Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	Julie London
Entry tags:	fic, sga, sga fic

FIC: Give, for wild confusion, peace.
Title: Give, for wild confusion, peace.
Author: cobweb_diamond
Characters: John Sheppard, John/Rodney
Word Count: 1500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-Sunday. John and Rodney attend Carson's funeral back on Earth.
Author's Notes: I have an entire notebook of unfinished Stargate: Atlantis fic, but no, this is what I finish first, something I wrote in one go at 1am, as always. *sighs* Well, there goes my SGA virginity. Despair, all!



Sometimes John thinks about his last day at McMurdo, his last full day before freak chance and General O’Neill clubbed together to introduce him to Stargate travel in general and Atlantis in particular and screwed up his life completely. He remembers that it had been his day off, a good, clear day. He’d gone out in full gear, sunglasses and a high-collared snow jacket so none of his skin was exposed at all, and he’d just lain out there like a stationary snow-angel, the ice-blue sky expanding and endless above him. He hadn’t had many friends at McMurdo.

Later he’d found out that they’d found two other gene-carriers before him, but neither of them had been crazy enough to want to go to Pegasus. John was, though, and his superiors knew it. Anyone who voluntarily stayed at McMurdo over winter had to have something wrong with them, which was why there were mandatory interviews to make sure they weren’t actually suicidal.

All Atlantis military personnel had to go through every psych test in the book before they were cleared to go through the gate. Contrary to Rodney’s belief, the space marines weren’t a bunch of Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alikes in search of glory, riches and some hot alien ass. The SGC had a very strict profile for the kind of people they wanted.

Even the scientists had been screened, although most of them had been hand-picked from Area 51 consultants and employees. After all, it took a certain type of person to hop on a possibly one-way wormhole ride to another galaxy. Most of them were like Rodney and Zelenka, unattached, crazily driven, and unlikely to have considered the idea of staying on Earth once the opportunity presented itself.

Carson, on the other hand, had always been the odd one out. He was the only person John had ever heard speak of Earth with any real wistfulness. Sure, people missed things – a regular supply of alcohol and porn (pretty much everyone), the internet (most of the science team), Iowa corn-fed beef (Ford), the chance of seeing the hypothetical Queen reunion tour (Rodney, surprisingly), TV – but no one really missed Earth. John was used to going on missions with men who had no ties to home, who expected to die, and Rodney was too oblivious to notice that pretty much all of his colleagues were low-grade sociopaths who cared more about their careers than whatever family or friends they might be leaving behind. It took a certain kind of person, and Carson, with his mum and his constant innocent hope, was not it.

Carson… out of everyone, John had expected Carson to be the one to retire on Earth, to get out of this with all his limbs and spend the rest of his life with his research, winning awards and being bashful about it. He hadn’t even been in the field.

Scotland wasn’t what John had expected, although he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, really. More sheep, perhaps, and less sunshine. After nearly three years operating on the Lantean calendar, he’d lost track of Earth seasons.

The funeral was in Glasgow, the church filled with people John had never even heard of. He wished that more of people from Atlantis had been given clearance to come; the bastards back at Cheyenne Mountain still wouldn’t allow Ronon to even leave the gateroom, in case he turned out to be an undercover wraith agent, or something.

Rodney delivered his censored eulogy with his mouth straightening out into a thin line between every sentence, saying nothing that meant anything and knowing it. “He was a good doctor. A good friend to me.” He’d told John on the plane ride over that he’d had to write out his entire speech and send a copy to the SGC so they could vet it, make sure he wasn’t giving away any state secrets. Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to mention how Carson had saved their lives so many times, in case someone asked how. Carson’s own family thought he’d been doing harmless research in some top-secret facility, not performing trauma surgery on alien planets and learning how to fire a gun, fly a spaceship, design biological weapons to fight aliens. They thought he’d died in an office fire.

“Carson always thought of a solution to every problem,” said Rodney, his highest praise. He cleared his throat for the millionth time, and jutted his jaw. “No one will ever replace him, at work or – as my friend.”

