Sheppard's Blanket (Gift Challenge)
Title: Sheppard's Blanket
Author: kriadydragon
Rating: PG for language, gen
Characters: Sheppard, McKay
Summary: "It hit Rodney, finally hit him, like a ton of bricks, what he should get John for Christmas." Thank you sharpes_hussy for the quick beta (and for giving this story a title ;)).
Sheppard's Blanket
It hit Rodney, finally hit him, like a ton of bricks, what he should get John for Christmas - other than a flipping banquet. He wasn't certain, but he could've sworn John had gotten even bonier. And it sucked, double sucked, with the Delanuns so slap happy about everyone cuddling together in the communal lodge. Not cuddle cuddle in a puppy-pile, what-is-this-personal-space-you-speak-of kind of way; you were only allowed to “cuddle” with your own family and friends, while those not of your family and friends were off limits lest you wished to invoke a slap to the face.
Still, personal space was lost, and despite years of asinine rituals bringing the team closer together in every possible sense save sexually, thank goodness, (though not for wont of those stupid rituals trying) there was no getting used to it.
And it was just Rodney's luck that he ended up in the middle, with Ronon on one side and a bony Sheppard on the other, stabbing Rodney with his sharp spine and bruising him with his sharp ribs. Rodney was on his back, but Sheppard was on his side pressing his own back into Rodney's arm. It was funny how much visual padding two shirts and a jacket could add to a body. Hell, two-shirts alone. But beneath those shirts, Sheppard was feeling awfully wispy.
Then Sheppard started shivering. A pile of three blankets trapping shared body heat, and Sheppard was shivering. And because the first word to pop into Rodney's head was “electric blanket,” it planted roots, deep roots. Of course, it wasn't like Sheppard could heft around an electric blanket wherever he went, but if he was freezing his ass off in a sweltering lodge of hundreds under heavy blankets then Rodney couldn't begin to imagine how Sheppard survived the comfortable temperatures of Atlantis.
Rodney shifted closer, thinking that, maybe, it might help.
Sheppard grunted, “Lay off,” and elbowed Rodney in the flank.
Rodney snorted. “Gladly. Ungrateful bastard,” and scooted away. If Sheppard wanted to freeze, that was his prerogative. At least it saved Rodney from all that damn vibrating and boniness. He fell asleep easily, and it was probably the best rest he'd ever had when someone nudged him awake and he ignored it.
“Five more minus...” he slurred. A harder nudge. He swatted at the source, hand's contacting with something slick, hard and kind of round but not really round. Opening bleary eyes revealed what seemed to be the general shape of a boot. Blinking his eyes clear confirmed that, yes, it was most definitely a boot. Rodney rolled his eyes up following the wrinkled BDUs to the face peering down at him.
Sheppard looked like crap; pale skin turning the gray under his eyelids into bruises.
“Get up, McKay. Time to head out,” Sheppard said, flat and somewhat snappish. But he held out his hand for Rodney to take and assisted him to his feet. He gave Rodney a hardy clap on the shoulder, doubling as a light shove toward their gear piled in the corner near the massive stone fireplace, the fire still blazing waist high. The 'gate was over a half a day's walk and buried under a forest too thick for a jumper to squeeze through. For that reason, this wasn't the first time the team, or any team, had stayed over night, especially during the cold months.
But breakfast first. And if there was one thing that made up for forced sleeping in the winter lodge, it was the Delanuns version of oatmeal - thick, warm, with a flavor like caramel - and a cider like apple with a pinch of cinnamon. It stuck to the ribs, warmed the blood and made Rodney feel slightly more amiable toward the walk ahead.
Until they were outside, churning up a rain-soaked mud road. It was trying to suck Rodney down, like quicksand, and each wet plopping of his foot from the slop made his calves and thighs burn a little more
“I think I'm one more step away from dislocating my hip,” Rodney panted.
Sheppard, physically fit bastard that he was, didn't look back when he said, “Aw, come on, Rodney. It's not that bad. Think of all the muscle you're building.”
“And weight you're losing,” Ronon muttered from behind.
Rodney started to turn, started to fall, so gave up on the action. “I'll have you know that since coming to this galaxy I have been the healthiest I have ever been. Top physical condition, actually.”
Sheppard chuckled.
“I am!”
“Oh, where to begin to refute that?” Sheppard drawled. “The manic coffee consumption or all-nighters?”
“Both of which are why we're still alive,” Rodney refuted back.
