Disclaimer: I own nothing with regard to SGA or the characters herein, and I'm certainly making no profit from this story.
Summary: Everyone tells him time-time will heal him, time will take care of everything-but Rodney doesn't believe that.
A/N: Future fic. AU - includes Madison Miller. Character death alluded to but the death does not occur in the story. First part of a Trilogy of stories.
The Fallacy of Time
Madison turned her mini-van onto Willow Grove Summit, a lovely street of trees just outside the city. Pulling up into the driveway, she paused a moment to take her measure of the house. An Arts and Crafts style home, it was built in the 1930s and boasted a real cobblestone foundation. The porch buttresses were stone as well. She thought of the many summer weekends she'd spent here with her Uncle Mer and Uncle John, and the times they'd "baby sat" when her Mom and Dad needed a little time to themselves. She smiled at that, she hadn't been a baby, but she never refused a chance to be here. Carrying on the tradition, she'd been bringing her own two boys, Ferris and Cameron, here since they were born. God, how her Uncles loved having them, especially Uncle John. She already knew Ferris was going to be a pilot someday—it was all he ever talked about.
She adored this house. Her Uncles had spent years restoring some of the original features and just five years before, her Uncle Mer had spent weeks researching the history of the house. They were both so excited about restoring the wide eaves and repainting using the original colors.
The place was so beautiful this time of year, with its little side yard and the garden in back. The trees were in bloom and the Rhododendrons sheltered and protected the house itself—a moat of purple and scarlet.
She thought of the many drive-by dinners and lunches she'd had in this house as an intern. Even though she would only have a few hours to spare, her Uncles were always glad to see her. Neither one would ever admit it, but she always suspected Uncle John had funded her med school tuition from some inheritance or trust fund, and that meant the world to her. She shut off the van and made her way to the door.
As soon as Uncle Mer opened it, she knew he'd been busy all day. The house was warm and bright and the smell coming from the kitchen was heavenly. She always thought her Uncle John would've had the knack for cooking, but it turned out he was the one with the green thumb.
Uncle Mer hugged her and ushered her inside and through to the kitchen. So many hours she'd spent in this room with her Uncles, cooking, studying, and listening to them lovingly snipe at one another. She watched her Uncle open a bottle of wine and made a mental note to ask one of her associates about a Rheumatology referral. With all the things those hands had done over the years, even now, he never complained about the pain.
He poured them each a glass and she busied herself setting the table. She noticed there were plates and silverware for three, but she didn't say anything—just dutifully set the table like she'd done a hundred times before.
Uncle Mer pooh-pooh'ed her offers to help, so she took her wine and headed for Uncle John's den. She thought this room was really the heart of the house. She'd spent hours upon hours in this room—going through Uncle John's books, listening to music in front of the fireplace, or just talking with her Uncles. Flipping through the CDs, she picked out something she thought Uncle Mer would like.
She'd grown up here listening to jazz and learning about its history. Her husband had always been impressed with her knowledge and appreciation and Thomas could sit for hours and discuss recordings with Uncle Mer. They even managed to get Uncle John interested sometimes, and that was no small feat.
"That's nice," he said from the doorway. "Coltrane. He'd like that. C'mon, kiddo, let's eat." She took her Uncle's hand and followed him into the dining room—watched him stare at the vacant chair before sitting down.
"So, how's everything at the office?" he asked, serving her plate.
"We are so busy. I think we're going to eventually have to bring in another doctor; the practice is growing like crazy. How about you? Those meds I prescribed helping with your insomnia?"
"Oh, yeah. I only take them when I need to, but—yeah, yeah—sleeping a little better." She noticed the sudden brightness in his eyes.
Madison reached over for his hand and squeezed it—felt the tears well up in her own eyes, but she didn't dare let them fall.
"It's just—you know, short stuff, some days are better than others. Like today—today's been a bad day—until now." His smile was weak as he patted her hand and it struck her just how tired he looked, the dark circles beneath those wonderful blue eyes a not-so-pleasing complement to the silver streaking what remained of his hair.
