SGA Fic - Dave's Brother

[kriadydragon]

Title: Dave's Brother
Rating: PG for language, hints of past violence and mentions of ill family member
Characters: John, Dave
Summary: You may not have to like them, but you still have to love them. After being severely injured, John stays with his brother to heal. Dave's POV.

A/N: Written for x_erika_x for the sgahcchallenges Hurt/comfort Comment Fic exchange. Prompt at the end of the story. It ended up too long to post as a comment :P Edited but not beta'd.

Dave's Brother

Dave stood on his front porch, hands in the pockets of his khakis, and wondering what kind the messed-up schedule the universe kept to. Tonight was his turn to play host in the company's annual dinner party, a low-key invitation for prospective clients to invest in a company that knows how to be personal. Everyone on the board hated these things, but the parties worked, and who were any of them to argue against lesser-evils that worked?

But today was also the day Dave's little brother was to show up at his door. The “why” was simple - something bad had happened, John had been hurt and needed time to recover before going back to... where ever the hell he was stationed at. That was as far as Dave's knowledge was allowed to go, leaving the rest up to assumption, and it was pissing him off. For one, he'd never been patient about not being in the know. Hell, for Christmas he'd shake, weigh and do everything save open the presents before the appointed time for a more accurate educated guess as to what he got. When their mom was dying, he'd researched everything he could on the type of cancer she had, as though to know it would have made it somehow less than it was.

For another, this was John, who could make you think he had a secret even when he didn't. John, who he had last seen after their father had died almost a year ago. John, who was impossible to reach without knowing who to call, and who had been hurt who knew where and how and Dave would never know the answer. John, who'd been a pain in the ass since the day he was born.

And he was coming here, now, to convalesce while Dave hobnobbed with very important current and future clients. Because Dave didn't know the exact details, he couldn't say if John's injuries would be the type to demand silence and as little stress as possible, which John would get, upstairs tucked safely away in the guest room. Still, Dave knew of things like PTSD. Not personally, just what he'd heard on the news and specials on the troops in Iraq; enough to know that he had a right to feel uneasy.

The crunch of gravel and the hum of an engine yanked Dave from his musings. Rather than some random yellow cab, the car delivering his brother was long, black, sleek - the kind of car tonight's current and future clients would no doubt arrive in. When the car stopped, Dave trotted over to offer whatever services were needed. A young man in fatigues got out of the driver's side and moved around to the passenger side just as Dave arrived. The man was about to open the door, but paused when he finally noticed that he wasn't alone.

“Oh. Sorry, sir. Didn't see you there. Would you like to help him out? Then I can get his bags.”

“Um... yeah, sure. Do I have to...” Dave's hand went to the back of his head, as it often did when he was feeling a little flustered, which wasn't often. “I mean... are there crutches or a wheelchair?” Because Dave knew that little about his brother's injuries.

“No, sir. But he's a little weak and might be disoriented. He also has a hard time getting up--”

“He's in here,” came the familiar, yet currently muffled, voice of a very tired and petulant John.

The young soldier winced and said, “Sorry, sir.” Then swept his hand toward the door. “All yours, Mr. Sheppard.”

Dave reached for the handle. It popped before he had a chance to grip it, then eased gradually open as if working on arthritic hinges. Dave grabbed the frame and pulled it the rest of the way. He jolted in alarm, hoping John hadn't seen. It was unnerving how remarkably similar John was to their mother during her last days - pale, thin, movements slow and painful looking. The only difference was all the bruises on John's face: both eyes, jaw, temple, lip, no longer swollen but easy to spot even a mile away on that colorless skin. One slender arm snaked out to grip the door, the other - the forearm wrapped in a cast - sought purchase on the seat. John started pulling himself up. Dave reached out, steadying him by the cast-less arm.

“I got it,” John grunted hoarsely. Dave answered by using both hands. When John was upright and as steady as he was going to get, he glared at Dave. At least Dave assumed it was a glare. Maybe it was the bruises, or whatever John was on to dull the pain, but he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

The young solider came around from the back to deposit a duffel bag and backpack by both Dave's and John's feet. One of the bags rattled.

The younger solider said nothing else, simply nodded then put himself back in the driver's seat to take the car away as soon as the passenger side was shut. Dave grabbed both the bags, slinging the backpack - the source of the rattling - over his shoulder. As they walked, he made sure to stay close to John, who may have been upright but looked ready to collapse at any moment. John limped on his left side and was hunched tight, his good arm pressed against his side.

“So,” Dave began. He had to struggle for an end to that sentence, but it had seemed better than the silence sitting on them like a cement block. “Have a good trip?” He tried not to cringe.

“Fine,” John said. “Drive was a bitch. Kind of got car sick. Damn meds.”

Dave smiled, just a little. If John was willing to endure small talk, it couldn't have been all bad. Then again, John would joke and tease even if he was flat on the ground with a broken leg. Personality was never anything to go by when John was in a bad way. Dave's little brother was like a contract, where you had to look close and read between the lines to see what was really going on.

For once, that wasn't so hard.