“True,” Sheppard said. “But you gotta admit it's not exactly a healthy lifestyle.”
“I'm still healthier than I was,” Rodney gasped. “and you're... one to talk.”
This time, Sheppard did look back, doing a double-take. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Looked... in a mirror... lately?” and he wanted to add 'and weighed yourself' but he felt like conserving the breath he had left.
Sheppard gave him another perplexed look that he then exchanged with Teyla, shrugged and put his focus back on the way ahead. By the time they reached the gate, Rodney's legs felt like Jello and mud had crept all the way to his knees. But it was to his immense satisfaction that Sheppard was just as sweat-soaked and breathing heavy - still perfectly upright, though... damn it.
They endured the usual fanfare of stepping through the 'gate, meeting Woolsey who wanted a succinct report before the long-winded report of later today, post mission infirmary check, shower, change of clothes then the long-winded stuff. Trade was good, they got more of the purple and yellow tuber in exchange for some vaccines, no spiffy technology as usual, blah, blah, blah and then they were finally free.
Because Sheppard had been sitting next to Rodney, and close enough for Rodney to see his blood-shot eyes - and that before, during the exam, Rodney had thought he heard a nurse or doctor ask if Sheppard was getting enough sleep - Rodney remembered the electric blanket.
The SGC had been kind enough to schedule the Daedalus' departures so that it would always arrive with plenty of days left until Christmas. But that also meant a limited window of opportunity to get your requests in, and there was only three days left before it headed out. Rodney went straight to his quarters to fill out the necessary forms (twice as long since Woolsey was put in charge, Rodney could have sworn). He emailed them to the guy who finalized all requisitions (which didn't use to be the case until some idiot requested a friggin' yacht, and the SGC got tired of calling in to ask if most of the requests were actually serious). He then grabbed his camera as he headed for lunch, because like hell he was going to let Sheppard be a hypocrite on matters of crappy sleep and health.
---------------------------
Rodney hadn't really thought about it before, but he was starting to suspect that Sheppard was getting slow. Physically slow, his usual mellow exuberance a tad pale and his movements more stiff rather than free-flowing. He took it into consideration sometime after waking up from his impromptu surgery in a cave but back in Atlantis. Sheppard dropped by, all relieved smiles and shadows under the eyes. He'd clapped Rodney on the shoulder, said welcome back Rodney and that he owed John five thousand for the surgery. Because Rodney had still been half-asleep, he believed him and sputtered for a whole minute until Keller came to his rescue, smacking John in the chest with the back of her hand for upsetting her patient. John's flinch and subsequent rubbing of the offended spot made for a somewhat satisfactory revenge. Keller checked machines, then left the two to catch up.
“Seriously, though,” Sheppard said. “How you feeling?”
“Like I'd had a hole drilled into my skull. Only, you know, less because I'm on the good stuff.”
“But...” John said with a rigid twirl of his hand as though trying to stir up words into surfacing, “do you feel like you? Is everything back where it should be or did something beside the squid thing leak out?”
Rodney grimaced and spat, “Oh, thank you for that wonderful mental image to go along with the one of a hole being drilled into my head! And, yes, I feel like me. Now stop with the unnecessary metaphors or I'll get Keller in here to hit you again.”
Though John's hands were raised in defeat, there was an obvious smile playing at his lips. “Okay, okay. I surrender.” He gripped Rodney's blanket-covered foot and gave it a squeeze. “Glad to hear it, buddy. The, uh, part with you being yourself, not Keller hitting me.”
Then Sheppard said, “Chess?” which was all either of them needed to say, and the answer was always an automatic yes. Or, in Rodney's case, “Hell, yes, get the damn chessboard.”
But Sheppard had been two steps ahead and pulled a miniature travel board from his pocket.
“In case Keller saw and said no,” he said; perhaps because he didn't think Rodney up to his usual argumentative capabilities, and maybe he wasn't. But Rodney had heard about how Jennifer had been against going to the cave, with the shrine that had saved his life, so imagined that she was probably harboring a little guilt on the matter. But he made a mental note to talk to her about it, reassure her that though it had been his saving grace, she'd still had his best interests at heart, and that wasn't anything to feel guilty about.
As Sheppard arranged the pieces, Rodney let his mind sink into a partial lethargy as he watched. Sheppard's fingers were kind of bony, like the rest of him. But he'd seen those fingers go nimble and ambidextrous around flight yokes, making them the poster-limbs for looks being deceptive. They did look a tad knobbier, and almost arthritic in their motions as they righted the tiny pieces (knocking a few down). Sheppard didn't have arthritis or no way would he be able to fly. They were just... stiff, maybe with fatigue, maybe because they'd recently been gripping something, like a flight yolk, or even a gun.
