SGA-fic: Rest Your Weary Heart (PG-13)
Title: Rest Your Weary Heart
Aurthor: Zinnith
Rating/Category: PG-13/Slash
Pairing: John/Rodney
Wordcount: 1055
Disclaimer: I am now the proud owner of my own glasses. If I made any money from this, I would have been able to pay for the glasses in cash.
Notes: Written for
sg_15_fics, Prompt 009: Splatter
Many thanks to
the_cephalopodfor helping me wrestle this into shape.
John has mud in places he didn’t even know he had. His hair is stiff and grey with it, his toes make unpleasant squishing sounds when he moves them, and he’s pretty sure his favourite pants are beyond rescue.
He’s had worse days, he tries to assure his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s been dirtier than this, he’s been more tired… his reflection is not convinced.
Adrenaline is a wonderful thing, but it can only take you so far. John knows that he should undress and shower before he goes to bed, but his limbs feel so heavy right now that he’s tempted to let his knees buckle and collapse into an unconscious muddy heap on the floor. To just switch off the world and let someone else take care of things for a while.
He tries very hard not to look at his left cheek, at the red-brown splatter of blood that’s not his own.
There have been worse days. There have been days when not everyone made it. There have been days that ended with flag-covered coffins. They were lucky today. Two marines are in the infirmary and Teyla won’t be kicking John’s ass until her sprained wrist heals, but they are all alive.
The rug on the bathroom floor looks so nice and soft…
By the time John notices that there’s someone else in his quarters, Rodney’s standing just outside the bathroom door. John can’t seem to find the energy to turn around as Rodney’s reflection appears next to his own in the mirror.
“You look like one of those furry little things my cat used to leave on the kitchen floor.”
John tries to muster the energy to make a suitable comeback, but he ran out of gas somewhere between the infirmary and here. All he can manage is some sort of grunt.
“Ah, I see we’ve reached the non-verbal stage.” Rodney steps through the door and into the bathroom. He’s still in his uniform, must have come straight from the lab, and is already pulling his shirt over his head as he approaches John. This is something of which John whole-heartedly approves. He would take a naked Rodney over a Rodney with clothes any day. Not that he’s able to enjoy the situation it right now, not when his arms seems to weigh at least twenty pounds apiece. Still, it’s nice to look.
Rodney strips down to his boxers before he reaches for John’s belt. “You look like you’ve been mud-wrestling,” he says. “I take it weather conditions were less than optimal.”
“Rain,” John manages. He’s using one hand to lean against the sink and the other to help Rodney with the belt-buckle. “Lots of rain.”
“That goes without saying,” Rodney replies, and then: “no, leave it alone, don’t try to help or we’ll both end up on the floor.”
That makes sense. Rodney unbuckles John’s belt with deft hands, then kneels on the floor to un-tie his boots and help him step out of them.
“Even your shoes are full of mud”, Rodney complains. “What did you do, decide to go swimming in it?”
John looks down on the miserable state of his socks. He wiggles his toes, listening to the soppy, squelching sound they make. For some reason, this seems like the funniest thing ever, and he’s almost doubled over with helpless giggles before Rodney catches him and steadies him against his broad, solid chest. John feels very affectionate towards Rodney’s chest. He pats it a little. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he would do more than that, but at the moment, patting is pretty much all he can manage.
“If you’re done petting me, maybe we could get you undressed before your clothes become stuck to you permanently?” Rodney sounds amused. This is probably the best idea John has heard in his life, so he lets Rodney help him off with his wet, muddy shirt. He then has to support himself when Rodney kneels again and pushes John’s pants and boxers down, and holds him steady while he steps out of them. The ruined socks soon join the pile of laundry.
Rodney stands up again, takes off his own boxers, and turns on the shower. He then takes John by the shoulders and gently guides him under the spray. The water is hot and it isn’t until now that John realises just how cold he’s been all day.
“I was angry with you at first,” Rodney says softly, his mouth level with John’s ear. “For leaving me behind this morning. But I get it, I do. You just wanted to keep me safe. It’s okay.”
John doesn’t know if it’s his pitiful appearance that has lead to this unexpected statement, but he doesn’t really care. Rodney reaches for the soap and starts to gently wash him clean, so careful of his numerous bruises. Rodney’s thumb brushes over John’s cheek and rinses away the red-brown splatter. All the mud, and the blood and the whole awful day dissolve in the warm water and disappear down the drain.
John is half-asleep when Rodney finishes rinsing out his hair, and it takes a bit of gentle coaxing to get him to lift his feet and move out of the shower. Rodney deposits him on the toilet seat and starts to towel him dry. It feels nice, to finally be clean and warm, and to have Rodney here. John closes his eyes and drifts in the nice-ness for a while.
“Come on, John, you can sleep all you want, but let’s get you to bed first, okay?”
John mumbles something in response that might be ‘I love you’, but comes out only in vowels. Rodney bends to place a smiling kiss on his forehead, and then takes John by the arms to pull him upright. It’s a good thing Rodney’s here, John reflects; otherwise he would have done a pretty spectacular face-plant. His legs feel like over-done spaghetti and Rodney has to half-drag, half-carry him over to the bed.
Rodney lifts the covers, helps him in, then climbs in himself. He drapes himself all around John like a huge, warm Rodney-blanket, his heartbeat calm and even under John’s face. As John falls asleep, safe and warm and clean, the events of the day become nothing more than a bad memory.
-fin-