She smiled back, still clutching his hand. Today was the anniversary of the day she had married her Uncles—she had been five years old at the time. Even when they'd finally chosen to have a real ceremony of their own, much to her delight, her Uncles preferred to celebrate her date instead.
But this was the first anniversary without Uncle John and though she'd known it would be hard—she was surprised at just how hard.
They continued their meal, Uncle Mer asking about the boys, about Thomas. He asked about her Mom and Dad and she seemed to satisfy him that everyone was fine, had everything they needed and were all happy. Uncle Mer certainly didn't need to be concerned about them.
When he brought out the dessert, she knew she couldn't prolong asking about his health. Uncle Mer didn't like talking about it, but not only was he her Uncle; he was her unofficial patient as well.
"How are you really, Uncle Mer? You promised me you'd come in for a physical."
"I will, I will," he said, waving his hand in that way he had. "I'm all right physically—it's just—like I said."
She nodded. "Well, why don't you come and stay with us for a while. Thomas leaves for a research trip in two weeks and the boys would love to spend time with—"
"I don't—I don't want to leave the house," he said, seeming not to hear her. "But other times, it's so—just so empty here, I'd rather be anywhere else, you know?"
Madison swallowed around the dry lump in her throat. "I know. Maybe you should talk with someone about it. Or—"
He was shaking his head which meant she was wasting her breath. "Then it'll just take a little more time is all." She patted his forearm. "It hasn't even been a year—and you know, today is—today is really hard. It's hard on every—" She stopped before her voice could break—already hoping he hadn't seen the big tear that plopped onto the tablecloth. She wiped her eyes quickly and took a deep breath.
"Thanks for coming, kiddo," he said as he brought her hand to his lips.
She just nodded. There was no way in the world she would have let him spend this day alone.
She helped him clear the table, but he wouldn't let her clear away John's place – "not yet," he said quietly, and she just didn't have the heart to question him. They washed the dishes and finished their wine listening to music and talking. All too soon, it was time to go, but as Uncle Mer walked her to the door, she suddenly didn't want to leave.
She turned back and gave her Uncle a big hug—the tears finally spilling onto her cheeks. "I love you, Uncle Mer," she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
"I love you, too, short stuff." He hugged her tight.
She snorted. That little term of endearment had always been a point of quiet contention between them, but she would have been devastated if he'd actually ever stopped using it. "Uncle Mer," she sniffed. "I'm a whole head taller than you now."
"Only because you wear those Amazon woman shoes—Jesus, how do you even stand up in those things? Why don't you just get some stilts? You know, you could fall off those things and—"
She pulled back and smiled at him. "Honestly, you're worse than either Mom or Dad."
"Hmm," he hummed. "Say hi to them for me, will you—next time you talk to them?"
"Tell 'em yourself. Call 'em up why don't you?"
"Ah, your Mom's busy—"
"She's not too busy to talk to you. And if you won't come and stay with us, why don't you go stay with them for a while?"
"I'll think about it, okay, kiddo?"
She wrapped her arm around his neck again and pulled him close, held him. "You need a haircut, Uncle Mer," she said after a moment, fingering the back of his neck. "It's curling up back here."
"I like it," he mumbled into her neck. "It's the only part that still grows—I'm thinking of letting it—maybe go through a second childhood. You should have seen my hair back in the '80s."
"Ha! You've never left your first childhood," she teased. "And I've seen the pictures. Trust me, Uncle Mer—get a haircut."
He pulled back and looked at her, his smile gone. "You're a good Mom, Mads. Go home and be a good Mom. Don't worry about me."
"You're sure you're okay. I could stay—I just have to call—"
"No, no—you belong at home—with your family. I'm fine—just a little tired." He nodded and managed a small smile.
She threw her arms around him once more and kissed his cheek.
She waved once more from the car as she backed out of the driveway.
Rodney watches her leave, waves one last time. Closing the door, he goes back into the dining room and stares at the table, at the place set for John—the place where for nearly twenty-four years they'd shared their meals—where John read the newspaper—where they'd talked and shared their lives with friends and family.