Yet where Sheppard's fingers were rigid, his back was bent. Not slouched, not really. Rodney had seen enough slouching from Sheppard to last a lifetime and could easily say that this wasn't the same. It was more like there was an invisible pack trying to push him down, while he pushed back.
And then there was the slowness. Usually he would have the board ready by now, even the travel-sized one.
Rodney thought he saw Sheppard shiver. He scowled.
“You cold?”
Sheppard looked up. “Hmm?”
“Are. You. Cold?”
“No. Why, are you? You need more blankets?”
“No, I just...” but he shook his head. “Never mind.” And made the first move.
-----------------------
The Daedalus arrived, bringing with it the excess requisitions for the holidays still a month away. Also bringing with it one Dr. Daniel Jackson.
Who, of course, inadvertently brought trouble, trouble which sent him right back home. Rodney had actually felt bad for him, because what the hell kind of visit was that?
“A normal one,” Zelenka had said as they poked through Janis' lab, paying very close attention to whatever they happened to touch - which was very little. They let the scanners do the work “Unfortunately. For this galaxy.”
True. Sad, but true.
Then Zelenka told Rodney about how Sheppard had flown two spaceships through a planet to keep the Daedalus from crashing into the facility. It made Rodney choke on air.
“He did what! Why didn't he tell me?”
Zelenka shrugged. “He forgot?”
Rodney recalled seeing Sheppard after the whole debacle, and wondered if that's why Sheppard's hands had been shaking; the stress of saving the day via half-assed crazy stunts. But Rodney had dismissed it as him being cold again. Cold and tired because Sheppard had looked a little like Rodney felt, exhausted and ready to sleep for a year. But relieved, really, really relieved.
-------------------------
It was about a week after the team had been accosted and held by an angry coalition of angry people, then manipulated out of taking their anger out on said team, that Christmas decorations started going up. It was a little late; usually the halls started going all sparkly and blinky with lights the day after Thanksgiving. But bad things had happened so it was only natural that people ended up distracted from mundane trivialities such as holiday decorating.
Not that Rodney cared when everyone decorated. Though, really, the later the better because the miniature trees were a pain in the ass, taking up valuable space on needed tables and consoles.
There was much cheer and excitement and baking of assorted holiday cookies, much to Ronon's immense joy. The guy liked Christmas for one reason and one reason only, treats, and the excuse of baking big-ass cookies, turning those cookies into frosted houses, then eating the houses. Teyla was fond of the Christmas music, because it was music and an excuse to sing.
For Sheppard, it was a reason to act like a big kid and to let his men express themselves through gaudy decorations and a boat-load of Christmas lights.
But a week after being accosted, Sheppard was still doing a remarkable impression of a rock. Or maybe a tree, because he moved, but if his back was any straighter, his spine would snap. There had also developed an unhealthy darkening of the bags under his eyes, though for a time Rodney had attributed it to Sheppard's bad reaction to Woolsey's cigars (he'd ended up puking an hour after finishing one. Woolsey had thought it was his cigars and immediately threw them out. Keller had assured him that it wasn't, that Sheppard had said that he usually didn't inhale the smoke, but had, on accident - all after the fact. Woolsey was still moping about it).
He also wasn't being as obnoxiously boyish as he usually was this time of year. Rodney had caught him doing paper-work more than decorating, and heard next to no commentary from him during their last two movie nights. And both movies had been utter crap worthy of an MST3K smack down to the third degree. Sheppard usually never missed an opportunity for a smack down. But there he'd sat, quiet and staring, arms folded, as though there for the sake of being there, because it was tradition.
Since that wasn't like Sheppard, and since it was starting to really annoy the hell out of Rodney, he decided to confront Sheppard on it. He found the colonel, of all places, in his room, surrounded by hard copies while staring at electronic copies.
Rodney blurted without meaning to, “Good crap you've turned into every military bureaucrat we've had the displeasure of meeting!”
Sheppard gave him a cock eyed stare. “I'm catching up on paperwork, McKay. Not stringing the place with red tape.”
Rodney moved closer to the desk and the nearest stack that Sheppard quickly snatched from sight. “Red tape is Woolsey's department. You're supposed to be stringing the place with stupid lights. Why aren't you doing all this crap later? Like you usually do?”
