sga_flashfic | Cold Toes by Martha

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Cold Toes
John/Rodney, Adult
Intimations of child abuse

Because if I can't finish a hurt comfort flash fic, there is no hope for me.

Cold Toes

The dog was red with a long, silky coat. She laid her head on the old man's knee, and he patted her cautiously, his hand clawed with arthritis, knuckles like knobs. As John came around the corner pushing Rodney's wheelchair, the dog's handler guided her to the next person in the circle, a woman with snow-white hair who reached out eagerly to grab fistfuls of fur. The dog stood patiently as her owner gently untangled the clutching fingers. Rodney turned his head to watch, and John stopped the wheelchair. "That's a very good dog," John said, sincerely.

The owner heard him, smiled, and led the dog over to John and Rodney next. "Oh no," Rodney protested. "I'm not one of the inmates."

"McKay!" John protested.

"I'm not a dog person, anyway," Rodney continued, even as he laid his left hand (the one that wasn't strapped to his chest) gently on the dog's head to scritch behind her ears. "I really prefer cats."

"Well, Abbie doesn't know that," the handler said tolerantly. "And she likes you just fine."

Abbie the dog stretched her neck up for more petting. Rodney obliged, his own head bowed, fingers ruffling the long coat. "Obviously a good judge of character," he said. The handler laughed and then broke off, unsure whether Rodney was joking.

Reaching down over the back of the wheelchair, John adjusted Rodney's shirt to hide the small pink bruise he could see in the gap formed by his rumpled neckline. Last night at the Best Western Winnipeg, with the two of them propped against the headboard, John had held Rodney in his arms and stroked him gently and so slowly, his mouth on Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney kept petting the dog until the handler interrupted gently, "We need to see some other folks now," and led Abbie away. Rodney's hand fell onto his knee. He didn't say anything. He hadn't said much since they had gotten up this morning. He'd climaxed in John's hands last night, sobbing a bit, then grumbling as John helped him settle. Then he turned his head to kiss John's face, and fell asleep with his next breath.

John pushed the wheelchair to the elevator, and they rode in silence to the second floor. Reading the room number signs, they turned to the left, past a community room, and then to the end of the corridor, where a window looked out over the grounds. John stopped by the last door, but Rodney nodded impatiently and snapped, "This is the room number," so John pushed the wheelchair in. A television was blaring, and two women lay on two beds. One was sitting up and watching the TV; the other was resting on her back with her eyes closed.

Rodney sat up very straight and took a deep breath, gesturing to the far bed. John pushed the chair to the bedside, giving an apologetic shrug to the woman in the other bed. "Hello. Um, sorry to intrude."

She scowled and reached for the remote to turn up the volume.

Rodney raised his voice to be heard over the television. "Give me a hand, Colonel. I want to stand up." John shook his head, but didn't argue, locking the chair in place while Rodney continued in a very different voice, "It's me, Mom. I'm here."

She rolled her head to look at him.

John bent down and swung away the foot rests. "Easy," he said, and Rodney shot him an incredulous look before pushing himself very carefully to his feet. John heard his sharp intake of breath when he put his weight on his cast, but he balanced himself with his free hand on the bed and to bent down to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. She reached up to pat his face. Rodney sank back into the wheelchair.

"How are you feeling, Mom?"

"They're talking about hospice for me." Her voice quavered, but like Rodney's, it carried just fine over the din of the television.

"I know. Are they treating you all right?"

"Where's Madison?"

"She's not here." Rodney reached for his mother's hand and held it tightly. "Jeannie couldn't get away."

John had listened to Rodney's side of the conversation with Jeannie all the way through the Denver Airport. Rodney wheedled and cajoled, begged and pleaded and finally tried to lay down the law like he was ordering one of his own scientists around. Jeannie had apparently been immovable.

"But she's my grandchild!" Mrs. McKay cried. "I just want to see her before I die." Rodney turned his face away for a moment. The expression John saw in profile was frozen with pain. He leaned forward and put his hand on Rodney's shoulder, but Rodney shook himself free.

"I'll talk to her again," Rodney said, sounding small. "That's all I can do."

"I want to see my grandchild," she insisted piteously.

Rodney only bowed his his head. "I know."

"It's not right." She raised her face and caught John's eye. "You agree with me," she said.

"Um--"

"It isn't right. It isn't natural, is it?"

"Leave John alone," Rodney said. "This doesn't have anything to do with him."

Her lips quivered. "I just want to see little Madison. She should have the chance to know her own family."

Rodney didn't answer, except to continue holding his mother's hand. At length she pulled free, but only so she could grasp Rodney's wrist tightly. "Meredith," she said with the air of a woman who has had a wonderful idea. "Meredith, you could bring Madison here to see me."

"Mom, I'm in a wheelchair right now. I'm not going to be traveling cross-country with a five-year-old."

"But he'll be all right," John hastened to add. He had really been hoping that Rodney's mother wouldn't notice her son's battered state. "He just tripped while we were walking in the woods."

