264 Hours by Lenore (Exhaustion Challenge)
Title: 264 Hours
Author: Lenore
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set after Siege. The battle is over, except in Rodney's mind.
Notes: Big thanks to barely_bean for the story inspiration, handholding, beta reading and all-around fabulousness.
264 Hours
by Lenore
Things just keep building up to nothing, this is Rodney's thought as he steps out of the stargate into the SGC. The Wraith were coming, the Wraith are gone. Sheppard was dead, Sheppard's alive. They could never go home again, here they are. Not that Rodney wants it any different. He'd vote a straight party ticket every time, survival yes, destruction no. He just wishes he didn't feel so much like he was underwater, wishes he could figure out what the buzzing is inside his head, and more importantly, how to make it stop. He half suspects his eyes don't close all the way anymore, and he's too tired to test the theory. Maybe things will get better now that he's back on Earth. He wants to believe this.
People step up to welcome them home. General O'Neill. General Landry. Dr. Jackson. Even Sam is there.
She quirks a smile at him. "Made it through okay, huh?"
The words take a second to sort themselves out in his brain. "Oh, yes. Yes. Still intact."
She gives him a scrutinizing look. "It's good to see you, Rodney." She puts a hand on his arm, but he can only see the press of her fingers, doesn't feel it. "Get some rest, huh?"
He nods distractedly. More uniforms file into the room, and Sam goes adrift, lost in the milling crowd. People are like that, there one moment, gone the next, and Rodney doesn't even try to find her in the sea of faces. That would take an optimism he doesn't possess.
They're herded off to the infirmary. Rodney sits on the exam table, shivering in a paper gown, answering questions automatically, the sound of his voice muddy in his own ears. The scratchy tear of Velcro on the blood pressure cuff is like something from a distant continent, the needle pressing into his arm seems to have little to do with him. Even the red life flowing out and away through the plastic tubing, a sight that has never failed to make him queasy in the past, inspires nothing now.
When they're done, the doctor gives him a blandly reassuring smile. "You seem perfectly fit."
Rodney nods, gets dressed. He's always known it was voodoo.
"So, what do you want to do when we get out of here?" Sheppard asks with breezy cheer as they head to the debriefing. "Grab some beers? Hit Circuit City for DVDs to bring back with us?"
Rodney stares. Apparently, Sheppard hasn't caught on yet that his pool of people to hang out with increased by orders of magnitude the moment he cleared the event horizon.
Sheppard laughs, holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, food first. You don't have to look at me like I'm crazy."
In the conference room, Rodney takes a seat and tries to follow the conversation, but he soon becomes transfixed by a dark stain on the white wall. As he watches, it seems to grow, to move and breathe, a creature with great, heaving sides. He thinks of the thing that nearly killed the major, Wraith bug sucking the life out of him, and then it's right there, on the wall, nightmare of the Pegasus galaxy that they've somehow brought home with them.
He looks around frantically to see if anyone else has noticed, but they're all staring at him.
"Rodney?" Elizabeth says with deliberate patience, as if it's not the first time.
"Yes?"
He can feel himself sweating, and he wants to shout: There! There! Only now he's not so sure.
"Can you give us your projections for how long we can expect the ZPM to last?"
Each syllable is precisely articulated, and Rodney feels a vague sense of insult in that. Words tumble out of him, best and worse case scenarios. The faces around the table appear satisfied with whatever he's saying, and the stain on the wall is just a stain again.
His life has become a Rorschach test, and not one he's passing, it seems.
After the meeting ends, he's the last to leave, slow getting to his feet. Elizabeth waits for him out in the hall.
"You should go home and relax," she tells him, looking concerned.
"Yes, yes," he says snappishly, "I'd love nothing more, but do you have any idea how many truly monumental misconceptions about wormhole physics the so-called experts in this galaxy continue to labor under? Enough to keep me busy for the rest of the afternoon."
Elizabeth tilts her head, studying him. "See that you get some sleep when you're done."
He nods. "Yes, yes. Of course."
His feet carry him toward the lab, and it occurs to him that maybe Sam will be there. Maybe he can tell her...but he doesn't even know what. His steps slow, and finally he stops in the middle of the corridor. It all seems like too much. Even the prospect of discrediting Dr. Calhoun's pet theory about the mechanics of time dilation fields, something he would normally relish, feels both weighty and pointless.
He turns and heads for the exit. Elizabeth said go, and Elizabeth is his boss. He's not above letting this mean something when it's convenient.
***
Rodney's apartment is just the way he left it, and he finds that strangely unnerving. There's a coffee cup sitting in the dish drainer, a pencil thrown down on his desk as if he just got up, a straggling sock on the bedroom carpet that fell short the last time he put clothes away. It's as if there's been no interruption, like he went out to the store instead of a distant galaxy, the layers of dust more a sign of indifferent housekeeping than absence.
He collapses onto the sofa, turning restlessly on the wide cushions, breathing in the dark, comforting smell of leather. There were so many nights he fell asleep here without meaning to, a journal or sheet of calculations still clutched in his hand. He crooks an arm over his eyes, shutting out the light. He takes a breath and lets it out. For a moment, the old calm comes over him, holdover from another life when he was certain no challenge was too much for him, but then the panic reboots. Don't sleep! Don't stop! Don't die!
He lets his arm fall away, doesn't bother to sigh because that would take energy and it's not as if he's surprised. Carson assured him before he left Atlantis that the amphetamines should all be flushed out of his system, but even now Rodney can feel them, fighting a guerilla war against him, lurking in his gall bladder, hiding out in the Byzantine twist of his capillaries, creeping out to attack when his defenses are down, making his heart race with a false sense of terror.
The Nazis were fond of sleep deprivation experiments, Rodney remembers reading. They found that the longest a person could survive was 264 hours, and the symptoms followed a predictable course. Day 2, difficulty focusing the eyes. Day 3, abrupt fluctuations in mood. Day 4, hallucinations. On and on until inevitable death. Rodney tries to calculate how long it's been since he last slept, but the equations keep slipping off the whiteboard in his mind. Not 264 hours, apparently, since he can still hear the dull thud of his pulse.
There is one thing that has always helped him relax, better when it's with someone, but his own hand will do in a pinch. He hasn't wanted even that much in he can't remember how long, doesn't really want it now, but maybe if he tries, if he thinks about the right thing. He flits past images of models and actresses, faces staring down from the billboards he passed on the ride home. He doesn't even know their names, never has, and he's not much for fantasizing about unknown quantities. He's too apt to get distracted in the middle of the proceedings, suddenly wondering if that perfect face hides someone who can't grasp even the most elementary calculus, a mood killer if ever there was one.
Better to think of someone familiar, trusted, someone he can respect. He takes out Sam and Elizabeth and Teyla in turn, all beautiful in different ways, all women he's only ever going to have in his dreams. That lends a certain forbidden edge to his fantasies, a definite turn on. He slides a hand into his pants and dredges up his best material, Sam breathily assuring him he's a genius as she takes off her top, Elizabeth smiling slyly as she gropes him under the table at a staff meeting, Teyla staring down at him after she's kicked his ass at stick fighting, eyes dark, a delicate sheen of sweat on her fiercely lovely face.
It gets him started, but only carries him so far, so he turns his thoughts to men, and still his dick languishes in his hand. There's only one thing it really wants, and he sighs and gives in, because it's his dick, and not even a genius can fight that. He goes to his special storehouse of Sheppard memories, a smile, a clap on the back, the sound of Sheppard's voice, low and confidential, saying something meant only for Rodney to hear. By the time he starts to improvise, picturing Sheppard on his knees, he's achingly hard. He grips his cock and thinks of Sheppard's mouth, and when he brings himself off, he really does feel better, for a little while at least.
