Current mood:	working
Current music:	You Only Live Once - The Strokes
Entry tags:	mcshep, r, sga, stargatefic100

No One Comes Close ~ SGA (McShep)
Title: No One Comes Close
Author: icantfollow
Characters: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Prompt: #005 Lasts
Word Count: ~5700
Genre: Drama/Angst
Rating: R (for language)
Summary: John doesn't trust easily; Rodney doesn't care.

A/N: I apologize in advance for my terrible French. I feel it's a necessary evil. Also: "No one comes close" is apparently an unofficial motto of the USAF.



"You don't seem very comfortable here, Mr. Sheppard."

"You can call me John. I'm fine."

"You don't trust psychiatrists, do you, John?"

"I don't really trust anyone."

*

The rain is no stranger to Bayeux in winter, but John thinks this continuous downpour is overkill. When the sky is clear he likes to go down to the cliffs and stare out at the waves as they slip out like a tactical retreat and crash on the shore like the D-Day invasion.

Even out here, with the peace of the water, and the rocks, and the occasional seabird, John still can't turn it off. It's like a buzzing in his ears.

It gets worse on the rainy days when he's cooped up inside, when he pulls War and Peace off the crooked driftwood shelf, determined that this time he'll finish. He listens to the rain fall and watches its diagonal path against the green of the trees – and all he can think about is how much hate he's got collecting like old newspapers in the pit of his stomach. Some nights he wants to scream, just to set some of it free.

Someone starts to pound on his door, the sound muted by the damp wood.

"Je ne veux pas acheter rien!" John calls out above the roar of the storm. "Lis la pancarte!"

The pounding continues, so John closes his book and opens the front door, glaring pointedly at the 'No Soliciting' sign in French nailed to the frame.

"I'm drowning out here," says Rodney McKay, soaked straight through, shivering, teeth chattering. His eyes look especially blue under the storm clouds, and equally heavy. "What took you so long?"

*

"Let's talk about your work."

"I'm unemployed. I guess you could say I took an early retirement."

"What did you do before?"

"I'm sure you know. It's been all over the news. Do we have to talk about my job?"

"No. What would you like to talk about?"

*

John doesn't register surprise the way most people do; in his line of work (make that former line of work) he can't afford to be caught off guard. He may have lost the job, but none of the instincts.

To even the playing field, John leaves Rodney standing out in the rain for several minutes as he leans against the door frame and tries to figure out how to manage the situation. Eventually he turns and walks inside without gesturing for Rodney to follow. Rodney, who's never needed an invitation, closes the door behind him.

John notices he's dragging a duffel bag and his laptop, but declines to comment.

"I half-expected to find you back in Antarctica," Rodney says, collapsing on John's patched couch, shaking like a naked dog. "Nice beard. They don't have razors in France? So that myth about the women and shaving is true?"

John still doesn't say anything; at this point, he doesn't know what to say.

"Oh," says Rodney, lifting his head and looking across the room at John; Rodney's lost weight and there are dark circles under his eyes. "So you're not talking to me. I wondered why the locals call you 'Monsieur Muet'. They knew exactly who I was looking for, you know. I only had to mention the hair."

John can't help but smile.

"Please tell me you haven't become one of those monks who's taken a vow of silence," Rodney complains. John goes to the hall closet and returns with a towel. Rodney takes it, but doesn't dry off, just sort of stares at John in a disconcerting way.

"You're going to talk to me eventually, you know," says Rodney, and it's not a question. "We both know how fond I am of my own intellect, but at some point I'm going to want a response. A 'Hello, Rodney,' or, 'Gee, what are you doing all the way out here in Bayeux?' or even, 'Get the hell off my property,' would be nice. I'll settle for you calling me 'Meredith.'"

John just stands there, arms folded, and Rodney sighs.

"Fine. I'm going to the village to buy a few things because I'm sure you don't have my hypoallergenic shampoo or, clearly, a razor, and then when I come back I'm going to sleep on that thing you laughingly call a couch – or would, if you were speaking. We can talk in the morning."

