They hadn't operated on a military schedule since coming to Atlantis. Days lasted the wrong number of hours anyway, and it wasn't like Wraith—or any kind of disaster—held to anybody's calendar.
Still, the city followed that old Earth rhythm, more than John would have expected. The nice side of that was that the place tended to be quiet at 6 in the morning, which suited John just fine.
Today, for instance, it meant he could meet with Carson in the infirmary before breakfast. He'd been meaning to talk with Carson about first aid supplies for offworld teams, but something else always seemed to take precedence once the day really got going. John was awake earlier than he'd meant to be, and Carson was already at his desk: a perfect opportunity to get things done.
"Thanks for making some time," John was saying, when Rodney barged into the infirmary.
"Better drugs," Rodney said, "there have got to be better drugs."
"Excuse me?" Carson blinked.
"I need something else. For sleeping. Please," Rodney added, an obvious afterthought.
That was when John noticed the clenched posture. Nothing especially new, not for Rodney, but he was wound too tight this time, his arms wrapped around himself. Like he was trying to suppress fine tremors.
"If the trazodone didn't get you to sleep, I can up the dosage by ten milligrams," Carson said, doubtfully.
"No, no, sleep isn't the problem," Rodney said, impatiently, and in a flash John knew what Rodney was going to say next.
"Nightmares," John said.
Rodney looked in his direction and seemed to see him for the first time. "What? Yes."
"Let me see what I've got," Carson said, and got up to rummage.
"How bad are they?" John asked, quietly.
Rodney's mouth was set in an unhappy line. "Look, I know this sounds like kids' stuff—bad dreams, ha!— but —"
"I'm a soldier, Rodney," John said, anger flaring. He'd gone to the bottom of the goddamned ocean to rescue him; did Rodney really think he would trivialize this? "I've seen what post-traumatic stress can do."
Rodney looked strangely relieved, which sent a pang through John's heart. Okay, yes, he'd been pissed at Rodney ever since that little incident with the exploding solar system, but Rodney was still—Rodney. He mattered in ways John generally preferred not to analyze.
"Oh," Rodney said. "You'd call this PTSD?" He sounded almost relieved.
"Not exactly," Carson said, returning with a small brown plastic bottle. "Let's not borrow trouble. Nightmares after an experience such as the one you've had are perfectly normal. Here: this is ativan. It's an anti-anxietal, and it should have the side effect of easing sleep. Oh, and don't take the trazodone anymore, they're not a good combination."
"Who would you be without your anxiety," John said, trying to lighten the mood. Which thoroughly backfired; Rodney glared at him and walked away. "That was a joke, McKay!" he called, to Rodney's back. There was no response.
What John didn't say—to Carson, Rodney, or for that matter Heightmeyer—was that he hadn't had the best night of sleep, himself. Yeah, they'd saved Rodney's life, but they'd cut it way too close. Rodney had been within minutes of death when they arrived, and there had been that awful moment when Rodney almost didn't open the jumper door...
John hadn't panicked at the time, because he didn't do that. He'd clicked into the Zen state that was common to deadly fights, piloting helicopters in bad conditions, and pulling fighter planes out of the spiral that spelled impending crash. You couldn't force that kind of calm; it had to just happen. Fortunately for him, so far it always had.
He and Zelenka had brought Rodney safely to the surface and handed him off to Carson for evaluation and treatment. Acting like it was nothing. All in a day's work.
And then John had returned to his room, barely making it inside before the shakes started. All night long, he'd dreamed that they hadn't been able to configure jumper two to handle deep water. That the giant whale hadn't pinged his own personal radar. That they had reached the sea floor only to find the jumper entirely filled with water, Rodney's bloated body suspended inside.
When he woke, he was already exhausted from the strain of watching himself fail in slow-motion, over and over again.
But those were bad dreams. Not nightmares. There was a difference. If he'd actually failed to bring Rodney home alive? That would have been nightmare material.
The second month of John's tour of duty in Afghanistan, a roadside bomb had detonated beneath a transport truck conveying half of the Sixth Special Forces group from Kunduz back to Kabul, including several of the men John had trained with—the closest thing he had, at the time, to friends. They were ambushed by men bearing shoulder-fired weapons and machine guns. They sustained heavy casualties.
