Work Text:
John is crying.
It’s not something he does if he can help it.
There’s too much inside of him and he knows it. Bottled up. Shoved deep. Bottled up. Shoved deep. Again and again and again until he’s never quite sure he’ll be able to stop the tears if he starts. There’s too much. It’s too risky.
It’s happening now. He shudders with the effort of trying to reign it all back in. Can’t. Years of pressure have built and built, pressing against the back of his eyes. Now it’s been released. It won’t stop. Can’t stop. The next shudder is a strangled sob.
“You’re avoiding me! Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I wake up in the infirmary with a hole in my head and you’re not there. I wake up again and again and you’re not there. I’m being released and you’re not there. You’re fucking nowhere!”
There’s nothing he can say. No protest. No excuse. Rodney’s right. There’s a light in his eyes. A righteous indignation burning. Burning.
“What fucking happened to ‘I’m not going anywhere?’ What was that? Bullshit? Limited time offer for the dying only?”
“Rodney, stop. I-I can’t—”
“You can’t ? Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Rodney, please— ”
“You think I woke up knowing everything was okay now? You think I—”
John cracks.
Pressure releasing.
John breaks.
“Oh god, you’re—John.”
Rodney’s hand had found his face. Gentle. So fucking gentle. Touching the water sliding down, following the tracks like the wiring of an ancient device. Puzzling it out. Puzzling John out. Not quite wiping the tears away. He can’t because they keep coming and coming. Not stopping. Not slowing.
“ John. ”
His voice is equally soft. Question and statement. Invocation. The other hand joins the first. Cradling now. John wants to pull back. Hide. Keep hiding. Draw it all back in. Bottled up. Shoved deep. Can’t. Words want to flow out with tears, want release, but they snag. Burrs in his throat until it hurts.
Please.
Please don’t do that to me again.
Not ever.
Can’t bear it.
He shakes and shakes. Arms twitching.
Please let me hold you.
Please don’t. Because if you do, I might not be able to let go.
Please be more.
Please be less.
Please make it stop hurting.
Please love me.
Please don’t.
God, please love me.
“Hey… hey. It’s… John, it’s…”
Wide, clear blue eyes, blurring into watercolour. John squeezes his own closed, as if this will help. As if this could make it stop. As if he can’t still feel the warm press of palms, fingers, thumbs.
Then those hands are moving, sliding, gripping, and he’s being held.
Choked sounds. Knows he’s the one making them. Wants to pull back. Come closer. Run. Stay.
Please.
Please stop.
Please don’t.
Please never let go.
Never go.
Please, I can’t—don’t go.
He’s buried in the warmth of Rodney’s neck. Hands tangled in fabric. Pressing close. Trembling. The tears aren’t release enough.
He tries. “I’m—I’m sor-sorry. I should—“ it’s garbled, painful, hot needles in his throat.
“Hey… No. Shh. It’s okay. I’m okay, John. I’m okay.”
Rodney’s hand gentles up and down his back, slides into his hair, scratches lightly at his neck. The motions repeat and repeat. There’s so much seeking release. Not just this time, this terrible, awful time that brought him right to the edge and pushed him over; but so many others, stacked and stacked—Rodney hurt, Rodney scared, Rodney lost, Rodney gone—the worry, the fear, the helplessness, he’s sick with all of it. But not that, not only that, because there’s also Rodney brilliant, Rodney heroic, Rodney excited, Rodney smiling. Stacked and stacked—the love, the longing, the need, he’s sick with all of it.
He’s still being held, stroked, soft words murmured into unruly hair. They’re pressed together as close as they can be, ever have been. There’s no protests. No move to stop it. Which is just as well because John still can’t slow it down. Not until he’s run dry. Until it’s all out, years of it.
Rodney pulls back, but not far, still holding him, keeping him close. John doesn’t have the energy left to be embarrassed—to shrug off Rodney’s hold, to stammer out excuses. Maybe that’ll come later, but maybe it won’t. Rodney’s expression it’s…
“I only wanted you.”
John remembers, doesn’t want to. Knows he’ll never forget the anguish Rodney wove into his name. The need and panic embedded in the syllable. Their hands thread together, squeeze.
“I—I still only want you.”
John’s cried so much already, there should be nothing left, but—
“You’re—you’re s—stuck with me, Rodney.”
John’s hands are released. His face cradled and gentled again, thumbs wiping away the tears. But different tears, new and hopeful. Those clever hands hold him there as Rodney leans forward. As if John could move. As if he wants to. The press of lips is soft, salty. The consequent shudder as new and different as the tears.
They’re full of promise.
Full of tomorrows where nothing will need to be bottled up and shoved deep. It’s all out there now. Released. Laid plain for Rodney to see.
Rodney sees. Has seen. Isn’t scared. Isn’t running.
The tears slow. Between kisses, they stop.
John’s empty. Should be scraped raw. Hollow. Numb.
But he’s not. He’s light.
He’s new. They’re new. They can start again, right here, right now. No weight bearing them down.
Lighter.
Free.
Together.