Jun. 30th, 2008 05:19 pm
Warnings: Some language, mentions of slash
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: Rodney says, his throat hurting and his mouth tasting horrible, "I don't feel good."
Author's Note: sleepyheathen is sick with the flu, and mentioned that some wee!sick!Rodney might make her feel better. I was torn between HSH!Rodney and de-ageified!Rodney, and decided that since de-ageified!Rodney has Ronon and John to shower him with care and affection, I would go with him. Hope this hits the spot, sweetie.
By the time Rodney gets out of the shower, he's made his peace with the fact that the achyness isn't going to go away. That's not really a surprise. After the week he'd spent trapped beneath a collapsing, damp, dirty city, trying to find his way out while dealing with a bunch of weepy, clinging kids, he'd known there would be repercussions. He'd forgotten that kids had a habit of producing tears and snot in those amounts. The reminded had been unwelcome.
And then, of course, there had been needles and blood work in the infirmary, and after he'd escaped, fully intending to go right to sleep, there had been Ronon and John. Actually, Rodney is willing to blame them entirely for the heavy sluggishness in his muscles and the ache in his bones. They hadn't been rough, both of them all dark worried eyes and feather light touches, but they had been very, very, thorough.
Rodney shakes his head, and then grips the counter when a wave of vertigo washes through him. Well. The day is just shaping up to be better and better. Rodney sighs, tugging on his uniform as quickly as possible, deciding that his stomach doesn't feel suited for anything more than a cup of coffee and maybe a banana, and goes to work.
He's totally making Ronon give him a backrub when he gets back to their room, and reminding both John and Ronon that there are some positions that his back just can't handle sleeping in.
By the time the rest of Rodney's staff escapes to the mess hall for lunch, Rodney is glaring suspiciously at his coffee cup. His stomach has joined the rest of his body in aching, a twisting, squirming pain that's almost nausea without actually making him feel like he's going to throw up. Yet. And the headache pounding around his head just won't quit.
Rodney fumbles his desk drawer open, pausing to cough and that's just perfect. Coughing makes his entire chest hurt, ribs and spine, and it makes his head feel like it's going to explode. He's been popping aspirins most of the morning. They're doing a shit job and probably at least partially responsible for his stomach staging an uprising, but they're the strongest pain pills he has.
Rodney takes two more, dry, his throat throbbing when he swallows, and manages to peel the wrapper off of a cough drop after a moment. And, okay, it's actually a Jolly Rancher, but it's almost impossible to find actual cough drops that don't taste at all citrus-y and the candy works just as well. Plus, sugar.
Sitting back in front of his computer is about the last thing he wants to do, but his stomach is still not in any way interested in real food. So Rodney plops back down in his chair, staring at the numbers on the screen in front of him, coughing every other minute and gradually becoming aware that Zelenka must have turned the temperature way down in the labs again.
Rodney stares at the screen, head swimming, freezing cold and feeling miserably clammy at the same time. He coughs, lungs squeezing painfully in his chest, and rubs a hand up over his face. The heat coming off of his skin is a surprise, and Rodney blinks dumbly down at his hand. He accidentally swallows the Jolly Rancher, his throat spiking pain in protest, and decides that obviously he made a mistake getting out of bed.
Admitting mistakes and learning from them is important. Rodney pushes unsteadily to his feet, the rest of his body feeling remarkably leaden for how light his head is. Luckily it isn't a long walk to the transporters, and Rodney slumps against the wall, coughing into his hand and then stumbling out again, dragging his heavy feet back to his bed.
The room is mercifully empty when he pulls himself through the door. The lights are dim, and the air is too cold, but the bed is big and messy and Rodney zeroes in on it. The mattress is a little bit too soft, but Rodney can't bring himself to care right now, pulling his legs up, trying to coordinate his arms enough to pull the blankets all over his head.
And then he manages, cocooned in soft warmth that's almost perfect. Rodney sighs, his throat aching even from that, and lets his heavy eyes shut. He thinks, disjointedly, that he should have taken his boots off. Now he's far too tangled up to move. He drifts into twisted, slippery dreams that he can't track, waking himself up coughing, over and over again, until everything gets all tangled together and he can't tell when he's awake or asleep anymore.