But then, thoughts of Sheppard linger, contort, and Rodney has the sensors display in his head, a lone jumper moving at a steady clip toward a rendezvous with nothingness. Don't sleep! Rodney's heart starts to pound again. This time, he does sigh.
***
The next morning, Rodney is still crumpled on the sofa, wide awake when the phone rings. He glances at the clock and doesn't answer on the general principle that no one should be calling before eight. The phone goes mercifully silent, only to make him jump when it starts up again less than thirty seconds later. He pulls a throw pillow over his face and tries to ignore the loud jangle, but someone is very persistent. On the fourth go-around, Rodney snaps up the receiver, "What?"
"Hey listen, Rodney, I scored us tickets to today's Broncos game," a voice babbles in his ear. "That's football, by the way."
He squints. "Major?"
"Bring extra layers. It's supposed to get cold this afternoon."
"Don't you have any friends?"
Sheppard laughs. "Pick you up at noon."
Rodney hangs up and thinks no more about it. He trudges off to the kitchen to make coffee, comes back with two mugs to save himself a trip, and hunkers down on the sofa. He has no plans to move any time soon.
It's barely eleven when Sheppard shows up at the door, leaning on the doorbell until Rodney has no choice but to let him in.
"You said twelve," he accuses.
Sheppard shrugs. "Yeah, but I figured you were going to be difficult."
Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. "Major, I have absolutely no intention of spending valuable time, precious hours of my life that I'll never get back, on your ridiculous excuse for a national pastime."
"What'd I tell you? Difficult." Sheppard cracks a grin. "And anyone who comes from a country where the best loved sport is curling is in no position to throw stones."
"Is that a bad pun you're making?"
Sheppard doesn't answer, just marches him over to the bathroom. "Come back smelling better." He closes the door pointedly.
Rodney grumbles that just because he's taking a shower doesn't mean he's agreeing to go to any stupid football match.
"We call it a game," Sheppard calls out, no less infuriating from the other side of the door.
Rodney gets clean and gets dressed, and then grumbles some more as Sheppard makes him dig out a hat, gloves and scarf.
In the car, Rodney announces, "You're a bully, you know that, Major?"
Sheppard gives him a lopsided smile. "That's Lt. Colonel Bully to you."
Rodney blinks, the information taking just a little while to sink in because he really isn't at his sharpest. Finally, though, he gets it, what this is, a celebration, and he's the one Sheppard chose to share it with. Rodney swallows hard and mumbles that there will be no living with him now. That makes Sheppard's smile go wider, and Rodney's throat closes up a little more.
At the game, there are people with their faces painted orange, but Rodney chooses just to ignore them. Sheppard seems slightly disappointed by this. They take their seats, and Sheppard starts to explain the ridiculous excuse for a sport as he's done countless times before, "So it's second and nine. That means the Broncos--the team with the horse on their helmets--have three more chances to move the ball nine yards to get a first down. Which gives them four more chances to get another first down..."
Rodney stares down at the field. A blue polka-dotted path winds across the grass, disappearing into a quiet forest. At least this time he realizes it's not actually there. Sheppard goes on talking, and Rodney doesn't pay attention to the words, but the rise and fall of his voice nicely complements the woodland tranquility.
A vendor hawking Heinekens passes their way, and Sheppard springs for the first round. Rodney's fingers clench and unclench around the plastic bottle, and the sharp burn of the beer as it hits his throat is strangely comforting. He sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye. Sheppard slouches comfortably, his arm slung across the back of the empty seat next to him, and Rodney is astonished to see that Sheppard is genuinely happy, just to be there, with him.
It should make them close in some way, and still Rodney can't ask the question that literally keeps him up at night. Why? Because he knows Sheppard's answer: it was the only choice and I knew what I was signing on for when I went through the gate and the welfare of the many has to come before the few. Rodney closes his eyes. He doesn't ask, because he doesn't want to have to punch Sheppard in the mouth.
The afternoon wears on. Things happen on the field, and Rodney holds up his end of the conversation even though there's a herd of caribou grazing on the stadium steps. Sheppard gets fidgety when the Heineken guy fails to return.
"I'm going for beer and pretzels. You want anything?" Rodney shakes his head. Sheppard gives him an incredulous look as if Rodney saying no to food upsets one of the more inveterate laws of physics. "Okay, be right back."
Rodney stares down at the unnatural green and makes a half-hearted attempt to decipher what the piles of huge men in their bulky equipment could possibly signify. So long, Rodney. There's a part of him that honestly doesn't expect Sheppard to return from the concession stand.
A fragment of memory drifts through his head, a conversation from years ago, one of his professors going on about ethical dilemmas and the dark side of discovery and the special responsibility of scientists. Rodney had piped up, young with certainty, that his only duty was to knowledge. What people did with his work was their problem. He'd gone on believing that, not as young anymore but no less certain, holding tight to his conviction right up to that moment when Sheppard's life was a blinking dot headed toward the destruction Rodney himself had engineered. He might have accused Elizabeth, you let Sheppard pilot the jumper. But the truth was screaming away inside his head, oh God, I did that.
Time ticks off the clock, and Sheppard finally comes back.
He hands Rodney a hot dog as he takes his seat. "So, what happened while I was gone?"
Rodney makes a face. "I have absolutely no idea."
Sheppard shakes his head sadly.
The game ends eventually. The horse hats win, and this seems to please the crowd. He and Sheppard fall into a crush of jersey-wearing fanatics making happy whooping noises as they mince their way toward the exit. After what feels like the rest of Rodney's life, they reach the car.
"So," Sheppard says as they inch forward in traffic, "you want to come back to the hotel and get room service and watch pay-per-view?"
Rodney slumps in his seat, shakes his head.
"Why not? You have plans or something?"
He says it with the same sort of astonishment Rodney might express if he heard someone proclaim that Kavanaugh wasn't an idiot.
Rodney glares. "I could have plans! I know…people."
"Fine," Sheppard says, rolling his eyes. "Hang out with 'people' instead of me."
"Fine, I will," Rodney says grumpily.
He closes his eyes against the dizzying rush of the landscape as they speed along the highway. It's better once they turn off onto the local road, and better still when Sheppard stops outside his apartment.
"Okay, so tomorrow we hit the carnival," Sheppard declares cheerfully. "Pick you up at noon again."
"I didn't agree to that!" Rodney insists as he gets out of the car.
Sheppard smiles. "Who says no to Ferris wheels?"
He waves and drives off before Rodney can answer the question.
***
Once he's alone in his apartment again, Rodney is less certain why it seemed so important to turn down Sheppard's invitation for the evening. The buzzing in his head is getting louder, and there's an itchy feeling not on his skin, but underneath it. He feels like he might combust if he tries to sit still. He's so appallingly awake he's sure his eyes are going to pop out of his head at any moment.
He's a tinderbox, and the match comes in the form of sense memories from earlier in the day, how Sheppard smelled when he leaned into Rodney's space to get a better view of the field, his quick laugh when Rodney said...something, he can't even remember what. Rodney runs a hand down the fly of his pants and contemplates a rematch. Just because it didn't work yesterday doesn't mean it won't work now, he tells himself.
He rubs his crotch with more intent, to see if his dick will get interested, but the response is sluggish at best. He sighs, glances around as if he's likely to find an answer among the physics journals and dead houseplants. His eyes fasten on the computer. Maybe all he needs is some backup.
