SGA-fic: Great Void (John/Rodney, EP-verse, PG-13)
Title: Great Void
Author: Zinnith
Wordcount: ~2000
Rating: PG-13
Warning: PTSD
Notes: I actually sat down with the intent of writing porn, but instead this is what came out. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but it's apparently something John has wanted to get off his chest for a while. Well, that's about it.
Written directly into LJ and unbeta'd so please feel free to tell me about any mistakes I might have made.
Summary: A struggle with memory and mind.
Great Void
Lately, there are days when John gets the urge to run, pack up his things and get out. His skin gets hot and tight and he can't stop scratching the spot just above his left collarbone that he knows isn't really itching. It still ends up red and irritated.
It's stupid and irrational and he knows he has no reason to feel this way. He never knew before he actually had it, but this is what a little part of his soul has been screaming for since he was eleven and his mother turned pale-thin and tired and his father turned distant and preoccupied.
He knows that Rodney has no intention of kicking him out, but there are still moments when John walks around the house, thinking about all the effort he put into the place. He's left his fingerprints on every board and beam and tile, painted the walls with his thoughts and his dreams and his promises. Sometimes he catches himself thinking about how hard it's going to be to walk away from all this and he has to take a moment to remind himself that he's not going to walk away, that this is something he's built to last.
He has no idea where the thoughts are coming from. It's like his own mind is playing tricks on him somehow, making him consider throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him.
John doesn't know if Rodney has noticed. If he has, he's not saying anything, and John can't tell him, doesn't even know how to say the words out loud.
* * *
There are days when Rodney is buried up to his neck in work and barely comes out of his study to eat and sleep. John knows it's not a matter of choice, not when it comes to Rodney's writing, but he can't shake the bitter feeling of abandonment that wells up from the place he keeps hidden deep inside his heart.
John takes Lady for long walks, hoping that the exercise and the fresh air will help clear his head. It's not working and when he gets home again, he goes to stand in front of the closed door to Rodney's study, struck by the powerful urge to bang his fists against it until Rodney opens.
The feeling is so strong that he's already raised his arm to knock before he can stop himself. What is he supposed to say when - if - no, when Rodney opens? 'Please, let me in, I'm lonely'?
It's stupid. Rodney's right there. John can hear him through the door, tapping on the keyboard, muttering the occasional frustrated tirade. In a couple of hours, Rodney will come out and they'll order pizza and watch TV until it's time to go to bed.
* * *
There are days when John is short-tempered and irritable. He doesn't even know what he's angry about, just that someone, somewhere has done him wrong.
He takes it out on Rodney, yells at him: "Your goddamn wet towels, McKay! Why the hell did I put up those hooks in the bathroom if you're not going to use them?"
Rodney blinks, taken aback for a moment, and then shouts back, "Five minutes, I left it there for five minutes with every intention of picking it up! What crawled up your ass and died?"
John just shakes his head and walks away. He doesn't want to fight with Rodney when it's not actually Rodney he's mad at, but he needs some kind of substitute, needs something, someone to scream and rage at while he's trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
A few minutes later, he can hear Rodney's door slam shut, and he doesn't know why but his eyes start burning and he has to swallow around the hard lump in his throat. It's stupid. They have arguments all the time, about small things and big things, and John gets angry and punches the walls and sulks in the garage, but he never cries.
He goes to work in a bad mood, grateful that it's only a half-day and he can hide out in his tiny little broom-closet of an office and curse at the budget so he won't have to risk snapping at one of the kids. By the end of the day, he finds himself standing in the parking lot, looking at the parents who come to pick up their children. The stupid lump is back in his throat and there's a strange ache in his chest and he knows that something is wrong, but he just can't figure out what.
John apologises to Rodney when he comes home. Tells him: "I'm sorry I was an asshole this morning."
"Me too," Rodney says, and usually that would be enough, they would kiss and make up and everything would be fine again. Today, John walks into Rodney's embrace, wraps his arms around Rodney's waist, and discovers that he can't let go.
"Okay, what's up with you?" Rodney asks, holding him a little tighter. "You've been weirder than usual lately. And I when I say 'weird', I say it with the utmost love and respect, of course."
John slowly shakes his head against Rodney's shoulder. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
"Whatever it is, you know you can tell me about it, right? There's no need for the suffering-in-silence routine."
"I know," John says, but the words turn sour in his mouth. He wants to tell Rodney but how can he when he doesn't even know what to say?
