Morgue Files

Four days after Rodney and Katie fail to set up a raincheck for lunch, he sees her having dinner with one of the biologists, smiling awkwardly and making one of her eyes twitch--which Rodney knows from personal experience is Katie's most carefully-guarded seductive technique.  One attempt to throw it down with the biologist later, he lets himself into John's room and drinks Sheppard's stash of Sam Adams, wiping his nose on Sheppard's sheets and feeling sorry for himself and definitely not crying--partly because he's not as sorry as he should be, and his numbing inability to really give a damn is freaking him out.  Also, it helps that he knows that John will forgive him, and sigh at him and help him out of his clothes and tuck him into bed.  All of which John does when he finally shows up in his room at half past midnight, murmuring, "Geez--come on, Rodney."

"I thought she liked me," Rodney hears himself say, letting John push him down onto the mattress.  John's bed is oddly comfortable for a nonprescription mattress, and the pillow smells like John: clean like soap and sunshine and a little bit like the sea.  "I thought I liked her."

"You did," John promises, putting a hand on Rodney's forehead.  "She did.  Maybe it just wasn't meant to be."

Rodney closes his eyes.  "I'm going to die alone."

"Doubtful," John answers, and Rodney can hear him shuffling around, untying his boots.  "In this galaxy, it's likely I'll be there, too."

He's mostly asleep by the time John pushes him over a little on the mattress, telling him to make room, and the last thing Rodney remembers before he tips into a dream--about still oceans and the glimmer of fish beneath the water's surface--is the warmth of John's arm, curling over his chest.

*

Rodney feels marginally better the next day, which lasts until Ronon shows up at breakfast looking shower-damp, and says, "I want to throw an Earth dance."

John's spoonful of granola stops halfway to his mouth and he sets it back down.  "Okay," he says.

"For Keller," Ronon continues.  He grins, and Rodney finally understands what the word 'wolfish' means.  "She said she never got to go to any, when she was younger."

"I see," John says, and Rodney turns to gape at him, because, hello.  There could not possibly be a worse idea in the world, on so many levels, and Rodney's about to say that when John adds, "Well, if you really want to throw an Earth dance, you'll need to do a little research."

Five minutes later, Ronon disappears on a scavenger hunt for Pretty in Pink, and Rodney points his fork at Sheppard as he says, "You are a terrible, horrible human being."

"I couldn't resist," John admits, and holds his serious expression for all of five seconds before he bursts out into his horrible, honking laugh.  "Oh, man, he must really like her."

"Yeah," Rodney agrees, and tries not to feel bitter or anything.  "He must."

*

Rodney is perfectly capable of forming emotional attachments.  He had loved his piano and his cat, still loves--despite himself, even!--Jeannie and to some extent Madison.  He loves Ronon and Teyla and he loved Carson, fiercely, more fiercely than he'd known before Carson had died.  He loves John.  He loves Atlantis.  Maybe that makes it worse--to know he's not fundamentally broken, it was just whatever he had with Katie. 

"Feeling any better today?" John asks, sliding a cookie over to Rodney, his fingers light on the edge of a standard issue military paper napkin.  Rodney has more love for one of John's stupid, sun-brown fingers than he has for Katie's entire life, he thinks miserably, and takes the cookie, eats it in two enormous bites, sighing heavily.  "It's okay, buddy," John tells him, patting him on the shoulder.