John stared straight ahead at the stained-glass window for the rest of the service, standing up for the hymns and breathing through his nose. He hadn’t been to church for real since he was thirteen years old, and this place with its ancient pillars and pathways worn into the floor by hundreds of years of use, this place was so very far from the whitewashed chapels he remembered from his childhood.

He’d been to twenty-seven military funerals in his life, and this was his first regular one since he’d been in Afghanistan when his mom passed away. He still had had father’s flag, neatly folded in a storage unit in North Carolina.

There was going to be a wake, but John left out the side-door the second the service was over. He wasn’t in the mood to drink Scotch whiskey with strangers and lie through his teeth about his job. He’d boldly gone where no man had gone before; he could find his way back to Glasgow airport.

The cold spring sun cut a sharp strip over the roof of the church, and John stared up at the sky, fists clenched tense.

“If you’re going to punch a wall, I’d suggest finding one that isn’t 400-year-old sandstone.”

John turned. “I’m no geologist, but I’m pretty sure you’re out by a couple of million years with that one.”

“Oh, shut up.” Rodney tugged at his collar with a finger, and John realised that this was the first time he’d ever seen Rodney wear a tie. Round the corner of the cemetery, a column of black-clad figures made their way to the waiting cars. Rodney twitched a hand at them. “Are you --?”

“No,” said John. “I – no.” Then he blurted, because he didn’t want to stop himself, “You should stay. Here.”

“What?” said Rodney, face twisting in confusion. “Camp out in the boneyard? Or not, because I’m pretty sure Carson’s dying wish was not to see me catch pneumonia and –” He broke off, mouth turning down at the corners.

“I meant here on Earth,” said John, expressionless.

“What?” Rodney repeated. Then he stepped closer again, inspecting John’s face. Not for the first time, he wished that sunglasses were part of the dress uniform. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, understanding from long practise and exasperated because of it. “I’m not going to – I’m fine. I’m not some kind of damsel in distress, you idiot.”

John forced out a smirk. “No, you’re a balding nerd.”

The collar of his dress blues was choking him, and Earth was freaking him out right now, making him remember those six weeks when they’re thought they’d lost Atlantis forever. He wondered what had happened to Carson’s baby turtles. Rodney’s forehead gleamed from nervous perspiration, and he looked as out of place here as John felt. He let himself, for once, be the one to reach out.

The wall was hard and painful against his shoulder as he fell back, pulling Rodney with him. He had a handful of suit jacket, and tugging it he could feel the pulse Rodney’s neck against his cheek. They stumbled together, Rodney ungainly and John not caring. Rodney let him for a moment before shoving him off, his lower lip reddening. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s not like I’m Oprah or anything, but do you have any idea how to express your feelings like a normal human?” There wasn’t any real bite to it: this was Rodney being kind.

John shrugged. “I don’t care if you make out with someone at my funeral.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Rodney, glaring. “Your funeral’s going to be a fiasco: fifty hysterical Athosian teenage girls and Elizabeth. Besides, I’ll probably be in the body bag next door.”

“That’s romantic.”

Rodney snorted. “Don’t cast me as Romeo to your swooning Juliet, you freak. It’ll almost certainly be because you finally managed to blow us both up.” His mouth snapped shut, horrified, and John saw his jaw clench.

“We’re both doing well, aren’t we?” he said mildly.

Rodney nodded miserably. After a moment he glanced back at John. “We should…” he jerked a thumb at the gate.

He watched as Rodney’s mouth realigned itself, and pushed himself off the wall and into the sunlight. “D’you think God’ll be upset I was being gay on hallowed ground?” he said lightly, trying to dispel the grief that still hung heavy and familiar in his throat.

“No, but I bet the US Air Force will love it,” he said, his voice almost back to its usual sarcasm. John didn’t need to look to know that Rodney was rolling his eyes.

They left the cemetery together, the sun casting crisp shadows on the grass. Just for a moment John could feel Rodney’s hand on his back, large and warm and clumsily comforting.