title: McKay's Symphony of Two In Ten

author: M.

rating: r

pairing: Sheppard/McKay

category: AU

disclaimer: not my show, not my characters. author's note: for the livejournal community stargateanon. my thanks to forcryinoutloud who was both beta and handholder, without you this story would not be.

"A man's dreams are an index to his greatness." - Zadok Rabinwitz

"You think it's supposed to make sense; that everything's gotta fit and have a place, but it doesn't."

The music's there tonight, connection's open and flowing and he's a willing conduit for the song. Rodney's only too happy to close his eyes and let the noises pass through him, out to the listening audience where it can envelope and draw them in. For him, music is not merely the auditory experience everyone proclaims it to be and it's his mission to prove how simplistic and under fed the musical world currently is.

Music is so far beyond any description as base as that, it's a sensory smorgasbord that's so unparalleled as to be untouchable. He dives into, more than surrenders to, the seductive siren call of the ivory keys sliding beneath his fingertips. Tonight the piano is lover/partner/friend and easily gives voice to the musical story that they're trying to tell together.

This is the night that he and every musician dreams of, the night where the music transcends the environment and a wooden stage transforms to take on a magical air.

The lights, hot and merciless, become the comforting warmth of the sun, the hard seat beneath him transforms into a sun-heated rock, and he's not in a crowded concert hall but in Stanley Park with music all around him, people at his feet. It's a wave that lifts and buoys him up to ride the currents of the song and he scarcely hears the approving roar of the crowd when he hits that note. He just looks for John's grin.

"You drive me crazy, you know? You're supposed to be a walking stereotype, not a fucking pain in my ass..."

It's the middle of July in Ottawa, Rodney's on tour and it's the hottest week of the year and he thinks he should send President Bush a thank you note. The hotter it gets, the less John wears and there will never be a day that John wearing less is a bad thing. The only bad thing about it all is that it makes for humidity and he's no fan of being sweaty, not the kind of sticky sweat that comes with it being so hot clothes rub raw on your skin, everything clings to everything, and even moving is an effort. Too much of an effort to be worth much of anything, he doesn't like that kind of sweating. That's unjustifiable sweat, now justifiable sweat is a whole different ball of wax and he's more than willing to get sweaty that way every chance they get.

He's currently enjoying the hell out of being both sweaty and sticky. They're on the floor of the hotel room where it's cooler, not that it did them much good. It's a heat wave, they're naked and on a horizontal surface—It's a given what that means. They started out sweaty from the heat, and now, they're slick and a little sticky from something much better than the weather.

A slight breeze is making its way across the floor from the window, drying the moisture on their skin and Rodney's pretty sure he's got rug burn. If he doesn't yet, he will before they're done. He's fresh off a concert, kinda buzzed and for Rodney, buzzed equals horny.

Very, very horny.

"This's nice," John mumbles, slurring his words with laziness and heat which Rodney doesn't think is at all fair. Nobody's voice is supposed to be able to make him this hard this fast but John's does. John talks like that and he sounds like sex, it's in every syllable, and it probably means a hell of a lot of rug burn. For Rodney, coming down off the high of a concert is always a hell of a trip but mixing in the Sex Voice he doesn't stand a chance and John knows it.

After concerts, Rodney craves the connection, the energy which comes with the sharing of the music with the audience, and sex gives it to him. Sex with John gives it to him. Has ever since that night in Pegasus Hall when he played the concert of his life, playing to a guy in the back row with wild hair and a bored look that pissed him off and urged him on.

Running a hand along John's leg, he notes the hitch in his breathing and the tensing of the muscle. It makes him grin and move his head to look, see John look back with banked flames flaring to life in his eyes. John Sheppard is the finest instrument to which he's ever laid a hand, ever had the chance to play.

Rodney McKay's been a prodigy, a virtuoso, has become a legend. Fans and admirers alike come from all corners to hear him play; he's the star of the music world, wined and dined, saluted and slammed. He generates frenzy among high society the likes of which boy bands create among the great unwashed—he's their idol. Here with John, it all falls away and he's back to basics, an amateur alone with his instrument, one that leaves him in awe and feeling utterly inadequate.

He loves it.

The hand on John's leg migrates up and across his belly and again there's that hitch in his breathing.

Rodney grins, rolling over. "Nice?" He says, finally responding to John's earlier pronouncement. "This is just nice? Clearly, you've forgotten who I am; I haven't been called 'nice' in..." Actually, nice has never been a word associated with him. Arrogant, presumptuous, wildly-talented and wildly-egotistical—he's even been called an asshole a few times, mostly by Sam Carter from the Colorado symphony at that conference six months back. But she had issues.

