SGA fic: Lost His Composure (John/Rodney)
Oct. 22nd, 2007 04:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wesleysgirlFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
winter_elf in exchange for her donation to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fire_fic. She asked for John/Rodney with John hurt and Rodney panicking, pre-slash or 1st time. Many thanks to kimberlyfdr and kageygirl for their help.
McKay/Sheppard, R, pre-slash. 2400 words.
Lost His Composure
by WesleysGirl
"What was that?" Rodney asked, his eyes wide, about three seconds before there was a repeat of the rustling sound they'd heard and about five before something huge slammed into John and knocked him to the ground.
They'd been checking out the area after leaving Teyla and Ronon behind at the village to discuss a possible trade agreement. None of the villagers had said anything about them needing to be careful, so they'd pretty much just been wandering around.
John was down, his right leg a bright bolt of agony -- shit, it was broken, had to be -- and the heavy creature that had him pinned snarled its hot, meaty breath into his face. He struggled and managed to get his hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm, but before he could do anything else there was gunfire, loud and close by, and the enormous cat-thing collapsed. On top of him.
Okay, not totally on top of him, but across his thighs, which was bad enough because his fucking leg was broken. John clenched his jaw as Rodney heaved at the thing and managed to flop it over onto its side and, more importantly, off him.
"Jesus," Rodney said, dropping down next to him. "Where the hell did that thing come from?"
"Pretty sure it was the bushes," John said, then gave a shocked, hoarse cry as Rodney's hands settled on his leg. "Fuck! Rodney."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." Rodney backed off. "You're bleeding -- I need to put some pressure on this." First, though, he activated his radio. "Teyla, we've got a situation here. Some kind of -- I don't know what it is -- attacked Sheppard. We need Carson here ASAP, and a stretcher."
There was a very brief pause, then Teyla said, "Understood. Ronon will join you, and I will wait for Dr. Beckett at the Stargate."
"Good. All right -- just hurry. McKay out." Rodney looked at John. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt, but I have to slow down this bleeding." He pressed on John's leg again and John reached out and caught Rodney's jacket, tightening his hand into a fist as the level of pain went from nine to one hundred in point-two seconds. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Rodney repeated, sounding far away, and everything went white and then red and it was all John could do to remember how to breathe.
Someone was saying something. John was vaguely aware that it had to be Rodney, even though none of it made any sense, or maybe because none of it made any sense. "Rodney, shut up," he said thickly. "It's okay."
"It's okay?" Rodney's hands tightened convulsively on John's leg and he growled in pain. "It's not okay. You're bleeding all over the place, and for all we know there are more of those things around here somewhere, just waiting to take advantage of an easy meal, and I don't--"
Ronon appeared suddenly and glanced at the dead animal. "You okay?" he asked John.
"Oh yeah, I'm peachy," John said, because he knew that was the answer Ronon was looking for. And he would be okay in the long run -- broken bones healed, even if they hurt like a bastard at first.
"Good. Teyla and Beckett will be here soon." Ronon looked at Rodney, whose lips were thin and pale. "Anything I can do?"
"Why, do you have magical healing powers we don't know about?" Rodney snapped.
"No."
"Then we're better off if you make sure there aren't any more of those -- " and Rodney nodded at the body of the creature he'd shot, "-- lying in wait to attack the rest of us."
Ronon let Rodney's attitude roll right off him. "Okay." And he went off.
"Don't go far!" Rodney called, then turned his attention back to John. "Just take it easy. You're going to be fine."
Hearing that from Rodney, instead of the more usual freaking out, was like a punch to the gut. What wasn't Rodney telling him? John strugged to get his elbows under him so he could see his leg, which shrieked fresh bolts of agony that made him want to puke.
"What are you doing?" Rodney yelped. "For God's sake, would you just lie down? You're not helping."
John sank back, pressing a hand over his eyes like that could erase the sight of his thigh bone sticking out through his torn skin. "Fuck."
"You're going to be fine," Rodney said stubbornly, putting more pressure on his leg. "Just stop being an idiot and lie still. Carson will be here soon and he'll get you fixed up good as new." He sounded like he was reading from a script.
