14 Valentines 7: And Sometimes, You Just Go Snap (John/Rodney, PG-13)
Title: And Sometimes, You Just Go Snap
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,100
Warnings: Some violence
Summary: In 2012, Rodney died four times.
Notes: This was written for sonadorita because she guessed which one of the sga_santa stories was mine. Her prompt was John/Rodney, 2012. As she likes morbid fic, that's what she got. Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Seven: Domestic Violence, in which idyll writes this: The statistics and numbers are there, and if we think about them we cringe.
~~~
And Sometimes, You Just Go Snap
In 2012, Rodney died four times.
He almost died 37 times - not that John was counting or anything - and that was bad enough, but four times, his luck completely ran out and he just… he died.
Whenever John thinks of it, it's like he might be dying too, because even thinking about Rodney still and silent and dead makes his chest constrict until breathing's simply not an option; until his heart hurts so much it feels like it's going to implode. So he doesn't think about it.
Much.
If he can help it.
Which he can't, fuck it all to hell.
The first time Rodney died in 2012, it was death by Iratus bug. John was flying the jumper and didn't dare turn around, but the whine-thwump of the defibrillator rang overly loud in his ears as his hands clenched around the controls. He didn't need to turn around to know that Ronon was looming anxiously, waiting for Teyla to pry the bug off Rodney's neck and let him shoot it already. Then again, whine-thwump, and again, whine-thwump, until Teyla's relieved sigh made John take the first deep breath in what felt like hours.
Or maybe it was the sound of Rodney's own coughing breath. John doesn't know, and he sure as hell isn't going to examine the memory to find out. Maybe if Heightmeyer… but no. He trusted her more than any other shrink, but some things are just better left alone.
The second time Rodney died in 2012 was when the Turani decided Rodney knew too much. Not even too much about them, just a general, no-mortal-man-is-supposed-to-be-that-brilliant kind of problem that apparently could only be solved by poisoning him with sweets. It was Ronon who figured it out and made Rodney throw them up, but by then there was already too much of the stuff in his bloodstream. He stopped breathing halfway back to the Gate, skin pale and lips blue, and was in cardiac arrest when they stumbled into the gateroom, and only the botany department's vast collection of medicinal plants had saved him.
One of these days, John is going to buy Parrish a drink. A big one.
The third time… the third time was John's fault, and his stomach lurches at the memory. They were standing back to back, Rodney and he, securing the clearing to give Ronon time to get Teyla out of the crude, wooden cage. John shot a guy who'd been hiding in the underbrush in front of him, then saw movement on his right. He turned, and the bullet that came from the other guy right in front of him, the guy John hadn't seen, the bullet that was meant for him hit Rodney in the back. He fell without a sound, and John blacked out because the next thing he knew, the clearing was silent, the P-90 hot in his hands and stinking of hot oil and smoke, Teyla's hard grip around his elbow dragging him away. Ronon was already gone, carrying Rodney with him, and John had felt closer to crying that he could remember being, ever, as he stumbled after Teyla.
He still feels sick when he remembers the hours of waiting in front of the operating room, listening to one blaring alarm after another. But Rodney has a habit of pulling through the craziest things, thank god, no matter how he might complain in the aftermath. He complained a lot after this, but somehow the awaited, "If you hadn't ducked to the wrong side, Sheppard," never comes. It keeps John antsy, sets his teeth on edge, because how is he supposed to forget the quiet slump of Rodney's body to the ground when he doesn't even get to apologise?
And then yesterday. New Year's Eve, and Rodney has to go and get himself killed again. Nothing bad this time, just a little electrocution when one of his minions turned a critical system back on too early, and John hadn't even heard about it until he approached the city from the mainland and radioed in to ask why all the lights were out. By that time, Rodney was already breathing again. No big deal.
Except maybe for how he let Ronon beat the shit out of him last night, too wired to sleep, too short-tempered to celebrate. Too… something… to visit Rodney in the infirmary. There'll be hell to pay for it later, but he just… he can't.
