Title: Coping Mechanisms

Author: Amireal

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: McKay/Sheppard

Disclaimer: If they were mine, there'd be waaay more emotional continuity. So there. Also, I probably wouldn't be buying lotto tickets.

Author's notes: Thanks to chopica who had to crack the whip bunches during beta. I hate you my dear. Die in a fiery death? Thanks. *innocent blink*

Length: Approx 25,000 words in four parts.

Summary: "Just because the universe is headed towards entropy is no reason to think that it won't get better."

******

Rodney's scream was echoed through the command center, warbling through the radio as it reached its final notes, ending in a ragged whimper.

"Rodney!" John was already running, feet hitting the ground so fast the shock went from his ankles, to his knees, through his hips, and jostled his hand as he tried to open his radio connection. "Beckett, medical emergency in the jumper bay!"

His heart pounded so hard his chest felt bruised and tender under the weight of his vest. Sweat and adrenaline spiked as he rounded the corner and met the medical team mid-run. He left Beckett and his team in the dust, his speed having improved greatly in the last year or so.

John took the last turn on pure momentum, sticking a hand out to pivot on the nearest door jamb as he skittered into the bay.

Rodney was in the corner, propped up like a broken doll. His pale face was and sweaty, limbs askew and limp beside him. His right hand was jammed between two access panels with little rivulets of blood sliding down his wrist and forearm, into his already soaking sleeve.

"Ohjesus." The words ran together and John slid to his knees beside Rodney, hands frozen and unsure of where to touch. "Rodney?"

Rodney's eyes cracked open; wet, red-rimmed, and puffy. "Beckett?" he croaked.

John nodded frantically; grabbing Rodney's other hand, which was cold and clammy in his own. He squeezed carefully. "He's coming, Rodney."

Rodney’s eyes closed again, and his head listed to the side.

"Rodney!" John yelled frantically. "Talk to me! Tell me what happened."

He could see Rodney's throat working, a bob of an Adams apple under gray skin. "...tripped something… hand crushed…" The last words were said with startling sadness.

John swallowed roughly. Rodney's hands were nearly as important as his brain, expressive and strong and the instruments by which Rodney sang.

"No, Rodney, Beckett's maybe another minute away. We'll get you out, and he'll fix it, and you'll be alienating people in the labs in no time." John was aware he was babbling and promising things he had no right to promise, but Rodney’s fingers flexed and pressed against his palm, tugging at him pathetically.

John met Rodney's eyes, taking in the wide and dilated pupils and the lips red with bite marks. Rodney's head shook just a bit and John cursed Rodney's intellect with bitter hatred. Sometimes Rodney wasn't a hypochondriac. He became aware of all the people milling about, the other people who had stopped working frantically. "What are you waiting for? Do you know how to release that thing when Beckett asks you to?"

The white-coated scientists jumped at the anger in his voice and talk of blow torches, reciprocating saws, and reprogramming floated over his head.

He felt brittle and shaky, and when the metallic wheel sounds of the gurney reached his ears, he nearly cried with relief. The doctor could fix it, could wipe away that pained hopeless look on Rodney's face, and make the small cries of hurt disappear.

Beckett appeared in his field of vision, crouching in front Rodney and looking terribly grim. Every move seemed to hurt Rodney more. Even the simplest touch to take his pulse had Rodney making sounds that made John's throat close and his shoulders tighten.

"Rodney." Beckett flashed a light in his eyes. "Considering that they might have to cut you out of there, I'd prefer that you remain as lucid as possible in case you need to contribute, so I'll be giving you a strong local, and a small dose of regular pain killers."

Rodney squeezed John's hand tightly, the bones grinding painfully within Rodney's grip. "Rodney, you ready?" he prompted.

"…go…" Rodney turned his head into John's shoulder, making godawful noises into the fabric of John’s uniform as Beckett worked on his arm and hand.

"There we go, Rodney. He's almost done," John said into Rodney's sweat-soaked hair. He met Beckett's eyes from over the top of Rodney's head.