* * *
There are nights when he dreams. He can't remember anything substantial when he wakes up, only loosely connected images. A closed office door. A coffin, covered in white roses, being slowly lowered into the ground. Massive silence, so thick and deep it's taking on a shape of its own. A gate sliding shut behind him, effectively closing him out.
The sickly sweet scent of the roses follows him when he opens his eyes and he knows something is terribly wrong when he'd actually prefer to wake with sand and blood and gun oil lingering in his nostrils.
* * *
The day John finally figures it out, it's so simple that he wants to kick himself for not picking up on it earlier. He's on the phone with a priest from one of the local churches, setting up a meeting to co-ordinate volunteers, when he looks in his day planner and sees the date. The memories hit him over the head like a five iron, so hard and painful that he can't even speak for a few moments.
Somehow, he manages to get through the rest of the call, but he has no idea what happened, what was decided, and he knows he's going to have to call back later to clear things up.
He takes the rest of the day off, leaves Rodney's car in the parking lot because he doesn't trust himself behind the wheel at the moment, and takes the bus home. Every time he breathes in, he imagines he can smell flowers, covering up sickness and sin. How could he forget?
Rodney comes out of his study when John walks through the door, looking surprised and a little worried.
"You're home early. Did something happen?"
John stands there in the middle of the hall and he can finally tell Rodney what he's wanted to tell him all along, before he even knew what it was.
"Tomorrow, it'll be thirty years since my mom died," he says.
Even as the words leave his mouth, a wave of grief washes over him, so strong and powerful that he has to lean into Rodney to stay upright.
"I'm sorry," Rodney says, bringing his arms up around him, awkwardly patting his back. He sounds a little stunned. "I'm sorry John, I didn't know."
John does his best to keep his voice steady. "You couldn't have." He takes a deep breath. "My father, he... he couldn't handle it. When she got ill."
He closes his eyes, forces himself to remember. How the house was turned into a tomb even long before she was gone. All the long hours he spent looking after Dave, when mom was too tired and dad spent all his time working, working and working to take his mind off what was waiting for him at home. The dying wife, the son who had her eyes and her hair, a living reminder of the loss.
"I know you two didn't get along," Rodney murmurs. "I never knew why."
"He spent every second he could at work," John says. The words are spilling out of him now. He probably couldn't stop them if he tried. "And when he got home, he'd go straight into his office and close the door. I remember... standing outside. I always wanted to knock and see if he'd let me in, tried it a couple of times even, but..."
Rodney interrupts him. "I know I'm probably not the right person to say this, but you do realise your father was seriously screwed up, don't you? He had no right to do that to you."
There's anger in his voice, and John is a little surprised to hear it, but he's also so very grateful that, after all these years, someone is angry on his behalf.
"He loved her," he manages to choke out, not quite sure why he's defending his father now, today of all days, but with the next heartbeat he gets it. "He loved her so much that losing her destroyed him and I... I think I understand it now, Rodney. If you ever..."
He can't go on. The thought is too much, too terrible to bear.
"I'm not going anywhere," Rodney says, stroking his hands up and down John's back and John might be clinging a little, hands fisted in Rodney's shirt, but he figures he's allowed, just this once.
* * *
The day ends, like so many others, on the couch with Newton perched on the armrest and Lady snoring on the rug. There's nothing to see on TV but it's turned on anyway, a low buzz of background noise. John is all talked out, exhausted like he's run a marathon, but his heart feels a hundred pounds lighter. He's carried this grief for thirty years and he doesn't think it'll ever fade, but he doesn't have to endure it alone any more.
"I won't close the door again," Rodney says. "And if I forget and do it anyway, all you have to do is knock and I'll open. I swear I'll open."
John turns his head, presses his face against Rodney's neck, inhales. "I know," he says. "I know you will."
"This is a probably a completely inappropriate thing to say, considering everything, but I'm actually glad..." Rodney makes a face and backtracks. "No, not glad, wrong word. Relieved is better. I'm actually relieved that it was something like this. You've had that look lately, like you've been planning to run, and I got... a little scared, maybe?"
He should have known that Rodney would pick up on it and start worrying and John feels a bit guilty for letting him.
"Not running, I promise," he says "I'm here for as long as you'll have me."
"How about forever? Is that okay with you?" Rodney's eyebrows rise hopefully, almost a little comically.
