14 Valentines 9: Fixation (John/Rodney, PG-13)
Title: Fixation
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3,400
Warnings: Some violence, spoilers for very early season 5
Summary: John didn't have anything against huddling up, per se. It was just that his team seemed determined to make him huddle up to Rodney.
Notes: This was written as a Christmas present for call_robin to the prompt of John/Rodney, sunset. Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Nine: Athletics, in which bunnymcfoo writes this: Women and girls who are physically active have lower rates of heart disease, osteoporosis, and contract fewer STDs.
~~~
Fixation
The team had a standard offworld formation: John would take point, with Teyla behind him to kick ass and take names left and right while also keeping an eye on Rodney. Ronon would have their six. It was a tried and true method to deal with trouble as swiftly as possible and John wasn't one to change a winning team. Especially not if said team was his own.
Except sometimes, on missions to friendly planets - or involving a lot of hacking their way through jungle or undergrowth - Ronon would be the one to take point and kill the greenery with a bored kind of determination, and John would bring up the rear. Used to be he had Teyla watch their six so he could needle Rodney a little, but what with her having a baby and all, he felt a lot more comfortable with her in the middle. Where he could see her.
She hadn't liked it at first, seeing it as a lack of faith on his part. But he was the leader, he gave the orders, and he would damn well make sure she'd never disappear on them again. Teyla couldn't argue with that, though she probably thought he was being an overprotective ass.
He could live with that.
The thing about having the team's six - the beautiful, unforeseen thing - was that it meant John walking right behind Rodney. Rodney, who had exchanged the baggy khakis of their first year for snug, black BDUs that brought out his ass…ets in a way that John couldn't keep staring at no matter how often he told himself not to. He'd focus his attention on the undergrowth, trying to pierce the foliage with his attentive gaze… only to have said gaze drift back to the flex and stretch of Rodney's glutes; to Rodney's thick thighs; to the thin line the legs of Rodney's boxers drew just below his ass.
Like now. The Gate to P4X-389 was in the middle of a jungle, walls of dark green looming around them, and the path Ronon was chopping through it led uphill.
The view was great.
John had been sweeping his - attentive, definitely attentive - gaze over the broad leaves around them, checking more for bugs than for predators, but for the last minute or so it had been fixed on the back of Rodney's neck. Fresh sweat was making the fine brown hair curl at the nape, and John found to his horror that he wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull those hairs straight again, maybe brush the backs of his fingers over damp, heated skin. He felt his face heat up and looked away, but his own sweat kept running into his eyes and made him blink, Rodney's shoulders taunting him from the corner of his eye every time he did. They were nice shoulders, broad and flexing with each movement of Rodney's arms, shoulder blades stretching the black t-shirt in a way that made it look painted on. Then there was the back: Rodney's nice, solid back, the weirdly vulnerable dip of his spine leading down all the way to… there.
With a sigh, John gave in to the inevitable and let his gaze linger, resigning himself to ticking off his mental list of Things John Sheppard Shouldn't Be Staring At. Rodney's ass muscles bunching and relaxing under tight, dark fabric: check. Rodney's thighs working in a very - entirely objectively - appealing way: check. The thin line of Rodney's boxers bisecting his BDUs beneath criminally full cheeks: ch-
John stumbled, barely catching himself in time to avoid crashing into a tree. When he'd caught his footing and looked up again, he saw that his entire team had paused to stare at him. Ronon had lifted both his eyebrows, Rodney was pretty much just gawking, and Teyla… God, Teyla was wearing that little smirk, the one that said I know what you did just now, and your wacky ways amuse me greatly.
Shrugging uncomfortably, John made a vague sweeping motion at the ground behind him.
"Tree root," he lied, and Ronon's eyebrows lifted even higher as he observed the perfectly smooth patch of dirt in question. Teyla seemed one step from laughing at John, and Rodney kept gaping like John's sudden clumsiness didn't compute.
John felt yet more heat flow up into his cheeks and hated himself, just a little.
"Can we get a move on?" he asked more sharply than he'd intended to, and it was a bad idea anyway because once his team had turned around after a bit of griping from Rodney, John was left bringing up their rear again - the rear, he thought hysterically, and god, he didn't know where to look - and his face flushed until it was burning because that thin line, Rodney's boxers, the line of fabric beneath fabric… it wasn't there.