"Somebody speak to me!" John yelled and felt a small flickering of thankfulness when Zelenka appeared at his shoulder.

"We are trying to figure out if it is possibly to retract the panel his hand is pinned under within a reasonable amount of time," Zelenka said quietly. "The other option is cutting through it--"

Rodney made a loud whimpering noise and squeezed John's hand harder.

"The panel, Rodney, cutting through the panel!" Zelenka quickly corrected, looking sick. "That option would take little time at all; however, it would not be easy."

John wiggled carefully, placing his body between Rodney and the wall, giving Rodney a more comfortable and warm place to lean on. Each shiver that ran through Rodney's frame seemed to hurt more. He looked up at Zelenka. "What do you mean, 'not easy'?"

Zelenka looked at him, Rodney, and then the wall, in successive flicks of his eyes. "The equipment required would cause much vibration," he clarified.

Oh dear lord. Rodney curled up into him, wetness seeping through the fabric on his shoulder. Breathing hurt; John could see it with each shallow movement of Rodney's chest, with each flex of his ribcage against John's.

With a skill John envied, Beckett put the oxygen under Rodney's nose, carefully lifting his head and hooking the tubes over Rodney's ears. Some of the painkiller had to be kicking in, because when Rodney slumped back down, the worst of the tenseness was gone. Their bodies settled together, and Rodney's small yelps of pain reduced in frequency.

"I'll give you ten minutes," Beckett said quietly. "After that, I'm dosing him up and you're cutting him out."

The stream of Czech was the only thing remaining behind as Zelenka raced across the room to hurry up the rest of the scientists. Distantly, John heard the clunking of heavy equipment, each muted thump making Rodney jump just a bit.

John moved his chin so that his mouth was close to Rodney's ear. "It's okay, Rodney, it's almost done, you can do this."

He babbled through Beckett's careful manipulations. Diodes were attached, vital monitors were set up, and blood pressure was taken repeatedly. John was no doctor, but he had some field training, and knew enough to be very scared of the numbers appearing on the screen.

By then, even Rodney's long lashes were clumped together in sweat. He could feel Rodney's back slick with perspiration against his chest. "Zelenka's doing that big armed thing he does when he's onto something."

The laugh was gruff and fast, and full of pain. Wet, humid breath hit the side of John's face, leaving a cold damp patch in its wake.

"…john..?"

It took John a few moments to realize Rodney was talking to him.

"What, Rodney?"

"…you're the…" Rodney's breath seemed to be running out fast. "…the best…"

John's heart nearly stopped as his chest squeezed tightly. His lungs contracted as if he's just taken a few g's unexpectedly. "Rodney," he choked out, but he couldn't say it, say anything. He was too caught up in the heavy weight of Rodney's body and the muted sounds of the other people milling around them.

"…you… wanted to tell… you…" Rodney went on, voice frail and shaking and unlike Rodney in every way.

The press of other people suffocated John, and Beckett's purposefully averted face made it all too real. He couldn't have the conversation he wanted to have, that Rodney was obviously already having. John swallowed back a harsh admonishment for Rodney to stop giving his last words, he wasn't going to die damnit.

"…saving your life… was never… as scary… as it should… have been…"

Rodney strained against him, voice pushing past his pain so that he could whisper things into John's ear. They were close; he could feel the small tickle of Rodney's lashes blinking against his cheek, and the fleeting moisture of lips across his ear.

"I'll be right back." Beckett said suddenly, standing carefully and placing a casual hand on John's shoulder. "Two minutes." Then he was leading the medical personnel a few feet away.

John blinked slowly, dragging his lids across tired eyes, focusing on Beckett as he starting issuing medical jargon in a too-loud voice. In a flash he understood and was almost too panic stricken to do anything with his precious few seconds.

"…john?" Rodney pushed at him, uninjured hand fumbling free and making an aborted move up his chest.