Rodney is no stranger to the erotic handiness of the Internet. There are several escort sites he's made use of in the past, never any compunction about paying for sex. In fact, he's pretty much considered it the only practical solution to being horny and having no time or inclination for inane conversation. He goes to "hotdate.com" and scrolls through the profiles. He skips past Genifer, because please, and Rowena reminds him a little too much of his kindergarten teacher. He remembers Susi as the one with the unfortunate lisp, and Daria was a bit startling in her enthusiasm.
The buzzing in his head grows more urgent, and on impulse, Rodney clicks over to the men. He scrolls past impossibly tanned blondes with names like Vittorio and pouting man-boys who seem to be inviting a stern spanking. He feels hope trickling away when there he is, the perfect candidate, stubborn set to his jaw, disobedient dark hair, green eyes with the light of some secret rebellion in them. Rodney fumbles for the phone, needs three tries to dial the number correctly, but finally a voice on the other end of the line lilts, "how may I help you?" He orders #33 like something off a Chinese takeout menu.
When the escort shows up, he bears only a passing resemblance to Sheppard, which makes sense, because really, who else could have that same sardonic charm? Close but not quite, Rodney decides, is probably for the best.
The escort introduces himself, "Brad."
"Rodney." He's never been one to hide behind false names.
Brad saunters over, runs a hand up his arm. "So, Rodney, how are you doing?"
"Bedroom," Rodney orders, dispensing with the small talk.
It's only now that he has a stranger in tow that Rodney pays attention to the details of his own environment, the untouched quality of the bed, comforter precisely creased at the corners, dust motes hovering in the air. Belatedly he realizes he might appear a little pathetic.
If so, Brad betrays no hint of it. He comes closer, tilts his head for a kiss. Rodney turns his chin away.
"Okay, baby," Brad soothes. "Whatever you want."
Not kissing, but Rodney does crave contact, and he presses his face against Brad's neck, breathes him in, can't resist biting the soft skin there.
Brad's laugh rumbles against his lips. "Like it a little rough, huh? I can do that."
Brad rubs Rodney's chest through his shirt, and Rodney sinks his fingers into his arms, not caring if it hurts.
"Let me take this off." Brad's fingers flick at a button on Rodney's shirt.
Rodney bats his hands away. "You first."
Brad smiles. "That works, too."
He skims his t-shirt up over his head, strokes his hands over his own chest in a practiced caress.
"All of it," Rodney demands.
Brad's eyes go darker, and if that's just another part of the show, it's an award-winning performance. He strips out of the rest of his clothes with quick, efficient movements.
"Touch yourself," Rodney tells him.
Brad follows orders about as well as Sheppard does, one finger just barely flirting with his cock. "You like to watch? Is that what you want, Rodney?"
Rodney has no idea why this is the thing that makes him snap, but suddenly he finds himself screaming, "I want you to stop acting like nothing happened! Like it's all fine. Stop making me so fucking crazy. And start goddamn making it up to me!"
Brad stills for a moment, and then his expression shifts into something like understanding. He reaches for Rodney, starts to pull off his clothes. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he croons. "You know I didn't, baby. I'm sorry, and I'm going to make it all better."
He lays kisses across Rodney's chest, mouths his nipples, a move borrowed straight from gay porn, but he doesn't stop saying he's sorry, and Rodney's cock rises to accept the apology.
"That's it, that's it," Brad murmurs as he gets to his knees.
His mouth finishes the job of getting Rodney hard.
Rodney closes his eyes and pretends this is something else, carelessly shoving his hips. "Take it, just take it," he mutters again and again.
When he comes, everything goes brutally white, like the first flash at ground zero.
Rodney pulls on his pants after it's over and gives the escort all the cash in his wallet. Brad's mouth looks even more plundered when he smiles at the tip.
Rodney is quick to show him out.
"I hope you work it out with him," Brad tells him. "Because, don't take this the wrong way, you seem kind of fucked up about it."
The door closes like a judgment. Rodney's eyes feel terminally open.
***
Sheppard makes good on his threat, appearing at noon on the dot the following day to drag Rodney off to the fairground he never even noticed was only a few blocks from his apartment.
They pay for their tickets at the rickety admissions booth, the scent of funnel cakes and motor oil in the air.
"I didn't realize these things still existed," Rodney says as he pockets his change. "I thought the health department would have shut them all down by now."
The ticket-taker gives him a nasty look.
There's not much of a crowd, although it's busier than Rodney would have expected for a Monday afternoon in October. The carnival-goers all have a depressing air of aimlessness, treading from one attraction to the next, as if they have nowhere else to be.
"How 'bout we start there?" Sheppard points to an arcade game, the kind where you pay good money to shoot at water balloons with a plastic rifle in the hopes of winning a shoddily made stuffed aardvark.
"Oh certainly," Rodney says with a sigh. "That seems like an incredibly productive use of our time."
Sheppard lopes off gamely, leaving Rodney to follow at a more disgruntled pace. The carnival barker hands over the toy gun, and Sheppard makes it look easy, mowing down an entire row of balloons in under a second.
"Your turn," Sheppard says, pressing the air rifle into Rodney's hands.
Rodney has taken aim at more fearsome targets, certainly. He's even hit the broad side of the proverbial barn on occasion. But today, his eyes cross when he tries to look through the sight, his vision zooming in and out like a telephoto lens gone crazy. His hands won't stop shaking.
"It's okay, Rodney, you don't have to--"
Rodney's finger slips on the trigger, and he manages to knock a plastic cow off the shelf of prizes, earning a scowl from the pimply teenager overseeing the game.
Rodney throws down the gun in disgust. "Go ahead and laugh, Colonel. I know you want to. Really yuck it up."
Sheppard puts a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe it's time for that Ferris wheel ride."
There's no line, and they get on, and the car sways every time Rodney so much as breathes. A flash of vertigo hits him so intensely for a moment he honestly can't tell up from down.
They go around the first few times without saying much, Sheppard apparently enjoying himself, Rodney trying not to vomit.
Then Sheppard tosses out, "So, here's the thing, Rodney. If you don't want to talk to me about whatever's going on, you should find somebody you can talk to."
Rodney can't help but flinch. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yeah. Actually. You do."
Rodney turns to stare him down. Sheppard's expression is less casual than his tone, and it becomes perfectly clear what all the attention has been about. Sheppard drew the short straw and got saddled babysitting him.
"I'm sure this concern is really very touching, Colonel, but I don't need you or anybody treating me like I'm some kind of child who can't take care of himself!"
In the sudden rush of anger, he loses touch with where he is, tries to get up and storm off, only to find the ground a dizzyingly long way away.
"Shit! Rodney!" Sheppard jerks him back into the car, pulling him hard against his side.
Rodney doesn't say anything, not entirely able to breathe, and Sheppard doesn't let go of him until they're safely back on the ground.
"I think I should go home now," Rodney states the obvious.
Sheppard puts both hands on his shoulders and leans in. "Look, I don't know what's wrong, but let me take you back to the SGC, okay? Get a doctor to take a look at you."
Rodney's laugh is humorless. "Already did that."
"Come on! I'm trying to help you here."
Rodney pulls away stiffly. "Yes, well, thank you, but frankly, Major, I don't need you making any more sacrifices on my account."
He turns and starts walking, doesn't stop when he hears Sheppard's, "That's Lt. Colonel to you."