They made it into the house with John still on his feet.

“Got the guest room ready,” Dave said. They made it to the stairs, but Dave could tell John was starting to flag, the limp more pronounced and his back almost bent. Dave dropped the bags and positioned himself at the ready for the arduous climb up.

“I'm good,” John slurred, as though out of habit instead of really meaning it. When Dave placed a hand on John's shoulder to steady him, John flinched but didn't protest. Negotiating the stairs took even longer than getting into the house, and by the time they reached the top Dave had his other hand under John's elbow. It had the unfortunate effect of once again making him think of their mother, of the two of them helping her up the stairs, encouraging her to take it one step at a time and her telling them - rather hotly - that she knew how to climb.

“I'm not gonna fall,” John whispered. Dave snorted, aiming for a laugh, but the noise ended up catching in his throat.

Dad was... had been... right. John took more after mom: in looks, personality, and that stubborn resolve that not even logic and an ailing body could crush. Everyone knew it was the only reason mom had lived as long as she had, clinging to months rather than the pathetic days the doctor had given her. She'd fought, Dave swore, just to keep fighting; as though that stubborn resolve had been all she had left, and no damn way was anyone going to take it from her.

A lump of something expanded in Dave's throat. He swallowed repeatedly, looking at John, but it only made the lump grow, because John looked like hell; like he was sick and, crap, he was wearing a T-shirt and Dave could still see his ribs. Not emaciated, not like mom had been, but a hell of a lot less in body mass than the last time Dave had seen him. It made John seem ill, and that made Dave feel a little ill, himself.

And because Dave had no idea how the hell this had happened, it pissed him off even more. It was a sore temptation, like ice in the pit of his stomach, to ask what the hell had happened. Dave deserved answers after the call that had scared the hell out of him: an informal voice asking for a Dave Sheppard, saying that it was about his brother Lt. Colonel John Sheppard. Dave had thought for sure it was going to be “the” call, the one he had sworn he wouldn't be surprised if he one day got.

It hadn't terrified him any less, not even when he was told John was only hurt, not dead.

John owed him.

They made it to the guest room between the master bedroom and Dave's upstairs office. It was a simple room, designed like one of the many high-end hotels Dave was subject to on business trips to places where he didn't have a condo - bed, TV, dresser, closet and it's own bathroom, but masculine with dark colors and a midnight blue duvet. Dave kept hold of John's elbow as John lowered himself with a quiet grunt onto the bed. A relieved groan followed on the heels of the grunt. John all but melted into the bed, making Dave hover in case it also included him tipping over.

“You all right, here?” Dave asked. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Still need to get your bags.”

John didn't speak, simply nodded. Dave didn't really believe him, so walked fast to bring the bags in. When he got back, dumping the bags on the floor, John was still where Dave had left him. His head was down until the bags thumped on the floor.

John's reaction was like a cat, loose-limbed and boneless one minute, upright and tense as a quivering bow string the next. His head snapped up, his eyes snapped wide and his spine went as straight as a pole. He glanced around, breathing fast, spooked like a man who had no idea where he was.

It was almost instinct for Dave to hold his hands out, despite that John was probably about as dangerous as a newborn kitten. He said, “John?” has calm and neutral as possible while keeping his distance. He didn't know why he did this, just that it felt like the right thing to do. It's what they had done with the horses when they'd get spook - talk soft, talk low, show that you weren't a threat and approach slowly.

It worked. John's attention focused on Dave and, as though having said the magic word, he instantly calmed. Not instantly, instantly - he was still breathing heavy, and shaking visibly, but he took several deep breaths that took the spook right out of him.

“Sorry,” John said. “Startled me.”

“Then shouldn't I be the one apologizing?” Dave deadpanned. It didn't lighten the mood, but it did take some of the tension out of John.

It was getting harder and harder not to ask. But the trick to getting any kind of an answer was patience; waiting for the right time, coaxing the answers out with the right words. Never push, never demand, just wait.

Dave did ask. “You all right?”

John tilted his body forward, planting his elbows on his knees, then rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He croaked, “Could really go for a nap. Need to dope myself up, first.” He pulled his casted hand from his head as if it had been magnetized to the spot, to point at the backpack. “Could you...?”

Dave was on it, zipping the pack open as he deposited it on the bed. The bottles John pulled from the bag could have been a starter kit for a new pharmacy.

Kind of like mom, who had been on so many drugs Dave had often wondered if they'd done more harm than good.

Dave was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to leave; turn, walk out, get on with preparations for the party rather than standing around like some boulder, taking up space. Screw questions and answers... for now.

He didn't want to see this.

Dave could have left, right then, with the excuse of getting John some water until John pulled a water bottle from the pack. It was the final straw.

“You all right, here?” Dave asked. “Need anything?”

“”M good,” John said. He tossed back the first of his pills, exposing a white, bruised throat.

The the shape of the bruises looked remarkably like fingers.

Dave found himself blurting,” So what happened to you?” As though his tongue had grown a brain of it's own and stubborn will to rival John's.