They had been making their way down a treacherously steep hillside, rocky and forested, trying to hide from a company of renegade Genii. One of their pursuers had dislodged a stone the size of John's fist, and it had come rolling down the slope and bounced up to club Rodney in the back. As he fell, he hit a low-hanging branch with enough force to smash his collarbone, and a root grabbed his foot when he rolled, wrenching his ankle to hell. They spent the night in the meager shelter of an overhanging rock, watching Genii flashlights pierce the darkness of the forest around them. John kept his hand over Rodney's mouth and whispered promises of double espressos, chocolate cake and blowjobs when Rodney whimpered in pain.

Rodney's mother looked up at John for the first time, her expression frankly skeptical. "So anyway," John tried. "It was just one of those things. I promise, Rodney's going to be fine."

She considered him. "Are you a friend of Meredith's?"

"Yes ma'am, I am. Rodney is a very good friend."

She smiled. "You would have liked Meredith as a baby boy. He had such beautiful yellow curls! And then when he moved away from home, he cut them all off, isn't that strange? Why did you do that, Meredith? It never made any sense to me."

"That was a long time ago, Mom. My hair isn't that color anymore."

"Does little Madison have blonde hair and curls? Oh, I bet she does."

Rodney didn't answer. He continued to sit close, half-hunched over the side of the bed. John couldn't see his face.

With a niggling sense that he was probably walking into a minefield, yet unable to stop himself, John said, "Yes, Mrs. McKay, Madison has blonde hair. Maybe we can send you a picture."

"Ah." She smiled and closed her eyes. "You're a good friend to my Meredith. I'll tell you a story that will make you laugh. When Meredith was a little boy, he used to wear all his clothes to bed every night. Even his shoes and socks! Have you ever heard anything so silly? For all I know, he still wears his clothes to bed."

And the funny thing was, Rodney kind of did. Even when John spent the night, Rodney usually came to bed in a T-shirt and boxers. He was just as happy making love partially clothed, and all of John's teasing hadn't broken him of the habit of pulling up his boxers again afterward. John had helped him do it just last night, knowing Rodney would rest easier in his underwear.

Rodney didn't say a word. "Do you remember that silly game you and your father used to play?" Mrs. McKay's voice became a gravely sing-song, "It snows and it blows and it cuts off my nose, so pray, little Merry, let me in." Rodney sat deathly still. "I'll light my pipe and I'll warm my toes --"

Rodney blurted, "I have to go." He yanked his wrist free from his mother and forced himself to his feet, grunting as he put weight on his cast, and began to shuffle towards the door.

"McKay!" John couldn't grab him by the shoulder and set him back down again, no matter how much he wanted to, for fear of jarring that broken collarbone. "Dammit, Rodney, Keller warned you. If you fall you're going to wind up needing surgery."

Behind him, Mrs. McKay made an awful, gurgling sound. John whirled around in time to see her turning a dead, dark purple, the color rising in her face so quickly she looked like a cartoon thermometer.

"Rodney, sit the fuck down," John snapped as he maneuvered around him and raced down the hall to the nurses' station. Then he ducked into the community room to get out of the way of the crash cart. After long moments of relative quiet, he made his way back to Mrs. McKay's bedroom, praying that Rodney wasn't standing in a corner watching his mother die. A woman in yellow scrubs stopped him at the door. "You can't come in here."

John looked around her. The room was cramped and busy with medical personnel, and a curtain had been drawn around the bed of Mrs. McKay's roommate. There was no sign of Rodney. John stepped back. Rodney's empty wheelchair had been pushed into the hallway under the window. Groaning in frustration, John started down the hall, this time pushing the wheelchair and sticking his head into every open door. The inhabitants smiled at John or waved or simply ignored him. No Rodney.

Past the nurses' station was a public washroom with a locked door. John rapped angrily, and a muffled voice answered. "McKay?" John yelled back. "Is that you? Would you unlock the door?"

The woman at the nursing station glowered at him. "Do you know if my friend is in there?" John asked her. "He's wearing a sling, got a cast on his leg?"

"I didn't see who went in the restroom," she told John unhelpfully. Grumbling in frustration he went the rest of the way up the hall, checking the rooms on both sides even though he couldn't imagine why Rodney would have ducked into another patient's room. But honestly, Rodney hadn't been acting quite right since getting the news about his mother.

He saw the washroom door opening and flew back down the hall. A tiny man with an Einstein shock of white hair looked down at the wheelchair John had left sitting nearby. "Thank you, sir," he told John formally. "But I won't be needing that," and he made his way proudly down the hall with the aid only of a wheeled walker.

John punched the elevator button, and then too impatient to wait, he jogged back down the hall and took the stairs to the first floor. The next room to the left off the stairwell was a sunroom. A dozen or so people were watching the television mounted in the corner. John was about to step out again, when a woman in a wheelchair looked up and crooked her finger at him, beckoning him over. He went to her, even though he was mostly convinced that he was wasting his time. Rodney was out there somewhere, a single misstep away from surgery and weeks of PT. "Yes, ma'am?"

