Fic: Near, At Hand (Imminent)
A little longer this time. 1200 words, no spoilers. John and Rodney on just another planet, being a little cranky. And maybe a little sweet. :)
Thank you to kageygirl for looking this over.
P85-45B--Alerisia--isn't a desert world. But the settlement isn't a welcoming resort on the slopes of Lake Tahoe, either. A hot wind constantly slithers through the seed-heavy grasses of the surrounding plains, occasionally gusting against the thin planks of the homesteads before dying back down to a sullen sough. John plucks at the neck of his T-shirt, trying to find some relief, but the wind does nothing to mitigate the power of the midday sun. The heat is at odds with the chill prickling the back of his neck; the residents of this little village have retired for an afternoon siesta, and he can feel the distrust in their stares, even though he can't see their faces pressed tight against the cloudy panes.
He wants to be gone. Now.
"Are you done yet, McKay?" he asks, even though he knows it's the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Rodney rears back, away from the DHD. "Excuse me? Am I done? Hmm, let me see. In the thirty seconds since you last asked, I've managed to come up with a Unified Theory of Everything, discovered a cure to cancer, and figured out how to wipe the Wraith out of existence, so excuse me if I've been too damn busy to actually fix this thing."
"Right," John mutters. Egging Rodney on towards greater heights in times of crisis is something John excels at, but he knows better than to get in the way of honest work. Usually. He can't quite force an apology out of his throat, though, not when sweat is trickling down the crack of his ass and microfine grit is coating his eyelashes. "Right."
Rodney's already dismissed him out of hand. He's wrist deep in the guts of the DHD, parts not needing his attention fanned out around his legs like offal chucked to the ground. John sighs and adjusts his tac vest, trying to relieve the chafing over his shoulder blade. He knows he's being antsy. But he's had a knot in his belly all morning, a sense of something momentous coming, and he's learned that ignoring that feeling is as smart as ignoring Aunt Esther when her knees predicted rain.
He starts to reach for his radio--and stops, curling his fingers hard into his palm. Ronon and Teyla don't need him bugging them anymore than Rodney does. He lowers his hand, forcing himself to wait until the next scheduled check-in. The wind rattles hard behind him. John glances over his shoulder, but no, no pitchforks, no zombies, no Wraith. Just sun-bleached shacks and his overactive imagination.
"Hand me that," Rodney says, wriggling his finger at the toolkit by his knee. John crouches down, takes his best guess, and passes over the tiny screwdriver that seems to be Rodney's favorite, given how often John's seen him use it. Rodney takes it with a grunt that John takes for a thank you. John watches him probe at a tiny crack in the surface, fingers as acute as any instrument as they measure tensile strength and give. Rodney sets the tip of the screwdriver against the crack and starts to pry.
"Son of a--" Rodney yelps as the screwdriver skids into his finger. John reaches out, but Rodney's already standing, shaking the pain away. He stomps away from the DHD, then marches back towards John, hand held high. "This is ridiculous! I didn't come to this galaxy to play Maytag repairman all day!"
Part of John can sympathize. He'd much rather be exploring Atlantis or taking out a hive ship, himself. But the small, meaner part of him, the part that's cranky and on edge, is in control right now. "At least the Maytag repairman lives up to his reputation."
Rodney opens his mouth. Then he narrows his eyes. "Oh, yes, very clever. But pricking my ego isn't going to make me work any faster, Colonel. I'm doing what I can, under the circumstances." Then he sighs, the heat of his irritation no match for the swelter bearing down on them. "It's just... I'm tired and I'm hungry and now how am I supposed to work like this?"
Rodney's pout is truly pathetic. He holds up his finger, nearly shoving it into John's face in an attempt to show off his terrible injury. John snags him by the wrist out of self-defense. The finger is scraped, the skin roughened like a fine file has been drawn against the grain. But there's no blood. Just a dew drop of clear plasma welling up next to the cuticle.
"Well, what do you want me to do about?" John asks, too tired to really snap. "Kiss it and make it better?"
"It'd be more than you've done so far today," Rodney sulks.