Looking down, John saw Rodney's half open eyes looking at him, a spark of determination buried under the pain. "Rodney," he breathed. "You will get better. That’s an order."

Rodney's face pushed back against his shoulder and for a moment John thought that'd be all there was. Then Rodney's hand pressed at his chest again and fisted John's shirt in his trembling fingers. His weak tug should have had no affect, but in that moment it felt like the strongest pull in John’s entire life.

Zelenka's voice pitched across the room. "Everyone, over here!"

Beckett spoke up next, "Not you, lads, we're not done."

And then they were alone in a room full of people, and Rodney was in his arms, fading slowly out of consciousness, face a mass of pain-filled lines. Rodney was tugging at John’s shirt, moving his own body despite the pain and what could he do?

Their mouths met quickly, just a simple brush,  a small, dry, suck on Rodney's lush upper lip, and the careful return movement. It was chaste and weak and possibly the worst imitation of a kiss John had had in a long time.

It was also so devastating he had to look away as Rodney settled himself back on his shoulder.

"Colonel?" Beckett's quiet voice made him realize his eyes had been closed.

"Yeah, Doc?" He felt gritty and wrung out.

Beckett looked apologetic. "We’re almost out of time. I'll probably ask you to stay were you are, as one of two things is most likely to happen. One, I'll have to drug him or two, he'll pass out from the pain. Either way, I want to make sure he doesn't put any undue stress on his hand, so you'll need to hold him up until I say it's safe." Beckett's eyes were kind as they looked at him. "Can you handle that?"

John nodded, waiting for that second rush of adrenaline to calm his nerves and make the nausea go away. He felt guilty and fidgety under the weight of Beckett's kind gaze.

"Dr. Beckett!" Zelenka's voice called from across the room.

Beckett looked up hopefully. "Good news?"

John’s heart raced as he watched Zelenka shake his head sadly.

"Alright then, grab your tools while I get ready over here." Beckett turned back to them. "Colonel, can you get further behind Rodney? So that if he were to relax completely he wouldn't pull anything?"

John nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yeah, I’m going to tilt him forward and wiggle in behind him, getting my leg right between him and the wall."

Beckett nodded. "Alright then on three."

They moved him, and Rodney gritted and screamed in small shallow gasps, but John was quick, and soon Rodney was resting against his chest, cradled between his two tense thighs.

"That's perfect," Beckett declared, before emptying an entire needle into Rodney's IV.

Zelenka appeared with an ominous looking cutting device. "Perhaps I should start it once now, so you are not startled by the noise?"

John nodded, arms circling Rodney's torso, holding tight. He watched Zelenka flip the switch, and the noise started low and then built and grew until his teeth rattled and his gut tensed. Rodney clawed at his hands, pressing weak fingers into his wrist.

Zelenka flicked the switch off. "I have protective ear coverings for all; they have radios that can operate on VOX so you may still hear each other without trouble."

"Quickly now," Beckett said urgently. "The amount of morphine I gave him could depress his respiratory functions."

Headgear was handed out, and Beckett relinquished his position to Zelenka so that he could have optimum access to the paneling. Beckett settled next to John, within easy reaching distance. He nodded to Zelenka. "Whenever you're ready."

Rodney's hand twisted around John's -- grip lax and sweaty until Zelenka began cutting, and then the strong, bone-grinding clutch was back. Rodney screamed, and Beckett immediately offered something to bite down on. It muffled the painful sound, but the high pitched keening still transmitted perfectly over the radio.

Zelenka had been right; cutting Rodney out was merciless but quick. Rodney soaked through both their uniforms by the time Zelenka was most of the way through. Then Beckett reached across them, pushing Rodney's tense body into John's. He wedged something large and foamy under the arm just as Zelenka cut through the last of the material.

The squishy wedge caught Rodney's arm before it moved more than a few inches, but the release of pressure made Rodney give one last body-tensing scream before he fell back limply into John's embrace.