"Yep, completely gone." John sucks at his own lower lip, making him stare. "Who're you again?"

It's fun reminding him.

"I'm serious, y'know. This is completely unacceptable and when we get back, your ass is so mine and, uh, that...okay, that came out wrong but you know what I mean"

It's Quebec City in March, they really should've seen it coming but they're snowed in and Rodney's not complaining. The Chateau Frontenac is the fanciest digs in town; they're giddy with having him another night and some workmen get paid double time to haul the right kind of baby grand into the suite. Rodney knows the management is downstairs crossing their fingers; him creating a new piece in their hotel is just the kind of publicity these guys dream of—which is one reason he's considering indulging them.

"Snow's really coming down," John comments, shedding his coat and wandering to the windows. He stares out, black sweater and jeans striking against the white whirling by the glass. "Think we'll be in here a while?"

"Depends," he grunts, running cautious hands over the piano. If it's not up to par, somebody's going to get it. He'd rather John being the one getting it in the very large, very comfortable bed but he'll settle for taking off the manager's head. It's been too long since he threw a fit. Rodney can throw fits with the best of them (and his husband's prettier than Elton's, that's total points for the win right there), he just—doesn't; hasn't needed to in a while. "Cross your fingers and we'll get lucky."

John's snicker just reaches him. "Think that's a pretty safe bet anyway." The dry comment makes him grin. He wouldn't mind being stuck here for a few days, neither of them would. The Christmas break's over (John insists on one, and the fact that Rodney finds it adorable will go with him to his grave) and the touring schedule's typically brutal. Time alone is an impossibility. Except now, his people are already in New York and they're here.

"You bribed God, didn't you?" Rodney lets his fingers slide over the keys, feeling more than hearing John drift over to stand behind him. "The whole marriage thing? You get us out of living in sin, He throws in a few snowstorms here and there..."

John's hands settle on his shoulders, kneading. "Yep, you got me. We made a deal last year, worked out great huh?"

He snorts a laugh, summoning up a bridge that's been floating around in his head and starts building something around it. The music, slow and lazy, snakes through the room in defiance to the fury of the storm outside. It's relaxing and he doesn't do relaxing, not unless he's here with John close by. "Bargaining with God, takes nerve." He sneaks a grin, watching John wander off, exploring the suite like a curious three-year-old. He opens everything, peers inside and puts it back when he uncovers nothing of interest before moving on, finally stopping when he finds the wine. "Typically you though."

"Oh yeah, just that reckless," a glass finds its way to the piano, taking up residence within Rodney's eye line, the hand that delivers it slides across his shoulders as John passes by. The couch is calling his name, typical. Rodney's still convinced the whole 'buy a private plane' thing has more to do with the large, comfy couches for napping (mostly) than actual security concerns.

In truth, it's probably both. John will never quite stop being a cop and it's endearing, Rodney likes it when he's cute but doesn't say so. Some things geniuses just don't do. He pours it into the music, letting it take a light-hearted jump, closing his eyes as he chases the notes.

"Next thing, I'll be demanding perfect surfing weather when we're in California and who knows what after that." John's voice cracks a little as he stretches out, behind his eyes Rodney can see the image as plain as day. Legs sprawled out on the lush fabric, one dangling down over the side while the hand not holding the wineglass drifts over the back of the sofa. Lust creeps into the music, lowering the tone of it and making them both shiver. "Mad with power—it's got potential."

"Hmm—why do you think I do this job?" He could have been something else; he knows how many of his teachers bemoaned his musical interests. Who knows? Maybe in another life, he might've been a physicist or a politician or...

"Because you can't stop," John's voice drops lower, lazy. He's relaxing, settling in for the long haul. They both are. "Face it, Rodney, you're hooked."

He risks opening his eyes, looking over his shoulder to confirm his imagination's vision. True to form, John's flat on his back, glass dangling between slack fingers, watching him with devilment in his eyes.

"Yeah," he admits, letting the music die away. "I think I am."

"You know, you're not supposed to be the one that does this...this is my job. You stand there and look superior about it, and you're usually right, I end up regretting it and I'm so not telling you this again so savor the moment, ok?"

John's laughing, Rodney's pouting, and the staff think they're the most adorable thing anyone's ever seen.

Folding his arms across his chest, he glares balefully at a giggling candy striper while he rants at his husband. "Of course, you would think this is funny since it should be you here instead of me. How am I going to play Carnegie like this?" In no way does he whine the last sentence; he's not even a little worried about playing a concert next month when his leg is in a cast past the knee.

No, not worried at all.

