Drabble marathon: #6.
Jan. 1st, 2009 08:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiercelydreamed#6: for A., who very flatteringly said, Any (happy/hot?) Rodney/John thingy from you will fill me with joy. Episode tag to 5x02 "The Seed;" predictably somewhat spoilery.
John knows that the medical staff keep two different discharge times for him: the second is the one they actually want him to stay until, and the first is the one where if he sneaks out before then, they'll get Ronon to trank him and then go cart him back. A bit before midnight between times 1 and 2, John works his sweatshirt on over his scrubs and limps off for his quarters. He's leaning on the wall of the transporter -- just checking the display, feeling the hum, really not at all trying to catch his breath -- when the door whooshes open and Rodney steps inside.
"As per usual," he says to the chamber, and runs his eyes over John in assessment before moving to John's good side and looping John's arm over his shoulders. The position makes John's stitches pull, so it's not that much less painful than walking unsupported; still, he appreciates the gesture.
"How'd you know?" he asks as they head out into the hall.
Rodney waves his free hand dismissively. "Oh, please. You never pull your little prison breaks until most people are out of the halls, and you always take a break in the transporter where no one can witness any less-than-manly wincing. Why anyone thinks you're unpredictable and spontaneous, I'll never know."
"I'm a mystery wrapped in an enigma," John says a little breathlessly, leaning forward to swipe his hand over the sensor strip.
By the time he manages to lower himself onto the bed, he's sweaty and the uninjured muscles of his torso and thighs are spasming with the effort of stabilizing himself. Rodney comes back from the bathroom with a glass of water and what look like a couple of Vicodin. "Ugh," John says, reaching out to accept them. "These things always make me all nauseous and ..." He circles the hand with the pills in a vague gesture.
"Yes, well, while I'm not underselling the tediousness of delayed processing, it's better than a forty-year-old man lying in bed in the morning debating whether he can manage to get up and to the bathroom before he pees all over the mattress," Rodney replies.
"I never should have told you about that." John tosses the pills back and drains the glass, then bends awkwardly until he can roll onto his side, then onto his back. "God," he groans, as Rodney hauls the covers out from under his legs and starts unwinding them. "Tentacles."
"I know," Rodney says, shaking the blanket out over John. "That's one genre of pornography that's just never going to be hot again."
John snorts out a surprised laugh, then gasps and presses his forearm against his stomach, grimacing. "Jeez, don't say things like that to me right now."
"Right, sorry, no sexual and/or humorous comments until the stitches come out," Rodney snipes, but there's a faint, gentle contriteness in the way he pulls the covers up over John's chest and retrieves the second pillow from the floor.
"You staying?" John asks, half-opening his eyes again after Rodney waves the light off.
"Hmm? Oh, no -- sorry, but that one time you knocked the bandage off and I woke up covered in blood was really enough trauma for one lifetime." Rodney's out of line-of-sight, voice getting farther off; the tap turns on again.
"You're such a wuss," John says to the dark. "It was barely a smudge."
"Excuse me for not wanting to help reinjure you in my sleep," Rodney calls as he walks back from the bathroom. He sets the glass down on the nightstand and continues in a lower voice, "I'll stop by to get you before breakfast, okay? Unless you just want me to bring something back ..."
"Nah, that's okay. I've been sitting on my ass for three days; the boredom sucks worse than the gut wound at this point." John shifts the pillow around under his head, trying to get comfortable.
"I'll see if I can get them to move the next crisis up a few days, I'd hate for you to lack entertainment," Rodney says, but he rests one hand on the bend of John's shoulder for a minute, thumb brushing soothing, careful circles along his neck, before turning and heading out for the night.
John knows that the medical staff keep two different discharge times for him: the second is the one they actually want him to stay until, and the first is the one where if he sneaks out before then, they'll get Ronon to trank him and then go cart him back. A bit before midnight between times 1 and 2, John works his sweatshirt on over his scrubs and limps off for his quarters. He's leaning on the wall of the transporter -- just checking the display, feeling the hum, really not at all trying to catch his breath -- when the door whooshes open and Rodney steps inside.
"As per usual," he says to the chamber, and runs his eyes over John in assessment before moving to John's good side and looping John's arm over his shoulders. The position makes John's stitches pull, so it's not that much less painful than walking unsupported; still, he appreciates the gesture.
"How'd you know?" he asks as they head out into the hall.
Rodney waves his free hand dismissively. "Oh, please. You never pull your little prison breaks until most people are out of the halls, and you always take a break in the transporter where no one can witness any less-than-manly wincing. Why anyone thinks you're unpredictable and spontaneous, I'll never know."
"I'm a mystery wrapped in an enigma," John says a little breathlessly, leaning forward to swipe his hand over the sensor strip.
By the time he manages to lower himself onto the bed, he's sweaty and the uninjured muscles of his torso and thighs are spasming with the effort of stabilizing himself. Rodney comes back from the bathroom with a glass of water and what look like a couple of Vicodin. "Ugh," John says, reaching out to accept them. "These things always make me all nauseous and ..." He circles the hand with the pills in a vague gesture.
"Yes, well, while I'm not underselling the tediousness of delayed processing, it's better than a forty-year-old man lying in bed in the morning debating whether he can manage to get up and to the bathroom before he pees all over the mattress," Rodney replies.
"I never should have told you about that." John tosses the pills back and drains the glass, then bends awkwardly until he can roll onto his side, then onto his back. "God," he groans, as Rodney hauls the covers out from under his legs and starts unwinding them. "Tentacles."
"I know," Rodney says, shaking the blanket out over John. "That's one genre of pornography that's just never going to be hot again."
John snorts out a surprised laugh, then gasps and presses his forearm against his stomach, grimacing. "Jeez, don't say things like that to me right now."
"Right, sorry, no sexual and/or humorous comments until the stitches come out," Rodney snipes, but there's a faint, gentle contriteness in the way he pulls the covers up over John's chest and retrieves the second pillow from the floor.
"You staying?" John asks, half-opening his eyes again after Rodney waves the light off.
"Hmm? Oh, no -- sorry, but that one time you knocked the bandage off and I woke up covered in blood was really enough trauma for one lifetime." Rodney's out of line-of-sight, voice getting farther off; the tap turns on again.
"You're such a wuss," John says to the dark. "It was barely a smudge."
"Excuse me for not wanting to help reinjure you in my sleep," Rodney calls as he walks back from the bathroom. He sets the glass down on the nightstand and continues in a lower voice, "I'll stop by to get you before breakfast, okay? Unless you just want me to bring something back ..."
"Nah, that's okay. I've been sitting on my ass for three days; the boredom sucks worse than the gut wound at this point." John shifts the pillow around under his head, trying to get comfortable.
"I'll see if I can get them to move the next crisis up a few days, I'd hate for you to lack entertainment," Rodney says, but he rests one hand on the bend of John's shoulder for a minute, thumb brushing soothing, careful circles along his neck, before turning and heading out for the night.