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For all that, and though the live oak
glistens there in Louisiana, solitary in a
wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves
all its life, without a friend, a lover,
near - I know very well I could not.
The first time Rodney realizes that Sheppard is just as alone as he is, it's jarring, the stomach-churning blur of one image resolving over another: the lanky, sarcastic Air Force major who pulls people—people like Rodney—into his orbit, magnetic and inexorable; and then, with a flicker, there it is—distance. It's like that same magnetism switches polarity the moment anyone gets too close, a rough shove that's somehow so natural you don't even notice it.
Teyla and Sheppard are talking with the locals, easy charm and diplomacy in equal measures, and Rodney's standing back with his mouth shut (which is, in truth, his way of being helpful in these situations), loitering near Ford who's rooted like a sentinel at the edge of the crowd, eyes roving. Watching Sheppard's measured smiles, catching hints of his slow drawl, Rodney starts humming under his breath—I am a rock, I am an island, and Ford gives him a look, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
"Simon and Garfunkel, Doc?" he asks, sounding disbelieving, and Rodney shrugs. So what if he had a folk music phase in his teens?
~.~
From that day, it becomes almost a sport, trying to catch Sheppard out of the corner of his eye, in the right light that lets him see what's underneath that thin coat of paint. He reviews the data, as any good scientist should—John Sheppard is a man who said he liked living in Antarctica; a man who, despite Rodney's incessant ribbing to the contrary, doesn't seem at all interested in romantic relationships; a man who persists in sleeping in a tiny single bed even after they found the much more well-appointed section of the city that became the rest of the senior staff's quarters. All of this adds up into someone who is, underneath it all, alone, and Rodney wonders at first why no one else seems to have noticed, but, he realizes, it might just take one to know one.
But for all that Rodney knows what it's like to be alone, knows it as intimately and keenly as any simple physics proof, any building block for natural law, he's never wanted to be. The prickliness he wears like a shield hasn't always been there, has developed like a crust over the surface of his psyche, something to stave off the unsuspecting, the unprepared—hurt them first, and they can't hurt you. Rodney is alone because people don't like him, people find him strange or overwhelming or off-putting, so he's pulled that judgement on like a cloak, transformed it into the reasoning that he's alone because people can't keep up with him, that it's their problem and not his.
That's not how Sheppard works, though, his walls invisible and subtle, giving away just enough to make you think you've seen it all, when in fact you've seen absolutely nothing but smoke and mirrors topped with unruly hair. It's so careful, so measured, that Rodney thinks it must be intentional, must be the way he wants to be. And that's what Rodney doesn't get, can't get—Sheppard draws people in without trying, and there have been times in Rodney's life where he's thought he might happily sacrifice a dozen IQ points just to have a fraction of that, but John doesn't seem to want it, often barely seems to notice it.
So Rodney observes, feeling like some kind of archaeologist carefully scraping and brushing off the detritus of the years each time he and Sheppard grow a little bit closer, each time they cross into each other's orbit and Rodney feels that reverse polarity turning a little weaker, then a little weaker still. How, he wonders, can Sheppard stand it? When he bats away offers of time and companionship like dust on the wind, when he sets himself apart like a rooted tree in an empty field, Rodney watches and wonders how it's not tearing him apart inside, how it's not leaking out of his seams the way it always is Rodney's.
~.~
Rodney becomes so used to watching what he comes to think of as the John Sheppard Emotional Forcefield that he somehow doesn't realize he's been let into it, all the way in, bark stripped off that solitary tree till it's down to soft flesh; not until the day he tries to die and Sheppard tells him no, tells him I can't and then makes an excuse about chain of command; not until he understands that John will not only kill to protect Rodney in the field, but that he would, without a second thought, calmly and deliberately send another man to his death if that meant Rodney was spared.
It eats at him, afterward. Not the death, even, or the guilt, but the realization that there's a depth to John Sheppard that Rodney never even dreamed of, and that, perhaps, his hypothesis had been dead wrong, all this time. He thinks of the haunted expression on John's face when he'd come to him back on Atlantis, the way he could barely talk about what happened, what he'd done. He wonders if maybe it's not that John likes to be alone, but that he keeps people apart because he's afraid of what he'd do for them, what he'd sacrifice to keep them.