The hand looked mangled -- misshapen. The blood glistened in the alien light of the jumper bay, and Rodney’s fingers twitched spasmodically, even though Rodney was unconscious. Beckett moved it carefully and worked quickly; shouting orders, giving more drugs, and temporarily bandaging.  Then they were moving him, pulling him out of John's arms and flat onto the floor. Intubation and then bag.

Inflate. Deflate. Inflate. Deflate.

Rodney's chest moved shallowly and John shivered in the cold air, eyes glued to Rodney's form as it was lifted and then wheeled away.

His chest burned as he flashed hot then cold then hot again, and the blood on his pants leg shined dully. He got onto his hands and knees, crawled three feet and threw up.

Someone pressed a cold compress to his neck and forced a bowl under his head. The yellow swatch of a medical uniform swam before his eyes as he was led to another gurney.  He was given water to rinse with, which he spat into another basin, and then he endured the humiliating ride to the infirmary.

******

Someone had slipped him a mickey and John was pretty pissed. He shook his head, feeling groggy and slow. It took long seconds for the other figure in the room to solidify.

Elizabeth handed him some water which he took with a shaking hand. He hated being drugged.

She waited for him to take a few sips before speaking. "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Being drugged against my will is always the highlight of my day."

The blood on his pants had dried in the interim, crusting off in flakes as he moved around. "Rodney?" he asked, heart hammering so suddenly he felt dizzy.

"Still in surgery." Elizabeth offered him a hand.

He took it and hopped off the gurney, momentarily unsteady as his knees went rubbery. "Any word?" John asked, because that's what a concerted commander would ask. Not because the hollow memory of Rodney's pain-tensed body in his arms made him feel tight in too many places.

Elizabeth sighed, and for a moment John was afraid that something horrible had happened while he'd been unconscious, something irrevocable and painful and life changing, and he'd goddamned slept through it.

"It's delicate surgery, John." She gestured for him to follow her out into the main ward. "Thankfully, one of the surgeons on the Daedelus did several orthopedic rotations in his residency; he's in there with Dr. Beckett."

John nodded, taking in the other worried faces scattered over the various chairs. Zelenka looked especially tense, bent over his tablet and punching in data frantically.

"Colonel," Zelenka acknowledged without looking up, "I am glad you are feeling better."

He felt a flush creep up from under his collar, unbelievably embarrassed that he'd needed medical attention in the middle of all that. He sat down next to Zelenka, peering over his shoulder. "Nothing like a good nap to refresh the spirits. Whatcha working on?"

The question was a little desperate, and his voice was reedy and sad and possibly as shaky as the rest of his body, but he asked because just sitting there, silent and morose, and waiting for each little tidbit of information, would have probably shoved him right over the edge.

Zelenka moved the stylus a few more times before answering. "I Am attempting to beat Rodney's FreeCell score."

The smile that produced was so unexpected it left him wobbly and lightheaded. "Well then," he leaned closer over Zelenka's shoulder, "you should probably move that 4 of spades over there."

Looking over his shoulder, Zelenka smiled tiredly. "I have always had this theory that counting cards would break the algorithm. Would you like to help prove this?"

John shrugged. "Why not?"

By the time Beckett appeared, bone weary and gray faced, after hours of surgery and about two emergencies a piece for everyone waiting, John felt stretched too thin and was a few small steps from taking down the next irritating interruption with a gun and a smile.

They descended on him like hungry hawks, desperate for good news. Perfect news.

Beckett gave a weary shake and a shrug. "Rodney will survive, the hand will be intact. I can't say much more than that till the swelling goes down and some of the healing begins." He pulled his gown off in angry movements, throwing it in the hamper off to the side.

"Go on, all of you," he went on. "He'll not be awake for hours yet and the lot of you look like you're about to fall over where you stand."

Forced into a corner, John took slow steps, hoping to be left behind without notice.

"Colonel Sheppard."

He winced reflexively before realizing it was Beckett calling him back.