Rodney was going commando.
Or else, he was wearing briefs today, John thought, eyes helplessly glued to Rodney's ass. Yeah, that had to be it, except hadn't Rodney once said that briefs and hot weather made for sweating and chafing and rashes in delicate places and Ford had pulled a face and said that was seriously TMI, except John remembered. And it was pretty hot on P4X-389 and they'd known that in advance, so maybe no briefs after all, but of course it was Rodney's decision alone and none of John's business whether or not he wanted to go… go without... any… underwear…
John swallowed hard, twice. It didn't do him any good, because for some reason his throat stayed dry. The path must have suddenly become a lot steeper, or maybe the temperature had picked up, for he found himself breathing hard, breaking into a fresh sweat. His hand was shaking just a little as he wiped his forehead.
"Ronon, buddy," he called and broke into a light jog, past Rodney and Teyla, "what say I take point for a while?"
Really, it was that or go mad.
~~~
P3X-708 - Jia - was caught in the midst of winter. Ronon kept needling McKay - "You ever hunt in the snow, McKay? I hear Canada's good for hunting." "Oh, shut up, the only hunting I did in Canada was for better chocolate than Hershey's." - while Teyla caught up with some childhood friends, possible trading partners for Atlantis. A couple of kids taught John how to play chie-eh, a game that involved wooden rings and snowballs and a lot of yelling. In return, he told them all about Ewoks and how Ripley kicked the Aliens' ass, To Be Continued.
It was fun; a much-needed break from running for their lives or hiking through bug-infested swamps for nothing. Even McKay was smiling despite having nothing to tinker with. It was probably the food. The Jiam hunted a deer-like creature with meat so tender it melted on the tongue, and John watched with slightly embarrassed indulgence as both McKay and Ronon stuffed their mouths like they hadn't eaten for a week, much to the villagers' amusement.
The whole experience could have almost been relaxing, except there were also the nights to deal with and John had pretty much reached the end of his endurance.
Every evening was the same: there was food and drink and good-natured ribbing, Teyla's cheeks flushed and Ronon's laugh rumbled through the hall, and eventually the assembly would break up and everyone would go to bed. And that was where the trouble started, because the Jiam - living among rocks and water but trees, not so much - were notoriously short on wood and only the kids and the elderly got heated rooms. Everyone else just had to huddle up.
John didn't have anything against huddling up, per se. It was just that his team seemed determined to make him huddle up to Rodney.
The very edge of their huge bed, the place closest to the door, had been claimed by Ronon. John hadn't argued; as much as he prided himself on his reflexes, Ronon was eight years younger than him. Plus, the guy had a blaster. Next to Ronon, in a cosy spot because she was a woman and also a mom - not that John would ever tell her that; he might be old-fashioned but he wasn't suicidal - was Teyla. Next to her, in the second of the getting-warmth-from-both-sides spots, lay Rodney, who would whine all night if he got so much as chilly toes, and that left John pressed against the wall. Or Rodney.
He honestly wasn't sure which would be the lesser evil, so John did what every sensible man in his position would have done: he ran. Through the Jiam's fortress and their inner courtyard, around the outer walls and along the path by the river, finally detouring over a low hill when he still wasn't ready for bed.
There he discovered that snow, loose rocks and jogging weren't a good combination.
By the time he came back, cold and tired and aching, and in a spectacularly bad mood, his team had already settled down for the night, the room barely illuminated by two long candles propped on waist-high prickets. John was tempted to toss his wet gear into a corner to wake them up - serve them right for not waiting for him - but Ronon would kill him and Teyla would make him talk about it while Rodney watched everything with huge blue eyes, and John wasn't quite ready for any of those things. Especially the talking. So he undressed slowly, wincing at each movement that pulled at his bruises, until he was left only in his socks, boxers and t-shirt.
He'd wanted to sleep in BDUs and sweater, but his whole team had stared at him like he was nuts the first night, so he had relented. Curse them all.
