Fic SGA: First Night, Checkmate 'Verse Story.
Title: First Night
Series: Checkmate ‘Verse
Author: Beadattitude
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash
Rating: For All Audiences, this chapter
Beta: Unbeta’d
Warnings: Animal transformation, angst, schmoop, romance
Author's Notes: Set directly after "The Wrathful Gaze of Johnny Cash." Trust me, this is part of the end game. Also, a small nod to dogeared's Nantucket 'Verse.
Chronologically, the third part of the Checkmate 'Verse.
Summary: John and Rodney cope with various problems the first night John is a cat.
Teaser:He had been humbled and honored when Sheppard had asked him to be his proxy. Rodney, getting a head rush from the simultaneous hit of fear and pride, immediately asked John right back and made a note to put together a packet on his own medical history. He asked John for his. John looked at him for a long moment, thoughtfully savoring a slice of orange fruit that smelled like melons.
“I had chicken pox when I was seven,” he finally said. “Broken some bones?”
“And?”
“A camel bit me?”
Rodney had put his hand over his mouth and looked at him in horror, honestly trying not to ruin the moment by yelling at him.
~~~
The mess sent way more turkey and dressing than one cat could eat, so Rodney helpfully finished most of it before realizing John might want some more later. There was hardly enough for a snack - at least for Rodney - but um, well. He left the rest.
He looked up to find Sheppard laughing at him. Oh, he didn’t say a word, but Rodney had been around him long enough to know that particular sparkle in his eyes. He blushed.
“Um, sorry? Force of habit? I forgot cats like to graze.”
“Mow,” he replied graciously, flicking one ear in a shrug-like gesture.
“Right. I’ll just…” he got up to clear away the dinner things, except for John’s snack dish and shallow bowl of water, which were perched on the far edge of his desk.
“I’m going to leave these here for tonight, until we can figure out a better place for them,” Rodney mused aloud. “Somewhere I won’t kick them over in the middle of the night or something. Do you like that, or do you want me to put them on the floor?”
“Maa.” John walked over to the bowl and sat next to it, curling his tail around his feet.
“Right,” he couldn’t seem to stop saying that. He stumped over to the bathroom to get a hold of himself. He splashed some water on his face, washed his hands and stood braced against the sink for a long moment.
John was a cat. But also John. Rodney was 99.9% sure that was all of John in there, with the extra twist of cat biochemistry and instinct along for the ride. Who knew which would win out in normal interaction? He’d certainly had an unexpected reaction to his own quarters, which Rodney understood. It was about proportion and your world turning upside down. Who would want all those reminders that you were one-sixth your normal size?
And he trusted Rodney to help him through this and make the right decisions for him. Really trusted him. That had been something of a shock, to have Sheppard put himself so utterly, literally, into his hands. There had been moments in the field, sure, or in a crisis, where he’d done the same thing - trusted Rodney’s skills to get them out of a jam - but this was different.
He had been humbled and honored when Sheppard had asked him to be his proxy. Rodney, getting a head rush from the simultaneous hit of fear and pride, immediately asked John right back and made a note to put together a packet on his own medical history. He asked John for his. John looked at him for a long moment, thoughtfully savoring a slice of orange fruit that smelled like melons.
“I had chicken pox when I was seven,” he finally said. “Broken some bones?”
“And?”
“A camel bit me?”
Rodney had put his hand over his mouth and looked at him in horror, honestly trying not to ruin the moment by yelling at him. “You, uh, forgot your Iratus bug, um, encounters?”
“Well, yeah, those.” Sheppard squirmed a little and said, “I try to kind of brush all this stuff off…you know…”
“Rub some dirt on it and keep going?”
John pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Self-preservation instincts of a lemming. Or no; a moth. Liked sparkly, glowing things so much he dove right into them, but still with the heroic jumping off cliff for the good of all. Yeah. He’d befriended a selfless lemming moth.
“Rodney?” Sheppard asked, looking a little sheepish.
Rodney heroically strangled down several rants and said reasonably “How about we set up a meeting with Carson after we get the papers drawn up and signed? See if there’s anything I should know, like, uh, allergy to any medications. Or how many times you’ve been knocked on the head, so we know how many more you have before you sustain significant brain damage.” He could feel himself smile sickly; maybe he could get Sheppard to wear a helmet. And then it struck him; maybe the weird hair was padding.
John was looking blankly into middle distance, narrowing his eyes. “There was a thing with a rash and an antibiotic,” he said slowly, then ducked his head and poked at his melon.
“Thanks, Rodney,” he said quietly. Rodney couldn’t quite tell, but he thought Sheppard might be blushing.
Rodney echoed John’s earlier pointing finger. “Just stop with the insect collecting. No fair going looking for them now that you’ve got me.”
