Can't Take the Sky snippet

Jul. 31st, 2008

Fandom: SG: Atlantis

Characters: John/Rodney

Rating: PG1-13

Disclaimer: Not mine!


When John looks up from plotting in their course and finds Rodney curled up in the co-pilot's chair, he startles, but only briefly. It's good, right, to have Rodney there again, to have him safe and back with them, and well enough to be moving about.

Rodney's curled up tight, legs pulled up to his chest, cheek resting on his knees. John can just make out the mark in the center of his forehead, a faint dark scar where the Alliance had bent their will to stirring up his brain.

John sighs, and stands, wincing at the stretch of pain up his side, the wound from the bullet he caught there taking far too long to heal. He leans over Rodney, pushing the heavy blond curls out of his face, just watching him sleep.

Rodney looks peaceful when he sleeps, like John has no recollection of him ever looking before. It makes him not want to stir Rodney, and he shifts back, trying to recall where Cadman had put that throw her momma sent her.

Rodney's eyes snap open when John moves to step away, his hand jerking out unnatural fast and grabbing John's wrist. John's still getting used to that, and understanding the whys of it don't make dealing with the actual fact of it any easier.

John swallows, and says, when Rodney just stares up at him, all big blue eyes, not quite tracking yet, "Doc say it was all right for you to be moving about?"

Rodney blinks, slow, tilting his head to the side and rubbing his thumb across the inside of John's wrist. When he speaks his voice is still raspy, thin from the screaming he'd been doing when John found him, and that's a memory John could do without, one more in a list that keeps multiplying itself. "Had no interest in cracking the shell, just wanted to poke at the insides."

John winces, leaning his hip against Rodney's chair, because Rodney still ain't released his wrist, "And did they? Poke at the insides?"

For a long moment Rodney doesn't say anything, dropping his gaze to where he's holding John's wrist, and then he sighs, bring his other hand up, tracing a fingertip up one of John's veins. "Stirred things up real good." Rodney shrugs, tone distracted, "But patterns reform, equilibrium returns, status quo. Ship, pilot, sky."

Rodney traces his finger back down John's forearm, over the fingers of his other hand, down across John's palm, out to the edge of his John's heart finger and back in to the center of his hand. John curls his fingers up, holding onto Rodney's, squeezing until Rodney looks up at him.

"And what are you in the pattern?"

Rodney blinks, and then smiles, something huge and bright, like John had been sure they'd stolen away from him. Rodney shifts up, moving liquid fast, his eyes clear and impossibly blue when he breathes, "I am the sky," soft and joyful.

And John means to smile and step back. He knows he oughta escort Rodney down to his room, make sure he gets some sleep regardless of whether his damage is physical or in the tangled mess of his brain. Instead he says, "I reckon you are."

Rodney beams at him, and says, "Yes," and when he leans in it is without any of his jerky speed. John's breath hitches, and he tilts his head to the side, and when Rodney kisses him it is his equilibrium, found for the first time in his life.


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