![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danceswithgary posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
stargateficrecRec Category: Sheppard/McKay
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Category: Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Humor
Warning: Slash
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crysothemis
Author's Website: http://crys.mrks.org/
Link: Ways to Die in the Pegasus Galaxy
Why This Must Be Read:
While running through my favorites to pick out the next fic to write up, I occasionally run across one that I double-check in the Memories because I can't believe it hasn't been recc'ed here yet.
This would be one of those fics.
Stories that have John and Rodney sharing a bed platonically for more than one night and slowly growing closer and more important to each other day by day are particularly appealing to me, especially if there's a hurt/comfort factor. This story has those elements plus a wonderful touch of humor, a grumpy Rodney, and an oblivious John who ends up accidentally on purpose getting into trouble so he doesn't have to sleep alone.
Who could blame him?
Excerpt:
There was something in his bed. John jerked awake and flailed out, and it was, God, not something, someone. Someone who made a noise that sounded halfway between a grunt and a whimper, and Jesus, that was . . .
"Rodney?"
Rodney sat up next to him. In the dim light that was Atlantis's default nighttime setting he looked sleepy and rumpled, his hair standing on end. "Okay, look, just don't say anything, all right? Not one word."
John blinked. "Huh?"
Rodney plucked at the bedcovers in his lap. At least he was wearing a t-shirt, which was more than John could say for himself. "I just went through three weeks, six days, and four hours of thinking you were dead. So I think I deserve the chance to sleep, now."
"This is my room," John said plaintively.
"Did you not hear the part about not talking? Because I distinctly remember mentioning it."
"Right," John said, and let his head fall back on his pillow. Rodney was in his room. In his bed. Which was, okay, a lot better than having him MIA, but still . . . Christ, when he'd promised Elizabeth he'd go easy on Rodney, this really wasn't what he'd had in mind.
After a long moment Rodney let out a sigh and lay back down, so close that John could feel the air warm between them. John waited, muscles tense. Rodney had to be on the very edge of the bed, because it wasn't anywhere near wide enough for two unless those two were really pretty friendly. Any minute now he would roll closer, and do what he'd come here to do. Because yes, okay, John knew he was sometimes a little dense, but Rodney was in his bed. Only an idiot didn't realize what that meant.
He should say something. Explain that, yeah, he'd missed Rodney, but not like that. Let Rodney down gently, and try to act normal. It was probably some kind of weird transference, anyway. Rodney was still working through the shock of finding John alive, and he'd misinterpreted his relief as something else. He couldn't actually want to . . . want to . . .
God. But he was here. And he'd told John not to talk, which kind of implied he didn't want to be talked out of it. So he knew what he was doing, he was in John's bed with intent, and it was really up to John to set him straight.
"Hey," John said softly. "Look, I know you had a rough month—well, three weeks, six days, and four hours—but don't you think . . ."
Rodney's breath caught, and for a panicked moment John thought he was going to do something horrifying like sob. And then the air whistled back out of his lungs in what was unmistakably a snore.
Rodney was asleep. In John's bed. At—he checked his watch—ten past two in the morning. And John was supposed to be going easy on him, so yelling or shaking him awake was probably right out.
Damn it.
John heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolled onto his side so that his back was to Rodney, and shoved his pillow into a comfortable lump. At least he was a pretty light sleeper. If Rodney molested him, he was sure he'd wake up. Well, pretty sure. And anyway, this was Rodney, and he'd just gotten back from the salt mines, and his snoring was . . . not all that annoying, actually.
Actually, it was kind of soothing, in a weird sort of way. Soft and steady and almost hypnotic—in and out, in and out—and maybe Rodney wasn't talking, but every whistling breath he took was a quiet, insistent voice chanting, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
John had had worse nights, some of them pretty recently. It wasn't so hard to fall asleep.
...
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Category: Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Humor
Warning: Slash
Author on LJ:
crysothemisAuthor's Website: http://crys.mrks.org/
Link: Ways to Die in the Pegasus Galaxy
Why This Must Be Read:
While running through my favorites to pick out the next fic to write up, I occasionally run across one that I double-check in the Memories because I can't believe it hasn't been recc'ed here yet.
This would be one of those fics.
Stories that have John and Rodney sharing a bed platonically for more than one night and slowly growing closer and more important to each other day by day are particularly appealing to me, especially if there's a hurt/comfort factor. This story has those elements plus a wonderful touch of humor, a grumpy Rodney, and an oblivious John who ends up accidentally on purpose getting into trouble so he doesn't have to sleep alone.
Who could blame him?
Excerpt:
There was something in his bed. John jerked awake and flailed out, and it was, God, not something, someone. Someone who made a noise that sounded halfway between a grunt and a whimper, and Jesus, that was . . .
"Rodney?"
Rodney sat up next to him. In the dim light that was Atlantis's default nighttime setting he looked sleepy and rumpled, his hair standing on end. "Okay, look, just don't say anything, all right? Not one word."
John blinked. "Huh?"
Rodney plucked at the bedcovers in his lap. At least he was wearing a t-shirt, which was more than John could say for himself. "I just went through three weeks, six days, and four hours of thinking you were dead. So I think I deserve the chance to sleep, now."
"This is my room," John said plaintively.
"Did you not hear the part about not talking? Because I distinctly remember mentioning it."
"Right," John said, and let his head fall back on his pillow. Rodney was in his room. In his bed. Which was, okay, a lot better than having him MIA, but still . . . Christ, when he'd promised Elizabeth he'd go easy on Rodney, this really wasn't what he'd had in mind.
After a long moment Rodney let out a sigh and lay back down, so close that John could feel the air warm between them. John waited, muscles tense. Rodney had to be on the very edge of the bed, because it wasn't anywhere near wide enough for two unless those two were really pretty friendly. Any minute now he would roll closer, and do what he'd come here to do. Because yes, okay, John knew he was sometimes a little dense, but Rodney was in his bed. Only an idiot didn't realize what that meant.
He should say something. Explain that, yeah, he'd missed Rodney, but not like that. Let Rodney down gently, and try to act normal. It was probably some kind of weird transference, anyway. Rodney was still working through the shock of finding John alive, and he'd misinterpreted his relief as something else. He couldn't actually want to . . . want to . . .
God. But he was here. And he'd told John not to talk, which kind of implied he didn't want to be talked out of it. So he knew what he was doing, he was in John's bed with intent, and it was really up to John to set him straight.
"Hey," John said softly. "Look, I know you had a rough month—well, three weeks, six days, and four hours—but don't you think . . ."
Rodney's breath caught, and for a panicked moment John thought he was going to do something horrifying like sob. And then the air whistled back out of his lungs in what was unmistakably a snore.
Rodney was asleep. In John's bed. At—he checked his watch—ten past two in the morning. And John was supposed to be going easy on him, so yelling or shaking him awake was probably right out.
Damn it.
John heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolled onto his side so that his back was to Rodney, and shoved his pillow into a comfortable lump. At least he was a pretty light sleeper. If Rodney molested him, he was sure he'd wake up. Well, pretty sure. And anyway, this was Rodney, and he'd just gotten back from the salt mines, and his snoring was . . . not all that annoying, actually.
Actually, it was kind of soothing, in a weird sort of way. Soft and steady and almost hypnotic—in and out, in and out—and maybe Rodney wasn't talking, but every whistling breath he took was a quiet, insistent voice chanting, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.
John had had worse nights, some of them pretty recently. It wasn't so hard to fall asleep.
...