Sheppard shrugged, then swept his hand over the many stacks. “Because this is later.”
“Oh,” Rodney said. He didn't think about when he added, “Need help?”
Which, of course, was a monumental mistake of epic proportions. Sheppard stared at him as though Rodney's head were about to explode and rain daisies on them, then he sighed, looked at the stack, grabbed a pile and shoved it into McKay's arms.
“Knock yourself out. These are for you department, anyway. Don't know why I have them.”
And that's how Rodney found himself in his own room, leafing through paperwork meant to be done later when more pressing, and interesting, projects were out of the way. After an hour, and his eyes going gritty and dry, he rubbed them and declared to himself that enough was enough.
He stormed into Woolsey's office. Woolsey may have asked if he had an appointment. If Woolsey had asked, Rodney had ignored it for the sheer ridiculousness that it was.
“Christmas day, a work holiday, right?”
Woolsey blinked. “Um... yes?”
“Just that one day?”
“Well... yes. It is a federal holiday, after all.”
“But just one day. Not two or three or, hell, even a week?”
Woolsey opened his mouth. Rodney cut him off.
“Make it longer. I mean, you need to make it longer. One day isn't going to cut it. Bad crap has happened, as usual, and people are exhausted. We need a longer holiday, time to... to... you know, sleep in and party and... other fun, relaxing, non-life threatening stuff...” (crap, they could only hope). “And not just days off from missions. I'm talking days off from mission reports, and disasters, and more mission reports because of disasters. We need a chance to relax and unwind before we all lose our minds, go postal, take over Atlantis and declare it an independent country.” Rodney didn't think would honestly ever happen; they needed Earth, for all it's wondrous goodies such as coffee and DVDs if nothing else, and like hell Rodney would ever cut ties and miss out on any bitching movies that happened come along.
But there was no harm in backing a request with a little intimidation, no matter how far-fetched.
Woolsey's eyelids fluttered, as though deep within that bureaucratic brain of his, the possibility of a coup by the expedition members was, in fact... well... possible. It would figure that Woolsey (and if not Woolsey the IOA in general) would be that kind of paranoid. Or Woolsey was just shocked that Rodney was asking for time off... for everyone, because Rodney had to admit he was pretty surprised by it himself.
“Well,” Woolsey said. “I... suppose there's no harm in extending down time over... three days?”
“Make it four.”
Woolsey sighed, massaging his forehead. “Fine, four. But no more than that.”
“Deal.” Rodney said, then strutted off, smiling as big and smug as he pleased.
-----------------------
“A blanket,” John said, holding the plastic case with the blue blanket all folded up inside.
“An electric blanket,” Rodney said, staring forlornly at the remote control yellow race car in his own hands.
A stupid, craptacular electric blanket, and Sheppard gives him a remote control racer.
But John smiled, though Rodney couldn't quite tell if it was for his own sake or John really was happy.
“I do get pretty cold at night,” he said.
“That's because you have about as much insulation as a wet cardboard box,” Rodney said, though he hadn't actually meant to. It wasn't that John was some kind of anorexic, or so skinny he could very well slip down the shower drain. But dressed in a T-shirt and track pants, Sheppard was looking a little extra lean.
On the plus side, he didn't look so damn tired, and the shadows under his eyes weren't so bruise-like.
Rodney cleared his throat. “It, um...” yet couldn't dredge up an explanation other than the pithy one he'd just gave. He, instead, finished lamely with, “It gets pretty nippy in here and... yeah. Thought you could use that.”
“Cool,” John said, and set it by his bed.
Rodney had decided (or assumed) that John might be in dire need of the blanket, so made it his Christmas Eve present. And because Rodney had been so kind to let him open a gift early, Sheppard had thought it only fair that Rodney got to do the same.
Sheppard straightened out of setting the blanket down then rubbed his hands together, smiling with glee. “So, you want to give these babies a try?”
Rodney hugged the car possessively to his chest. “What? Now? No, you'll hog it, and you gave it to m--”
“Rodney,” John cut in. He crouched a second time, pulling a second car out from under his bed - hot-rod red, with flames: totally John.
Rodney scowled at it. “Who got you that?”
“I did. But the thing about toy cars, Rodney, is that they're no fun unless you got someone to race with.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, then grinned. “You're on.”
And John grinned back, big and boyish, like the adult kid he was supposed to be this time of year.
Two weeks later, Micheal gave them hell and beat the crap out of John. The next day, John and Rodney resumed the race that had been so rudely interrupted.