John had rolled his eyes in grieved but grinning resignation. “Oh, man. What have I done?”
Even knowing he was John’s proxy hadn’t prepared him for the reality - he totally knew it could be an emotionally taxing experience, he knew that, and could handle that - but this, he felt - he didn’t know how he felt, but it was great deal more intense than he expected.
It wasn’t that he resented the dependence or the imposition on his time, not at all, it was more that Rodney was terrified he was going to screw this up; not take care of John like he needed, make decisions based on what he wanted versus what was best for John, thereby alienating him forever.
But to see prickly-when-you-cornered-him-especially-about-personal-issues John Sheppard walk out, lean against him and look at him with such trust and confidence and more than a hint of sheepishness, all while in an entirely different body just about stopped his heart.
John asked him to do this; chose him. He could do it, but Rodney knew that he was very glad that John was conscious and sentient. It was clear they could downgrade the emergency from Invasive Alien Consciousness to something closer to their normal give and take, just with a language barrier.
Although, about the sheepishness; Rodney would totally call John on the - once again - not asking some voodoo shaman about the fine print before doing a ritual with an Ancient object, but even he could see that there was a point past which some things could reasonably be said without injury.
This did not, however, exclude Rodney from bringing it up in the future, should someone in a headdress inquire if John would like to join a primitive Men’s Group. In fact, the more the guy smelled like moldy bear grease and old fur, the more boilerplate Rodney would insist upon and not even Teyla wincing, the glint in her eyes promising very, very bad training sessions later was going to make him back down.
Yeah. He could do this. He looked himself firmly in the eye and went back out.
~~~
For a moment, when he stepped out of the bathroom, Rodney couldn’t see Sheppard anywhere and nearly panicked. Not that the Colonel couldn’t handle himself; it was just that he was so small.
“Sheppard?” he called, walking briskly to the door. “Shepp-“
“Mow?” The reply came from over by the balcony door.
“Oh,” Rodney said, turning quickly, “Uh, didn’t see you over there in the shadows.”
“Meeeer.” John walked slowly toward him, looking a little guilty.
“Don’t worry about it.” Rodney waved a reassuring hand, then popped it in his pocket when he noticed the shaking. “Just a little jumpy I guess.”
“Mow,” John’s reply was quiet and scared-sounding.
Rodney shook himself mentally. “Hey,” he said softly. “How about we get the rest of that mud off you? That sounds good, right?”
“Mow.”
John had slithered and slid through wet ground on Gata and had come back with a fair soil sampling still attached to his fur. Rodney had brushed most of the dried stuff off him in the infirmary, but he still was pretty scruffy.
“Right. Um. There’s the wet method or the dry method. You’d probably prefer the wet method since you’re used to it. I, uh, have some really gentle shampoo?“
Sheppard trotted to Rodney’s bathroom, turned on the shower with his gene and stood looking up at the spray. He stared up at it, turned to Rodney, wide eyed, then bolted for the other room, obviously forgetting he could turn it off himself.
“Dry, then.” Rodney said to the empty room. He turned the water off and decided not to mention the sink.
John was crouched stubbornly under Rodney’s desk, looking ready for a fight. Rodney sat down on the end of his bed and smiled at him. He shrugged.
“Now that I think of it, I’ve never met a cat that liked getting a bath…but on the other hand…” He slapped his hands on his thighs, noting Sheppard’s wince (he’d have to watch the loud noises for awhile) and said “Wait here.”
An uncertain, slightly wavering meow followed him as he hustled back to the bathroom.
Rodney came back with two large bath towels, a comb, a damp washcloth and a hand towel, and set up an impromptu grooming station.
“Okay, the first part, is actually the most fun, at least for me, and Schrodinger loved it.”
“Moooooow?” John drawled, twitching one ear. He padded slightly closer to the bed.
“Yes, yes, McKay gives funny names to his cat. I bet if given the chance you’d have a black lab named ‘Folsom,’ or ‘Cash.’ am I right?”
Sheppard looked faintly embarrassed. “Maaa,” he replied, hopping onto the bed. He sat looking at Rodney very seriously, before breaking and licking a paw nervously.
“Don’t want to talk about it, huh? Typical. Okay. You need to stand on all fours, and I’m going to take my hands like this,” He held them out, fingers curved and stiff in a claw-like gesture, “And I’m going to sort of curry-comb your back and sides. It’s fast and gets tons of dead hair out. And like I said, kind of fun.”
“Meerrrow?” John asked, puzzled. Rodney frowned, not quite getting it.
“Help me out here, Sheppard, I’m not sure what you’re asking.
John twitched his ears, kind of shrugging, and stood. “Mow.”
