Title: And a Wound That Will Never Heal
Rating: PG (some language)
Characters: John and Rodney
Genre: Fluff, comfort fic
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything affiliated with Stargate Atlantis, Apple products, nor either song used. Possible John/Rodney, but only as much as the show gives us.
It's raining outside and John's lying in bed half covered in blankets, listening to his iPod, music pumped directly into his ears. The French horns and trombones send deep shivers down his spine and the beats of the timpani makes the edges of his vision jump accordingly.
Of course that's when Rodney finds him, one hand in his boxers resting against his hipbone.
"Did you see- Oh my god, my eyes!" He moves into the room noticing the iPod earbuds and John's closed eyes. He sneaks up slowly, yanking the left earbud out of the appropriate ear and holding it near his own.
It says something to either John's training or the amount of time he spends with Rodney that all he does is crack open an eye and scowl irritably. "Damn it McKay, I was listening to that."
"You were? Seriously?" Rodney listens gleefully.
"No, I just said that to mess with you. Yes, seriously. Now hand it over and get out of here." John holds out a hand, not expecting Rodney to hand anything over.
"Well, Copland has his faults, but for you, I'm surprised. Fanfare for the Common Man's one of his better works." Rodney sits on the bed, still listening.
"Yes I know. That's why I was listening to it. Is there something I could help you with?" John removes his hand from his boxers and stretches languorously, only stopping when nearly every major joint has popped.
"Jesus, you're going to give yourself arthritis doing that."
"So glad you care. …Why are you still here?" But Rodney has gone still, eyes fixed on a spot across the room. "Rodney?"
Belatedly, John realizes the song has changed and the opening chords of Tom Traubert's Blues fill one ear. "Rodney, buddy, talk to me."
Rodney blinks slowly, still stuck somewhere in the past. "My dad used to play this when he thought no one was listening. I never understood it. Not then." His words are quiet, reverent and totally opposite Rodney's usual demeanor.
John can almost see the little boy, brilliant but shunned by his peers, peeking through the stair railings while his father sings out despair and depression and loss. Rodney turns to him.
"I get it now. It's melancholy."
John nods and moves over on the small bed. Rodney slides next to him, no extra drama or superfluous movements and the piano counts away the time like a defective metronome, speeding up and slowing down and wrapping around their lives.