Likewise, John is not laughing anymore when he perches a hip on the bed and leans into him. "Look on the bright side, Rodney," he waggles his brows, looking a little too much like a horny Groucho Marx for Rodney's liking, and pauses for dramatic effect. "This means sponge baths." He lowers his voice on the last words, speaking the revelation in a cheesy conspiratorial whisper that's the silliest thing he's ever heard.

Something his cock likes entirely too much because the damn thing stirs to life and they're in an exam room in a Whistler hospital and he does not need this now.

"Hell," John continues gleefully, enjoying himself to the full, "we can even play Doctor; you've still got that lab coat from last Halloween right?"

He wants to glare at him, he really does but John gives him that wicked little look and Rodney growls out an oath of frustration. This is not going according to plan, dammit.

"Oh c'mon, Rodney," he wheedles. "I promise, next time I break a bone you can drill me into the carpet." It's a tantalizing certainty, bull riders suffer less injuries. If Carson didn't know John's penchant for being accident prone, Rodney's sure he would be up on spousal abuse charges by now. Mounties at the door, carted off in handcuffs, the whole nine yards.

"I'm going to hold you to that," he slurs, as painkillers begin to take hold, pulling him into darkness.

"That," John reminds with a leer, "is the whole point."

"Ever want to tell someone something that you couldn't find the words to say? There are a lot of things right now that I need to tell you that I just don't know how to say..."

"Goddammit!" Rodney yells, throwing his pencil across the room. It bounces harmlessly off a curtain but narrowly misses a Tom Tomson painting on the rebound which makes him wince before he glares at his traitorous piano.

He's blocked. The music refuses to play, the notes scattering like leaves on the breeze. He can't pull it together enough to revamp Happy Birthday much less finish a damn movie score.

"With an arm like that, you should totally think about a pro-ball career if this whole musical genius routine doesn't pan out." John's teasing but Rodney hears the concern in his voice, feels it in the hands that slide reassuringly down his arms. "You've been in here all morning, Rodney, time to take a break. You need one."

What he needs is to be working on this, Elizabeth's an old friend that he doesn't want to disappoint but the music just isn't coming. It needs to be perfect, needs to fit what she's asking from him so he doesn't fight the hands pulling him up and away from the piano.

John stays behind him walking down the hallway, hands on his shoulders and body pressing close. It's an awkward shuffle in the narrow space and he loves it. "You spend way too much time holed up in there," he chides, steering him into the kitchen and pressing him toward a counter. "Relax."

Rodney hoists himself up onto the counter, takes the glass of wine that John pours. "You're cooking?" He asks absently, taking in the disaster that is their little kitchen. Seems while he's been fighting the piano, John's been fighting their temperamental stove.

The look he gets in response to his question is John's patented 'you're being an idiot, Rodney,' grin. "You have to eat," he reminds, playfully poking a piece of strawberry between Rodney's lips. "Since you're always forgetting about it," stepping between his legs, John leans in to kiss him, tongue chasing the berry's juice, "so I get to remind you - lucky me."

He's not sure who's the luckier one but Rodney's not going to quibble. Instead, he grabs for handfuls of John's hair and pulls him back for another kiss. He's not exactly sure how relaxing this is going to be but he's all for it.

John nips at his lip when Rodney tightens his legs, trapping him, and then pulls his head back long enough to adjust angles. When he gives in again, mouths meet and play while his hands wander up inside Rodney's shirt, skimming over skin. Rodney tries not to giggle when fingers hit sensitive spots, knowing each touch is deliberate and he's too stubborn to give in.

"The sauce is going to burn," he points out in a mumble against John's mouth, loathe to pull away.

John swallows, equally reluctant to move, fighting for his breath. "And this would be bad?" he manages, mouth teasing at Rodney's and drawing him in again. The kisses they trade are slow, leisurely and (dare he think it) relaxed. "I'm not seeing the bad."

"You're the chef here," Rodney reminds, quite enjoying the look of John as disheveled as he's ever been. It's not hard to picture him on the counter, thoroughly debauched, "it'd be embarrassing..." he pushes him away with a grin, "Just turn off the stove. I can't relax with the fire department as an audience."

"Must be nice to just escape, turn off the world for a while. If I weren't scared shitless, I'd be kinda jealous actually."

He's alone when he wakes up, no surprise there. Ottawa in the fall and he married a jogger, John's up at the crack of dawn and off for his morning run. Rodney's up at the crack of noon and looking for his coffee. In the early days, John tried to get Rodney to join him but that didn't last.

With Rodney, it's 'love me, love my sloth', their current arrangement works better and...

"Huh," there's a note on John's pillow, his name in the familiar sloppy scrawl. Sitting up, he rubs at an eye as he reads.