"Anyone ever tell you you really suck at this comforting thing?" John said.
Rodney snorted. "Shockingly, no, you're the first. Does that make you feel better?"
"A little." John wondered when he'd just pass out, which would be an incredible relief at that point. He did kind of drift for a while then; he could hear Rodney and Ronon talking, Rodney's words clipped and impatient. It probably should have made John feel anxious, but it didn't -- he liked it better when Rodney acted like his usual sarcastic self. It was reassuring.
"There we are, lad," someone said. Rodney's hand stopped pressing down on John's leg, and John opened his eyes to see Carson kneeling next to him. "Did you hit your head?"
"I don't think so," John said. He felt cold suddenly; his hands were shaking.
"All right; I'm just going to give you something for the pain." There was a wet chill on his skin and then the sting of a needle, but it didn't really hurt. "Don't try to move. Let us do all the work." Carson's familiar Scottish accent was reassuring, too. John wanted to be reassured.
Warmth flooded through him, but he was still shaking. Rodney moved to his other side and took his hand, which was weird but also soothing. "Don't worry," Rodney said. "Carson's seen a hundred injuries worse than this one, haven't you, Carson?"
"Aye," Carson said distractedly. "Not to worry. We'll have you back in the city and put right again in no time." He did something to John's leg that hurt in a new and decidedly less fun way. John made a small, shocked sound and gripped onto Rodney's hand tightly.
Rodney didn't say anything, but his other hand tentatively patted John's hair, stroking it. That felt nice, a stark counterpoint to the pain. John closed his eyes again.
Everything moved far away after that. It didn't stop hurting, but he cared less. There were lots of people talking, including Rodney. John felt himself being lifted, jostled -- Rodney snapped, Be careful, you incompetents. Isn't he hurt enough?, and John realized he was still holding onto Rodney's hand. There were disjointed, worrisome snippets of conversation, like "if infection sets in" and "considerable amount of physical therapy" and then more of Rodney bitching at people on John's behalf, and when John opened his eyes again it was quiet and dark and he was looking up at the infirmary ceiling.
He shifted experimentally and his leg protested, but there was a world of difference between protest and agony. He'd take protest every time. Even though he was covered from the waist down with a sheet and blanket, he could tell that his leg was splinted and bandaged all to hell. His mouth was dry and his throat hurt and he tried not to wonder whether he was royally fucked or whether he was going to get lucky and actually be able to walk without a limp again.
Rodney came in carrying a cup of coffee. "Oh, good," he said, obviously meaning the opposite. "You would wake up in the five minutes I was gone. I've been sitting here at your bedside for hours." He indicated the chair next to John's bed as he came over and sat down.
"'s Carson around?" John's voice was hoarse.
Shaking his head, Rodney said, "He went to get some sleep. Why, do you want some more pain medication or something? I can go get someone for you."
It was more than John thought he could manage right then to explain that what he wanted was for someone who didn't think medicine was complete quackery to tell him what he could expect. And anyway, there was part of him that didn't want to know, in case it was bad news. What if he ended up with some raging infection and they had to cut off his leg? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"I'll get someone," Rodney said, standing up, clearly taking John's silence as a sign that there was something physically wrong with him -- well, other than the obvious.
"No," John said. He wasn't ready to hear it, whatever it was. "No, stay."
"Okay." Rodney looked hesitant, but he lowered himself back down into his chair and set his coffee on the floor. "So... how are you feeling?"
Freaked out, John thought about saying. "Groggy," he said instead. "What time 's'it?"
Rodney glanced at his watch. "A little after eleven," he said.
"Really?" That surprised John; he would have guessed it was a lot earlier than that. "How long was I out?"
"Do you mean how long were you in surgery?" Rodney asked. "Or how long have you been asleep?"
"I don't know," John said. "Both?" The insides of his eyelids felt gritty.
"Hm," Rodney said thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, you were in surgery for a couple of hours, but you were pretty out of it for a while before that. And for a long time after, obviously, although there were a couple of times when you almost managed a conversation."
John didn't remember any of those. "There were?"
