Scars by Sara (Scars Challange)

[seratonation.livejournal.com]

Title: Scars

Author: Sara

Pairing: John/Rodney

Rating: R for off screen torture, minor self mutilation, some language and partial nakedness.
Summary: When they had been together for about a year Rodney had told him that when he was younger he was a cutter. He said it was his way of getting through it all. He didn’t say what all of it was, he hadn’t had to. John knew.
Word count: ~1, 280
Spoilers/Warnings: no spoilers, see rating for warnings

Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.
A/N: This is a little different then my other stuff, it’s a bit harder and I don’t know how well I pulled it off. All feedback loved. Thanks heaps to nunshavingfun  for giving it a read through.

Scars

 

When they had been together for about a year Rodney had told him that when he was younger he was a cutter. He said it was his way of getting through it all. He didn’t say what all of it was, he hadn’t had to. John knew. So, he said, the cutting made him feel better; got him to focus on something physical, got him out of his head. No one ever noticed, he said, and John had only intertwined their fingers together.

 

But he never forgot.

 

Months later, another mission went badly, worse than others, Rodney had been kidnapped and the others locked up, deep underground.

 

By the time they got to him, he’d been tied up; blood running down his skin, welts covering what wasn’t bloody.

 

He was barely conscious when they carried him through the gate. Carson did the best he could; clean him up as much as possible.

 

“He’s lucky to be alive,” he told them, “he has a few broken ribs, but they missed all the important bits, I’ve done everything I can, but the best we can do now is keep him comfortable, till the bruising goes down, and he should probably see Heightmeyer as well.”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Beckett,”

 

“Can we go see him?” John asked.

 

“He’s sleeping, but, aye, you can.”

 

John hurried in, followed closely by Teyla and Ronon.

 

He still looked like hell. John took one hand in his own, Teyla the other. They were the only part unscathed and that was probably only because of the angle at which they were tied.

 

“We’ll get them back,” Ronon said, standing at the foot of the bed.

 

“Yeah,” John agreed, not taking his eyes of Rodney’s almost black face.

 

He had bandages covering parts of his face. His breathing was laboured, even with the mask, there were more bandages all down his arms, and dark purple rings around his wrists. And that was only what they could see.

 

John, Teyla and Ronon didn’t want to leave his side, and Carson only tried briefly to get them to go to their own rooms before giving up and letting them stay the night.

 

Rodney woke up the next morning, but he was groggy and unfocused. It scared John.

 

It took a week. The stitches came out, the bruises were fading to blue-purple, and he could go back to his quarters. That day, he gave in the report and it had made John want to torch the village even more.

 

They had believed he was a demon and had to be punished.

 

They had stripped of most of his uniform and left him only in his pants.

 

They had tied him up on a pole with his hands behind his back.

 

They had whipped him, front back and from the sides.

 

They had jammed thin sticks under his toenails, driven them in.

 

They beat him up and threw rocks at him.

 

John visited Rodney’s quarters every night, Rodney never wanted to do anything except sleep, but that was fine with John because he just wanted to lie close and watch him breathing.

 

Rodney was back at work after 2 weeks, he still refused to see Heightmeyer, but he insisted that he was fine. When he entered the lab Radek shook his hand with both of his own.

 

“I’m glad to see you haven’t blown anything up while I was gone,” he said sounding like his old self.

 

Radek looked sheepish. “Actually…” he said holding up a piece of ancient tech that had ash surrounding an opening in the side.

 

“Oh, give it to me,” Rodney sighed and took it to his work station. Behind him Radek gave an internal sigh of relief.

 

John wanted to touch Rodney, run his hands along the scars on his arms, down his legs. He wanted to kiss the one on his forehead and will it to go away. But he was scared. The bruises still hurt when touched, but more than that, Rodney flinched when anyone came near to touching him, even if it was John.

 

Then he noticed it, the nervous hand rubbing. He understood that the scars were healing over and the scabs were brown and itchy, but his hands? So he started to take a closer look but Rodney would always move to hide it, till one day John saw it, a small scar, about half an inch long, between his first and second knuckle, still new.

 

He’d grabbed Rodney’s hand. It was pulled away quickly, but not before he saw it, the perfectly straight cut, even newer than the rest.

 

“What is this?” he’d asked.

 

“It’s nothing,” Rodney had replied, “a scar, like the rest.”

 

“No, it’s not,” he’d said, “its redder, straighter. Why didn’t you say anything, Rodney?”

 

“Because there’s nothing to say. I’m fine.”

 

“No you’re not, you’re going to see Heightmeyer first thing tomorrow.”

 

“Fine, now go away, I’m working.”

 

But Rodney never went, a few days later, about 3 weeks after he came back broken, the bruises were almost all gone, turning his skin into greens and yellows, and the scars, although still there, were getting better. All except one.

 

When John saw it the second time, well after it should have healed, he had been furious; with himself for taking so long to notice it, and at Rodney for not saying anything.

 

“What the fuck, Rodney?” he’d yelled, “You said you were fine!”

 

“I am,” he’d replied quietly.

 

“Then what the hell is this?” he’d grabbed his hand and held it up but once again it was pulled away.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Rodney! You can’t keep doing this.”

 

“What do you care? It’s not like I’m killing myself or anything.”

 

“For fuck's sake, of course I care Rodney,” he’d said, grabbed him by the shoulders, he wanted to shake him, shake some sense in to him, but the reaction to his touch was instant, Rodney tensed up, drawn in to himself, seemed to shrink.

 

It was so unexpected that John let go as if he’d been burned. It felt like his heart had stopped. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

 

“No, but leave me alone.”

 

So he did.

 

He didn’t visit Rodney that night, or any night after.

 

It was a month later that Rodney came to visit him. The bruises were a distant memory, the scars thin brown lines on pale skin, even his toenails were growing back.

 

He crawled in to Johns bed, ran a cold hand over his bare chest, his waist his hip and back under the boxers, squeezing his thigh.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

 

“It’s OK,” John whispered back, taking Rodney’s restless hand, which had crawled back up Johns chest, “Shh, it’s OK.”

 

He held Rodney’s hand in both his own, his thumb ran over the offending area, felt the rough scab, and Rodney shivered next to him.

 

“Sorry,” he said again, even quieter.

 

“Me too, I’m sorry too,” he said to the top of Rodney’s head.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“OK.”

 

And they fell asleep like that, hands over skin, with Rodney draped over John, almost clinging, and even if things weren’t perfect after that, they were ok – They got through.