As always Angela, your comments are insightful and priceless
Valley
The day started with John standing at the end of the row, back straight, eyes on the horizon, listening to an abrasive man making him relive his basic training via lots of yelling and a chaffing uniform.
He's the new guy and feels it; he gets the dirty looks and eventually the 'being picked last for training exercises' experience. Luckily, all the dreadful planets he has visited, filled with aggressive and untrusting populations, have increased his reflexes tenfold. He goes through many partners in the course of the day, but the last one –there is no way to describe it with even a modicum of correctness– kicks his ass from here to Timbuktu, and that is quite a way to go from this galaxy.
He understands he is being tested, that this is not training but threat evaluation. This man has no finesse, no true skills. He is massively, sun-blockingly large and fills all the space in the immediate vicinity. As much as he tries, John cannot quite evade each of his attacks, nor does he truly try. He doesn't want to show himself as skilled, doesn't want to be perceived as a real threat. Teyla has taught him well, he could do much against this man, or he could have, at first. He has been hit repeatedly in the same areas: the torso, the arms, the legs and the head, once, to name but a few. He is weakening; his legs are ready to give in and drop him where he stands, his ribs are beyond bruised, his left shoulder is slowly moving away from his torso…at least that is what it feels like. High threshold for pain? Not so much. Stupid proud streak a mile wide? Oh yeah, definitely.
Therefore, it is of no surprise to him that at the end of his first day as a SSA, slave for the safety of Atlantis as Rodney thinks is humorous in his twisted humongous mind, he is left in the middle of the field, battered and bruised, bloodied and muddied, getting thoroughly drenched by the heavy rain. What a miserable day! Even the Academy was never this harsh, he thinks. For a moment, he curses the day he was born, the day he decided to join the Air Force rather than rely on his inheritance for his education, the day he met a genius in bright orange fleece clothing. Ah yes, Rodney. He should get home.
Attempting to stand is not as successful as he might have envisioned, but he perseveres and eventually reaches his goal. He concentrates on putting one foot before the other, keeping upright and not vomiting his internal organs. So far so good!
"Ok, maybe…what? A hundred metres from here to the building? Twenty more to the room. A hundred and twenty metres, that's not so bad!" He encourages himself, under the amused gaze of the Lopstack in charge of…well…him; or possibly the stragglers, as he is abandoned at the door to the high-rise, again one of Rodney's lack of creativity, where another man watches his progress with a smirk. He did not take the stairs into account but now he must, as he is facing the long ascent. How many steps? He does not remember. Fifty, perhaps sixty. At number forty-five he wants to give up, but yelling for help is not an option, see width of proud streak for reference. Finally, finally, finally, he makes it to his door, their door. He hears noise coming from inside; Rodney is back.
"What happened to you!" Rodney takes in John's appearance and hurries to help him to his cot. John rests a vast portion of his weight on Rodney's frame, grateful for his sturdiness.
They walk the few steps that separate the door from his cot and he flops on his back, hitting his head against the metallic wall. "Son of a bitch!" John's hand comes up to stroke the back of his head.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry. You just…went boneless, a little. Are you ok?"
"Fine, can't even feel it."
"Oh…" Rodney looks confused. "I'm not sure if that's good or bad?"
"From where I'm definitely not standing, it's in the first column."
"Right." Rodney stands, wringing his hands, eyes roaming over John's filthy form. "Right…ok, yes." He seems to snap back into functioning mode and walks away, keeping a running commentary. "You might want to clean up? Yeah? I mean, all that mud? It can't be good and I won't be able to help you much if I can't see where you're hurt, right? Not that we have anything to work with here, but maybe…if you're getting mud into wounds?" He turns, eyes wide. "You're not wounded are you?" His hands dance across the air in a dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes, well of course you're wounded, but not flesh wounds kind of wounded, are you?"
"I don't think so. Not really, a few cuts and skin has definitely given in to the pressure in some spots, but nothing serious."
"Good, that's good, very good. That is, if you're telling the truth?"
John gives him the look, the one that puts fear in the hearts of military and scientists alike. It never works on this particular one.
"Oh please, I know your tricks, Mister No Pain No Gain, if I ain't hurt it ain't any fun!"
"I don't say ain't!"
"Not the point here, John." Rodney puts the kettle on what they supposed is the stove and goes to fetch a washcloth. He suddenly reappears, biting lip and worried frown interrupting John's ceiling gazing. "Can you sit up? It would be a good idea to get you out of your clothes. You're wet and drippy and you smell like…I don't know really…" he lowers his face closer to John and sniffs.
"Rodney. Personal space breech."
He snaps back. "Yes, well, you stink."
"Thanks. You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself."
"Not my job." Rodney gives a little shrug, already too busy with his plan, which is apparently to hurt John even more.
"Ow! Stop it!"
"What are you, a ragdoll? Help yourself a bit!"
"Help thyself and Heaven will help thee?"
Rodney's face registers surprise, before he grins smugly. "Why, yes my Child, this heavenly presence will lower himself and reach out to you."
"I'm honoured, but I'm sure that's not what the guy meant."
"You disgust me. You know the quote but not the quotee?" Keeping the conversation going is a good way to distract both John and himself from the task at hand. Undressing an injured Lieutenant Colonel was never on his list of top ten favourite things to do after being traded into slavery to moronic, and obviously aggressive, cosmetically-named people. Not that he has such a list, but if he had, it would not make it.
"Hey, listen, I tend to keep space in my brain for the practical things in life. You know, bringing a canteen that actually contains water; getting the laundry done before I have no more clean clothes; reloading when out of ammo; not eating whatever's left on Zelenka's desk from four days ago…useful stuff."