Ten minutes later, he's in a taxi on his way to wherever it is John's waiting. Still early, the city is only just coming to life but Parliament's in session. In short order, Ottawa will be swarming with people and teaming with energy. He loves this time of year, the current and life in the air is electric and his fingers tap out a pattern on his thigh as he wishes desperately for a pen and paper. Notes are jumbling about in his head, forming a chorus and he's desperate to get it out.

He ends up begging a small notepad and pencil off the cabbie and spends the drive trying to keep up with the song.

"I didn't see this coming, no surprise there, and I gotta admit...it's scaring the hell out of me. It's a habit I have with you; I miss it until it's slapping me in the face."

It's a house. A white, turn-of-the century farmhouse just outside the city tucked away on a small piece of land that comes complete with its own duck pond.

A duck pond.

John's waiting for him on the front porch sitting in a swing. He's grinning in welcome, one foot propped up on the railing to keep the swing in motion. Dressed in a white shirt and jeans, he's the most beautiful thing Rodney's ever seen; one arm behind his head, the other on his stomach left bare by the open shirt.

"Oh," he says simply, the taxi pulling away and leaving him to stare.

There's a 'for sale' sign by the mailbox and the light switches on.

Aha.

"Like it?" John asks when he's near enough, scratching his stomach lazily which is an action that receives intense attention from his husband. He's absolutely playing this for all its worth and Rodney's not sure exactly why but he's scared out of his mind. "Jeannie saw it a while back, gave me a call..." he grins wider, "I think your sister's trying to tell us to quit living the high life, settle down with a couple ducks and a kid."

"Probably," Rodney lets John pull him down on the seat beside him, feels the slats against his back. "It's...nice." Actually, it's gorgeous but a wooden shack would be gorgeous if it had John out front. "I like it," he admits finally, staring out at the lake, a view that looks strangely familiar considering he's never been here before. It's unsettling that he loves this place so much and scared by it just the same.

John's arm settles down across his shoulder, fingers playing over the hair on the back of his head. "We can make an offer on the place if we want; the real estate agent gave me the keys so we can look around." He sneaks a grin Rodney's way. "Try it on for size, maybe go skinny dipping. Imagine that one; we could do it every day in the summer—no one around for miles—just you, me, and the pigeons."

"Which is such an attractive thought," he counters, unable to resist. "Dodging droppings on our way back to the house just enhances the romance to unimaginable levels doesn't it?"

"Cynic," John accuses affectionately, kissing his temple.

"My best feature," he agrees, pulling him up, "come on, forget the birds let's check out the house." He is curious about the inside, which turns out to be even better than the outside if it's possible. Everywhere he turns there's fine wood, antiques and even... "Oh GOD..." the piano is perfect. It's perfect, it's right in the best light and... He slides onto the stool, puts hands to keys and closes his eyes.

They're buying this house.

"This is actually starting to get a little old, okay? I know you must be having a blast in there but...right; it's getting a little old. So, please?"

He's in the middle of composing his latest when he hears it, the sound of Jeannie's clunker and Rodney's head snaps up in alarm.

Fuck.

Putting down his pencil, he walks away from the piano to the curtains where he can see the front drive and Jeannie's car pulling away. "Oh no." The horror he feels doesn't begin to cover it the true hell that is the situation and Rodney rushes through the house, calling John's name as he goes. He finds him in the spacious kitchen; it's one of their favorite rooms for so many reasons, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

For Sara.

The three-year-old girl grins a broad hello from where she's sitting on the countertop, completely oblivious to the stricken look on her uncle's face.

"Heya Wodney!" She chirrups, Rodney feels faint.

"Johnnnn..."

His husband grins guiltily at him. "Jeannie was stuck; it's a job interview..."

Rodney folds his arms tight across his chest. "Johnnnn..." His tone changes and John's guilty look intensifies.

"It's a government job, Rodney," he emphasizes the words. "The benefits are to die for and, besides," he winks conspiratorially at the little girl, "You need to spend more time with the kiddo here." He grins over her head. "Practice."

Oh god, John has a biological clock and it's actually ticking. It's a faintly terrifying realization. Actually, it's an absolutely terrifying realization.

"It's not a good day for spending time, Uncle John," he grits out around a falsely cheerful smile. "Uncle Rodney is working." He walks over, helping himself to a finger full of jam - which he could really find so many better uses for - and glares as John smacks a jammy kiss to his cheek.

"But I'm not," he reminds cheerfully. "I'm free and you can make a little time this afternoon." He gives Sara another conspiratorial look. "Uncle Rodney says he's working but he finds a lot of time to play." Most of that time, John well knew, spent playing a game that was most certainly not a spectator sport and Rodney thinks he might just have to kill him. "Besides, we'll keep ourselves occupied; you'll barely even know we're here."