The slow seethe of anger builds to climacteric rage on the way back to his apartment. Stupid idiot! So I couldn't get the remote control to work on the jumper. We could have figured out something else. It's absolutely unconscionable that he'd go off to martyr himself like that. What a complete waste of someone who occasionally displays signs of having more than half a brain. It's not like Chief Military Commanders exactly grow on trees. He's just damned lucky the Daedalus showed up when it did. But if he had been blown to kingdom come, he'd have no one to blame but himself. It certainly wouldn't have been my fault. Self-sacrificing bastard.
By the time he reaches home, he's worked his way through the entire arc of fury, and there's only a dangerous emptiness left, rattling around inside him. He imagines Sheppard on that doomed jumper, the scene playing out to its logical conclusion, and he knows. It wouldn't have mattered whose fault it was, only that Sheppard was gone.
Rodney doesn't bother turning on the computer. He picks up the phone and dials from sense memory. The same seductive voice asks for his credit card number.
Brad arrives wearing a philosophical smile. "I wasn't particularly surprised to hear from you again."
"Yes, yes. Bedroom."
Rodney yanks open the nightstand drawer, points Brad to the condoms and lube. He shoves his pants down to his ankles and bends over the foot of the bed.
"What are you waiting for?" he snaps when Brad doesn't move quickly enough.
"So I'm guessing you didn't have that talk with him--"
"Am I paying you to think?" Rodney asks caustically. "No. So get over here and fuck me."
Brad sighs. "Fine. Fine. Whatever you want."
Rodney braces his hands against the mattress and tunes out the fleshy sound of Brad getting himself hard. At last, he feels the hot press of skin against his back. Brad mouths kisses over his shoulder, and Rodney twists away.
"Stop wasting time."
"Just let me--" Brad's fingers trail along his crease.
"I'm ready! Okay? So fuck me already."
He wants it rough, wants to hurt, and Brad doesn't disappoint. Rodney has to bite his lip to keep the pain soundless, so Brad won't have any excuse to stop.
"Harder," he demands, his jaw clenched.
Rodney has a talent for hounding people past their limits, and Brad's hands clutch mercilessly at his hips. "I'm going to fucking wear you out."
"Yes," Rodney moans and pushes back, taking more, although the burning sense of being cleaved apart is getting worse, not better.
"Why don't you just say it?" Brad says, exasperated. "For once in your life."
So Rodney does, "Fuck! I'm sorry, okay?"
Brad pounds away at him, as if this is a reward, hard and fast until he comes. Rodney slumps onto the bed, tangled up in his own clothes, his dick as soft as when they started. He finds his wallet and mechanically hands over a wad of cash.
Brad pockets it. "Don't ask for me again."
Rodney doesn't bother getting up. Brad knows the way out.
He closes his eyes, and hopes for a miracle he doesn't deserve, but as so often happens, his peace and quiet is short-lived. There's knocking at the door, and Rodney pulls on his clothes with a sense of defeat and goes to answer it.
"Let me guess, you forgot--"
But it's Sheppard standing there.
"I told you I don't need a doctor--"
Sheppard pushes his way inside. "Shut the fuck up, Rodney. What the hell do you think you're doing anyway?"
"Trying to take a nap, actually. So if you don't mind--"
Anger flares in Sheppard's eyes. "I saw that guy leaving. I can figure out what's going on, you know."
Rodney sticks out his chin. "I don't owe you an explanation, Colonel. I'm not military. I don't care about your narrow-minded hang-ups. I can fuck anyone I damned well please, and it's none of your goddamned business."
"It sure as hell is my business when you're fucking some stand-in for me!" He glares. "What? You didn't think I'd notice the resemblance?"
Rodney breaks into a goading smile. "What's wrong, Sheppard? Does it make you feel like less of a man knowing I get off thinking about you?"
Sheppard's hand shoots out, clamps down on Rodney's wrist. He forces their bodies together, their mouths.
"If anyone's going to fuck you," Sheppard slurs angrily against Rodney's lips, "it's going to be me."
Sheppard is hot and hard and everywhere, each kiss frantic and drugging, and it would be so easy for Rodney to let himself forget. Easy except for that careless, "so long." Rodney bites Sheppard's lip and shoves him away.
"I don't enjoy sleeping with martyrs, Colonel. Or idiots with a deficient sense of self-preservation."
Sheppard stares at him. "Is that what this is about? Because you know I had to--"
Rodney puts his hands over his ears. "Shut up! Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Not how it's your duty, or that other people's lives are more important than yours, or any of your bullshit. I will kick your ass if you even try it. I don't know how. But I'll figure something out."
"I didn't want to go."
Leave it to Sheppard to always have a surprise in him. Rodney can only stare.
"But there wasn't any other way," Sheppard continues levelly, "not in the time we had, and I couldn't let Atlantis be destroyed. I know you understand that."
Rodney takes a step toward him. "Did you ever stop to consider for a moment what it would do to me to know that I built the thing that killed you?"
John goes still. Apparently it hadn't occurred to him. "That was my decision, Rodney. Nothing was your fault."
"I'm sure that would have been a great comfort to me while I watched you get vaporized!"
"Hey. Come here." Sheppard reaches for him, and this time the kiss is slow, inevitable, tender. "It's going to be okay."
"Why are you even here?" Rodney asks, not making any attempt to stop what they're doing.
Sheppard's answer is to pull him into the bedroom. The last, gold light of day pours in through the window, pools on the carpet, and their clothes join it there. Rodney sits on the edge of the bed. Sheppard guides him down, onto his back, and kneels over him. Sheppard is beautiful naked, not in a centerfold way, but like someone who fights for his life on a regular basis, and that makes Rodney ache for him, against all odds, just a little more. Sheppard leans over for a kiss, fingers stroking along his jaw. He rubs at Rodney's chest, following the arrowed lines of hair. He frowns at the bruises on Rodney's hips, touches lightly, making Rodney hiss through his teeth.
Sheppard's expression darkens. "What did that fucker do to you?"
Rodney shakes his head. "Only what I asked for."
"Jesus, Rodney." Sheppard swipes a hand through his messy hair. "How screwed up are you?"
He chuffs a helpless laugh, flops his arm over his eyes. "I can't sleep. That's all I wanted. Just to--"
John circles a hand comfortingly over his stomach. "How long?"
"I don't know," Rodney admits. "Not since before the Wraith, I think."
"That's almost seven days."
"Oh."
"I really can't believe you sometimes. You'll tell anyone who'll listen you have a hangnail, and don't bother to mention extreme sleep deprivation." Sheppard sighs. "So come here, and let's see what can do about helping you relax."
He makes a place for himself between Rodney's thighs, trails wet kisses over his belly.
"I've tried this," Rodney reminds him.
Sheppard smiles. "Humor me."
He bends his head, and it's neither practiced nor fumbling, like he's sucked cock before, but not often, not recently. Like it's only Rodney who makes him want to try it again now.
"John," Rodney moans
He touches Sheppard's hair, and it's just as soft as it's always looked. John splays a hand warmly over the inside of Rodney's thigh, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin in concert with his tongue on Rodney's cock.
"Please," Rodney begs, although he's not sure for what.
John pauses just long enough to say, "Let go."
He doesn't stop again until Rodney is completely undone.
Afterwards, Rodney lies in John's arms, with John's hands ghosting over him, trying to put the pieces back together, a delicate art.
"Just a minute, then I'll--" Rodney mumbles against his chest.
John kisses the top of his head. "Later. Rest now."
Rodney thinks vaguely about two-way streets, but his good intentions stall there. The last thing he remembers, and possibly it's only wishful thinking, is Sheppard murmuring, "If it makes any difference, I'll always want to come back to you."
