watched as Rodney stood up sluggishly, clumsily toeing off his shoes and tugging off his jacket, letting his pants fall into a puddle on the floor. He had a near miss slipping his socks off, listing so far to port that he almost toppled over, but he righted himself and sat down heavily on the edge of one of the beds. He managed, through a jaw-cracking yawn, "But what about you?"
"Uh . . . " John ran a hand through his hair and tried not to yawn back at Rodney.
"We'll both sleep here, that's just, uh, that's just fine, just - " Rodney seemed to run out of steam, and finally tucked himself under the blankets, curling into a tight ball and keeping carefully to his side. "God, I'm tired."
John stripped down to t-shirt and boxers and sat down on the other side of the bed. "Yeah, I haven't been sleeping that well either."
"I didn't know. You're all - " Rodney poked a hand out to wave it in the air, " - stoic."
John didn't say anything. He'd found something to prop open their window, so the room was pleasantly cool for a change. He turned off the lamp and settled down on the other side of the bed, feeling the tension radiating off Rodney in the dark.
"Hey, hey. Rodney. I think you're going to have to try and relax." John inched closer, reached out and smoothed a hand over and over Rodney's stiff shoulders, feeling warm skin under his shirt. And Rodney . . . unfolded a little, stretched out and leaned into John's space, and John let himself lean back. And John whispered, "Sleep well," and they did.