WORDS BY linziday [LFWS #1 ROUND 4]
Title: Words
Author: linziday
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
A/N: Beta-ed by kriadydragon and karri_kln1671
Prompt for the Round: Write a whump fic with John and ONE of his team. John POV.
WORDS by linziday
Sheppard’s across the field in just four seconds.
It’s still too long.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, dropping to his knees beside Rodney. He knows shouting and swearing are exactly the wrong things to do if he doesn’t want the other man to panic, but there’s a massive amount of blood, bones are protruding through skin and the metal trap is still clamped around Rodney’s leg, so Sheppard thinks he can be forgiven for a little immediate alarm, even if it doesn’t help keep Rodney calm.
Except Rodney isn’t panicking, Sheppard realizes, flicking his attention up from the field bandage tourniquet he’s devising. Rodney doesn’t flail, doesn’t rant, doesn’t so much as yelp when Sheppard pulls the tourniquet tight around his thigh with a grunt. Instead, he sits quietly and still, mouth open like he forgot what he was about to say.
“C’mon, buddy, talk to me here,” Sheppard implores, pulling the trap open with both hands. He yanks it up from where it’s staked to the ground and heaves it as far away as possible. He feels a frantic flutter in his chest when Rodney stays silent.
Sheppard tips his head to interrupt Rodney’s line of sight, but Rodney doesn’t even blink. His eyes are so wide that black swallows blue. Sheppard grasps Rodney’s wrist. His skin’s cold and clammy, his pulse fast.
Shock.
Rodney had something like a bear trap clamped around his leg and he’s got at least three broken bones that Sheppard can see - literally - and while the bleeding’s slowed thanks to the tourniquet, it hasn’t stopped. Of course he’s in shock. Of course. That doesn’t stop Sheppard from saying "Fuckfuckfuck," fast and rough, under his breath. Apparently it’s the word of the day.
But Rodney needs better words.
“This is nothing. Nothing,” Sheppard says, shrugging out of his jacket. “Cast for a couple of months, you’ll be fine. Hell, won’t even stop you from working.”
He keeps talking, filling the silence as he balls the jacket into a pillow. He talks as he puts one hand on Rodney’s chest, one hand on his back, easing him to lie down. He talks as he checks Rodney’s leg for a pulse, as he fashions a splint, as -
“Sh’pprd?”
It’s low and rusty, almost whispered, but Sheppard’s head snaps around as if Rodney’s voice were a gunshot.
“Hey,” Sheppard answers, and it’s more an exhale of relief than a word.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.
Author: linziday
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: None
A/N: Beta-ed by kriadydragon and karri_kln1671
Prompt for the Round: Write a whump fic with John and ONE of his team. John POV.
WORDS by linziday
Sheppard’s across the field in just four seconds.
It’s still too long.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, dropping to his knees beside Rodney. He knows shouting and swearing are exactly the wrong things to do if he doesn’t want the other man to panic, but there’s a massive amount of blood, bones are protruding through skin and the metal trap is still clamped around Rodney’s leg, so Sheppard thinks he can be forgiven for a little immediate alarm, even if it doesn’t help keep Rodney calm.
Except Rodney isn’t panicking, Sheppard realizes, flicking his attention up from the field bandage tourniquet he’s devising. Rodney doesn’t flail, doesn’t rant, doesn’t so much as yelp when Sheppard pulls the tourniquet tight around his thigh with a grunt. Instead, he sits quietly and still, mouth open like he forgot what he was about to say.
“C’mon, buddy, talk to me here,” Sheppard implores, pulling the trap open with both hands. He yanks it up from where it’s staked to the ground and heaves it as far away as possible. He feels a frantic flutter in his chest when Rodney stays silent.
Sheppard tips his head to interrupt Rodney’s line of sight, but Rodney doesn’t even blink. His eyes are so wide that black swallows blue. Sheppard grasps Rodney’s wrist. His skin’s cold and clammy, his pulse fast.
Shock.
Rodney had something like a bear trap clamped around his leg and he’s got at least three broken bones that Sheppard can see - literally - and while the bleeding’s slowed thanks to the tourniquet, it hasn’t stopped. Of course he’s in shock. Of course. That doesn’t stop Sheppard from saying "Fuckfuckfuck," fast and rough, under his breath. Apparently it’s the word of the day.
But Rodney needs better words.
“This is nothing. Nothing,” Sheppard says, shrugging out of his jacket. “Cast for a couple of months, you’ll be fine. Hell, won’t even stop you from working.”
He keeps talking, filling the silence as he balls the jacket into a pillow. He talks as he puts one hand on Rodney’s chest, one hand on his back, easing him to lie down. He talks as he checks Rodney’s leg for a pulse, as he fashions a splint, as -
“Sh’pprd?”
It’s low and rusty, almost whispered, but Sheppard’s head snaps around as if Rodney’s voice were a gunshot.
“Hey,” Sheppard answers, and it’s more an exhale of relief than a word.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.