The frigid air made him shiver, feet nearly freezing on the bare stone floor, so he rubbed his arms for a little warmth - ow - and climbed into bed, crawling over his team's feet until he'd reached the wall. Rodney had pretty much mummified himself with the blanket, so John yanked at it until Rodney gave up John's share with a mumbled protest, pressing his nose against Teyla's neck as he settled down again. John stared at them, then he scooted underneath the thin fabric, feeling faint warmth radiating from Rodney's body even though he was careful not to touch him anywhere. He lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and counted stones. After he'd reached 368 for the third time, he turned his head and watched the candle flames flicker. His team was breathing evenly, three unmoving lumps in the semi-darkness.
John was cold.
He scooted a little closer to Rodney. There couldn't have been more than a hair's breadth of space between them, and slowly, John's right side was warming up a little. He sighed.
His left side felt even more chilled than before. John didn't move. Next to him, Rodney snuffled a little sigh into Teyla's neck, pressing even closer to her. John imagined Rodney's arms tightening around her, Rodney's broad figure curled around her slim body, his warmth seeping all the way down to her bones. John's own body was cooling again with the added space Rodney had put between them.
He didn't move.
~~~
On M8F-9F3, two suns were setting at once. The hazy light painted a flush on Rodney's cheeks; caressed his skin and dyed it a reddish gold; caught in his eyelashes and threw fuzzy shadows between his curled fingers. It made him look ethereal, almost breathtaking; it would have been beautiful if he hadn't been unconscious.
In the soft light, John couldn't even tell if Rodney was still breathing.
Rodney's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as if he had been cut off mid-word. He was completely, utterly still, laid out on the crude altar like an offering. The natives had stripped him of his gear, leaving him in t-shirt, BDUs and shoes. He looked vulnerable, loose-limbed and lax. And that was so profoundly wrong it made John's throat ache.
Rodney wasn't supposed to look vulnerable. Not like that.
Bloodied mud stuck to the soles of John's boots as he jogged up to the altar, hands closed around the P-90 so tight it hurt. There were bodies strewn on the ground, but he didn't look at them any more than he needed to make sure he didn't step on them. Teyla and Ronon still had their guns up, carefully watching the tree line of the small clearing as John made his way up the steps. He stopped next to Rodney, his fingers refusing to release their hold of his gun as he stared down at him. He couldn't tell if Rodney's chest was rising and falling. He couldn't tell anything, and for one terrifying moment, he was sure that they'd been too late, that Rodney was dead. Fear compressed his lungs like a metal band, leaving his breath stuck painfully in his throat as he reached out and placed his hand to the cool skin of Rodney's neck.
For a moment, there was nothing. Blinking fast against the sting in his eyes, John forced his trembling hand to still, slid his fingers a little lower, kept his touch light against Rodney's skin.
And then he felt, faint but regular, the slow beat of Rodney's pulse beneath his fingertips.
He blew out his breath, and the sudden relief felt like something inside him had cracked and given way. Shaking, his fingers skimmed along Rodney's jaw, across his cheeks and over his forehead, closing reflexively in Rodney's sweaty, tangled hair. One hand stayed there while the other moved down again, picking up speed as it slid down Rodney's bare arm, up along his side and over his chest, feeling the dry warmth of his black t-shirt, patting, making sure, and John couldn't remember making the decision to pick Rodney up but he must have, he must have, because the next thing he knew Rodney was slung across his shoulders, heavy and awkward and there, and John staggered under the weight. Staggered, and his fingers dug into Rodney's leg so hard he had to be leaving bruises, but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit, holding on as tight as he could.
Ronon shot him a quick, assessing glance as John stepped down from the altar, but didn't make a move to take Rodney away from him.
John had always known that Ronon was a smart man.
There was still no movement among the trees, so they started their way back to the Stargate, Teyla taking point and Ronon at their six while John stayed in the middle, carrying Rodney. It was a break of their standard formation, but John didn't give a damn. All he cared about was Rodney, limp and quiet across his shoulders, and that oppressing fear that had started to creep back in. What if the natives' drug hadn't just been a sedative? What if Rodney was slipping away even now? What if there had been… damage?