John wasn't with them at the time. He was piloting a recon flight over an empty Taliban base. He's never stopped being angry at himself about it, even though there's nothing he could've done if he had been there.
The ones who got hurt bad got medevac'd home. But it was the other guys who suffered the most. Campbell had the screaming meemies, woke up in the middle of the night for weeks gasping and twitching. So did Kerl. Mason lost ten pounds, developed permanent bags under his eyes, started to stutter.
Nothing like a brush with death to knock the body, and the psyche, out of whack. It was survivable—usually—but it wasn't pretty. John didn't like the thought of Rodney going through anything like that.
Two weeks after the ambush, desperate to do something that would help, he'd crawled into Mason's bunk. Operating on instinct. It was the one thing he figured would help. Having another body close by, someone the guy could grab onto. Protection.
And it had worked. Until they got caught. John didn't figure he'd ever forget the look of disgust on his CO's face, or the screaming about how he was lucky he wasn't court-martialed. He'd stood there, face as blank as he could muster, in silence.
Hell of it was, he was a goddamned faggot, just like his CO said. But Mason wasn't, and nobody in his unit had any idea who John did in his off-hours. And there'd been nothing sexual about this at all. He really was just trying to take care of the guy—give him some human comfort. And it had bitten him in the ass. That was his first black mark, and it had made him both angry and reckless.
Whether those emotions had contributed to the second black mark on his record—the official one—he couldn't say. He'd had his share of nightmares about that failure, too.
If that CO could see him now—ranking military officer on Atlantis; lieutenant colonel, for God's sake! --
Last he'd heard, that CO was still in Afghanistan, which probably meant he had a death wish. Might even be dead by now. Still, John got a dark satisfaction out of imagining the encounter. Take that, you homophobic fuck. Look at me now.
Rodney and Zelenka were arguing about the implications of different Ancient database programming strategies when John plunked down his lunch tray.
When Zelenka paused to shovel down some food, John interrupted. "McKay. How're you holding up?"
Rodney gave him an annoyed look. "Did you not get the memo? I'm fine, I don't want to talk about it, and I'm fine."
"Just not eager to go swimming any time soon," John said, dryly, and watched Rodney blanch. "Right."
Zelenka looked between them, back and forth and back again, and picked up his tray and left.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Nice work, Colonel, you drove him away."
"You've had that argument ten times already. Maybe ten times this week."
Rodney snorted and pushed his plate away, picking up the brownie-analogue with something akin to reverence. "Right. Can we talk about something else?"
Direct, John decided, was the way to go. "You could use company tonight."
Rodney dropped the brownie. "What?" He lowered his voice. "Are you—are you insane?"
"I knew a lot of guys who went through stuff like this in Afghanistan," John began, but predictably Rodney cut him off.
"It was a jumper malfunction. It's hardly combat."
"It almost killed you." John's voice stayed steady, because he was military; that was his job. But hearing the words in his own voice made him want to throw up. "Take it seriously, Rodney."
"I take it seriously. That's why I went to see Carson. I have drugs; I don't need a baby-sitter."
"Okay then." John ate more not-quiche and bared his teeth in a smile. He'd just find some way to be nearby come nightfall.
Strictly speaking, most of their offworld missions didn't result in near-death experiences. That offered John some consolation. Given the omnipresence of the Wraith, he figured they were pretty lucky, really. He'd floated that theory by his team a few weeks ago, during a rare lull on ZL1-692, and they'd all agreed. Some more grudgingly than others.
Still. In their line of work, luck never held out long enough. And everybody had at least one fear that defied rationality. Fear that went bone-deep. For some guys it was wide-open places—desert, glacier, space. For other guys it was potentially hostile crowds, crowded markets that could turn to mobs in a flash.
And Rodney? Was afraid of tight spaces. Tight spaces surrounded by pressure. If anybody he'd ever known was ill-suited for extended EVA or for submarine work, Rodney McKay was that man.
Which was why it just figured he'd be the one guy to get trapped in a jumper in the ocean. Well—one of the two guys. (Writing a letter to Griffin's family was the top thing on John's to-do list. It was also the top thing he was avoiding. The next databurst to SGC was scheduled for 1500 hours; he'd get it done before then.)
