14 Valentines 2: The End of the World as We Know It (John/Rodney, G)
Title: The End of the World as We Know It
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
Word Count: ~3,600
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: John Sheppard lived in a small house by the end of the world, which is just a few miles to the south of the left end of the rainbow. It was a solitary life, the house surrounded by nothing but long grass and wild flowers and a few trees in the distance… and, of course, the sheer cliff dropping straight down into infinity about fifteen feet from the back door.
Notes: This was written as a Christmas present for sonadorita to the prompt of John/Rodney, rainbow. It's not much about rainbows, though (or about today's essay). Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Two: Transgender Issues, in which belladonnalin says this: However, individuals within and without fannish communities can say firsthand that sex is nowhere near that simple. Biology is, in fact, not destiny and there are increasing numbers of individuals who are talking openly about their experiences of non-normative sexuality - for example, what it is like to be born into a body that is culturally-defined as female but feeling that you are a man.
Read it here in Russian.
~~~
The End of the World as We Know It
John Sheppard lived in a small house by the end of the world, which is just a few miles to the south of the left end of the rainbow. It was a solitary life, the house surrounded by nothing but long grass and wild flowers and a few trees in the distance… and, of course, the sheer cliff dropping straight down into infinity about fifteen feet from the back door. A small spring splashed into being some hundred yards below the cliff's edge, its water as wondrous and magical as you'd expect from something emanating from the end of the world. Every now and then, John would climb down, managing the sheer rock with only his hands and feet, to give the water to those who needed it, if he deemed their cause a worthy one.
A good ten minutes by foot, at the upper end of the world's edge, there was another spring, this one huge enough to be called a small river had it been allowed to plunge on down into space. Alas, it wasn't. Pumps and pipes had been built around it, monstrous tanks blasted into the stone. Every now and then, shudders ran through the rock that could be felt for miles, when the pumps switched from one holding tank to another. Automated production lines filled the water into the smallest of bottles, to be sold at the highest of prices. Thus, the Sheppard family's fortune had been made, and thus they could afford their wayward son's ideas of what was just and what should be free.
One day, a woman appeared at John's door, asking him to share with her some of the wondrous water. She was beautiful, slender, her hair a reddish brown and her smile an impish tilt of the lips. She told John about her people and how they were suffering from a mysterious illness that stole their minds and changed their bodies. She told him how her people were rich in culture and tradition, but poor when it came to money as they cared little about material wealth. John listened to her tale, thought about it for a moment, and said, "Okay."
And he went down, and got her water, and the woman drew his forehead to hers and called him a friend of her people for all time to come.
Some time later, a man showed up at John's house, just when he was minding the garden. He was tall, imposing, his clothes all leather and his fingers twitching near his weapon. He told John about an enemy, eternal and cruel, and how his home had been destroyed, his people killed. He told him of the rumour that the water would turn the enemy mortal, saving countless nations from suffering the same fate. John listened to his tale, pursed his lips and said, "Okay."
And he went down, and got the water, and the man clapped him on the back and called him brother before helping him dig a new bed for the potatoes.
Some time passed, and John spent his days minding the garden, tinkering around the house and watching the birds. Then another man appeared at his doorstep. He was a little smaller than John, broad-shouldered, his voice loud and his chin held high. He told John of geniuses and research and refusing to pay such exorbitant prices for what amounted to water with perhaps a few very rare characteristics that one wouldn't find in ordinary tap water, but those had never been scientifically proven and as a very rational man, that would of course mean he'd doubt them until he himself had proven their existence and understood their nature. He told John of nevertheless being willing to suspend disbelief as Zelenka, not quite good enough to be called capable but still no idiot, had told him of the water's properties and how, according to his own theories, it was entirely possible, if not likely, but if anyone could do it he could, to use the supposedly magical water to build something very much like a fission bomb, with a bigger bang but without the radiation, which honestly would make warfare that much cleaner, a benefit for all of mankind. John listened to all of that, nodded slowly, and said, "No."
And shut the door in the man's face.