John swallowed around the lump in his throat, so caught up in taking one step after another that he didn't even notice at first how Rodney's leg was twitching. Then a soft moan came from the direction of his shoulder, and John stumbled to a stop, telling the others to, "Wait, I think he's-" while he crouched down and gently lowered Rodney to the ground. His shoulders and back were aching, but he couldn't feel anything but regret as Rodney's weight left them.
Beneath the trees, the red sunset was muted, leaves throwing patchy shadows on Rodney's pale face as his eyes fluttered open. For one terribly long moment, Rodney's gaze was hazy and dull, and John's heart leapt into his throat, pounding brain-damage, brain-damage, brain-damage until Rodney blinked and his eyes focussed on John, clear and sharp if a little confused.
"Wha-?" he started, then coughed, flailed to prop himself up on his elbows and sagged alarmingly to the right.
"Hey, easy there, buddy," John told him, grabbing his shoulder to steady him. Rodney blinked again, then looked plaintively past John at Teyla.
"The Altog declared you a messenger to their gods and attempted to make you their sacrifice for the season to tell of their accomplishments," she explained gently.
"They can deliver the message themselves now," Ronon said, looking viciously pleased.
"How are you feeling?" Teyla asked, and Rodney frowned.
"I… fine," he rasped, and coughed again. "Uh, thirsty?"
Teyla handed him her water bottle, which Rodney fumbled with briefly before he got it open and took several deep swallows. John tightened his fingers on Rodney's shoulder.
"Come on, buddy," he said, his voice just the teensiest bit unsteady, "let's go get you home."
Rodney lowered the water bottle and looked up at John. John held his gaze, unable to look away, fingers helplessly locked around Rodney's shoulder because, Jesus. They hadn't even realised at first that Rodney was missing, hadn't known which of the frequently-travelled paths from the village would be the one to take, hadn't thought they'd be fast enough. And then Rodney's body on the altar, soft and unmoving, a man with a blue-painted knife in his hand right next to him. John's bullet had killed him before he'd even finished turning around toward them, and then there'd been people yelling and shots being fired and Rodney, Rodney, lying so still as if the commotion didn't concern him at all.
As if he was gone already.
John swallowed, still staring at Rodney, feeling colder than he had that time on Jia. Rodney blindly handed the water bottle back to Teyla and reached up, his hand warm against the side of John's neck, over his collarbone. John's breath hitched in his throat, and Rodney's mouth turned down at one corner as he tugged at John, pulled him in. And John wasn't one for hugging, he wasn't, except there he was, practically crawling into Rodney's lap as he held on. His face was buried against Rodney's neck and he was shaking, they were shaking, half-sitting up, half-lying on the ground as they clung to each other.
John startled when he felt a broad hand between his shoulder blades, slim fingers carding softly through his hair. Ronon and Teyla, and god, he loved his team so much he thought it might break him. Anything, for any of them, but most of all for Rodney, who could have died today if they had been a little slower.
Rodney, who was stroking the small of his back and pressing little kisses against John's temple, and John blindly raised his face and kissed him back.
~~~
The team had a standard offworld formation: John would take point, with Teyla behind him to kick ass and take names left and right while also keeping an eye on Rodney. Ronon would have their six. It was a tried and true method to deal with trouble as swiftly as possible and John wasn't one to change a winning team. Especially not if said team was his own.
Except sometimes, on missions to friendly planets - or involving a lot of hacking their way through jungle or undergrowth - Ronon would be the one to take point and kill the greenery with a bored kind of determination, and John would bring up the rear, because that meant walking right behind Rodney. He'd keep his attentions half on their surroundings and half on Rodney's ass, trying to figure out if there'd be boxer shorts beneath the BDUs and if yes, which ones. Sometimes, Rodney would turn around and grin at him, and John would be helpless to do anything but grin right back. Sometimes, Teyla would tell dirty jokes and laugh at both their expressions. And sometimes, Ronon would call John to the front and have him swing the machete for a while, "to give your boyfriend a show for a change." Like now.
John jogged to the front, wincing as Ronon punched his shoulder on his way back. He grabbed the handle of the machete in a firm grip and started cutting, the rough fabric of his BDUs scratching over the skin of his ass as he worked.
Behind him, Rodney stumbled.
