Fic: Merry Little Christmas (McKay/Sheppard, G)
Title:A Merry Little Christmas
Author: kidenagain
Recipient: resqueln
Pairing: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Rating: Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, but don't I wish.
Summary: All John really wants for Christmas is to be left alone. Unfortunately, things rarely turn out the way he plans.
-o-
Growing up, John had never believed in Santa Claus. There'd been the pretense of him though, milk and cookies left out on the shelf of the fireplace between Christmas stockings embroidered Johnny and Dave. But after the sun slipped behind the mountainous horizon on Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night when they should have been tucked away in their beds dreaming, John and his brother would sit together on the staircase leading down to the den. Hands wrapped white-knuckled around the polished wood, they'd press their faces between the spokes of the banister and watch their parents in the flickering light of the tree.
His mother loved Christmas. They'd listen to Bing Crosby and Bobby Vinton, nightdress billowing as she kneeled to place every present just so, wrapped green and red with gold and silver bows the size of John's head. By the time Margaret Whiting and Johnny Mercer began crooning their way through Baby, It's Cold Outside, their father had always eaten half the cookies, poured the milk down the kitchen sink, and they'd fall together in a slow dance in front of a dying fire. His mother had loved Christmas, and if his father had ever loved anything in his life, he'd loved her.
They would watch until Dave's blinks grew sluggish, sleep creeping up on him despite the excitement of the morning to come, and John would bump his smaller shoulder with his own to jostle him awake. Pull him up the stairs and back to bed.
He'd always go back though. To watch the rest of the dance, the way his father's hand would wrap carefully around his mother's thin wrist and pull her hand to his mouth, a brush of lips against her delicate knuckles.
She'd been sick even then, though John was too young to know it. Her hair, just as dark and wild as his own, pooling around her shoulders where his father's fingers could get lost in it. Pull her close and whisper things John was always just out of range to hear.
After, the housemaid would eat the cookies. Place the gifts. There'd been music, but it never seemed to travel the same, never hit his ears quite right. It was only after she was gone that John had wanted to believe in Santa Claus, had wished for something unknown and just out of reach. That if he looked hard enough, through his bedroom window, at the dark in the corner of his eye, through the spokes of the banister, there'd be something there. Something warm.
There never was though. So he'd never had much use for the holiday.
Atlantis in Pegasus had been easy. Two or three non-denominational celebrations a year, nothing to drag unwanted thoughts to the surface. No one to miss him between the not-quite eggnog and tables of cardboard cookies. Avoidance was never seen as such under piles of paperwork, leave requests, Wraith and Replicators and Michael, oh my. Christmas had always come and gone just as it had for the thirty years before, without a sound.
Atlantis on Earth wasn't the same. Wreaths and artificial trees to get in his way outside every transporter, twinkle lights and mistletoe. Two hundred people now with wifi streaming novelty songs about dead grandmothers and donkeys, driving John so close to insanity that Lorne had been forced more than once to suggest he relieve himself of his sidearm.
Maybe if Teyla and Ronon were still there it'd be easier to get through it. Hole up in the gym or rec-room three with a stack of DVDs and wait out the storm. Not that John blamed either one of them for going back to Pegasus, Atlantis was stuck in bureaucratic hell and Teyla had left Torren and Kanaan behind with no promise of when the city might be returning. And Ronon, well, he'd just been bored. John understood. He'd have gone with him, if he could.
Instead he was left behind, wishing there was an actual war on Christmas that he could volunteer for. One with guns. F-302s. John daydreamed about the casualty count, dancing in front of his eyes like sugarplums, a field of burning evergreens, tinsel covering the wreckage like smoke.
Okay, maybe that was a bit much. And possibly the thought that drove him into taking his own leave, sidestepping questions about his plans whenever Rodney asked. Jeannie had sunk her teeth into him back in October with demands for him to eat vegan food and witness her new baby bump in person, Rodney fresh off a seemingly amicable break up with Keller that had something to do with with the likelihood of maintaining a functional relationship across galaxies. Atlantis would, eventually, be going back, and Jennifer wouldn't. There'd never been a question of Rodney's plans. John couldn't blame her for ripping the bandage off sooner rather than later.
Rodney's holiday misfortune, however, wouldn't become John's. And he could see the question in his eyes, which would be more of a McKay brand demand like Jeannie's, one that would drag John to Canada with him. So sidestepping it had to be, John packing a light bag as Rodney shifted his weight from foot to foot in his doorway.
