HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
Happy, happy, happy birthday, all the best wishes, whatever you want from life, and may you have one hell of a day! :D
Here's my little contribution - hope you'll like it!
~~~
"It was part of the conditioning," he says. The chair is uncomfortable, and he wonders if Rodney felt this ill at ease when they had forced him here, back when he had Cadman in his head. "I wouldn't be able to rest if I didn't feel safe, and I wouldn't feel safe if I wasn't with my master."
He has explained this before.
"How is Dr. Beckett's medication working for you?" she asks, and he idly wonders why she always looks like she might cry.
"I can sleep," he says. "For a few hours."
But it's not enough, he's cracking around the edges, and that's the only reason he's still talking to her, still trying to let her help him. If this continues, he will break down, and who will protect his city then? Caldwell? He almost snorts.
"But you still don't feel safe here."
She already knows the answer to that. "No."
And sure enough, she's nodding.
"Colonel, have you tried finding someone who can help you feel that way?"
And that throws him, because he didn't expect her to make such a… suggestion.
"What, safe? You mean like, a new master?" he asks, still not sure that's what she meant. And that doubt is the only reason he doesn't break her pretty nose.
"No!" She seems horrified at the thought, and it calms him a little. "I mean a friend. Someone to make you feel at ease, someone you trust."
He stupidly thinks that 'trust' should be a four-letter-word, for all the implications it carries.
"It's… not that easy," he begins, and wow, now he's really feeling uncomfortable. But then their time is up and her door chimes and she looks a little frustrated.
"I think you should try it," she says, and he nods before he leaves.
Hours later, and he is ready to try it. His eyes are dry and itchy, and so's his skin; there's a headache at the base of his skull where the muscles are tense and hardened, he can't concentrate anymore, and if he doesn't get some sleep soon, he fears he's going to kill someone. Real sleep, not Carson's drug-induced coma.
Someone to trust. Well, isn't this a lovely time to resolve that issue.
Strangely enough, the one person he thinks of isn't someone who'd make him feel safe by any stretch of the definition. Too loud, too nervous, too civilian to be of any use in a combat situation, even though he tries. And with the other stuff, he's not sure either; he's let him down before, and they both aren't over that.
But he's desperate by now, defences lowered by lack of sleep, feeling more vulnerable than ever in his life, and he needs, he needs safety, a haven, an anchor, anything to keep his thoughts from spiralling away from him and plunging back into the madness he escaped from. He's gotten over the urge to go back there. He hasn't gotten over the urge to leave.
It's late, empty corridors, and he doesn't expect an answer when he rings the door chime, not really. Things are quiet for now, no need to work late into the night, and any sane person is sleeping right now.
He chuckles a little at that. It sounds like a sob.
But the door opens, and he pulls himself together, not willing to lose it just yet.
"Hey Rodney," he drawls and tries to hide he's shaking, because that's how it works, that's what they do, but it seems that they won't play this game tonight.
"Colonel? Is something wrong?"
Blue eyes bore into his, and he shrugs, trying to deflect what he knows are worry and curiosity in that strange mixture nobody else can pull off.
"Heightmeyer says I should try sleeping with you." It's as good an explanation as any, with the added benefit of a confused blink.
"She… she does?"
He nods, not willing to elaborate, to talk about this, even if he's sure he'll get turned away if he doesn't make this clear. But then he's waved inside the room, eyes straining to see in the dim light, and an impatient voice asks him if he wants to sleep in his uniform while he's still trying to process, and he doesn't think he's ever stripped this fast.
Still, he's trying not to get his hopes up. It's a long shot, and he wouldn't be here if he were thinking straight, and the bed is too narrow to be comfortable for two people, and there will be questions in the morning, and he's not all too sure about this trust thing, and there are a million other reasons he can't think of right now, reasons why this is the most stupid idea in the history of stupid ideas.
Then he's pulled toward the bed, pushed down, tucked in, all without a word, all with sharp movements that are too impatient to be soothing, and for a moment, he considers leaving, even though he doesn't think he can find the way back to his own room.
And a warm weight dips the mattress beside him, arms pulling him in, and then his head is resting on a warm shoulder, his body pressed against another, familiar scent surrounding him, and it's like a charm, and he's too far gone already to be surprised, to feel relief, drifting off, off, off to sleep.
