Fic: Cakewalk (Gen, PG)

[sgasesa_admin]

Title: Cakewalk
Author: busaikko
Recipient: writing for linziday
Beta: the incomparable _inbetween_, who is responsible for most of the hurt
Rating: PG
Pairing: PG
Summary: Ep tag to the Return Part II: Rodney wanted John's first mission after his return from Earth to go well. It didn't. (4200 words)
Prompt: linziday wanted a gen friendship fic where Rodney saves the day, gets injured because of it (physically, mentally, or both), and then much hurt-comfortyness ensues. I hope this works for you.



Rodney wanted John's first mission after his return from Earth to go well. His second return, really. The first had been daring and dangerous and successful, in an outlaw kind of way. But when General O'Neill had requested (ordered, really) that John accompany Woolsey and himself back to Earth and give his report to the SGC and the IOA, Rodney had really thought that he wouldn't be seeing John again.

John had come back through the gate bridge two weeks later on the supply jumper. He seemed perfectly normal, and when Rodney had out-and-out demanded to know what had happened back at the SCG, John had only shrugged and then cracked his neck and said, Just stuff, you know.

Rodney didn't exactly think that John was bleeding on the inside, but he wanted John to know that he was home. He couldn't say that, of course, and he couldn't express it through interpretive dance, but he could get Elizabeth to approve a mission to an Ancient mechanical components manufacturing site that promised lots of fun tech to play with. Failing that, the MALP showed that the Gate was located a short distance from a really nice white-sand beach. Rodney could probably suffer through a half hour or so of sun while John got his ankles wet.

Good intentions, however, meant nothing relative to the success of a mission. Rodney remembered that too late, when he and John were five kilometres inside the Ancient facility's security shield in the central office building. The computer controlling the power core, alarmingly, decided that presence of people (or maybe the gene) meant that the long weekend was over and it was time to get back to work. It turned on itself on and started generating enough energy to supply all the factories that were no longer in any state to manufacture anything.

"I'm pretty sure this is your fault," Rodney shouted at John over the irritating whoop of the klaxon. "You turn on more things than a teenaged boy band."

"I didn't touch anything," John said as an aside, and then went back to yelling at Ronon and Teyla over his radio. They'd chosen to investigate the Ancient mine site in the hills north of the Gate, and John was doing a crappy job of telling them not to be suicidal. "You just stay there and that's an order," he finally barked out, and Rodney knew Teyla'd kick his ass for that if they survived. She'd spent her time at the Athosian settlement involved with interplanetary diplomacy and making alliances for war on the Wraith; since the return of the expedition from Earth, Elizabeth had welcomed Teyla back as an equal. John, however, was probably used to bossing around Marines. And being bossed around. "Rodney's got the problem under control."

"Oh, the problem will take care of itself," Rodney said grimly, stepping away from the main control panel and snapping to indicate to John that now would be a good time to pop the locked casing cover off. John did so with an elegance of violence, turning red in the face but too stubbornly macho to show that the cover was fucking heavy as he dropped it to the floor with an impressive clang. "When everything blows sky high. On the plus side, the shield will contain the explosion, so Teyla and Ronon will be perfectly fine."

"On the minus, we don't have enough time to run for safety?" John snapped, trying to rub the ache out of his hands inconspicuously.

"Ignoring you," Rodney said. He took a deep breath, studying the arrays of crystals in front of him. If the Ancients had invented a handy labelling system, he had yet to discover it, but his quick and dirty program for jumper control modifications was struggling along valiantly with the data overload. He tapped his finger on the edge of his tablet, one breath away from chanting come on, come on, when the broken left speaker dinged and schematics started scrolling across the screen. He was looking for patterns, and when he saw what he needed he started swapping out crystals, fingers swift and confident and absolutely right each and every time, the way he'd turned written notes into technically perfect music as a child.

Soul be damned, he had precision and speed and genius. He was fucking amazing.