The next day, the man was back again, sitting with folded arms on the small porch at the back of John's house until noon had passed and John stepped out to plant the sweet corn seedlings he'd coaxed into growing over the past four weeks. The man jumped to his feet the moment he saw John, and words started spilling from his lips like the wondrous water from the spring below. He told John of the great wars of the past, of how magic had scorched the earth and atomic bombs had rendered whole swathes of land unliveable until barrels of fairy dust had been scattered upon them, and how it was utterly impossible, and he didn't use that word lightly, but apparently human nature was such, and even though he usually didn't like to give the soft sciences too much credit, but anyway, if war was something that couldn't be erased, wouldn't it be preferable for at least the collateral damage to be so much smaller? He told John of the importance of his work, of the sheer genius of his ideas, of how it was John's duty, his duty, to climb down the cliff and fetch him some water, preferably a whole bucketful. John let him talk, the up and down of the man's words washing over him until all the seedlings were planted in six neat rows, and then he straightened, wiped his sweaty forehead and said, "No."
The man's sputter of outrage followed him inside, and even made him smile a little.
The next day, the man wasn't there. But the day after that, he returned with a harness and a contraption so complicated it looked a little magical itself. John watched, leaning against the front door with his hands in his pockets, as the man assembled pipes and lines and gratings and pulleys and finally tied a thick, solid rope to the thing, which had now taken on an appearance not unlike a collapsed metal spider with wheels in its armpits.
"If you're not going to fetch my water," the man said with a sniff, "I'll just have to go down there myself."
John shrugged, because in his book anyone with enough guts to climb down the end of the world had earned whatever water he could bring up. "Knock yourself out."
The man pressed his lips together as he glared at John, grabbed the largest waterskin that John had ever seen, hooked the rope to the harness and disappeared over the world's edge. John wandered closer to the collapsed spider, examining it with interest while he half-listened to the man's muttered incentives grow steadily fainter the farther down he got.
John had nothing against a clean routine without surprises. But this was the most entertainment he'd gotten in weeks, maybe months, and he was going to savour it as long as it lasted.
Then the barely audible hum that had been a constant background noise stopped abruptly, and John's faint smile dropped off his face. He looked to where the factory lay, distant and silent, the twitter of the birds fluttering back and forth over the edge suddenly overly loud in his ears.
He pulled his hands from his pockets.
"Hey!" he called, "Get back up here!"
"No way," the man called back, his voice wavering up the side of the cliff. "I'm nearly there, and I won't have you deter me from my moment of triumph!"
"I'll get you your damn water later, but you have to haul your ass back up here, now!"
The man's answer was lost in the rumble of a new set of pumps switching on, rocking and shaking the world's edge with their power. John's arms flailed as he fought to keep his balance on the trembling earth. The collapsed spider fell in on itself.
The rope snapped.
John lurched forward, throwing himself against one remaining pipe that still stood straight and solid as he grabbed the rope with both hands. The resulting pull made him groan through gritted teeth, blood dyeing the rope where it was slipping through his hands, but he tightened his hold until his grip was firm and the rope had stilled.
Down by the side of the cliff, the man stopped screaming as he realised he was no longer plummeting from the end of the world toward the end of the atmosphere.
"What the hell was that?!" he demanded, his voice higher than it had been before.
"Get your ass in gear and climb," John gave back, his own voice rough from the strain.
The man climbed, and John held on, and when the man finally swung his legs over the edge John's grip on the rope had become so tight that he found himself unable to let go. The man's eyes widened as he saw John's hands, and he hurried over to help him.
"Don't," John snapped as the man reached for him, but the man ignored him, prying his fingers away from the blood-soaked rope with surprising gentleness.
"Oh," he breathed, stricken as he stared at John's palms cradled in his own.
"Yeah," John croaked and closed his eyes.
"I… what was that?" The man's voice was tentative, his gaze still riveted to broken, bleeding skin.
"Pumps. They switched them over. At the factory."
"Oh," the man said again. He bit his lip. "I could… the water would help you heal."
"No." John took a deep breath and opened his eyes, fingers twitching as he pulled his hands from the man's gentle grasp. "No more money for them. Not for my sake."
He turned and walked away from both the man and the heap of metal, grimacing as he fumbled awkwardly with the knob on his front door. The man watched him for a moment with a torn expression, then his shoulders straightened and he strode to the house, carefully nudged John aside before he turned the knob and opened the door.
"Look, uh-"
"John," John said, watching him with an air of faint bemusement.