“Ran into some hostiles,” John said. He tossed back his second pill, chasing it with water. “That's all I can say.”

And that was all Dave could take. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder the same time he started backing toward the door. “Listen, I've got to go get ready for this... thing. Party. Tonight. So you may not want to come down stairs from between seven to twelve. You need anything to eat, drink, just help yourself.”

John nodded and tossed back the third pill.

Dave left, he hoped, like he wasn't in a hurry, shutting the door behind him. But he paused, hovering, listening for the tell-tale whisper of movement: shuffling footsteps, the click of the bathroom door, the flush of the toilet moments later then the whisper of blanket and sheets. When the room fell silent, Dave was able to pull himself away.

With any luck, the number of pills John had to take would keep him knocked out for most of the day and into the night. But at some point in time, he would need to get up and eat. Food had always been an issue with mom, always too tired to eat, but tired because she wasn't eating enough, one big cycle eventually solved with a feeding tube and IV of vitamins. Mom had hated that.

Not that John would suffer the same fate, at least as long as he ate. And John wasn't dying of cancer, he was healing. Healing people got better, not worse, as long as they got what they needed - food, rest, more food and more rest.

John would be fine.

When Dave reached the bottom of the stairs, he scanned his home and the preparations already made. He could see through the entryway into the kitchen all the way to the sliding glass doors and the patio - now covered by a canopy should the fore-casted storm come early tonight. Dave had decided on catering the event and had tables set up on either side of the patio to form a buffet. The food wouldn't arrive until six thirty at the same time as the orchestra. Other than that, the house was as ready as it was going to get, cleaned this morning by a cleaning crew (his housekeeper still on her two week vacation) and the wet bar restocked.

Which left next to nothing for Dave to do except sit around for the next four hours and wait. Eventually get into his tuxedo, yes, but otherwise wait. He went into his living room, put some classical music into his stereo, then grabbed the paper off the coffee table, sat and flipped it open to the stocks page.

He had wanted to say no to the request of taking John in while he recuperated. It hadn't even been John making the request but his doctor and, crap, Dave hadn't even known John was in the hospital until that call. He had wanted to say no out of the knee-jerk reaction to John needing a favor when he'd been nothing but a memory and a guest at a funeral. Dave had said yes because it was still John, still his brother and he knew he would only end up feeling like a selfish ass over denying a sick man a place to stay. The way Dave figured it, as long as interaction was kept to a minimum, then fights would be avoided, John would heal just fine, leave and life would continue as usual.

Though Dave couldn't say with certainty it was what he wanted. The last time they had talked, long after John had taken off from dad's funeral, it hadn't been so bad. John hadn't wanted money, hadn't challenged the will. They had talked fondly about their dad, sometimes not so fondly when it was John doing the talking, but he'd at least tried to stay away from the bad and focus on the good. It had been a short walk down memory, only an hour, but they hadn't even skirted toward hostile the entire time.

John had also started e-mailing, sometimes, just to let Dave know that he was still alive, and that he would love to say more if he didn't have to worry about letting slip top-government secrets. He would often mention the people he worked with, such as that contractor, Ronon, someone named McKay and a woman named Teyla. It wasn't much, just funny things they all said or fun things they all did together, but it was the most John had ever talked about his personal life since joining the military.

Though Dave was pretty sure that the constant reminder of top-secret government crap was John bragging. John had always been a big James Bond, secret agents kind of fan - mostly when he wasn't watching all that stupid sci-fi stuff.

Dave checked his watch - still four hours to go. He put down the paper then turned on the TV, flipping channels for about an hour before his stomach started making demands. He went to the kitchen and grabbed some microwave soup to shut his stomach up without making him too full. He didn't think about making John any until after he had finished with his own.

John's doctor had promised that Dave's only task in John's recuperation would be to check on him and make sure he didn't slip in the bath tub or anything. Playing room service wasn't part of it. But if those pills John was taking were strong, then even if he woke up before the party, he probably wouldn't have the mental or physical capacity to make it downstairs to eat. Dave also had the feeling that the less John had to make trips up and down the stairs, the better off they'd both be. Plus it would annoy the hell out of John to be waited on, which he deserved.

Dave microwaved soup, browned some toast and poured a glass of milk. He thought about adding a little vase with a flower, but figured it would be pushing things. Still, the look on John's face would have been priceless.

Dave carried the tray carefully into the room to find John sprawled on his back, casted arm on the bed, good arm draped over his stomach rising and falling gently. It was a good, deep sleep that made John seem at peace, his bruises artificial, and Dave feel a little more confident about pushing forward into the room rather than tip-toeing or something. He shoved the clock and small lamp on the nightstand aside with the tray to make room.

The question hovered as to whether or not he should wake John or let him discover the food on his own. The soup would get cold, but John had been dead on his feet the moment he'd arrived. Mom they would usually wake when it was time for her to eat, but then mom had pretty much slept most of the last days of her life away.

And Sheppard wasn't dying, he was just exhausted.

Dave gripped John's arm, giving it a gentle shake.

