Slashy Nominations 138: Happy Accidents
First, an administrative note: About half of my LJ comment notifications are showing up with nothing in them. At all. Except for the name of the person who left it. Which means that unless the comment is in my journal, or I can guess where the comment was left (like, it's from someone whose journal I left a comment in earlier), I have no way of
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Rodney hasn't ever seen John this upset, not ever. He looks at the tiger again - old, ratty, frayed and coming apart along the tail and an ear, and his middle is all compressed; after a second, Rodney realizes that that's because someone held him there a lot, probably for years. Rodney looks at John again, tries to find something to say.
"What's his name?" Rodney asks.
"None of your business." John puts the tiger away with sharp, precise movements. He pauses, hands on the lid, and looks down into the locker at the tiger, head bowed, posture still stiff and tense. Rodney really wishes he could see John's face.
Rodney reaches out and puts a hand on John's calf, which is what he can reach. "John, wait, come on." He's babbling, he knows it, but he has to find the right thing to say and he doesn't know what that is, so babbling is all he's got left. "I, uh, I'm, I'm sorry. Just don't, don't think - I didn't mean it, okay? I didn't know he was, uh, he was your, that he was, was important to you."
John doesn't turn to look at Rodney, so it's like he's talking to the tiger when he says, very very quietly, "He is." His shoulders drop, just a little. Rodney hopes that's a positive sign.
Rodney heaves himself up and goes to stand next to John, looking into the footlocker, and John doesn't push him away or slam the lid down, but he doesn't say anything, either. "He's a good tiger," Rodney says, keeping quiet, feeling oddly like he's trying to avoid spooking wary natives; he always figured there were a few landmines buried in the Colonel's brain, but - a stuffed tiger? He stares at it, tries to think of something else to say. He's just so fucking bad at dealing with stuff like this.
Next to him, John swallows and takes a breath, but he still doesn't say anything.
Rodney's getting nervous; soon, he knows, he'll start saying anything that pops into his head, just to break the silence, so if he's going to say the right thing, it has to be soon. But John isn't giving him any hints. Out of sheer desperation, Rodney accepts the first idea his brain offers to him; he says, "I have a sewing kit, you know. You could borrow it. For him, I mean. The tiger. If you, if you want to."
John closes the lid firmly and Rodney's heart sinks. He knew he'd fuck this up, but he wanted to do it right. That should count for something, but it never does.
John pulls on the lid to check the lock, then turns to face Rodney; he keeps his head tilted down, but he meets Rodney's eyes, and he looks - softer, or, no, not exactly softer. Maybe younger. For once, Rodney can see hints of the spikey-haired kid he used to be.
John smiles, tentatively. "Thanks, Rodney," he says, and Rodney smiles back - don't say anything, don't say anything, he chants to himself, because the odds against him saying the right thing twice in a row are phenomenal.
"Hobbes," John says. "His name is Hobbes."
Rodney tries not to get ludicrously oversentimental; John obviously has a screw loose in the sentiment department, so it's up to Rodney to bring the proper note of cynicism back to this conversation. But all he can think of to say is, "He's a great tiger, Colonel."
John grins. "The best," he says. "Absolutely the best."
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Hobbes is always going after tuna sandwiches, right? Does Rodney ever twitch his ears at the sound of a can opener?
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