"Mm-hm. Of course, you weren't making a lot of sense, so we basically ignored you."
"Thanks," John said. You couldn't say that Rodney didn't provide a reasonable amount of distraction, that was for sure, but his brain had already circled back around to whether or not he was okay, and it must have shown on his face because Rodney looked worried.
"Are you sure you don't want some more pain medication?" Rodney asked, but that was when Carson came in. He looked about as tired as John felt, but he smiled when he saw that John was awake.
"Did you have a nice rest, Colonel?"
"Longer than yours, I guess," John said. "What's the prognosis?"
"Well, let's see." Carson moved to the end of the bed and flipped back the covers, baring John's foot. He pressed warm fingers against the sole and John's foot twitched. "You can feel that all right, can you?"
"Yeah," John said.
Carson nodded. "Now wiggle your toes for me."
John did, and all five moved.
"Everything looks very good," Carson said, and John felt the knot in his stomach relax. "The wound was clean for a compound fracture. We pinned the break for now, and you'll be off your feet for longer than you'd like, I'd imagine, but at the end of it you'll be as good as new."
Releasing the tension in his shoulders let John slump back against the pillow a little more. "Thanks, Doc." He rubbed his face, hoping that would help hide the incredible relief sweeping through him.
Carson draped the covers carefully back over John's feet and moved to pat his shoulder. "Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning." He checked the clock, gave John another dose of pain medication -- the good kind, John could tell by the way it went into his vein -- and went away.
John waited for Rodney to leave, too, but he didn't. In fact, Rodney was looking at him with a thoughtful expression, like John had surprised him, and John wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"What?" John said finally.
"Nothing," Rodney said.
"It's not nice to lie to injured people," John pointed out.
"Technically, it's not nice to lie to anyone," Rodney said. "Unless of course you're trying to escape certain death at the hands of some sort of madman, in which case all bets are off, I suppose."
"Rodney."
"Oh please, you know this is what I'm like. If you want to spend time with someone who barely talks, get Ronon to come sit with you." Rodney had a point there.
"What were you thinking?" John asked, because in about ten minutes the morphine or whatever it was would hit him hard enough that having any sort of rational conversation would be practically impossible, and also by then he'd have forgotten that there was something Rodney wasn't telling him.
"Fine," Rodney said. "You were really worried, all right?"
That was enough to make John frown, morphine or no. "That you wouldn't tell me what you were thinking?" he asked.
"No, you idiot. About how hurt you were, before Carson came in. Why didn't you say something?"
"Like what?" John said. "'Hey, instead of telling me how long I've been out of it, how about telling me if I'm going to spend the rest of my life walking with a cane?'" He was instantly horrified to hear what he'd just said. Maybe he could blame it on the drugs.
"You asked me how long it had been," Rodney said, offended. "If you were upset, you should have said something."
John licked his dry lips. "I was trying to be cool."
"Good job with that," Rodney said. "Very cool." He hesitated, then pulled his chair closer to the bed. "I didn't think you worried about things like that."
"I'm not stupid," John said quietly. "I worry. You know, sometimes."
Rodney's expression was a complicated cross between frustrated and upset, and he reached out and touched John's arm where it lay on top of the blanket. His fingertips were warm, and softer than John would have expected. "I know I suck at this comforting thing --"
"Hey," John said. "I only said that because you were freaking out."
"-- but, well, you know. I would have tried." The backs of Rodney's knuckles rubbed against John's wrist, but John was too busy trying to make sense of something to pay as much attention to the sensation as he might have liked.
Carefully, he said it again. "You were freaking out."
"You were bleeding all over the place!" Rodney protested. "Your bone was sticking out of your leg! Another one of those things could have been lurking nearby! Of course I was freaking out!" Then he seemed to understand what John was -- wasn't -- asking. In a soft, gentle voice, he said, "Of course I was freaking out."
Relief was one thing, John thought, but hope was something completely different. He managed to twitch his fingers against the blanket, wordless, and Rodney -- brilliant, infuriating, and most importantly understanding -- slid his hand lower, slipping it under John's so that their fingers were entwined.
