Pairing: McShep
Rating: NC-17ish
Summary: There is more than just one kind of withdrawal.
AN: This continues I, A Knife's Blade, plus it's philosophy_20 prompt # 17, "Lack of God". And I know that unshattered isn't a word. Sue me, Americans seem to make up new words all the time. *sticks tongue out* Also, the eternal fate of the second part: It doesn't work quite as well as the first one.
Blunted Edge
John couldn't stop shaking. Lying on his bed in the dark, he couldn't seem to find anything to hold on to, to ease the agitated shivers of his withdrawal. His fingers had curled themselves around his pillow, digging into the fabric until his knuckles hurt, and his muscles kept twitching in irregular patterns that were slowly driving him out of his mind. He ached, body and soul – a living, breathing cliché. One more time was all he wanted, once more, just enough to make the ache ease and his nerves calm down again. Just once more, only that even if they hadn't blown the damn thing up along with the mothership, every thought of the sarcophagus was forever linked with McKay's pale, bloodless face, and that was more efficient to keep him away than guns could have ever been.
He hadn't seen Rodney for over a week. Since they had been released from the infirmary after days spent in restraint, still weeks away from active duty, he had kept his interactions with other people to a minimum. After two weeks in the holding cell, alone with McKay, never knowing when one or both of them would be taken away again, Atlantis seemed too loud somehow, too crowded, too... there.
He just needed more time. Time away from everyone. Especially from Rodney.
They hadn't been able to look into each other's eyes ever since they had returned. John had spent a lot of his time in the infirmary staring at the far wall, listening to Rodney shake helplessly in his restraints determinedly keeping his eyes averted. There were too many memories he didn't want to recall, too many images he didn't want to see, but they just kept repeating themselves. Over and over and over again.
Rodney's neck sliced open like he were cattle; skin cold but his blood warm on John's hands as he reached inside and brushed against his friend's smooth, knotty spinal cord; the glossy scent of copper all there was to smell; the faint hum of the mothership and Rodney's fingers tapping a dead counterpoint-staccato on the dirty floor and God, flesh parting under John's seeking fingers with a slick, wet sound. Tears on his face, salty on his tongue when he had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was clogged, blood on his skin, and Rodney McKay, silent, silent…
They had made it out alive. But during moments like this, when his whole body clammed up and made him gasp and shiver and ache, he wondered if he shouldn't have killed them both. John kept seeing himself cut into his friend again and again in a constant replay, and Rodney-
Rodney had come out of the sarcophagus quiet and broken, all his restless energy bled away, taken from him along with his life, his mind. All that was left of him was a hollow, subdued man who couldn't seem to regain his footing. It hurt to see him like this, a nervous shadow of the loud, arrogant man he used to be, and John couldn't shake the feeling that it was his fault. He should never have allowed the Jaffa to take Rodney away. He should have insisted on taking his place.
Thankfully, Rodney was far too busy avoiding him to notice that John wasn't exactly seeking out his company, either. He wondered if Rodney kept seeing his own hand drilling the knife into John's gut, if that was the reason the scientist was shying away from him. He wondered what else was there.
If something of the host remained – how much had the parasite left behind?
He tried not to think about it too hard, instead concentrating on getting over the jitters and the sudden aggressiveness, the flaring of his temper that still plagued him occasionally. Probably the worst part of being back home was Elizabeth's disappointed sympathy. She was trying very hard to be supportive, but he could see in her eyes that she didn't understand, not all of it. In her opinion, they should have kept the mothership, should have used it in the increasingly desperate fight against the Wraith. And she didn't voice it, but he knew that she thought they should have kept the sarcophagus, studied its technology. That they could have taken some of death's terror away.
He lacked the words to explain the horror of coming back to life again and again, feeling your self slip away with each time you opened your eyes to that painful white light. He couldn't tell her how he had needed the mothership to be gone forever, how he had hoped that the whole painful experience would just blow up along with it, memories burnt away in a silent ball of fire. It had been irrational, of course, and yet he still somehow expected Elizabeth to know how in his mind the colour gold would be forever associated with the raw smell of blood.