"I do have plans," John answered, to a question Rodney hadn't asked. "Roasting chestnuts, holly involving, caroling type plans."
Rodney only hummed, a disbelieving sort of sound coming from the back of his throat.
"You know, you could -"
So much for avoidance. Those plans never really worked with Rodney anyway. He should have known better.
"I'm not, Rodney," John said, stuffing another black shirt he wouldn't need into his bag. "Plans."
"I'm sure," Rodney agreed. His voice so heavy with sarcasm John thought of pitching him headfirst off another balcony. "I'll leave you to it then." John hadn't bothered to look up but there'd been a clacking sound and when Rodney was gone, John's eyes fell to a set of keys on his dresser that hadn't been there before.
-
It was weird. Beyond weird, really, racing fast towards absurd, but John found himself dropping his duffle just inside the door to Rodney's apartment anyway. He'd only been there once before, just killing time before a drive back to Colorado, but it was familiar in a way that not many places John ever wound up had been. As far as he knew, Rodney hadn't been there in over a year, since his last mandatory meeting at Nellis, but his apartment felt lived-in. Magazines piled on the coffee table, a clean coffee cup sitting in the dish rack as though waiting for a brewing pot to finish, a jacket thrown haphazardly over an armchair.
John kicked off his boots by the door and padded into the living room, losing his footing for just a moment on the smooth hardwood, before collapsing onto the couch. The very worn couch, with a very Rodney-shaped indent. John would bet dollars to donuts that most of the time Rodney had spent there he'd never even made it to his bedroom. Just passed out in front of old science fiction reruns, a magazine over his face. A cat curled next to his head on the arm rest. No wonder he had a bad back.
Leaning forward to get a better look at the outdated DVD collection, it was a long shot he'd find Die Hard among the options, but it was worth a glance. It was Christmas, after all. A small, rough chuckle fell out of him and John got to his feet, sliding over to the shelf. Of course Rodney would have every possible variation of a Batman movie or television show. And Batman Returns was Christmasy. He'd take Michael Keaton's Dark Knight over Val Kilmer or George Clooney's every day of the week. Plus only an idiot would turn down Michelle Pfeiffer in a catsuit.
John was watching, his head titling just a bit, remembering the movie a lot differently than it seemed to actually be, as milk spilled down Michelle Pfeiffer's neck, when Rodney burst through the door loudly, his arms filled with shopping bags.
"Oh, good," Rodney said, dumping the bags onto the kitchen table. "You're here. Plans, indeed."
Of course, John thought, sighing as he banged his head against the back of the couch. How had he not seen this coming?
He never sees anything coming.
"This is entrapment," John groused.
"This is absolutely not entrapment," Rodney said dismissively, shaking a can of coffee at him happily. "I accidentally dropped my keys during our last talk, and you took it upon yourself. It more closely resembles breaking and entering. Though, technically, there was no breaking involved. Semantics."
Standing up, John began to slide into the kitchen, stopping only to toe off his socks in the most dramatically irritated way possible. Just to illustrate his currently deep and powerful hatred for everything Rodney chose to be. Which would be impossible to express properly while gliding.
"For someone so thoroughly misanthropic on his best days, you sure don't seem to understand I'd wanted to be alone," John said, even as he started to help Rodney unpack. "Alone as in by myself. As in without you around."
"Yes, because I'm sure there were no vacancies at the countless hotels across the country. Or, say, a spare room at your brother's. You were left only with one choice, my apartment, in which the idea that I could possibly show up, to my own apartment, never crossed your mind."
It hadn't, actually. John assumed Rodney was just being nice and understanding, with not an ulterior motive to be found. Which, now that he thought about it, was ridiculous. Those qualities had been tenuous to say the least and disappeared right along with Keller. Something that John had been happy about at the time, finding the sweeter, kinder, gentler Rodney McKay downright creepy, but was sure missing it all now.
"Don't glower at me," he said, lifting the only bag still full. "I brought take-out. Chinese food. And if you honestly thought I'd let you sit in a dark room brooding about ornaments, snowman themed wrapping paper, flying reindeer, or whatever it is you hate so much about Christmas, I'm going to have to spend the evening evaluating why I consider you intelligent. Which isn't something I want to do, because Michelle Pfeiffer is wearing a catsuit not ten feet away from us."