Once he's realized it, it's impossible to miss, written boldfaced in the twitch of John's trigger finger, the hard clench of his jaw. It makes everything make sense, now; slotting into place right alongside the black mark on John's record—a record Rodney had hacked and read by week two of the expedition, of course, but now finally comes together for him: it's not "we don't leave our people behind" as some abstract military credo, it's that John Sheppard will personally walk straight into hell rather than leave one of his own behind.
It's that, and it's that Rodney has somehow become one of John's own.
~.~
There's no time to linger on any of this, never time on Atlantis to do something like pull John aside, to dig desperate fingers into his biceps and say, what am I to you, to say why did you let me in, to say thank you, so instead Rodney orders a conflict-free diamond ring from a catalog and plans to propose to Katie Brown.
That, of course, goes spectacularly wrong in the way that only ever seems to happen to Rodney, down in flames with humiliation and a panic attack on the floor of the botany lab. And then he finds out, from Chuck of all people, that Sheppard had climbed the fucking control tower and deactivated the beacon using Rodney's password, which he'd spoken of offhandedly almost a year and a half ago, and suddenly he remembers the way John had looked at him when he'd said he couldn't play another round of computer golf.
So when, the next night, John takes him out to the pier with a six-pack, whether the purpose is celebration or sorrows-drowning kind of remains to be seen.
They sit at the edge, legs dangling over the water, in near-silence for a beer and a half before Rodney sighs, glances over at John's fingers on the neck of the glass bottle, and says, "Would you really have just let me marry her?"
It's only because Rodney's watching that he sees how close John comes to outright dropping his beer into the ocean: it's a near thing, the fumbling jerk of fingers on the bottleneck followed by a quick tension, years of training and coordination kicking in even in the face of—well, of Rodney going ahead and saying what's stayed unsaid between them for so long.
"What the hell kind of question is that, Rodney?" And the drawl is in full-force, Rodney's name flattened out and pulled into something that makes him itch under the skin, along with the "aw, shucks," expression on John's face. "I barely knew her, how could I tell she wasn't right for you?"
"That's not what I mean," Rodney says, voice quiet and careful in a way he rarely has the patience to be.
There's warning in John's tone now, reverse polarity pushing outwards as he says "Rodney," his eyes turned studiously down to the gently lapping waves below them.
Rodney doesn't take the hint, though, decides he's going to barrel through it like he does so many other social cues, because the fact that the hint is there provides him proof positive that what he's sensed from John is real, and Rodney McKay is nothing if not persistent.
"You know what I mean," he says, and when that gets him a hum, quiet but just the tiniest note in the affirmative, he goes on. "I can't…I can't do it like you, Sheppard."
"Look, if it's dating tips you want..." John tries, but he trails off before even finishing the jape, his heart apparently not in it to pretend he doesn't feel anything about anything tonight.
Lucky me, Rodney thinks, and continues.
"I can't do the whole…" he gestures with the beer bottle, hearing liquid slosh against glass, quiet little fizzing pops, "the whole ‘solitary man' thing."
"I thought you hated Johnny Cash," and the amusement is genuine this time, levity enough to make Rodney smile back in kind, shrugging.
"I mostly say that just to wind you up," Rodney admits, and then he waits, wondering if more might be forthcoming.
John finishes his beer, carefully setting the empty bottle alongside his first, and breathes out long and slow. "Do we really have to talk about this?"
Rodney sighs, tips back the rest of his own beer and drops the bottle haphazardly behind him. "It's not like I love this shit, you know? I'm the last guy to go around trying to talk about feelings—" he looks over at John, revises the statement. "Okay, well, second to last, I guess, but…" Rodney shakes his head. "I can't—I, I don't…I mean, I don't want to be alone, and I don't think there's any reason for you to be, either."
"‘M not alone," John says, quick and quiet, and he's looking down at his hands but he sounds like he means it, like it's not deflection. "I've got—I've got more than I ever thought I could have."
The enormity of that confession nearly knocks the wind out of Rodney, and he reaches out, impulsive, to close the distance between them, his hand curling around John's wrist.
"Haven't you ever—I mean, me, I'm greedy, I guess, selfish and always have been, but," Rodney squeezes, two fingers over John's wristband as the others feel out the drum of his pulse, "haven't you ever wanted more?"
