A/N: Written for the Sheppard_HC holiday exchange over on LiveJournal... something sweet and simple.
He's hurting.
She can tell by the tension of his jaw, by how his 5 o'clock shadow ripples as teeth clench and muscles tighten. She can tell by the set of his shoulders. One is higher than the other because its elbow is pressed hard against his side. She sees the lock-kneed stiffness of his movements as he waves his men off the platform and hears the breathiness of his voice as he speaks words of praise and duty and pleasure in their performance on the other side of the Stargate. It has been a battle hard fought. John credits his men for the victory, but she sees that he has paid the higher price for it.
Ronon catches her eye. His eyes flick to John, then back. He sees it, too.
They both watch him carefully on the way to the infirmary. "It's routine," she says when John makes a half-hearted protest.
"You're banged up, Sheppard," Ronon adds. "Don't be stupid."
John is quiet after that. She draws closer, concerned, and hears a soft hitch in his breath – a tiny gasp of admitted pain that squeezes her heart.
She watches him, ever so coyly, as the dedicated medical staff checks him out. The list grows long: Cracked ribs. Bruises. Scrapes. He admits to wrenched muscles. She has to turn away when the layers of his clothing are peeled away to reveal seven long welts across his back, each one an angry puckered stripe bordered by bruise-blackened flesh. Carson's Gaelic curses of sympathy are nothing compared to the vicious oaths filling her mind.
John endures. His brow is a furrowed mask of determination and his terse replies are calm, respectful. But his jaw tightens, his posture stiffens, and his breath hitches ever-so-softly. He's still hurting.
He's worried. Or disturbed, or…afraid.
He's too quiet. She's seen John injured before. Seen him joke and chortle with the medics about stitches and monster movies. Today there's no laughter, no witty rejoinder to Carson's mutters.
He's too pale. His eyes are focused more on the memories in his mind than on the people and the room around him. He responds to questions, but there's a delay. As if there's screaming and shouting in his head that sounds must work their way through. During a brief moment alone, he scrubs his eyes with a weary hand and she sees the tremors that reach his shoulders before he chuffs out an angry breath and masters his body once again.
She's at the door of the infirmary when he leaves. "Take these when you get to your rooms, Colonel," Carson advises on the threshold and hands him a silver packet with two tablets. "They'll get you through the night and tomorrow you'll be able to make do with over-the-counter."
"Thanks, Carson," John whispers.
"Are you alright?" she asks once Carson has left them, equally softly. It's a dumb question, but it's not what she's really asking.
"Of course," he replies. He lifts his chin, arranges his face into a convincing expression of confidence. "I'll just wash up and crash for the night."
But she knows better. She sees the longing in his eyes that he's desperately trying to control. Sees the shudder that is threatening his shoulders again. Sudden daring overwhelms her.
"I'll help you to your room," she says and when his eyes go wide, she just ducks under his arm, wraps hers gently around his waist – careful to avoid the freshly taped ribs – and pulls him with her.
He's stiff for several yards, but as three painful steps turn into ten, she feels his weight settle on her shoulders, his chest rise and fall in fast pants against her cheek. When they stop in front of his door, his hands are clenched and his brow is a clammy sheen of sweat.
"Are you all right?" she asks again when he has to brace himself against the frame to lean for the swipe-bar.
"Of course," he replies. But, the words are faint. His breath is fast, almost panicky.
"I'll help you get settled," she says, the daring easier the 2nd time. She decides that she's really worried when he doesn't protest, just closes his eyes and gives a meek nod.
Inside, the room is dim and gloomy despite the flaming sunset blazing in the sky outside his window. It's almost as if the ambers and golds and violent reds are merely a painting that casts no true light into the shadows. John shuffles to the middle of the room, then simply stands with a vacant stare at his bed. She can almost feel his desire to fall onto the sheets and into the bliss of unconsciousness.