Author: Lenore
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set after Siege. The battle is over, except in Rodney's mind.
Notes: Big thanks to barely_bean for the story inspiration, handholding, beta reading and all-around fabulousness.
264 Hours
by Lenore
Things just keep building up to nothing, this is Rodney's thought as he steps out of the stargate into the SGC. The Wraith were coming, the Wraith are gone. Sheppard was dead, Sheppard's alive. They could never go home again, here they are. Not that Rodney wants it any different. He'd vote a straight party ticket every time, survival yes, destruction no. He just wishes he didn't feel so much like he was underwater, wishes he could figure out what the buzzing is inside his head, and more importantly, how to make it stop. He half suspects his eyes don't close all the way anymore, and he's too tired to test the theory. Maybe things will get better now that he's back on Earth. He wants to believe this.
People step up to welcome them home. General O'Neill. General Landry. Dr. Jackson. Even Sam is there.
She quirks a smile at him. "Made it through okay, huh?"
The words take a second to sort themselves out in his brain. "Oh, yes. Yes. Still intact."
She gives him a scrutinizing look. "It's good to see you, Rodney." She puts a hand on his arm, but he can only see the press of her fingers, doesn't feel it. "Get some rest, huh?"
He nods distractedly. More uniforms file into the room, and Sam goes adrift, lost in the milling crowd. People are like that, there one moment, gone the next, and Rodney doesn't even try to find her in the sea of faces. That would take an optimism he doesn't possess.
They're herded off to the infirmary. Rodney sits on the exam table, shivering in a paper gown, answering questions automatically, the sound of his voice muddy in his own ears. The scratchy tear of Velcro on the blood pressure cuff is like something from a distant continent, the needle pressing into his arm seems to have little to do with him. Even the red life flowing out and away through the plastic tubing, a sight that has never failed to make him queasy in the past, inspires nothing now.
When they're done, the doctor gives him a blandly reassuring smile. "You seem perfectly fit."
Rodney nods, gets dressed. He's always known it was voodoo.
"So, what do you want to do when we get out of here?" Sheppard asks with breezy cheer as they head to the debriefing. "Grab some beers? Hit Circuit City for DVDs to bring back with us?"
Rodney stares. Apparently, Sheppard hasn't caught on yet that his pool of people to hang out with increased by orders of magnitude the moment he cleared the event horizon.
Sheppard laughs, holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, food first. You don't have to look at me like I'm crazy."
In the conference room, Rodney takes a seat and tries to follow the conversation, but he soon becomes transfixed by a dark stain on the white wall. As he watches, it seems to grow, to move and breathe, a creature with great, heaving sides. He thinks of the thing that nearly killed the major, Wraith bug sucking the life out of him, and then it's right there, on the wall, nightmare of the Pegasus galaxy that they've somehow brought home with them.
He looks around frantically to see if anyone else has noticed, but they're all staring at him.
"Rodney?" Elizabeth says with deliberate patience, as if it's not the first time.
"Yes?"
He can feel himself sweating, and he wants to shout: There! There! Only now he's not so sure.
"Can you give us your projections for how long we can expect the ZPM to last?"
Each syllable is precisely articulated, and Rodney feels a vague sense of insult in that. Words tumble out of him, best and worse case scenarios. The faces around the table appear satisfied with whatever he's saying, and the stain on the wall is just a stain again.
His life has become a Rorschach test, and not one he's passing, it seems.
After the meeting ends, he's the last to leave, slow getting to his feet. Elizabeth waits for him out in the hall.
"You should go home and relax," she tells him, looking concerned.
"Yes, yes," he says snappishly, "I'd love nothing more, but do you have any idea how many truly monumental misconceptions about wormhole physics the so-called experts in this galaxy continue to labor under? Enough to keep me busy for the rest of the afternoon."
Elizabeth tilts her head, studying him. "See that you get some sleep when you're done."
He nods. "Yes, yes. Of course."
His feet carry him toward the lab, and it occurs to him that maybe Sam will be there. Maybe he can tell her...but he doesn't even know what. His steps slow, and finally he stops in the middle of the corridor. It all seems like too much. Even the prospect of discrediting Dr. Calhoun's pet theory about the mechanics of time dilation fields, something he would normally relish, feels both weighty and pointless.
He turns and heads for the exit. Elizabeth said go, and Elizabeth is his boss. He's not above letting this mean something when it's convenient.
***
Rodney's apartment is just the way he left it, and he finds that strangely unnerving. There's a coffee cup sitting in the dish drainer, a pencil thrown down on his desk as if he just got up, a straggling sock on the bedroom carpet that fell short the last time he put clothes away. It's as if there's been no interruption, like he went out to the store instead of a distant galaxy, the layers of dust more a sign of indifferent housekeeping than absence.
He collapses onto the sofa, turning restlessly on the wide cushions, breathing in the dark, comforting smell of leather. There were so many nights he fell asleep here without meaning to, a journal or sheet of calculations still clutched in his hand. He crooks an arm over his eyes, shutting out the light. He takes a breath and lets it out. For a moment, the old calm comes over him, holdover from another life when he was certain no challenge was too much for him, but then the panic reboots. Don't sleep! Don't stop! Don't die!
He lets his arm fall away, doesn't bother to sigh because that would take energy and it's not as if he's surprised. Carson assured him before he left Atlantis that the amphetamines should all be flushed out of his system, but even now Rodney can feel them, fighting a guerilla war against him, lurking in his gall bladder, hiding out in the Byzantine twist of his capillaries, creeping out to attack when his defenses are down, making his heart race with a false sense of terror.
The Nazis were fond of sleep deprivation experiments, Rodney remembers reading. They found that the longest a person could survive was 264 hours, and the symptoms followed a predictable course. Day 2, difficulty focusing the eyes. Day 3, abrupt fluctuations in mood. Day 4, hallucinations. On and on until inevitable death. Rodney tries to calculate how long it's been since he last slept, but the equations keep slipping off the whiteboard in his mind. Not 264 hours, apparently, since he can still hear the dull thud of his pulse.
There is one thing that has always helped him relax, better when it's with someone, but his own hand will do in a pinch. He hasn't wanted even that much in he can't remember how long, doesn't really want it now, but maybe if he tries, if he thinks about the right thing. He flits past images of models and actresses, faces staring down from the billboards he passed on the ride home. He doesn't even know their names, never has, and he's not much for fantasizing about unknown quantities. He's too apt to get distracted in the middle of the proceedings, suddenly wondering if that perfect face hides someone who can't grasp even the most elementary calculus, a mood killer if ever there was one.
Better to think of someone familiar, trusted, someone he can respect. He takes out Sam and Elizabeth and Teyla in turn, all beautiful in different ways, all women he's only ever going to have in his dreams. That lends a certain forbidden edge to his fantasies, a definite turn on. He slides a hand into his pants and dredges up his best material, Sam breathily assuring him he's a genius as she takes off her top, Elizabeth smiling slyly as she gropes him under the table at a staff meeting, Teyla staring down at him after she's kicked his ass at stick fighting, eyes dark, a delicate sheen of sweat on her fiercely lovely face.
It gets him started, but only carries him so far, so he turns his thoughts to men, and still his dick languishes in his hand. There's only one thing it really wants, and he sighs and gives in, because it's his dick, and not even a genius can fight that. He goes to his special storehouse of Sheppard memories, a smile, a clap on the back, the sound of Sheppard's voice, low and confidential, saying something meant only for Rodney to hear. By the time he starts to improvise, picturing Sheppard on his knees, he's achingly hard. He grips his cock and thinks of Sheppard's mouth, and when he brings himself off, he really does feel better, for a little while at least.