“Hey, John. Wake up, I brought lunch.”

John didn't stir, not on the first shake. The second, harder shake provoked a light grunt and John turning his head to the side, showing his bruises - those finger shaped bruises. It was under the coercion of morbid fascination that Dave leaned in for a closer look. He counted five, four along the side of the neck, one curving over John's Adam's apple.

Ran into some hostiles.

Dave clenched his jaw until he felt his teeth grind. He forced out, “What the hell do you do, John?” then squeezed John's shoulder.

The sound that crawled from John's throat was high, like a whimper, a pained whimper, and Dave immediately let go. Dave hadn't meant to hurt him, wasn't really sure if he had or if John was locked in the choke hold of troubling dreams. Either way, it was official: John was dead to the world.

Dave straightened with every intention to leave John to his sleep. But he couldn't move. His brain sent the commands while his legs refused as though having grown roots into the floor. He stared at John, one part horrified and one part amazed that John was here, now, after having been nothing but a ghost for so long.

And it takes him almost dying to be here. It took dad dying...

Dave passed his hand over his face, letting it linger over his mouth.

You're not supposed to be here, John. It wasn't that Dave didn't want him here. It was... what? Bad timing? Strange? Supposed to be impossible? Dave had long ago accepted the fact that John was a being whose feet would never touch ground again. He hadn't expected that John would actually show up to dad's funeral. He hadn't expected that, after their hour-long talk after putting dad in the ground, that John would ever return.

Dave hadn't expected to ever see John again, and he'd made peace with that. It was strange, surreal, almost dream-like, to be able to stare at John. For a moment, he was tempted to reach out and touch him again, to make sure he was real. Except he didn't have to. John lingered on Dave's hand: rough cotton, clammy warmth, the solidity of a shoulder made of muscle and bone. Dave could still feel it sitting on his fingertips, clinging to his palm.

A knot tightened around Dave's gut. He wanted more than anything to say that John was the kind of guy who only came back when he wanted something. It would have made it easier to say no to him, turn him away, let John float and wander like he always did. To be pissed off at him. Because, despite Dave living with John being next to a non-entity in his life, that phone call asking for a Dave Sheppard, because it was about his brother John Sheppard, had terrified him.

John couldn't stay up in the air forever.

Dave was pissed, just not the kind of pissed he could really act upon. Why hadn't he been contacted sooner? Why did John have to do things that made him keep secrets?

John's body twitched on a stuttering breath. Dave stiffened, watching. A noise exhaled through John's lips, the same high-pitched whimper of pain from when Dave had touched him. His head started rocking back and forth, jerking as though trying to shake something off. His breathing increased, shallow but quick, pumping his chest. Alarm made Dave reach out and grab John's shoulder above the collarbone.

“John?” He squeezed.

John's eyes snapped open, wild and glassy, and he struggled upright, flailing his good arm in an attempt to knock Dave away. Dave grabbed John's wrist before his hand made contact.

“John, it's me, Dave! John!”

John stilled but he didn't calm down. He kept panting, was shaking, and sweat was slicking his brow. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room before finally settling on Dave, staring at him like staring at something that should have been impossible.

“Dave?”

Dave, still gripping John's wrist and shoulder, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it's me. You're at my house, in the guest room.” Then thought to add, “You're safe.”

John's eyes stayed saucer-wide but his breathing, at least, settled down. He nodded, slowly, still unsure but starting to comprehend. He did another, more gradual but no less twitchy scan around the room before looking back at Dave.

More specifically at Dave's grip on his wrist. Dave quickly snatched his hand away.

“Sorry.”

“S'okay,” John breathed, but had his arm to his chest, rubbing his wrist with the tips of his fingers. Dave noticed the angry red skin and swallowed. He hadn't realized he'd been squeezing so tight.

Like a mind reader, John shook his head, held up his wrist and said, “Already like this.”

“Oh,” Dave said, still feeling no less ill. He rubbed the back of his head uneasily. “You, uh... you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” John said too quickly. He'd moved his wide-eyed stare to the wall across from the bed. “Bad dream. Nothing new.” It seemed to take effort for him to pull his eyes away from the wall to the night stand and tray.

Dave yanked his hand from the back of his head and gestured vaguely at the tray. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh,” John said. He grimaced. “Not really.”

Dave chuffed and placed his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I think you can guess how I'm gonna reply to that.”

He almost laughed when John's grimace switched places with a scowl. John had always been good at pulling faces. Not that it had ever gotten him anywhere or anything, but the effort had always been impressive.

“Yeah, I do,” John sighed. He slumped, rubbing his face around the bruises. “I know the game.” Then he swung himself around - more like pulled, inch by obnoxiously slow inch - until his legs were over the edge of the bed. He scooted close enough to the nightstand to eat without having to move the tray.

Once again Dave found himself just standing there, feeling like a third wheel when it was only the two of them and a tray of soup.

“You good?” Dave asked. “Need anything else?”

John shook his head as he stirred his soup, then asked before Dave could go, “So, what kind of party?” He looked up in alarm. “You're birthday's in July, right?”