John is too tired to laugh, but he does smile. "Forever works for me."
-fin-
Author: Zinnith
Wordcount: ~2000
Rating: PG-13
Warning: PTSD
Notes: I actually sat down with the intent of writing porn, but instead this is what came out. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but it's apparently something John has wanted to get off his chest for a while. Well, that's about it.
Written directly into LJ and unbeta'd so please feel free to tell me about any mistakes I might have made.
Summary: A struggle with memory and mind.
Great Void
Lately, there are days when John gets the urge to run, pack up his things and get out. His skin gets hot and tight and he can't stop scratching the spot just above his left collarbone that he knows isn't really itching. It still ends up red and irritated.
It's stupid and irrational and he knows he has no reason to feel this way. He never knew before he actually had it, but this is what a little part of his soul has been screaming for since he was eleven and his mother turned pale-thin and tired and his father turned distant and preoccupied.
He knows that Rodney has no intention of kicking him out, but there are still moments when John walks around the house, thinking about all the effort he put into the place. He's left his fingerprints on every board and beam and tile, painted the walls with his thoughts and his dreams and his promises. Sometimes he catches himself thinking about how hard it's going to be to walk away from all this and he has to take a moment to remind himself that he's not going to walk away, that this is something he's built to last.
He has no idea where the thoughts are coming from. It's like his own mind is playing tricks on him somehow, making him consider throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him.
John doesn't know if Rodney has noticed. If he has, he's not saying anything, and John can't tell him, doesn't even know how to say the words out loud.
* * *
There are days when Rodney is buried up to his neck in work and barely comes out of his study to eat and sleep. John knows it's not a matter of choice, not when it comes to Rodney's writing, but he can't shake the bitter feeling of abandonment that wells up from the place he keeps hidden deep inside his heart.
John takes Lady for long walks, hoping that the exercise and the fresh air will help clear his head. It's not working and when he gets home again, he goes to stand in front of the closed door to Rodney's study, struck by the powerful urge to bang his fists against it until Rodney opens.
The feeling is so strong that he's already raised his arm to knock before he can stop himself. What is he supposed to say when - if - no, when Rodney opens? 'Please, let me in, I'm lonely'?
It's stupid. Rodney's right there. John can hear him through the door, tapping on the keyboard, muttering the occasional frustrated tirade. In a couple of hours, Rodney will come out and they'll order pizza and watch TV until it's time to go to bed.
* * *
There are days when John is short-tempered and irritable. He doesn't even know what he's angry about, just that someone, somewhere has done him wrong.
He takes it out on Rodney, yells at him: "Your goddamn wet towels, McKay! Why the hell did I put up those hooks in the bathroom if you're not going to use them?"
Rodney blinks, taken aback for a moment, and then shouts back, "Five minutes, I left it there for five minutes with every intention of picking it up! What crawled up your ass and died?"
John just shakes his head and walks away. He doesn't want to fight with Rodney when it's not actually Rodney he's mad at, but he needs some kind of substitute, needs something, someone to scream and rage at while he's trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
A few minutes later, he can hear Rodney's door slam shut, and he doesn't know why but his eyes start burning and he has to swallow around the hard lump in his throat. It's stupid. They have arguments all the time, about small things and big things, and John gets angry and punches the walls and sulks in the garage, but he never cries.
He goes to work in a bad mood, grateful that it's only a half-day and he can hide out in his tiny little broom-closet of an office and curse at the budget so he won't have to risk snapping at one of the kids. By the end of the day, he finds himself standing in the parking lot, looking at the parents who come to pick up their children. The stupid lump is back in his throat and there's a strange ache in his chest and he knows that something is wrong, but he just can't figure out what.
John apologises to Rodney when he comes home. Tells him: "I'm sorry I was an asshole this morning."
"Me too," Rodney says, and usually that would be enough, they would kiss and make up and everything would be fine again. Today, John walks into Rodney's embrace, wraps his arms around Rodney's waist, and discovers that he can't let go.
"Okay, what's up with you?" Rodney asks, holding him a little tighter. "You've been weirder than usual lately. And I when I say 'weird', I say it with the utmost love and respect, of course."
John slowly shakes his head against Rodney's shoulder. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
"Whatever it is, you know you can tell me about it, right? There's no need for the suffering-in-silence routine."
"I know," John says, but the words turn sour in his mouth. He wants to tell Rodney but how can he when he doesn't even know what to say?