But then, thoughts of Sheppard linger, contort, and Rodney has the sensors display in his head, a lone jumper moving at a steady clip toward a rendezvous with nothingness. Don't sleep! Rodney's heart starts to pound again. This time, he does sigh.
***
The next morning, Rodney is still crumpled on the sofa, wide awake when the phone rings. He glances at the clock and doesn't answer on the general principle that no one should be calling before eight. The phone goes mercifully silent, only to make him jump when it starts up again less than thirty seconds later. He pulls a throw pillow over his face and tries to ignore the loud jangle, but someone is very persistent. On the fourth go-around, Rodney snaps up the receiver, "What?"
"Hey listen, Rodney, I scored us tickets to today's Broncos game," a voice babbles in his ear. "That's football, by the way."
He squints. "Major?"
"Bring extra layers. It's supposed to get cold this afternoon."
"Don't you have any friends?"
Sheppard laughs. "Pick you up at noon."
Rodney hangs up and thinks no more about it. He trudges off to the kitchen to make coffee, comes back with two mugs to save himself a trip, and hunkers down on the sofa. He has no plans to move any time soon.
It's barely eleven when Sheppard shows up at the door, leaning on the doorbell until Rodney has no choice but to let him in.
"You said twelve," he accuses.
Sheppard shrugs. "Yeah, but I figured you were going to be difficult."
Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. "Major, I have absolutely no intention of spending valuable time, precious hours of my life that I'll never get back, on your ridiculous excuse for a national pastime."
"What'd I tell you? Difficult." Sheppard cracks a grin. "And anyone who comes from a country where the best loved sport is curling is in no position to throw stones."
"Is that a bad pun you're making?"
Sheppard doesn't answer, just marches him over to the bathroom. "Come back smelling better." He closes the door pointedly.
Rodney grumbles that just because he's taking a shower doesn't mean he's agreeing to go to any stupid football match.
"We call it a game," Sheppard calls out, no less infuriating from the other side of the door.
Rodney gets clean and gets dressed, and then grumbles some more as Sheppard makes him dig out a hat, gloves and scarf.
In the car, Rodney announces, "You're a bully, you know that, Major?"
Sheppard gives him a lopsided smile. "That's Lt. Colonel Bully to you."
Rodney blinks, the information taking just a little while to sink in because he really isn't at his sharpest. Finally, though, he gets it, what this is, a celebration, and he's the one Sheppard chose to share it with. Rodney swallows hard and mumbles that there will be no living with him now. That makes Sheppard's smile go wider, and Rodney's throat closes up a little more.
At the game, there are people with their faces painted orange, but Rodney chooses just to ignore them. Sheppard seems slightly disappointed by this. They take their seats, and Sheppard starts to explain the ridiculous excuse for a sport as he's done countless times before, "So it's second and nine. That means the Broncos--the team with the horse on their helmets--have three more chances to move the ball nine yards to get a first down. Which gives them four more chances to get another first down..."
Rodney stares down at the field. A blue polka-dotted path winds across the grass, disappearing into a quiet forest. At least this time he realizes it's not actually there. Sheppard goes on talking, and Rodney doesn't pay attention to the words, but the rise and fall of his voice nicely complements the woodland tranquility.
A vendor hawking Heinekens passes their way, and Sheppard springs for the first round. Rodney's fingers clench and unclench around the plastic bottle, and the sharp burn of the beer as it hits his throat is strangely comforting. He sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye. Sheppard slouches comfortably, his arm slung across the back of the empty seat next to him, and Rodney is astonished to see that Sheppard is genuinely happy, just to be there, with him.
It should make them close in some way, and still Rodney can't ask the question that literally keeps him up at night. Why? Because he knows Sheppard's answer: it was the only choice and I knew what I was signing on for when I went through the gate and the welfare of the many has to come before the few. Rodney closes his eyes. He doesn't ask, because he doesn't want to have to punch Sheppard in the mouth.
The afternoon wears on. Things happen on the field, and Rodney holds up his end of the conversation even though there's a herd of caribou grazing on the stadium steps. Sheppard gets fidgety when the Heineken guy fails to return.
"I'm going for beer and pretzels. You want anything?" Rodney shakes his head. Sheppard gives him an incredulous look as if Rodney saying no to food upsets one of the more inveterate laws of physics. "Okay, be right back."
Rodney stares down at the unnatural green and makes a half-hearted attempt to decipher what the piles of huge men in their bulky equipment could possibly signify. So long, Rodney. There's a part of him that honestly doesn't expect Sheppard to return from the concession stand.
A fragment of memory drifts through his head, a conversation from years ago, one of his professors going on about ethical dilemmas and the dark side of discovery and the special responsibility of scientists. Rodney had piped up, young with certainty, that his only duty was to knowledge. What people did with his work was their problem. He'd gone on believing that, not as young anymore but no less certain, holding tight to his conviction right up to that moment when Sheppard's life was a blinking dot headed toward the destruction Rodney himself had engineered. He might have accused Elizabeth, you let Sheppard pilot the jumper. But the truth was screaming away inside his head, oh God, I did that.
Time ticks off the clock, and Sheppard finally comes back.
He hands Rodney a hot dog as he takes his seat. "So, what happened while I was gone?"
Rodney makes a face. "I have absolutely no idea."
Sheppard shakes his head sadly.
The game ends eventually. The horse hats win, and this seems to please the crowd. He and Sheppard fall into a crush of jersey-wearing fanatics making happy whooping noises as they mince their way toward the exit. After what feels like the rest of Rodney's life, they reach the car.
"So," Sheppard says as they inch forward in traffic, "you want to come back to the hotel and get room service and watch pay-per-view?"
Rodney slumps in his seat, shakes his head.
"Why not? You have plans or something?"
He says it with the same sort of astonishment Rodney might express if he heard someone proclaim that Kavanaugh wasn't an idiot.
Rodney glares. "I could have plans! I know…people."
"Fine," Sheppard says, rolling his eyes. "Hang out with 'people' instead of me."
"Fine, I will," Rodney says grumpily.
He closes his eyes against the dizzying rush of the landscape as they speed along the highway. It's better once they turn off onto the local road, and better still when Sheppard stops outside his apartment.
"Okay, so tomorrow we hit the carnival," Sheppard declares cheerfully. "Pick you up at noon again."
"I didn't agree to that!" Rodney insists as he gets out of the car.
Sheppard smiles. "Who says no to Ferris wheels?"
He waves and drives off before Rodney can answer the question.
***
Once he's alone in his apartment again, Rodney is less certain why it seemed so important to turn down Sheppard's invitation for the evening. The buzzing in his head is getting louder, and there's an itchy feeling not on his skin, but underneath it. He feels like he might combust if he tries to sit still. He's so appallingly awake he's sure his eyes are going to pop out of his head at any moment.
He's a tinderbox, and the match comes in the form of sense memories from earlier in the day, how Sheppard smelled when he leaned into Rodney's space to get a better view of the field, his quick laugh when Rodney said...something, he can't even remember what. Rodney runs a hand down the fly of his pants and contemplates a rematch. Just because it didn't work yesterday doesn't mean it won't work now, he tells himself.
He rubs his crotch with more intent, to see if his dick will get interested, but the response is sluggish at best. He sighs, glances around as if he's likely to find an answer among the physics journals and dead houseplants. His eyes fasten on the computer. Maybe all he needs is some backup.