Dave smirked. “Yes, it's in July. And, yes, I got that hand-made bowl. Two days late but pretty good all things considered. Where'd you find a bowl like that, anyway? Never seen anything like it.”

“If I told you--” John said, then occupied his mouth with soup.

Dave nodded rigidly. “Yeah, yeah, then you'd have to kill me.”

“No, then you'd have to fill out a bunch of paper work. Can't promise it wouldn't bore you to death, though.” John took another bite, completely nonchalant. He was also good at not pulling faces.

It had been quite the surprise, receiving a package from John. And a hand-crafted bowl of all things, decorated in the markings of some ancient society. Dave had a thing for antiques, the older the better, but he'd had no idea that John had been paying close enough attention to realize it. Or maybe he'd thought people in general liked hand-made, antique bowls. Either way, other than surprised, Dave hadn't been sure what to think of it, so had put the bowl on his desk in his home office and put the matter out of his mind with the company's latest figures.

“So why the shin-dig?” John asked.

“Business,” Dave said. “We have it at least once a year. This year's was mine to host. Just the usual food, wine, talking...”

John nodded. “Sounds like fun.”

“Not really.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Yeah, figured as much. You never could stand all those charity events that dad would drag us to.”

John snorted. “You hated them, too.”

“But I didn't let everyone know it by flopping all over every chair and couch you came across.” It was hard not to smile thinking about it. John had been lanky from birth and would drop into a chair like a puppet with it's strings cut when he was bored. It would drive their dad nuts, having to tell John over and over to sit up straight and stop sulking.

John glared. “We were going to a damn party every damn month and they lasted for friggin' ever. At least I didn't fall asleep face-first into my dinner plate.”

Dave rolled his eyes but conceded the point. For a couple of young boys used to tearing across the wide expanse of their various homes, the tight control and adult-saturated environment of those parties had been hell.

“Thanks, by the way,” John said, pouring a lot of focus into his soup. “For... you know... letting me stay.”

“It was no big deal,” Dave said automatically. He cleared his throat. “So what happened to your neck?” Which seemed an odd question to ask with so many other injuries to inquire about. But Dave figured that, maybe, if he kept the questions small and one at a time, he would stumble onto something John might actually be able to answer.

John didn't look at him when he answered. “I was attacked.”

Dave took a deep breath, averting his gaze to the bed. “Looks pretty bad.”

“Wasn't a big deal.”

Dave took another deep breath and mentally counted. Someone tries to choke the life out of you and you call it not a big deal? He said instead, “Need anything else?”

When John shook his head, Dave gave him the same diatribe of helping himself to the kitchen, then left. He made a B-line for the living room where he was supposed to sit, relax, wait. Instead, he paced, passing his hand over his mouth and down his chin.

Not a big deal. Strangled, and it's not a big deal. Dave's hand strayed to his pants pocket, the one with his cellphone, and gripped it. Sometimes, with the right lawyer, contacts and enough money, you could get answers. It was how dad did it - more with the right contacts than lawyers - because the old man could never seem to bring himself to pick up the phone and call John directly (and vice versa with John). But practicality told Dave that it wouldn't change anything except make him even more pissed and give him one hell of a headache (he knew paperwork, and knew that John's exaggeration wasn't an exaggeration, especially when it came to government red tape.)

Dave dropped himself onto the couch. He would just have to keep asking, find the right questions to produce an answer, any answer. John couldn't evade forever, especially while drugged and drowsy. Dave distracted himself with more flipping.

He lasted barely fifteen minutes, then went to see if John was done.

A fourth of the soup remained in the bowl, only half a piece of toast eaten and the glass barely drained. But John was done whether he liked it or not; he was sitting back against the pillows, sound asleep. Dave sighed, then hefted John's legs back onto the bed, ignoring John's flinch, and covered him up. He took the tray to the kitchen.

Dave went back to flipping until the doorbell rang. He checked his watch: the caterers were here, and a distraction that would actually distract.

-----------------------

“You really outdid yourself this year, Sheppard.”

Dave smiled politely and thanked Mr. Bernstein like a good host was supposed to. It didn't matter the location, one party was like another and it wasn't like the clients ever paid attention to who was hosting it and when it was hosted; unless it was at someone's house, of course. Even then, sometimes...

The party was in as full a swing as parties like this were going to get. Most of the clients were gathered in the backyard, taking advantage of the cooling weather and free food, a third hovering at the wet bar. The small stringed orchestra filled the house with soft classical music and underlying it was the even softer murmur of polite conversation. Dave made his rounds, talked with those who he needed to talk with, making everyone feel welcome and comfortable and interested in what the company had to offer.

Dave was in his element, an element that had at one time been his dad's and that Dave, as a child, had never understood until he'd started making the rounds with his father. It was then that Dave came to the hard realization that parties weren't about recreation, they were about business: work hidden behind good food, quiet music and booze. But the clients weren't stupid. They knew what was going on and were happy enough to let it happen if it meant free food and drinks. The company took advantage of the clients by softening them up, the clients took advantage of the company wrapping business in the shiny paper and bow that was a party.