"Do not think you can get away so easily. Biro told me she sedated you, I'd like to make sure you're alright." He gave John an pained smile. "It'll make me feel better to ensure one of my patients will be perfectly fine, before I go pass out in an uncomfortable chair somewhere."

When phrased like that, how could John refuse? Not that he’d actually wanted to leave the infirmary anyway, but still, he felt a little out of joint at being so easily bent by sneaky doctor guilt.

******

John did finally leave the infirmary after threats of another bout of sedation. After all, life went on and the current crisis involved one person, not the entire station. And saying it like that just felt wrong, because Rodney being out of commission meant everyone had to make changes, but nothing large, or all encompassing. Routine had to be tweaked, small adjustments made, and as much as he wished it, he couldn't stay on pause. Even though his own sleep at night was fitful and short lived and left him feeling more tired than when he'd started -- which was saying a lot -- he did his duty.

He slept and ate enough to keep moving, rearranged missions and duty rosters, not quite ready to replace Rodney on his team, however temporarily that might hopefully be, and visited his friend who lay unconscious and pale, swathed in white and strung with tubes and wires, looking like a discarded puppet amongst live people.

John kept a mental tally of the hours and minutes he visited, the number of times in a day. Sometime on day three he had a small panic attack when he realized the numbers were too high. He got that disconnected feeling in his legs, his head felt full of helium, and he had to sit down abruptly.

Still though, he went for his evening visit, taking up residence in the chair next to Rodney's bed. He took some time to stare at Rodney's purple and red fingers, hoping maybe the swelling had gone down a bit.

The entire hand was held inside something that kept it immobilized. Small bits of shiny metal stuck out at odd angles. John recognized them from injuries past, pins holding bits of bone in place. His own hand ached in sympathy.

He almost missed the small movement of Rodney's lips, a dry tongue poking out, wetting cracked lips. John fumbled with the insane looking sippy cup on the nearby table, nearly dropping it in his excitement to see any movement at all.

"Rodney?" John prompted softy. "I've got some water if you want it."

Rodney's head nodded slightly, eyelids still closed.

The straw sat on Rodney's lips for long seconds as John watched him take sluggish sips. The slight pull released and he sat the cup back down.

"…thanks…"

"No problem Rodney," John answered just as quietly as the drug-laced voice had been, but Rodney was already asleep again.

******

By the time Rodney was up for more than one-word conversations, John had had to bite the bullet and put someone new on his team. Zelenka had actually volunteered, muttering something about guilt and pulling his weight and giving something to Rodney that would annoy him out of bed if all else failed.

John couldn't find it in his heart to say no, only to be surprised the next day during what he'd thought would be Zelenka's first of many weapons qualifications sessions, when the small, and now officially scary man hit center mass eight out of ten times.

"As a young man in my country," Zelenka explained, "academics alone was not enough to get one dismissed from service to their country."

"Ah." John moved onto the P90 which required a bit more learning, mostly because Zelenka was more familiar with the longer barreled semi-automatics, closer to the AK-47s and the M-16s.

All in all, it was pretty painless. John missed the bitching, but Zelenka brought him coffee when they had a briefing before 0900, so it was an even trade-off.

Except when he sat next to Rodney's bed, and had his daily five or six sentence conversations.

"Radek, huh?" Rodney's eyes held a muted spark; the drugs in his system were still fairly heavy.

"He's not bad. In shape, not afraid of a weapon," John said. "Though the glasses kind of worry me."

"Mostly for details," Rodney assured him. "Running for his life, he should be okay, assuming he doesn't panic and trip over a root or something. 'Sides, Dr. Jackson practically owns stock in lenscrafters."

John snuck in a quick squeeze of fingers to Rodney's good hand, and smiled ruefully.  "Yeah, but doesn't Jackson have a nasty habit of dying?"

"Good point." Rodney was already starting to drift again, and John took comfort in the visible shrinking of Rodney's injured hand, the colors not quite so vivid anymore.

He was ready to leave Rodney to his mid-afternoon nap when Rodney's eyes peaked open again. "John?"