Of course, Rodney was also probably the only guy capable of surviving the jumper crash long enough for rescue to reach him. Which was a damn lucky thing, but it didn't mean he was psychologically prepared to cope with the repercussions of nearly drowning, and suffocating, and dying of hypothermia—three for the price of one!—in a locked compartment at the bottom of the sea.
Those were John's happy thoughts as he sat cross-legged in the corridor, waiting. Hoping nobody was looking at the lifesigns detector—one blinking light lurking outside McKay's quarters would alert suspicions, and he didn't relish having to explain this one away. Elizabeth might understand a little too much, and that was a conversation he was not interested in having.
Sometime after midnight he must have dozed off, because Rodney's dismayed moan jerked him from sleep. He moved fast to Rodney's door and ran his hand over the latch mechanism, which listened to him (good latch; thanks, latch) and opened obediently.
"Hey," he murmured, kneeling at the side of the bed. Rodney was thrashing, wrapped in his sheet. "It's okay. Hey. Rodney. It's me."
One touch was all it took—Rodney woke with a start, gasping, bolting upright.
"It's okay," John repeated.
Rodney remained frozen a moment, then visibly unclenched and fell back against his pillow with a sigh. "Damn it."
"You're going to be all right," John said. Carefully not looking at Rodney's body beneath the thin sheet, not touching the expanse of bare skin.
Oh, this was just what he needed: for his crush on Rodney to flare up now that Rodney was at his most vulnerable, and John's interest was more inappropriate than it had ever been. Which was saying something, because arguably it had been pretty inappropriate to begin with. God damn it.
"Right. Thanks," Rodney said, and rolled over.
John left the room.
By the third time it happened that night, all John had to say was "Rodney" and Rodney woke. Looking both relieved and pissed-off.
"I hate this," Rodney said, wearily, and closed his eyes.
"You're welcome," John said, and left again.
"You look like crap," Rodney said, by way of greeting. Day four after the jumper crash; John hadn't gotten a solid night's sleep since.
"Thanks, McKay." John reached for a muffin and pushed past Rodney on his way to the coffee machine. Generally speaking, coffee wasn't a high priority for him, but on this kind of sleep schedule it was irreplaceable. "I appreciate that."
Rodney huffed a sigh, which John pointedly ignored. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're doing," he began.
Oh, no. John was not brooking this line of argument. "I'd be sleeping better if I had a cot," he pointed out.
"You'd be sleeping better in your own quarters!" Rodney hissed that last part, obviously afraid of being overheard.
Great. All the downsides of a relationship (lack of sleep, public quarreling, homophobia-induced panic) without any of the upsides. Story of John's goddamned life.
"I'd be sleeping better if I weren't worried about you, and before you suggest it, I can't exactly turn that off. It's my job."
"Not like this, it isn't," Rodney muttered, around a mouthful of bagel.
"Let me put a cot in your room," John said, quietly. "I've been through this before, and the last thing a guy in your position needs is to be alone."
"I'm not going to overdose on ativan, if that's what you're worried about. Even broken, I'm far too valuable to this expedition, and frankly I value my own life more highly than is maybe reasonable —"
"Would you shut up and let me take care of you?" A few pairs of eyes turned in their direction, and Rodney flinched, but John kept going. "Let me do this, or I'll get Carson to make it mandatory."
"You wouldn't do that," Rodney insisted. A moment passed. "Oh, fine."
"See you at the briefing," John said, and picked up his breakfast tray. Victory.
"I have heard that my people traded with the Teivans, generations ago," Teyla offered as they made their way to the gateroom. "Some of our finest ceramics are of Teivan origin; they are nearly unbreakable, and very beautiful, although strangely heavy for their size."
"Something in the clay," Rodney muttered. "Could they be incorporating naqadah?" He perked up visibly at that possibility. "Do you have a sample we could test?"
"I myself have no Teivan ware," Teyla said, regretfully, "and if I did, I would not permit you to shatter it in order to gain your sample."
"I thought you said it was unbreakable," Ronon said. John wondered idly when it had become obvious to him that Ronon was amused by something. Wasn't like his facial expression or his body language changed in any way; it was just...obvious.