When it was done, he blinked back to awareness to find John watching him, half-sitting with one hip hitched up on a console.

"I ordered Ronon and Teyla back to the gate," John said. "Just in case."

The klaxon shut off, and a flat recorded voice started reciting the Ancient equivalent of This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill.

"That normal?" John asked, with a jerk of his chin.

"Yes," Rodney said, unclipping his cables as quickly as he could and stowing them in a haphazard tangle. "Perfectly normal when there's about to be a big disaster. We should maybe go."

"You diverted the power build up," John said, grabbing Rodney's bag in one hand as soon as it was velcroed shut. He wrapped the other hand in the front of Rodney's tac vest and started running, forcing Rodney to stumble into a pace that barely matched John's. "You sent all that extra energy to those factories? I thought you said powering those up would be bad."

Rodney wished that he could believe that the Ancient tech told John all this, because the alternative was to acknowledge that John understood more than he let on, and was trying to catch Rodney out. Or something.

"Bad because they'll go boom," he shouted, already feeling breathless when they were barely out the doors of the rabbit-warren of an office building. "But that's a lesser bad than us going boom."

"I like the lesser bad," John assured him. "Where's the fucking Gate?"

Right, so now it was Rodney's turn to grab John by the arm and haul him around. Normally, he'd point at John and laugh at his terrible sense of direction, but today he just jabbed a finger at the big shiny picture of a Gate stencilled onto the cracked rubble of the Ancient road, followed by an unmistakable yellow arrow. The concrete-ish surface had been broken into sharp chunks by weeds and tree roots; the walk into the facility had taken a long time because of the poor ground conditions. John didn't make his usual defensive crack about only being good at aerial navigation, either. He just swept his eyes along the road, narrowed in thought, and then pulled Rodney on a course that skirted the worst parts of the wreckage.

As they ran, the buildings along the road started coming to life. First, there was a great subterranean rumble of machinery; maybe a subway system, Rodney wasn't sure. Then lights started coming on, one random floor at a time, until light glowed from every factory window, brighter than a Tokyo shopping district. Inside, Rodney could see great robotic arms jerking to life.

"Freaky," John said. Rodney agreed. The effect was like one of those horror movies set in a carnival. A very creepy Magic Kingdom.

On the heels of that thought, cheerful music started pulsing out at them from speakers cleverly placed in the decorative cornices. Rodney felt cold at the back of his neck and hoped it was just terror and not the first sign of a fatal circulatory or respiratory disease.

Good morning, workers, a bright voice announced in crisp Ancient. Good morning! Good morning. We're glad to see you. Let's all work hard together. Good morning!

Inside the building to Rodney's right, he saw the machinery burst into flames. A moment later, a jagged lightning bolt snagged up from the building roof to dance along the inside of the security shield. Sparks tumbled down. John swore at Rodney and told him to stop sightseeing and run faster.

Three things happened in very rapid succession just then. First, all the buildings to their left exploded, one after another. Then John was suddenly behind Rodney, propelling him forward with the pressure of his hands, and by some miracle this had the desired effect of making him go faster, instead of making him fall flat on his face.

This was unfortunate, however, because the road in front of Rodney caved in and he was moving too fast to reel back and away from the sudden hole. Rodney felt himself falling and had the distinct, short feeling that Ronon had tried to teach him the proper technique for falling into a pit once. Something about what to do with his arms. But the side wall caught up with him before he could remember, and then John tumbled down over him into the darkness, which pretty much screwed any chance of rescue. He heard John hit the bottom just a second before he bashed himself into something unyielding that bounced him back, and down, and onto something soft that turned out to be John.

Rodney did not pass out. He did not count this as a mercy. The ground under him wobbled like Jell-o, and he really, really didn't want to be buried alive. Something settled over the sinkhole with a whiff and a vibrating hum; Rodney suspected it was some kind of roofing tile, the sturdy Ancient version of corrugated aluminium. Light enough not to crush him like a bug, at any rate, and thank goodness for that.