"Do you even have to breathe anymore or has all that condescension somehow allowed you to evolve beyond the use of oxygen?"
Rodney just smiled, a ghost of a genuine laugh on his crooked mouth, and gestured towards a drawer. As listlessly as he could manage, John grabbed two forks and followed Rodney to the couch, mourning the comfort of the indent as the Rodney who'd made it plopped down.
It wasn't as though he didn't understand. If Rodney had been the one lying about plans, if John had thought he was the one who'd be sitting alone in the dark on a holiday that, truthfully, neither of them liked very much but still seemed to carry an air of do not spend alone at any cost, John might have found himself doing the same. The thought was there, nagging at the back of his head, that he wanted to be angry. Wanted to leave and find one of those countless hotels and abandon Rodney to his Chinese food, his apartment, and Batman Returns. To drink as much whiskey as he could stomach and pass out on an uncomfortable mattress in the middle of nowhere, sleep until the New Year.
But he wasn't. Not really. Watching as Rodney unpacked the food and silently began to dig in, pushing a few containers in John's direction across the coffee table, it was only gladness seeded in the center of his chest.
"It was underhanded," John said eventually.
"And just assume that I'm sorry, although I'm not, and move on," Rodney shrugged, spearing a broccoli floret and popping it into his mouth. "I assure you my motivation wasn't entirely altruistic. Your insistence on being, perhaps literally, the most stubborn man in two galaxies saved me from yet another thrilling round of Tofurkey."
"I'm stubborn. Right. Sure, buddy."
Rodney dropped his container abruptly, forcing John to finally look up at him. A hand ran through his ever-thinning hair, puffing it up, and with his eyes glued to the ceiling he sighed. Regretfully, John took note of the familiar change in Rodney's body language. The sort that signaled the veil of their standard banter was dropping, and that Rodney was tired. It twisted in John's gut and he braced himself for whatever uncomfortably true thing it was Rodney was about to say.
"It's Christmas, John," he said softly and a little unsure, meeting John's eyes. "And I care about it possibly even less than you do. But - but you were deliberately making it impossible for me to invite you to Jeannie's. Even if I'd have gone, I would have been - you would have been sitting here alone and miserable. It would have been an extremely distracting piece of information. She would have noticed, argued with me about not being present even when I'm there, and -."
"It's fine," John said, cutting him off uncomfortably. "It's," nice, I'm grateful, you didn't have to but I'm inexplicably glad you're here, "good. You know, thanks."
Shoulders slumping as the rest of his tension drained away, a hint of a smile tugged at his mouth and his eyes crinkled at the corners, a soft, familiar look on his face that Rodney only wore when he was genuinely happy. The thought took John by surprise; that he knew Rodney's faces, could catalog them, could strip Rodney down piece by piece and know exactly how he felt, how he worked, as easily as his sidearm. And it felt just as dangerous, a familiar weight pressed against him, loaded and ready, something that just the smallest of touches could ignite.
"What -," he started, feeling breathless and wild for something he couldn't quite see yet, "uh, the boxes. You brought in boxes?"
"Ah, yes!" Rodney said, damn near gleefully, jumping out of his seat and rushing back into the kitchen. "I'd almost forgotten. Presents."
"Rodney, no," John got up on his knees, watching him from the couch as he procured the plain white boxes, "no presents. I didn't - I wasn't really expecting you, I don't have -."
"So?" he said, hurrying back and thrusting the packages into John's hands. "As I understand it, reciprocation isn't to be expected. And you probably give terrible gifts, anyway. Just open them."
With a reluctant sigh, John sat back on the couch and did as he was told, opening the larger of the two boxes first. Hidden behind a few sheets of wrinkled tissue paper, was a sweater. The ugliest sweater John had maybe ever seen in his entire life. Candy apple red and about two sizes too big for Ronon, the sweater was decorated with cheerfully bright figures. Santa heads and cartoon reindeer, candy canes, Christmas trees, and gingerbread men. Bells. Actual bells glued on, that jingled as John held it out in front of him.
"This is the most offensive thing I've ever seen," John said flatly, peering around at Rodney.
"Isn't it?" Rodney said, his voice light and amused. "Tacky as hell. I thought of you immediately."
"I'm touched," John grinned sardonically, but almost, maybe, definitely meaning it. Without waiting for a reply, John pushed forward to get a laugh, tugging the sweater on over his t-shirt, the box it had come in falling to the floor.