The End
Author: kriadydragon
Rating: PG for language, gen
Characters: Sheppard, McKay
Summary: "It hit Rodney, finally hit him, like a ton of bricks, what he should get John for Christmas." Thank you sharpes_hussy for the quick beta (and for giving this story a title ;)).
Sheppard's Blanket
It hit Rodney, finally hit him, like a ton of bricks, what he should get John for Christmas - other than a flipping banquet. He wasn't certain, but he could've sworn John had gotten even bonier. And it sucked, double sucked, with the Delanuns so slap happy about everyone cuddling together in the communal lodge. Not cuddle cuddle in a puppy-pile, what-is-this-personal-space-you-speak-of kind of way; you were only allowed to “cuddle” with your own family and friends, while those not of your family and friends were off limits lest you wished to invoke a slap to the face.
Still, personal space was lost, and despite years of asinine rituals bringing the team closer together in every possible sense save sexually, thank goodness, (though not for wont of those stupid rituals trying) there was no getting used to it.
And it was just Rodney's luck that he ended up in the middle, with Ronon on one side and a bony Sheppard on the other, stabbing Rodney with his sharp spine and bruising him with his sharp ribs. Rodney was on his back, but Sheppard was on his side pressing his own back into Rodney's arm. It was funny how much visual padding two shirts and a jacket could add to a body. Hell, two-shirts alone. But beneath those shirts, Sheppard was feeling awfully wispy.
Then Sheppard started shivering. A pile of three blankets trapping shared body heat, and Sheppard was shivering. And because the first word to pop into Rodney's head was “electric blanket,” it planted roots, deep roots. Of course, it wasn't like Sheppard could heft around an electric blanket wherever he went, but if he was freezing his ass off in a sweltering lodge of hundreds under heavy blankets then Rodney couldn't begin to imagine how Sheppard survived the comfortable temperatures of Atlantis.
Rodney shifted closer, thinking that, maybe, it might help.
Sheppard grunted, “Lay off,” and elbowed Rodney in the flank.
Rodney snorted. “Gladly. Ungrateful bastard,” and scooted away. If Sheppard wanted to freeze, that was his prerogative. At least it saved Rodney from all that damn vibrating and boniness. He fell asleep easily, and it was probably the best rest he'd ever had when someone nudged him awake and he ignored it.
“Five more minus...” he slurred. A harder nudge. He swatted at the source, hand's contacting with something slick, hard and kind of round but not really round. Opening bleary eyes revealed what seemed to be the general shape of a boot. Blinking his eyes clear confirmed that, yes, it was most definitely a boot. Rodney rolled his eyes up following the wrinkled BDUs to the face peering down at him.
Sheppard looked like crap; pale skin turning the gray under his eyelids into bruises.
“Get up, McKay. Time to head out,” Sheppard said, flat and somewhat snappish. But he held out his hand for Rodney to take and assisted him to his feet. He gave Rodney a hardy clap on the shoulder, doubling as a light shove toward their gear piled in the corner near the massive stone fireplace, the fire still blazing waist high. The 'gate was over a half a day's walk and buried under a forest too thick for a jumper to squeeze through. For that reason, this wasn't the first time the team, or any team, had stayed over night, especially during the cold months.
But breakfast first. And if there was one thing that made up for forced sleeping in the winter lodge, it was the Delanuns version of oatmeal - thick, warm, with a flavor like caramel - and a cider like apple with a pinch of cinnamon. It stuck to the ribs, warmed the blood and made Rodney feel slightly more amiable toward the walk ahead.
Until they were outside, churning up a rain-soaked mud road. It was trying to suck Rodney down, like quicksand, and each wet plopping of his foot from the slop made his calves and thighs burn a little more
“I think I'm one more step away from dislocating my hip,” Rodney panted.
Sheppard, physically fit bastard that he was, didn't look back when he said, “Aw, come on, Rodney. It's not that bad. Think of all the muscle you're building.”
“And weight you're losing,” Ronon muttered from behind.
Rodney started to turn, started to fall, so gave up on the action. “I'll have you know that since coming to this galaxy I have been the healthiest I have ever been. Top physical condition, actually.”
Sheppard chuckled.
“I am!”
“Oh, where to begin to refute that?” Sheppard drawled. “The manic coffee consumption or all-nighters?”
“Both of which are why we're still alive,” Rodney refuted back.
“True,” Sheppard said. “But you gotta admit it's not exactly a healthy lifestyle.”