Though, really, it was more win/win for the clients. These parties weren't cheap, and there wasn't much Dave could do if a potential client declined the offer to invest.

When not talking it up, Dave's eyes strayed to the ceiling. The music and conversation was soft enough that if John was moving around, Dave would hear it. So far, nothing, and as much as Dave wanted to find relief in that, it was making him nervous though he wasn't sure why. His biggest concern before the party had been John making enough noise to either freak the guests out or make them a little too curious. The lack of noise made Dave wonder just how out of it John was - you'd think the floorboards would have creaked in the general direction of the bathroom by now - and he didn't like that John might be too comatose to realize basic needs.

It made Dave want to check on him.

“David!” A clap on the shoulder by the meaty hand of Greg Stiles, one of the board, pulled him from his thoughts. “You have got to meet Dan Frederick. The man is hilarious.”

Frederick wasn't all that hilarious. In fact, he was kind of an asshole. But then that was what these parties were all about; kissing a lot of ass no matter how bad the taste.

Dave kept being accosted on his rounds, shoving all thoughts of heading upstairs right out of his mind.

Until Dave heard the creak of floor boards. Moments later, it was followed by several thumps. Dave pulled himself from his current conversation with a formal “excuse me for a moment,” and hurried to the stairs. He arrived in time to see two of the guests hurrying down, a man and a woman giggling like two drunk teenagers thinking they'd gotten away with something. When they spotted Dave staring at them in alarm, they snorted, the woman slapping her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Then she sobered - as much as anyone a little hammered could sober - and pointed a finger over her shoulder back up the stairs. “We are so sorry. We had no idea anyone was up there. We were just--”

“Looking for the bathroom,” the man cut in, and made a choking sound in his throat.

“Downstairs in the basement,” Dave said flatly. “There's a bathroom there.” He didn't wait around for their apology, because it would be about as sincere as their reasons for going upstairs. Dave pushed past them, straight for the guest room.

When he opened the door he was assaulted by sour air and an empty bed. The lights were on, the horny couple devoid of the courtesy to even turn them off, and the sheets and blanket a rumpled pile. The bathroom door was also open, and dark, which meant that John had either forgot to turn on the lights or wasn't in there. Dave hurried around to the other side of the bed.

John was on the floor, his back against the dresser and his knees up for his forehead to rest on. A wet, brown stain trailed from the bed to where Sheppard sat and a similar stain soaked most of John's shirt.

“John?” Dave crouched next to him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

John startled, bad: his head shot up and his body back thumping hard against the dresser. He raised his arms, hands out, as though getting ready for a fight. The glassy vacancy in John's eyes sent a chill dancing down Dave's spine, because there was a touch of terror to it, as though John was getting ready for a lot of very bad things to happen while knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

It lasted no more than two heartbeats when confusion replaced it. John's eyes darted, finally settling on Dave. It took a while for recognition to sink in and Dave didn't so much as twitch until it did.

“You okay?” Dave asked, testing the situation.

John swallowed, looked around, but didn't nod. “Someone... came in,” he said.

Dave grimaced. “Yeah. It was a mistake, don't worry about it.”

John, however, didn't seem to be listening. “I thought--” he took a stuttering breath, letting it out with a body-length shiver. “I... I'm good.” He coughed. “I'm fine.” But he was still breathing heavy.

“You sure?” Dave hedged. John was looking anything but fine. In fact, he looked worse than when he'd arrived: paler, shakier, on edge.

But John, being John, took a deep breath, schooled his features and shook his head. “I'm fine.”

Like hell he was. Dave pointed a rigid finger at the mess staining the carpet. “You call that fine, John?”

John stared at the stain as though it was something new, and just a little disturbing. He said, “Guess the soup didn't sit well.” But if it was a joke, it didn't make either them smile. Dave exhaled through his nose while pressing his lips into a firm line, then took John by the biceps.

“Come on. I'll helped you get cleaned up.”

John's attempts at shaking him off fell flat; the man could barely stand let alone pull his arm free. “I can do it.”

“Humor me,” Dave said. He wasn't leaving John alone until he knew his brother was calmed down enough to go back to sleep. He tugged John into the bathroom, pulling him down onto the toilet seat. John tried to push him away.

“I said I can do it!” he snarled. Dave ignored him except to start tugging John's shirt off, just to make him pissed and because Dave didn't have time to wait around for John to struggle out of and into a new shirt.

John protested loudly,” Damn it, Dave!” Fighting as though his life depended on keeping his shirt on. But John was weaker, Dave stronger and the shirt was off and in the hamper before John's hand could move to snatch it back.

“Stop being a baby and just let me help.” Dave turned to the sink, pulling a washcloth from the cupboard next to it and wetting it. “The sooner we finish this the sooner you can get back to bed and the sooner I can--” he glanced John.

Then looked at him, at all the bruises, the stitched cuts, the damn lacerations all over John's back, overlapping each other in lines of hell-red and black sutures, from below the neck to his waist, some curling around his ribs and shoulders to his chest and stomach. So many, too many to count.