"No, don't wear it!" Rodney said, torn between laughter and shrill horror. "For the love of -."
"Nope," John laughed and raised his finger, wagging it in Rodney's direction. "Looking at it all night is your punishment for buying it. Actually, I might never take it off. Just strap my vest right over it."
"Everything backfires with you."
"What can I say?"
"Hopefully nothing," Rodney answered with a frown. His eyes though, John couldn't help but notice, were bright. Pride, John thought, feeling dazed, he made me laugh and he's proud of himself. The look on Rodney's face was the same as if he'd figured out how to make a new piece of tech work - some mixture of wonder and adoration that struck John like a sucker punch.
On Christmas mornings, his mother would sit on the floor with him and Dave, directing them towards the best gifts, as their father sat back on their ancient settee. She'd be watching them, but he was always watching her with a look John could never quite decipher on his face. A look he'd never really understood until this very moment, seeing it on Rodney's face. Making John laugh.
That's love. The realization coming easy, as if it had been there all along.
His throat suddenly dry, John swallowed thickly and turned away towards the second box. He opened it without a word, his breathing deep and even, until the item fell gently into his palm.
"Rodney," John breathed, because it was all he could do. It was a ferris wheel. Three inches tall at the most, crafted finely from wood with tin carriages, all of it detailed beautifully. It felt old in his hand, looked old, and John felt suddenly as though all the air had been sucked from the room.
"It's a joke," Rodney said quickly, breaking John's somewhat prolonged silence. "For your desk. Something so the Marines take you a bit more seriously."
But it wasn't a joke. It was thoughtful, personal, and although Rodney could afford it, it had probably cost a small fortune.
"You bought this today?" John asked, because he had to say something.
"Well, no. A few months ago Jennifer had insisted we go antiquing and -."
"You went antiquing?"
"Yes, yes, you can tease me mercilessly about it at a later date, but yes. And I'd seen it, so," the sentence trailed off into nothing, Rodney waving his hand as though it was nothing. Maybe it was. But it didn't feel that way, very little felt like nothing between them at the moment.
All at once the air seemed to rush back into the room, knocking everything into place, and John could see ahead of him for a thousand miles. Clear blue skies in every direction, Rodney not in front of him, but beside him, moving in the same direction. Ambushing him with Chinese take-out and god-awful sweaters and a ferris wheel, his mouth running constantly but never into anything worth saying.
Putting the gift back in the box, John set it on the coffee table and said, "I'm not good at Christmas."
"You're not good at much," Rodney said without missing a beat. "Except throwing yourself on metaphorical, and sometimes literal, grenades."
"Yeah, well." John moved towards the Rodney-shaped indent on the couch, that Rodney himself was currently occupying, and said, "I'm going to try something, and if I fuck up, I get a mulligan and we pretend it never happened."
"Okay," Rodney agreed, and let John's hands cup carefully around his face.
Before their lips even touched John knew he'd hit the mark, dead on. There'd be no do-overs, no reason to laugh awkwardly and brush the moment away, calling it holiday blues and never speaking of it again. Rodney's eyes were half closed, his mouth open not protest or a sigh but a steady inhale, breathing in John's proximity, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. Ready. Waiting.
"You should have told me," John murmured.
"I thought I was," Rodney said. "For a long time, I thought I was. You're not good at anything, especially subtle. I should have shot you with Ronon's gun."
"I'm good at you," John said, and it was true. "I'm good at you, Rodney. I'm not good at me. You should have told me."
"Honestly? I didn't think to tell you how you felt. I thought you knew. I thought you'd made a decision."
"Nope," John said, brushing his thumb high over Rodney's cheek. "Making one now though."
The kiss was just a brush of lips, testing, until Rodney opened and John moved closer, holding him tighter, falling apart at the first touch of Rodney's tongue against his. This is love, he thought, and it had always been. He just never knew what it would look like. It was Rodney though, shifting his weight in John's doorway, trying to bring him home for Christmas.
It was pressing his face between the spokes of the banister, watching his parents dance, of having something it would break you to lose. Something to hold on to tight, by it's ugly sweater, by the back of his TAC vest, pulling him closer, sinking to the bottom of the ocean or stretching across forty eight thousand years.
Maybe Christmas wasn't so bad, John figured.
