SGA-fic: Graffiti (PG)
Title: Graffiti
Author: Zinnith
Rating/Category: PG/slash
Pairing: John/Rodney
Warnings: nope
Wordcount: 809
Spoilers: For 4x06 Tabula Rasa
Disclaimer: Since TPTB doesn't seem to know how to take care of my boys, I hereby take them into protective custody. (Just kidding, they're not mine.)
Notes: I just had to fix that thing that was so very wrong in Tabula Rasa. You know which one I mean. Unbeta'd schmoop.
ETA: I just relalised this fits one of my
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sg_15_fics prompts as well, #006-RememberSummary:
I am writing
graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of
how hard we tried
Ani DiFranco - Both Hands
The door to John’s quarters opens without question. Rodney stands in the doorway, uncertain. Even in the softness of sleep, John’s face is closed off. The blue light of the city paints shadows over his eyelids.
Watching John sleep is precious to Rodney. Right now, watching John breathe is precious. Will always be, but especially now. Rodney’s chest tightens at the thought of what could have been. He could have lost John yesterday and he wouldn’t even have known it, would never have remembered what Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard looks like when he’s sleeping.
Rodney creeps closer and kneels on the floor beside the bed, taking one of John’s hand in both his. John doesn’t react – he must be really exhausted. He’s such a light sleeper. Usually he would’ve woken up even before Rodney entered the room. He should still be in the infirmary, but according to the dark-haired doctor whose name Rodney can never remember, John sprung himself the moment he woke up.
Rodney only just found out.
So now he’s sitting on the hard floor, watching the curve of John’s lips as he breathes. In, out, in, out. Rodney synchs his own breath with John’s rythm, tries to attune his whole body to John. He couldn’t remember this. That what’s most wrong of it all.
Then, John’s face twitches, his eyelids flicker and crack open.
Rodney smiles hesitantly. “Hey.”
The look John gives him is relieved, hurt and wary all mixed together. “Hey,” John echoes. His voice is scratchy. “How’s Katie?”
“How are you?” Rodney counters. “They said you left the infirmary AMA, which was stupid by the way, so I had to check up on you.”
John’s eyes shy away. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Rodney is pretty fluent in John Sheppard by now and he can tell that John is anything but. He also knows that if he doesn’t fix this now, it will take John a very long time to be anywhere close to fine again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, taking the bull by the horns. “When I went to check on Katie I was only going to be there for a moment but I... I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry. I should’ve been with you.”
It’s like John’s entire body relaxes, the tension drains out of him and that wary look in his eyes goes away. “It’s okay,” he says.
“I’m really sorry,” Rodney repeats, just to pound the fact in. He doesn’t apologise often, never has, but being with John has taught him that there are times where apologies are neccessary.
The faint smile on John’s lips is reward enough. Then his gaze moves, from Rodney’s face to his arms.
“You wrote stuff on yourself.”
Rodney looks down. He hasn’t showered yet and the black marker is still clearly visible. John reaches out a hand and traces the words on Rodney’s left arm. ‘Little guy with glasses’.
“Zelenka?” John asks.
Rodney nods. “I ran into him before. When we were... I had to write everything down so I wouldn’t forget. Which reminds me.”
He gets to his feet and walks over to John’s desk to find a black marker and then returns to sit on the edge of the bed. John has to curl up so that Rodney can fit. His body is warm against Rodney’s.
Rodney takes the cap off the marker. “I wrote down the important things,” he explains. “But I forgot the one thing that was most important. I won’t do that again.”
As John watches curiously, he takes off his watch and puts the tip of the marker against the inside of his wrist. There he writes the tiny black letters where the band of the watch will cover them from the eyes of everyone else. Only the two of them will know about the one word there.
John.
John runs his thumb over the text, rests it there for a while against Rodney’s pulse. Then he takes the marker and sits up in bed.
“I’ve got something important to remember too,” he drawls. “Take your shirt off.”
Rodney does and tosses it on the floor. He smells like sweat and could really really use a shower, but all that goes away when John puts a hand on his chest to steady him and then writes, just above Rodney’s heart.
Mine.
-fin-
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