"Rodney," John says, and this time it's the near-opposite of the drawl; it's clawed up through a dry throat, forced out of clenched teeth, the sound of Rodney's name when they're in mortal danger, and Rodney supposes John might feel that way right now, is half-surprised he hasn't bolted, just dove right into the ocean. "Why are you asking me that?"
Rodney looks at his hand on John's wrist, follows it up to John's face, and he's actually looking straight at Rodney, his eyes wide and silver-green in the moonlight. He doesn't know, Rodney realizes, he actually doesn't— and it's almost enough to make Rodney laugh, feeling like the world's been turned upside-down on him.
"You didn't think you could...could get more than what you had?" Rodney asks, careful like coaxing a spooked cat out from under the car.
John's throat works, and there's the click of him swallowing before he nods, whispers, "Yeah."
"What if I said you could have more?" Rodney says, the words whispered into the space between them, a secret to be washed out to sea.
John blinks, his eyes searching over Rodney's face like he's looking for something, some kind of answer, and Rodney doesn't know if he's ever seen John look this open, this lost. "Rodney, I..." he shakes his head, looking down, breaking the spell. "I can't."
He hasn't taken his hand out of Rodney's grip, though, hasn't moved away from him.
"Kinda think you can," Rodney says, trying his damndest not to sound flippant—even though he doesn't get this twisted-up mess of John's psychology, he knows it's important, knows it needs to be treated with care. "If you're worried about...about regulations, or your country's military, I'd like to kindly remind you that, hello? In another galaxy here."
"'Kindly,''" John repeats, lips curled sharp and amused around the word.
"Okay, rudely, then," Rodney says, his fingers squeezing John's wrist.
"And if it's something else?" John asks, his voice shaking a little bit.
Rodney thinks about reverse polarities, thinks about trees standing tall above the others and drawing down lightning, thinks about sacrifice. He gets angry, quick and incandescent, and almost shouts, almost throws an empty bottle into the ocean.
"Jesus," he says, scrubbing his free hand across his face. "I don't want to watch you slowly die from, from self-imposed neglect, alright?" Rodney turns, then, tugs John's wrist so he has to turn too, and waits until John looks at him to continue. "I can't keep talking around this, so just...brace yourself, alright?"
John's eyebrows climb, but he doesn't pull away. Rodney feels briefly overwhelmed with the amount of trust John's showing him right now.
"Okay. We don't need to have this conversation ever again, and all I need you to do at the end of it is say yes or no, and don't, like, throw me in the ocean or whatever," Rodney begins, watching amusement dance in John's eyes, just a glimpse behind the fear. He nods, the barest incline of his head, and Rodney keeps going. "Like I said, this isn't my favorite conversation topic either, so excuse the, uh, overwrought ramp-up, but I'm getting there, so just, just give me another second," and now, Rodney realizes his hand has wandered so his fingertips are touching the heel of John's hand, feeling out the hot clamminess of his palm, and John's letting him, is still just letting Rodney talk. He takes a breath. Now or never.
"I, well, I'm kind of in love with you, and I think you might feel, that is, I suppose somewhat similarly towards me, and it's just pretty stupid for both of us to be alone and, and feeling that way for each other when we could be...feeling that way, um...together."
Rodney fully runs out of steam by the end of the sentence, thinking maybe he'd be better off just going ahead and jumping into the ocean to save John the trouble, and he starts to make a joke, to cover for the fact he's misunderstood this just like he does every other fraught social situation, but instead of words, he feels the soft dry press of John's mouth over his lips. John's hand twists underneath his, fingers twining into Rodney's and squeezing, and his other hand palms across the side of Rodney's neck, warm and broad.
Rodney's been thinking about how this conversation would go all day, but somehow this response is still enough to shock him, his stomach swooping like he's about to teeter over the edge, but John's holding him, kissing across the confused downward slope of Rodney's mouth until he parts his lips, lets John in.
They kiss until Rodney's breathless, nearly trembling with want, and then John pulls back, presses his forehead to Rodney's cheekbone.
"So that's…" Rodney says, because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure.
"Yes," John answers, breath tickling warm across Rodney's skin. He squeezes the back of Rodney's neck, and Rodney shivers, realizing with immediate clarity that they need to not be dangling off the edge of the pier right now.
Gathering up the beer bottles to head back inside takes twice as long as normal because Rodney can't stop touching John, sliding palms up the length of him and laughing, barely able to believe what's happening.