Rodney dragged in a dusty breath, then another, and felt a surge of giddy relief, high on the thrill of being alive and of not having any shattered ribs, perforated lungs, or horrible spinal injuries, as far as he could tell. He was on the verge of laughing (not at all in a hysterical way) when all of a sudden the aches and motherfucking ow pains kicked in. Moving the fingers on his right hand was a terrible thing to do, he discovered. They throbbed with pain, literally throbbed, as if someone were pumping some horrible viscous liquid into his skin. He tried to reach over and feel if his fingers were all twisted with bones sticking out -- for all he knew, it was ghastly -- but he found that his left arm was the one that was really and truly shattered. Just thinking about moving it made him feel like throwing up. So he decided to just stay very, very still, and think about how every single thing that had gone wrong was John Sheppard's fault.

"You promised me a cakewalk," John said from somewhere beneath Rodney's back. He sounded like the fake-sulk in his tone was meant as a tease. Like he was trying to jolly Rodney out of rightful anger.

"Not being vaporized isn't good enough for you?" Rodney snapped, trying to move in tiny increments so that he wasn't body-melded with John but also wasn't stabbed with agony.

John coughed. "Was that ever actually a possibility?" he asked finally, wheezing a little.

"Yes, Colonel, or did you think I orchestrated this entire fuck-up because I'm desperate for attention?"

"Aw, Rodney, come a little closer and let me validate your feelings," John said; Rodney could hear him grinning. One of John's hands flailed out, caught hold of Rodney's shoe, moved up to his knee, and then John pulled himself up to sitting in the awkward small space they found themselves in. John tried to stand. This resulted in a melonly thump and John's muttered ow. Rodney kicked John in the foot and told him to stop fidgeting like a kindergartener.

"No braining yourself," Rodney ordered. "For fuck's sake, the whole point of this mission was to be nice to you. We just wanted to distract you from whatever ass-reaming you stoically endured back on Earth."

"I'm feeling plenty distracted," John assured him. There was a ripping sound, a crack, and the hole filled with the green glow of a lightstick. "We're not that far down," he went on, holding the light up and squinting up at the panel that covered the hole. "How much do you figure that thing weighs?" He lowered the light and looked at Rodney. "You hurt?"

"Yes, I seem to have shattered both of my arms, thank you for noticing," Rodney said. "There's probably subcutaneous bleeding and nerve damage as well, but right now I'm just trying not to think about the pain. It kind of throbs." He was holding his arm as best as he could to avoid jarring his swollen fingers. He expected John to tell him it wasn't all that bad, but John just bit his lips between his teeth and started digging through his tac vest. He produced a couple of generic Advil, popping them out of the blister pack and into Rodney's mouth to be washed down with lukewarm filtered water from John's canteen. Rodney didn't even bitch about drinking John's germs. Much.

"I'm not real good at this," John said, and stuck the lightstick in his mouth while he tied Rodney's arm so he couldn't move it and hurt himself more, and then splinted Rodney's fingers with a ballpoint pen and a nail file.

"Seriously," Rodney said, when John leaned back, apparently done with the first aid portion of the day's festivities, "a nail file? What happens if we're attacked while you're giving yourself a manicure? What kind of self-respecting forty-year-old man carries a nail file?"

"It makes a good lockpick," John said. He dug out a dusty powerbar, wiped it off on his pants, ripped it open and offered Rodney half.

"First the hair, then the nails -- is there some military commander beauty contest you're trying out for? You'll never make it past the swimsuit contest. I've seen your stubby little legs."

John said something rude through a mouthful of food. Rodney told him he was disgusting. John slid upright again, this time watching for the low ceiling height. "I can see daylight, kind of. There's a crack -- " and John braced one boot midway up the opposite wall to boost himself up and shoved his hand outside.

Rodney thought this was a horrible idea. If the roof tile thing shifted, John would lose his hand, and then their chances of successful escape would diminish drastically. John seemed blithely unaware of any danger, though, as he pressed his head up close to the crack and shouted.

