Take Comfort in Your Friends, by facetofcathy, for the Comfort Challenge
Team fic with a savoury dash of McShep season salt.
Completely G rated this time and comes in under 1,400 words.
Now, the astute and well-read fan may think that some of John's ruminations on his teammates seem familiar, and they would be correct. I am, therefore, giving thanks to everyone in fandom who posts screenshots, and video clips and slightly insane analysis and just generally makes fandom so much fun. (Oh yeah, and R.E.M. too.)
Take Comfort in Your Friends
As cells went, this one wasn't so bad. If was fine, really. Fine. "I'm fine," John said. He heard Rodney's snort of derision, and he didn't need to turn his head to see the curl of lips that went with it; he knew the geography of those lips from careful study. He'd always been a good student with a subject he really cared about.
He heard the shuffle of movement and caught the slightest whiff of Teyla's scent. She didn't wear perfume, not on missions, but there was always a sort of resinous scent that wreathed her head in a pleasing aura, something she used in her hair maybe. He smiled even before her hand touched his arm. Her hands were so small, and it filled his heart with a sort of savage pride to think of the violence they would do to their captors, if only she got the chance. Her small fingers gripped his arm and then ghosted down his skin in the barest touch. "We will get you out, John," he heard her say in her quiet voice, calm and certain. She spoke to Torren like that, Torren John. She was such a good mother, and Torren John was such a lucky boy to have a mother who could be so calm and certain and strong. John let his head loll towards her voice, but he couldn't quite get his eyes open. He knew her though, knew her almost as well as he knew Rodney; he didn't need to see her, just catching that scent was enough. John smiled again and then grinned as he suddenly remembered the time he'd gotten very, very stoned at the Peckos harvest festival and had a vivid waking dream where Ronon cut off his dreads, and then they flew up and started growing out of Teyla's head. She'd looked pretty good in dreads, and Ronon had looked pretty good with short hair too. He thought he might be giggling at the memory, and he wanted everybody to know he was okay, so he said it again, "I'm fine, guys, really."
He couldn't smell Teyla's wonderful scent anymore, and he thought he might have slept for a while. He heard a clomp, clomp, clomp and a pause and then a clomp, clomp, clomp. John grinned and almost let a laugh bubble out of his lips, but he wanted to stay quiet, just stay quiet and wait. Clomp, clomp, clomp, and a pause and clomp, clomp, clomp. "Oh, do you mind?" Rodney always brought the scorn, right on cue, and John did let the smallest bit of a laugh burble out then. "Shut up, McKay," John heard Ronon say, and the clomping got a little louder. Ronon had to be doing it on purpose, doing it to distract Rodney, doing it to start a fight. He could walk silently in any terrain, even with his big feet, bigger even than John's, and John had pretty big feet. Too big, he thought. He had taken a long time to grow into them, and he sort of thought sometimes maybe he never had. Ronon must have been even more gangly than John had been as a teenager though. God, John would love to see what Ronon had looked like at seventeen. He never looked awkward now though, not like John did with his skinny legs and big feet. Well, sometimes Ronon did, sometimes in the mess, when he sprawled on those silly little chairs he looked a little ridiculous.
John couldn't hear Ronon pacing anymore, and he knew for sure he'd dozed off this time, but he knew Ronon would be crouched by the door, waiting for their captors to slip up, coiled with potential and yet calm, unhurried. He'd learned how to wait, had Ronon. He would look sleepy almost, but he would be listening for the slightest hint of sound from the other side of the door, and he would spring into action, so would Teyla, but John wouldn't. It seemed like maybe he wasn't up for too much action just at the moment. He was afraid to speak, afraid they might hear the pain in his voice, and he needed them to think he was fine, needed them not to worry. Always better if Rodney didn't worry.
"Oh, Oh," he heard Rodney say and then came the snap, snap, snap of his fingers. "I know exactly what to do. We'll have you out of here in no time, Colonel." John didn't know what Rodney was doing exactly, but he could hear the rattle of tools, and Rodney was muttering away to himself while he worked, complaining about the horrors of being held captive without coffee or something. John didn't need to see; he knew Rodney would be hunched over his work, big, broad shoulders curving inward as if he needed them to focus the force of his intellect down on to his work. John wondered what Rodney had looked like at seventeen; had he had those shoulders then? Jeannie claimed there were no pictures, but John wasn't so sure he believed her. John had been a beanpole, and it had taken him as long to fill out as it had to grow into his feet. He wasn't sure if he were as broad-shouldered as Rodney even now. It was hard to tell, and while he looked at Rodney a lot, he liked looking, he hadn't found a way to exactly measure their differences. John almost laughed again, thinking of all the differences he'd like to measure, but he felt himself falling again, drifting off to sleep. He could trust Rodney to wake him when he'd figured it out.