* * *
There are nights when he dreams. He can't remember anything substantial when he wakes up, only loosely connected images. A closed office door. A coffin, covered in white roses, being slowly lowered into the ground. Massive silence, so thick and deep it's taking on a shape of its own. A gate sliding shut behind him, effectively closing him out.
The sickly sweet scent of the roses follows him when he opens his eyes and he knows something is terribly wrong when he'd actually prefer to wake with sand and blood and gun oil lingering in his nostrils.
* * *
The day John finally figures it out, it's so simple that he wants to kick himself for not picking up on it earlier. He's on the phone with a priest from one of the local churches, setting up a meeting to co-ordinate volunteers, when he looks in his day planner and sees the date. The memories hit him over the head like a five iron, so hard and painful that he can't even speak for a few moments.
Somehow, he manages to get through the rest of the call, but he has no idea what happened, what was decided, and he knows he's going to have to call back later to clear things up.
He takes the rest of the day off, leaves Rodney's car in the parking lot because he doesn't trust himself behind the wheel at the moment, and takes the bus home. Every time he breathes in, he imagines he can smell flowers, covering up sickness and sin. How could he forget?
Rodney comes out of his study when John walks through the door, looking surprised and a little worried.
"You're home early. Did something happen?"
John stands there in the middle of the hall and he can finally tell Rodney what he's wanted to tell him all along, before he even knew what it was.
"Tomorrow, it'll be thirty years since my mom died," he says.
Even as the words leave his mouth, a wave of grief washes over him, so strong and powerful that he has to lean into Rodney to stay upright.
"I'm sorry," Rodney says, bringing his arms up around him, awkwardly patting his back. He sounds a little stunned. "I'm sorry John, I didn't know."
John does his best to keep his voice steady. "You couldn't have." He takes a deep breath. "My father, he... he couldn't handle it. When she got ill."
He closes his eyes, forces himself to remember. How the house was turned into a tomb even long before she was gone. All the long hours he spent looking after Dave, when mom was too tired and dad spent all his time working, working and working to take his mind off what was waiting for him at home. The dying wife, the son who had her eyes and her hair, a living reminder of the loss.
"I know you two didn't get along," Rodney murmurs. "I never knew why."
"He spent every second he could at work," John says. The words are spilling out of him now. He probably couldn't stop them if he tried. "And when he got home, he'd go straight into his office and close the door. I remember... standing outside. I always wanted to knock and see if he'd let me in, tried it a couple of times even, but..."
Rodney interrupts him. "I know I'm probably not the right person to say this, but you do realise your father was seriously screwed up, don't you? He had no right to do that to you."
There's anger in his voice, and John is a little surprised to hear it, but he's also so very grateful that, after all these years, someone is angry on his behalf.
"He loved her," he manages to choke out, not quite sure why he's defending his father now, today of all days, but with the next heartbeat he gets it. "He loved her so much that losing her destroyed him and I... I think I understand it now, Rodney. If you ever..."
He can't go on. The thought is too much, too terrible to bear.
"I'm not going anywhere," Rodney says, stroking his hands up and down John's back and John might be clinging a little, hands fisted in Rodney's shirt, but he figures he's allowed, just this once.
* * *
The day ends, like so many others, on the couch with Newton perched on the armrest and Lady snoring on the rug. There's nothing to see on TV but it's turned on anyway, a low buzz of background noise. John is all talked out, exhausted like he's run a marathon, but his heart feels a hundred pounds lighter. He's carried this grief for thirty years and he doesn't think it'll ever fade, but he doesn't have to endure it alone any more.
"I won't close the door again," Rodney says. "And if I forget and do it anyway, all you have to do is knock and I'll open. I swear I'll open."
John turns his head, presses his face against Rodney's neck, inhales. "I know," he says. "I know you will."
"This is a probably a completely inappropriate thing to say, considering everything, but I'm actually glad..." Rodney makes a face and backtracks. "No, not glad, wrong word. Relieved is better. I'm actually relieved that it was something like this. You've had that look lately, like you've been planning to run, and I got... a little scared, maybe?"
He should have known that Rodney would pick up on it and start worrying and John feels a bit guilty for letting him.
"Not running, I promise," he says "I'm here for as long as you'll have me."
"How about forever? Is that okay with you?" Rodney's eyebrows rise hopefully, almost a little comically.
John is too tired to laugh, but he does smile. "Forever works for me."
-fin-