"You're going to be fine," Rodney said, and John believed him.
End.
winter_elf in exchange for her donation to fire_fic. She asked for John/Rodney with John hurt and Rodney panicking, pre-slash or 1st time. Many thanks to kimberlyfdr and kageygirl for their help.McKay/Sheppard, R, pre-slash. 2400 words.
Lost His Composure
by WesleysGirl
"What was that?" Rodney asked, his eyes wide, about three seconds before there was a repeat of the rustling sound they'd heard and about five before something huge slammed into John and knocked him to the ground.
They'd been checking out the area after leaving Teyla and Ronon behind at the village to discuss a possible trade agreement. None of the villagers had said anything about them needing to be careful, so they'd pretty much just been wandering around.
John was down, his right leg a bright bolt of agony -- shit, it was broken, had to be -- and the heavy creature that had him pinned snarled its hot, meaty breath into his face. He struggled and managed to get his hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm, but before he could do anything else there was gunfire, loud and close by, and the enormous cat-thing collapsed. On top of him.
Okay, not totally on top of him, but across his thighs, which was bad enough because his fucking leg was broken. John clenched his jaw as Rodney heaved at the thing and managed to flop it over onto its side and, more importantly, off him.
"Jesus," Rodney said, dropping down next to him. "Where the hell did that thing come from?"
"Pretty sure it was the bushes," John said, then gave a shocked, hoarse cry as Rodney's hands settled on his leg. "Fuck! Rodney."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." Rodney backed off. "You're bleeding -- I need to put some pressure on this." First, though, he activated his radio. "Teyla, we've got a situation here. Some kind of -- I don't know what it is -- attacked Sheppard. We need Carson here ASAP, and a stretcher."
There was a very brief pause, then Teyla said, "Understood. Ronon will join you, and I will wait for Dr. Beckett at the Stargate."
"Good. All right -- just hurry. McKay out." Rodney looked at John. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt, but I have to slow down this bleeding." He pressed on John's leg again and John reached out and caught Rodney's jacket, tightening his hand into a fist as the level of pain went from nine to one hundred in point-two seconds. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Rodney repeated, sounding far away, and everything went white and then red and it was all John could do to remember how to breathe.
Someone was saying something. John was vaguely aware that it had to be Rodney, even though none of it made any sense, or maybe because none of it made any sense. "Rodney, shut up," he said thickly. "It's okay."
"It's okay?" Rodney's hands tightened convulsively on John's leg and he growled in pain. "It's not okay. You're bleeding all over the place, and for all we know there are more of those things around here somewhere, just waiting to take advantage of an easy meal, and I don't--"
Ronon appeared suddenly and glanced at the dead animal. "You okay?" he asked John.
"Oh yeah, I'm peachy," John said, because he knew that was the answer Ronon was looking for. And he would be okay in the long run -- broken bones healed, even if they hurt like a bastard at first.
"Good. Teyla and Beckett will be here soon." Ronon looked at Rodney, whose lips were thin and pale. "Anything I can do?"
"Why, do you have magical healing powers we don't know about?" Rodney snapped.
"No."
"Then we're better off if you make sure there aren't any more of those -- " and Rodney nodded at the body of the creature he'd shot, "-- lying in wait to attack the rest of us."
Ronon let Rodney's attitude roll right off him. "Okay." And he went off.
"Don't go far!" Rodney called, then turned his attention back to John. "Just take it easy. You're going to be fine."
Hearing that from Rodney, instead of the more usual freaking out, was like a punch to the gut. What wasn't Rodney telling him? John strugged to get his elbows under him so he could see his leg, which shrieked fresh bolts of agony that made him want to puke.
"What are you doing?" Rodney yelped. "For God's sake, would you just lie down? You're not helping."
John sank back, pressing a hand over his eyes like that could erase the sight of his thigh bone sticking out through his torn skin. "Fuck."
"You're going to be fine," Rodney said stubbornly, putting more pressure on his leg. "Just stop being an idiot and lie still. Carson will be here soon and he'll get you fixed up good as new." He sounded like he was reading from a script.
"Anyone ever tell you you really suck at this comforting thing?" John said.
