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Rodney is almost asleep when the knock comes—an honest to god knock on his bathroom door, not the usual chime from the main hall. Which means that it’s John who’s decided to disturb his bath. No one else would ever enter his room without permission—not that John has ever needed permission.
It’s a struggle to rouse himself, his thoughts drifting away and his body loose in the water. Catching at the lip of the tub, he pulls himself up. The cold air hits his chest, shocks him fully awake and he sucks in a deep breath when another knock echoes across the room.
“What the hell, Sheppard?” he snaps, because even if John doesn’t need permission, it’s unexpected and he’s in the bath.
“McKay,” John rumbles from the other side of the door, just shy of barking.
The door slides open and Rodney’s rebuff dries up in his throat. John’s standing there, his hair still dripping wet—from his own shower, probably. His shirt and sweats are damp, soaked through in places, and even his bare feet are still red—from the heat or exertion or both.
Rodney feels a bit like he’s been punched, his heart racing as he takes it in. There’s not a whole lot that would have John panicked, John running to his room in the middle of the night, John not fully dressing himself in public. Wraith or replicators or something wrong with Atlantis, but Rodney can’t figure out what it is or why there aren’t alarms going off to support any of those theories.
With his mind spinning out—god, he’s so tired—Rodney spits out the first thought that catches his tongue. “Did you run here?”
John flushes, his jaw tight and Rodney has to stuff down the sudden urge to check the halls and yell at any patrolling Marines who might’ve seen John like this—vulnerable and alone and—
“McKay, I—” John tries, his eyes falling briefly closed when his voice cuts off.
It’s about all Rodney can do then, to keep himself from slipping into full-on panic. His body’s still too ready to shift to high-alert, strung out from their time on P29-111. But they’re back on Atlantis now—in his goddamn bathroom. There are no alarms. His radio is silent on the counter. It’s safe. He forces himself to take a breath, to sink down lower in the water again, even if he can’t close his eyes this time, can’t reach that place where he’s truly relaxed.
“You’re going to get my floor all wet if you keep standing there,” he says, because it’s normal to snap at John, normal to complain, and if he can just find normal again, maybe his mind will be able to settle.
And maybe normal is what John’s looking for too, because he slouches a bit in the door, his posture losing its stiffness. He’s not comfortable, not leaning against the jamb or smirking, but it’s okay. It still makes Rodney stupidly pleased, something in his chest oozing warmth like success.
Gaze dropping to his feet, John runs his fingers up through his hair. “I can’t get the sand out of my hair,” he says, his voice soft, but almost echoing—amplified by the acoustics of the bathroom.
“Excuse me?” Rodney gasps, sitting up and sloshing water over the side of the bath before he thinks it through. “You’re having a hair crisis and you came to me?”
Sand—fucking P29-111 and its giant fucking desert. The sandstorm had lasted three days and there hadn’t been a thing any of them could do about it.
“Rodney,” John bites out, voice sharp again like it had been back on the planet. Because even at the best of times, John isn’t patient. And now is definitely not a good time, not with the way John looks exhausted and humiliated and about to break.
“Ok, fine. I’ll wash your hair for you,” Rodney says, because this is something he can do—a tangible solution to the situation. “You could ask, you know. It wouldn’t kill you.”
Not that Rodney would ever expect John to do that any more than he would expect him to ask permission before entering his room.
John’s face goes tight for a second, but then he relaxes completely, leaning against the door jamb and almost smiling—a look that never fails to fill Rodney up to the brim.
“I really don’t think there’s enough room in there,” John says, tipping his head towards the bathtub.
And really—as if. “Oh, god no,” Rodney says, moving his arm through the warm, sudsy water of his tub. There’s plenty of room for another person—maybe more than one other person. But—“Not in here. Baths are for relaxing and thinking—not getting clean. Who wants to soak in their own filth like that?”
Smirking now, John shrugs. “You seem to be doing a great job of that yourself.”
“Please,” Rodney says, can’t help but roll his eyes. “My shower and I are quite well acquainted. I’ll be happy to introduce you if you’re done with the attitude.”