The ability of the body to respond before the brain can process all the facts, for the muscles to react quickly in a time of need, is a very important skill for a pilot, for a soldier--as long as thought is right there to direct those reflexes down a productive path. Time slows as John brings Rodney's finger to his lips, and he knows that conscious thought is lagging too far behind today. That there's nothing he can do to pull up out of the dive he's sent himself into, nothing left for thought to do but sit back and watch as he settles the pad of Rodney's finger against his parted lips. So he closes his eyes as he draws the tip in. His body is in control as he soothes the scrape with the wetness of his own mouth. As he laves away the tiny spill of fluid.
Time snaps back. John swallows. Then he draws Rodney's finger down, away from his mouth. He lowers their hands until he can let Rodney's drop away from his and into the pull of gravity.
"Better?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. All the moisture in his mouth is gone, and he wonders how he even managed to dampen Rodney's skin. He clears his throat, but he doesn't try to ask again.
Rodney nods, and keeps on nodding. His eyes are beyond wide; the sweat that's broken out on his upper lip makes John's mouth even more parched. "Much," Rodney croaks. "Yes, I'm... Better, thank you."
"Good," John says, and Rodney finally stops nodding. "So, uh, you can get back to what you were doing, right?"
"Wha-- Yes. Yes, of course." Rodney swallows hard, nods one more time, and then turns around to crouch down beside the DHD.
John takes a huge breath, letting it out open-mouthed to cover the sound. He still doesn't know what he was thinking. But his lips remember the weight of Rodney's finger, his tongue the iron-sour grit coating Rodney's skin.
Rodney's already deeply engrossed by his work, head tilted at an odd angle so he can peer up at the underside of the DHD. A coin-sized patch of skin just below his right ear has started to pinken. John wonders if Rodney missed the spot when he lotioned up earlier, or if SPF 100 just can't hold up to a little perspiration. He steps forward until the shadow of his body blocks out the worst of the sun.
Rodney shifts, just a little, until his calf is snug against John's boot.
The knot in John's gut eases; the anxiety that's been crawling under his skin all morning settles into a pleasant hum of anticipation. When the wind gusts again, John relaxes into it, buoyed by a surety that his something momentous has already come to pass.
Thank you to kageygirl for looking this over.
P85-45B--Alerisia--isn't a desert world. But the settlement isn't a welcoming resort on the slopes of Lake Tahoe, either. A hot wind constantly slithers through the seed-heavy grasses of the surrounding plains, occasionally gusting against the thin planks of the homesteads before dying back down to a sullen sough. John plucks at the neck of his T-shirt, trying to find some relief, but the wind does nothing to mitigate the power of the midday sun. The heat is at odds with the chill prickling the back of his neck; the residents of this little village have retired for an afternoon siesta, and he can feel the distrust in their stares, even though he can't see their faces pressed tight against the cloudy panes.
He wants to be gone. Now.
"Are you done yet, McKay?" he asks, even though he knows it's the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Rodney rears back, away from the DHD. "Excuse me? Am I done? Hmm, let me see. In the thirty seconds since you last asked, I've managed to come up with a Unified Theory of Everything, discovered a cure to cancer, and figured out how to wipe the Wraith out of existence, so excuse me if I've been too damn busy to actually fix this thing."
"Right," John mutters. Egging Rodney on towards greater heights in times of crisis is something John excels at, but he knows better than to get in the way of honest work. Usually. He can't quite force an apology out of his throat, though, not when sweat is trickling down the crack of his ass and microfine grit is coating his eyelashes. "Right."
Rodney's already dismissed him out of hand. He's wrist deep in the guts of the DHD, parts not needing his attention fanned out around his legs like offal chucked to the ground. John sighs and adjusts his tac vest, trying to relieve the chafing over his shoulder blade. He knows he's being antsy. But he's had a knot in his belly all morning, a sense of something momentous coming, and he's learned that ignoring that feeling is as smart as ignoring Aunt Esther when her knees predicted rain.
He starts to reach for his radio--and stops, curling his fingers hard into his palm. Ronon and Teyla don't need him bugging them anymore than Rodney does. He lowers his hand, forcing himself to wait until the next scheduled check-in. The wind rattles hard behind him. John glances over his shoulder, but no, no pitchforks, no zombies, no Wraith. Just sun-bleached shacks and his overactive imagination.