John's New Year's resolution is same as the years before: make sure no one dies this year, especially not Rodney. Of course he'll also do his damnedest to keep Teyla and Ronon safe, but those two know how to look out for themselves. Neither of them died even once this year - John himself died twice - and he trusts them to keep it that way. But Rodney… god, he's too old to deal with this shit.
The door swishes open behind him, and he tenses, ready for Teyla's gentle admonition, except it's not Teyla clearing her throat as the door slides shut.
"Hey," Rodney says awkwardly, and John tries to will his fists to relax. He can't seem to make them.
"So." There's another pause. John keeps his gaze fixed on the waves outside his window, a couple hundred feet below. He hears Rodney take a step closer. "Happy New Year?"
John wants to say something, really, he does. He wants to turn around, maybe make a joke, kiss Rodney, offer to watch a movie. He can't. His whole body has locked up, his throat, his feet, his fists. All he can do is stare at the waves, like they hold the answer to the question of life, the universe and all the rest.
"Sorry I died?" Rodney tries again, and Jesus. Jesus.
John closes his eyes, takes a breath that hitches in his chest. He's trembling from the tension in his body; his face feels hot. Rodney takes another few steps, and then he's behind John, chest pressed against his back, arms coming around his waist, forehead cool against his neck. John lets his own forehead thunk against the window, eyes still closed; and it helps, somehow. He takes another breath, Rodney's hand coming up to rest over his heart as his chest expands, and slowly, bit by bit, John's body relaxes until it feels like he's melting into Rodney, into his living, breathing warmth.
"Sorry," Rodney murmurs and kisses his neck, and John nods and takes another shaky breath. He doesn't want to talk about it. He really, really doesn't want to talk about it. Words can't express how much-
Shit.
"Yeah," he rasps, and Rodney sighs, the sound hitting John's neck warm and a little damp.
They stand there for a long time, John's hands closed around Rodney's wrists, their breaths coming in synch. They stand, and breathe, and don't talk about it at all.
*
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,100
Warnings: Some violence
Summary: In 2012, Rodney died four times.
Notes: This was written for sonadorita because she guessed which one of the sga_santa stories was mine. Her prompt was John/Rodney, 2012. As she likes morbid fic, that's what she got. Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Seven: Domestic Violence, in which idyll writes this: The statistics and numbers are there, and if we think about them we cringe.
~~~
And Sometimes, You Just Go Snap
In 2012, Rodney died four times.
He almost died 37 times - not that John was counting or anything - and that was bad enough, but four times, his luck completely ran out and he just… he died.
Whenever John thinks of it, it's like he might be dying too, because even thinking about Rodney still and silent and dead makes his chest constrict until breathing's simply not an option; until his heart hurts so much it feels like it's going to implode. So he doesn't think about it.
Much.
If he can help it.
Which he can't, fuck it all to hell.
The first time Rodney died in 2012, it was death by Iratus bug. John was flying the jumper and didn't dare turn around, but the whine-thwump of the defibrillator rang overly loud in his ears as his hands clenched around the controls. He didn't need to turn around to know that Ronon was looming anxiously, waiting for Teyla to pry the bug off Rodney's neck and let him shoot it already. Then again, whine-thwump, and again, whine-thwump, until Teyla's relieved sigh made John take the first deep breath in what felt like hours.
Or maybe it was the sound of Rodney's own coughing breath. John doesn't know, and he sure as hell isn't going to examine the memory to find out. Maybe if Heightmeyer… but no. He trusted her more than any other shrink, but some things are just better left alone.
The second time Rodney died in 2012 was when the Turani decided Rodney knew too much. Not even too much about them, just a general, no-mortal-man-is-supposed-to-be-that-brilliant kind of problem that apparently could only be solved by poisoning him with sweets. It was Ronon who figured it out and made Rodney throw them up, but by then there was already too much of the stuff in his bloodstream. He stopped breathing halfway back to the Gate, skin pale and lips blue, and was in cardiac arrest when they stumbled into the gateroom, and only the botany department's vast collection of medicinal plants had saved him.