"John." The man raised his chin, staring into John's eyes as if to subdue him with the power of his mind alone. "This is my fault."
John raised an eyebrow, but his face was pale. "You knew the pumps were going to switch when you climbed down?"
"Well, no," the man admitted, but he didn't back down, grabbing John's hands again as he pulled him inside, looking around for a sink. "But you know it would earn me a lot of bad karma points if I left you hanging like this, and trust me when I say that I only just made up for the last time." He scowled. "Now, do you have a first aid kit? Alcohol? Bandages?"
"Listen," John said, trying to pull his hands back, but the man was holding on firmly to his wrists and the pain of a real struggle wasn't worth it. "I don't even know who you are."
"I'm M-" The man coughed and cleared his throat. "Rodney. My name is Rodney, and please," his eyes were huge in his earnest face as he looked at John, fingers closed around John's wrists, "let me make it up to you. I don't want to be reborn as a, a dung beetle or something." His voice was pleading and his grip so gentle, and John pressed his lips together, gave a sharp nod, and said, "Okay."
And so Rodney stayed. He cleaned the wounds on John's hands and wrapped them in bandages, then he went to peel potatoes for dinner while John watched him with bemusement. He did the dishes and minded the garden, the steady stream of muttered complaints while he worked soon as familiar to John as if he had been there for years. After three days, when John finally broke and asked for help, he even washed John's hair, and when Rodney's fingers began massaging his scalp John blissfully closed his eyes, for he hadn't been touched like that in years. And all the while, Rodney kept on talking. He complained about the weather. He complained about the noise from the factory. He complained about John's sofa, and his kitchen appliances, and his ridiculously large garden. At first, John only gave back a word every once in a while, but before long they were arguing back and forth, and then their discussions took a left turn toward gossip and games and the latest Miss Flying City, and how annoying it could really be to have a leprechaun in the neighbourhood. And every night, Rodney re-bandaged John's hands.
In short, they became something like friends.
Their routine went on for some time while John's palms and fingers were healing. Rodney tentatively offered to buy some of the wondrous water a few times, to speed up the healing process, but John refused. He didn't want to throw any more money at the Sheppards.
"I thought you were a Sheppard," Rodney said, a bowl half-filled with potato peel in his lap, a knife and a potato in his hands.
"Not one of those Sheppards," John told him, and flicked a bit of peel at Rodney's head.
And that was that.
One day, though, John got a letter. Rodney opened the envelope and handed him the single sheet of paper, and watched as John's face first flushed, then paled as he read the letter.
"What's wrong?"
"My family," John spat out the word with a venom that made Rodney flinch, "decided that my spring may be small, but money's still money. I have to move out by the end of the month."
Rodney's mouth dropped open. "Can they do that? They can't do that, can they?"
"It's their land." John shrugged, but his posture was tense.
"But this is your home!" Rodney protested, and John turned away from him and stalked toward the back door.
"Don't wait for me," he said, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Rodney stared at the door for a long moment, his hands unconsciously moving as he turned and twisted them with each other, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. Then he reached for John's ancient phone and made a call.
Four days later, John got another letter. Rodney opened the envelope and handed him the single sheet of paper, and watched as John's brows furrowed more and more.
"What?" he asked finally.
John blinked up at him, confusion plain on his face. "Says here that my family sold this piece of land to one M. McKay, and that I should just keep on doing whatever it is I'm doing."
"That's good news, isn't it?" Rodney smiled uncertainly.
"Hell, yeah!" John blinked down at the letter he was still holding. "But that McKay person must have paid a fortune for this. Why would anyone-"
"Oh, look!" Rodney interrupted him, "The mashed potatoes are done! Do you want yours with eggs?"
John looked up, watched Rodney stomp around the kitchen and said, "Yeah, sure."
And they had lunch.
Eventually, of course, John's hands healed and the bandages came off. Rodney didn't look at John as he threw the rest of the gauze into the trash. John didn't look at Rodney as he lightly drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter.
"I'm just going to, ah, prepare some breakfast." Rodney raised his chin defiantly, like he expected John to argue. "You undoubtedly lack the fine motor skills."
"Yeah," John said, and so Rodney prepared breakfast, and they ate so slowly it was late morning before they were done.