Rodney is no stranger to the erotic handiness of the Internet. There are several escort sites he's made use of in the past, never any compunction about paying for sex. In fact, he's pretty much considered it the only practical solution to being horny and having no time or inclination for inane conversation. He goes to "hotdate.com" and scrolls through the profiles. He skips past Genifer, because please, and Rowena reminds him a little too much of his kindergarten teacher. He remembers Susi as the one with the unfortunate lisp, and Daria was a bit startling in her enthusiasm.
The buzzing in his head grows more urgent, and on impulse, Rodney clicks over to the men. He scrolls past impossibly tanned blondes with names like Vittorio and pouting man-boys who seem to be inviting a stern spanking. He feels hope trickling away when there he is, the perfect candidate, stubborn set to his jaw, disobedient dark hair, green eyes with the light of some secret rebellion in them. Rodney fumbles for the phone, needs three tries to dial the number correctly, but finally a voice on the other end of the line lilts, "how may I help you?" He orders #33 like something off a Chinese takeout menu.
When the escort shows up, he bears only a passing resemblance to Sheppard, which makes sense, because really, who else could have that same sardonic charm? Close but not quite, Rodney decides, is probably for the best.
The escort introduces himself, "Brad."
"Rodney." He's never been one to hide behind false names.
Brad saunters over, runs a hand up his arm. "So, Rodney, how are you doing?"
"Bedroom," Rodney orders, dispensing with the small talk.
It's only now that he has a stranger in tow that Rodney pays attention to the details of his own environment, the untouched quality of the bed, comforter precisely creased at the corners, dust motes hovering in the air. Belatedly he realizes he might appear a little pathetic.
If so, Brad betrays no hint of it. He comes closer, tilts his head for a kiss. Rodney turns his chin away.
"Okay, baby," Brad soothes. "Whatever you want."
Not kissing, but Rodney does crave contact, and he presses his face against Brad's neck, breathes him in, can't resist biting the soft skin there.
Brad's laugh rumbles against his lips. "Like it a little rough, huh? I can do that."
Brad rubs Rodney's chest through his shirt, and Rodney sinks his fingers into his arms, not caring if it hurts.
"Let me take this off." Brad's fingers flick at a button on Rodney's shirt.
Rodney bats his hands away. "You first."
Brad smiles. "That works, too."
He skims his t-shirt up over his head, strokes his hands over his own chest in a practiced caress.
"All of it," Rodney demands.
Brad's eyes go darker, and if that's just another part of the show, it's an award-winning performance. He strips out of the rest of his clothes with quick, efficient movements.
"Touch yourself," Rodney tells him.
Brad follows orders about as well as Sheppard does, one finger just barely flirting with his cock. "You like to watch? Is that what you want, Rodney?"
Rodney has no idea why this is the thing that makes him snap, but suddenly he finds himself screaming, "I want you to stop acting like nothing happened! Like it's all fine. Stop making me so fucking crazy. And start goddamn making it up to me!"
Brad stills for a moment, and then his expression shifts into something like understanding. He reaches for Rodney, starts to pull off his clothes. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he croons. "You know I didn't, baby. I'm sorry, and I'm going to make it all better."
He lays kisses across Rodney's chest, mouths his nipples, a move borrowed straight from gay porn, but he doesn't stop saying he's sorry, and Rodney's cock rises to accept the apology.
"That's it, that's it," Brad murmurs as he gets to his knees.
His mouth finishes the job of getting Rodney hard.
Rodney closes his eyes and pretends this is something else, carelessly shoving his hips. "Take it, just take it," he mutters again and again.
When he comes, everything goes brutally white, like the first flash at ground zero.
Rodney pulls on his pants after it's over and gives the escort all the cash in his wallet. Brad's mouth looks even more plundered when he smiles at the tip.
Rodney is quick to show him out.
"I hope you work it out with him," Brad tells him. "Because, don't take this the wrong way, you seem kind of fucked up about it."
The door closes like a judgment. Rodney's eyes feel terminally open.
***
Sheppard makes good on his threat, appearing at noon on the dot the following day to drag Rodney off to the fairground he never even noticed was only a few blocks from his apartment.
They pay for their tickets at the rickety admissions booth, the scent of funnel cakes and motor oil in the air.
"I didn't realize these things still existed," Rodney says as he pockets his change. "I thought the health department would have shut them all down by now."
The ticket-taker gives him a nasty look.
There's not much of a crowd, although it's busier than Rodney would have expected for a Monday afternoon in October. The carnival-goers all have a depressing air of aimlessness, treading from one attraction to the next, as if they have nowhere else to be.
"How 'bout we start there?" Sheppard points to an arcade game, the kind where you pay good money to shoot at water balloons with a plastic rifle in the hopes of winning a shoddily made stuffed aardvark.
"Oh certainly," Rodney says with a sigh. "That seems like an incredibly productive use of our time."
Sheppard lopes off gamely, leaving Rodney to follow at a more disgruntled pace. The carnival barker hands over the toy gun, and Sheppard makes it look easy, mowing down an entire row of balloons in under a second.
"Your turn," Sheppard says, pressing the air rifle into Rodney's hands.
Rodney has taken aim at more fearsome targets, certainly. He's even hit the broad side of the proverbial barn on occasion. But today, his eyes cross when he tries to look through the sight, his vision zooming in and out like a telephoto lens gone crazy. His hands won't stop shaking.
"It's okay, Rodney, you don't have to--"
Rodney's finger slips on the trigger, and he manages to knock a plastic cow off the shelf of prizes, earning a scowl from the pimply teenager overseeing the game.
Rodney throws down the gun in disgust. "Go ahead and laugh, Colonel. I know you want to. Really yuck it up."
Sheppard puts a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe it's time for that Ferris wheel ride."
There's no line, and they get on, and the car sways every time Rodney so much as breathes. A flash of vertigo hits him so intensely for a moment he honestly can't tell up from down.
They go around the first few times without saying much, Sheppard apparently enjoying himself, Rodney trying not to vomit.
Then Sheppard tosses out, "So, here's the thing, Rodney. If you don't want to talk to me about whatever's going on, you should find somebody you can talk to."
Rodney can't help but flinch. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yeah. Actually. You do."
Rodney turns to stare him down. Sheppard's expression is less casual than his tone, and it becomes perfectly clear what all the attention has been about. Sheppard drew the short straw and got saddled babysitting him.
"I'm sure this concern is really very touching, Colonel, but I don't need you or anybody treating me like I'm some kind of child who can't take care of himself!"
In the sudden rush of anger, he loses touch with where he is, tries to get up and storm off, only to find the ground a dizzyingly long way away.
"Shit! Rodney!" Sheppard jerks him back into the car, pulling him hard against his side.
Rodney doesn't say anything, not entirely able to breathe, and Sheppard doesn't let go of him until they're safely back on the ground.
"I think I should go home now," Rodney states the obvious.
Sheppard puts both hands on his shoulders and leans in. "Look, I don't know what's wrong, but let me take you back to the SGC, okay? Get a doctor to take a look at you."
Rodney's laugh is humorless. "Already did that."
"Come on! I'm trying to help you here."
Rodney pulls away stiffly. "Yes, well, thank you, but frankly, Major, I don't need you making any more sacrifices on my account."
He turns and starts walking, doesn't stop when he hears Sheppard's, "That's Lt. Colonel to you."