To all of them, apparently; Rodney gave a little laugh and Teyla smiled. "Nearly, Ronon, but I have no doubt you could find a way to make it break."
Ronon grinned, at that.
"So if you used to trade with them," Rodney pushed on, "and their wares are so valuable, why'd you break the allegiance?"
Their conversation was interrupted by the infinite moment they spent suspended between gates, bodies stretching as they moved through the shimmering corridor between worlds. They emerged atop a sandy dune, in a field of sandy dunes. Rippling sand as far as the eye could see. Like the Sahara, only tinged faintly blue.
"We didn't," Teyla said, faintly.
"Desertification," John offered, and tightened the straps of his pack. "I'm guessing this is why the Teivans fell off the map. Everybody got enough water for a short look-around?"
Rodney was already fishing for his radiation detector. "At least the sunlight isn't dangerous," he said, glumly.
"Sand," Ronon said, managing to make that single word sound murderous, and followed.
They weren't likely to find anything; this looked like it had been a desert for a hundred years. Still, John thought grimly, at least it wasn't a watery planet.
It was a lot easier to handle Rodney's nightmares once John was sleeping on a standard-issue camp cot on the floor. It wasn't exactly comfort, but it beat the crap out of crouching in the corridor, and he didn't have to strain to hear Rodney's sounds of distress.
At least once a night Rodney thrashed and whimpered until John woke and calmed him down. Rodney had taken to sleeping in flannel pyjama pants and a t-shirt—not quite the glorious nudity of the first night (which was still fueling John's fantasies) though that was probably just as well. John was pretty sure he could have continued coping with the frustration, but it was probably better this way.
This time it was silence that jerked John awake. The regular rhythm of Rodney's breathing had grown so quiet that for a second he thought Rodney wasn't --
He climbed to his feet and groped across the bed, on the verge of freaking out.
"What?" Rodney was awake, and irritable. John felt a wave of relief.
"Sorry, I—didn't hear you breathing," he admitted.
"I'm not asleep."
"Obviously. Any particular reason for that?"
"I didn't take my sleep meds, for starters," Rodney said. "This afternoon I tried to solve a simple elliptic equation and got stuck. I don't like the sense that I can't trust my own brain."
John nodded, then remembered Rodney couldn't see him. "I get that," he said.
There was a moment of silence. "You're going to be really wiped tomorrow," he said, as gently as he could.
"Ah, yes, I hadn't thought of that," Rodney bit out. "Thank you for reminding me."
The wave of annoyance and affection pushed John into action. "Fine," he said, climbing onto the edge of Rodney's bed.
"Hey! What are you—"
He could tell Rodney would have scrambled even further away, except the bed was only so big. Kind of funny, if it hadn't also made him feel so pathetic.
"Calm down," he said, working his way under the covers. "Look. When I was in Afghanistan—okay, I can't tell you about that, but the point is, this works. I promise."
"Sleeping with you is a cure for nightmares?" Rodney sounded at least amused, at that, which was a relief.
"Human contact," John murmured. "It helps. I'm not trying to cop a feel, here, I swear."
That earned him a sharp little laugh. It wasn't strictly true, of course; some atavistic part of him was as hungry for the touch as he thought Rodney might be. He just had to not let on. Which he had a lifetime of practice in, really, so --
"Okay," Rodney muttered, and relaxed into his arms.
The resulting wave of tenderness was a little panic-inducing, but John ignored it. "Okay," he repeated, and synchronized their breathing, and willed both of them toward sleep.
Rodney's alarm woke them both. "Shut up," Rodney muttered, groping for the alarm with his eyes closed. John felt Rodney reach over him, startle at the presence of his body, whack the alarm clock, and draw back.
Great. All the awkward fun of waking up in bed together for the first time, without the good parts. Or at least, the parts his body was now hopefully insisting it was entitled to. John took a long slow inhale and then opened his eyes, determined not to screw this up. "Good sleep?"
He could almost see the realization washing over Rodney's face. "-- yes, actually."
John smiled, nice and easy. Non-threatening. "See?"
Rodney's grin was breath-taking. "Oh, God, I slept!" John felt himself reeling. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to kiss that mouth until Rodney melted beneath him. He was trying to do the right thing, and in return he got this kind of torture? That didn't seem fair.