"Hand me that," Rodney says, wriggling his finger at the toolkit by his knee. John crouches down, takes his best guess, and passes over the tiny screwdriver that seems to be Rodney's favorite, given how often John's seen him use it. Rodney takes it with a grunt that John takes for a thank you. John watches him probe at a tiny crack in the surface, fingers as acute as any instrument as they measure tensile strength and give. Rodney sets the tip of the screwdriver against the crack and starts to pry.
"Son of a--" Rodney yelps as the screwdriver skids into his finger. John reaches out, but Rodney's already standing, shaking the pain away. He stomps away from the DHD, then marches back towards John, hand held high. "This is ridiculous! I didn't come to this galaxy to play Maytag repairman all day!"
Part of John can sympathize. He'd much rather be exploring Atlantis or taking out a hive ship, himself. But the small, meaner part of him, the part that's cranky and on edge, is in control right now. "At least the Maytag repairman lives up to his reputation."
Rodney opens his mouth. Then he narrows his eyes. "Oh, yes, very clever. But pricking my ego isn't going to make me work any faster, Colonel. I'm doing what I can, under the circumstances." Then he sighs, the heat of his irritation no match for the swelter bearing down on them. "It's just... I'm tired and I'm hungry and now how am I supposed to work like this?"
Rodney's pout is truly pathetic. He holds up his finger, nearly shoving it into John's face in an attempt to show off his terrible injury. John snags him by the wrist out of self-defense. The finger is scraped, the skin roughened like a fine file has been drawn against the grain. But there's no blood. Just a dew drop of clear plasma welling up next to the cuticle.
"Well, what do you want me to do about?" John asks, too tired to really snap. "Kiss it and make it better?"
"It'd be more than you've done so far today," Rodney sulks.
The ability of the body to respond before the brain can process all the facts, for the muscles to react quickly in a time of need, is a very important skill for a pilot, for a soldier--as long as thought is right there to direct those reflexes down a productive path. Time slows as John brings Rodney's finger to his lips, and he knows that conscious thought is lagging too far behind today. That there's nothing he can do to pull up out of the dive he's sent himself into, nothing left for thought to do but sit back and watch as he settles the pad of Rodney's finger against his parted lips. So he closes his eyes as he draws the tip in. His body is in control as he soothes the scrape with the wetness of his own mouth. As he laves away the tiny spill of fluid.
Time snaps back. John swallows. Then he draws Rodney's finger down, away from his mouth. He lowers their hands until he can let Rodney's drop away from his and into the pull of gravity.
"Better?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. All the moisture in his mouth is gone, and he wonders how he even managed to dampen Rodney's skin. He clears his throat, but he doesn't try to ask again.
Rodney nods, and keeps on nodding. His eyes are beyond wide; the sweat that's broken out on his upper lip makes John's mouth even more parched. "Much," Rodney croaks. "Yes, I'm... Better, thank you."
"Good," John says, and Rodney finally stops nodding. "So, uh, you can get back to what you were doing, right?"
"Wha-- Yes. Yes, of course." Rodney swallows hard, nods one more time, and then turns around to crouch down beside the DHD.
John takes a huge breath, letting it out open-mouthed to cover the sound. He still doesn't know what he was thinking. But his lips remember the weight of Rodney's finger, his tongue the iron-sour grit coating Rodney's skin.
Rodney's already deeply engrossed by his work, head tilted at an odd angle so he can peer up at the underside of the DHD. A coin-sized patch of skin just below his right ear has started to pinken. John wonders if Rodney missed the spot when he lotioned up earlier, or if SPF 100 just can't hold up to a little perspiration. He steps forward until the shadow of his body blocks out the worst of the sun.
Rodney shifts, just a little, until his calf is snug against John's boot.
The knot in John's gut eases; the anxiety that's been crawling under his skin all morning settles into a pleasant hum of anticipation. When the wind gusts again, John relaxes into it, buoyed by a surety that his something momentous has already come to pass.