“You ready?”
“Mow.” He looked so serious and resigned.
“Okay.” Rodney leaned over and started quickly combing through John’s fur, lightly digging his fingers in and roughly brushing away the bits of mud and dead hair. John shrank back a few steps and sat back down, staring fixedly at the towel.
“Too rough?” Rodney asked quietly.
“Maa,” John said, his voice very high pitched and soft. It made Rodney’s chest hurt.
Sheppard walked back into place and Rodney reached out to stroke his ears. John leaned briefly into his hand and away, then mewed, high and soft again, sounding scared.
Suddenly, Rodney felt very stupid. Not only was Sheppard perhaps one of the most irritatingly self-contained and self-sufficient people he’d ever met, he also didn’t like being touched. Crap. He’d been so wrapped up in how to do things for him, so focused on getting him clean, because he knew that Sheppard would hate being all scruffy, that he forgot to think about how he might be feeling about being so dependent and subject to other people’s grabby hands.
Not that he ever thought he’d be stuck in the grabby hand category with the rest of the city; it had taken both of them awhile, Rodney trying to be a little more conscious of Sheppard’s personal space and the Colonel gradually getting used to Rodney forgetting about it. Eventually, John stopped wincing or flinching when team members brushed his arm or put a hand on his shoulder. Eventually.
“Listen,” Rodney said. “I could get a towel and see if…”
John stood in position again and looked up at him, ears twitching. “Mow.”
“Are you sure?”
”Rooooooow.”
Rodney grinned. “You just whined my name didn’t you?”
He got a very flat look.
“Right.” He leaned over, stiffened his fingers, and started combing again. After about six passes, Sheppard would back away, pace around the bed a little, then come back. This happened four times and each time, Sheppard’s pacing diminished, so Rodney took that as a good sign.
Finally, he was running the flat of his hand down the Colonel’s sides and back, brushing away the last of the loose hairs. John leaned into the touch, then jerked back like he wasn’t supposed to do that. Rodney slowed his pace, making the sweeps longer, trying to be as soothing as possible.
Sheppard was relaxed, his eyes half-closed. Rodney braced his left hand against John’s shoulder and with the other, cupped his head gently, then ran his hand slowly down his side. John swayed into his hand.
“I’m going to sit and use the comb now. Why don’t you lie down?” He said in an almost whisper.
John crumpled gently to the bed, sitting on his paws.
Keeping one hand braced against John, since it seemed to kind of ground him, Rodney gently ran the finer-toothed end of his comb through his fur. He kept up a low murmur of words, telling Sheppard about his day and the experiment he and Zelenka had been running as he groomed him, so that when he asked John to shift it wouldn’t be surprising.
It made him wince and feel slightly, oh, furious, inside that John continued to try to pull away and assume a stoic face while he’d been turned into a cat. Twice, while Rodney was combing him, John had been compelled to stand up, walk away for a little while, then return almost guiltily and crouch, waiting for the comb.
“John,” Rodney asked softly. “Am I hurting you? Do you have bruises from earlier?”
“Maa,” John denied, not looking at him, his tail twitching faintly. Rodney thought he was probably lying.
“We could stop. There’s some mud on your stomach, but that could wait until tomorrow if you’re uncomfortable.”
John slowly stretched out on his side and touched Rodney’s hand with his paw.
“I’m going to check for bruises, just so we’re on the same page, here, okay?”
John touched his hand silently, and looked up at him, trusting but obviously still feeling nervous. Rodney swallowed thickly.
“If anywhere feels sore, you tap me with your claws, okay?”
John pressed Rodney’s hand, his claws extended.
“I’m going to use about the same pressure I’d use doing the finger-coming,” Rodney warned him, and slowly drew his fingers down Sheppard’s chest. As he expected, John was sore on both sides over his ribs, where someone (probably Ronon) had grabbed him.
“Is it bad enough you want to ice this? Or get something for pain?” he asked, quietly. “Jesus, Sheppard, you should have told me.”
“Maaaa,” John said earnestly, putting a paw on his hand. “Mrrrror, prrrt, prrrt.” He punctuated his statement by rolling over to his other side and back.
“So it’s not that bad, just stiff and sore?”
“Mow.”
“Where else?”
John inelegantly tried to point to his own hindquarters.
“Let me guess; more bruises from someone trying to grab you?”
“Mowr.”
“And they hurt when I ran the comb over them?” Great, right where his fur was thickest and he’d very carefully spent lots of time because every cat he’d ever known had loved it.
“Mrrrr.” John didn’t look at him.