*
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3,400
Warnings: Some violence, spoilers for very early season 5
Summary: John didn't have anything against huddling up, per se. It was just that his team seemed determined to make him huddle up to Rodney.
Notes: This was written as a Christmas present for call_robin to the prompt of John/Rodney, sunset. Thanks go to neevebrody for the beta.
14 Valentines Essay: Day Nine: Athletics, in which bunnymcfoo writes this: Women and girls who are physically active have lower rates of heart disease, osteoporosis, and contract fewer STDs.
~~~
Fixation
The team had a standard offworld formation: John would take point, with Teyla behind him to kick ass and take names left and right while also keeping an eye on Rodney. Ronon would have their six. It was a tried and true method to deal with trouble as swiftly as possible and John wasn't one to change a winning team. Especially not if said team was his own.
Except sometimes, on missions to friendly planets - or involving a lot of hacking their way through jungle or undergrowth - Ronon would be the one to take point and kill the greenery with a bored kind of determination, and John would bring up the rear. Used to be he had Teyla watch their six so he could needle Rodney a little, but what with her having a baby and all, he felt a lot more comfortable with her in the middle. Where he could see her.
She hadn't liked it at first, seeing it as a lack of faith on his part. But he was the leader, he gave the orders, and he would damn well make sure she'd never disappear on them again. Teyla couldn't argue with that, though she probably thought he was being an overprotective ass.
He could live with that.
The thing about having the team's six - the beautiful, unforeseen thing - was that it meant John walking right behind Rodney. Rodney, who had exchanged the baggy khakis of their first year for snug, black BDUs that brought out his ass…ets in a way that John couldn't keep staring at no matter how often he told himself not to. He'd focus his attention on the undergrowth, trying to pierce the foliage with his attentive gaze… only to have said gaze drift back to the flex and stretch of Rodney's glutes; to Rodney's thick thighs; to the thin line the legs of Rodney's boxers drew just below his ass.
Like now. The Gate to P4X-389 was in the middle of a jungle, walls of dark green looming around them, and the path Ronon was chopping through it led uphill.
The view was great.
John had been sweeping his - attentive, definitely attentive - gaze over the broad leaves around them, checking more for bugs than for predators, but for the last minute or so it had been fixed on the back of Rodney's neck. Fresh sweat was making the fine brown hair curl at the nape, and John found to his horror that he wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull those hairs straight again, maybe brush the backs of his fingers over damp, heated skin. He felt his face heat up and looked away, but his own sweat kept running into his eyes and made him blink, Rodney's shoulders taunting him from the corner of his eye every time he did. They were nice shoulders, broad and flexing with each movement of Rodney's arms, shoulder blades stretching the black t-shirt in a way that made it look painted on. Then there was the back: Rodney's nice, solid back, the weirdly vulnerable dip of his spine leading down all the way to… there.
With a sigh, John gave in to the inevitable and let his gaze linger, resigning himself to ticking off his mental list of Things John Sheppard Shouldn't Be Staring At. Rodney's ass muscles bunching and relaxing under tight, dark fabric: check. Rodney's thighs working in a very - entirely objectively - appealing way: check. The thin line of Rodney's boxers bisecting his BDUs beneath criminally full cheeks: ch-
John stumbled, barely catching himself in time to avoid crashing into a tree. When he'd caught his footing and looked up again, he saw that his entire team had paused to stare at him. Ronon had lifted both his eyebrows, Rodney was pretty much just gawking, and Teyla… God, Teyla was wearing that little smirk, the one that said I know what you did just now, and your wacky ways amuse me greatly.
Shrugging uncomfortably, John made a vague sweeping motion at the ground behind him.
"Tree root," he lied, and Ronon's eyebrows lifted even higher as he observed the perfectly smooth patch of dirt in question. Teyla seemed one step from laughing at John, and Rodney kept gaping like John's sudden clumsiness didn't compute.
John felt yet more heat flow up into his cheeks and hated himself, just a little.
"Can we get a move on?" he asked more sharply than he'd intended to, and it was a bad idea anyway because once his team had turned around after a bit of griping from Rodney, John was left bringing up their rear again - the rear, he thought hysterically, and god, he didn't know where to look - and his face flushed until it was burning because that thin line, Rodney's boxers, the line of fabric beneath fabric… it wasn't there.