He pauses at the door, framed by the rain falling outside, and John's pretty sure he can't speak now even if he wanted to.

"We don't have to talk about it," Rodney says quietly. "But, please talk to me about something."

*

"I don't really want to be here."

"Then why are you here?"

"I was given an ultimatum. The last time I saw a shrink it was work-ordered. She wasn't very helpful."

"Well, I'll try to do better then. Who gave you the ultimatum?"

*

"The French are idiots," Rodney announces when he blows back into the house several hours later, dripping across John's tiled floor. "It's a dying language anyway, that's hardly my fault. How can you stand it? What's so difficult about 'hypoallergenic'?"

John ignores him. Rodney's carrying a sack filled to the brim, and suddenly John has a bad feeling in his stomach.

"Teyla and Ronon are fine, since you didn't ask," Rodney adds as he deposits his purchases on the crate which passes for a coffee table. "Teyla wanted to come with me, but she's being wined and dined by the President."

John must look incredulous because Rodney says, "She's not a fan – but she is the ambassador for the Pegasus Galaxy, a job that requires a certain amount of schmoozing. Don't worry, Ronon's keeping an eye on her. He goes wherever she goes. Ha, I'd pay good money to see Ronon in the White House. Secret Service must be going nuts."

John shrugs as if it's all the same to him and drums his fingers impatiently on the arm of the couch. Rodney's like a leech; he's not going to go without a fight.

"I know you can talk," says Rodney in that same 'carefree' tone of voice, unpacking his laptop. "You shouted at me in French when I got here. You want to talk French? I can do that. Ou est la sal-du-ban?"

He can't help himself; John bursts out laughing. Rodney's accent is atrocious. When John laughs, some of the tension leaves Rodney's shoulders and he smiles.

"No, seriously, where's the bathroom?"

Pointing out the window, where the rain seems determined to make up for a dry summer, John can't hide his amusement as Rodney's face falls.

"You're kidding," he says, looking almost horrified. "You don't have indoor plumbing? Why are you living in this backwater hamlet?"

When John fails to reply, Rodney huffs and opens his laptop; the clicking of the keys echoes the patter of rain against the windows. John wonders how long Rodney's planning to stay, and how he can get rid of him without saying a word.

He prepares dinner in the kitchen, but only sets the table for one.

"Real mature, Colonel," Rodney says as John takes his seat and digs his fork in. John flinches at the title and his fork falls to the floor. "I guess I'll just have to raid your fridge then."

Rodney eats some moldy cheese that's not moldy on purpose while John inhales his fettuccine. After dinner John goes out to take a shower, and when he comes back in, hair dripping, Rodney's disappeared.

"Well, that was easy."

"Aha!"

John jumps, sending droplets flying, and nearly loses his grip on his towel as Rodney rounds the corner from the bedroom, shaking his finger.

"McKay!"

"You are capable of speech! Now, let's stop playing this stupid game. You don't want to talk about it, I don't want to talk about it, fine. But stop pretending I'm not here."

"I didn't invite you," John points out, his voice a little hoarse. He almost too tired to be angry. Almost. "How'd you even find me?"

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Please. It's me."

John gives in. It's Rodney. "You mind if I get dressed?"

Rodney just waves him away and sinks into the couch with a moan. "Forget it, we'll talk in the morning, I'm exhausted. I've been up for more than 48 hours straight."

"You must be getting soft, McKay," John says as he heads into the bedroom. "I remember when you could go 72 without sleep."

The only answer is a snore.

*

"Rodney made me come here. He thinks I have issues."

"Who's Rodney?"

"He's someone I used to work with."

"And now?"

"Now, it's...complicated."

"Do you agree? Do you have 'issues'?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

*

"Rise and shine," John says the next morning, dressed and ready to go after his morning run. He swats Rodney with a pillow. The scientist is curled into the most uncomfortable-looking position, and John knows from experience that the couch is full of broken springs. He tries not to feel satisfied.

"I hate you," Rodney murmurs without opening his eyes. "You're mean, and you have the sofa from hell."

"Come on, McKay," says John, nudging him. "You have to get up if you want breakfast."