Keeping the mothership would have meant killing himself every time he saw it. And even John couldn't imagine what it would have done to Rodney. So he told everyone who asked that he had ordered McKay to overload the engines. With a steady gaze and a straight back, taking their judgement and stowing it away where it couldn't hurt.
Maybe he wasn't able to look at Rodney. That didn't mean he wasn't able to protect him.
Ten days later he was finally cleared for light duty, on the condition that he keep talking to Heightmeyer. Kate had wanted to have sessions with both him and Rodney, claiming that therapy would be easier if they tried to get over their experience together. As far as he knew, Rodney had declined as firmly if probably not as politely as John himself. It might have earned them a few extra weeks of therapy, but for once that was the better option.
He really didn't want to talk with his friend about how it had felt to sink a knife into his neck. And he was pretty sure that Rodney didn't want to hear about it.
John was just leaving the infirmary when Rodney walked in, head low and eyes on the floor. He looked up, startled as John cleared his throat, and when he saw the Colonel standing in front of him, he froze, his gaze darting left and right. Looking for a way to escape, John thought, surprised at how much that hurt. Maybe avoiding each other hadn't been the best way to deal, after all. Maybe they should have tried to keep supporting each other, like they had on the mothership.
"Rodney."
He tried to find something to say, anything, but his mind drew a blank, and after a moment of silence, Rodney's shoulders slumped even further.
"I'm sorry, I just… I can come back later," he murmured, already turning away to leave, still keeping his eyes on the floor.
And suddenly, it was pissing John off.
"You can't keep running away forever."
Rodney stopped, not turning around, and the sight of those broad shoulders hunched in defeat made John irrationally furious.
"You can't seriously expect it to go away if you just ignore it long enough," he snapped. "It doesn't work that way."
"I killed you." It was barely more than a whisper.
"You saved me," John answered curtly, remembering how the knife had changed its path to strike the Jaffa instead of him.
Rodney gave a short, hollow laugh.
"Yes, well. I think I could say the same thing, right?" Blue eyes, glassy and empty, and John shied away from the memory, his anger evaporating, leaving a feeling of helpless isolation behind.
"Rodney-"
"Don't. Please, I… I'm not ready for this."
Rodney shook his head, balled his hands into fists so tight that his knuckles went white, and walked away. John stared after his retreating back, fingers twitching with the urge to either punch his friend in the face or… or hug him until they both could breathe again.
The desire to do the latter was so strong that he all but ran away, back to his quarters where he could hide between the reports of the last few weeks, ignoring the way his hands were craving to touch, to make sure there was no wound, no scar, nothing left but soft, whole skin. He was shaking again, almost lost in the need to wrap himself around Rodney and just listen to him breathe, to feel the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest against his own. Memories rose unbidden, the remembered sensation of hesitant hands slowly stroking his back, offering comfort where there was none to be found, of falling asleep clinging to a warm, living body, and he wondered if this was withdrawal of a different kind.
He led a rescue mission four days later. John's team had been to the planet in question before, finding friends and trading partners in the indigenous population, which was a nice change from the norm. There had been an earthquake, burying half of AT-4 and a large part of the natives under a mountain of rubble, and Elizabeth was worried enough to let him go offworld without too much of a fuss. And maybe standing on dry earth, breathing fresh air and having something to do would help him to finally forget the holding cell that still seemed to keep a part of him locked up.
The village was burnt to the ground when they got there, black charred wood and crumbled clay walls under a sky dutifully hung with dark grey clouds, and John didn't think there was much hope to rescue anyone from that mess. Still, they had to try, and even with sharp smoke instead of fresh air his hands were occupied, leaving his mind a blissful blank. They kept working in shifts, discovering body after body while some of the scientists tried to set up a fresh water supply for the survivors, and after ten hours John was exhausted enough to eat a little and then collapse straight into a dreamless sleep. The next day wasn't much different, filled with digging and shouting, and John was beginning to think that yes, this was a terrible situation, but at least he felt a little better.