"So, uh." John rubbed the back of his neck and kept his gaze on the back door. "My palms are still kind of tender. Maybe you could, you know, with the weeding?"
"Yeah," Rodney said, and so they weeded the garden, and the sun was hanging low in the sky by the time they called it a day.
"It'll be dark soon," John said, watching the birds hunt for insects high above the world's edge.
"Yeah," Rodney said, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his shoe, "perhaps I should stay the night."
The next day, John remembered that he'd wanted to dig a new vegetable patch, but his palms started to hurt after five minutes. The day after that, it was raining so hard that Rodney undoubtedly would have died from pneumonia and/or hypothermia if he'd so much as set a foot outside the door. The day after that, the garden needed some serious damage control. The roof needed fixing, the plumbing made strange noises, the potatoes needed to be brought in. It was too hot, too wet, too cold, too dry to travel.
Rodney stayed.
Until the day a young woman appeared at John's door. She looked harried, nervous, her black hair in disarray and her thick glasses askew. And she told Rodney that, "Dr. McKay, we really need you back at the lab."
Rodney froze, and John dropped the glass he'd been holding.
"McKay?" he asked, and Rodney nodded, turning to look at him.
"Look, I can explain-"
"So who's M.?" John interrupted him, and Rodney raised his hands.
"Me. It's my… Rodney's my middle name." He didn't say what the M. stood for, and John didn't ask. "Listen, before you get angry, just let me-"
"I'm not your charity project, McKay." John's voice was toneless, his face blank. A small muscle in his jaw was twitching.
"John," Rodney begged, but John had already turned away, stalking over to the back door. It closed behind him with a slam, and Rodney was left staring at the empty house. He swallowed, blinked a few times in quick succession, then turned to the young woman with an almost angry expression. "Well. Let's go then."
And so Rodney left after all.
John didn't miss him. He dug up the potato patch and turned it into a flower bed. Orange carnations, because Rodney hated them. That project occupied him for several days, hands aching and heart empty. When he was done, he took a long walk, all the way to the left end of the rainbow, and struck up a conversation with the leprechaun. He thought that someone so old would have a lot of interesting things to say, but all the leprechaun wanted to talk about was the price of gold. Well, that, and inflation. Back at his house, where things were quiet and nothing was out of place, he sat and stared sightlessly at the kitchen counter for a long time. Then he got up, lugged the remaining potatoes outside and hurled them over the end of the world, one after the other. He went back inside, picked up the phone, set it down, picked it up again, and finally flung it against the wall. After that he stood, hands planted on the kitchen counter, head hanging down, and listened to his own harsh breathing.
But he didn't miss Rodney. Not one bit.
Then, one day, a man showed up at his house. He was a little smaller than John, wild-haired, his hands quick and his eyes kind. He told John of his boss, brilliant and impatient and very bad with people, but a good man, no doubt. He told him of how his boss had stumbled over his own good intentions and was now sulking and throwing temper tantrums, and perhaps some of John's water would cure this craziness, yes? John listened to his tale, slowly unclenched his hands, and said, "No."
The man sighed and turned to go, and John, who could hold a grudge but wasn't an idiot, called after him. "Hey! You aren't by chance building any weapons of mass destruction, are you?"
The man turned again and peered at John over his glasses and told him that, no, these days, they were building automatic potato peelers. Very curious.
And then John, who really wasn't an idiot, took a deep breath and said, very casually, "You know, I was thinking of expanding the garden. Maybe plant some potatoes."
And the man smiled and pushed up his glasses and said that he would certainly spread the word.
A little over a week later, Rodney was back, turning a strange contraption in his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I, uh. I brought you a potato peeler?" he said uncertainly. His eyes widened as John advanced on him, taking a hasty step back and tripping over the edge of the porch. John caught him by the arms before he could fall, and Rodney shoved the potato peeler at him and said quickly, "Look, I know you're still mad at me over the buying your land thing, but I honestly wanted to help you and it had nothing to do with karma points, I swear, and you'll notice how I didn't make you fetch me water even onnnmmmmph."
Because John had maybe missed him a little after all, and kissing Rodney was so much better than listening to him put his foot in his mouth. Especially when Rodney made an eager sound in the back of his throat and started kissing him back, potato peeler falling unnoticed to the ground between them.
They didn't quite live happily ever after. But they were content for a long time.