Dave's hand went lax. The washcloth fell from it, slopping into the sink.

John hunched his back like an angry cat, glaring fit to put holes into the wall before turning his face away to do the same to the bathtub. Silence filled the room like cement, heavy and cold and suffocating.

Until Dave choked out, “John, what the hell--” but couldn't finish. The sentence hung in the air, sharp as a guillotine. He waited for the words, John's mantra of “I'm fine” and “it's not as bad as it looks.” They didn't come, and Dave didn't know what was worse; that John wasn't even trying to dismiss it, or that John wasn't saying anything at all.

Then, after a moment, John reached out, taking the washcloth from the sink.

“I got this,” he said, squeezing the cloth, then washing vomit from his chest and stomach. “You don't have to stay.”

And a part of Dave wanted to take that invitation to turn tail and get back to the party. But he wasn't selfish and wasn't going to dismiss what he was seeing even if both of them wanted it. He left the room only to return with a clean T-shit - black with a panda face on it - as well as a clean pair of track pants. When John had finished with the wet washcloth, Dave handed him two dry ones.

“What happened, John?” Dave asked, since he couldn't not ask, not now. He could go downstairs, return to the party and all the small talk, but the image of John cut up, bruised and skinny would have adhered to his brain like a tattoo. It would be all he could think about, no matter how hard he tried not to think.

“I can't tell you,” John said, drying off.

Dave helped him into the T-shirt. “I'm not looking for details, here, John.” I don't want details. “You don't have to tell me who or where. I just... I mean, will it happen again? Could it?”

John's shoulder bounced beneath black material. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging over while clasped together. “I work around a lot of uncertainty.” His features turned pained, almost apologetic. “I can't really promise anything.”

Dave rested his hip against the sink and folded his arms. “So it could happen again.”

John bobbed his head. “Yeah. It could.” Then he looked at Dave, right in the eyes with a hard, penetrating stare that almost made Dave take a step back. “But we don't leave people behind. Ever. I can't guarantee bad stuff won't happen but I can guarantee that when it does, there are people who are going to do what it takes to get me out. We never leave anyone behind.”

Dave didn't feel any more reassured. He handed John the track pants, then put a steadying hand on John's arm as he struggled out of the soiled pair into the clean pair. Luckily, the vomit had missed John's boxers entirely.

Dave moved out of the bathroom to give John room to rinse and spit, but stayed and watched as John made his slow, stiff way back to the bed. Like the boxers, the bedding had been spared. Dave handed John the water bottle to take the next does of pills. Some of the pills were the same from this morning, others new.

“They'll knock me out pretty good,” John said, climbing back beneath the covers. In other words, Dave's part was done, and there was nothing left to do except let John sleep. And make sure no one wandered up the stairs. He really should have blocked the area off sooner, but delegating the caterers had ended up being too much of a distraction.

Dave left and as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs he placed two chairs in front of them. Then he was quickly swallowed back inside the world of meet, greet and deal.

John's abused body hovered in the back of his mind like a ghost, always there, making small talk that should have come to him like a rehearsed line more of an effort.

The predicted bad weather arrived around eleven thirty, forcing everyone inside. By then, a sizable dent had been made in the food, and people were full and relaxed and enjoying the lightning show. It was much to Dave's annoyance that a heavy downpour kept everyone around until twelve forty, and the house didn't empty until one o'clock in the morning. The only signs that there had been a party were the tables, left over food and plates scattered throughout the house.

This would have been the part where Dave wandered the house, picking up the debris and putting leftovers away. He did handle the leftovers, not wanting them to end up all over the lawn; the wind was getting pretty strong, as though the downpour from before had only been the precursor to what was really coming. The debris inside the house he left alone.

Dave went to check on John.

John was still in bed, still asleep, but it wasn't a peaceful sleep. His head rocked back and forth, his chest pumping with quick, shallow breaths. Every so often, a moan escaped through John's partially parted lips, sometimes a whimper.

Sometimes a plea.

Then he cried out, “You sons of bitches!” Dave flinched, recoiling, tempted to back right out of the room. But John's cursing faded on yet another whimper, longer, louder, hitting Dave like a kick to the gut leaving him sick.

Their mom had whimpered. She had tried not to, but when the pain was bad and the medicine useless, it would waft up from her throat, cutting through Dave like a knife. It had hurt so bad to see her in so much pain, to not be able to do anything about it except stand there, be there, because it helped her sometimes. Dave didn't know how, she just always said it did. As long as her two boys were where she could see them, then she knew everything would be all right.

Dave remembered the look on John's face, the struggle to hold back tears and not look scared. Dave was pretty sure he'd looked the same.

He remembered, after their mother had died, nights when John would come into his room, climb into his bed and hold his hand so tight it would ache. As much as Dave had wanted to tease him about it, he never could, because it had felt right. It had felt safe and reassuring. Mom was gone, dad came and went, but John was still there, and after a week of it, if John didn't make his nightly visit then Dave would go to John. It lasted until a year passed and they were nine and ten, and felt themselves too old for such comforts.