“I'm still healthier than I was,” Rodney gasped. “and you're... one to talk.”
This time, Sheppard did look back, doing a double-take. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Looked... in a mirror... lately?” and he wanted to add 'and weighed yourself' but he felt like conserving the breath he had left.
Sheppard gave him another perplexed look that he then exchanged with Teyla, shrugged and put his focus back on the way ahead. By the time they reached the gate, Rodney's legs felt like Jello and mud had crept all the way to his knees. But it was to his immense satisfaction that Sheppard was just as sweat-soaked and breathing heavy - still perfectly upright, though... damn it.
They endured the usual fanfare of stepping through the 'gate, meeting Woolsey who wanted a succinct report before the long-winded report of later today, post mission infirmary check, shower, change of clothes then the long-winded stuff. Trade was good, they got more of the purple and yellow tuber in exchange for some vaccines, no spiffy technology as usual, blah, blah, blah and then they were finally free.
Because Sheppard had been sitting next to Rodney, and close enough for Rodney to see his blood-shot eyes - and that before, during the exam, Rodney had thought he heard a nurse or doctor ask if Sheppard was getting enough sleep - Rodney remembered the electric blanket.
The SGC had been kind enough to schedule the Daedalus' departures so that it would always arrive with plenty of days left until Christmas. But that also meant a limited window of opportunity to get your requests in, and there was only three days left before it headed out. Rodney went straight to his quarters to fill out the necessary forms (twice as long since Woolsey was put in charge, Rodney could have sworn). He emailed them to the guy who finalized all requisitions (which didn't use to be the case until some idiot requested a friggin' yacht, and the SGC got tired of calling in to ask if most of the requests were actually serious). He then grabbed his camera as he headed for lunch, because like hell he was going to let Sheppard be a hypocrite on matters of crappy sleep and health.
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Rodney hadn't really thought about it before, but he was starting to suspect that Sheppard was getting slow. Physically slow, his usual mellow exuberance a tad pale and his movements more stiff rather than free-flowing. He took it into consideration sometime after waking up from his impromptu surgery in a cave but back in Atlantis. Sheppard dropped by, all relieved smiles and shadows under the eyes. He'd clapped Rodney on the shoulder, said welcome back Rodney and that he owed John five thousand for the surgery. Because Rodney had still been half-asleep, he believed him and sputtered for a whole minute until Keller came to his rescue, smacking John in the chest with the back of her hand for upsetting her patient. John's flinch and subsequent rubbing of the offended spot made for a somewhat satisfactory revenge. Keller checked machines, then left the two to catch up.
“Seriously, though,” Sheppard said. “How you feeling?”
“Like I'd had a hole drilled into my skull. Only, you know, less because I'm on the good stuff.”
“But...” John said with a rigid twirl of his hand as though trying to stir up words into surfacing, “do you feel like you? Is everything back where it should be or did something beside the squid thing leak out?”
Rodney grimaced and spat, “Oh, thank you for that wonderful mental image to go along with the one of a hole being drilled into my head! And, yes, I feel like me. Now stop with the unnecessary metaphors or I'll get Keller in here to hit you again.”
Though John's hands were raised in defeat, there was an obvious smile playing at his lips. “Okay, okay. I surrender.” He gripped Rodney's blanket-covered foot and gave it a squeeze. “Glad to hear it, buddy. The, uh, part with you being yourself, not Keller hitting me.”
Then Sheppard said, “Chess?” which was all either of them needed to say, and the answer was always an automatic yes. Or, in Rodney's case, “Hell, yes, get the damn chessboard.”
But Sheppard had been two steps ahead and pulled a miniature travel board from his pocket.
“In case Keller saw and said no,” he said; perhaps because he didn't think Rodney up to his usual argumentative capabilities, and maybe he wasn't. But Rodney had heard about how Jennifer had been against going to the cave, with the shrine that had saved his life, so imagined that she was probably harboring a little guilt on the matter. But he made a mental note to talk to her about it, reassure her that though it had been his saving grace, she'd still had his best interests at heart, and that wasn't anything to feel guilty about.
As Sheppard arranged the pieces, Rodney let his mind sink into a partial lethargy as he watched. Sheppard's fingers were kind of bony, like the rest of him. But he'd seen those fingers go nimble and ambidextrous around flight yokes, making them the poster-limbs for looks being deceptive. They did look a tad knobbier, and almost arthritic in their motions as they righted the tiny pieces (knocking a few down). Sheppard didn't have arthritis or no way would he be able to fly. They were just... stiff, maybe with fatigue, maybe because they'd recently been gripping something, like a flight yolk, or even a gun.