“I’m taking that as a yes!” Rodney stood and paced a couple of steps forward and back. “You don’t have to just sit there if I’m doing something that hurts! Jesus, Sheppard! You’re covered in fur! I can’t see where you’re bruised! The last thing I want to do is hurt you. And for your information, grooming is supposed to be a pleasurable experience, not something that’s governed by the Geneva Convention, or PETA or those, those other people who get all upset about bunnies wearing makeup! I mean, I totally agree with them, I just forget what they’re called and oh my god you let me just sit there and comb your bruises over and over and let me hurt you! You can’t do that!”
John looked at him guiltily. “Meeew?” he said in a very small voice. Rodney was not falling for the big eyed kitty thing right now, absolutely not.
“Look, Colonel - John - we have to make a deal here. You asked me to help care for you if you become…” he waved his hand at John’s general cattishness. “You know I’m bad on picking up on non-verbal things, and hello? I’m not even sure which meows are the verbs.”
He looked pointedly at John. John looked stubborn and sulky. Fantastic.
“If you hide stuff from me, and I make a decision based on that, it’s only going to end up bad for both of us. I know it probably breaks all sorts of macho stoic rules, but you just can’t. You have to tell me if you’re hurt or cold or hot or thirsty or if you have to pee; hey, did you know, Radek made you some litter?”
John looked at him, startled and wide-eyed. Rodney waved him off.
“We can go over that later. The point is until we get this down, until I get what you’re like in this form - even if it’s just for today - you’ve got to tell me if I’m doing something wrong. Or doing something right, for that matter. Positive reinforcement is a very well established, ah, method of…
John flopped over on his side and arched - shyly, something he was sure he was hallucinating - showing Rodney his dusty belly as he stuttered into a loud purr.
“Reinforcing things.” Rodney finished faintly, lump firmly lodged in this throat. Wow. He hadn’t really expected to win that one so fast. And wow, that was seriously adorable.
“You see?” He replied brightly - if slightly thickly - clasping his hands together. “A little teamwork, a little gratitude; that’s all I ask.”
Sheppard twitched his ears and thumped his tail, hard, a couple of times. Rodney felt pretty sure if he could have rolled his eyes, he would have. ”Rrowrrrr!”
He’d know that tone anywhere. “And now you’re bossy; my life is complete.”
~~~
Rodney discovered that he was disappointed when John chose to bed down on his clean laundry. Not that he was worried about cat hair on his uniform (which was black anyway), but he’d been sort of looking forward to having…oh God, he was pathetic looking forward to sleeping with a cat.
But it was very soothing falling asleep with a small, furry body purring beside you. That wasn’t crazy.
“You going to be okay over there?”
“Mowr!”
“Fine, fine, I’ll stop asking.”
He could hear John grumble as he poked the laundry into comfortable lumps. Rodney dimmed the lights and lay awake a long time, listening to the soft, even breathing across the room. John snored delicately a few times, and snorting softly to himself, Rodney finally tucked his cheek into his own pillow and fell asleep.
He woke to a hideous, pitiful yowling.
“John? Are you okay?”
Aaaroooowr! There was a muffled thump, and Rodney turned on the lights.
John was tangled in one of Rodney’s t-shirts and fighting furiously to get out, crying out in fear and possibly even pain.
“John. John! Colonel! Stop!”
John fought harder for a few furious seconds, claws poking through the fabric, then went limp. “Aow?” he asked in a high pitched voice.
Rodney crept close enough to touch the tangle of cat and shirt. “It’s me, John. You’re okay.” He stroked what looked like John’s side.
John’s head sought his hand through the cotton material, sniffing. “Aoowr?”
“You stay still and let me get you out of this.”
John had somehow gotten himself lodged in one of the sleeves and then wrapped up in the main body of the t-shirt. All Rodney had to do was untangle and hold it so John could skooch backwards out of it.
“There you go.” Rodney ruffled his head, as John lay limp and sad on the floor. “Did you have a dream or something?”
John flicked his tail twice.
Rodney lay on his side and stroked John for a long time. Not looking at him, John got up and walked completely around and behind Rodney, before strolling to his side and pressing close against his chest. He tucked his face between Rodney’s shoulder and neck and sighed. He was shaking.
Rodney stroked his back in long, smooth strokes.
After a long while, he stroked John’s back one last time and pulled away. He climbed back into bed, turned the corner of the sheets down, patted the bed and held out one arm.
John stared up at him, his face soft and sad. He leapt up and walked along Rodney’s side until he was standing at the junction of Rodney’s arm and chest. He butted his head against Rodney’s ribs and looked up at him, questioning.
“Before morning, please?” Rodney snarked affectionately.
Ears twitching, John settled down, chin propped on Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney wrapped his arm around him and thought the lights off. Reaching over with his other hand, he stroked John’s ears until his small, purring body relaxed into sleep.