That earns a response. Rodney lifts his head and blinks a few times, looking – as Rodney always does first thing in the morning – ridiculously innocent; something in John tightens, but he tries to push it away.

"Coffee?" says Rodney.

"If you're a good boy and you get dressed."

Rodney stumbles outside to the toilet and John can hear his bitter complaints from the living room. By the time he's washed and dressed, both their stomachs are gurgling.

John takes him to the Rue St. Jean – they have to walk which doesn't please the decaffeinated Rodney – and they stop in at La Fringale where the shopkeepers know him by name and welcome him with smiles. Rodney absorbs all this with an open mouth.

"I didn't know you spoke French," he says, and John knows he's really asking, 'Why this place of all places?'

"I wanted to be somewhere where no one knew who I was – which ruled out the continental United States."

Rodney opens his mouth to ask another question, but then closes it and John's grateful. It's too early for an interrogation.

He orders Rodney his coffee and watches the change that comes over him as he inhales the slightly nutty aroma. Rodney swallows the searing hot coffee in two large gulps and sort of melts into his chair.

John doesn't say one word throughout breakfast. Rodney talks for both of them with his mouth full.

*

"Let's talk about your family."

"My father's dead and I don't talk to my mother."

"Why not?"

"She walked out on us when I was nine. Why should I?"

"Do people leave you a lot, John?"

"Let's just say I try not to get too comfortable. And, yeah, I know what that says about me, but it's better than getting stomped on all the time."

*

"Did Elizabeth tell you to find me?" John asks after they get back to his house.

Rodney sits down in front of his laptop; the couch squeals under his weight. "No, it was my idea."

He doesn't say, 'I missed you,' or 'I wondered what happened,' but John hears him loud and clear. He feels an irrational hate for the laptop; the sound of striking keys reminds him of who Rodney is and who he works for, destroying whatever comfort he'd taken from Rodney's impromptu visit. John throws up defensive barriers and decides to go for a swim without mentioning where he's headed or when he'll be back. Rodney doesn't even look up.

John rubs the gooseflesh on his arms as he stares down the waves, marking the nearest buoy. The wind is sharp, but at least it isn't raining. He crawls into the water and starts his laps with a long breast stroke, releasing some of the frustration Rodney's intrusion has sparked with every other breath.

When he surfaces he sees Rodney sitting on the shore with his feet in the water, cargo pants rolled up to the calf revealing white, hairy legs.

"My parents used to take me and Jeannie to the beach every summer," Rodney says when John collapses on the sand next to him and they just stare out at the water. John's skin looks even darker when compared to the photo-phobic scientist and Rodney's nose is already turning red. "I hated it. I've always hated it, I can't swim."

"My dad made me take swimming lessons," John says, remembering. "It felt natural. He taught me to surf, too."

This is the first time John can remember Rodney ever being quiet on purpose. He actually seems tangled in his own thoughts, and John almost hates to ruin it.

"Why are you here, Rodney?"

Rodney pauses before answering. "It seemed like the right thing to do."

*

"I don't have a magic answer, John. Trusting people isn't something that comes easily to a lot of people. You have to want to try."

"I've been betrayed by a lot of people. I'm not sure it's worth it."

"Depends on the person, don't you think?"

"I guess."

"Can you think of anyone who doesn't lie to you?"

*

Rodney turns in early, complaining of sciatica. John waits until he's asleep before sneaking over to the laptop left open on the table. He has to know, one way or another.

The light flickers on just as John scours the computer's directory and Rodney sits up on the couch.

"You know, in some cultures it's considered impolite to go through a man's files while he's pretending to be asleep."

John should feel guilty, but he doesn't. Rodney just sighs, like he's greatly disappointed.

"If you want to know, Sheppard," he says softly, "all you have to do is ask."

They're quiet for several minutes. Finally, John says, "Well?"

Rodney sighs again as if hoping to put this off. "Yes, I'm still working for the SGC."

John feels like his body is burning on the inside, like he's just eaten a bowl of jalapeños.

