SGA Fic - Half-Light
Apr. 18th, 2007 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielWhile I should have been working on something school related, I was writing this. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trademybike for giving me feedback. Without it, I would have gotten fed up with this and it would be unfinished, collecting dust on the hard-drive.
Set after season three's "Sunday." I don't actually mention who has died, partly because I didn't feel it was completely necessary and partly because I didn't want to blab it to Kasey. So without the specifics, I guess you could pretend it was anyone's death.
Half-Light
The light coming in through the half-drawn curtains of John’s hotel room is dim and gray. It’s such a cliché, rain and funerals, but you can’t help nature and it’s been raining since they returned to Colorado the day before. John’s alone in his room, propped up against the pillows on the bed and tries not to let his mind wander. Instead, he focuses on the rough bedspread beneath him, the slightly scratchy material of the pillows. He’s aware of the rhythmic plink of water outside his window and the narration of some program about whales on the Discovery Channel. He’d stopped there because it reminded him of Rodney and how excited he’d been when his whale friend had shown up again. It was better to dwell on that than recent events.
They’ve been staying at the hotel for a night and a day. Unwilling to test the hold he has on his own strung out emotions, John’s barely left his room. The only signs of an inhabitant, however, are the hastily straightened sheets, his duffle bag on the chair in the corner, his shoes lying haphazardly at the end of the bed. There’s no reason for him to get comfortable here. And there’s no reason that this impersonal room should witness any sort of tantrum he might now want to throw.
John shuffles over to the table by the window to order room service. He’s not really hungry, but it seems like he should probably eat. And it’s something to do while he wastes time waiting to return to Atlantis. On the way he gets distracted by the view. His room’s on the third floor, and the world spread out in front of him is dull and wet and cold. Concrete and stone. Dreary. Depressing. Nothing like Atlantis at all and it’s not what he needs. It’s the last thing any of them needs.
There’s a knock on the door and when John answers it, Rodney’s standing there, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other raised to knock again. “Can I come in?” he asks, voice rough. He’s got more stubble than John is used to seeing on him and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“Sure,” John says, stepping back, leaving Rodney to shut the door behind him. “I was just going to order some food. Want some?”
When Rodney doesn’t answer, John frowns and looks up from the phone and the room service menu. “Rodney?”
Rodney’s just standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets balled tight into fists if the tension along his shoulders is any indication. And he’s staring at John and something in John’s chest wrenches a little because he can’t bear to see the look on his face. He can’t bear to see Rodney look so lost.
John crosses the room in two long strides, reaches out a hand to Rodney’s shoulder, and pulls him in. Rodney stumbles a bit, but John ignores it and holds him tight against his chest because this way he doesn’t have to see it.
A breath, two, three, and Rodney’s arms are wrapped across his back, fingers clutching hard into John’s shirt. And maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, because he’s clinging to Rodney as firmly as Rodney is clinging to him and he’s not sure he’ll be able to let go. Not without embarrassing himself completely.
So John forgets about it, forgets about staying an arm’s length away, and holds on as hard as he can, breathes in the slight smell of laundry detergent, soap, and something that he can’t place but is just Rodney beneath it all because this could be all he has.
This could be it, the two of them clinging together in a random hotel room in Colorado, the Discovery Channel in the background, and the rain falling outside.
They stand like that for awhile, neither one of them moving, just holding on and breathing in. Rodney eventually shifts and starts to pull away. His hands linger at John’s waist before sliding off and then the defenses are back up. Instead of looking John in the eye, he’s staring at some point near his left ear. He takes a step back without looking. His voice is thick with reined-in emotion when he says, “Thanks.”
John can only stare, his hands hanging empty at his sides, as Rodney turns and starts for the door. The last couple of weeks have been spent treading carefully around each other, both of them turning away when they should have been turning towards. The hurt had been too near, the pain too sharp, and if that could happen to one of the team, that could happen to one of them and why risk getting close when it could all be lost one sunny afternoon? But Rodney’s here, now, and John is desperate for something to say to make him turn around and stay.
Inspiration comes when the low sounds of the television become more than background noise.
“Wait, Rodney,” he says, his own voice catching slightly. Rodney half-turns toward him. “There’s, um. Discovery’s doing a program on whales. You could stay and I could order us some food.”
There’s a second where Rodney doesn’t respond and John thinks he’s going to continue to the door and down the hall to his own room and they’ll forget that they ever needed each other like that, that they were ever that vulnerable. But then Rodney’s eyes catch his and there’s a little bit of life there. John smiles tentatively at him.
“Sure,” Rodney says. He goes over to John’s bed, the only place to really sit, appropriating a good portion of pillows for himself as he settles back on the bed and kicks off his shoes as John phones downstairs.
When the food gets there, John shares the pillows with him, their arms pressed together. They poke at their burgers and fries for awhile, watching the whales and not saying much of anything. John’s okay with that, though. He’s not good at talking about his emotions.
Instead, at the next commercial break, he stands and takes their plates over to the table. Turning toward the bed he notices Rodney’s eyes on him and they’re still filled with grief but they’re less lonely. John thinks he can handle that. Grief for a fallen comrade is good, it’s right. As long as Rodney knows he’s not alone in this.
John smiles slightly, hoping that Rodney understands he had to keep his distance or risk cracking.
He’s not sure how long he stands there just looking as Rodney watches him, but Rodney’s eyes flicker briefly to the television screen and back to John. “Program’s back on,” he says, and shifts over a little, giving up some of the pillows he’s stolen.
Settling next to him on the bed, John lets himself lean a little bit closer, feels Rodney lean in too. It’s comfortable and grounding and real.