John heard noises, confusing sounds like explosions or fireworks or something. He tried to lift his head, and he couldn't; he tried to flail out with his arm, but he felt weak. They'd let him sleep too long. "Guys, I'm fine, guys." John didn't hear any answer other than the distant sounds of gunfire or firecrackers maybe, and he couldn't resist the pull of sleep again.
"Hold on, Colonel."
John smiled and turned his head toward the sound of Rodney's voice. Rodney must have figured it out. "You figured it out," John said.
"Yes, yes, nothing a little concentrated application of violence couldn't solve. Now can you stand up?"
"Come on, Sheppard.'' Ronon got a hand on his arm and started to heave him upright.
"Hold on, Colonel. We've got you, just hold on to me." Rodney sounded very far away, and John still couldn't get his eyes open. "God you stink, sorry, um sorry. I know you were in here for a while, just - can you walk at all?"
"John, you must try to walk. Try for me, John," Teyla said from even farther away.
John smiled at where he thought she was, and he tried very, very hard to walk. He would try very hard to do anything she asked of him.
"That's it, Colonel. Just hold on, hold on." Rodney sounded a bit strained, but they were shuffling across the floor, making progress.
John couldn't hold his head up too well, but he didn't need to see where he was going. "I like holding on to you, Rodney," he said.
Ronon snorted a laugh just above his ear and said, "Yeah, Sheppard, we know. Just hold on to both of us, okay."
John started to drift again. He could tell they were out in the bright sunlight, and then he thought he was floating for a while before he slept again.
"-found him in a that tiny cell, not even big enough to swing a cat in."
"Thought you liked cats, McKay."
"Ronon."
"Well, I did."
"It's an expression, Ronon."
"Rodney, Ronon, please. The Colonel needs quiet."
"Fine, fine."
"Yeah, okay. Are we gonna tell him all the stuff he said in the Jumper when he wakes up?"
"Oh sure, planning a little blackmail? He was clearly delirious, I mean, all that stuff about feet for one thing."
"Rodney!"
"Shutting up, now."
John could smell the salt and metal tang of Atlantis overlaid with the sickly too-familiar aromas of the infirmary, and he knew he was home. He let the three voices wash over him; he really was fine as long as they were with him.
Completely G rated this time and comes in under 1,400 words.
Now, the astute and well-read fan may think that some of John's ruminations on his teammates seem familiar, and they would be correct. I am, therefore, giving thanks to everyone in fandom who posts screenshots, and video clips and slightly insane analysis and just generally makes fandom so much fun. (Oh yeah, and R.E.M. too.)
Take Comfort in Your Friends
As cells went, this one wasn't so bad. If was fine, really. Fine. "I'm fine," John said. He heard Rodney's snort of derision, and he didn't need to turn his head to see the curl of lips that went with it; he knew the geography of those lips from careful study. He'd always been a good student with a subject he really cared about.
He heard the shuffle of movement and caught the slightest whiff of Teyla's scent. She didn't wear perfume, not on missions, but there was always a sort of resinous scent that wreathed her head in a pleasing aura, something she used in her hair maybe. He smiled even before her hand touched his arm. Her hands were so small, and it filled his heart with a sort of savage pride to think of the violence they would do to their captors, if only she got the chance. Her small fingers gripped his arm and then ghosted down his skin in the barest touch. "We will get you out, John," he heard her say in her quiet voice, calm and certain. She spoke to Torren like that, Torren John. She was such a good mother, and Torren John was such a lucky boy to have a mother who could be so calm and certain and strong. John let his head loll towards her voice, but he couldn't quite get his eyes open. He knew her though, knew her almost as well as he knew Rodney; he didn't need to see her, just catching that scent was enough. John smiled again and then grinned as he suddenly remembered the time he'd gotten very, very stoned at the Peckos harvest festival and had a vivid waking dream where Ronon cut off his dreads, and then they flew up and started growing out of Teyla's head. She'd looked pretty good in dreads, and Ronon had looked pretty good with short hair too. He thought he might be giggling at the memory, and he wanted everybody to know he was okay, so he said it again, "I'm fine, guys, really."