"Before you kick me out of your house," Rodney adds quickly, hands in the air, "you should know that nobody in their right mind would put me in front of a camera. I don't like being anyone's puppet, Sheppard, but I finally have the chance to publish – can you imagine what impact my science can have on the world? We don't all have as strong a moral code as you do. I want people to know what I've done, what I've accomplished. I even want the awards, I admit it. Right now, the only way that's going to happen is if I keep doing my job. I'm not going to apologize for it."

John watches him and some of the red-hot fury seeps away. "Fine. Get up."

Rodney looks wary. "You're not going to take me out back and shoot me, are you?"

"Just get your jacket and come on."

They start walking through the darkened countryside, and Rodney won't shut up. John tunes him out and stares up at the starry sky, soaking in the Milky Way and imagining other galaxies. Space travel hasn't spoiled him, he still loves to look at the stars. It's not quite enough, though, sometimes, when he remembers standing on the ground of other planets.

"La Queue de Chat?" Rodney says when they come to a stop outside a shadowy building, butchering the language. "What the hell?"

John just pushes open the door and shoves Rodney inside. When their eyes adjust to the light, Rodney makes a disgusted noise.

"You brought me to a dance club?" he shouts over the grinding music.

"Discotheque," John corrects, sliding in towards the bar. "Come on, I fully intend to get drunk."

"I don't think I've ever seen you drunk before."

"That's because we've never had enough alcohol before."

Rodney eyes the liquor and John knows he's won. "Oh, alright. At least we didn't drive."

John slaps him on the back and orders two of the most lethal thing on the menu.

*

"Everyone I trusted eventually let me down. What's the point?"

"Do you resent him?"

"Who?"

"Rodney. He still works where you used to work, doesn't he? Do you resent him for it?"

"Probably. Yeah. I'm not mad, but I'm –"

"Jealous? Because he still has his job and you don't?"

"Because I'm not allowed to miss it."

*

John stumbles out of the raging discotheque with Rodney on his heels. The world is spinning and it feels fantastic. Never mind that his nose is bleeding and he's already sporting a shiner. Guy fucking deserved it, and that's the truth.

"What the hell was that?" Rodney asks, reaching as John takes a nosedive into the street. They stumble together and John almost drags Rodney down with him. He notices that even with the hypoallergenic shampoo, Rodney smells good.

"Don't know," John says, lurching. "It was somethin' I had to do, I guess."

"You regularly pick fights with strangers now, Colonel?"

"Don't call me that," John says, leaning forward with his fists, frowning. Bile catches in his throat and he sort of wants to cry. "'m not a colonel. He started it."

Rodney makes another grab for the back of his shirt. "Your fist in his face tells another story."

"'e was sayin' stuff," John insists, throwing his arms around Rodney, burying his face in Rodney's collarbone. His beard feels itchy and he wonders vaguely why the words he's thinking are not the ones coming out of his mouth.

"Stop that, Sheppard," says Rodney, pushing him away, "you're all scratchy."

"Not Sheppard," mumbles John. "John. Call me John."

"Fine, John," Rodney says, and he's almost smiling. John smiles too. "You're completely hammered. Let's get you home."

"Don't want to go home," says John. He lets go of Rodney and spins out into the middle of the street, arms raised. He feels free. The night air is cool and soft, the sky is beautiful and open, and for the first time in ages he's not alone. "Stay with me, Rodney."

"I am staying with you," Rodney replies, steering him in the direction of the house.

"Don't leave me."

"I won't leave you tonight."

"Not ever," John says firmly. He sighs, stumbling over a crack in the pavement. "Fucker. Mother fucker, deserved it."

"My French isn't very good, but I'm pretty sure he was just asking for the time," Rodney says.

"Not him. Him. Bastard. Salaud. Ha, salad. Lettuce. Mother fucker!"

Rodney groans, supporting his weight as John slips. "God, you don't look like much, but you weigh a ton."

John takes a swing at the empty night air and misses, falling down with a thump. "It's not fair, Rodney, not fair. I know it's not supposed to be, but it's not. They took everything from me."

Rodney pulls him back to his feet and he waves back and forth. "What are you talking about?"

