SGA-fic: Transformation Theory 2/3

[zinnith]

John woke slowly, still floating on the remains of a dream. He didn’t remember much of it, only bronze and turquoise and the salt smell of the ocean, but it must have been a nice one. He felt calm and rested, like he’d just had the first good night’s sleep in ages.

He sighed and stretched out underneath the covers. The sound of waves turned into the sound of a running shower. Sunlight was tickling his nose and John turned over, burying his face in the pillow. It took him a moment to wake up fully, to remember Hawk and Megan, to remember Rodney and being out. It was a bit too much to deal with first thing in the morning, so he closed his eyes again and dozed until he heard the door to the bathroom opening and smelled hot water and soap and Rodney.

“John? Are you awake?”

John turned over again, blinking his eyes open. Rodney had a towel wrapped around his hips, he was pink and clean and his damp hair was sticking out in every direction. There was a lot of naked skin and John wanted to reach out and touch every inch of it.

“Mhmm,” he murmured. “Time ‘s it?” It felt like a good idea to get Rodney to climb back into bed and sleep some more, curled around his body.

“Just after eight. The baby woke up a couple of hours ago.” Rodney rummaged around in his suitcase, found a pair of clean boxers and sat down on the bed to pull them on. “I’m surprised she didn’t wake you. You slept like the dead.”

“Huh.” John sat up against the headboard, rubbing his eyes. It was a little surprising, actually. He was usually a light sleeper. Back home, the sound of Newton moving around the apartment could be enough to wake him. “I guess I did.”

“Well, it seems like you needed it. Are you feeling better today? You look better. You’re not still freaking out, are you?”

“Wasn’t freaking out,” John mumbled, and then, at Rodney’s raised eyebrows, “Okay, maybe I was freaking out a little.”

“Want to talk about it?” Rodney asked, standing up and dropping the towel on the floor. “And if you do, can it wait until I’ve had coffee? I tell you, I can feel the caffeine withdrawal setting in and it’s not going to be pretty.”

John considered it and came to the conclusion that it was still too early for heart-to-hearts. No one should be forced to talk about their feelings before breakfast. “Yeah, okay,” he said, sliding out of bed. “Later. I hope you saved me some hot water. And stop leaving your towels on the floor, it drives me crazy”

“Neat freak,” Rodney muttered, but bent down to retrieve the towel.

When John came out of the shower, Rodney had dressed and was sitting on the bed checking his e-mail. John put his clothes on and quietly cursed the knee-brace while he tried to get his newly-awakened brain around the fact that he was out. My best friend knows I’m gay, he thought, trying it out in his head. My best friend knows I’m gay and I’ve spent the night in his guestroom together with my boyfriend. It felt okay, like he could get used to it, get it to fit with the rest of his life.

He managed to get down the stairs on his own, a little victory in its own right, and entered the kitchen where sunlight was streaming through the windows, reflecting off the yellow lacquered cupboards. Hawk and Megan were sitting at the kitchen table, both looking like they had been up for a while. Hawk was reading the paper, Megan was gurgling something in baby-speak to Anna. It was the perfect picture of domesticity and John was struck by a sudden jolt of jealousy until he felt Rodney’s hand in the small of his back and leaned into the warmth of the touch.

Megan looked up as they entered the kitchen. “Good morning! Did you sleep well?”

John smiled and said, “Sure, thanks”, while Rodney’s response was, “Please tell me there’s coffee?”

“Don’t be an ass, Rodney”, John said, but it came out sounding like an endearment and a feeling of rightness welled up inside him. This was his Rodney, the one he knew, and not the overly polite stranger from yesterday.

Megan just laughed and poured Rodney a mug, which he quickly inhaled and then asked for a refill. John accepted a cup of coffee of his own, some eggs and toast and, at Rodney’s insistence, declined the orange juice (“Drink that poison and I swear I will make you brush your teeth with chlorine.”). He stole the sports section of the paper from Hawk and leaned back in his chair, chewing on his toast. Rodney’s hand was resting possessively on his knee under the table and John felt pretty good about it all.

Too good, an evil little voice in the back of his head whispered. Too good to be true.

John turned a page and told the voice to shut up.

* * *

The thing was, John reflected a little later, he never expected good things to happen to him. Things like Rodney, things like Sacramento and the new life he had begun to create for himself there. He wasn’t a pessimist; he’d always considered the world a pretty cool place to live in, and he found his joy in the small things. Flying, ferris wheels, a cold beer on a warm day, that first gentle stretch when Rodney’s fingers breached his body. But experience had taught him that whenever something went right with his life, it was only a matter of time before it turned around and went to shit again. He’d learned to roll with the punches and come out standing. He’d just never considered the possibility that he would one day find someone who wanted to stand beside him.