~~~~
Series: Checkmate ‘Verse
Author: Beadattitude
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash
Rating: For All Audiences, this chapter
Beta: Unbeta’d
Warnings: Animal transformation, angst, schmoop, romance
Author's Notes: Set directly after "The Wrathful Gaze of Johnny Cash." Trust me, this is part of the end game. Also, a small nod to dogeared's Nantucket 'Verse.
Chronologically, the third part of the Checkmate 'Verse.
Summary: John and Rodney cope with various problems the first night John is a cat.
Teaser:He had been humbled and honored when Sheppard had asked him to be his proxy. Rodney, getting a head rush from the simultaneous hit of fear and pride, immediately asked John right back and made a note to put together a packet on his own medical history. He asked John for his. John looked at him for a long moment, thoughtfully savoring a slice of orange fruit that smelled like melons.
“I had chicken pox when I was seven,” he finally said. “Broken some bones?”
“And?”
“A camel bit me?”
Rodney had put his hand over his mouth and looked at him in horror, honestly trying not to ruin the moment by yelling at him.
~~~
The mess sent way more turkey and dressing than one cat could eat, so Rodney helpfully finished most of it before realizing John might want some more later. There was hardly enough for a snack - at least for Rodney - but um, well. He left the rest.
He looked up to find Sheppard laughing at him. Oh, he didn’t say a word, but Rodney had been around him long enough to know that particular sparkle in his eyes. He blushed.
“Um, sorry? Force of habit? I forgot cats like to graze.”
“Mow,” he replied graciously, flicking one ear in a shrug-like gesture.
“Right. I’ll just…” he got up to clear away the dinner things, except for John’s snack dish and shallow bowl of water, which were perched on the far edge of his desk.
“I’m going to leave these here for tonight, until we can figure out a better place for them,” Rodney mused aloud. “Somewhere I won’t kick them over in the middle of the night or something. Do you like that, or do you want me to put them on the floor?”
“Maa.” John walked over to the bowl and sat next to it, curling his tail around his feet.
“Right,” he couldn’t seem to stop saying that. He stumped over to the bathroom to get a hold of himself. He splashed some water on his face, washed his hands and stood braced against the sink for a long moment.
John was a cat. But also John. Rodney was 99.9% sure that was all of John in there, with the extra twist of cat biochemistry and instinct along for the ride. Who knew which would win out in normal interaction? He’d certainly had an unexpected reaction to his own quarters, which Rodney understood. It was about proportion and your world turning upside down. Who would want all those reminders that you were one-sixth your normal size?
And he trusted Rodney to help him through this and make the right decisions for him. Really trusted him. That had been something of a shock, to have Sheppard put himself so utterly, literally, into his hands. There had been moments in the field, sure, or in a crisis, where he’d done the same thing - trusted Rodney’s skills to get them out of a jam - but this was different.
He had been humbled and honored when Sheppard had asked him to be his proxy. Rodney, getting a head rush from the simultaneous hit of fear and pride, immediately asked John right back and made a note to put together a packet on his own medical history. He asked John for his. John looked at him for a long moment, thoughtfully savoring a slice of orange fruit that smelled like melons.
“I had chicken pox when I was seven,” he finally said. “Broken some bones?”
“And?”
“A camel bit me?”
Rodney had put his hand over his mouth and looked at him in horror, honestly trying not to ruin the moment by yelling at him. “You, uh, forgot your Iratus bug, um, encounters?”
“Well, yeah, those.” Sheppard squirmed a little and said, “I try to kind of brush all this stuff off…you know…”
“Rub some dirt on it and keep going?”
John pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Self-preservation instincts of a lemming. Or no; a moth. Liked sparkly, glowing things so much he dove right into them, but still with the heroic jumping off cliff for the good of all. Yeah. He’d befriended a selfless lemming moth.
“Rodney?” Sheppard asked, looking a little sheepish.
Rodney heroically strangled down several rants and said reasonably “How about we set up a meeting with Carson after we get the papers drawn up and signed? See if there’s anything I should know, like, uh, allergy to any medications. Or how many times you’ve been knocked on the head, so we know how many more you have before you sustain significant brain damage.” He could feel himself smile sickly; maybe he could get Sheppard to wear a helmet. And then it struck him; maybe the weird hair was padding.
John was looking blankly into middle distance, narrowing his eyes. “There was a thing with a rash and an antibiotic,” he said slowly, then ducked his head and poked at his melon.
“Thanks, Rodney,” he said quietly. Rodney couldn’t quite tell, but he thought Sheppard might be blushing.
Rodney echoed John’s earlier pointing finger. “Just stop with the insect collecting. No fair going looking for them now that you’ve got me.”