If those are not famous last words then Rodney just went deaf. When he gets up from composing the next time for a bathroom break, he really isn't surprised when he comes back to find Sara plunking at the keys with...

The strangled cry that works its way free is just this side of girlish. "NO! Hands OFF the keys --" She looks up with stricken eyes that make Rodney feel like he just cancelled Christmas and kicked the Easter Bunny in the eggs. John is so much better at this stuff than he is, he's just not good with kids, he's never been good with kids which would be one of the benefits of their relationship but...Yeah, this is not going anywhere near where he wants it to.

Where John is, he doesn't know but he's got to fix this because she's about to cry and Rodney hates it when they cry and he forces something that might have been a smile except, he thinks, Freddy Krueger's got a better one. "Uh...sweetheart, the piano's expensive and you need clean hands and," he looks around wildly, great. He's in the only room in the house where there isn't a box of tissues. "C'mon."

Picking her up awkwardly, he practically runs for the stairs.

John finds them ten minutes later, plinking out 'twinkle, twinkle little star'. Sara's happy, Rodney's terrified and when John goes for the camera...

Rodney's definitely going to kill him, but first he's got to finish this song.

"Kinda feels like we're the only ones left in the world, like everyone else's just...gone. Actually, it kinda feels like I'm the only one left in the world."

The best part about this place is the silence. Out here, alone, no one to bother them they can be as loud as they want and as quiet as they want and no one would ever believe that Rodney McKay likes to cuddle, no one will ever know to believe either.

It's the first snowstorm of the year and he's home for it so, naturally, they're in bed for it. Rodney's flat on his back, body still damp from sex, and he's pretty sure he'll never be able to get up again. It's fine by him and when John rolls closer, pressing his face into the crook of Rodney's neck, it's a general consensus.

"I am so never getting out of this bed again," he mumbles, sliding a hand across Rodney's stomach, making his body shiver. "Never, ever."

"Well, eventually one of us will have to." He's always the realistic one. "Either that or I'm going to go into hypoglycemic shock and die, which would generally dampen the mood I think."

"Asshole," John growls affectionately, kissing his neck. "You always have to spoil my fun."

"Someone has to keep you in line," he counters. "Otherwise, who knows what kind of trouble you'll get yourself into?" Which is true, Rodney's never met anyone with a knack for getting himself into trouble like the man he's married. Might be exactly why, he'll never ever be bored with John Sheppard in his life. "Knew a guy once, Daniel Jackson...he was a menace but you? You're a walking disaster."

"And still you said yes when I proposed." John's voice is incredible. He's speculated on it before but he can't stop doing it again now. It slides over his skin, music in its own right, the kind that he can never hope to capture on the piano but still tries. "Odd isn't it?"

"Nonsense," Rodney works his fingers into John's hair, it's already wild from earlier and he's not helping it much. "You had that shirt on and there was alcohol, lots of alcohol. Plus, there was that funny little violinist and the CN Tower—how can a guy resist that?"

In the area of romantic marriage proposals, he thinks he qualifies for a doctorate. He hasn't had a lot of proposals but three days after their engagement every woman in the greater Toronto area had shared the story of hers with him and, as they go, he thinks his beats them all, hands down. John definitely went all out with booking the entire 360 restaurant, filling it with all his favorites and the speech? Even with a slight fear of such heights, Rodney loved it.

"Oh, well, true," John brings his hand up, rubbing in a circular motion that's really, really distracting. "Forgot about the violinist. What was his name again?"

"Radek," Rodney answers without hesitation. There's not much about that night he doesn't remember in exact detail. He's relived it more than a few times. "He was late because of his niece's wedding—something about a cow." Whether or not the cow in question had been his niece's mother-in-law, Rodney still wasn't sure; his Czech was a little rusty and it had been a while.

"Right, the cow." Evening's coming on and John's face is in shadows when he pulls back to look at him. "Anniversary's next month. This would be my roundabout way of reminding you since, y'know, you have a habit of forgetting these things."

Geez, forget one birthday and no one ever lets you live it down. "I know," he assures, pulling John down to kiss him. "In fact, I have plans." He knows he looks smug but he can't help it. He's been planning this for a while. Finding Radek? Easier said than done, the little Czech violinist with the paranoid agent, but he did it. Booking the restaurant again? Not as hard but getting the right piano in there damn near impossible.

That's done too. It's going to be perfect.

"Plans?" John looks skeptical, Rodney's wounded and pouts. "Actual plans?"