That sort of thing didn’t happen to John Sheppard and somehow he kept expecting the other shoe to drop.

Hawk and Megan suggested a trip to the Airborne and Special Operations Museum and it felt like a nice way to spend a Saturday, strolling (or in John’s case, hopping) around and looking at the exhibitions. Hawk had always had a special interest for military history and kept spouting trivia while Megan jokingly rolled her eyes. She was pushing Anna in a stroller and Hawk walked beside her, his arm draped around her waist.

“They look happy, don’t you think?” Rodney said softly to John as the two of them had sat down so that John could get off his leg for a while. He sounded like it was something completely unexpected, and John wanted to go back in time and punch Rodney’s parents in the face, and then his own father too, for good measure.

The truth was, Hawk and Megan were one of the reasons for why John had not given up on relationships altogether. Their marriage seemed perfect, and even though John knew they'd had their fair share of bumps on the road, they had not allowed anything to split them up. It was what John had always stupidly dreamed about but never really allowed himself to hope for. Now, with Rodney, it was hovering just within reach. If he only could keep from screwing up.

Hawk was completely mesmerised by the museum's pride and joy - a completely restored WACO CG-4A glider. “Half the soldiers of an airborne division arrived at the battlefield in one of these beauties,” he told John. “They haven't been used since the early fifties. Imagine flying something like this, Shep!”

John admired the fragile construction of plywood, cloth and steel tubing and for a fleeting moment he couldn't help wishing he could've been one of those pilots, to have been part of that. Rodney, however, had gone very pale at the sight and looked slightly ill.

"You okay?" John asked him, instinctively thinking back, counting the time that had passed since Rodney last ate (thirty minutes, a chocolate bar, so it wasn't his blood sugar).

Rodney waved him away. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just having flashbacks to that time when you nearly died and it took two weeks for me to find out."

Suddenly the glider was less fascinating. John grabbed Rodney's hand and held on, gripping it hard. He wanted to say something, but his throat was closing up and no words came out. Their palms pressed together had to be enough, John thought, willing Rodney to understand, to accept that for this, there could be no words, no explanations.

When they reached the Vietnam exhibit, John was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. To begin with, he was still holding Rodney's hand, clumsily balancing on one crutch with the other held awkwardly under his arm. People were paying a little too much attention to them and it made the spot between John's shoulder blades itch, like he had a target painted on his back. Walking through the room, John soon found that the exhibit included a Huey, the pilot visible behind the controls and the door gunner at the ready.

John hadn't flown Hueys often, but the sight of the helicopter hit him like a punch to the gut. He felt ill, and Rodney had grown even more pale. The exhibit included an audio track with sounds of battle, and there was suddenly very little air in the room. He felt dizzy, only Rodney's presence keeping him grounded, and John realised that he needed to get out of here, now, or he was going to do something embarrassing and humiliating like fainting in front of Hawk and Megan and all the visitors.

"Do you guys mind if I go ahead?" he asked, doing his best to keep his voice steady. He gestured at his leg, for once extremely grateful to be a pathetic cripple. "Getting kinda tired here."

Hawk stopped in the middle of a sentence, cutting off his lecture about pilots in Vietnam (over two thousand Huey pilots had been killed). His expression changed from excited to sheepish, as if he'd suddenly realised that even if this was history, it still affected the modern world.

”Sure," he said, "Do you, uh, want to go back home?"

John shook his head. "No, it's all right. You guys go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I'll just find somewhere to sit down." He turned to Rodney. "Do you want to..." he asked, cutting off the question. Part of him wanted Rodney to come with him and the other part just wanted to be alone, to run and hide and find somewhere he could have his little panic attack in peace.

Rodney looked at him, and then at the exhibit. He was still very pale, but there was a strange look in his eyes, the same look he got when he was engrossed in research for one of his novels. "I... I think I want to see the rest of this. Well, not really, but I think I have to. Unless you want me to...?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll wait in the lobby."

John let go of Rodney's hand, a bit relieved but still mostly freaked out of his mind. He got the other crutch in place and hobbled out of the exhibit as fast as he could.

The lobby was light and airy compared to the exhibit area. John zoned in on a bench and sat down. For a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick, felt the bitter bile rise in his throat, but the feeling passed. He let the crutches fall to the floor and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and just breathing deeply, in and out.

Shit. This was embarrassing. John preferred to have his panic attacks in private, not out in the open where everyone could watch.

As if on cue, a museum employee turned up by John's side, a concerned expression all over her face. Or maybe she was just afraid he'd puke on the floor. "Are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?"

"No, thanks," John waved her away. "I'm fine. Just resting."