John had rolled his eyes in grieved but grinning resignation. “Oh, man. What have I done?”
Even knowing he was John’s proxy hadn’t prepared him for the reality - he totally knew it could be an emotionally taxing experience, he knew that, and could handle that - but this, he felt - he didn’t know how he felt, but it was great deal more intense than he expected.
It wasn’t that he resented the dependence or the imposition on his time, not at all, it was more that Rodney was terrified he was going to screw this up; not take care of John like he needed, make decisions based on what he wanted versus what was best for John, thereby alienating him forever.
But to see prickly-when-you-cornered-him-especially-about-personal-issues John Sheppard walk out, lean against him and look at him with such trust and confidence and more than a hint of sheepishness, all while in an entirely different body just about stopped his heart.
John asked him to do this; chose him. He could do it, but Rodney knew that he was very glad that John was conscious and sentient. It was clear they could downgrade the emergency from Invasive Alien Consciousness to something closer to their normal give and take, just with a language barrier.
Although, about the sheepishness; Rodney would totally call John on the - once again - not asking some voodoo shaman about the fine print before doing a ritual with an Ancient object, but even he could see that there was a point past which some things could reasonably be said without injury.
This did not, however, exclude Rodney from bringing it up in the future, should someone in a headdress inquire if John would like to join a primitive Men’s Group. In fact, the more the guy smelled like moldy bear grease and old fur, the more boilerplate Rodney would insist upon and not even Teyla wincing, the glint in her eyes promising very, very bad training sessions later was going to make him back down.
Yeah. He could do this. He looked himself firmly in the eye and went back out.
~~~
For a moment, when he stepped out of the bathroom, Rodney couldn’t see Sheppard anywhere and nearly panicked. Not that the Colonel couldn’t handle himself; it was just that he was so small.
“Sheppard?” he called, walking briskly to the door. “Shepp-“
“Mow?” The reply came from over by the balcony door.
“Oh,” Rodney said, turning quickly, “Uh, didn’t see you over there in the shadows.”
“Meeeer.” John walked slowly toward him, looking a little guilty.
“Don’t worry about it.” Rodney waved a reassuring hand, then popped it in his pocket when he noticed the shaking. “Just a little jumpy I guess.”
“Mow,” John’s reply was quiet and scared-sounding.
Rodney shook himself mentally. “Hey,” he said softly. “How about we get the rest of that mud off you? That sounds good, right?”
“Mow.”
John had slithered and slid through wet ground on Gata and had come back with a fair soil sampling still attached to his fur. Rodney had brushed most of the dried stuff off him in the infirmary, but he still was pretty scruffy.
“Right. Um. There’s the wet method or the dry method. You’d probably prefer the wet method since you’re used to it. I, uh, have some really gentle shampoo?“
Sheppard trotted to Rodney’s bathroom, turned on the shower with his gene and stood looking up at the spray. He stared up at it, turned to Rodney, wide eyed, then bolted for the other room, obviously forgetting he could turn it off himself.
“Dry, then.” Rodney said to the empty room. He turned the water off and decided not to mention the sink.
John was crouched stubbornly under Rodney’s desk, looking ready for a fight. Rodney sat down on the end of his bed and smiled at him. He shrugged.
“Now that I think of it, I’ve never met a cat that liked getting a bath…but on the other hand…” He slapped his hands on his thighs, noting Sheppard’s wince (he’d have to watch the loud noises for awhile) and said “Wait here.”
An uncertain, slightly wavering meow followed him as he hustled back to the bathroom.
Rodney came back with two large bath towels, a comb, a damp washcloth and a hand towel, and set up an impromptu grooming station.
“Okay, the first part, is actually the most fun, at least for me, and Schrodinger loved it.”
“Moooooow?” John drawled, twitching one ear. He padded slightly closer to the bed.
“Yes, yes, McKay gives funny names to his cat. I bet if given the chance you’d have a black lab named ‘Folsom,’ or ‘Cash.’ am I right?”
Sheppard looked faintly embarrassed. “Maaa,” he replied, hopping onto the bed. He sat looking at Rodney very seriously, before breaking and licking a paw nervously.
“Don’t want to talk about it, huh? Typical. Okay. You need to stand on all fours, and I’m going to take my hands like this,” He held them out, fingers curved and stiff in a claw-like gesture, “And I’m going to sort of curry-comb your back and sides. It’s fast and gets tons of dead hair out. And like I said, kind of fun.”
“Meerrrow?” John asked, puzzled. Rodney frowned, not quite getting it.
“Help me out here, Sheppard, I’m not sure what you’re asking.
John twitched his ears, kind of shrugging, and stood. “Mow.”
“You ready?”