It had the potential to be something great, if he'd just let it.
Author: kidenagain
Recipient: resqueln
Pairing: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Rating: Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, but don't I wish.
Summary: All John really wants for Christmas is to be left alone. Unfortunately, things rarely turn out the way he plans.
-o-
Growing up, John had never believed in Santa Claus. There'd been the pretense of him though, milk and cookies left out on the shelf of the fireplace between Christmas stockings embroidered Johnny and Dave. But after the sun slipped behind the mountainous horizon on Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night when they should have been tucked away in their beds dreaming, John and his brother would sit together on the staircase leading down to the den. Hands wrapped white-knuckled around the polished wood, they'd press their faces between the spokes of the banister and watch their parents in the flickering light of the tree.
His mother loved Christmas. They'd listen to Bing Crosby and Bobby Vinton, nightdress billowing as she kneeled to place every present just so, wrapped green and red with gold and silver bows the size of John's head. By the time Margaret Whiting and Johnny Mercer began crooning their way through Baby, It's Cold Outside, their father had always eaten half the cookies, poured the milk down the kitchen sink, and they'd fall together in a slow dance in front of a dying fire. His mother had loved Christmas, and if his father had ever loved anything in his life, he'd loved her.
They would watch until Dave's blinks grew sluggish, sleep creeping up on him despite the excitement of the morning to come, and John would bump his smaller shoulder with his own to jostle him awake. Pull him up the stairs and back to bed.
He'd always go back though. To watch the rest of the dance, the way his father's hand would wrap carefully around his mother's thin wrist and pull her hand to his mouth, a brush of lips against her delicate knuckles.
She'd been sick even then, though John was too young to know it. Her hair, just as dark and wild as his own, pooling around her shoulders where his father's fingers could get lost in it. Pull her close and whisper things John was always just out of range to hear.
After, the housemaid would eat the cookies. Place the gifts. There'd been music, but it never seemed to travel the same, never hit his ears quite right. It was only after she was gone that John had wanted to believe in Santa Claus, had wished for something unknown and just out of reach. That if he looked hard enough, through his bedroom window, at the dark in the corner of his eye, through the spokes of the banister, there'd be something there. Something warm.
There never was though. So he'd never had much use for the holiday.
Atlantis in Pegasus had been easy. Two or three non-denominational celebrations a year, nothing to drag unwanted thoughts to the surface. No one to miss him between the not-quite eggnog and tables of cardboard cookies. Avoidance was never seen as such under piles of paperwork, leave requests, Wraith and Replicators and Michael, oh my. Christmas had always come and gone just as it had for the thirty years before, without a sound.
Atlantis on Earth wasn't the same. Wreaths and artificial trees to get in his way outside every transporter, twinkle lights and mistletoe. Two hundred people now with wifi streaming novelty songs about dead grandmothers and donkeys, driving John so close to insanity that Lorne had been forced more than once to suggest he relieve himself of his sidearm.
Maybe if Teyla and Ronon were still there it'd be easier to get through it. Hole up in the gym or rec-room three with a stack of DVDs and wait out the storm. Not that John blamed either one of them for going back to Pegasus, Atlantis was stuck in bureaucratic hell and Teyla had left Torren and Kanaan behind with no promise of when the city might be returning. And Ronon, well, he'd just been bored. John understood. He'd have gone with him, if he could.
Instead he was left behind, wishing there was an actual war on Christmas that he could volunteer for. One with guns. F-302s. John daydreamed about the casualty count, dancing in front of his eyes like sugarplums, a field of burning evergreens, tinsel covering the wreckage like smoke.
Okay, maybe that was a bit much. And possibly the thought that drove him into taking his own leave, sidestepping questions about his plans whenever Rodney asked. Jeannie had sunk her teeth into him back in October with demands for him to eat vegan food and witness her new baby bump in person, Rodney fresh off a seemingly amicable break up with Keller that had something to do with with the likelihood of maintaining a functional relationship across galaxies. Atlantis would, eventually, be going back, and Jennifer wouldn't. There'd never been a question of Rodney's plans. John couldn't blame her for ripping the bandage off sooner rather than later.
Rodney's holiday misfortune, however, wouldn't become John's. And he could see the question in his eyes, which would be more of a McKay brand demand like Jeannie's, one that would drag John to Canada with him. So sidestepping it had to be, John packing a light bag as Rodney shifted his weight from foot to foot in his doorway.
