(prequel to can't tell you, but I know it's mine.
A huge thank you to kimberlyfdr, for taking the time to beta-read for me!)
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Eight nacre rings
I.
John is on his second beer, letting his legs dangle comfortably above water and listening to Rodney detail the ventures of his day. He's currently on the "gigantic clusterfuck" that was Dr Saunders' math this afternoon and how Rodney's and Zelenka's "feats of brilliance" had them fix the mangled calculations in the space of two heartbeats.
It's one of John's favorite ways to end his day; with Rodney confident and happy beside him despite the derogatory words. It's one of the few things in his life that says warm and alive and safe, which is why there's no conscious thought involved when he captures Rodney's left hand, breaks off the tab of his half-finished can of Coors, and decorates one of Rodney's fingers with it.
The flow of words cuts off abruptly. Multitudes of brilliant thoughts, constantly flashing behinds those blue eyes, come screeching to a halt, all of the man's intense focus narrowed down to the makeshift ring and the hand with which John is still holding his wrist.
"What are you..." Rodney tries, making John tighten his grip, amazed that the simple – simple! Ha! - gesture has actually stolen Rodney's words, "What are you doing?"
Something about the tone makes John's own hand start to tremble, causing him to realize that maybe this is even less simple than he thought. Not-thought. Just as he's about to give in to the burgeoning urge to get away, Rodney moves lightning-fast and brings his other palm down on the back of John's wrist-holding hand, trapping both it and John in place. It feels warm and reassuring against him when Rodney starts flexing his fingers a bit, a stunned look on his face.
They both stare at the fading daylight glinting off the cheap metal. The shape doesn't fit Rodney's ring finger at all, and the aluminum must bite uncomfortably into the skin. Yet Rodney doesn't complain, and he doesn't look distressed by what John --
what John --
what John meant by slipping a ring on Rodney's finger.
"Yes," he says, fierce and sure, forcing a hysterical cough from John's lungs. Calming breaths take a long while to come, and when they do, John holds on to Rodney's wrist even tighter, anchoring himself to it as he stares at the insane pile of hands, cannot look at Rodney's face, and croaks out,
"Yes?"
"Yes," Rodney repeats, with the same certainty in his voice with which a fully-charged ZPM makes the shield sing, "although I expect you to find me something in a non-conductive material, because this thing would get me killed at work in less then two minutes."
The laugh that escapes John sounds worlds better to his own ears than that first, helpless huff, less I hope I can get us out of here alive and more Yeah, I can fly this thing.
"And I want," Rodney says, proving to John and the New Lantean night that there is no braver genius than Rodney McKay, "I mean, you too. Uhm. And until I find something, you could take, uhm, this?" And without fully letting go of John's hand, which still might run and hide if he were to relax his hold even a bit, he fumbles for his own empty can of beer and breaks off the tab, smiling as John's ring finger perks up on its own accord, eagerly awaiting a near-perfect fit.
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II.
"This is your surprise?" is all John manages to choke out, all thoughts about dinner and wine fleeing his head, all his attention on the two rings in Rodney's outstretched palm. The pulse beneath the skin of Rodney's wrist is pounding furiously; tiny rivers of sweat are forming in the lifelines underneath them. Yet the arm offering it all up toward John is as steady as Rodney's voice when he says,
"Yeah, this is it. This is my surprise."
John needs to confirm that the expression matches the warmth in Rodney's words, but he can't seem to look up, mesmerized by the sight of the rings. He reaches out a finger, hesitantly, and traces the smooth edge of the ring closest to him, just barely not snatching his hand away when he comes into contact with Rodney's skin.
"They're beautiful," he whispers, and doesn't care one bit how the statement might sound to any outside ears. They are beautiful, there is no other word, fragments of ocean and rose colors reflected out of silver whiteness. He fleetingly fights a ghost of his father's voice asserting that he should be the one to propose, but Rodney brought two rings, is looking to commit himself every bit as much as he's asking John to, and it's not a demand or following through with something that's expected. The little shapes speak to him, more than the white gold of his and Nancy's wedding bands ever did.
Cautiously, as if the thin material might break at his touch, he selects the slightly slimmer ring and picks it up. He holds it before his face between two fingers, appreciating the feel of it, and eventually brings it up close and squints through the tiny circle, finally looking up to find Rodney gazing down at him.
Is this what you want,, he wants to ask, Do you know what you're getting into? Me? Really? But the questions are obsolete, because Rodney is clearly past questioning this thing between them, and John is well past questioning Rodney's genius.
If anyone knows what committing to John Sheppard entails, Rodney does.
"I never had any luck with these," Rodney admits when apparently the silence has stretched out too long, betraying nervousness for the first time since he reached into his jacket pocket. John's chest goes tight at the memory of two other rings and six years of uncertainty and longing.
The first one, for Katie, was made out of sturdy silver, the diamond just that tiny fraction too small. The second one, for Jennifer, a white gold band with a simple diamond square, breaking John's heart with its love.
"Third time's the charm," he tells Rodney hoarsely, before slipping the ring onto his finger and securing the other on Rodney's. He doesn't let go of Rodney's hand for a long time.