Yet where Sheppard's fingers were rigid, his back was bent. Not slouched, not really. Rodney had seen enough slouching from Sheppard to last a lifetime and could easily say that this wasn't the same. It was more like there was an invisible pack trying to push him down, while he pushed back.
And then there was the slowness. Usually he would have the board ready by now, even the travel-sized one.
Rodney thought he saw Sheppard shiver. He scowled.
“You cold?”
Sheppard looked up. “Hmm?”
“Are. You. Cold?”
“No. Why, are you? You need more blankets?”
“No, I just...” but he shook his head. “Never mind.” And made the first move.
-----------------------
The Daedalus arrived, bringing with it the excess requisitions for the holidays still a month away. Also bringing with it one Dr. Daniel Jackson.
Who, of course, inadvertently brought trouble, trouble which sent him right back home. Rodney had actually felt bad for him, because what the hell kind of visit was that?
“A normal one,” Zelenka had said as they poked through Janis' lab, paying very close attention to whatever they happened to touch - which was very little. They let the scanners do the work “Unfortunately. For this galaxy.”
True. Sad, but true.
Then Zelenka told Rodney about how Sheppard had flown two spaceships through a planet to keep the Daedalus from crashing into the facility. It made Rodney choke on air.
“He did what! Why didn't he tell me?”
Zelenka shrugged. “He forgot?”
Rodney recalled seeing Sheppard after the whole debacle, and wondered if that's why Sheppard's hands had been shaking; the stress of saving the day via half-assed crazy stunts. But Rodney had dismissed it as him being cold again. Cold and tired because Sheppard had looked a little like Rodney felt, exhausted and ready to sleep for a year. But relieved, really, really relieved.
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It was about a week after the team had been accosted and held by an angry coalition of angry people, then manipulated out of taking their anger out on said team, that Christmas decorations started going up. It was a little late; usually the halls started going all sparkly and blinky with lights the day after Thanksgiving. But bad things had happened so it was only natural that people ended up distracted from mundane trivialities such as holiday decorating.
Not that Rodney cared when everyone decorated. Though, really, the later the better because the miniature trees were a pain in the ass, taking up valuable space on needed tables and consoles.
There was much cheer and excitement and baking of assorted holiday cookies, much to Ronon's immense joy. The guy liked Christmas for one reason and one reason only, treats, and the excuse of baking big-ass cookies, turning those cookies into frosted houses, then eating the houses. Teyla was fond of the Christmas music, because it was music and an excuse to sing.
For Sheppard, it was a reason to act like a big kid and to let his men express themselves through gaudy decorations and a boat-load of Christmas lights.
But a week after being accosted, Sheppard was still doing a remarkable impression of a rock. Or maybe a tree, because he moved, but if his back was any straighter, his spine would snap. There had also developed an unhealthy darkening of the bags under his eyes, though for a time Rodney had attributed it to Sheppard's bad reaction to Woolsey's cigars (he'd ended up puking an hour after finishing one. Woolsey had thought it was his cigars and immediately threw them out. Keller had assured him that it wasn't, that Sheppard had said that he usually didn't inhale the smoke, but had, on accident - all after the fact. Woolsey was still moping about it).
He also wasn't being as obnoxiously boyish as he usually was this time of year. Rodney had caught him doing paper-work more than decorating, and heard next to no commentary from him during their last two movie nights. And both movies had been utter crap worthy of an MST3K smack down to the third degree. Sheppard usually never missed an opportunity for a smack down. But there he'd sat, quiet and staring, arms folded, as though there for the sake of being there, because it was tradition.
Since that wasn't like Sheppard, and since it was starting to really annoy the hell out of Rodney, he decided to confront Sheppard on it. He found the colonel, of all places, in his room, surrounded by hard copies while staring at electronic copies.
Rodney blurted without meaning to, “Good crap you've turned into every military bureaucrat we've had the displeasure of meeting!”
Sheppard gave him a cock eyed stare. “I'm catching up on paperwork, McKay. Not stringing the place with red tape.”
Rodney moved closer to the desk and the nearest stack that Sheppard quickly snatched from sight. “Red tape is Woolsey's department. You're supposed to be stringing the place with stupid lights. Why aren't you doing all this crap later? Like you usually do?”