"I'll draw you a bath," she says. "I think you'll feel better once you're cleaned up." Her eyes are tracing the lines of grit pressed into the creases of his neck, the disturbing trickles of blood on his cracked lips. She darts to the bathroom and turns on every light she can find to fight the gloom. When the deep tub is filling with hot water and the room begins to feel warm and steamy, she returns to the living area to find him unmoved, still staring at his floor. His chest is rising and falling around deep gasping breaths. His hands are clenched.
"John," she whispers. "Are you…alright?" It's a stupid question, but it's not what she's asking. He nods. A tense jerk of defiance. "Come to the bath. Please…" She wants to wash away the dirt and the blood and the hurt.
He looks up as if startled, as if he's surprised she's there, then he nods again. He lifts his chin and pushes past her and she feels strangely disappointed when he closes the door. The water stops running soon after and there's a squeak of flesh against porcelain.
She should leave. He doesn't need a nurse or he'd be in the infirmary. She stays, though. In case he needs a friend. She stands awkwardly by the door. The other sitting places seem either like she is intruding or seems too intimate. The first groan that drifts from the bathroom flings her across the room to press her ear against the door. The second is followed by a squeak and a splash.
"John!" She raps on the door. There's no answer that she can hear. She calls again and pushes the door open before really waiting for an answer, half expecting to find him drowned, half expecting to find him sputtering in indignation.
"Oh, John…" she breathes instead.
He's sitting with his head drooped low over his knees, submerged to the taped ribs in soapy water (thank god for that). One hand clutches at the edge of the tub in a white-knuckled grip. The other is pressed over his face. His shoulders shudder and she can hear his teeth rattling as if he were freezing.
Deep concern wins over false modesty and she kneels beside the tub to lay a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder.
"Are you alright?"
"C…c..cold," he stutters. "C..can't get warm…"
"You're in shock, John." She thinks about calling Carson. But John would hate that. He would hate having strangers find him naked and wet and vulnerable.
Instead, she turns on the hot tap again and snatches for the thick washcloth she's set out for him. She swirls the soft fabric in the hot water, then lifts the sopping cloth over his shoulders. A gentle squeeze spills soothing liquid down his abused back, over his neck. Trickles drip off his collar bone to plop back into the bath. Long rivulets scurry down the sleek curves of his arms. She dips again, caressing him with water.
Slowly the shudders lessen, the fierce tension of his shoulders relaxes. The water becomes almost too hot to dip into, but John sighs in relief. With each dip of the cloth, she imagines the horror and the fear and the pain being washed away, washed off of his scarred and bruised body. It's all she can do to keep herself from touching him. She wants to run her hands through his damp hair and stroke his furrowed brow. She lets the water do it for her.
John finally takes a deep shuddering breath, this time of release. When she catches him shooting furtive glances, she stands up quickly and fusses with the towels, pointedly avoiding the tub.
"Go ahead and dry off," she babbles as she fumbles for the door. "Dry off and put something on to sleep in. I'll wait for you out…there."
She paces while she waits, not too close to the door to seem like she's hovering, but not so far that she won't hear a call for help. When the door opens, she's almost startled. He's dressed in soft grey sleep pants and an Air Force t-shirt. His hair is an unruly mop, but he looks clean, his skin still slightly pink from the hot water. The bruises and scars are hidden again.
"You're still here?" he breathes, sleepy and puzzled. She frowns, not sure if she's glad he's confused about what had just happened – or disappointed.
"You seemed like you might… I mean, I was a little worried about you. You alright?"
"I'm…" he begins, then slumps. "I don't know."
"Lie down," she soothes and gestures towards his bed. "I'll get the medicine Carson gave you."
She finds the tablets and a glass and fills it with water. When she returns, he's sitting on his bed, slumped over his knees. He takes the pills, gulps the water, his expression vacant and distant again.
"John?" She hesitates. She's already intruded far more than she ever thought she would. But she can't leave him, yet. "What happened? What is troubling you?"
He shudders, buries his face in his hands. "I keep seeing…her."
She feels a thrill of foreboding. "Her?"