John’s so very grateful that they’re both still here.
trademybike for giving me feedback. Without it, I would have gotten fed up with this and it would be unfinished, collecting dust on the hard-drive.Set after season three's "Sunday." I don't actually mention who has died, partly because I didn't feel it was completely necessary and partly because I didn't want to blab it to Kasey. So without the specifics, I guess you could pretend it was anyone's death.
Half-Light
The light coming in through the half-drawn curtains of John’s hotel room is dim and gray. It’s such a cliché, rain and funerals, but you can’t help nature and it’s been raining since they returned to Colorado the day before. John’s alone in his room, propped up against the pillows on the bed and tries not to let his mind wander. Instead, he focuses on the rough bedspread beneath him, the slightly scratchy material of the pillows. He’s aware of the rhythmic plink of water outside his window and the narration of some program about whales on the Discovery Channel. He’d stopped there because it reminded him of Rodney and how excited he’d been when his whale friend had shown up again. It was better to dwell on that than recent events.
They’ve been staying at the hotel for a night and a day. Unwilling to test the hold he has on his own strung out emotions, John’s barely left his room. The only signs of an inhabitant, however, are the hastily straightened sheets, his duffle bag on the chair in the corner, his shoes lying haphazardly at the end of the bed. There’s no reason for him to get comfortable here. And there’s no reason that this impersonal room should witness any sort of tantrum he might now want to throw.
John shuffles over to the table by the window to order room service. He’s not really hungry, but it seems like he should probably eat. And it’s something to do while he wastes time waiting to return to Atlantis. On the way he gets distracted by the view. His room’s on the third floor, and the world spread out in front of him is dull and wet and cold. Concrete and stone. Dreary. Depressing. Nothing like Atlantis at all and it’s not what he needs. It’s the last thing any of them needs.
There’s a knock on the door and when John answers it, Rodney’s standing there, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other raised to knock again. “Can I come in?” he asks, voice rough. He’s got more stubble than John is used to seeing on him and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“Sure,” John says, stepping back, leaving Rodney to shut the door behind him. “I was just going to order some food. Want some?”
When Rodney doesn’t answer, John frowns and looks up from the phone and the room service menu. “Rodney?”
Rodney’s just standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets balled tight into fists if the tension along his shoulders is any indication. And he’s staring at John and something in John’s chest wrenches a little because he can’t bear to see the look on his face. He can’t bear to see Rodney look so lost.
John crosses the room in two long strides, reaches out a hand to Rodney’s shoulder, and pulls him in. Rodney stumbles a bit, but John ignores it and holds him tight against his chest because this way he doesn’t have to see it.
A breath, two, three, and Rodney’s arms are wrapped across his back, fingers clutching hard into John’s shirt. And maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, because he’s clinging to Rodney as firmly as Rodney is clinging to him and he’s not sure he’ll be able to let go. Not without embarrassing himself completely.
So John forgets about it, forgets about staying an arm’s length away, and holds on as hard as he can, breathes in the slight smell of laundry detergent, soap, and something that he can’t place but is just Rodney beneath it all because this could be all he has.
This could be it, the two of them clinging together in a random hotel room in Colorado, the Discovery Channel in the background, and the rain falling outside.
They stand like that for awhile, neither one of them moving, just holding on and breathing in. Rodney eventually shifts and starts to pull away. His hands linger at John’s waist before sliding off and then the defenses are back up. Instead of looking John in the eye, he’s staring at some point near his left ear. He takes a step back without looking. His voice is thick with reined-in emotion when he says, “Thanks.”
John can only stare, his hands hanging empty at his sides, as Rodney turns and starts for the door. The last couple of weeks have been spent treading carefully around each other, both of them turning away when they should have been turning towards. The hurt had been too near, the pain too sharp, and if that could happen to one of the team, that could happen to one of them and why risk getting close when it could all be lost one sunny afternoon? But Rodney’s here, now, and John is desperate for something to say to make him turn around and stay.
Inspiration comes when the low sounds of the television become more than background noise.
“Wait, Rodney,” he says, his own voice catching slightly. Rodney half-turns toward him. “There’s, um. Discovery’s doing a program on whales. You could stay and I could order us some food.”
There’s a second where Rodney doesn’t respond and John thinks he’s going to continue to the door and down the hall to his own room and they’ll forget that they ever needed each other like that, that they were ever that vulnerable. But then Rodney’s eyes catch his and there’s a little bit of life there. John smiles tentatively at him.
“Sure,” Rodney says. He goes over to John’s bed, the only place to really sit, appropriating a good portion of pillows for himself as he settles back on the bed and kicks off his shoes as John phones downstairs.
When the food gets there, John shares the pillows with him, their arms pressed together. They poke at their burgers and fries for awhile, watching the whales and not saying much of anything. John’s okay with that, though. He’s not good at talking about his emotions.
Instead, at the next commercial break, he stands and takes their plates over to the table. Turning toward the bed he notices Rodney’s eyes on him and they’re still filled with grief but they’re less lonely. John thinks he can handle that. Grief for a fallen comrade is good, it’s right. As long as Rodney knows he’s not alone in this.
John smiles slightly, hoping that Rodney understands he had to keep his distance or risk cracking.
He’s not sure how long he stands there just looking as Rodney watches him, but Rodney’s eyes flicker briefly to the television screen and back to John. “Program’s back on,” he says, and shifts over a little, giving up some of the pillows he’s stolen.
Settling next to him on the bed, John lets himself lean a little bit closer, feels Rodney lean in too. It’s comfortable and grounding and real.
John’s so very grateful that they’re both still here.
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