He couldn't smell Teyla's wonderful scent anymore, and he thought he might have slept for a while. He heard a clomp, clomp, clomp and a pause and then a clomp, clomp, clomp. John grinned and almost let a laugh bubble out of his lips, but he wanted to stay quiet, just stay quiet and wait. Clomp, clomp, clomp, and a pause and clomp, clomp, clomp. "Oh, do you mind?" Rodney always brought the scorn, right on cue, and John did let the smallest bit of a laugh burble out then. "Shut up, McKay," John heard Ronon say, and the clomping got a little louder. Ronon had to be doing it on purpose, doing it to distract Rodney, doing it to start a fight. He could walk silently in any terrain, even with his big feet, bigger even than John's, and John had pretty big feet. Too big, he thought. He had taken a long time to grow into them, and he sort of thought sometimes maybe he never had. Ronon must have been even more gangly than John had been as a teenager though. God, John would love to see what Ronon had looked like at seventeen. He never looked awkward now though, not like John did with his skinny legs and big feet. Well, sometimes Ronon did, sometimes in the mess, when he sprawled on those silly little chairs he looked a little ridiculous.
John couldn't hear Ronon pacing anymore, and he knew for sure he'd dozed off this time, but he knew Ronon would be crouched by the door, waiting for their captors to slip up, coiled with potential and yet calm, unhurried. He'd learned how to wait, had Ronon. He would look sleepy almost, but he would be listening for the slightest hint of sound from the other side of the door, and he would spring into action, so would Teyla, but John wouldn't. It seemed like maybe he wasn't up for too much action just at the moment. He was afraid to speak, afraid they might hear the pain in his voice, and he needed them to think he was fine, needed them not to worry. Always better if Rodney didn't worry.
"Oh, Oh," he heard Rodney say and then came the snap, snap, snap of his fingers. "I know exactly what to do. We'll have you out of here in no time, Colonel." John didn't know what Rodney was doing exactly, but he could hear the rattle of tools, and Rodney was muttering away to himself while he worked, complaining about the horrors of being held captive without coffee or something. John didn't need to see; he knew Rodney would be hunched over his work, big, broad shoulders curving inward as if he needed them to focus the force of his intellect down on to his work. John wondered what Rodney had looked like at seventeen; had he had those shoulders then? Jeannie claimed there were no pictures, but John wasn't so sure he believed her. John had been a beanpole, and it had taken him as long to fill out as it had to grow into his feet. He wasn't sure if he were as broad-shouldered as Rodney even now. It was hard to tell, and while he looked at Rodney a lot, he liked looking, he hadn't found a way to exactly measure their differences. John almost laughed again, thinking of all the differences he'd like to measure, but he felt himself falling again, drifting off to sleep. He could trust Rodney to wake him when he'd figured it out.
John heard noises, confusing sounds like explosions or fireworks or something. He tried to lift his head, and he couldn't; he tried to flail out with his arm, but he felt weak. They'd let him sleep too long. "Guys, I'm fine, guys." John didn't hear any answer other than the distant sounds of gunfire or firecrackers maybe, and he couldn't resist the pull of sleep again.
"Hold on, Colonel."
John smiled and turned his head toward the sound of Rodney's voice. Rodney must have figured it out. "You figured it out," John said.
"Yes, yes, nothing a little concentrated application of violence couldn't solve. Now can you stand up?"
"Come on, Sheppard.'' Ronon got a hand on his arm and started to heave him upright.
"Hold on, Colonel. We've got you, just hold on to me." Rodney sounded very far away, and John still couldn't get his eyes open. "God you stink, sorry, um sorry. I know you were in here for a while, just - can you walk at all?"
"John, you must try to walk. Try for me, John," Teyla said from even farther away.
John smiled at where he thought she was, and he tried very, very hard to walk. He would try very hard to do anything she asked of him.
"That's it, Colonel. Just hold on, hold on." Rodney sounded a bit strained, but they were shuffling across the floor, making progress.
John couldn't hold his head up too well, but he didn't need to see where he was going. "I like holding on to you, Rodney," he said.
Ronon snorted a laugh just above his ear and said, "Yeah, Sheppard, we know. Just hold on to both of us, okay."
John started to drift again. He could tell they were out in the bright sunlight, and then he thought he was floating for a while before he slept again.
"-found him in a that tiny cell, not even big enough to swing a cat in."
"Thought you liked cats, McKay."
"Ronon."
"Well, I did."
"It's an expression, Ronon."
"Rodney, Ronon, please. The Colonel needs quiet."
"Fine, fine."
"Yeah, okay. Are we gonna tell him all the stuff he said in the Jumper when he wakes up?"
"Oh sure, planning a little blackmail? He was clearly delirious, I mean, all that stuff about feet for one thing."
"Rodney!"
"Shutting up, now."
John could smell the salt and metal tang of Atlantis overlaid with the sickly too-familiar aromas of the infirmary, and he knew he was home. He let the three voices wash over him; he really was fine as long as they were with him.