Rodney snorted. "Shockingly, no, you're the first. Does that make you feel better?"
"A little." John wondered when he'd just pass out, which would be an incredible relief at that point. He did kind of drift for a while then; he could hear Rodney and Ronon talking, Rodney's words clipped and impatient. It probably should have made John feel anxious, but it didn't -- he liked it better when Rodney acted like his usual sarcastic self. It was reassuring.
"There we are, lad," someone said. Rodney's hand stopped pressing down on John's leg, and John opened his eyes to see Carson kneeling next to him. "Did you hit your head?"
"I don't think so," John said. He felt cold suddenly; his hands were shaking.
"All right; I'm just going to give you something for the pain." There was a wet chill on his skin and then the sting of a needle, but it didn't really hurt. "Don't try to move. Let us do all the work." Carson's familiar Scottish accent was reassuring, too. John wanted to be reassured.
Warmth flooded through him, but he was still shaking. Rodney moved to his other side and took his hand, which was weird but also soothing. "Don't worry," Rodney said. "Carson's seen a hundred injuries worse than this one, haven't you, Carson?"
"Aye," Carson said distractedly. "Not to worry. We'll have you back in the city and put right again in no time." He did something to John's leg that hurt in a new and decidedly less fun way. John made a small, shocked sound and gripped onto Rodney's hand tightly.
Rodney didn't say anything, but his other hand tentatively patted John's hair, stroking it. That felt nice, a stark counterpoint to the pain. John closed his eyes again.
Everything moved far away after that. It didn't stop hurting, but he cared less. There were lots of people talking, including Rodney. John felt himself being lifted, jostled -- Rodney snapped, Be careful, you incompetents. Isn't he hurt enough?, and John realized he was still holding onto Rodney's hand. There were disjointed, worrisome snippets of conversation, like "if infection sets in" and "considerable amount of physical therapy" and then more of Rodney bitching at people on John's behalf, and when John opened his eyes again it was quiet and dark and he was looking up at the infirmary ceiling.
He shifted experimentally and his leg protested, but there was a world of difference between protest and agony. He'd take protest every time. Even though he was covered from the waist down with a sheet and blanket, he could tell that his leg was splinted and bandaged all to hell. His mouth was dry and his throat hurt and he tried not to wonder whether he was royally fucked or whether he was going to get lucky and actually be able to walk without a limp again.
Rodney came in carrying a cup of coffee. "Oh, good," he said, obviously meaning the opposite. "You would wake up in the five minutes I was gone. I've been sitting here at your bedside for hours." He indicated the chair next to John's bed as he came over and sat down.
"'s Carson around?" John's voice was hoarse.
Shaking his head, Rodney said, "He went to get some sleep. Why, do you want some more pain medication or something? I can go get someone for you."
It was more than John thought he could manage right then to explain that what he wanted was for someone who didn't think medicine was complete quackery to tell him what he could expect. And anyway, there was part of him that didn't want to know, in case it was bad news. What if he ended up with some raging infection and they had to cut off his leg? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"I'll get someone," Rodney said, standing up, clearly taking John's silence as a sign that there was something physically wrong with him -- well, other than the obvious.
"No," John said. He wasn't ready to hear it, whatever it was. "No, stay."
"Okay." Rodney looked hesitant, but he lowered himself back down into his chair and set his coffee on the floor. "So... how are you feeling?"
Freaked out, John thought about saying. "Groggy," he said instead. "What time 's'it?"
Rodney glanced at his watch. "A little after eleven," he said.
"Really?" That surprised John; he would have guessed it was a lot earlier than that. "How long was I out?"
"Do you mean how long were you in surgery?" Rodney asked. "Or how long have you been asleep?"
"I don't know," John said. "Both?" The insides of his eyelids felt gritty.
"Hm," Rodney said thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, you were in surgery for a couple of hours, but you were pretty out of it for a while before that. And for a long time after, obviously, although there were a couple of times when you almost managed a conversation."
John didn't remember any of those. "There were?"
"Mm-hm. Of course, you weren't making a lot of sense, so we basically ignored you."