Then the sun came out.
Its rays gently touched the dust that hung over the village, and when John looked up to wipe away the sweat in his eyes, there was a glittering cloud around the scorched buildings, black and gold, and he flinched away, stumbling and falling, hitting the ground hard. For a brief, terrible moment, he was back on the ship, back in the torture chamber, dusty floor glistening red, and the dry smell of sand and ash turned into the heavy scent of blood. He gave a strangled gasp, scrambling backwards, and then Teyla was there, soft calm voice, and he swallowed, blinking as the picture slowly faded away with the touch of a small warm hand on his arm. Ronon was looming over them, protecting them from curious gazes, and John felt a pathetic amount of gratitude.
They both flat out refused to let him work alone after that, and when their shift was over, they all returned to Atlantis. Carson insisted on a physical, and halfway through John looked up to find Rodney hovering in the doorway, watching him with tired eyes. A blink, and the scientist was gone, if he hadn't just been in John's imagination.
His nightmares were back full force after his flashback on the planet, and John spent a good part of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to get his breathing under control, to calm himself down again. He counted sheep in prime numbers (hieroglyphs on the wall), thought of flying his helicopter over the boredom of Antarctica (sky-blue eyes flashing gold), tried desperately to remember a time when he had been whole, when he had been sane (laughing-crying as he held his friend's dead body in his arms). He couldn't shut his eyes against the memories that were threatening to overwhelm him, cold sweat soaking his t-shirt, and he chuckled as he wondered if he was losing his mind.
There was a small, hesitant knock on the door, and he picked up his watch from the nightstand. Not even three in the morning, and he thought about ignoring whoever was there even as his heart started pounding hard and fast against his ribcage. Instead he turned on the lights, just enough that the room was dimly lit, and walked over to the door, pressing his hand against the panel.
Rodney was standing on the sparsely lit corridor, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Then John cleared his throat.
"Rodney?" It still sounded hoarse.
"They want me to go back to Earth," Rodney said in a strangely flat voice. "To give them intel on the Goa'uld."
He fell silent, and John was too shocked to know what to say.
"Come in," he finally managed, stepping aside. Rodney hesitated, then he sighed, following John to the narrow bed, where they both sat down. John was afraid to touch, afraid that he might break down walls that were important in keeping him together, and he waited for Rodney to say something, anything. The scientist didn't look up when he finally started to speak, talking more or less to John's knees.
"I don't know anything," he whispered, wringing his hands. They were shaking. "I just keep seeing flashes, pictures, I don't know. Did you know that the Goa'uld have a collective memory? It's... fascinating." Rodney swallowed, blinking rapidly as his words came faster and faster. "Bev- the parasite is gone, and I thought it would be okay, I really thought that with a little time, I could forget about getting tortured and killed and, and losing control of my mind and my body, because it was only for a short time, you ki... you freed me soon enough. But it's not okay, it really isn't, and I don't know anything, but I keep seeing things, I keep... I keep living it, being worshipped, somebody killing somebody else in my name, frying someone's brain with the hand device and enjoying their agony, because I am God, and they aren't. They aren't." He broke off, taking a shaky breath, and John ached at the desolation in his friend's voice. He didn't know how to make it go away.
"When?" he asked quietly.
"Two days," Rodney answered before pressing his lips together, his blue eyes pained and far too bright.
"You'll come back."
"Well, I'm not so sure of that, Colonel." Rodney chuckled, a sharp, bitter sound. "I'm a genius, I should be able to make something of it, don't you think? Maybe they'll want to try hypnosis, see what they can dig up, and then there's the question of the protein marker, of course, I mean, I could be one of the few people who are able to use Goa'uld technology, Carson said there was naquadah in my blood, and I don't think they-"
"You will come back," John interrupted fiercely, willing Rodney to believe him. "And if I have to go there and get you myself."