*
ETA: Now with art! :D
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: G
Word Count: ~3,600
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: John Sheppard lived in a small house by the end of the world, which is just a few miles to the south of the left end of the rainbow. It was a solitary life, the house surrounded by nothing but long grass and wild flowers and a few trees in the distance… and, of course, the sheer cliff dropping straight down into infinity about fifteen feet from the back door.
Notes: This was written as a Christmas present for sonadorita to the prompt of John/Rodney, rainbow. It's not much about rainbows, though (or about today's essay). Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Two: Transgender Issues, in which belladonnalin says this: However, individuals within and without fannish communities can say firsthand that sex is nowhere near that simple. Biology is, in fact, not destiny and there are increasing numbers of individuals who are talking openly about their experiences of non-normative sexuality - for example, what it is like to be born into a body that is culturally-defined as female but feeling that you are a man.
Read it here in Russian.
~~~
The End of the World as We Know It
John Sheppard lived in a small house by the end of the world, which is just a few miles to the south of the left end of the rainbow. It was a solitary life, the house surrounded by nothing but long grass and wild flowers and a few trees in the distance… and, of course, the sheer cliff dropping straight down into infinity about fifteen feet from the back door. A small spring splashed into being some hundred yards below the cliff's edge, its water as wondrous and magical as you'd expect from something emanating from the end of the world. Every now and then, John would climb down, managing the sheer rock with only his hands and feet, to give the water to those who needed it, if he deemed their cause a worthy one.
A good ten minutes by foot, at the upper end of the world's edge, there was another spring, this one huge enough to be called a small river had it been allowed to plunge on down into space. Alas, it wasn't. Pumps and pipes had been built around it, monstrous tanks blasted into the stone. Every now and then, shudders ran through the rock that could be felt for miles, when the pumps switched from one holding tank to another. Automated production lines filled the water into the smallest of bottles, to be sold at the highest of prices. Thus, the Sheppard family's fortune had been made, and thus they could afford their wayward son's ideas of what was just and what should be free.
One day, a woman appeared at John's door, asking him to share with her some of the wondrous water. She was beautiful, slender, her hair a reddish brown and her smile an impish tilt of the lips. She told John about her people and how they were suffering from a mysterious illness that stole their minds and changed their bodies. She told him how her people were rich in culture and tradition, but poor when it came to money as they cared little about material wealth. John listened to her tale, thought about it for a moment, and said, "Okay."
And he went down, and got her water, and the woman drew his forehead to hers and called him a friend of her people for all time to come.
Some time later, a man showed up at John's house, just when he was minding the garden. He was tall, imposing, his clothes all leather and his fingers twitching near his weapon. He told John about an enemy, eternal and cruel, and how his home had been destroyed, his people killed. He told him of the rumour that the water would turn the enemy mortal, saving countless nations from suffering the same fate. John listened to his tale, pursed his lips and said, "Okay."
And he went down, and got the water, and the man clapped him on the back and called him brother before helping him dig a new bed for the potatoes.
Some time passed, and John spent his days minding the garden, tinkering around the house and watching the birds. Then another man appeared at his doorstep. He was a little smaller than John, broad-shouldered, his voice loud and his chin held high. He told John of geniuses and research and refusing to pay such exorbitant prices for what amounted to water with perhaps a few very rare characteristics that one wouldn't find in ordinary tap water, but those had never been scientifically proven and as a very rational man, that would of course mean he'd doubt them until he himself had proven their existence and understood their nature. He told John of nevertheless being willing to suspend disbelief as Zelenka, not quite good enough to be called capable but still no idiot, had told him of the water's properties and how, according to his own theories, it was entirely possible, if not likely, but if anyone could do it he could, to use the supposedly magical water to build something very much like a fission bomb, with a bigger bang but without the radiation, which honestly would make warfare that much cleaner, a benefit for all of mankind. John listened to all of that, nodded slowly, and said, "No."
And shut the door in the man's face.