Rodney was going commando.
Or else, he was wearing briefs today, John thought, eyes helplessly glued to Rodney's ass. Yeah, that had to be it, except hadn't Rodney once said that briefs and hot weather made for sweating and chafing and rashes in delicate places and Ford had pulled a face and said that was seriously TMI, except John remembered. And it was pretty hot on P4X-389 and they'd known that in advance, so maybe no briefs after all, but of course it was Rodney's decision alone and none of John's business whether or not he wanted to go… go without... any… underwear…
John swallowed hard, twice. It didn't do him any good, because for some reason his throat stayed dry. The path must have suddenly become a lot steeper, or maybe the temperature had picked up, for he found himself breathing hard, breaking into a fresh sweat. His hand was shaking just a little as he wiped his forehead.
"Ronon, buddy," he called and broke into a light jog, past Rodney and Teyla, "what say I take point for a while?"
Really, it was that or go mad.
~~~
P3X-708 - Jia - was caught in the midst of winter. Ronon kept needling McKay - "You ever hunt in the snow, McKay? I hear Canada's good for hunting." "Oh, shut up, the only hunting I did in Canada was for better chocolate than Hershey's." - while Teyla caught up with some childhood friends, possible trading partners for Atlantis. A couple of kids taught John how to play chie-eh, a game that involved wooden rings and snowballs and a lot of yelling. In return, he told them all about Ewoks and how Ripley kicked the Aliens' ass, To Be Continued.
It was fun; a much-needed break from running for their lives or hiking through bug-infested swamps for nothing. Even McKay was smiling despite having nothing to tinker with. It was probably the food. The Jiam hunted a deer-like creature with meat so tender it melted on the tongue, and John watched with slightly embarrassed indulgence as both McKay and Ronon stuffed their mouths like they hadn't eaten for a week, much to the villagers' amusement.
The whole experience could have almost been relaxing, except there were also the nights to deal with and John had pretty much reached the end of his endurance.
Every evening was the same: there was food and drink and good-natured ribbing, Teyla's cheeks flushed and Ronon's laugh rumbled through the hall, and eventually the assembly would break up and everyone would go to bed. And that was where the trouble started, because the Jiam - living among rocks and water but trees, not so much - were notoriously short on wood and only the kids and the elderly got heated rooms. Everyone else just had to huddle up.
John didn't have anything against huddling up, per se. It was just that his team seemed determined to make him huddle up to Rodney.
The very edge of their huge bed, the place closest to the door, had been claimed by Ronon. John hadn't argued; as much as he prided himself on his reflexes, Ronon was eight years younger than him. Plus, the guy had a blaster. Next to Ronon, in a cosy spot because she was a woman and also a mom - not that John would ever tell her that; he might be old-fashioned but he wasn't suicidal - was Teyla. Next to her, in the second of the getting-warmth-from-both-sides spots, lay Rodney, who would whine all night if he got so much as chilly toes, and that left John pressed against the wall. Or Rodney.
He honestly wasn't sure which would be the lesser evil, so John did what every sensible man in his position would have done: he ran. Through the Jiam's fortress and their inner courtyard, around the outer walls and along the path by the river, finally detouring over a low hill when he still wasn't ready for bed.
There he discovered that snow, loose rocks and jogging weren't a good combination.
By the time he came back, cold and tired and aching, and in a spectacularly bad mood, his team had already settled down for the night, the room barely illuminated by two long candles propped on waist-high prickets. John was tempted to toss his wet gear into a corner to wake them up - serve them right for not waiting for him - but Ronon would kill him and Teyla would make him talk about it while Rodney watched everything with huge blue eyes, and John wasn't quite ready for any of those things. Especially the talking. So he undressed slowly, wincing at each movement that pulled at his bruises, until he was left only in his socks, boxers and t-shirt.
He'd wanted to sleep in BDUs and sweater, but his whole team had stared at him like he was nuts the first night, so he had relented. Curse them all.