"The girl. She couldn't have been more than thirteen-fourteen."
There was a long pause. "She was on 644? One of the villagers?"
"Yes…" John's breath hitched and then, suddenly, he continues in a breathless rush, his face still hidden. "I was forward scout, using the LSD to scan for and mark the homes where the bandits had holed up and separate them from the rest of the villagers. I looked in the window and saw them…playing with her."
She can't help the gasp of horror that escapes and John looks up, quickly.
"They hadn't hurt her, yet, but they were going to and I couldn't… I couldn't let them." His voice goes fierce, his eyes gleam with retribution. "I was supposed to mark three more homes, but I didn't. I went in early. I got the one messing around, but there were four others in the house and…they got me."
"The cane?" she whispers, the bruises on his back making more sense now. He shrugs.
"They were too busy beating me to mess with her for a while. My guys got us out before they tried again."
"John, you saved that girl from a horrible thing. What you did was amazing. You should be happy?" She doesn't really have the right word to end that sentence. He just shakes his head, presses his palms into his eyes as if trying to push out the vision.
"She was so scared," he says as if that explains everything. With a chuff of resignation, he flops backwards onto the bed, then winces and quickly rolls off his sore back with a haste that is almost comical if it wasn't so heartbreaking.
She stands for a long time, watching him slowly relax into his pillow, his chest slow into the deep breaths of sleep. Her
heart is racing. She fills her gaze with him and sees only a man who would throw himself between a violent thug and a scared girl. She reaches out, hesitates, pulls her hand back.
He hasn't asked her to be there. Hell, between shock and painkillers, he may not even remember she was there. The thought was both relief and bitter.
She leaves, her own face flushed, her own skin raised in goose-flesh from searing emotion. She finds she isn't surprised when Ronon pushed off the wall a few doors down.
"Is he resting?" Ronon demands. She blushes, though there isno accusation or innuendo in his tone.
"Yes. He was pretty out of it. Borderline shocky. Someone should check on him in the morning."
Ronon just jerks his head in agreement, accepting the task, then the big man slouches away down the hall, unconcerned.
She sees John the next afternoon. He's wearing civvies and she has to concentrate for a moment to steady her breath when he turns his sloppy, carefree smile her way.
"Good to see that you're taking it easy, today," she smiles and he ducks his head sheepishly. He's still stiff. She sees the creases of lingering discomfort around his eyes, but there's no hitch in his breath and his eyes sparkle with weary contentment.
"Carson gave me the day off."
"That seems wise."
"Or overprotective. The man's worse than my mother."
"A mother's wisdom brooks no argument."
John chuckles softly then turns away to resume his day.
"John?" she calls with a sudden daring and a flush of her cheeks. He turns, his face amused and puzzled and beautiful.
"Are you…alright?" she stammers. God, it's such a stupid question. But it's not what she's really asking.
To her great surprise, he turns back, steps close and – after a furtive look around to make sure no one's watching – he strokes her shoulder, a quick touch of gratitude and friendship, and then his hands are back in his pockets.
"I'm fine," he reassures and she sees that he's referring to more than his injuries. He's made peace with the horror, or progress at least. And there's something else – a thoughtfulness in his eyes, a quirk of the eyebrow that's calculating – that makes her suddenly, absolutely certain that he remembers every last detail of her visit last night.
"I'm really glad," she murmurs, and hopes he knows she means it in all the same ways that he does. She wants to say more. She wants to take him to his rooms and bathe away the lingering pain and not stop there. She wants to put herself in front of the stargate and keep him from leaving this place, so he won't get hurt again. But she can't. And she doesn't. There are other battles to fight and some of them might save another girl from a horrible fate.
He just nods and takes his leave, his expression turned inward, but not from horror.
She watches him go. Her gut twists. Her heart pounds and she knows it's going to be damn hard to be near him for a while. She might as well call it a day because she's distracted and won't get anything done, anyway.
She's hurting. And a bath won't fix it.
A bath started it.