"S'nothing," John says, patting Rodney's face several times with a heavy hand. "You know what? You smell good."

"Okay, you've definitely had too much to drink, Sheppard."

"John," John insists. "Not Sheppard, John."

"John."

John smiles. Then he passes out.

*

"Why do you think that?"

"Everyone thinks it's like I made this choice. It wasn't a choice."

"Would you go back if you could?"

"I could – if I was willing to play their game. I'm not."

"That's not really answering the question."

"This sounds stupid, but, it's like, now that I've been there, there's a part of me missing."

*

"Oh, ow," John mutters, sitting up with a hand pressed to his forehead. He spent the night on the couch and everything hurts. Most of his body is a dull ache, but his head throbs every time he inhales and judging from the taste in his mouth, he must have thrown up – several times. "Ugh."

"Morning, sunshine," Rodney says, sounding far too happy for the hour. "Can you believe that they don't have one English-language newspaper around here?"

"What happened?" John asks as the world spins. He feels flushed and sticky. "And I hate you."

"Well, let's see." Rodney is clearly enjoying John's misery. "You dragged me to a nightclub, got drunk, picked a fight with a perfect stranger, got your ass kicked, hit on me, insisted I call you 'John,' and staggered home."

John looks horrified. Oh, God. "I didn't."

"It was kind of amazing actually," Rodney continues. "I've never seen you like that before."

John scrunches his face and waits for the blow. "Like what?"

"You were completely unguarded." Rodney grins. "That loss of control! It was hysterical."

John tries to put the pieces together, but he's missing too much of the puzzle and his head hurts too much to think that hard. Still, there's something he desperately has to know. "What else did I say?"

"The rest was pretty garbled." John breathes a sigh of relief. "Though you were saying something about life being unfair. That could mean anything."

When John doesn't respond he adds, "So what do you want to do today?"

"Ugh," says John eloquently at the thought of moving at all. "I want to curl up with a bottle of aspirin."

This is when he notices that he's been stripped down to his underwear.

"Did you undress me?" he asks, stupefied. "McKay."

"I didn't want you to have to sleep in bloody clothes," Rodney defends. "Besides, it's not like you're naked."

"McKay."

"I was going to put you in the bedroom, but you sort of collapsed and I'm not exactly Ronon in the muscles department. By the way, your bed is much more comfortable than the couch. Are those down pillows? You're such a girl."

John just moans and covers his face with a cushion – so much for barriers. For once Rodney seems to get the message and he goes to work on his laptop. The clacking of the keys lulls John to sleep, despite the throbbing in his head.

*

"Interesting. What do you do to fill the void?"

"Do?"

"Do you have hobbies?"

"Look, Doc, this isn't the sort of thing you can fix by taking up crochet or lawn bowling."

"I understand that."

"No, I don't think you do. I don't think anyone does."

*

They manage to go a week without mentioning John's drunken incident or even talking about anything substantial at all. John starts to laugh, Rodney fumes over foiled research, they walk into the village and down to the beach, swim when the sky is clear, sit in the living room when it's not, reading, or writing, or playing Prime-Not Prime. On the fifth day of Rodney's visit, John manages to get him on a bicycle and laughs himself sick at Rodney's face, red from exertion as he huffs his way down the road.

Eager to avoid another incident, John stays home at night, fixing dinner for two. Rodney makes fun of his apron but the gratitude in his eyes when John puts the plate before him is more than enough to make up for a little teasing.

After awhile, John forgets why he didn't want Rodney around and he stops wondering when he's going to leave. A part of him wishes the answer was never, but he knows that at some point Rodney's going to have to go back to work. Since that thought only depresses him, he does his best not to dwell on it.

At the end of the week, however, he can feel Rodney distancing himself.

They sit in front of a dying fire, and Rodney's wearing reading glasses. Something about that makes him seem vulnerable, approachable, and though John knows glasses are supposed to make someone seem smarter, for Rodney they almost de-emphasize the genius. It's strange, but it works.

John's not reading War and Peace. Rodney's checking his e-mail and he starts to curse at the back of his throat.

"What's wrong?" John asks.