"Thank you," Rodney said, fervently, and practically leapt out of bed. "I recognize I don't say this often enough, but thank you, and you were right, and do you mind if I grab the first shower?"
"Fine by me," John said, a little bit dazed, and as the bathroom door closed behind Rodney John sank back into the pillow and resisted the urge to sigh.
John was in a surprisingly decent mood all day. So was Rodney; Teyla even remarked on it while they were scoping out OSR-941, the swamp planet, which didn't turn out to have a ZPM. Nor, for that matter, any redeeming qualities at all. Even barely-verbal natives using laughable technology and hurling insults didn't take the spring out of John's step.
Which meant he was even more bummed when his arrival at Rodney's room that evening was met with surprise, rather than welcome.
"I—didn't expect to see you here," Rodney said, shutting his bedside drawer furtively and too fast.
"You didn't think one night was actually going to cure this, did you? Because you're supposed to be pretty bright," John said. Rodney flipped him the bird. "Seriously, Rodney. Give it a few more days. I —" Just got one night in your bed and don't want to give it up yet, he thought. C'mon. "Want to be sure you're okay," he finished, lamely, though Rodney didn't seem to notice.
"Yes, of course, that makes sense," Rodney said, and there was a moment of awkwardness before he added, "I was just about to watch a movie on my laptop; any interest in 'Sneakers'?"
Comfort film; one John was pretty sure Rodney had seen more times than he could count. "Sure," John said, too fast. "Whatever you want. I'm easy."
If Rodney stiffened a little, at that idiot remark, John pretended not to see.
The body in bed beside him was twitching, tensing, making tiny sounds of distress in the back of his throat.
Without waking fully, John pulled him closer, snug against his body. "Shh," he murmured, and pressed an unconscious kiss against the skin of his neck. "It's okay."
That elicited a broken little gasp, though it sounded more like surprise or pleasure than like the pained sounds that had lifted John from deep sleep into this closed-eyed fugue state. So he did it again, lingering a little. "You're all right," he whispered, on instinct, and this time placed an open-mouthed kiss on the smooth place where neck met shoulder, all gentle lips and tongue.
The body in his arms sighed and fell back, as if trying to press completely into his own, and desire stirred as his trapped cock woke to the pressure. John pushed back, and the grind of friction made him weak with pleasure.
One of his arms was already holding his partner close; with the other he reached around, hoping desperately to find an answering hardness. And oh, there it was, straining toward his grasp. The sound of Rodney's moan woke him, and he startled awake into yearning that was quickly replaced with horror. What the hell was he doing? Molesting Rodney in his sleep, Jesus! Shame burst inside him like fireworks and he froze.
"What—oh," Rodney groaned, thrusting into John's stilled hand. "Please." If John had seriously contemplated having the willpower to stop whatever they were doing, it flew right out the window at the need in Rodney's voice. "Don't stop," Rodney pleaded.
And John didn't. He firmed his hand, applying pressure with a little twist, and Rodney's little open-mouthed gasps inflamed him. Begging him not to stop counted as consent, right? He wasn't taking advantage. He was just doing what Rodney wanted him to; just lending a hand. Just, oh, God, dying of the desire to bring Rodney off, right now, in his arms.
"Please," Rodney managed, again, and the sound was electrifying. John's whole body throbbed with longing, the way the city had been vibrating since they first set foot inside the gateroom.
"God." John's voice came out hoarse; he sounded strange to his own ears. That Rodney thought he had to beg—it broke something open inside of him. "Anything," John said, roughly. "I mean it."
It didn't take much more stimulation before Rodney was shuddering beneath his hands like a small craft about to spin out of control. "That's it," John whispered into the back of Rodney's neck, his cock rubbing blindly against Rodney's body and feeling himself like he was on the verge of flying apart. "I've got you —"
And with a sob Rodney let go, and John held on tight.
John woke to the sound of the shower, and couldn't help grinning at the empty room. He honestly had not seen that coming. Hadn't expected it at all. He felt amazing—because he'd just gotten laid, obviously, but also because it turned out the universe still held some happy surprises.