He turns out the lights in the kitchen and crosses into the den. John's room. Just as John left it. Jeannie tried to get him to pack everything up, said he was only prolonging the inevitable, but he can't, he won't. He looks around—John's house—their house. He remembers how excited John had been at finding it, how he had tried to talk John out of buying it—until he realized John wanted it for them.
He leans against the doorframe. Love permeates every room. There isn't a space that doesn't have some memory attached to it—good and bad—Christmas trees in the front room, family dinners, the stairs where Madison fell and split her lip, arguments in the kitchen—and making up, the renovations to the attic room for Ferris and Cam, making love here in this room, with just the warm glow of the fire and soft music for accompaniment, as if they ever needed anything but each other. God, how John had loved this house—loved Rodney.
The house is different now—has been these past months. The rooms are cold, silent—the only laughter anymore is when Maddie visits, when she brings the boys over to stay for the weekend. But sometimes, Rodney still hears it—that wonderfully atrocious snorffle that passed for a laugh—a laugh that warmed the house every bit as well as the old wood stove.
He hears John's voice, too. Often just a whisper, other times right out loud like he's in the next room. Far from being frightening, some days it's the only reason Rodney gets out of bed.
In his own office, he calls up a few files on the computer—prints them, folds the pages neatly and slips them into envelopes. He seals them and walks back to the dining room where he places them on the table beside John's place setting. Switching off the lights and making sure the doors are locked tight, he heads for the stairs.
Upstairs, he performs his nightly routine. The same one he's done—alone—for the past ten months. No more fighting John for the bathroom or arguing about the temperature of the bedroom. Hell, he can even sleep with the window open if he has a mind to. But he doesn't. His bed—their bed—is always cold now; the warmth that used to fill the entire house is gone.
Rodney washes his face and cleans his teeth. There's no one around anymore to complain about the toothpaste tube, but Rodney squeezes it now the way John always asked him to. He sets his toothbrush back in the holder and fingers the one beside it. Silly, really, but it's something he just couldn't bear to get rid of. His mouth curves a little. When they'd first moved in, John made such a big deal about having their toothbrushes together in the same holder, in the same bathroom.
Everything that was different then—after Atlantis, after John resigned his commission—made them act like kids, deliriously happy over simple things—holding hands in public—kissing in front of their families—having their toothbrushes together in the same holder...
He closes the medicine cabinet and stares at his reflection, tries to smile—a thing that seems as foreign and forgotten as the Wraith.
He undresses and gets into bed, naked, the way he used to sleep with John. Taking a few more sips of water, he slips beneath the covers. The linens are cool against his skin. He stares at the ceiling. This room is the real test. The memories—the love, the sex, the occasional hurtful words, the apologies, the clinging, the tears—make Rodney ache until he feels he'll burst open from it. Turning on his side, he reaches out. "I still love you," he tells the empty space. "Miss you."
It's not that Rodney believes there's anything else—he doesn't believe John's waiting for him somewhere, somewhere he'll welcome Rodney with open arms. Most likely, John's consciousness, his soul if you will, is just a bit of cosmic energy. It's not that he thinks he can join John—he doesn't believe they'll continue life as it was here—loving—being happy. He might believe their consciousnesses will, on some level, be aware of the other, make some kind of connection—but that's as far as he's willing to step out on that limb.
No—it's just that he misses John so much, and he hasn't found a way to live without him—hasn't found a way to stop from hurting, from wanting, from needing. Everyone tells him time—time will heal him, time will take care of everything—but he doesn't believe that.
No, goddamnit, time only makes things worse—more time to walk the floors of this empty house—more time to walk the streets of a life without John in it. There will never be enough time, and he's tired—tired of waiting.
He draws John's pillow to him, clutching it as if it were John himself, burying his face in the mass of soft feathers that by some veiled miracle still harbors the faint scent of its owner. He closes his eyes—tired—so very tired.