"I do have plans," John answered, to a question Rodney hadn't asked. "Roasting chestnuts, holly involving, caroling type plans."
Rodney only hummed, a disbelieving sort of sound coming from the back of his throat.
"You know, you could -"
So much for avoidance. Those plans never really worked with Rodney anyway. He should have known better.
"I'm not, Rodney," John said, stuffing another black shirt he wouldn't need into his bag. "Plans."
"I'm sure," Rodney agreed. His voice so heavy with sarcasm John thought of pitching him headfirst off another balcony. "I'll leave you to it then." John hadn't bothered to look up but there'd been a clacking sound and when Rodney was gone, John's eyes fell to a set of keys on his dresser that hadn't been there before.
-
It was weird. Beyond weird, really, racing fast towards absurd, but John found himself dropping his duffle just inside the door to Rodney's apartment anyway. He'd only been there once before, just killing time before a drive back to Colorado, but it was familiar in a way that not many places John ever wound up had been. As far as he knew, Rodney hadn't been there in over a year, since his last mandatory meeting at Nellis, but his apartment felt lived-in. Magazines piled on the coffee table, a clean coffee cup sitting in the dish rack as though waiting for a brewing pot to finish, a jacket thrown haphazardly over an armchair.
John kicked off his boots by the door and padded into the living room, losing his footing for just a moment on the smooth hardwood, before collapsing onto the couch. The very worn couch, with a very Rodney-shaped indent. John would bet dollars to donuts that most of the time Rodney had spent there he'd never even made it to his bedroom. Just passed out in front of old science fiction reruns, a magazine over his face. A cat curled next to his head on the arm rest. No wonder he had a bad back.
Leaning forward to get a better look at the outdated DVD collection, it was a long shot he'd find Die Hard among the options, but it was worth a glance. It was Christmas, after all. A small, rough chuckle fell out of him and John got to his feet, sliding over to the shelf. Of course Rodney would have every possible variation of a Batman movie or television show. And Batman Returns was Christmasy. He'd take Michael Keaton's Dark Knight over Val Kilmer or George Clooney's every day of the week. Plus only an idiot would turn down Michelle Pfeiffer in a catsuit.
John was watching, his head titling just a bit, remembering the movie a lot differently than it seemed to actually be, as milk spilled down Michelle Pfeiffer's neck, when Rodney burst through the door loudly, his arms filled with shopping bags.
"Oh, good," Rodney said, dumping the bags onto the kitchen table. "You're here. Plans, indeed."
Of course, John thought, sighing as he banged his head against the back of the couch. How had he not seen this coming?
He never sees anything coming.
"This is entrapment," John groused.
"This is absolutely not entrapment," Rodney said dismissively, shaking a can of coffee at him happily. "I accidentally dropped my keys during our last talk, and you took it upon yourself. It more closely resembles breaking and entering. Though, technically, there was no breaking involved. Semantics."
Standing up, John began to slide into the kitchen, stopping only to toe off his socks in the most dramatically irritated way possible. Just to illustrate his currently deep and powerful hatred for everything Rodney chose to be. Which would be impossible to express properly while gliding.
"For someone so thoroughly misanthropic on his best days, you sure don't seem to understand I'd wanted to be alone," John said, even as he started to help Rodney unpack. "Alone as in by myself. As in without you around."
"Yes, because I'm sure there were no vacancies at the countless hotels across the country. Or, say, a spare room at your brother's. You were left only with one choice, my apartment, in which the idea that I could possibly show up, to my own apartment, never crossed your mind."
It hadn't, actually. John assumed Rodney was just being nice and understanding, with not an ulterior motive to be found. Which, now that he thought about it, was ridiculous. Those qualities had been tenuous to say the least and disappeared right along with Keller. Something that John had been happy about at the time, finding the sweeter, kinder, gentler Rodney McKay downright creepy, but was sure missing it all now.
"Don't glower at me," he said, lifting the only bag still full. "I brought take-out. Chinese food. And if you honestly thought I'd let you sit in a dark room brooding about ornaments, snowman themed wrapping paper, flying reindeer, or whatever it is you hate so much about Christmas, I'm going to have to spend the evening evaluating why I consider you intelligent. Which isn't something I want to do, because Michelle Pfeiffer is wearing a catsuit not ten feet away from us."