The scientist looked up at that, eyes intently searching John's face. He seemed satisfied with whatever he found there, and gave a small, absentminded nod.
"Well. I guess I should let you catch some sleep." But he seemed hesitant to leave. John wasn't exactly happy to let him go, either. Except that they had been silent for so long that he didn't quite know how to talk to the other man anymore. And then the moment had passed, and Rodney stood up, turning away. He stopped briefly in front of the door.
"Good night, Colonel."
And with that, he was gone, leaving John to curse himself for his inability to find words that would have made his friend stay. Despite his promise, he was worried. He would follow Rodney to Earth if he had to, but he wasn't all that sure that it would change anything. Still, he would try his damnedest to keep the scientist where he belonged.
Strangely enough, sleep came quickly after Rodney had left, and the dreams lacked their usual colour.
John managed to make himself go to the lab on the morning of Rodney's departure. He was hovering in the doorway, watching his friend work, only noticing that the other scientists had fallen quiet and were staring at him when Rodney looked up in confusion at the sudden silence. Their eyes met, and John's mouth went dry.
"Want to go grab some breakfast?" he asked with fake cheerfulness. After a moment's hesitation, Rodney put down the artefact he'd been working on, something that looked a bit like a small diamond-pointed digging bar, and closed his laptop.
"Sure."
They didn't talk on their way to the mess hall, or when they picked up their food. Their breakfast was spent in silence, too, but John felt strangely comforted just having Rodney around. It seemed enough to sit across from the other man, to listen to the small sounds he made when he ate. A feeling of dread settled in John's stomach as he thought that in a few hours' time, Rodney would walk through the wormhole and probably never come back. The scientist seemed nervous as well, soaking up John's presence like he needed something to remember. And maybe he did.
Maybe they both did.
Despite the fact that they had barely seen each other over the last three weeks, John didn't feel ready to watch Rodney leave. So he spent some time in the gym, using the workout as an excuse for a nice, long shower, pretending not to notice that it was barely an hour until Rodney's departure as he towelled his hair dry. He slipped into his pants and grabbed a clean shirt, trying to think up a reason not to be in the gateroom an hour from now. He padded barefoot into the living room – and stopped short.
Rodney was standing in the middle of the room, staring at John, who was clutching his shirt in his hand, staring back. Rodney's gaze dropped to John's smooth, unmarred belly, and he swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't-"
"Rodney."
Rodney broke off, looking vulnerable and uncertain.
"It's okay." And it was, John suddenly, finally realized, it was okay to have Rodney looking at him, okay to step closer and reach for his friend's hand, to rest the scientist's trembling fingers lightly against his abdomen. It was okay to close his eyes at the first, hesitant touch, to exhale a soft sigh as Rodney traced the invisible path the knife in his hands had torn through the defenceless skin.
"I… there isn't even a scar." Rodney's whisper was awed, grateful, his hand growing more courageous, palm resting flat on John's belly, stroking in small, soothing circles.
John kept his eyes closed; a part of him that had been feeling cold since they had gotten back was revelling in the warmth of his friend's touch. He kept his fingers closed lightly around Rodney's wrist, feeling the fine bones shift with the other man's movements, closing his fingers around the knife handle and letting reflex take over, looking into Rodney's eyes as the Goa'uld's life faded from them, the flesh of Rodney's neck parting under his blade-
"Rodney," he choked, "God, Rodney…"
He tried to yank his hand away, but suddenly it was Rodney who had John's wrist in a firm grip, keeping him close, not letting go.
"I'm here," he heard his friend shout from far away, "listen to me, I'm here!" John whimpered as the memories began to break over him, washing him away. A sharp pain on his face made his head spin, brought him back to reality, and he stared at Rodney who was watching him with wide eyes, hand still raised. When John tried to free his arm this time, Rodney let go, only take a step closer to him when John stumbled back.