"Ow," Rodney said. There was a horrible echo in the hole.

"Hey, Sheppard," he heard Ronon say, and relief washed through him. "You dead?"

"Kind of stuck, but still in the game," John said.

"So where are you?" Ronon asked, and that was when he realized that Ronon wasn't actually standing right above them. The horrible feedback buzz wasn't in Rodney's head; John was holding his radio outside with the volume at max. That meant John would have to give directions. They were doomed.

"That road we came in on," John said. "The big one. There's a, um -- "

"A big fucking hole," Rodney shouted, hoping Ronon could hear. "With some kind of flat plate over the top."

"And the hole is in the road," John said, sounding aggravated. "We were about six minutes from the central building."

Ronon huffed a laugh. "At your top speed or McKay's?"

"Yeah," John said. "What, where's Teyla?"

"Went to get Lorne or something. You pissed her off."

"Figured," John said. "I'm going to, the radio'll be off, okay? I'll try again in ten minutes."

"Don't go anywhere," Ronon said, and the radio hiss stopped as John cut the power and slid his hand back in.

"Fuck," John said, rubbing skinned knuckles on his sleeve. "Ow."

"Yeah, well, at least your arms aren't broken," Rodney said. "I only have three undamaged fingers I can type with. I'll be lucky if I can hold a fork."

"Sucks to be you," John said, and dropped the lightstick.

Rodney reached down to grab it, and then froze when he realized just what a terrible idea that was. He was going to go crazy without the use of his hands. John shook his head, but handed him the light, mindful of the splints.

"What's wrong with you?" Rodney asked. John blinked, slowly. "Don't make me play twenty questions."

"Slight concussion," John said. "Nothing to worry about. I'll get us out of here. Just a little dumber than I usually am."

"Nobody buys that act anymore, Colonel. I hate to be the one to break it to you." Rodney shifted closer and dangled the lightstick in front of John's face as best he could without jabbing John in the eye with his splints. "Show me your pupils."

"Not on the first date," John said, but he gave Rodney a grin and his pupils were reassuringly normal-looking. "Does this planet look like Canada to you? The botanist on my. . . on the team I had on Earth, he had this theory that the Ancients were in the process of terraforming all the Gate planets to have the climate of Canada. He liked to talk about it," John added wearily.

Rodney didn't think John should sleep if he had a concussion, based on his own extensive medical knowledge and also on the fact that he still held out hope that John would rescue them, somehow. "The SGC gave you a Canadian botanist? They really don't love you."

"Nope," John agreed. "They really, really don't. But here I am. And without Weir pulling any strings this time." He looked grimly pleased by that.

"Look at you, all grown up now." Rodney started to give John a scathing glare, but wound up blinking in alarm. The darkness down the back of John's neck wasn't an especially pernicious shadow; it had seeped down from John's head. "Bleeding much, Sheppard?"

John reached up and patted his hair carefully, the way Rodney's mother had primped when she had a new perm. "Guess I hit my head."

"Guess that diffuse brain injury's making you state the obvious."

"You ever think that the Ancients weren't the good guys?" John waved off Rodney's awkward attempt to look at his head. "Sure, they had all the cool toys, but not much sense of right and wrong on their moral compass."

"Chaotic neutral," Rodney suggested.

John made a scoffing noise. "I hated D & D," he said. "People wouldn't shut up about my ears." He took a breath and started pushing to his feet again, back to the wall. Rodney supposed he was dizzy. "This guy I was dating broke up with me over D & D. He gave our relationship a saving throw. I didn't make it." He sighed and pulled his radio out of his pocket. "I'll try Ronon again."

"You do that," Rodney said. "I think you broke your inhibitions in the fall. As a friend, I'm concerned."

"You should eat something," John said, and started patting down his pockets.