"Thanks," John said. You couldn't say that Rodney didn't provide a reasonable amount of distraction, that was for sure, but his brain had already circled back around to whether or not he was okay, and it must have shown on his face because Rodney looked worried.
"Are you sure you don't want some more pain medication?" Rodney asked, but that was when Carson came in. He looked about as tired as John felt, but he smiled when he saw that John was awake.
"Did you have a nice rest, Colonel?"
"Longer than yours, I guess," John said. "What's the prognosis?"
"Well, let's see." Carson moved to the end of the bed and flipped back the covers, baring John's foot. He pressed warm fingers against the sole and John's foot twitched. "You can feel that all right, can you?"
"Yeah," John said.
Carson nodded. "Now wiggle your toes for me."
John did, and all five moved.
"Everything looks very good," Carson said, and John felt the knot in his stomach relax. "The wound was clean for a compound fracture. We pinned the break for now, and you'll be off your feet for longer than you'd like, I'd imagine, but at the end of it you'll be as good as new."
Releasing the tension in his shoulders let John slump back against the pillow a little more. "Thanks, Doc." He rubbed his face, hoping that would help hide the incredible relief sweeping through him.
Carson draped the covers carefully back over John's feet and moved to pat his shoulder. "Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning." He checked the clock, gave John another dose of pain medication -- the good kind, John could tell by the way it went into his vein -- and went away.
John waited for Rodney to leave, too, but he didn't. In fact, Rodney was looking at him with a thoughtful expression, like John had surprised him, and John wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"What?" John said finally.
"Nothing," Rodney said.
"It's not nice to lie to injured people," John pointed out.
"Technically, it's not nice to lie to anyone," Rodney said. "Unless of course you're trying to escape certain death at the hands of some sort of madman, in which case all bets are off, I suppose."
"Rodney."
"Oh please, you know this is what I'm like. If you want to spend time with someone who barely talks, get Ronon to come sit with you." Rodney had a point there.
"What were you thinking?" John asked, because in about ten minutes the morphine or whatever it was would hit him hard enough that having any sort of rational conversation would be practically impossible, and also by then he'd have forgotten that there was something Rodney wasn't telling him.
"Fine," Rodney said. "You were really worried, all right?"
That was enough to make John frown, morphine or no. "That you wouldn't tell me what you were thinking?" he asked.
"No, you idiot. About how hurt you were, before Carson came in. Why didn't you say something?"
"Like what?" John said. "'Hey, instead of telling me how long I've been out of it, how about telling me if I'm going to spend the rest of my life walking with a cane?'" He was instantly horrified to hear what he'd just said. Maybe he could blame it on the drugs.
"You asked me how long it had been," Rodney said, offended. "If you were upset, you should have said something."
John licked his dry lips. "I was trying to be cool."
"Good job with that," Rodney said. "Very cool." He hesitated, then pulled his chair closer to the bed. "I didn't think you worried about things like that."
"I'm not stupid," John said quietly. "I worry. You know, sometimes."
Rodney's expression was a complicated cross between frustrated and upset, and he reached out and touched John's arm where it lay on top of the blanket. His fingertips were warm, and softer than John would have expected. "I know I suck at this comforting thing --"
"Hey," John said. "I only said that because you were freaking out."
"-- but, well, you know. I would have tried." The backs of Rodney's knuckles rubbed against John's wrist, but John was too busy trying to make sense of something to pay as much attention to the sensation as he might have liked.
Carefully, he said it again. "You were freaking out."
"You were bleeding all over the place!" Rodney protested. "Your bone was sticking out of your leg! Another one of those things could have been lurking nearby! Of course I was freaking out!" Then he seemed to understand what John was -- wasn't -- asking. In a soft, gentle voice, he said, "Of course I was freaking out."
Relief was one thing, John thought, but hope was something completely different. He managed to twitch his fingers against the blanket, wordless, and Rodney -- brilliant, infuriating, and most importantly understanding -- slid his hand lower, slipping it under John's so that their fingers were entwined.
"You're going to be fine," Rodney said, and John believed him.
End.
"You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame"
- See the World by Gomez