The slow seethe of anger builds to climacteric rage on the way back to his apartment. Stupid idiot! So I couldn't get the remote control to work on the jumper. We could have figured out something else. It's absolutely unconscionable that he'd go off to martyr himself like that. What a complete waste of someone who occasionally displays signs of having more than half a brain. It's not like Chief Military Commanders exactly grow on trees. He's just damned lucky the Daedalus showed up when it did. But if he had been blown to kingdom come, he'd have no one to blame but himself. It certainly wouldn't have been my fault. Self-sacrificing bastard.
By the time he reaches home, he's worked his way through the entire arc of fury, and there's only a dangerous emptiness left, rattling around inside him. He imagines Sheppard on that doomed jumper, the scene playing out to its logical conclusion, and he knows. It wouldn't have mattered whose fault it was, only that Sheppard was gone.
Rodney doesn't bother turning on the computer. He picks up the phone and dials from sense memory. The same seductive voice asks for his credit card number.
Brad arrives wearing a philosophical smile. "I wasn't particularly surprised to hear from you again."
"Yes, yes. Bedroom."
Rodney yanks open the nightstand drawer, points Brad to the condoms and lube. He shoves his pants down to his ankles and bends over the foot of the bed.
"What are you waiting for?" he snaps when Brad doesn't move quickly enough.
"So I'm guessing you didn't have that talk with him--"
"Am I paying you to think?" Rodney asks caustically. "No. So get over here and fuck me."
Brad sighs. "Fine. Fine. Whatever you want."
Rodney braces his hands against the mattress and tunes out the fleshy sound of Brad getting himself hard. At last, he feels the hot press of skin against his back. Brad mouths kisses over his shoulder, and Rodney twists away.
"Stop wasting time."
"Just let me--" Brad's fingers trail along his crease.
"I'm ready! Okay? So fuck me already."
He wants it rough, wants to hurt, and Brad doesn't disappoint. Rodney has to bite his lip to keep the pain soundless, so Brad won't have any excuse to stop.
"Harder," he demands, his jaw clenched.
Rodney has a talent for hounding people past their limits, and Brad's hands clutch mercilessly at his hips. "I'm going to fucking wear you out."
"Yes," Rodney moans and pushes back, taking more, although the burning sense of being cleaved apart is getting worse, not better.
"Why don't you just say it?" Brad says, exasperated. "For once in your life."
So Rodney does, "Fuck! I'm sorry, okay?"
Brad pounds away at him, as if this is a reward, hard and fast until he comes. Rodney slumps onto the bed, tangled up in his own clothes, his dick as soft as when they started. He finds his wallet and mechanically hands over a wad of cash.
Brad pockets it. "Don't ask for me again."
Rodney doesn't bother getting up. Brad knows the way out.
He closes his eyes, and hopes for a miracle he doesn't deserve, but as so often happens, his peace and quiet is short-lived. There's knocking at the door, and Rodney pulls on his clothes with a sense of defeat and goes to answer it.
"Let me guess, you forgot--"
But it's Sheppard standing there.
"I told you I don't need a doctor--"
Sheppard pushes his way inside. "Shut the fuck up, Rodney. What the hell do you think you're doing anyway?"
"Trying to take a nap, actually. So if you don't mind--"
Anger flares in Sheppard's eyes. "I saw that guy leaving. I can figure out what's going on, you know."
Rodney sticks out his chin. "I don't owe you an explanation, Colonel. I'm not military. I don't care about your narrow-minded hang-ups. I can fuck anyone I damned well please, and it's none of your goddamned business."
"It sure as hell is my business when you're fucking some stand-in for me!" He glares. "What? You didn't think I'd notice the resemblance?"
Rodney breaks into a goading smile. "What's wrong, Sheppard? Does it make you feel like less of a man knowing I get off thinking about you?"
Sheppard's hand shoots out, clamps down on Rodney's wrist. He forces their bodies together, their mouths.
"If anyone's going to fuck you," Sheppard slurs angrily against Rodney's lips, "it's going to be me."
Sheppard is hot and hard and everywhere, each kiss frantic and drugging, and it would be so easy for Rodney to let himself forget. Easy except for that careless, "so long." Rodney bites Sheppard's lip and shoves him away.
"I don't enjoy sleeping with martyrs, Colonel. Or idiots with a deficient sense of self-preservation."
Sheppard stares at him. "Is that what this is about? Because you know I had to--"
Rodney puts his hands over his ears. "Shut up! Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Not how it's your duty, or that other people's lives are more important than yours, or any of your bullshit. I will kick your ass if you even try it. I don't know how. But I'll figure something out."
"I didn't want to go."
Leave it to Sheppard to always have a surprise in him. Rodney can only stare.
"But there wasn't any other way," Sheppard continues levelly, "not in the time we had, and I couldn't let Atlantis be destroyed. I know you understand that."
Rodney takes a step toward him. "Did you ever stop to consider for a moment what it would do to me to know that I built the thing that killed you?"
John goes still. Apparently it hadn't occurred to him. "That was my decision, Rodney. Nothing was your fault."
"I'm sure that would have been a great comfort to me while I watched you get vaporized!"
"Hey. Come here." Sheppard reaches for him, and this time the kiss is slow, inevitable, tender. "It's going to be okay."
"Why are you even here?" Rodney asks, not making any attempt to stop what they're doing.
Sheppard's answer is to pull him into the bedroom. The last, gold light of day pours in through the window, pools on the carpet, and their clothes join it there. Rodney sits on the edge of the bed. Sheppard guides him down, onto his back, and kneels over him. Sheppard is beautiful naked, not in a centerfold way, but like someone who fights for his life on a regular basis, and that makes Rodney ache for him, against all odds, just a little more. Sheppard leans over for a kiss, fingers stroking along his jaw. He rubs at Rodney's chest, following the arrowed lines of hair. He frowns at the bruises on Rodney's hips, touches lightly, making Rodney hiss through his teeth.
Sheppard's expression darkens. "What did that fucker do to you?"
Rodney shakes his head. "Only what I asked for."
"Jesus, Rodney." Sheppard swipes a hand through his messy hair. "How screwed up are you?"
He chuffs a helpless laugh, flops his arm over his eyes. "I can't sleep. That's all I wanted. Just to--"
John circles a hand comfortingly over his stomach. "How long?"
"I don't know," Rodney admits. "Not since before the Wraith, I think."
"That's almost seven days."
"Oh."
"I really can't believe you sometimes. You'll tell anyone who'll listen you have a hangnail, and don't bother to mention extreme sleep deprivation." Sheppard sighs. "So come here, and let's see what can do about helping you relax."
He makes a place for himself between Rodney's thighs, trails wet kisses over his belly.
"I've tried this," Rodney reminds him.
Sheppard smiles. "Humor me."
He bends his head, and it's neither practiced nor fumbling, like he's sucked cock before, but not often, not recently. Like it's only Rodney who makes him want to try it again now.
"John," Rodney moans
He touches Sheppard's hair, and it's just as soft as it's always looked. John splays a hand warmly over the inside of Rodney's thigh, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin in concert with his tongue on Rodney's cock.
"Please," Rodney begs, although he's not sure for what.
John pauses just long enough to say, "Let go."
He doesn't stop again until Rodney is completely undone.
Afterwards, Rodney lies in John's arms, with John's hands ghosting over him, trying to put the pieces back together, a delicate art.
"Just a minute, then I'll--" Rodney mumbles against his chest.
John kisses the top of his head. "Later. Rest now."
Rodney thinks vaguely about two-way streets, but his good intentions stall there. The last thing he remembers, and possibly it's only wishful thinking, is Sheppard murmuring, "If it makes any difference, I'll always want to come back to you."