"I'm not dead," his friend whispered, shakily pulling his shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor. "John, I'm… I'm not dead."
Rodney turned around, and John looked away.
"Touch me."
John gave a short, bitter laugh.
"I don't think so."
"John, this might be the last chance you have, the last chance to get over this, so don't be stupid and touch me already."
"Rodney-"
"John." Rodney swallowed audibly, raising his chin in defence. "Please, I... I need this." Begging, but proudly. So very, very Rodney, and how could he refuse, how could he withhold what his friend was asking for, if it was such a simple thing as a brief touch? Because maybe Rodney wouldn't come back, maybe they wouldn't see each other ever again, and then it would be too late. For anything.
Despite his brave words, Rodney was shaking as John reached out, slowly, painfully hesitant. Everything inside him screamed at him to run away, to just let it go, but he ignored it, his breath hitching as his fingers brushed over skin, smooth and whole, feeling the vertebrae underneath. Rodney's skin was pale, but warm, so warm, and John's touch became bolder, his palm tracing the hidden bumps of his friend's spine, the broad shoulders, the soft patch at the small of his back, reassuring, caressing. And suddenly, it wasn't enough, he needed more, needed to be sure that Rodney was okay, that they both were alright. Rodney shivered as John leaned closer, one hand slipping around to rest on the other man's soft belly, the other gliding lightly upwards, over his chest, to his neck. They both sighed as John began to place butterfly kisses between Rodney's shoulder blades, his friend's pulse a rapid flutter under his fingertips. It was more than reassuring himself, both of them; it was acknowledgement, worship, and in his mind it made sense that this would be the only way to end the constant replay, to break the endless loop they had been caught in for far too long. His other hand started to wander, belly trembling under his touch, chest rising and falling with quickening breaths, heart beating against his palm, alive, and he took a deep breath, inhaling Rodney's warm, familiar scent.
Alive.
"Rodney," he whispered, pushing forward, just a little, just enough to make Rodney feel his erection pressing lightly against his back.
"Touch me," Rodney whispered back, leaning into him, "Whatever you want, just touch me."
John nodded, hand trailing down, practised fingers making short work of the BDU buttons, not caring about the loose boxers as his hand slipped inside. Rodney was already half hard, moaning softly as John closed his fingers around the twitching shaft and started to stroke with firm, knowing movements. Soon Rodney was shuddering against him, pulse racing under John's fingertips, breathing in short, whimpering gasps.
"John," he panted, "John." Head falling back against John's shoulder, he moaned softly, and came, hot seed spilling over John's fingers. Tears burning in his eyes, John pulled his hand away from Rodney's neck, opening his own pants and yanking them down. Rodney's come was warm and slippery on his fingers, slick as he closed his hand around his own painfully hard cock and set up a fast pace. He was already on edge, Rodney's weight against him a heavy anchor, and he let himself fall, their seed mingling on his fingers as he came with a low groan.
It took a while for his head to clear again. He hadn't expected this to happen, not in the holding cell where they had clung to each other in a desperate need for a moment of safety, not back here where each of them had done the best he could to avoid the other, still knowing that if he wanted to, he could just reach out. Just ask for what he needed, and the other would give, anytime, and gladly.
John wondered if this was what Rodney had wanted when he had come to him. If his friend had needed a new memory, one that maybe, just maybe, was enough to keep him together, to make him unshattered. Something to cherish when he was back on Earth, alone. And possibly something for John, too, a small anchor to keep him sane when the other man was gone.
Rodney was still leaning heavily against him, eyes closed.
"I don't want to go."
John turned his head and kissed him on the side of his mouth, a short, brief contact, barely more than a promise. Rodney's eyes flew open and he stared at him, lips slightly parted, a strange mix of hope and resignation in his too open eyes.
"Just come back."
~~~
End.