She was wearing blue jeans with an elastic waistband, and her T-shirt had the name of a public library on it. When John was close enough, she motioned for him to bend down so she could whisper in his ear. Suppressing a sigh, John did so.

"He wanted to see the doggie!" she exclaimed with the air of imparting a great secret.

Now that John looked again, he was pretty certain she had been one of the circle of residents petting the red dog's head earlier. "Yes," John agreed, as patiently as he could manage. "Rodney liked petting the dog's head. Have you seen Rodney around here lately?"

She pointed a crooked finger towards the french doors that looked out onto the grounds. "Thank you," John said. "Thank you very much."

The doors were locked, of course. John rattled the knob uselessly, staining to see some sign of Rodney among the shrubbery and ornamental trees. Nothing. He half-ran down to the reception area and out the front doors, then jerked himself to a stop so suddenly he almost fell.

Rodney was on one of the concrete benches just outside the entrance. The red dog sat in front of him, her neck stretched out so she could rest her head on Rodney's thigh. Holding the leash nearby, the handler was palpably relieved to see John.

He nodded to her and sat down beside Rodney, who didn't stir, save to continue petting the dog's head. He used short, careful strokes, patting only with the pads of his fingers.

"Hey, buddy," John said quietly. "You disappeared on me, there."

Rodney didn't look at him.

"May I?" John asked the handler, reaching for the leash.

She looked unhappy about it, but glancing again at Rodney's down-turned face, she passed the leash to John and crossed the path to sit down on the bench on the other side of the front entrance.

"Don't tell them," Rodney muttered, eyes still on the dog, left hand moving in perfect repetition. "They won't let me go back if you tell anyone.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," John said, "and besides, I don't know what you're talking about."

Although of course he did. He'd seen panic attacks often enough in the aftermath of combat to recognize one when it happened to Rodney.

Rodney made a sad little sound that was probably supposed to be a snort of disbelief, though it came out more like a sob. He still couldn't look away from the dog. His face in profile was flushed red, and his patting fingers trembled. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back.

"I know this isn't the best time," John said slowly. It wasn't, but Rodney deserved to know. "I don't know if you saw, but your Mom had an attack after you left. I don't know how she is now."

Rodney gave a jerky nod. Then he turned his head to look at John. The rhythm of the patting hand stuttered and slowed, and his shaking got worse. "I think Mom did the best she could."

"Of course she did," John tried to agree, but his voice cracked.

"I love my folks," Rodney said. His insistence was no less urgent for coming out in such harsh, mechanical tones. "I've always wanted them to be proud of me."

"Well, sure you did, buddy. That's what every kid wants."

Rodney didn't say anything else for a long time. At length, John put his hand over Rodney's, and the dog finally grumbled about the erratic petting, shaking her head free from both John's and Rodney's resting hands.

"So how are you feeling?" John ventured.

Rodney sniffled and shrugged his good shoulder.

"What do you say we let the nice lady take her dog home now?"

He pulled his hand back reluctantly. "Good man," John murmured, and squeezed Rodney's elbow before leading the dog back to her handler. As she took the leash back, she fixed John with the sort of blunt gaze that reminded him Dr. Biro and announced, "Abbie likes your friend a lot."

"Thank you for staying with him until I –"

"You tell him that Abbie thinks he's a very special man," she insisted sternly before walking away down the path. Abbie's tail swished contentedly in time with the firm steps of her owner's sensible shoes.

Rodney was watching them go as John sat back down beside him. "You must think I'm a monster."

"Uh, not so much." He reached for Rodney's hand, not sure Rodney would let him take it. "What are you talking about?"

Rodney didn't pull away, but he jerked his sharp chin towards the building. "I can't go back in there to find out whether my own mother is alive or dead. I can't make myself do it."

What John really thought was that Rodney was a fucking *amazing* human being to have survived his childhood relatively intact. The glimpse he had seen this morning had left John cold to the marrow. Since he couldn't say that, he told him instead, "Abbie likes you."

"Who the hell is Abbie?" Rodney asked, surprised enough to finally turn and look at John.

"Abbie the dog." John nodded down the path. "Abbie apparently thinks you're pretty damn special."

Rodney harrumphed and rolled his eyes, but he seemed pleased. "So somebody noticed."

"Somebody did." Rodney's face was white now instead of red, and the hard tremors had left his fingers, though he was shaking a bit all over now, as if he were cold. He probably was, as heavily as he had been sweating, even though it was seventy degrees outside and sunny. It snow and it blows --

"Let's get out of the weather," John said, his voice a little too loud. "Can you wait for a minute while I go upstairs and get your chair?"

"Yes, of course. I'm fine, Colonel." He didn't loosen his grip on John's fingers, though, and after a moment, John settled down beside him again to wait.

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mecurtin.livejournal.com

eeee. Your trademark creepy, and the creepier for being not completely spelled out. But the dog knows! and so does John.

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