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III.
John Sheppard has flown countless missions toward his supposed certain death. He has faced more Wraith queens than he likes to think about, and more human enemies than a single person should have. Moreover, he has somehow kept his career despite a growing number of brass meetings requiring his presence.
His hands are shaking as he sets the lunch tray down on the table in front of Rodney McKay. He knows that his face must be an awkward mess of blotchy red, and he wonders, once again, what demon possessed him to attempt this in the middle of the mess.
To prevent him from chickening out. Right.
"Oh, good," Rodney says, putting aside his tablet to get a look at the food collection John brought him, "I'm telling you, I'm starving."
"You're always starving," John manages when Rodney grabs one of Sergeant Markovitz' cinnamon buns, utterly oblivious.
The extra plate with the rings is directly next to the coffee. There's no way Rodney won't see it.
"Hey, do you know why they always put powdered sugar on these things?" Rodney asks in a slightly peeved tone, mouth still half full, munching away. "It's a damn hazard to the equipment, which is just plain bad --"
There.
John feels the blood swirl wildly underneath his face as Rodney trails off and just stares. There's a small, pitiful sound as Rodney swallows the last of his cinnamon bun, and the blood roaring in John's ears, but that is all.
Behind them, Lieutenant Cavelos is asking Captain Jager for a bottle of water, and at the next table Dr Saunders is retelling for the hundredth time the story of his futile second year attempt to get Dr Kusanagi to use a fork, dodging the napkin Miko throws at him.
There are more people in the background, but John couldn't care less whether or not they all were to stare at him. Heart in his throat, he is watching Rodney, completely frozen to his chair. He tries not to flinch when Rodney looks up, and damn, why won't Rodney just say something? But no, Rodney simply studies John's face for a long minute, the vaguely curious look in his eyes not half as intense as John feels the situation warrants.
No word has been spoken at their table when Rodney reaches out, takes up the ring that is slightly wider than the other, and calmly slips it onto his finger. John feels mesmerized as Rodney then uses the ringed hand to pick up his cup of coffee, takes a sip, and helps himself to a bowl of pudding. Every nerve in his body feels wound up tight, held in intolerable suspension, until he's jolted out of it by Rodney nudging the plate with the second ring across the table with the words
"...want one?"
John couldn't possibly guess what color his face is when he croaks out, "Yeah," takes the other ring off the plate and slips it over his finger joints, the slight one, the slightly broader one. His head feels lighter than is healthy by far, but that might also be because he skipped breakfast and still hasn't eaten anything. He takes a deep, relieved, calming breath and reaches for the sandwich Sergeant Markovitz prepared for him.
Across the table, Rodney's grin is blinding.
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IV.
John is lying on top of his blanket, listening to the sound of Rodney's pen scratching against his notebook, too warm and comfortable himself for another attempt at War and Peace. He's just about to close his eyes when Rodney reaches over, lifts John's right hand off the bedding, and ties a band of frayed, twirled-together paper around a finger.
The warm contentment flushing John's body extends all the way down to his toenails as he crooks his finger experimentally. He waits for Rodney to settle down next to him, then plants a soft kiss on the side of his nose. "I can't wear a gold ring for you," he says, willing Rodney to hear the meaning behind the words.
"What about silver," Rodney says, finding the correct answer unerringly, "or... did you know there are at least sixteen alloys in the data base that no-one on Earth even knows?"
"It couldn't be a metal, though," John murmurs, wriggling to position his head on Rodney's chest and hold up his hand so they can both look at the sliver of grayish white. "Not even naquadah. Too specific."
"It would have to be something that wouldn't automatically make them think of wedding rings," Rodney concedes. There is no need to point out to whom the 'them' refers.
"Something tied to the expedition," John muses, and maybe he should be terrified of what they're discussing, but the longer he feels the slim papery ring around his finger, the more he realizes he wants it.
"Something we could explain," Rodney agrees, letting a feather-touch fingertip trail over a digit. "Something that wouldn't be too far off as a Pegasus custom." He stops caressing John's hand as they both think of various Pegasus customs. Then, firmly, "I'm not carving you a ring out of bones."
"Tree would be strong, but too bland," John confers, urging Rodney to resume stroking. "Those carving patterns the people on MX5-342 showed us looked remarkable, but..."
"...but more like something Kanaan should give to Teyla, or maybe she to him," Rodney says. Watching John's face, knowing he's right, he adds, "It should be something that says Atlantis."
"...without letting random people we don't want to know too much identify it," John hedges.
Rodney makes a frustrated sound, which is not what John wants to hear in this bed, not in this context, not in this moment. So he leans up, ignoring what color his face goes when he tries to get the words out, "I really love this ring," and kisses Rodney, I love you and So glad you'll have me and I wish everyone could see.
This is what he needs, to have Rodney here in his home surrounded by ocean, and when he draws back for air, he stays hovering right there above Rodney's face, and is just about to name it when Rodney whispers, breathlessly, "Nacre."
"Yeah," John smiles, ducking down to kiss-peck Rodney again, "nacre."
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