“Mow.” He looked so serious and resigned.
“Okay.” Rodney leaned over and started quickly combing through John’s fur, lightly digging his fingers in and roughly brushing away the bits of mud and dead hair. John shrank back a few steps and sat back down, staring fixedly at the towel.
“Too rough?” Rodney asked quietly.
“Maa,” John said, his voice very high pitched and soft. It made Rodney’s chest hurt.
Sheppard walked back into place and Rodney reached out to stroke his ears. John leaned briefly into his hand and away, then mewed, high and soft again, sounding scared.
Suddenly, Rodney felt very stupid. Not only was Sheppard perhaps one of the most irritatingly self-contained and self-sufficient people he’d ever met, he also didn’t like being touched. Crap. He’d been so wrapped up in how to do things for him, so focused on getting him clean, because he knew that Sheppard would hate being all scruffy, that he forgot to think about how he might be feeling about being so dependent and subject to other people’s grabby hands.
Not that he ever thought he’d be stuck in the grabby hand category with the rest of the city; it had taken both of them awhile, Rodney trying to be a little more conscious of Sheppard’s personal space and the Colonel gradually getting used to Rodney forgetting about it. Eventually, John stopped wincing or flinching when team members brushed his arm or put a hand on his shoulder. Eventually.
“Listen,” Rodney said. “I could get a towel and see if…”
John stood in position again and looked up at him, ears twitching. “Mow.”
“Are you sure?”
”Rooooooow.”
Rodney grinned. “You just whined my name didn’t you?”
He got a very flat look.
“Right.” He leaned over, stiffened his fingers, and started combing again. After about six passes, Sheppard would back away, pace around the bed a little, then come back. This happened four times and each time, Sheppard’s pacing diminished, so Rodney took that as a good sign.
Finally, he was running the flat of his hand down the Colonel’s sides and back, brushing away the last of the loose hairs. John leaned into the touch, then jerked back like he wasn’t supposed to do that. Rodney slowed his pace, making the sweeps longer, trying to be as soothing as possible.
Sheppard was relaxed, his eyes half-closed. Rodney braced his left hand against John’s shoulder and with the other, cupped his head gently, then ran his hand slowly down his side. John swayed into his hand.
“I’m going to sit and use the comb now. Why don’t you lie down?” He said in an almost whisper.
John crumpled gently to the bed, sitting on his paws.
Keeping one hand braced against John, since it seemed to kind of ground him, Rodney gently ran the finer-toothed end of his comb through his fur. He kept up a low murmur of words, telling Sheppard about his day and the experiment he and Zelenka had been running as he groomed him, so that when he asked John to shift it wouldn’t be surprising.
It made him wince and feel slightly, oh, furious, inside that John continued to try to pull away and assume a stoic face while he’d been turned into a cat. Twice, while Rodney was combing him, John had been compelled to stand up, walk away for a little while, then return almost guiltily and crouch, waiting for the comb.
“John,” Rodney asked softly. “Am I hurting you? Do you have bruises from earlier?”
“Maa,” John denied, not looking at him, his tail twitching faintly. Rodney thought he was probably lying.
“We could stop. There’s some mud on your stomach, but that could wait until tomorrow if you’re uncomfortable.”
John slowly stretched out on his side and touched Rodney’s hand with his paw.
“I’m going to check for bruises, just so we’re on the same page, here, okay?”
John touched his hand silently, and looked up at him, trusting but obviously still feeling nervous. Rodney swallowed thickly.
“If anywhere feels sore, you tap me with your claws, okay?”
John pressed Rodney’s hand, his claws extended.
“I’m going to use about the same pressure I’d use doing the finger-coming,” Rodney warned him, and slowly drew his fingers down Sheppard’s chest. As he expected, John was sore on both sides over his ribs, where someone (probably Ronon) had grabbed him.
“Is it bad enough you want to ice this? Or get something for pain?” he asked, quietly. “Jesus, Sheppard, you should have told me.”
“Maaaa,” John said earnestly, putting a paw on his hand. “Mrrrror, prrrt, prrrt.” He punctuated his statement by rolling over to his other side and back.
“So it’s not that bad, just stiff and sore?”
“Mow.”
“Where else?”
John inelegantly tried to point to his own hindquarters.
“Let me guess; more bruises from someone trying to grab you?”
“Mowr.”
“And they hurt when I ran the comb over them?” Great, right where his fur was thickest and he’d very carefully spent lots of time because every cat he’d ever known had loved it.
“Mrrrr.” John didn’t look at him.