"Yes, actual plans." He rolls them, grinning down at his husband and kissing him soundly. "Now shut up and believe me or I'm canceling them all and leaving you to die, cold and alone and wondering what I could have had in mind that would have been so wonderful."

That makes John snicker. "I married a sadist. I thought you Canadians were supposed to be the nice ones?"

It's an old joke and Rodney fakes a menacing expression, eyeing John's body with a look of faux analysis, "Our master plan is revealed. We lure you in with men and better beer, next thing you know its Prime Ministers and funny colored money and your country is ours!"

John's eyes slam shut when Rodney's hand closes around his cock, falling into the familiar rhythm. "God, that's brilliant," he announces thickly, his head pushing into the pillow.

"Hmm, isn't it though?" Rodney agrees. "You didn't stand a chance."

In truth, it's him that didn't stand the chance but he's not going to point that one out. Things are perfect and he doesn't want to ruin perfect.

"You're not going to die, you hear me? You aren't...I won't let you."

John's late for dinner. John is never late for dinner. Not the important ones and Rodney's in the restaurant with a knot in his stomach the size of Niagara Falls.

Something's wrong.

Something's very wrong and when his cell phone rings, he almost faints.

Later he'll tell himself it was just low blood sugar but he doesn't believe it, he knows better.

John's dying and he can feel it, pain seizing up in his chest and radiating out his limbs.

He can't get to the hospital fast enough.

When he does, they won't let him in and he's left pacing in the waiting room, signing forms and ignoring the double takes from the staff. He played a benefit here last year, he can vaguely remember it. It was in their sun room; John perched on the window seat, watching with a grin while some little old lady pimped out her granddaughter.

The doctor, a tiny little woman named Carolyn, blathers something about trauma and internal injuries. He doesn't really listen, there's only one thing he needs to know.

"Is he going to be all right?" He clenches his hands tight, blunt nails digging into his palms, in an effort to keep from shaking her. "Just...Is he going to be all right?"

She's very tiny and very solemn, and he doesn't like the look in her eyes therefore he hates this woman completely and utterly. "It's going to be close," she says finally, clearly trying to find the right way to tell the crazy genius that he's about to become a widower—the right way being the way that doesn't get her neck broken.

"Right now, Mr. McKay, your husband's condition is very critical, if we don't get in there and operate, we're going to lose him."

He signs the forms and tries to remember how to pray.

If John can sweet talk God into a snowstorm in Quebec, he should be able to bargain his life back in Toronto—right?

That's when he hears the sound he doesn't want to hear.

"Code Blue in Exam 1! Code Blue in Exam 1!"

Rodney breaks into a run, deaf to the protests of the nurses and orderlies, barreling past them all to skid to a stop at the door.

John lies before him, blood-soaked and dying. It freezes him in his tracks; horrified, Rodney shuts his eyes against the sight. "No..."

He swallows hard and, suddenly exhausted, collapses back against the pillow.

Wait...

Cracking one eye, he stares in shock at the top of John's head.

What the hell?

He's in a bed that feels more like a gurney and this is definitely not the hospital.

Rodney frowns, reaching up to rub his forehead, surprised when he sees an IV in his hand. Hang on…

A dream?

Was it a dream? Was he the one in the accident? John's fine? John looks fine…John's wearing the weirdest coat he's ever seen; he sure as hell didn't buy it. The colour's not bad but it looks military and, oh god.

He must've been the one in the accident; it's the only thing that makes sense. Yeah, he was the one in the accident and he got a head injury and he missed their anniversary; he's never going to live that one down either. John will be reminding him when they're ninety and going senile.

It doesn't matter, he'll have a few stories of his own by then and, more importantly, John's fine. He's okay, he's asleep and how is that fair? If not fair, it's typical, Rodney's having a big emotional moment and John…is sleeping through it. Definitely typical and that is – in its way – a relief.

Rodney sucks in a breath, an action he immediately regrets when his throat flares in pain. A tube's been in there recently, he was on oxygen. He was on oxygen because he was unconscious; in a coma. This was definitely more than a head injury, he was in a coma which is why everything's fuzzy and jumbled up.

Can't think, he rubs his forehead again. He can't—nothing's making sense. He's in Atlantis but Atlantis is that new club downtown and what the hell is he doing in a club? This is supposed to be the hospital and even though Teyla's nice enough, she's no Doogie Howser.

He shakes it off, regretting the action immediately when his head protests. Ow, definite ow. Whatever happened, he's going to be regretting it for a while. There are many, many painkillers in his future and if he's lucky, he might be able to coax John into a few backrubs.