"Do you even have to breathe anymore or has all that condescension somehow allowed you to evolve beyond the use of oxygen?"
Rodney just smiled, a ghost of a genuine laugh on his crooked mouth, and gestured towards a drawer. As listlessly as he could manage, John grabbed two forks and followed Rodney to the couch, mourning the comfort of the indent as the Rodney who'd made it plopped down.
It wasn't as though he didn't understand. If Rodney had been the one lying about plans, if John had thought he was the one who'd be sitting alone in the dark on a holiday that, truthfully, neither of them liked very much but still seemed to carry an air of do not spend alone at any cost, John might have found himself doing the same. The thought was there, nagging at the back of his head, that he wanted to be angry. Wanted to leave and find one of those countless hotels and abandon Rodney to his Chinese food, his apartment, and Batman Returns. To drink as much whiskey as he could stomach and pass out on an uncomfortable mattress in the middle of nowhere, sleep until the New Year.
But he wasn't. Not really. Watching as Rodney unpacked the food and silently began to dig in, pushing a few containers in John's direction across the coffee table, it was only gladness seeded in the center of his chest.
"It was underhanded," John said eventually.
"And just assume that I'm sorry, although I'm not, and move on," Rodney shrugged, spearing a broccoli floret and popping it into his mouth. "I assure you my motivation wasn't entirely altruistic. Your insistence on being, perhaps literally, the most stubborn man in two galaxies saved me from yet another thrilling round of Tofurkey."
"I'm stubborn. Right. Sure, buddy."
Rodney dropped his container abruptly, forcing John to finally look up at him. A hand ran through his ever-thinning hair, puffing it up, and with his eyes glued to the ceiling he sighed. Regretfully, John took note of the familiar change in Rodney's body language. The sort that signaled the veil of their standard banter was dropping, and that Rodney was tired. It twisted in John's gut and he braced himself for whatever uncomfortably true thing it was Rodney was about to say.
"It's Christmas, John," he said softly and a little unsure, meeting John's eyes. "And I care about it possibly even less than you do. But - but you were deliberately making it impossible for me to invite you to Jeannie's. Even if I'd have gone, I would have been - you would have been sitting here alone and miserable. It would have been an extremely distracting piece of information. She would have noticed, argued with me about not being present even when I'm there, and -."
"It's fine," John said, cutting him off uncomfortably. "It's," nice, I'm grateful, you didn't have to but I'm inexplicably glad you're here, "good. You know, thanks."
Shoulders slumping as the rest of his tension drained away, a hint of a smile tugged at his mouth and his eyes crinkled at the corners, a soft, familiar look on his face that Rodney only wore when he was genuinely happy. The thought took John by surprise; that he knew Rodney's faces, could catalog them, could strip Rodney down piece by piece and know exactly how he felt, how he worked, as easily as his sidearm. And it felt just as dangerous, a familiar weight pressed against him, loaded and ready, something that just the smallest of touches could ignite.
"What -," he started, feeling breathless and wild for something he couldn't quite see yet, "uh, the boxes. You brought in boxes?"
"Ah, yes!" Rodney said, damn near gleefully, jumping out of his seat and rushing back into the kitchen. "I'd almost forgotten. Presents."
"Rodney, no," John got up on his knees, watching him from the couch as he procured the plain white boxes, "no presents. I didn't - I wasn't really expecting you, I don't have -."
"So?" he said, hurrying back and thrusting the packages into John's hands. "As I understand it, reciprocation isn't to be expected. And you probably give terrible gifts, anyway. Just open them."
With a reluctant sigh, John sat back on the couch and did as he was told, opening the larger of the two boxes first. Hidden behind a few sheets of wrinkled tissue paper, was a sweater. The ugliest sweater John had maybe ever seen in his entire life. Candy apple red and about two sizes too big for Ronon, the sweater was decorated with cheerfully bright figures. Santa heads and cartoon reindeer, candy canes, Christmas trees, and gingerbread men. Bells. Actual bells glued on, that jingled as John held it out in front of him.
"This is the most offensive thing I've ever seen," John said flatly, peering around at Rodney.
"Isn't it?" Rodney said, his voice light and amused. "Tacky as hell. I thought of you immediately."
"I'm touched," John grinned sardonically, but almost, maybe, definitely meaning it. Without waiting for a reply, John pushed forward to get a laugh, tugging the sweater on over his t-shirt, the box it had come in falling to the floor.
