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.ficlet: Another Drop of Salt - McKay/Sheppard (PG) 1.1
Another Drop of Salt, part of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dogeared's Nantucket AU, and so many thanks to her for letting me play in it, ~900 words.
(PS, Jenn: It's not really a continuity thing, but I kind of imagine this happening some time after "Fall.")
His hands don't shake as he pulls the epipen from Rodney's cargoes, and they don't shake as he yanks the cap off and thinks no way two drops of adrenaline can stop this. They stay steady when he braces a hand against Rodney's right thigh to still him, when he jams the autoinjector in and press press presses so flesh and fabric dimple under desperate force.
Calm, sure when he checks the indicator bar to make sure the dose has gone in and rubs the injection area to soothe it. Calm, sure as he wipes sweat from Rodney's forehead and rubs panic-tight shoulders and feels the quiver-and-jump of Rodney's body find an echo in his own.
You're okay, I got it, I've got you, he says, reaching for authority as though words can stop Rodney's shaking or bring down the angry red swelling in the crook of his arm.
They're tucked close together on top of two bags of mulch, John bracing Rodney upright, Rodney with his head bowed, all pain and concentration, fingers clenched in the fabric of his pants. And at last, at last, Rodney loosens against him, and the shivering now is fine, deep subterranean shuddering that races up and down Rodney's body.
"God, I hate bees," Rodney says at last, and shifts and coughs and wipes his runny nose on John's sleeve.
"Little bastards," John agrees, and if his voice breaks, it's only his own adrenaline making him a bit crazy. The pulse in Rodney's neck has slowed from his heart's trip-hammer pace, and the hives around the bee sting have faded. His eyes, when John can see them, are wet and glassy, a tear sticking to his eyelashes; when he blinks, it catches on his cheek and slides down, down his neck to his shirt collar, another drop of salt.
"We should get you to the hospital," John says when he's fairly sure Rodney has come back to him.
"I don't want to go to the hospital." The asthmatic rattle ruins the snap in Rodney's voice, making it small and tired. "I just... I want to go to bed."
"You know you have to go, and you might have a secondary reaction," John says. Biphasic. He's learned a lot of medical terminology since Rodney's been around. "We're going."
"No, I'm okay." Rodney presses the heels of both hands to his eyes, mouth pain-crooked. "Just... fuck. Headache."
"We're going," John tells him, and either he says it forcefully enough that Rodney gives up arguing, or else - and this is worse - Rodney can't argue anymore. The deep, panicked red of his face has faded into bloodlessness, but the pain holds tight in the corners of his eyes.
The afternoon passes: his own adrenaline, crunch of the Wagoneer's wheels on clamshell, the calm grey facade of Nantucket Cottage Hospital, the doctors, the taking away.
* * *
When they get home, John helps Rodney upstairs, fending off first an inquisitive Cash and then the cat. He races through collecting antihistamines, menthol rub, a glass of water, another blanket even though it's warm, it's summer, a peaceful day outside with the salt breeze and trying not to kill the roses.
His hands shake when he thinks of that heartbeat, the flicker between happiness and desperation, on the up beat Rodney complaining about his back, and on the down a whispered John and Rodney staring, marveling almost, at the bee stinger in his left arm.
A moment: he allows himself that, to stand in their bedroom doorway and look at Rodney who is curled in on himself, body braced against the pain it remembers and more than half-expects.
He reaches for authority again, making Rodney swallow his pills and chase them with enough water that Rodney starts to complain, but then he sees the look in John's eyes, and finishes the entire glass. His mouth is wet, lips bruised and torn from when he'd bitten down on them, and when John kisses him there's the faint salt taste of blood, an undertone of fear.
Mercifully, Rodney's eyes slide shut before John's hands start shaking again, and this time his entire body throbs with it. Adrenaline speaks a familiar language, Morse code tap tap tap of his heart, relaying along his nerves. He was once used to this, he thinks, but looking at Rodney, who is sturdy and permanent and indomitable, and who grips his pillow like it's the only thing keeping him alive... Yeah, that freaks him out more than a bit.
Relief is in moving, doing. John climbs into bed behind Rodney, opening the bottle of menthol rub as he goes. The scent stings his nostrils, his eyes, and seeps cold-hot into his fingertips when he rubs it in careful, deep circles over Rodney's temples.
Rodney tenses, soft breath of pain and surprise, it's cool, it's okay, relax, John tells him, and Rodney sighs and does.
He tries to rub in calmness and sleep in circular strokes, patterns and curves Rodney's equations can name. Circle and press, return, down Rodney's neck to his shoulders, the understated strength there that finally unravels into relaxation, into sleep and into deep, even breaths that make John shake again to hear.
Stays like that a while, circling over skin, hypnotized by flesh and the march of heartbeat and the up-down of Rodney's breathing until his body wants to match itself to that slow pace. Tired, the morning now a blur of coffee and beach roses and adrenaline, exhaustion the only clear thing now.
John stretches out alongside Rodney, forehead pressed to the back of his neck, one arm around him, and all of Rodney moves when he breathes, obstinate and cantankerous life, a reminder.
I've got you, he reminds Rodney, shaping the words where Rodney's neck is bare and vulnerable.
Drug-clumsy fingers close around John's own, and hold on tight.