The next day, the man was back again, sitting with folded arms on the small porch at the back of John's house until noon had passed and John stepped out to plant the sweet corn seedlings he'd coaxed into growing over the past four weeks. The man jumped to his feet the moment he saw John, and words started spilling from his lips like the wondrous water from the spring below. He told John of the great wars of the past, of how magic had scorched the earth and atomic bombs had rendered whole swathes of land unliveable until barrels of fairy dust had been scattered upon them, and how it was utterly impossible, and he didn't use that word lightly, but apparently human nature was such, and even though he usually didn't like to give the soft sciences too much credit, but anyway, if war was something that couldn't be erased, wouldn't it be preferable for at least the collateral damage to be so much smaller? He told John of the importance of his work, of the sheer genius of his ideas, of how it was John's duty, his duty, to climb down the cliff and fetch him some water, preferably a whole bucketful. John let him talk, the up and down of the man's words washing over him until all the seedlings were planted in six neat rows, and then he straightened, wiped his sweaty forehead and said, "No."
The man's sputter of outrage followed him inside, and even made him smile a little.
The next day, the man wasn't there. But the day after that, he returned with a harness and a contraption so complicated it looked a little magical itself. John watched, leaning against the front door with his hands in his pockets, as the man assembled pipes and lines and gratings and pulleys and finally tied a thick, solid rope to the thing, which had now taken on an appearance not unlike a collapsed metal spider with wheels in its armpits.
"If you're not going to fetch my water," the man said with a sniff, "I'll just have to go down there myself."
John shrugged, because in his book anyone with enough guts to climb down the end of the world had earned whatever water he could bring up. "Knock yourself out."
The man pressed his lips together as he glared at John, grabbed the largest waterskin that John had ever seen, hooked the rope to the harness and disappeared over the world's edge. John wandered closer to the collapsed spider, examining it with interest while he half-listened to the man's muttered incentives grow steadily fainter the farther down he got.
John had nothing against a clean routine without surprises. But this was the most entertainment he'd gotten in weeks, maybe months, and he was going to savour it as long as it lasted.
Then the barely audible hum that had been a constant background noise stopped abruptly, and John's faint smile dropped off his face. He looked to where the factory lay, distant and silent, the twitter of the birds fluttering back and forth over the edge suddenly overly loud in his ears.
He pulled his hands from his pockets.
"Hey!" he called, "Get back up here!"
"No way," the man called back, his voice wavering up the side of the cliff. "I'm nearly there, and I won't have you deter me from my moment of triumph!"
"I'll get you your damn water later, but you have to haul your ass back up here, now!"
The man's answer was lost in the rumble of a new set of pumps switching on, rocking and shaking the world's edge with their power. John's arms flailed as he fought to keep his balance on the trembling earth. The collapsed spider fell in on itself.
The rope snapped.
John lurched forward, throwing himself against one remaining pipe that still stood straight and solid as he grabbed the rope with both hands. The resulting pull made him groan through gritted teeth, blood dyeing the rope where it was slipping through his hands, but he tightened his hold until his grip was firm and the rope had stilled.
Down by the side of the cliff, the man stopped screaming as he realised he was no longer plummeting from the end of the world toward the end of the atmosphere.
"What the hell was that?!" he demanded, his voice higher than it had been before.
"Get your ass in gear and climb," John gave back, his own voice rough from the strain.
The man climbed, and John held on, and when the man finally swung his legs over the edge John's grip on the rope had become so tight that he found himself unable to let go. The man's eyes widened as he saw John's hands, and he hurried over to help him.
"Don't," John snapped as the man reached for him, but the man ignored him, prying his fingers away from the blood-soaked rope with surprising gentleness.
"Oh," he breathed, stricken as he stared at John's palms cradled in his own.
"Yeah," John croaked and closed his eyes.
"I… what was that?" The man's voice was tentative, his gaze still riveted to broken, bleeding skin.
"Pumps. They switched them over. At the factory."
"Oh," the man said again. He bit his lip. "I could… the water would help you heal."
"No." John took a deep breath and opened his eyes, fingers twitching as he pulled his hands from the man's gentle grasp. "No more money for them. Not for my sake."
He turned and walked away from both the man and the heap of metal, grimacing as he fumbled awkwardly with the knob on his front door. The man watched him for a moment with a torn expression, then his shoulders straightened and he strode to the house, carefully nudged John aside before he turned the knob and opened the door.
"Look, uh-"
"John," John said, watching him with an air of faint bemusement.
"John." The man raised his chin, staring into John's eyes as if to subdue him with the power of his mind alone. "This is my fault."