"Yeah, Rodney?" He sat back down, but Rodney was silent and unmoving. John shook his head, and breathed deeply. "I'll be back later."

******

Beckett had told them that improvements would happen in weird plateaus. One day Rodney would suddenly have more energy; his awake time would double, especially as the worst of the trauma stopped straining his body.

To John it seemed like Rodney stayed too tired for too long. It was unnatural for him to not be speaking constantly, or waving his hands in frustration, or even just talking with his mouth full.

Their first mission off world since Rodney's accident, two weeks and two minor surgeries later, had John tense and uneasy. Zelenka stood next to him, looking like a small shadow of his usual team mate as he fiddled with his buckles.

"You'll be fine." John stopped to give Zelenka his 'trust me while I steal your wallet' smile.

"Then why do you look like you are about to attend some distant relative's funeral?" Zelenka gave him an 'I'll be hitting below the belt now' smile.

John admired that about him. "Look, Zelenka, it's not that I don't think you'll do fine, it's just that--"

"Rodney is in the infirmary with a big white cotton ball stuck on his hand, and he has not insulted either of us in weeks." Zelenka nodded knowingly. "Perfectly understandable."

When they got back, Zelenka had to drag him through the event horizon, while Teyla and Ronon covered their sixes. His leg hurt like a son of a bitch, and he was so angry at himself he could only give Elizabeth the tersest of explanations.

John felt stupid and uncoordinated as Beckett manipulated him onto his very own gurney. Stupid restless natives with stupid fears about stupid strangers who did stupid things like look the stupid chief in his stupid eyes.

Apparently an arrow through the calf got him a one-way ticket to surgery and a dry mouth. But at least he woke up pain free, if cottony in the head.

"So, I hear you think you're invincible again."

John's head snapped to his right so quickly a muscle protested sharply. "Rodney!"

Rodney smiled at him and gave a little wave with his left hand. "It's a funny thing. I woke up expecting my usual pathetic conversation with you, and you weren't there." His eyebrows crunched together. "I found myself rather annoyed."

John’s grin was so wide it hurt his cheeks. "How ya feeling, Rodney?"

Rodney considered the question very carefully. "They're letting me have two solid meals a day now. I get to chew my food and everything."

"So, better then?" He tried to wipe the goofy smile off his face, ungodly happy that Rodney was awake enough to make fun of him.

"You look like a lunatic you know," Rodney informed him.

"Funnily enough, I feel like one too."

Rodney snorted and relaxed back into his pillow. "Zelenka's been by. He threatened me with his resignation if he has to go into the field permanently."

John felt a little bad about that, but at least no one had tried to eat them. "He did fine."

"Oh," Rodney corrected, "he had a ball. He just doesn't like running, childhood trauma or something."

******

Turned out an injury that left him limping and in crutches gave him a great excuse to hang out in the infirmary. It was pretty cool, except the whole limping and crutches thing, and the fact that Beckett actually wanted to do checkups on him on a regular basis.

But when it was all done, John could sit next to Rodney and have almost entire conversations about nothing at all.

Limited duty was sweet; small bits of paperwork, no patrols, and Major Lorne looking like he'd rather sit in a small locked room with Rodney than take on any more duties.

Zelenka thanked him for getting injured by slipping him the Invader ZIM DVDs. Apparently the waiting list was weeks, if not months long.

When Rodney heard about Zelenka's gift, he sent John hobbling off for a laptop and the first disc. Watching Rodney laugh that hard was reward enough for the brain damage that show had to be doing to his own head.

During his next visit he brought popcorn.

It seemed the longer Rodney managed to stay awake, the more likely he was to get bored, and as much as John enjoyed watching the color come back to Rodney's face and the swelling slowly reduce, he was man enough to admit that a bored Rodney scared the crap out of him.

So in the best interests of everyone involved, and all of Atlantis really, he set about to make sure Rodney had plenty of mental fodder to occupy himself with. Especially as John's own injury was healing, and he once again felt the press of minutes and hours he spent staring at Rodney's sleeping face.

