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sga_flashfic2006-06-24 03:14 pm
overchay.livejournal.com) wrote in sga_flashfic2006-06-24 03:14 pm
Entry tags:
Long Nights Spent by overchay; earthside challenge
Title: Long Nights Spent
John/Rodney but it's sort of pre-slash
PG/PG-13
Summary: Home.
There is a tense shift in this story. It happens when John wakes up and, yes, it was intentionally. Have a nice life!~!~
Rodney didn't know what to say when you came back, hair ruffled from the wind and bags by your side. His words were stuttered and awkward and much more forced than they ought to have been. You stared at him, almost wanting to smile but not having the heart to; besides, you were tired from jetlag and good-byes and finally retiring from the military that you've been serving for more than twenty years.
This inane rambling kept up for nearly ten minutes before it occurred to him that, hey, it was you.
You didn't say a word until your bags were packed into his trunk and backseat, the radio was on, and he was doing seventy on the freeway. You said:
"Thanks."
Being Rodney, he didn't bother to turn his head to reply to you. Not only could it potentially put the two of you into danger as the car slammed headfirst into a semi, but eye-to-eye contact wasn't really a big deal to him. He said:
"What? Shut up, John."
But it was in that affectionate tone that he only used when he knew exactly what you meant and he didn't need to hear it. Sometimes you just needed to say it.
He understood that too. Sometimes you just needed him to understand.
The drive from the airport was longer than you thought it would be, and you ended up dozing off in the car. When you awaken, it's dark outside and Rodney's leaning over you, a hand on your cheek as he's saying your name, trying to wake you up.
It takes you a few moments to figure out why he's calling you 'John' before you remember that you're not a Colonel anymore. You're not military and there's no rank for him to call you by. This fact almost makes you wish you had retired earlier; it's nice to hear your name from his lips.
"Come on, we're here."
You stare at him, bleary-eyed, and he removes his hand and looking vaguely embarrassed. You're not sure why. He has nothing to be embarrassed of. It isn't as though he was the one continually forcing things to never progress past friendship.
"Here?" you croak, knowing that this was the first time you've slept in two and a half days. You know it's because Rodney was sitting right next to you and it felt far more familiar than anything else Earth has to offer.
"Home," he clarifies, speaking softer than he normally would. He cocks his head upwards slightly, eyes partially narrowed. "You haven't suffered some sort of brain damage, have you?"
You smile at his blatant attempt to cover up the fact that he called it 'Home'. Home, like as if it wasn't just his place, as if you weren't just a guest, as if you were there to stay.
He called it Home. And, maybe, now it could be. Now that you weren't bound by the same restrictions as before, now that you're on Earth and, like it or not, but you need him. You know you sound ridiculous, but you just repeat his words back to him.
"Home."
Looking rather indulgent, he just sighs and nods as he leans in a bit further to help pull you out. Reflexively, you end up batting his hands away so you can push yourself out of the car on your own. You don't dare look at the hurt expression on his face. You've caused enough hurt in the past few months; you can't bear to stand the consequences of dealing out more pain, whether it's physical or emotional.
When you, and your bags, are inside Rodney's house, you just stand there, swaying slightly before he's at your elbow, helping you up the stairs and to his bedroom. He's only lived here a week, so you know the chances of it looking like, smelling like, feeling like Rodney's quarters are next to nothing.
Rodney's surprisingly silent as he leads you through the upstairs, only speaking to point out where the bathroom is. He doesn't tell you that there is a guest room because he knows that you don't care, that you don't want to sleep there anyway. He knows that you've been having trouble sleeping just by looking at you.
When you slide into bed, it smells blissfully like Rodney. His sweat, his soap, his aftershave, his conditioner which he swears is odorless but you know better, and it's all perfectly Rodney, just the way you had refused to believe it would. There are, however, still a few boxes littering the outskirts of the bedroom and it doesn't feel the way Rodney's room should feel like, or how you think it should feel like, but that's okay. You're in his bed and you're already half asleep. His hands are at your feet, untying your tennis shoes and sliding them off of your feet.
He doesn't even complain about having to undress you as you're too tired to even think right now. He helps slide your jacket off over your arms and shoulders, tossing it onto the floor alongside your shoes; you're in no condition to protest. Before you know it, you're only wearing a pair of boxer-briefs and Rodney's trying not to stare at your nearly-naked body. You, being you, make it harder for him to ignore by asking him to stay. You know he will; he can't deny you something when he already wants to do it.
Perhaps next time, you tell yourself, you'll watch him as he undresses. For now, you can barely watch the insides of your eyelids. You just feel the dip in the bed as his weight settles in beside you. He's close enough to feel and smell and hear, but not too close. You're not touching and, somehow, that's a comfort. It's almost like being out in the field with him, sharing a tent. At least, that's what you tell yourself.