John raised an eyebrow, but his face was pale. "You knew the pumps were going to switch when you climbed down?"
"Well, no," the man admitted, but he didn't back down, grabbing John's hands again as he pulled him inside, looking around for a sink. "But you know it would earn me a lot of bad karma points if I left you hanging like this, and trust me when I say that I only just made up for the last time." He scowled. "Now, do you have a first aid kit? Alcohol? Bandages?"
"Listen," John said, trying to pull his hands back, but the man was holding on firmly to his wrists and the pain of a real struggle wasn't worth it. "I don't even know who you are."
"I'm M-" The man coughed and cleared his throat. "Rodney. My name is Rodney, and please," his eyes were huge in his earnest face as he looked at John, fingers closed around John's wrists, "let me make it up to you. I don't want to be reborn as a, a dung beetle or something." His voice was pleading and his grip so gentle, and John pressed his lips together, gave a sharp nod, and said, "Okay."
And so Rodney stayed. He cleaned the wounds on John's hands and wrapped them in bandages, then he went to peel potatoes for dinner while John watched him with bemusement. He did the dishes and minded the garden, the steady stream of muttered complaints while he worked soon as familiar to John as if he had been there for years. After three days, when John finally broke and asked for help, he even washed John's hair, and when Rodney's fingers began massaging his scalp John blissfully closed his eyes, for he hadn't been touched like that in years. And all the while, Rodney kept on talking. He complained about the weather. He complained about the noise from the factory. He complained about John's sofa, and his kitchen appliances, and his ridiculously large garden. At first, John only gave back a word every once in a while, but before long they were arguing back and forth, and then their discussions took a left turn toward gossip and games and the latest Miss Flying City, and how annoying it could really be to have a leprechaun in the neighbourhood. And every night, Rodney re-bandaged John's hands.
In short, they became something like friends.
Their routine went on for some time while John's palms and fingers were healing. Rodney tentatively offered to buy some of the wondrous water a few times, to speed up the healing process, but John refused. He didn't want to throw any more money at the Sheppards.
"I thought you were a Sheppard," Rodney said, a bowl half-filled with potato peel in his lap, a knife and a potato in his hands.
"Not one of those Sheppards," John told him, and flicked a bit of peel at Rodney's head.
And that was that.
One day, though, John got a letter. Rodney opened the envelope and handed him the single sheet of paper, and watched as John's face first flushed, then paled as he read the letter.
"What's wrong?"
"My family," John spat out the word with a venom that made Rodney flinch, "decided that my spring may be small, but money's still money. I have to move out by the end of the month."
Rodney's mouth dropped open. "Can they do that? They can't do that, can they?"
"It's their land." John shrugged, but his posture was tense.
"But this is your home!" Rodney protested, and John turned away from him and stalked toward the back door.
"Don't wait for me," he said, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Rodney stared at the door for a long moment, his hands unconsciously moving as he turned and twisted them with each other, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. Then he reached for John's ancient phone and made a call.
Four days later, John got another letter. Rodney opened the envelope and handed him the single sheet of paper, and watched as John's brows furrowed more and more.
"What?" he asked finally.
John blinked up at him, confusion plain on his face. "Says here that my family sold this piece of land to one M. McKay, and that I should just keep on doing whatever it is I'm doing."
"That's good news, isn't it?" Rodney smiled uncertainly.
"Hell, yeah!" John blinked down at the letter he was still holding. "But that McKay person must have paid a fortune for this. Why would anyone-"
"Oh, look!" Rodney interrupted him, "The mashed potatoes are done! Do you want yours with eggs?"
John looked up, watched Rodney stomp around the kitchen and said, "Yeah, sure."
And they had lunch.
Eventually, of course, John's hands healed and the bandages came off. Rodney didn't look at John as he threw the rest of the gauze into the trash. John didn't look at Rodney as he lightly drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter.
"I'm just going to, ah, prepare some breakfast." Rodney raised his chin defiantly, like he expected John to argue. "You undoubtedly lack the fine motor skills."
"Yeah," John said, and so Rodney prepared breakfast, and they ate so slowly it was late morning before they were done.
"So, uh." John rubbed the back of his neck and kept his gaze on the back door. "My palms are still kind of tender. Maybe you could, you know, with the weeding?"