Rodney looks up almost as if he forgot that John's still in the room. "Oh – nothing. Never mind."

"Rodney." John's smile is slightly puzzled. "Come on, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Rodney says again, and closes the laptop. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," John says, and when Rodney turns he snatches the computer and flips it open.

"John, no!"

John scans the article, feeling the ice seep into his blood. His mouth is filled with sawdust, and just that quickly, all his defenses are mounted.

"Son of a bitch," says John. His voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away.

"Sheppard, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I swear." Rodney looks panicked, but John's just trying to fight the nausea. His hands clench.

"It's not enough that they ruined my life," John says, jumping to his feet, "now they have to do this?"

"Sheppard –" Rodney puts his hand on John's arm. "What is all this? Why is the SGC saying you're mentally unstable? That you're dangerous?"

John snarls. "PTSD. Fucking PTSD. They don't like my answer, so they want me committed. Fuck."

"I don't understand."

John turns on him, and basically explodes. "What's to understand? I didn't want to be the poster boy for Atlantis, I didn't want to tell the world that everything would be all right. It's not fucking all right. The Wraith are not dead, I didn't save the world. I wasn't going to let them pin a medal to my chest for something I didn't do. When I said no, they black-balled me. Dishonorable discharge. And apparently, that's not enough. Now I'm a fucking criminal. Are they worried I'm going to badmouth them? I don't give a fuck about them!"

Rodney tries to calm him down, but he refuses the gesture.

"This has to be a mistake," Rodney says.

"It's not a mistake." John growls.

"But you haven't a committed a crime!"

"You think that matters to them? They don't care. They've got something coming and they want to make sure I'm in a place where I can't talk. Well, fuck them."

"Colonel–"

"Don't call me that!"

John grabs Rodney's arm and shoves him against the wall with enough force that several pictures fall; the glass shatters. Gripping his shoulders tightly enough to make him whimper, John stares into Rodney's wide blue eyes, sees the terror there, and loses his head completely, bringing his mouth to Rodney's, knocking their skulls together. Rodney yelps against John's lips, but seconds later pushes back. John's teeth vibrate as he explores Rodney's mouth with his tongue and he throws Rodney down on the broken couch, stripping off his own shirt and pants.

"Not that I'm complaining," Rodney gasps, "but what the –"

John shuts him up.

*

"You seem angry, John."

"I am angry. Why shouldn't I be?"

"Why are you angry?"

"I basically got fired for being honest. It wasn't even honesty, it was not-lying."

"That was almost four months ago. Why does it still bother you?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe because you've killed for them? Including your own commanding officer."

"That was mercy."

"I'm not saying it wasn't. But that's not an easy cross to bear, is it, John?"

*

John wakes up naked on the floor and remembers everything with a startling clarity.

"Morning," Rodney says, curled up next to him. He blinks and yawns. "You're going to have to shave. I've got first-degree burns."

John pulls back, gets up, and pulls a t-shirt over his head. Rodney watches him get dressed and says in a frigid tone, "Oh, I get it. This is where you throw up your Wall of Heterosexuality and we pretend that nothing happened. Let me just tell you something, John Sheppard. You jumped me last night, not the other way around!"

"Rodney–" John sits on the crate and looks down as Rodney struggles to sit up, face red.

"No. You don't get to do this to me. It isn't – it isn't fair!"

"Rodney." John takes a quick breath. "Didn't you ever wonder why I was dishonorably discharged?"

"What does that – Oh." Rodney's eyes go round and his mouth opens and closes.

"They were looking for a reason and I gave it to them." John sinks onto his knees and rests his hand on Rodney's thigh.

Rodney seems pensive. "Who was it?"

"That doesn't matter," John says, amused at how quickly he's bounced back.

"It wasn't Ronon, was it?"

"What? God, no." John shakes his head for emphasis. "Why would you say–"

"Well, I can handle competition from most corners," Rodney continues, "but Ronon could make Satedan sausage out of me."

John stops him with a kiss, and then pulls him to his feet and runs his fingers along Rodney's jaw. This feels so strange, this intimacy, after being alone for so long. John's hungry for it, for any kind of physical contact after a week of barely touching him.