Mmm, a backrub after a long soak in the tub in the master bathroom. Sometimes, Rodney thinks they didn't buy the house for the view or the piano; they bought it for the tub. The deep, comfortable tub that they can't get enough of but do very little actual bathing in. If he thinks about it now there's always something they'd rather be doing. Yeah, backrub after a soak in the tub and maybe a nice dinner but it'll have to be take-out or delivery, John's going to be too tired to cook if he has his way.

Rodney smiles, knows he looks drunk and doesn't care, reaching out for John. He doesn't want to wake him. If whatever happened was as bad as it feels then John's the one who hasn't gotten much sleep lately and needs whatever he can get, but he needs to feel him. The image of him, broken and bleeding, is still too fresh in his mind, he needs to feel John, to know he's real and okay.

He threads a hand through the thick hair, surprised at the texture of it. It feels different than he remembers; John must've been using whatever cheap shampoo the hospital has stocked in the showers. Later he'll call Teyla; since they're in town she can make sure John goes home, gets some sleep and a real shower; Sora can keep him company. Knowing John he'll put up a fight over someone other than him staying with Rodney. He's a stubborn bastard like that when he wants to be.

He scrunches his fingers in John's hair and against his scalp in that way John loves; never fails to put him in the mood. Unsurprisingly, it's enough to wake John who sits up with a familiar shudder, t-shirt plastered flat against his chest with sweat, blinking blearily at him. It takes a moment and Rodney tries not to snicker at the look on John's face. If Rodney looks drunk then John looks downright stoned. So much for being the morning person in this marriage. He's been sleeping here judging by the very colorful lines the sheet covering Rodney's legs wore into his cheek.

"Hey," Rodney says, suddenly uncertain. John's looking at him with relief but it's still not right. Everything else he should be seeing isn't there and Rodney feels doubt creep in, the confusing memories about Atlantis strengthening.

Rodney's heart begins a rapid tattoo in his chest, his palms sweating and eyes widening as the veil is lifted and…Oh no, no, no, no, NO. This cannot be happening, this is not, he's not, they're not -

He groans quietly, dropping his hand.

"You're awake," John clears his throat, rubs at his hair, and suddenly pushes back a bit. The feeling of wrong is growing and Rodney wants to pretend, but he knows now. It's coming back in fits and starts, he can see the planet, the natives, hear the weapon discharging. He knows and he wishes he didn't, he wishes this was the lie.

He sucks in a breath, pulls back, closes his eyes and starts counting, hears the beat of the metronome in his head. He commands himself to follow the rhythm, focus on it, and ignore the sound of John's breathing and the instinct to reach for him. When he's ready, which isn't ready at all but when he's able to fake it, he opens his eyes and tries to say "How long?" but it comes out in a voice that's closer to a frog's croak.

John squints at him, the sleep and confusion in his eyes fading, and Rodney can see him trying to work out what he's saying. "Three days," his voice is as hoarse as Rodney's, each word strained as if it's an effort to get them out. He thinks it might be but Rodney doesn't know, five minutes ago he would have sworn there wasn't anything about John he didn't know except it turns out he doesn't know anything. Not anything real. John looks as if he wants to say something else but decides against it in favor of turning around. Rodney watches mutely as John mumbles nonsensical phrases about everything that's been going on, the scare they gave him, everything that a person says when they don't know what to say but are scared of the silence. Finally, he turns back with the stereotypical ice chips that everyone keeps around for moments like this and shoves them at Rodney like its a personal shield all his own. "We, uh, yeah, it's, uh been three days."

More like a lifetime but he's not going to tell John that. It's becoming clearer now but the memories and dreams are jumbled together and he's trying to pick out which are which; images and sensations lingering and leaving him feeling empty. Rodney's practically got to sit on his hands which are aching to reach out, trace the lines that are slowly fading from John's face. An hour ago he would have, an hour ago he would have pulled John into bed with him…

An hour ago he was happy.

"What..."

"You got shot." John clips out the words like he's been practicing them and maybe he has. Dimly, Rodney's aware of words that he thought were stray thoughts, lines from songs unwritten and he understands a little more. Weren't they always saying that people in comas could hear?

Rodney grits his teeth and slants a glare at John, tries to cover up the feeling of loss that hits him square in the chest, a pain that's got nothing to do with alien weaponry. He's angry, furious, but he's not sure who he's angry with. He wants to say, "You bought me a kitten our first Christmas in the house—it tried to eat the bow you tied around its collar. The damn thing wrecked my piano." Instead, he says, "You should've ducked when I told you to." He says it like an accusation but at least his voice sounds halfway like he thinks it should sound, the ice melting down his throat. "Less pain for me that way..."