The 'I'm fine' line was beginning to get old, John thought. Anyone could see that he was absolutely not fine. But, well, to admit that... It wasn't something John was prepared to do. He was getting there, slowly, but he wasn't quite ready to be this vulnerable among strangers.

It seemed like he managed to convince the employee though, because she left, after picking John's crutches up off the floor and leaning them against the wall beside him; so that no one would trip over them, she said.

Finally alone, John was beginning to feel a little better. The sounds and sights of the exhibitions were slowly fading, morphing from horrifying memories of war into set-ups and mannequin dolls telling a story. His pulse was slowing, his breathing was normal again, his leg ached, the knee-brace itched, he was back to status quo

It took maybe half an hour before John spotted Rodney, Hawk and Megan with the stroller. Rodney and Megan were talking quietly about something, and Rodney only interrupted the conversation to throw John a raised eyebrow, silently asking if he was all right.

John answered with a smile and a thumbs up and Rodney, satisfied, turned his attention back to Megan. It was Hawk who came over, looking a little embarrassed and maybe a tiny bit worried.

"Hey, you all right?"

John ducked his head, shying away from Hawks piercing gaze. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little... you know."

Hawk nodded. "Things coming back to you? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought you guys here. Kinda fucked up way to spend a Saturday when you think about it."

"Nah," John shook his head. "It's a great place. They've put a lot of work into it. It's me that's fucked up." He didn't want to meet Hawks eyes, but forced himself to. This was part of him, this brokenness, and if Hawk could accept Rodney, then he should be able to accept a little bit of PSTD. Hell, Hawk had been there himself, if anyone would understand, it was him.

Hawk didn't say anything, just squeezed John's shoulder with a large warm hand, and that was better than words. Words wouldn't help with this, and Hawk, bless him, knew that. What he said instead was, "Wanna check out the gift shop? They've got some cool stuff."

John nodded, gathered up his crutches and followed Hawk towards the gift shop. Rodney turned up by his side, a warm, comforting presence, not saying anything, just being there.

* * *

They had lunch at a café in town and spent the afternoon exploring Fayetteville. Megan suggested a visit to Cape Fear Botanical Garden, which John thought was a brilliant idea. He wasn't a big fan of gardening and between him and Rodney they barely managed to keep Rodney's beloved cactus alive, but he was sure that looking at pretty flowers would chase away the last remnants of blood and smoke from his mind.

It was still a little too early in the spring for most flowers, but it was still a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Hawk and Megan took Anna for a walk along the paths while John found a bench by a pond where he could sit and let the calm atmosphere wash over him. Rodney joined him, sitting down close enough for their elbows to touch, and John was acutely aware of his presence; Rodney's skin through his shirtsleeve, his scent.

They didn't talk. John knew that, sooner or later, they would have to. The visit to the museum had brought things out in the open that John had preferred to keep hidden, and that Rodney had also been more than happy to ignore. Rodney had always hated John's military past and made no secret of it. John himself had tried to make it a non-issue. It was a choice he'd made long ago and, in the end, he'd stuck to it. The only thing he'd been really interested in was the flying. The rest of it - the fire and the destruction, the tombstones engraved with names of men and women torn away from life far before their time – was all a necessary evil, the price he had to pay for open blue skies.

Now he'd lost the sky but still had the nightmares. It didn't seem fair.

* * *

“Weird day, don't you think?” Rodney mumbled into John's neck as they settled into bed that evening. Dinner had been a quiet affair, since they all had been tired, and they had gone to bed early. John squirmed around, trying to find a comfortable position and then he felt Rodney's fingers skimming his side, sliding in underneath his t-shirt and coming to rest on his stomach.

"It got better," John answered, already half asleep. He pressed against Rodney, revelling in the feeling of his warm body. Then Rodney's hand was moving down, fingers trailing towards the edge of John's boxers. His dick stirred, suddenly very interested. However, Hawk and Megan were sleeping a few doors away and it didn't matter how accepting they were of his new lifestyle, he was not having sex in their guestroom. "No," he said, moving Rodney's hand away.

"What, why?" Rodney sounded completely baffled and more than a little hurt.

"I'm not doing it here," John said firmly. "Wait until we get home."

"But...but," Rodney whined. "That's not until tomorrow!"

"I think you can hold out for one more day, Rodney," John shot back, grinning into the dimness of the room. "Patience is a virtue, or so I've heard."

"Well, dying from blue balls is not," Rodney grumbled, but grudgingly moved his hand back to its original position.

John relaxed into the mattress, enveloped in Rodney's embrace, and tried to wind his brain down enough to fall asleep. So much had happened during the day, and John felt like he hadn't quite had the time to catch up on it all. He half expected to lie awake half the night, or at least have some pretty spectacular nightmares, but he was asleep before he knew it.