Sheppard shrugged, then swept his hand over the many stacks. “Because this is later.”
“Oh,” Rodney said. He didn't think about when he added, “Need help?”
Which, of course, was a monumental mistake of epic proportions. Sheppard stared at him as though Rodney's head were about to explode and rain daisies on them, then he sighed, looked at the stack, grabbed a pile and shoved it into McKay's arms.
“Knock yourself out. These are for you department, anyway. Don't know why I have them.”
And that's how Rodney found himself in his own room, leafing through paperwork meant to be done later when more pressing, and interesting, projects were out of the way. After an hour, and his eyes going gritty and dry, he rubbed them and declared to himself that enough was enough.
He stormed into Woolsey's office. Woolsey may have asked if he had an appointment. If Woolsey had asked, Rodney had ignored it for the sheer ridiculousness that it was.
“Christmas day, a work holiday, right?”
Woolsey blinked. “Um... yes?”
“Just that one day?”
“Well... yes. It is a federal holiday, after all.”
“But just one day. Not two or three or, hell, even a week?”
Woolsey opened his mouth. Rodney cut him off.
“Make it longer. I mean, you need to make it longer. One day isn't going to cut it. Bad crap has happened, as usual, and people are exhausted. We need a longer holiday, time to... to... you know, sleep in and party and... other fun, relaxing, non-life threatening stuff...” (crap, they could only hope). “And not just days off from missions. I'm talking days off from mission reports, and disasters, and more mission reports because of disasters. We need a chance to relax and unwind before we all lose our minds, go postal, take over Atlantis and declare it an independent country.” Rodney didn't think would honestly ever happen; they needed Earth, for all it's wondrous goodies such as coffee and DVDs if nothing else, and like hell Rodney would ever cut ties and miss out on any bitching movies that happened come along.
But there was no harm in backing a request with a little intimidation, no matter how far-fetched.
Woolsey's eyelids fluttered, as though deep within that bureaucratic brain of his, the possibility of a coup by the expedition members was, in fact... well... possible. It would figure that Woolsey (and if not Woolsey the IOA in general) would be that kind of paranoid. Or Woolsey was just shocked that Rodney was asking for time off... for everyone, because Rodney had to admit he was pretty surprised by it himself.
“Well,” Woolsey said. “I... suppose there's no harm in extending down time over... three days?”
“Make it four.”
Woolsey sighed, massaging his forehead. “Fine, four. But no more than that.”
“Deal.” Rodney said, then strutted off, smiling as big and smug as he pleased.
-----------------------
“A blanket,” John said, holding the plastic case with the blue blanket all folded up inside.
“An electric blanket,” Rodney said, staring forlornly at the remote control yellow race car in his own hands.
A stupid, craptacular electric blanket, and Sheppard gives him a remote control racer.
But John smiled, though Rodney couldn't quite tell if it was for his own sake or John really was happy.
“I do get pretty cold at night,” he said.
“That's because you have about as much insulation as a wet cardboard box,” Rodney said, though he hadn't actually meant to. It wasn't that John was some kind of anorexic, or so skinny he could very well slip down the shower drain. But dressed in a T-shirt and track pants, Sheppard was looking a little extra lean.
On the plus side, he didn't look so damn tired, and the shadows under his eyes weren't so bruise-like.
Rodney cleared his throat. “It, um...” yet couldn't dredge up an explanation other than the pithy one he'd just gave. He, instead, finished lamely with, “It gets pretty nippy in here and... yeah. Thought you could use that.”
“Cool,” John said, and set it by his bed.
Rodney had decided (or assumed) that John might be in dire need of the blanket, so made it his Christmas Eve present. And because Rodney had been so kind to let him open a gift early, Sheppard had thought it only fair that Rodney got to do the same.
Sheppard straightened out of setting the blanket down then rubbed his hands together, smiling with glee. “So, you want to give these babies a try?”
Rodney hugged the car possessively to his chest. “What? Now? No, you'll hog it, and you gave it to m--”
“Rodney,” John cut in. He crouched a second time, pulling a second car out from under his bed - hot-rod red, with flames: totally John.
Rodney scowled at it. “Who got you that?”
“I did. But the thing about toy cars, Rodney, is that they're no fun unless you got someone to race with.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, then grinned. “You're on.”
And John grinned back, big and boyish, like the adult kid he was supposed to be this time of year.
Two weeks later, Micheal gave them hell and beat the crap out of John. The next day, John and Rodney resumed the race that had been so rudely interrupted.
The End