The thought of getting up, abandoning the warmth of the bath isn’t appealing. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself and stands up, the cold hitting him like a fist. “Goddammit,” he hisses, stepping carefully across the wet floor to the shower, pawing at the controls and willing Atlantis to heat up the water fast.
Behind him, he hears the quiet sounds of John stripping. John always folds his clothes and Rodney can’t help but smile when he hears John shaking out the soft cotton of his sweats. It’s familiar and comfortable, and Rodney never really thought silence could feel that way until he met John.
When Rodney turns away from the shower, John is still in his boxers—never quite comfortable in his skin around others—but he’s leaning over the sink, raking his fingers across his scalp and glaring at his reflection in the mirror.
“Come here,” Rodney says, feels the words warm and soft where they form in his chest and he can’t keep the stupid smile off his face even when John glares at him through the mirror.
John’s here and alive and asking for help in his own way, asking to be close and Rodney feels something inside him relax, all the panic and tension and aimless anger from the past few days bleeding away.
“Yes, yes,” he says, feeling bubbly and ridiculous in the wake of anxiety. “We know you’re grumpy and don’t follow orders, etcetera, etcetera. Just get in here.”
His glare never faltering, John brushes past Rodney to get in the shower and tip his still-wet hair under the spray.
“Thank you,” Rodney says, following him in.
It’s almost awkward, with John being taller than him—but John is loose and pliable for all his glaring, and he lets himself be arranged with minimal snark.
There’s actually not much sand left in his hair, but Rodney is careful with the shower head, moving it slow and steady to get the rest of the sand out, first using just his fingers, then adding shampoo. It’s methodical, every pass of his hand the same as the last, John’s hair thick and warm between his fingers.
It’s almost a surprise, then, that John’s tense again by the time Rodney’s rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.
Once Rodney’s replaced the shower head high up on the wall, John turns to face him. He’s serious now, his shoulders tight and his jaw working. Rodney runs his hand down John’s arm, grasping at his hand and lacing their fingers together because John’s still here—still asking, and Rodney can still fix it.
“I thought you were stuck out there,” John says, staring at the wall over Rodney’s shoulder. And Rodney knows by now that what John really means is I thought you were dead—and that is a sentiment Rodney can sympathize with better than he’d like.
“Well,” he says, aiming for flippant and missing by a mile, “we weren’t. We’re fine. I’m fine. You’re the one who was stuck out in the middle of that sand pit of a planet for three days while the rest of us were being treated to some of the Pegasus Galaxy’s finest accommodations.”
It had been awful, though, despite the comforts. Rodney had stayed with Ronon, Teyla, and the welcome delegation, while John had been out accompanying the biology team to investigate some special cactus miles beyond the city limits. Waiting while the wind and sand battered the city walls and absolutely powerless to do anything but worry because John still hadn’t returned—hour after hour.
John’s mouth twists and he’s glaring again. “I’ve been trained for that,” he says, the heat of anger in his voice raising alarm bells under Rodney’s skin again. But he deflates almost instantly, squeezing at Rodney’s hand. “I’ve done that before. I—I was fine.”
“Sure,” Rodney snaps, unable to keep it in because John is such a goddamn liar sometimes. “Yeah—that’s why you’re here in my bathroom at two in the morning asking for help with your hair. Because you’re fine.”
Somehow, despite Rodney’s frustration, despite the fact that he’s baiting John for a fight, John snorts out a genuine laugh, his head tipping down to bump Rodney’s shoulder.
Rodney takes his weight, lets his chin rest on John’s head for a moment. “There was no way we were leaving without you,” he says, his mind already spinning back and back to those desperate hours of waiting. “We just had to wait for that damn storm to die down before they would even open the doors.”
John nods against his shoulder. “I know,” he says, soft and deep and rumbling up from his core.
Pressing a kiss into John’s hair, another to his temple when John turns to squint sideways at him, Rodney can’t help smiling. Years of this—of the back and forth, of waiting and rescue and the horrible in between—and it still feels good to hear it—to say it—to know without a doubt that it’s true.
“Here,” he says, shoving the bottle of shampoo into John’s hands. He’s warm through and through with the way John’s smiling back. “My turn.”