"No, don't wear it!" Rodney said, torn between laughter and shrill horror. "For the love of -."
"Nope," John laughed and raised his finger, wagging it in Rodney's direction. "Looking at it all night is your punishment for buying it. Actually, I might never take it off. Just strap my vest right over it."
"Everything backfires with you."
"What can I say?"
"Hopefully nothing," Rodney answered with a frown. His eyes though, John couldn't help but notice, were bright. Pride, John thought, feeling dazed, he made me laugh and he's proud of himself. The look on Rodney's face was the same as if he'd figured out how to make a new piece of tech work - some mixture of wonder and adoration that struck John like a sucker punch.
On Christmas mornings, his mother would sit on the floor with him and Dave, directing them towards the best gifts, as their father sat back on their ancient settee. She'd be watching them, but he was always watching her with a look John could never quite decipher on his face. A look he'd never really understood until this very moment, seeing it on Rodney's face. Making John laugh.
That's love. The realization coming easy, as if it had been there all along.
His throat suddenly dry, John swallowed thickly and turned away towards the second box. He opened it without a word, his breathing deep and even, until the item fell gently into his palm.
"Rodney," John breathed, because it was all he could do. It was a ferris wheel. Three inches tall at the most, crafted finely from wood with tin carriages, all of it detailed beautifully. It felt old in his hand, looked old, and John felt suddenly as though all the air had been sucked from the room.
"It's a joke," Rodney said quickly, breaking John's somewhat prolonged silence. "For your desk. Something so the Marines take you a bit more seriously."
But it wasn't a joke. It was thoughtful, personal, and although Rodney could afford it, it had probably cost a small fortune.
"You bought this today?" John asked, because he had to say something.
"Well, no. A few months ago Jennifer had insisted we go antiquing and -."
"You went antiquing?"
"Yes, yes, you can tease me mercilessly about it at a later date, but yes. And I'd seen it, so," the sentence trailed off into nothing, Rodney waving his hand as though it was nothing. Maybe it was. But it didn't feel that way, very little felt like nothing between them at the moment.
All at once the air seemed to rush back into the room, knocking everything into place, and John could see ahead of him for a thousand miles. Clear blue skies in every direction, Rodney not in front of him, but beside him, moving in the same direction. Ambushing him with Chinese take-out and god-awful sweaters and a ferris wheel, his mouth running constantly but never into anything worth saying.
Putting the gift back in the box, John set it on the coffee table and said, "I'm not good at Christmas."
"You're not good at much," Rodney said without missing a beat. "Except throwing yourself on metaphorical, and sometimes literal, grenades."
"Yeah, well." John moved towards the Rodney-shaped indent on the couch, that Rodney himself was currently occupying, and said, "I'm going to try something, and if I fuck up, I get a mulligan and we pretend it never happened."
"Okay," Rodney agreed, and let John's hands cup carefully around his face.
Before their lips even touched John knew he'd hit the mark, dead on. There'd be no do-overs, no reason to laugh awkwardly and brush the moment away, calling it holiday blues and never speaking of it again. Rodney's eyes were half closed, his mouth open not protest or a sigh but a steady inhale, breathing in John's proximity, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. Ready. Waiting.
"You should have told me," John murmured.
"I thought I was," Rodney said. "For a long time, I thought I was. You're not good at anything, especially subtle. I should have shot you with Ronon's gun."
"I'm good at you," John said, and it was true. "I'm good at you, Rodney. I'm not good at me. You should have told me."
"Honestly? I didn't think to tell you how you felt. I thought you knew. I thought you'd made a decision."
"Nope," John said, brushing his thumb high over Rodney's cheek. "Making one now though."
The kiss was just a brush of lips, testing, until Rodney opened and John moved closer, holding him tighter, falling apart at the first touch of Rodney's tongue against his. This is love, he thought, and it had always been. He just never knew what it would look like. It was Rodney though, shifting his weight in John's doorway, trying to bring him home for Christmas.
It was pressing his face between the spokes of the banister, watching his parents dance, of having something it would break you to lose. Something to hold on to tight, by it's ugly sweater, by the back of his TAC vest, pulling him closer, sinking to the bottom of the ocean or stretching across forty eight thousand years.
Maybe Christmas wasn't so bad, John figured.
It had the potential to be something great, if he'd just let it.