Something buzzes in his ear at one point and Rodney manages to bat it away, momentarily surprised by how sweaty his hair is before he slips into another dream.
Rodney blinks, eyelids heavy, and someone pulls on his leg again. That's just annoying, and Rodney coughs when he tries to tell the interloper to fuck off, pulling his leg up to his chest and trying to tuck the blankets more securely around his body. He gets distracted halfway through by coughing so hard that he sees spots, and barely hears, "Sh, sh, hey, it's okay."
When the coughing jag passes, Rodney manages to get his eyes open again, even though they feel gummy and itchy. John is looming over him, expression worried, reaching out to brace the back of his hand against Rodney's forehead.
John's eyes go comically wide with surprise, and he turns his hand around to press his palm to Rodney's skin, like that'll give him a different result. Then he says, voice loud enough to make Rodney wince, because that headache just won't quit, "You're burning up, buddy."
Rodney would point out that he's actually freezing, but it doesn't feel worth arguing about. He tries to bat at John's hand instead, hunching his shoulders up and mumbling, "Lemme sleep."
Instead of obeying, John frowns, running his fingers back through Rodney's hair, which actually feels okay, so maybe John isn't a complete idiot. John says, voice softer, thank God, "I'm going to. I just need you to talk to me for a minute, okay?" John's pulling at the blankets while he speaks, closing his fingers around one of Rodney's ankles and this time Rodney lets John pull on his leg.
Since John didn't say anything about keeping his eyes open, Rodney closes them, snuggling into the pillow and mumbling, "Kay," sniffling, because fuck, now his nose is running. This is getting slightly ridiculous. Rodney frowns when John pulls his boot off, even though the brush of John's thumb over his ankle is comforting, "Where's Ronon?"
John murmurs, "He's on his way. He stopped in the mess." He's pulling Rodney's other leg out from under the blankets, taking that boot off as well, before asking, "What else have you got on under there?"
Rodney opens one eye enough to glare suspiciously up at John, "Can't fuck me, 'm sick." And John looks surprised for a half second before he grins, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss Rodney's forehead, grabbing the blankets and peeling them back.
"Relax, Rodney, I promise to keep my hands to myself," John sounds amused.
Rodney glares at him with the minimal heat he can manage, "Not your hands I'm worried about," and John snorts on a laugh. Then he's making Rodney sit up, peeling Rodney's jacket off and sliding one arm around Rodney's back, supporting Rodney when he unhooks Rodney's belt and pull it out. "Pants on or off?"
Rodney shrugs, because he doesn't really see how it matters and he just wants to be back under the blankets, actually. John sighs, lays Rodney down on the bed again, before shifting down and pulling Rodney's pants off, tossing them to the side before finally properly rearranging the blankets.
Rodney rolls onto his side, curls up, and coughs. The bed dips when John sits down beside him, and there are fingers running back through Rodney's hair, comforting and warm and Rodney feels his body relax a little, imagines that the headache even fades a tiny bit.
John says, conversationally, "Keller says that all the kids you brought back have been symptomatic since early this morning. Apparently the flu crossed intergalactic distances completely without our help, because they tell her it goes around every fall. Have you taken anything for it yet, buddy?"
It seems unfair to go to another galaxy just to get the flu. Rodney tries to build up the ire to get legitimately angry about it, but he's too tired to manage that. Instead he just shrugs, squirming a little closer to John's warmth, "Aspirin. Bunch of 'em."
John says something else then, but Rodney is exhausted and all he really hears is a faint mumble before he conks out completely.
Rodney wakes up to a conversation he can't really focus on at first, and delicious warmth all along his back. It makes his aching muscles not hurt so badly. He sleepily squirms closer to it, and the hand resting on his hip flexes, thumb rubbing back and forth over his skin.
Ronon's voice is a welcome surprise, "Knew I shouldn't have let you work today." The worry in the gruff tone gets Rodney to open his eyes, and he finds Ronon sitting beside him, reaching out to take his temperature. Rodney frowns, trying to turn, wondering where John went and the other man tightens his grip on Rodney's hip.