Maybe tomorrow, after you've rested, you can lie a little closer, or kiss him good-night, or do all those things you've been waiting years to do to him. Tonight, you just need to sleep.
John/Rodney but it's sort of pre-slash
PG/PG-13
Summary: Home.
There is a tense shift in this story. It happens when John wakes up and, yes, it was intentionally. Have a nice life!~!~
Rodney didn't know what to say when you came back, hair ruffled from the wind and bags by your side. His words were stuttered and awkward and much more forced than they ought to have been. You stared at him, almost wanting to smile but not having the heart to; besides, you were tired from jetlag and good-byes and finally retiring from the military that you've been serving for more than twenty years.
This inane rambling kept up for nearly ten minutes before it occurred to him that, hey, it was you.
You didn't say a word until your bags were packed into his trunk and backseat, the radio was on, and he was doing seventy on the freeway. You said:
"Thanks."
Being Rodney, he didn't bother to turn his head to reply to you. Not only could it potentially put the two of you into danger as the car slammed headfirst into a semi, but eye-to-eye contact wasn't really a big deal to him. He said:
"What? Shut up, John."
But it was in that affectionate tone that he only used when he knew exactly what you meant and he didn't need to hear it. Sometimes you just needed to say it.
He understood that too. Sometimes you just needed him to understand.
The drive from the airport was longer than you thought it would be, and you ended up dozing off in the car. When you awaken, it's dark outside and Rodney's leaning over you, a hand on your cheek as he's saying your name, trying to wake you up.
It takes you a few moments to figure out why he's calling you 'John' before you remember that you're not a Colonel anymore. You're not military and there's no rank for him to call you by. This fact almost makes you wish you had retired earlier; it's nice to hear your name from his lips.
"Come on, we're here."
You stare at him, bleary-eyed, and he removes his hand and looking vaguely embarrassed. You're not sure why. He has nothing to be embarrassed of. It isn't as though he was the one continually forcing things to never progress past friendship.
"Here?" you croak, knowing that this was the first time you've slept in two and a half days. You know it's because Rodney was sitting right next to you and it felt far more familiar than anything else Earth has to offer.
"Home," he clarifies, speaking softer than he normally would. He cocks his head upwards slightly, eyes partially narrowed. "You haven't suffered some sort of brain damage, have you?"
You smile at his blatant attempt to cover up the fact that he called it 'Home'. Home, like as if it wasn't just his place, as if you weren't just a guest, as if you were there to stay.
He called it Home. And, maybe, now it could be. Now that you weren't bound by the same restrictions as before, now that you're on Earth and, like it or not, but you need him. You know you sound ridiculous, but you just repeat his words back to him.
"Home."
Looking rather indulgent, he just sighs and nods as he leans in a bit further to help pull you out. Reflexively, you end up batting his hands away so you can push yourself out of the car on your own. You don't dare look at the hurt expression on his face. You've caused enough hurt in the past few months; you can't bear to stand the consequences of dealing out more pain, whether it's physical or emotional.
When you, and your bags, are inside Rodney's house, you just stand there, swaying slightly before he's at your elbow, helping you up the stairs and to his bedroom. He's only lived here a week, so you know the chances of it looking like, smelling like, feeling like Rodney's quarters are next to nothing.
Rodney's surprisingly silent as he leads you through the upstairs, only speaking to point out where the bathroom is. He doesn't tell you that there is a guest room because he knows that you don't care, that you don't want to sleep there anyway. He knows that you've been having trouble sleeping just by looking at you.
When you slide into bed, it smells blissfully like Rodney. His sweat, his soap, his aftershave, his conditioner which he swears is odorless but you know better, and it's all perfectly Rodney, just the way you had refused to believe it would. There are, however, still a few boxes littering the outskirts of the bedroom and it doesn't feel the way Rodney's room should feel like, or how you think it should feel like, but that's okay. You're in his bed and you're already half asleep. His hands are at your feet, untying your tennis shoes and sliding them off of your feet.
He doesn't even complain about having to undress you as you're too tired to even think right now. He helps slide your jacket off over your arms and shoulders, tossing it onto the floor alongside your shoes; you're in no condition to protest. Before you know it, you're only wearing a pair of boxer-briefs and Rodney's trying not to stare at your nearly-naked body. You, being you, make it harder for him to ignore by asking him to stay. You know he will; he can't deny you something when he already wants to do it.
Perhaps next time, you tell yourself, you'll watch him as he undresses. For now, you can barely watch the insides of your eyelids. You just feel the dip in the bed as his weight settles in beside you. He's close enough to feel and smell and hear, but not too close. You're not touching and, somehow, that's a comfort. It's almost like being out in the field with him, sharing a tent. At least, that's what you tell yourself.
Maybe tomorrow, after you've rested, you can lie a little closer, or kiss him good-night, or do all those things you've been waiting years to do to him. Tonight, you just need to sleep.