stargateficrec | Shielded In My Armor by Kath aka nakedwesley (NC17)

Show: SGA
Rec Category: John Sheppard
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay
Pairing: John/Rodney
Het/Slash/Gen: slash
Warning: none
Author on LJ: nakedwesley
Author's Website: unknown besides her LJ
Link: Shielded In My Armor

Why this must be read:

This fic just touches the heart. It's got to be one of the best getting-into-John's-head fics out there. Nakedwesley shows us what makes John Sheppard tick by exploring his past and his thought processes about human touch. With engrossing narrative and emotional resonance, this fic makes us just yearn for John to find that someone with which his walls can be broken down, and he can enjoy that cuddle all us fangirls want to give him. Thank god Rodney's there to bash down the barriers, catapult the defenses, and give John what he needs, unquestioned touching and fervent love. Just a lovely John and John/Rodney piece. You'll love every word of it.

Story Summary: John doesn’t like to be touched.

John was eleven years old when his mother died.

Ann Sheppard had long, blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and a kind smile that hinted at mischief. She loved to laugh and to make up long, involved bedtime stories about a boy named John who had wings and who flew around the world having magnificent adventures. It wasn’t unusual for her to keep her son home from school, insisting they simply had to visit the zoo to see the new baby bear cubs, or spend the day at the beach because the waves were huge. She was the perfect compliment to her straight-as-an-arrow military husband, and John adored her.

Ann taught her son to share her love of Ferris wheels, the ocean, and what his father referred to as ‘that hippie music’: Janis Joplin, The Mamas and the Papas, and especially Simon & Garfunkel. John would come home from school and slip a record onto the turntable - very carefully lowering the needle so as not to scratch the vinyl - and Ann never hesitated to drop whatever she was doing to join him in dancing around the living room sofa to ‘Cecilia’ or that ‘Feelin’ Groovy’ song.

The day of the funeral, John stood next to his father at his mother’s gravesite, wishing he could bury his face in his father’s coat and feel strong, comforting arms wrapped around his shoulders. Instead, he stood at attention like he’d been taught, his face held as still as he could make it. A week later, he sat on his parents’ bed and watched as his father carefully packed away each of his mother’s dresses one by one. He then moved on to the items on her dresser, until all signs of John’s mom were gone.