"Oh shut up! I'm far too busy to pay attention to these things. In truth, it's a waste of my incredibly advanced intellect. You think the Asgard think about ammo and laundry?"
"They have no clothes and no guns!"
Rodney pays the interruption no mind. "No, and since I'm obviously superior, I think people," he gives John a pointed look, "should cut me some slack. Especially people who keep, and I quote, space in their brain."
"Fine, here's me cutting you some slack. Now will you cut me some and try not to rip my foot off! There are laces on those boots Rodney, can you please undo them!" It is not a blow to his manhood to have his friend untie his laces, not at all. They will never speak of it again, under threat of death, but he does not feel diminished in the slightest. He could do it, of course, but when he reaches for them, Rodney bats his hands away. He tries once more. "Move! Let me do it! Ow! I'll do it!"
"Stop complaining!" Rodney puts the soggy, muddy, filthy boots beside the door and takes the kettle off the stove. He fills their reasonably sized basin with a pitiful amount of water and repeats the process a few times before it is sufficiently filled for the water to at least reach John's calves.
"We'll never think of this again, deal?"
"Deal, definitely deal."
John is sitting by the basin, both feet comfortably warm, the rest of him shivering, as Rodney runs the washcloth over his mud and blood caked skin. He has kept his shorts, he does have a sense of modesty after all, but the rest of him is fair game apparently. Not that Rodney seems to be enjoying the process at all, and is that not the mark of a good man indeed, to sacrifice your fear of 'touching' for an injured friend? John doesn't bother exploring why he doesn't care more about this situation. He should be intensely uncomfortable, he doesn't like his private space invaded, but this is Rodney. Rodney. So he allows himself to be washed, for his cuts to be, if not treated, at least looked at and liberally bandaged. He evens keeps his complaints of shoddy services to a minimum.
Rodney keeps talking to mask his worry. John's injuries do not appear to be severe, but they are numerous. If there is something that he truly despises, it is seeing any member of his team hurt. He startles as he thinks of Teyla, Ronon and Ford, abandoning him, abandoning John. He knew he would never be well-liked by everyone, it is a fact of life he has no trouble believing, but he thought perhaps his team had come to understand him, to even like him somehow. He sighs and returns his thoughts to the task at hand. When John has been thoroughly checked for wounds and possible breaks, Rodney helps him into his nightclothes then into bed, with a promise of dinner, and reprises his role of motor mouth extraordinaire.
"Then, the complete moron who oversees the place stuck me with an even bigger moron and it was all I could do not to staple him to the wall so he would stop following me around!"
"They have staples?"
Rodney turns, frowning. "What?" Replaying John's statement, he shakes his head. "No, they don't have staples. It's an image, I'm trying to make a point! There you go, quoting a man who wrote French poetry and not even able to recognise the slightest figure of speech!"
"Oh…yeah, because they don't have much here, I was surprised." He cannot help the grin and Rodney makes a displeased face when he realises he is being mocked.
"They do have a lot of Ancient devices! You should see it! Rows and rows of them! They've barely begun cataloguing them, of course, they don't really know how to make them work, mostly get lucky with the ones that only need activation and not much thought process at all! They have one, this is really exciting, I think I read about it in the database back home and if it is what I think it is, which is quite likely, it can read minds! Can you believe that? Read minds! I'm not much for ESP and that pitiful excuse for a science that is the psyche world, but an Ancient device that allows you to read minds! That'd be amazing wouldn't it?"
That is what John likes about Rodney. He can get so excited about things which interest him, enough to forget any bad situation in which they find themselves. Granted, sometimes, on missions, it can be quite problematic, but now, he loves it. As he watches with droopy eyes Rodney move about the kitchen portion of their room, John is glad he stayed with him. Despite the injuries, despite the enslavement, despite anything that might come to be, he cannot regret his choice. Leaving Rodney behind was never an option.
"Yeah, and when I get it to work, I might be able to examine it, since hey," he turns to John, eyes alight, index finger of the right hand pointed up, "they told me to bring that one home so I could keep working on it, maybe I can bring it here and we can try it out?" He frowns. "Not that I want you to read my mind or anything."
"Same here." John looks at the device lying on the table. It glows blue, but does not seem threatening. He supposes he can trust Rodney not to blow them up, change their hair colour, start a cacophony of loud noises, or make them speak in tongues for the better part of an hour.
"I suppose not. Still, it's interesting! Maybe I can read their minds and figure out what they want from us, or better yet, it they would really attack Atlantis! I really don't think they have the capabilities, but it isn't an acceptable risk until we know. But if they don't, we could go back home, couldn't we? I'm sure we could come up with a plan and…" He stops talking, moving, smiling. He stands near the oven, heating some stew which was in their food allotment hamper for the day, still and silent.
"Rodney?" John can only see his back, but the slump of his shoulders is telling enough, when coupled with the sudden lack of babbling.
"We're stuck here."
"No we're not. They're going to send a rescue team."
Rodney's silence lengthens before he shakes himself out of his stupor. "Yeah…of course, you're right. What are they going to do without me, eh? The science team could sink the city within the week, by accident. Oh, and your men would probably resort to their primitive state and shoot themselves accidentally. Here, dinner's ready."
They eat, sitting side by side on the cot, talking about this and that, nothing of consequences. They do not say what is on their minds. John does not say he fears they might believe Atlantis could fall to the Lopstack and leave them here. Elizabeth is conservative, less now than she was, but she would not jeopardise the city's security for two men. He wouldn't either, but of course were he in Atlantis, he would not think the city in danger. Neither does Rodney say that he is glad John stayed with him, for were he alone he would certainly let his mind drift down the path of self-persecution. Sometimes, Rodney truly hates himself and his social inadequacies, and if John was not here, he would probably believe he had been left behind because he was unworthy.