One of these days, John is going to buy Parrish a drink. A big one.
The third time… the third time was John's fault, and his stomach lurches at the memory. They were standing back to back, Rodney and he, securing the clearing to give Ronon time to get Teyla out of the crude, wooden cage. John shot a guy who'd been hiding in the underbrush in front of him, then saw movement on his right. He turned, and the bullet that came from the other guy right in front of him, the guy John hadn't seen, the bullet that was meant for him hit Rodney in the back. He fell without a sound, and John blacked out because the next thing he knew, the clearing was silent, the P-90 hot in his hands and stinking of hot oil and smoke, Teyla's hard grip around his elbow dragging him away. Ronon was already gone, carrying Rodney with him, and John had felt closer to crying that he could remember being, ever, as he stumbled after Teyla.
He still feels sick when he remembers the hours of waiting in front of the operating room, listening to one blaring alarm after another. But Rodney has a habit of pulling through the craziest things, thank god, no matter how he might complain in the aftermath. He complained a lot after this, but somehow the awaited, "If you hadn't ducked to the wrong side, Sheppard," never comes. It keeps John antsy, sets his teeth on edge, because how is he supposed to forget the quiet slump of Rodney's body to the ground when he doesn't even get to apologise?
And then yesterday. New Year's Eve, and Rodney has to go and get himself killed again. Nothing bad this time, just a little electrocution when one of his minions turned a critical system back on too early, and John hadn't even heard about it until he approached the city from the mainland and radioed in to ask why all the lights were out. By that time, Rodney was already breathing again. No big deal.
Except maybe for how he let Ronon beat the shit out of him last night, too wired to sleep, too short-tempered to celebrate. Too… something… to visit Rodney in the infirmary. There'll be hell to pay for it later, but he just… he can't.
John's New Year's resolution is same as the years before: make sure no one dies this year, especially not Rodney. Of course he'll also do his damnedest to keep Teyla and Ronon safe, but those two know how to look out for themselves. Neither of them died even once this year - John himself died twice - and he trusts them to keep it that way. But Rodney… god, he's too old to deal with this shit.
The door swishes open behind him, and he tenses, ready for Teyla's gentle admonition, except it's not Teyla clearing her throat as the door slides shut.
"Hey," Rodney says awkwardly, and John tries to will his fists to relax. He can't seem to make them.
"So." There's another pause. John keeps his gaze fixed on the waves outside his window, a couple hundred feet below. He hears Rodney take a step closer. "Happy New Year?"
John wants to say something, really, he does. He wants to turn around, maybe make a joke, kiss Rodney, offer to watch a movie. He can't. His whole body has locked up, his throat, his feet, his fists. All he can do is stare at the waves, like they hold the answer to the question of life, the universe and all the rest.
"Sorry I died?" Rodney tries again, and Jesus. Jesus.
John closes his eyes, takes a breath that hitches in his chest. He's trembling from the tension in his body; his face feels hot. Rodney takes another few steps, and then he's behind John, chest pressed against his back, arms coming around his waist, forehead cool against his neck. John lets his own forehead thunk against the window, eyes still closed; and it helps, somehow. He takes another breath, Rodney's hand coming up to rest over his heart as his chest expands, and slowly, bit by bit, John's body relaxes until it feels like he's melting into Rodney, into his living, breathing warmth.
"Sorry," Rodney murmurs and kisses his neck, and John nods and takes another shaky breath. He doesn't want to talk about it. He really, really doesn't want to talk about it. Words can't express how much-
Shit.
"Yeah," he rasps, and Rodney sighs, the sound hitting John's neck warm and a little damp.
They stand there for a long time, John's hands closed around Rodney's wrists, their breaths coming in synch. They stand, and breathe, and don't talk about it at all.
*