As it turned out, it was not John's turn for nightmares that night. Just after midnight, he was dragged from sleep by Rodney tossing and turning beside him. John was just about to kick him in the shin, roll over and go back to sleep, when he noticed how Rodney was breathing in sharp, strangled sobs, and when he sat up he was alarmed by the look of panic on Rodney's sleeping face. John hesitantly poked him a little, groggily wondering if you were supposed to startle people with nightmare's awake, or if that was people who were sleepwalking, but when he didn't get a reaction, he shook Rodney a little harder.

"Hey, Rodney, wake up. You're dreaming, buddy."

Rodney flinched away from the touch, and then suddenly his eyes opened and he stared into the darkness, breathing hard. "Crap," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

"You okay?" John asked carefully. He was so very bad at this. Usually it was the other way around, with Rodney soothing his nightmares away.

Rodney didn't answer. Instead, he slid out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John stayed between the sheets for a moment, listening anxiously for the sound of Rodney being sick, but all he heard was running water. When he had waited for five minutes and the door didn't open, John slowly made his way out of bed and limped over the floor to lean against the doorjamb. He knocked lightly on the door. "Rodney? You all right?"

There was a noncommittal sound from within, and John wasn't going to be satisfied with it. "You're kinda freaking me out here, buddy," he continued. "Wanna come out and talk about it?"

It wasn't that he particularly wanted to talk. John had a pretty good idea about what had set Rodney off. But talking about things was the way Rodney dealt, and if it was going to make him feel better, John was prepared to babble all night.

A few moments later, the door unlocked and Rodney showed up, his face damp and his sweaty hair curling a little against his neck. "Well," he muttered with a scowl. "That was absolutely no fun at all."

"Bad dream?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. Stupid question, he knew, but he had to start somewhere.

"You could say that," Rodney muttered, padding over to the window. He leaned back, putting both hands on the windowsill behind him. "I think I'm having your nightmares, only I wasn't actually there so my subconscious is substituting your scary things for mine and my subconscious is seriously messed up. There were enormous bees dropping exploding lemons on people. ” He made an embarrassed little pause. ”And then I was eaten by a whale."

John knew he was an asshole, but he couldn't help it. He started to laugh, a deep braying laugh that took his breath away and made his stomach ache.

"Stop it, it's not funny!" Rodney hissed, red in the face. "And you'll wake the baby!"

"Sorry," John gasped, struggling for breath, and wiping the tears from his eyes. "I know it's not... I just... jeez McKay, leave it to you to de-traumatise shit."

"Yes, because death by anaphylaxis is not traumatic at all," Rodney grumbled, turning his back to the room. John felt bad - he really was an asshole and laughing at your boyfriend's nightmares wasn't exactly the most compassionate thing you could do. He limped up to Rodney, wrapped his arms around his chest and belly and rested his chin on Rodney's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Really, I am." Rodney was slowly relaxing into his embrace, leaning back a little. "This thing with the Air Force really bothers you, huh?"

"Do you really want to talk about this now?" Rodney asked, suddenly sounding very tired. "I mean, not that I'm not grateful you've decided to forego the whole 'suffering in silence until you can't take it anymore' thing but I would've thought..." he made an abortive little motion with his hand.

"No, I want to know." John looked out through the window, at the moonlight painting the garden in a pale silvery hue. Megan's apple tree was casting long shadows over the grass. "I don't think about it a lot. It's part of who I am and I can't change the past. Just never realised how bad you felt about it."

Rodney huffed. "Please, I'm insanely in love with you, of course I feel bad about it. I can't even begin to understand what you've been through and I hate the thought of those things happening to you. So yes, it bothers me."

John wanted to protest, to tell Rodney that it hadn't been things happening to him as much as it had been him happening to other people, but the moment didn't feel right. He pressed his lips against Rodney's temple instead. "Let's go back to bed and try to get some more sleep," he said. "I think I've done enough sharing for one night."

Rodney snorted. "Statistically speaking, you've done enough sharing for a year." He pressed back a little more against John, wriggling his hips. "Know what would make me feel better?"

"No, Rodney."

"Come on, everyone knows that sex is an excellent cure for nightmares."

"No."

"All right, all right. But I warn you, at this rate we won't even make it home, I'll ravish you on the plane."

John briefly considered giving in, longing for the feeling of Rodney's body sliding against his, of them getting lost in each other for a little while. Then reality returned as he thought about embarrassing stains on the sheets and the fact that Rodney might be a lot of things in bed, but quiet was not one of them.

However, falling back asleep with Rodney's arm slung around his waist wasn't a terrible substitute and the nightmares didn't return.