The frigid air made him shiver, feet nearly freezing on the bare stone floor, so he rubbed his arms for a little warmth - ow - and climbed into bed, crawling over his team's feet until he'd reached the wall. Rodney had pretty much mummified himself with the blanket, so John yanked at it until Rodney gave up John's share with a mumbled protest, pressing his nose against Teyla's neck as he settled down again. John stared at them, then he scooted underneath the thin fabric, feeling faint warmth radiating from Rodney's body even though he was careful not to touch him anywhere. He lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and counted stones. After he'd reached 368 for the third time, he turned his head and watched the candle flames flicker. His team was breathing evenly, three unmoving lumps in the semi-darkness.
John was cold.
He scooted a little closer to Rodney. There couldn't have been more than a hair's breadth of space between them, and slowly, John's right side was warming up a little. He sighed.
His left side felt even more chilled than before. John didn't move. Next to him, Rodney snuffled a little sigh into Teyla's neck, pressing even closer to her. John imagined Rodney's arms tightening around her, Rodney's broad figure curled around her slim body, his warmth seeping all the way down to her bones. John's own body was cooling again with the added space Rodney had put between them.
He didn't move.
~~~
On M8F-9F3, two suns were setting at once. The hazy light painted a flush on Rodney's cheeks; caressed his skin and dyed it a reddish gold; caught in his eyelashes and threw fuzzy shadows between his curled fingers. It made him look ethereal, almost breathtaking; it would have been beautiful if he hadn't been unconscious.
In the soft light, John couldn't even tell if Rodney was still breathing.
Rodney's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as if he had been cut off mid-word. He was completely, utterly still, laid out on the crude altar like an offering. The natives had stripped him of his gear, leaving him in t-shirt, BDUs and shoes. He looked vulnerable, loose-limbed and lax. And that was so profoundly wrong it made John's throat ache.
Rodney wasn't supposed to look vulnerable. Not like that.
Bloodied mud stuck to the soles of John's boots as he jogged up to the altar, hands closed around the P-90 so tight it hurt. There were bodies strewn on the ground, but he didn't look at them any more than he needed to make sure he didn't step on them. Teyla and Ronon still had their guns up, carefully watching the tree line of the small clearing as John made his way up the steps. He stopped next to Rodney, his fingers refusing to release their hold of his gun as he stared down at him. He couldn't tell if Rodney's chest was rising and falling. He couldn't tell anything, and for one terrifying moment, he was sure that they'd been too late, that Rodney was dead. Fear compressed his lungs like a metal band, leaving his breath stuck painfully in his throat as he reached out and placed his hand to the cool skin of Rodney's neck.
For a moment, there was nothing. Blinking fast against the sting in his eyes, John forced his trembling hand to still, slid his fingers a little lower, kept his touch light against Rodney's skin.
And then he felt, faint but regular, the slow beat of Rodney's pulse beneath his fingertips.
He blew out his breath, and the sudden relief felt like something inside him had cracked and given way. Shaking, his fingers skimmed along Rodney's jaw, across his cheeks and over his forehead, closing reflexively in Rodney's sweaty, tangled hair. One hand stayed there while the other moved down again, picking up speed as it slid down Rodney's bare arm, up along his side and over his chest, feeling the dry warmth of his black t-shirt, patting, making sure, and John couldn't remember making the decision to pick Rodney up but he must have, he must have, because the next thing he knew Rodney was slung across his shoulders, heavy and awkward and there, and John staggered under the weight. Staggered, and his fingers dug into Rodney's leg so hard he had to be leaving bruises, but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit, holding on as tight as he could.
Ronon shot him a quick, assessing glance as John stepped down from the altar, but didn't make a move to take Rodney away from him.
John had always known that Ronon was a smart man.
There was still no movement among the trees, so they started their way back to the Stargate, Teyla taking point and Ronon at their six while John stayed in the middle, carrying Rodney. It was a break of their standard formation, but John didn't give a damn. All he cared about was Rodney, limp and quiet across his shoulders, and that oppressing fear that had started to creep back in. What if the natives' drug hadn't just been a sedative? What if Rodney was slipping away even now? What if there had been… damage?
