Gratitude
by Jules
It started about a week after the Genii tried to take the city. Details of the attempted takeover were withheld from the general populace, but Atlantis was like a small town. People talked, news got around. And the gifts began to appear. Small things left beside the door to his room. Piled on the corner of his usual table in the mess, or the desk he hardly ever used. He's been the subject of the ritual a few times since. His favorite offering so far is the Ka-Bar he got from Ford, pressed into his hands with a quiet "thank you, sir". He doesn't take it out in the field, anymore. He's afraid he'll lose it.
John has no idea how it all started, and the whole thing makes him uncomfortable as hell. But he accepts gracefully even as he hopes that whatever he did, he doesn't have to do it again anytime soon.
This time is different. This time the gifts are as much apology as thanks and he's the only one not embarrassed. He's not smug about it. Mostly. He keeps his head down. Pretends to be paying too much attention to what's on his tray to notice the fly-bys of his table. They leave behind mostly junk food. He chuckles to himself. Saving the day's going to go straight to his ass.
It only fell to him because he had a head full of concrete that made him cranky and let him stay Not Nuts when everyone else lost their damn minds. No heroics involved. A minimum of violence. On his part, anyway. He glances across the mess. Watches Ronon go through the line and make the "keep it coming" gesture more than once.
I never make them do anything they didn't want to do.
Bullshit. He's sure of it. Either that or his team's been harboring a secret desire to beat the crap out of him. Beckett helped curb their enthusiasm when they stopped thinking of John as misguided and decided he was the enemy. Still, they hadn't been gentle.
Whiner.
He thinks about asking. But then they might actually tell him. And asking would mean talking about things. Something he's been meticulously avoiding since long before he came to Atlantis. Let it slide. Water off a duck's back and all that crap. No shrinks, no group therapy, no finding "someone who understands". Just…no. Except things aren't rolling off and instead he's dragging them along in his wake and if he thinks too hard about them, they start to drag him under.
Boating metaphors? Who the fuck are you
They turned on him. All of them. The whole expedition, his own team. And Rodney, Jesus…Rodney turned on him fast. Worse.
Thinking. too. hard.
Teyla sets a small object wrapped in yellow plastic on the table and sits down beside him. John flashes her a smile and gets a tight-lipped one in return. He hasn't teased her. Much. Unlike most everyone else, she hasn't settled for exchanging guilty glances and otherwise doing her best to ignore what happened. She apologized for the manhandling and the kicking in places both soft and crunchy and she didn't seem the least bit surprised when he'd smiled at her and shrugged the whole thing off. The surprise would be if she actually bought it.
He glances at the offering and wonders how the hell she got her hands on a Flake bar. He should tell her to keep it. A gift for talking him out of homicide.
He spots Rodney drifting their way. Teyla must see him, too, because she puts a hand over John's silverware and eyes him warily. McKay comes within a few yards of them before he slows and looks hopefully in their direction. Closer than he's gotten yet. Though, John notices, still out of arm's reach.
"I have a gun, McKay."
He stares. He pouts He gets the picture. "Right. Moving on."
Ronon glares after him. Drops into a seat on the other side of the table and gives a quick nod as he pushes escaping food back onto his tray with his fingers.
"Is there anything left up there?"
"Some."
John risks drawing back a stump and snatches a cookie off Ronon's tray.
"You shot me." He takes a bite and talks through a mouthful. "You owe me a cookie."
The big guy just watches it go and sighs. His eyes flash briefly with something John can't identify and isn't sure he wants to. Then it's gone and Ronon scowls good-naturedly, as only he can.
"Keep that up and it might be worth the price."
They smirk at each other across the table and John feels stupid for wondering. If the man really wanted to beat the snot out of him, he'd probably just do it. Hell, he has done it. So has Teyla. All with the implied permission granted by his being in the gym and uttering the magic words "Okay, I'll give it a shot". Outstanding idea, filling his team with people who can beat him like a rented mule.
"Do you plan to forgive him?" Teyla's expression says she doesn't care one way or the other, but he knows better. She's reasonable in a way few people are. Right now, he doesn't feel like being one of those people.
"Not anytime soon."
She nods thoughtfully and goes back to her food. John stuffs the rest of the cookie into his mouth and watches her very carefully not watching him.
Finally: "What?"
"You have every right to be angry."
But…here it comes…
"Yes, I do."
"But--"
Ah ha!
"—this cannot continue forever."
"Watch me."
"Doctor McKay has apologized many times."
He glances at Ronon. Help.
"Don't look at me. I'd have thrown him off a balcony already."
"See?" John stands, picks the offerings off the table and tucks them in his pockets. "I gotta…do work things."
He walks past McKay's table on his way out. Bumps the back of his chair and watches him jump. Juvenile, sure. But it makes him feel better. He drops his tray in the bin by the door. Wanders toward his room no particular hurry, noting the way people either smile too brightly or swerve to avoid him altogether. John rounds the corner. Spots another pile of stuff gathered outside his door. One thing stands out…He picks it up. A box with a picture of a familiar pair of guys who wear their underwear on the outside. He slides a thinner box out of it and breaks into a lopsided grin at the big green KAPOW! on the back.
"That's just not fair."