"We already ate your powerbar, John," Rodney said. John stared at him, and Rodney felt irrationally protective. "I maybe have one in my second right-hand pocket, if you can try not to jar the sling -- ow, like that, did you have to take a class in brutalizing civilians, or is it a natural talent?"

John had to watch his hands to figure out how to get the powerbar open while holding the radio, and then there was more juggling as he stripped off the wrapper and carefully pressed the powerbar into Rodney's three working fingers. John didn't try to eat any himself, and he didn't watch Rodney eat. Rodney couldn't figure out if John's complexion was pale or not in the green glow. He wouldn't be surprised if John was trying to repress nausea.

"You were going to call Ronon," Rodney prompted. "The way I figure, if we get rescued now, we'll be home in time for the table tennis playoff game between Astrobotany and Anthropology."

"You scientists are so chipper," John said. "Ping pong's the most godawful pointless game ever." He took a deep breath and pushed himself up, scraping bruised knuckles all over again as he held his radio out to call for help.

"How's the dirt down there?" Ronon asked. He sounded closer, but Rodney knew that was just wishful thinking. "We have a jumper. Just don't want to bury you. By accident."

"We're probably in an old drainage system," Rodney shouted; John repeated his words to Ronon in a misguided sense of helpfulness. "Three walls are stone, the floor is dirt but I think that's just what washed in over the years."

"Yeah, okay," Ronon said; and then the radio crackled and Carson's voice cut in.

"I don't suppose I'll have the great good fortune to not be having either of you as a patient?"

"Rodney's busted up his wrist and a couple of fingers," John said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I really hope you're not flying."

"Don't be daft," Carson said. Rodney caught the flash of John's teeth in a grin. "Ronon's just right up the road from you. We were worried the ground might still be unstable. You took your sweet time getting back on the radio."

"Sorry," John said. Carson tched and told him never you mind. There was a moment of silence; Rodney could see John shaking from trying to hold his position. Then Ronon's fingers suddenly wrapped around John's wrist, and Rodney saw John grab Ronon back in relief.

"I got some blankets and things," Ronon said. "You're going to want to cover your heads when we pull this shit off." John let his hand open and pulled it back, sliding down to the floor with a grunt and a grimace. Ronon leaned down, blocking most of the crack. Rodney could barely make out one eye, gleaming. "Hanging in there, McKay?"

"Never better," Rodney said.

Ronon grinned and then tossed down four foil blanket pouches and two flatpacks of duct tape.

By the time John had indulged his inner Boy Scout and constructed a shelter which was dirt-proof but not airtight, the jumper was in place, hovering above them while cables were affixed to the roofing tile. The actual removal was anti-climactic, over in a matter of minutes. Someone blew a whistle, and then John was helping Rodney up an aluminium ladder that had been lowered down.

"No, I can't go any faster," Rodney snapped in response to an impatient look from Ronon. "You try climbing a ladder without using your hands. And I'm afraid of unsafe heights."

"Thought you were afraid of small places," Ronon said, and put his hands on Rodney's waist to help him up and over the edge, with more care and gentleness than Rodney had expected.

"Huh. That's weird," Rodney said, blinking in the sunlight. "I guess physical pain and psychological trauma must have staved off the inevitable panic attack and hallucinations."

"We are glad that you were not killed," and that was Teyla, walking over quickly from the direction of the jumper. Rodney found himself leaning towards her even before she touched him gently and pressed her forehead against his.

"You're just saying that because you want to kick Sheppard's ass," Rodney said. Teyla twitched an eyebrow at him and offered a flask of coffee, from Dr Zelenka.

"Hey," John said, pulling himself out of the hole with a lot of help from Ronon. "Hey."

"Dumbass," Ronon said, and shook John a little with the arm that had settled around his shoulder. "Can't run to save your life."

"Hey," John mumbled again. Rodney sighed and rolled his eyes and made a face, but he also held out his precious still-warm coffee. John took it with a smile of thanks, took one deep swallow, and handed it back without once complaining about Rodney's germs.