John swallowed around the lump in his throat, so caught up in taking one step after another that he didn't even notice at first how Rodney's leg was twitching. Then a soft moan came from the direction of his shoulder, and John stumbled to a stop, telling the others to, "Wait, I think he's-" while he crouched down and gently lowered Rodney to the ground. His shoulders and back were aching, but he couldn't feel anything but regret as Rodney's weight left them.
Beneath the trees, the red sunset was muted, leaves throwing patchy shadows on Rodney's pale face as his eyes fluttered open. For one terribly long moment, Rodney's gaze was hazy and dull, and John's heart leapt into his throat, pounding brain-damage, brain-damage, brain-damage until Rodney blinked and his eyes focussed on John, clear and sharp if a little confused.
"Wha-?" he started, then coughed, flailed to prop himself up on his elbows and sagged alarmingly to the right.
"Hey, easy there, buddy," John told him, grabbing his shoulder to steady him. Rodney blinked again, then looked plaintively past John at Teyla.
"The Altog declared you a messenger to their gods and attempted to make you their sacrifice for the season to tell of their accomplishments," she explained gently.
"They can deliver the message themselves now," Ronon said, looking viciously pleased.
"How are you feeling?" Teyla asked, and Rodney frowned.
"I… fine," he rasped, and coughed again. "Uh, thirsty?"
Teyla handed him her water bottle, which Rodney fumbled with briefly before he got it open and took several deep swallows. John tightened his fingers on Rodney's shoulder.
"Come on, buddy," he said, his voice just the teensiest bit unsteady, "let's go get you home."
Rodney lowered the water bottle and looked up at John. John held his gaze, unable to look away, fingers helplessly locked around Rodney's shoulder because, Jesus. They hadn't even realised at first that Rodney was missing, hadn't known which of the frequently-travelled paths from the village would be the one to take, hadn't thought they'd be fast enough. And then Rodney's body on the altar, soft and unmoving, a man with a blue-painted knife in his hand right next to him. John's bullet had killed him before he'd even finished turning around toward them, and then there'd been people yelling and shots being fired and Rodney, Rodney, lying so still as if the commotion didn't concern him at all.
As if he was gone already.
John swallowed, still staring at Rodney, feeling colder than he had that time on Jia. Rodney blindly handed the water bottle back to Teyla and reached up, his hand warm against the side of John's neck, over his collarbone. John's breath hitched in his throat, and Rodney's mouth turned down at one corner as he tugged at John, pulled him in. And John wasn't one for hugging, he wasn't, except there he was, practically crawling into Rodney's lap as he held on. His face was buried against Rodney's neck and he was shaking, they were shaking, half-sitting up, half-lying on the ground as they clung to each other.
John startled when he felt a broad hand between his shoulder blades, slim fingers carding softly through his hair. Ronon and Teyla, and god, he loved his team so much he thought it might break him. Anything, for any of them, but most of all for Rodney, who could have died today if they had been a little slower.
Rodney, who was stroking the small of his back and pressing little kisses against John's temple, and John blindly raised his face and kissed him back.
~~~
The team had a standard offworld formation: John would take point, with Teyla behind him to kick ass and take names left and right while also keeping an eye on Rodney. Ronon would have their six. It was a tried and true method to deal with trouble as swiftly as possible and John wasn't one to change a winning team. Especially not if said team was his own.
Except sometimes, on missions to friendly planets - or involving a lot of hacking their way through jungle or undergrowth - Ronon would be the one to take point and kill the greenery with a bored kind of determination, and John would bring up the rear, because that meant walking right behind Rodney. He'd keep his attentions half on their surroundings and half on Rodney's ass, trying to figure out if there'd be boxer shorts beneath the BDUs and if yes, which ones. Sometimes, Rodney would turn around and grin at him, and John would be helpless to do anything but grin right back. Sometimes, Teyla would tell dirty jokes and laugh at both their expressions. And sometimes, Ronon would call John to the front and have him swing the machete for a while, "to give your boyfriend a show for a change." Like now.
John jogged to the front, wincing as Ronon punched his shoulder on his way back. He grabbed the handle of the machete in a firm grip and started cutting, the rough fabric of his BDUs scratching over the skin of his ass as he worked.
Behind him, Rodney stumbled.
*