|Christine (spaghettitoes) wrote in spaghettific,|
@ 2015-11-20 21:30:00
|Entry tags:||rating: pg, stargate atlantis|
Stargate Atlantis Fic
Fandom/Pairing: Stargate Atlantis/McShep
Word Count: 1.1k
Warnings: Follows canon character death but you’ve moved past that already.
Summary: Given all the time Sheppard spends with McKay and the things they’ve gone through together, Beckett’s death has a secondary impact on Sheppard.
Disclaimers: I have nothing to do with anything Stargate or anything really – my quest for power is unsuccessful.
A/N: Thanks to Amo_Amas_Amat for the beta – she has suffered on your behalf.
John was still waiting for
On that edge, when he felt like screaming or kicking the crap out of something John confined himself to his quarters. He made his apologies and left Rodney to continue telling stories about
Twelve minutes later there was a quiet knock on his door and John relaxed his grip on the book, ignoring the creak of relief the pages made. He turned his head to look at the door accusingly, not fully believing the knock had happened or could have happened. Then the sound came again and John’s anger started to bleed through; he could feel his face twist in and his jaw tighten. It would be better for everyone if the person on the other side of the door just gave up and left.
“John? Are you okay?”
The anger sank back down, pulled shamefully away and held at bay. “What’s wrong, McKay?”
“Can I come in?”
John’s grip tightened again and he tried to compose himself, hoping to sound at least a bit reassuring. After a pause the sensor activated and the door opened, Rodney had John’s lack of objection as an answer. John had just enough sense left to raise the book and bend it towards Rodney, Look I’m reading, really.
Rodney closed the door, “Thanks. I hope you don’t mind. I’d just rather...” John had turned back to his book, parallel play was something he and Rodney did well. Rodney sat down on the bed, the squeak of the springs making John’s heart race for a moment.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, John looked at his book but he couldn’t read it. He could feel Rodney’s eyes on him but nothing was said about John’s failure to turn the page at all in the quiet. Eventually John pulled everything back enough that he turned and looked at Rodney. “Did you need something?”
Rodney nodded, a sad, broken half smile as he held a hand up to point at the room, “This, just this.”
“Do you need me to say something?”
Rodney shrugged and shook his head, “You’re a good listener. But if I’m upsetting you I can...”
“No, no...” John’s book fell to the desk and he turned in the chair, inordinately pleased that there was something he could do to help, “Talk...as much as you need to.”
Rodney nodded, a brief huff of relief as he looked at John’s book expectantly. John picked it up and held it in his lap as he faced Rodney, trying not to smile. He turned the page, looking at the book and recognising words as he thought about their situation, about Rodney needing to be near him, needing John to pretend he’s doing something and only half listening.
“I tried to play with the neighbour kids when I was little but it never really worked. I was in groups in school, I knew people – I talked to people. But all of my friends have been more like Zelenka.
Rodney had been saying it all day and it hurt John deep inside; what he was didn’t count. Even while John sat trying to comfort Rodney in the only way he could, it didn’t matter. “I...I could...”
Rodney’s attention was suddenly focused and intent, “I don’t mean...he was my friend, John. You’re...” he waited for John to look up just a little, just an uncertain glance but enough to see that Rodney wanted to be seen. They made eye contact and John felt his heart clench and stop.
Time slowed so John could take in every detail; Rodney was on John’s bed, had come to his room and sat there when he needed to feel safe. Rodney looked at John, trying to hold his eyes and watching him with open, apologetic affection. His features were soft but sunken, more despondent and lost than he had been when talking about
“You’re not a friend, John.” It wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t a taunt or an injury, it was a heartfelt promise that what John was to Rodney he’d never be able to say in a military base, with John wearing their uniform.
It fuelled and dashed John’s hopes simultaneously and his feelings crashed inside him like breaking waves, “If...if things were different...”
Rodney shook his head in soft resignation, an apology he didn’t want to make. John knew it too, he was too far in and didn’t have the courage to fight his way out of the mess he had created, even for Rodney. But Rodney pat the bed beside him and tried to smile consolingly, “If things were different I might never have met you.”
John didn’t think, he stood up and moved to slide into place close to Rodney on the bed. Both of their backs were against the wall and neither looked at the other directly but couldn’t look away either. Rodney moved his hand and placed it flat on the bed between them. John looked, memorising the veins, the creases at the joints, wondering what it might feel like to run his fingers over the bumps of Rodney’s knuckles and slip his fingers between Rodney’s. After a few minutes John slid his own hand into the space between his thigh and Rodney’s hand.
“It’s horrible to have lost
They sat together in their grief, Rodney mourning the loss of a friend while John contemplated the decisions that had brought him so close to what he wanted but still out of reach.