He might have imagined the lips pressing against his temple. But he's sure of the arm around his waist.
~~~
Here's my little contribution - hope you'll like it!
~~~
"It was part of the conditioning," he says. The chair is uncomfortable, and he wonders if Rodney felt this ill at ease when they had forced him here, back when he had Cadman in his head. "I wouldn't be able to rest if I didn't feel safe, and I wouldn't feel safe if I wasn't with my master."
He has explained this before.
"How is Dr. Beckett's medication working for you?" she asks, and he idly wonders why she always looks like she might cry.
"I can sleep," he says. "For a few hours."
But it's not enough, he's cracking around the edges, and that's the only reason he's still talking to her, still trying to let her help him. If this continues, he will break down, and who will protect his city then? Caldwell? He almost snorts.
"But you still don't feel safe here."
She already knows the answer to that. "No."
And sure enough, she's nodding.
"Colonel, have you tried finding someone who can help you feel that way?"
And that throws him, because he didn't expect her to make such a… suggestion.
"What, safe? You mean like, a new master?" he asks, still not sure that's what she meant. And that doubt is the only reason he doesn't break her pretty nose.
"No!" She seems horrified at the thought, and it calms him a little. "I mean a friend. Someone to make you feel at ease, someone you trust."
He stupidly thinks that 'trust' should be a four-letter-word, for all the implications it carries.
"It's… not that easy," he begins, and wow, now he's really feeling uncomfortable. But then their time is up and her door chimes and she looks a little frustrated.
"I think you should try it," she says, and he nods before he leaves.
Hours later, and he is ready to try it. His eyes are dry and itchy, and so's his skin; there's a headache at the base of his skull where the muscles are tense and hardened, he can't concentrate anymore, and if he doesn't get some sleep soon, he fears he's going to kill someone. Real sleep, not Carson's drug-induced coma.
Someone to trust. Well, isn't this a lovely time to resolve that issue.
Strangely enough, the one person he thinks of isn't someone who'd make him feel safe by any stretch of the definition. Too loud, too nervous, too civilian to be of any use in a combat situation, even though he tries. And with the other stuff, he's not sure either; he's let him down before, and they both aren't over that.
But he's desperate by now, defences lowered by lack of sleep, feeling more vulnerable than ever in his life, and he needs, he needs safety, a haven, an anchor, anything to keep his thoughts from spiralling away from him and plunging back into the madness he escaped from. He's gotten over the urge to go back there. He hasn't gotten over the urge to leave.
It's late, empty corridors, and he doesn't expect an answer when he rings the door chime, not really. Things are quiet for now, no need to work late into the night, and any sane person is sleeping right now.
He chuckles a little at that. It sounds like a sob.
But the door opens, and he pulls himself together, not willing to lose it just yet.
"Hey Rodney," he drawls and tries to hide he's shaking, because that's how it works, that's what they do, but it seems that they won't play this game tonight.
"Colonel? Is something wrong?"
Blue eyes bore into his, and he shrugs, trying to deflect what he knows are worry and curiosity in that strange mixture nobody else can pull off.
"Heightmeyer says I should try sleeping with you." It's as good an explanation as any, with the added benefit of a confused blink.
"She… she does?"
He nods, not willing to elaborate, to talk about this, even if he's sure he'll get turned away if he doesn't make this clear. But then he's waved inside the room, eyes straining to see in the dim light, and an impatient voice asks him if he wants to sleep in his uniform while he's still trying to process, and he doesn't think he's ever stripped this fast.
Still, he's trying not to get his hopes up. It's a long shot, and he wouldn't be here if he were thinking straight, and the bed is too narrow to be comfortable for two people, and there will be questions in the morning, and he's not all too sure about this trust thing, and there are a million other reasons he can't think of right now, reasons why this is the most stupid idea in the history of stupid ideas.
Then he's pulled toward the bed, pushed down, tucked in, all without a word, all with sharp movements that are too impatient to be soothing, and for a moment, he considers leaving, even though he doesn't think he can find the way back to his own room.
And a warm weight dips the mattress beside him, arms pulling him in, and then his head is resting on a warm shoulder, his body pressed against another, familiar scent surrounding him, and it's like a charm, and he's too far gone already to be surprised, to feel relief, drifting off, off, off to sleep.
He might have imagined the lips pressing against his temple. But he's sure of the arm around his waist.
~~~