“I’m taking that as a yes!” Rodney stood and paced a couple of steps forward and back. “You don’t have to just sit there if I’m doing something that hurts! Jesus, Sheppard! You’re covered in fur! I can’t see where you’re bruised! The last thing I want to do is hurt you. And for your information, grooming is supposed to be a pleasurable experience, not something that’s governed by the Geneva Convention, or PETA or those, those other people who get all upset about bunnies wearing makeup! I mean, I totally agree with them, I just forget what they’re called and oh my god you let me just sit there and comb your bruises over and over and let me hurt you! You can’t do that!”
John looked at him guiltily. “Meeew?” he said in a very small voice. Rodney was not falling for the big eyed kitty thing right now, absolutely not.
“Look, Colonel - John - we have to make a deal here. You asked me to help care for you if you become…” he waved his hand at John’s general cattishness. “You know I’m bad on picking up on non-verbal things, and hello? I’m not even sure which meows are the verbs.”
He looked pointedly at John. John looked stubborn and sulky. Fantastic.
“If you hide stuff from me, and I make a decision based on that, it’s only going to end up bad for both of us. I know it probably breaks all sorts of macho stoic rules, but you just can’t. You have to tell me if you’re hurt or cold or hot or thirsty or if you have to pee; hey, did you know, Radek made you some litter?”
John looked at him, startled and wide-eyed. Rodney waved him off.
“We can go over that later. The point is until we get this down, until I get what you’re like in this form - even if it’s just for today - you’ve got to tell me if I’m doing something wrong. Or doing something right, for that matter. Positive reinforcement is a very well established, ah, method of…
John flopped over on his side and arched - shyly, something he was sure he was hallucinating - showing Rodney his dusty belly as he stuttered into a loud purr.
“Reinforcing things.” Rodney finished faintly, lump firmly lodged in this throat. Wow. He hadn’t really expected to win that one so fast. And wow, that was seriously adorable.
“You see?” He replied brightly - if slightly thickly - clasping his hands together. “A little teamwork, a little gratitude; that’s all I ask.”
Sheppard twitched his ears and thumped his tail, hard, a couple of times. Rodney felt pretty sure if he could have rolled his eyes, he would have. ”Rrowrrrr!”
He’d know that tone anywhere. “And now you’re bossy; my life is complete.”
~~~
Rodney discovered that he was disappointed when John chose to bed down on his clean laundry. Not that he was worried about cat hair on his uniform (which was black anyway), but he’d been sort of looking forward to having…oh God, he was pathetic looking forward to sleeping with a cat.
But it was very soothing falling asleep with a small, furry body purring beside you. That wasn’t crazy.
“You going to be okay over there?”
“Mowr!”
“Fine, fine, I’ll stop asking.”
He could hear John grumble as he poked the laundry into comfortable lumps. Rodney dimmed the lights and lay awake a long time, listening to the soft, even breathing across the room. John snored delicately a few times, and snorting softly to himself, Rodney finally tucked his cheek into his own pillow and fell asleep.
He woke to a hideous, pitiful yowling.
“John? Are you okay?”
Aaaroooowr! There was a muffled thump, and Rodney turned on the lights.
John was tangled in one of Rodney’s t-shirts and fighting furiously to get out, crying out in fear and possibly even pain.
“John. John! Colonel! Stop!”
John fought harder for a few furious seconds, claws poking through the fabric, then went limp. “Aow?” he asked in a high pitched voice.
Rodney crept close enough to touch the tangle of cat and shirt. “It’s me, John. You’re okay.” He stroked what looked like John’s side.
John’s head sought his hand through the cotton material, sniffing. “Aoowr?”
“You stay still and let me get you out of this.”
John had somehow gotten himself lodged in one of the sleeves and then wrapped up in the main body of the t-shirt. All Rodney had to do was untangle and hold it so John could skooch backwards out of it.
“There you go.” Rodney ruffled his head, as John lay limp and sad on the floor. “Did you have a dream or something?”
John flicked his tail twice.
Rodney lay on his side and stroked John for a long time. Not looking at him, John got up and walked completely around and behind Rodney, before strolling to his side and pressing close against his chest. He tucked his face between Rodney’s shoulder and neck and sighed. He was shaking.
Rodney stroked his back in long, smooth strokes.
After a long while, he stroked John’s back one last time and pulled away. He climbed back into bed, turned the corner of the sheets down, patted the bed and held out one arm.
John stared up at him, his face soft and sad. He leapt up and walked along Rodney’s side until he was standing at the junction of Rodney’s arm and chest. He butted his head against Rodney’s ribs and looked up at him, questioning.
“Before morning, please?” Rodney snarked affectionately.
Ears twitching, John settled down, chin propped on Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney wrapped his arm around him and thought the lights off. Reaching over with his other hand, he stroked John’s ears until his small, purring body relaxed into sleep.
~~~~