-end-
edited: 06.10 in the interest of accuracy. Humble thanks tokorilian for pointing out the medical stuff :)
dogeared's Nantucket AU, and so many thanks to her for letting me play in it, ~900 words.(PS, Jenn: It's not really a continuity thing, but I kind of imagine this happening some time after "Fall.")
His hands don't shake as he pulls the epipen from Rodney's cargoes, and they don't shake as he yanks the cap off and thinks no way two drops of adrenaline can stop this. They stay steady when he braces a hand against Rodney's right thigh to still him, when he jams the autoinjector in and press press presses so flesh and fabric dimple under desperate force.
Calm, sure when he checks the indicator bar to make sure the dose has gone in and rubs the injection area to soothe it. Calm, sure as he wipes sweat from Rodney's forehead and rubs panic-tight shoulders and feels the quiver-and-jump of Rodney's body find an echo in his own.
You're okay, I got it, I've got you, he says, reaching for authority as though words can stop Rodney's shaking or bring down the angry red swelling in the crook of his arm.
They're tucked close together on top of two bags of mulch, John bracing Rodney upright, Rodney with his head bowed, all pain and concentration, fingers clenched in the fabric of his pants. And at last, at last, Rodney loosens against him, and the shivering now is fine, deep subterranean shuddering that races up and down Rodney's body.
"God, I hate bees," Rodney says at last, and shifts and coughs and wipes his runny nose on John's sleeve.
"Little bastards," John agrees, and if his voice breaks, it's only his own adrenaline making him a bit crazy. The pulse in Rodney's neck has slowed from his heart's trip-hammer pace, and the hives around the bee sting have faded. His eyes, when John can see them, are wet and glassy, a tear sticking to his eyelashes; when he blinks, it catches on his cheek and slides down, down his neck to his shirt collar, another drop of salt.
"We should get you to the hospital," John says when he's fairly sure Rodney has come back to him.
"I don't want to go to the hospital." The asthmatic rattle ruins the snap in Rodney's voice, making it small and tired. "I just... I want to go to bed."
"You know you have to go, and you might have a secondary reaction," John says. Biphasic. He's learned a lot of medical terminology since Rodney's been around. "We're going."
"No, I'm okay." Rodney presses the heels of both hands to his eyes, mouth pain-crooked. "Just... fuck. Headache."
"We're going," John tells him, and either he says it forcefully enough that Rodney gives up arguing, or else - and this is worse - Rodney can't argue anymore. The deep, panicked red of his face has faded into bloodlessness, but the pain holds tight in the corners of his eyes.
The afternoon passes: his own adrenaline, crunch of the Wagoneer's wheels on clamshell, the calm grey facade of Nantucket Cottage Hospital, the doctors, the taking away.
When they get home, John helps Rodney upstairs, fending off first an inquisitive Cash and then the cat. He races through collecting antihistamines, menthol rub, a glass of water, another blanket even though it's warm, it's summer, a peaceful day outside with the salt breeze and trying not to kill the roses.
His hands shake when he thinks of that heartbeat, the flicker between happiness and desperation, on the up beat Rodney complaining about his back, and on the down a whispered John and Rodney staring, marveling almost, at the bee stinger in his left arm.
A moment: he allows himself that, to stand in their bedroom doorway and look at Rodney who is curled in on himself, body braced against the pain it remembers and more than half-expects.
He reaches for authority again, making Rodney swallow his pills and chase them with enough water that Rodney starts to complain, but then he sees the look in John's eyes, and finishes the entire glass. His mouth is wet, lips bruised and torn from when he'd bitten down on them, and when John kisses him there's the faint salt taste of blood, an undertone of fear.
Mercifully, Rodney's eyes slide shut before John's hands start shaking again, and this time his entire body throbs with it. Adrenaline speaks a familiar language, Morse code tap tap tap of his heart, relaying along his nerves. He was once used to this, he thinks, but looking at Rodney, who is sturdy and permanent and indomitable, and who grips his pillow like it's the only thing keeping him alive... Yeah, that freaks him out more than a bit.
Relief is in moving, doing. John climbs into bed behind Rodney, opening the bottle of menthol rub as he goes. The scent stings his nostrils, his eyes, and seeps cold-hot into his fingertips when he rubs it in careful, deep circles over Rodney's temples.
Rodney tenses, soft breath of pain and surprise, it's cool, it's okay, relax, John tells him, and Rodney sighs and does.
He tries to rub in calmness and sleep in circular strokes, patterns and curves Rodney's equations can name. Circle and press, return, down Rodney's neck to his shoulders, the understated strength there that finally unravels into relaxation, into sleep and into deep, even breaths that make John shake again to hear.
Stays like that a while, circling over skin, hypnotized by flesh and the march of heartbeat and the up-down of Rodney's breathing until his body wants to match itself to that slow pace. Tired, the morning now a blur of coffee and beach roses and adrenaline, exhaustion the only clear thing now.
John stretches out alongside Rodney, forehead pressed to the back of his neck, one arm around him, and all of Rodney moves when he breathes, obstinate and cantankerous life, a reminder.
I've got you, he reminds Rodney, shaping the words where Rodney's neck is bare and vulnerable.
Drug-clumsy fingers close around John's own, and hold on tight.
-end-
edited: 06.10 in the interest of accuracy. Humble thanks to
korilian for pointing out the medical stuff :)![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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