Rodney's shower took longer than John expected, so John spent it drifting in sleepy fantasies. Maybe Rodney wanted to get himself extra-clean—that could be a good sign. Or maybe Rodney would come out wrapped in a nice low-slung towel, his body still beaded with water. Would he come back to bed, if John asked really nicely? A man could always hope.
But Rodney emerged from the shower cubicle fully dressed, which was strange, and—oh. No. Rodney wasn't meeting his eyes.
John's good mood drained abruptly away, replaced with a leaden disappointment. "Guess you're not happy to see me," he said, abruptly.
"What?" Rodney was jittery. Oh, yeah, this was going to be terrific. "Excuse me if I didn't exactly —"
"I'm sorry," John interrupted, sitting up. Rodney still looked like he was about to bolt. "God." He forced himself to continue. "I thought you wanted to."
"Wanted to what, exactly?"
"Oh, come on, Rodney!" Irritation washed through him, and anger—at Rodney for making him spell it out, at himself for getting into this mess. "I thought you wanted me to—" He couldn't finish the sentence. The words sounded obscene, especially now. "Forget it."
"You took advantage." Rodney's words were clipped, and they hurt.
"Damn it, you asked me to!" Righteous indignation was beginning to boil, and it almost chased away how miserable he felt. "I distinctly remember the words 'don't stop' —"
"That's not the point!" Rodney was yelling now, and John yelled back.
"Then what is? Please, explain it to me, because obviously I'm missing something here."
"Did it ever occur to you that I'm not good at accepting limits, Colonel?" The use of his title stung like a slap to the face. "I'm not good at—having something I want and then losing it." Rodney's voice cracked. "If I can have a little, I want it all. You just gave a single dose to a man with an addictive personality, and I—all things considered, I'd take the nightmares over the heartbreak."
John gaped at him. "Heartbreak," he repeated, finally.
Rodney looked at him, then, despair in every line of his body. "You should go," he said, quietly. John could see him steeling himself for solitude.
Addict. Dose. Heartbreak. Understanding poured through John and he had to resist the inclination to whoop.
John took a deep breath, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood. And Rodney—braver than he would ever let on—visibly braced himself, whether for parting words or for the awful silence of John's departure John didn't know.
John kissed him instead.
He could tell Rodney was torn between the impulse to kiss him back, and the impulse to push him away. Pushing won out, and Rodney glared. It was a good look on him, especially with his lips wet and his eyes a little dazed like that.
"Let's get one thing straight," John said. "This wasn't some elaborate seduction plan. I really did just want to help."
"Yeah, right," Rodney muttered, but John ignored that and pushed on.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time." He had to stop and swallow hard at the shock, and the naked longing, in Rodney's eyes.
"You mean that," Rodney said, a little unsteadily. "You're not just —"
"I followed you to the ocean floor, for crying out loud," John said, tingling with the new certainty of what was coming next. "You think I'd do that for just anybody?"
"Yes, actually," Rodney said, quirking a smile that made John's heart turn upside-down. "You never leave a man behind, isn't that what you —"
"Rodney. Shut up," John said, and made him.
"This isn't going to fix anything."
Rodney sat up, neck reddened by John's mouth and hair pointing in all directions. "Hm?" He'd called in to Elizabeth demanding the morning off, for both of them, and she'd granted it, no questions asked.
"The nightmares," John said, desperately. Rodney was looking him in the eye, innocently, but his hands were doing something wicked and sweet that made John want to spread his legs and beg for more.
"Obviously," Rodney said. "So don't expect me to go for a dip any time in the forseeable future, even if you do take off your shirt and jump in the water."
"Nnn," John said, which he thought was pretty articulate given that Rodney had just licked his cock like an ice cream cone. A melting ice cream cone in his favorite flavor that he was—oh, God—really eager to eat.
"Although," Rodney mused, nibbling in a way that made John squirm, "it is a pretty picture, I have to admit."
"Rodney," John managed, exasperation warring with desire. Which, come to think of it, was kind of their relationship in a nutshell.
Rodney's hands and mouth stilled, just for an instant. "I know. Now shut up and let me enjoy this."
That sounded like a good plan, actually. Altruistic, really. "If I must," John said, and grinned.
The End