Carson did full scans and pronounced Rodney's wrist and finger sprained, the other finger being dislocated. Rodney escaped from the infirmary with a brace and real finger splints this time. Carson suggested that fishing for ancient trout would be an excellent form of rehabilitation. Rodney had his doubts, but was so relieved to hear that his hands hadn't suffered permanent damage that he didn't exactly say no to the suggestion. He figured he had a couple of months of recovery and physical therapy to think up some good excuses.

He didn't see John for a couple of days. Ronon or Teyla always managed to show up right when Rodney was feeling hungry to take him to the mess hall. Rodney had thought the only redeeming part of not being able to use seven-tenths of his fingers would be the pleasure of having people carry his things and obey his whims and commands. He felt uncomfortable, though, when Teyla cut his food into bite-sized pieces or Ronon held a mug to his mouth so he could drink. The more they offered to do, the more he felt the stubborn urge to insist on doing himself, damn it.

He had the feeling that they were teasing him, but it didn't feel malicious. He wondered if they teased John as well.

John, Ronon said, was sleeping a lot and taking headache pills, so Rodney didn't want to bother him, but after two days he figured John should be up and around.

He dropped by John's an hour before the mess hall opened for dinner. The menu was soup; he didn't think he needed a minder to eat soup, so he'd be okay without Ronon or Teyla accompanying him. John answered his door on the third knock, wearing his pyjama pants and a hideous old Red Sox sweatshirt.

"I wanted to return your nailfile," Rodney said. "Thank you, and all."

John stepped back and waved Rodney in. The Marines in charge of finding and repairing furniture had been through his room yet again; John had something like a recliner set up by the window, and a matching quasi-sofa. They still hadn't turned up full-length beds, though, sadly.

"What about my pen?" John asked.

Rodney ignored him. John would just have to win his own pen back by beating Zelenka at chess. "So, you're doing okay? Feeling better? Is that thing about concussions and amnesia true?"

John sat down on the recliner and crossed his legs tailor-style. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Oh, ha very ha," Rodney said. "I'm just hoping you remember all the stuff you talked about while we were in that hole."

John made a scrunched-up face and scrubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I remember trying to keep you talking so you wouldn't freak out. That's about it." He squinted sideways at Rodney. "Embarrass myself much?"

Rodney shrugged and swept the air with his one free hand. "You hate table tennis, botanists, the SGC, and the IOA, but they don't hate you so much that they fired you. You date guys who play D & D. You think the Ancients were fucked in the head, which I find myself agreeing with. You carry a nailfile with you everywhere, because God forbid you break a nail while killing Wraith." He looked away, and then back. "I wasn't sure if you were avoiding me because you bared your soul or because the mission went so terribly, terribly wrong when it was supposed to be fun, and that maybe it was my fault."

"I really have been sleeping," John said. "Ronon brings me sandwiches." He scratched the back of his neck. "Look, here's the thing. I'm not here for just the good missions, or even for Atlantis and the puddlejumpers, even though that's all cool. That's not what makes this place home for me. It's, you know, people." He took a breath, planted his palms on his thighs, and pushed himself up. "Just don't tell -- "

"You know I wouldn't," Rodney interrupted.

John's eyebrow arched up. "-- anyone about the table tennis thing. Because it's Marines versus Geologists next week. I have to be supportive. In a professional capacity. My team's psyched to kick your asses."

Rodney tried to snap his fingers, having an eureka moment. He couldn't, so he jabbed the splints in John's direction. "I know why you're locked in your room. You're hiding from Teyla. You so are." He grinned. "Pull on your sneakers, Colonel, I need you to take me to dinner and wait on me hand and foot. Except by that I just mean the hand part, really."

John talked smack about the Geology team all the way to the mess hall, but Rodney still brought him a bag of Doritos three weeks later when Teyla beat John to his knees. He couldn't come right out and tell John that he was glad they were friends, but he thought that after all they'd been through, John was probably bright enough to have figured that out already.

the end