So much less pain for him that way.

"Yeah, well it was no picnic for me either," John coughs, scratches the back of his neck, and refuses to meet his eyes. "Scared the bejesus out of me, Rodney. Don't do it again! You jumped in front of a fucking gun! While I appreciate the sentiment and it's all very heroic and has done wonders for your social life around here, couldn't you just fucking push me out of the way next time? You," his voice cracks, rough with emotion and John's building steam now and this is familiar, this Rodney knows. Dream or reality, he knows where he stands when they fight. Dream!John appears in his mind, grinning 'fight to fuck, right Rodney?' and he wants to hit him, punch him square in his damn face, smack the grin off. "Rodney, you could've DIED and for what?"

Seizing on the anger, the defensive reaction, Rodney plunges ahead, "For you, you idiot!" The words snap out like machine gun fire and he puts all the force his body's capable of (not much, mind you) behind them. "Forgive me for thinking of the fact that I was about to lose my best friend because he was too busy staring at the ass of the local native girl du jour when he should've been worried about her goddamn father! Jesus, John, do you ever think with anything other than your fucking dick?" He huffs a breath except his lungs aren't ready for the exertion and it turns into a hacking cough that's got John diving forward, grabbing for him but gingerly because he's afraid to hurt him. It'd be comedic if it didn't hurt so damn much.

He closes his eyes, tries to calm down, feels John's hand holding a cup to his lips while the other hand supports his head and it's so familiar his heart clenches tight enough that he thinks this is what a heart attack feels like. Or it would, if he still had one.

"I was scared," he admits when he can breathe again. He wants to tell him, wants to admit that the image of a blood-soaked John on the gurney with frantic doctors all around won't go away. It's burned into his mind in high definition. He wants to, but he can't. "Put too much work into you to lose you now," he says, not clarifying it further because he doesn't know how to lie right now. It's all so fresh in his mind, there are memories of his life - their life - and he can't make himself believe it was all a dream; the memory of John in his arms in their kitchen as real as the first moments in Atlantis, every detail as sharp and clear as possible.

John's watching him standing close at his side, eyes sharp and concerned, and Rodney knows he can't let on. He can't. This is not a discussion he's going to be having here. Not a discussion he's going to be having ever. "You ok? You look -"

"Like I've been shot by whatever passes as a trigger happy over-protective yokel in this galaxy?" he snaps, wishing he could turn on his side, turn his back and go to sleep. If he sleeps, he might go back and if he does…he knows now. John will be fine there—waiting for him. "Surprisingly enough, I have been! Pity there's no bullet; I could have my very own trophy. Isn't that what you guys do?"

"Actually..." John gets that look on his face, the one that Rodney knows so well from his dreams. If this were that—he'd be grinning right now, there'd be nudity in his future but it's not and there isn't. At least not any kind that won't involve his shower or one of the many embarrassing exams Carson is sure to be giving him. "I, uh," he reaches out, closing one hand around Rodney's wrist but lets go almost immediately like the fleeting touch burns. Rodney knows how he feels, everywhere John's touched him since he woke is on fire, burning into his skin and branding him forever. Every touch evokes a moment, a memory, something from that other life and it's something that never even happened, something he can never get back because it was never there. "Nevermind—Look, I'm, uh, I'm going to go get Carson. He'll want to check you out. We need to make sure everything's, y'know, working like it's supposed to be, before we can get you out of here and back to the lab.
Zelenka's going to get delusions of grandeur if you stay in here much longer."

John stumbles backward, like his legs have suddenly fallen asleep, catching a hand on the doorframe to right himself. He looks up, catches Rodney's eye and again there's that weird look, unreadable and distant which leaves Rodney cold, confused, and strangely curious. "Stay right there," there's a plaintive note in the request, almost fear, and Rodney's not sure he's awake anymore. That sounds more like—no—he's not going there. "Okay?"

He pushes away the thoughts, makes a face, and tries to be the Rodney McKay he's supposed to be. Not Rodney McKay, famous pianist and husband of John, but Rodney McKay, would be famous (if not for being classified) physicist and - He doesn't finish the thought, he can't. Instead, he chooses to play the familiar role, fall back into the habit. "Where else am I going to go? You think I'm going to get a sudden urge to jog around the city? Been shot, remember, not really going to get up and go for a brisk trot anytime soon."

The smile on John's face at that is oddly amused and relieved—it's enough to increase the ache Rodney already feels in his very soul. "Good, just—yeah, good." He disappears out the door and Rodney wants to rage, scream about the unfairness of getting everything he's ever wanted only to have it ripped away, leaving him bleeding and raw and alone.

Instead, he closes his eyes.