"Yeah," Rodney said, and so they weeded the garden, and the sun was hanging low in the sky by the time they called it a day.
"It'll be dark soon," John said, watching the birds hunt for insects high above the world's edge.
"Yeah," Rodney said, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his shoe, "perhaps I should stay the night."
The next day, John remembered that he'd wanted to dig a new vegetable patch, but his palms started to hurt after five minutes. The day after that, it was raining so hard that Rodney undoubtedly would have died from pneumonia and/or hypothermia if he'd so much as set a foot outside the door. The day after that, the garden needed some serious damage control. The roof needed fixing, the plumbing made strange noises, the potatoes needed to be brought in. It was too hot, too wet, too cold, too dry to travel.
Rodney stayed.
Until the day a young woman appeared at John's door. She looked harried, nervous, her black hair in disarray and her thick glasses askew. And she told Rodney that, "Dr. McKay, we really need you back at the lab."
Rodney froze, and John dropped the glass he'd been holding.
"McKay?" he asked, and Rodney nodded, turning to look at him.
"Look, I can explain-"
"So who's M.?" John interrupted him, and Rodney raised his hands.
"Me. It's my… Rodney's my middle name." He didn't say what the M. stood for, and John didn't ask. "Listen, before you get angry, just let me-"
"I'm not your charity project, McKay." John's voice was toneless, his face blank. A small muscle in his jaw was twitching.
"John," Rodney begged, but John had already turned away, stalking over to the back door. It closed behind him with a slam, and Rodney was left staring at the empty house. He swallowed, blinked a few times in quick succession, then turned to the young woman with an almost angry expression. "Well. Let's go then."
And so Rodney left after all.
John didn't miss him. He dug up the potato patch and turned it into a flower bed. Orange carnations, because Rodney hated them. That project occupied him for several days, hands aching and heart empty. When he was done, he took a long walk, all the way to the left end of the rainbow, and struck up a conversation with the leprechaun. He thought that someone so old would have a lot of interesting things to say, but all the leprechaun wanted to talk about was the price of gold. Well, that, and inflation. Back at his house, where things were quiet and nothing was out of place, he sat and stared sightlessly at the kitchen counter for a long time. Then he got up, lugged the remaining potatoes outside and hurled them over the end of the world, one after the other. He went back inside, picked up the phone, set it down, picked it up again, and finally flung it against the wall. After that he stood, hands planted on the kitchen counter, head hanging down, and listened to his own harsh breathing.
But he didn't miss Rodney. Not one bit.
Then, one day, a man showed up at his house. He was a little smaller than John, wild-haired, his hands quick and his eyes kind. He told John of his boss, brilliant and impatient and very bad with people, but a good man, no doubt. He told him of how his boss had stumbled over his own good intentions and was now sulking and throwing temper tantrums, and perhaps some of John's water would cure this craziness, yes? John listened to his tale, slowly unclenched his hands, and said, "No."
The man sighed and turned to go, and John, who could hold a grudge but wasn't an idiot, called after him. "Hey! You aren't by chance building any weapons of mass destruction, are you?"
The man turned again and peered at John over his glasses and told him that, no, these days, they were building automatic potato peelers. Very curious.
And then John, who really wasn't an idiot, took a deep breath and said, very casually, "You know, I was thinking of expanding the garden. Maybe plant some potatoes."
And the man smiled and pushed up his glasses and said that he would certainly spread the word.
A little over a week later, Rodney was back, turning a strange contraption in his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I, uh. I brought you a potato peeler?" he said uncertainly. His eyes widened as John advanced on him, taking a hasty step back and tripping over the edge of the porch. John caught him by the arms before he could fall, and Rodney shoved the potato peeler at him and said quickly, "Look, I know you're still mad at me over the buying your land thing, but I honestly wanted to help you and it had nothing to do with karma points, I swear, and you'll notice how I didn't make you fetch me water even onnnmmmmph."
Because John had maybe missed him a little after all, and kissing Rodney was so much better than listening to him put his foot in his mouth. Especially when Rodney made an eager sound in the back of his throat and started kissing him back, potato peeler falling unnoticed to the ground between them.
They didn't quite live happily ever after. But they were content for a long time.
*
ETA: Now with art! :D