He'd weaned off the visits, cutting them down, until one day he stepped in to be greeted by Rodney's frown.

"What's the matter, they run out of that stew you like?" John asked, setting his newly acquired cane down next him.

"I remember most of what happened you know," Rodney started abruptly. "And if this is your way of -- I don't know," Rodney's one hand flailed, "letting me down gently--"

"Would you shut up?" John hissed, looking around frantically. "Some of us have a better sense of survival than that!"

That actually shut Rodney up. "Oh," he said in a small voice. "I’m sorry, it's just that…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Oh wow, something in John’s chest ached and he licked his lips nervously. "Rodney, I can't-- we can't--" the words choked in the back of his throat, "if we could I--"

The resigned look on Rodney's face hurt more than anything he could have done. Rodney nodded carefully. "Right, I understand, it's actually surprisingly satisfying just knowing," he said quietly, not sounding overly upset, but he wouldn't look at John when he said it.

"Friends, okay?" He risked a squeeze of Rodney's hand and gave a lopsided smile.

Rodney's head swung in his direction. "You want to be friends?" His eyes crinkled downwards and his lips pressed together in a thin line.

Okay, not as easy as he'd hoped. John nodded. "I'd like that; it's worked out okay so far."

Rodney regarded him with an air of suspicion. "You do know that totally makes you the girl, right?"

On second thought, it might just be that easy. That urge to kill was coming back with a vengeance.

******

Friendship was apparently really hard when you actively tried to do something that had once been effortless. So very annoyingly effortless.

They stuck to things that didn't actually involve interaction, sharing videos, playing cards -- Rodney was a shark at Rummy -- and helping him overtake Zelenka's new high score in FreeCell.

After their little talk, cutting down the visits to just shy of appropriate was easier, and Rodney often dictated to him when he was expected to appear anyway, so a lot of the guilt was taken out of his hands.

And that made him feel vaguely… guilty.

Rodney would’ve laughed at him and used nicely appropriate words like paradox and wannabe schizophrenic.

The day came when John's injury had healed to nothing more than a whitish scar on his hairy leg, and Beckett smacked his name back on the active duty roster.

Zelenka promised retribution at dinner, looking distinctly unhappy with his pre-mission briefing tucked under his arm.

Arriving at Rodney's bedside, John had the sinking feeling that he too had heard about the mission.

"Try to remember your body already has all the holes it needs to survive," Rodney groused before John could even get comfortable.

"I dunno." John slouched. "I was thinking about an earring."

Rodney rolled his eyes and whispered, "And you were worried about the gay stigma *before*."

They both froze mid-sarcasm and looked away. John swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Apparently that's not a good topic of conversation yet," he said hoarsely.

Rodney nodded.

They stared at each other for too long until Rodney abruptly blurted, "They take the pins out tomorrow."

That's when John noticed Rodney's deeper than average circles and restless disposition. "Oh," he said, because anything else would have felt entirely inadequate.

"I heard the nurses talking about physical therapy. Rock, Paper, Scissors was bandied about as the way of deciding who got the onerous duty," Rodney said dryly. "Did you know the pleasure of not having my company is worth quite a lot?" The small, scared look on his face disappeared for a moment. "Part of me thinks I should be able to use that to my advantage somehow."

John shook his head. "You just leave that to me."

Rodney immediately looked worried. "Why are you smiling like that? Don't smile like that, it *scares* me!"

The rest of the visit was strained, stilted, and painful on so many angles John felt like he'd rolled around on a patch of pebble covered ground. He stayed until Rodney's head had lolled to the side, face lax in sleep, worry eased from around his eyes.

The last of John's own tension didn't leave until after he'd had a private conversation with Beckett on his way out. Whistling quietly as he walked down the corridors, he wondered if Rodney would like to share some of Nurse Pauline's chocolate stash.

******

Go on to part 2