Rodney tilts his head back far enough to see John, braced on one elbow, warm and solid at his back, and mumbles, "Hello," before blinking up at Ronon, "Gotta be nice to me, I'm sick." Ronon snorts, but smiles, cupping Rodney's jaw and then sliding his fingers down. Rodney winces when the man's fingers brush the swollen, painful spots in his throat.
"I'm always nice to you," and Rodney doesn't argue, because it's true. He's about to point out that he's pretty sure that means Ronon has to be extra-nice, but Ronon is continuing before he can, "Brought some crackers and juice from the mess if you're—"
The thought of eating bypasses Rodney's brain, goes straight to his gut, and jumps up and down there wearing spike heeled shoes. He feels his body jerk, trying to magically transport himself out of the bed and not managing. He gags, tasting bile and wondering where it even came from, because he barely ate anything all day, and Ronon says, "Or not. Shit."
It leaves Rodney's head spinning, and he can barely breathe with his nose clogged. When Ronon pulls him out of bed, Rodney lets him, too tired to argue, gagging again from the smell and the sticky warmth all over the front of his shirt.
There's a conversation going on over his head, but all Rodney really catches is something about the shower and sheets. He has no idea how the two should ever be connected, and he's too dizzy to try to figure it out. When Ronon carries him off, Rodney just concentrates on holding on and trying not to throw up again.
The bathroom looks the same way it had when Rodney showered earlier. That's comforting. Rodney thinks it would have been bad if it changed. Ronon sits Rodney down carefully, but Rodney's legs still don't really get the memo that they're supposed to be standing and Ronon has to brace him against the wall.
Rodney says, his throat hurting and his mouth tasting horrible, "I don't feel good."
"I know. I've got you," Ronon sounds sure and calm, and that makes Rodney feel a little better. Then Ronon says, "Arms up, can you do that?" And it takes a moment for Rodney to remember which of his arms are which, but then he manages to get them up and Ronon is pulling his foul smelling shirt off.
The smell of it so close to his nose has Rodney's stomach seizing again, and he falls against Ronon, clinging to the man's solid body, the world going white behind his eyes. There's nothing else left in his stomach, apparently, so at least he doesn't make more of a mess. It still feels horrible.
Ronon says, voice low and warm, "Sh, okay, you're okay," and then he's lifting Rodney again, stepping into the shower stall and turning on the water. The hot fall of water against Rodney's skin actually feels really good, and he relaxes into it, letting Ronon support his weight, vaguely aware that Ronon is ruining his own clothes.
Rodney keeps his eyes closed, letting Ronon wash his hair, getting the vomit smell off, the steam making his head feel a little better as well. By the time Ronon turns the water off Rodney is most of the way to asleep again, clinging to Ronon's shoulders when the man pulls off his drenched boxers and socks before toweling him dry.
Ronon rumbles, too loud, "Come get him," and that doesn't really make any sense to Rodney. Before he can figure it out, John is pulling on him, and Rodney finds himself shifting between the two men, John supporting his weight and taking him back into the bedroom.
The bed is re-made, the old sheets balled up by the door. Rodney blinks at it, sleepy, fighting back the urge to cough. And then they're at the bed and Rodney abandons his hold on John to crawl on, flopping down into the mattress and wheezing with relief.
Rodney is pretty sure John laughs at him, but he can't really bring himself to care. Especially not when John gently rolls him over, crawling in beside him and being all warm and solid. Rodney squirms up close to him, tugging one of John's arms around his waist and groping down for the blankets.
John catches his hand, squeezes his fingers, voice warm on the back of Rodney's neck, "Hang on a second there, buddy. Ronon's coming."
And he is, Ronon's weight settling onto the other side of the bed, his skin naked and Rodney reaches for him, because Ronon's even warmer than John and between the two of them the should be able to do something to ease the ache in Rodney's muscles.
Ronon comes willing, stretching out onto his back and raising his eyebrows at Rodney. Rodney forgoes any comment this one time, nearly crawling on top of the other man, feeling better already, coughing when he opens his mouth to demand that John get his skinny ass over here.
Luckily, John must figure it out on his own. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, all familiar warmth and comfort that Rodney lets himself sink down into. He tries to tell John to take off his pants, because they're rough, but he's asleep before he can even form the words.
::go to 'Wake Up Calls' —>::
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