"So this is all right," John murmurs. "You don't mind?"

"Mind? Are you crazy? I kind of wish you went about it in a different way, but I don't mind the occasional wall-slam..." Rodney trails off with a moan. "God, John."

"Thank you," John whispers.

"For what?"

"For saying my name."

*

"It was my job. I followed orders."

"Not always."

"Of course not always. That's how people get killed."

"You keep everything so close to the vest. You can't expect people to trust you if you don't let them in."

"I like to think I show people how I feel."

*

It hangs unsaid between them. Rodney's departure, back to them is imminent, but instead of figuring out what that means, they tell bad jokes and visit museums and lounge on the beach like they don't have a care in the world. Rodney still laughs at the apron and John still laughs when they ride bicycles.

John keeps trying to tighten his grip, but if Rodney notices, he doesn't say so.

They don't talk a lot, period. If they aren't having bone-melting sex, then they like to sit in the living room, Rodney's head in John's lap as he types some furious reply to some clearly inferior scientist. The glasses are always in place.

The peace of the moment is interrupted by a knock at the door. John goes to answer it and comes face to face with the Gendarmerie.

They talk in low tones for a few minutes before John slams the door shut and storms back into the living room.

"Fuck," he announces and sweeps a pile of books onto the floor with a crash.

"Ah," says Rodney, looking up. "I see fun time is over."

"Is this a joke to you?" John demands.

"Seeing as I don't know what 'this' is...no?" Rodney smiles, but John wants to scream, he wants to rant and rave and throw things. He wants to destroy this house like a hurricane. Mostly he just wants to hurt something.

"That was the police," John says through gritted teeth. "Apparently, I'm wanted for questioning."

Rodney puts his laptop aside and stands, putting his hands on John's shoulders. "Don't be stupid, you haven't done anything."

Rodney's open face strikes a nerve; John pulls away and dents the wall with his fist, crying out. Startled, Rodney backs up.

"Whoa. Calm down."

"Calm down?" John repeats. He throws the telephone across the room, and Rodney ducks. The next to go are the kitchen appliances. Cracking, feeling all that hate stored inside ooze out, John starts to shut down, just staring darkly at the floor from the middle of the room.

Rodney tries to comfort him, but John grabs his wrist, barely noticing who's on the other end, and twists it. Rodney whimpers in pain.

"John," Rodney whispers, and there are tears in his eyes, "you're hurting me."

John snaps out of the trance. "Oh, God,." John drops his wrist like it burns and backs away, stumbling over a chair. He puts his face in his hands. "Oh, God, I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I–"

Rodney cradles his wrist against his chest and keeps his distance. "I think I better go."

"Rodney, no, wait –"

But Rodney already has his duffel bag in his uninjured hand and stands at the door. "I can't handle this. I've seen you go dark before, but this...I can't stay just to get hurt. You need help, John. Call me when you get it."

He leaves and John can't do a thing about it.

*

"Do you show Rodney how you feel?"

"That's why I'm here. I'm trying."

"Do you think you're making any progress?"

"I...I've been screwed a lot in my life. I need something to hold onto."

"Just don't hold on too tightly, John. That doesn't work either."

*

"Hey. How'd it go?"

John swallows over the lump in his throat and twirls the phone cord around his finger. It's been too long. "Better than I expected. She's not like Heightmeyer."

Rodney breathes into the other end of the line. "I'm sorry for walking out."

"No," John says, even though the words are a struggle. He rubs his clean-shaven chin. "You were right. I messed up. I was just so angry at having my life taken away."

"Any more trouble with the police?"

"No," says John and he wonders if Rodney's had a hand in that. Their conversation sounds so different, and John longs for that week, that brief time when he felt close to someone. "I miss you."

It's a terribly unmanly thing to say, but John figures after his last 'macho' display, he can afford it.

"Good," Rodney says and he sounds like he might be fighting off tears – or it might just be a cold. "Because I'll be back."

When John hangs up, he feels relieved. It won't be easy, but at least he's found something to fight for again.