"Yes," John says again, expression dark and playful while he pulls Rodney into a transporter, cutting him off in the middle of a comment that, of the two of them, he's got the bigger bed. They make out for a few giddy moments against the wall until Rodney manages to slap his palm over the right section on the display, and everything around them lights up like it's the fucking rapture—wouldn't that be just Rodney's luck?—and then the door slides open to the dim hushed corridor of the residential quarter.
"Yes," John hisses when Rodney finally presses him down into the bed, kissing up his neck and over the line of his jaw. Rodney wants to hear that sound again, wants to hear nothing but that sound for the rest of his life, so he goes to work at it, sliding his hand up under John's shirt, palm slipping over wiry hair and hot skin until it's rucked up to his chest and Rodney has to back off to pull it up and over John's head.
Pulling off the shirt makes John's hair even more ridiculous, sticking up wildly over his head in a way that really shouldn't make Rodney's dick throb in his pants, but it's paired with dark, heavy-lidded eyes and a kiss-swollen mouth, and Rodney's only fucking human, alright?
So he barrels ahead, touching John desperate and curious until he finds the spots that make him gasp, his body taut and twisting against Rodney's. He gets to hear a new, third way for John to say his name, gasped out and pleasure-soaked when Rodney starts stroking him, burying his face in John's neck to inhale his scent and feel the thrum of his pulse.
John shakes against him when he comes, choked-off whimpers rising in his throat before he grabs Rodney by the neck and drags him up, crushing their mouths together while John's come splashes over Rodney's fingers, his wrist. Rodney strokes him through it while they kiss, until John shivers, oversensitive, and pulls back. His eyes are wide now, pupils big and dark in the light of Rodney's desk lamp, the only thing he'd managed to flip a switch on before they fell into the bed.
"Rodney," he says, hoarse and almost wrecked-sounding. Something flashes in John's eyes, but Rodney doesn't manage to follow it, to decipher the hidden sigils of whatever it is John's thinking, because he's grabbed Rodney's hand and pulled it to his mouth, is licking his own come off of Rodney's fingers.
"Jesus," Rodney says, and John gives him the filthiest smile Rodney's ever seen.
"You're close," John says, laving his tongue between Rodney's thumb and forefinger. "Starts with a J, at least."
"John," Rodney says, more reverent than he's ever felt, and then John's flipping them so Rodney's on his back, John's hands are on his fly, and—oh.
Rodney looks, because he's a visual person, and the sight of John Sheppard slowly and deliberately sliding Rodney's cock into his mouth is important enough to push out the combined knowledge of every phone number he's ever memorized. "John," he says again, barely able to breathe when John's eyes flick upward, make contact with his own for just a half-second.
It's all Rodney can do, after that, to hold on and try not to embarrass himself. He fists his hands in the rumpled sheet, tipping his head back and breathing hard, as John feels out the length of him, a spit-slicked hand slowly coming up to meet his lips until Rodney feels enveloped by sweet, wet suction. It both lasts forever and is over in the blink of an eye, with Rodney reaching blindly down to card a hand through John's hair, babbling his way through a warning as he comes, feeling wrung inside-out by it.
John slides off of him, his body sketching out a wide parabola as he rolls onto his side, pants still open, golden skin shiny with sweat—half a wet dream made flesh; and half the absolute reality of John Sheppard, the collection of scars gained in service of everyone except himself.
He's breathing hard, light glinting against his dog tags with each rise and fall of his chest, and Rodney feels fear clench in his gut as he works his way up to see the shuttered expression in John's eyes.
He's going to bolt, Rodney thinks, the realization glass-clear and sharp. He's going to tell himself this was a fluke, that I was drunk and lonely after getting dumped, and if I let him walk out that door he'll never speak of this again.
John shifts, a soft whisper of sheets, and Rodney's hand darts out, no time to overthink, fingers hooking around John's elbow.
"Stay," Rodney says, plain as he can.
"I…" John starts, and Rodney squeezes, pulls him closer.
"Stay, or I'll follow you and talk about feelings again," Rodney threatens, and John presses his smile against Rodney's shoulder, mouth curving softly against him.
Rodney falls asleep that night pressed against John's warm bare back, thinking about green leaves and moss twined around the branch of a solitary tree.