Dave toed off his shoes and climbed onto the bed on top of the covers, sitting upright with his back to the head board. He felt John's shivering vibrate the mattress, so pulled the covers up higher. He then grabbed John's failing hand and gripped it.

It was weird, and just a little uncomfortable, because if both Dave and John had thought themselves too old for hand holding at the age of nine and ten, then they were definitely too old now. But John didn't wake to protest it. His thrashing did start to slow, his breathing with it.

Dave said, “It's okay, John. You're safe.”

And John stopped whimpering. Outside, the real brunt of the storm arrived, beating the window with rain and making it glow with lightening. Thunder cracked like a blow by a massive fist, rattling the house. John whimpered and his thrashing resumed with desperate effort. But Dave would squeeze his hand, remind him he was safe and John would calm. The storm raged, Dave reassured, and John slept.

Dave hadn't realized he'd nodded off until he woke to gray daylight filling the room. He rubbed gritty eyes, then looked John's way. John was still asleep, his breathing steady but the rest of his body perfectly still.

His hand still rested in Dave's. The grip wasn't tight, but there was definitely a grip, and Dave's hand was feeling a little on the sore side. Dave slipped free then maneuvered his stiff body from the bed, making a mental note never to sleep sitting up again, and that if John asked, any hand holding experienced throughout the night had been a dream. Knowing John, though, he wouldn't mention it any more than Dave would.

Dave went downstairs and started breakfast: beacon, eggs, hash browns and cinnamon oatmeal for John, considering if he still liked that kind of oatmeal. In between turning that and stirring this Dave cleaned up the remnants of the party. The rest he would leave to his housekeeper when she came back from vacation tomorrow. She was going to have a lot to say over the state of the house, no doubts there.

John came down when everything cooking was finished. He still looked exhausted, still pale, but walked like the majority of human beings having just woken up. He was scratching the back of his head as he entered the kitchen, finishing up a yawn, and gave Dave a small wave with a thin-fingered hand partially encased in a cast.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Dave said back, scraping bacon onto a plate. John craned his neck trying to get a better look at Dave's breakfast.

“Some of that mine?”

“Can you have bacon?”

John shrugged. “Never hurts to try.”

“It does if it means another mess all over my floor.”

John's hand went to the back of his neck and his eyes anywhere but Dave. “Yeah, uh... sorry about that. I was...” he winced. “Kind of startled...”

Dave quickly dismissed it with a wave of the spatula. “Don't worry about it. How about you try a piece and we'll go from there.”

John slid into one of the three stools in front of the kitchen island. Breakfast was transferred to the table along with orange juice and an extra plate for John's piece of bacon.

During the process, Dave asked. “So, feel up to doing anything? Watch TV, sit outside...? That's all I can really think of.”

“Got any video games?”

Dave smirked. “That was your addiction. But, yeah, I got a couple of golf games.”

John rubbed around his bruised eyes one-handed. “Actually, I kind of want to sleep.” He dropped his hand on the counter, then picked up his spoon and scowled. “Which is all I've been doing since they found me.” He shrugged. “But it was all I wasn't doing when I was...” he trailed off, stabbing at his oatmeal. “Never mind.”

Dave let it go, even though he didn't want to. The more he heard, the more he was starting to realize that, maybe, he didn't want to know. Because with the truth came images full of blood and torture and things Dave didn't want to picture, especially when John was the one covered in blood.

And did what happen really matter? John was here, now, alive. There were worse things than not having all the facts.

“John?” Dave said.

“Yeah?”

“How long? How long did it take for you to be found?” Although, apparently, Dave had a stubborn streak as well.

John didn't look up when he said, “Little under three weeks.” He did when he added, “But they found me.”

“The people you work with?”

John nodded.

“Are they always, you know, finding you?”

John's eyes narrowed at the blatant innuendo. “They always find me when I have to be found. Sometimes they have to be found, and we find them. No one gets left behind.”

“And you really trust them to uphold that?”

“Hell. Yes.” John said, staring hard, daring Dave to argue it, because John would argue back and win.

Dave's lip twitched, trying not to smile but failing. “Good to know.” And, really, thinking about it, wasn't it the only answer he needed? That somewhere out there, someone was looking out for John.

Someone would bring him back.

John cleared his throat, focusing on his oatmeal. Maybe after my couple-of-hours nap, we can play some golf... digital golf.”

Dave nodded. “I'll get the X-box ready.”

“So,” John said next, “Your party. Was it any good?”

Dave chuffed. “Are they ever?”

The end

Prompt:
Characters: John and Dave
Request: John with sleep deprivation torture, dark and angsty. Major points if Dave is with him watching and having to provide comfort. Awkwardness and protective!John that earns him extra bruises and eventually causes Dave to go into protective mode (bonus if Dave is the older brother). I want hallucinating John, maybe drugs, but not necessary.
Don't want: OOC, easy fix, Dave mistreating John or the other way around.