Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started, as many things did, because Rodney McKay couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Do you ever…” 

John waited for more, watching idly as sunlight reflected off the shimmering waves of their new ocean. When nothing else was forthcoming, he pulled his gaze from the water and eyed Rodney. His eyes were darting back and forth, catching on nothing, in the way they often did when he was deep in thought.

“Yep,” John said. Rodney turned to stare at him so quickly that something in his neck cracked. “All the time.”

“What, really?”

“Absolutely,” John deadpanned, and Rodney huffed in annoyance.

“Ah, yes. It’s the kidding.”

“You’ve gotta finish your sentence if you actually want an answer, McKay.”

Tap-tap-tap; the familiar sound of Rodney’s fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the concrete of the pier beneath them. “Do you ever wonder…” Rodney started, then trailed off again.

“Rodney,” John warned.

“Shut up,” Rodney snapped, but there was no real heat in it. “I’m thinking.”

John made a vaguely sarcastic noise in the back of his throat, then deftly dodged Rodney’s kick at his ankles. 

“Just let me…” Rodney trailed off again, twisting his hand in a tight circular motion near his head, which John translated roughly as organize my thoughts into words that make sense to lesser mortals.

John hummed and left him to it, and Rodney’s hands resumed their familiar rhythms. You could tell a lot about Rodney McKay by watching the pattern of his unconscious movements. Now that they were back in Pegasus, his fidgeting had finally lost the frantic edge that had been near-constant back on Earth. Rodney had been wound as tight as a coiled spring in those long months, his frustration overflowing in abrupt movements that put John's teeth on edge.

But they were back home now, possibly for good, and those rhythms had calmed again. The silence curled comfortably around them, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves. 

“Okay,” Rodney said, eventually. “Just promise you won’t go all… all Sheppard on me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just…” Rodney flapped his hand in an impatient shushing gesture. “Shut up for a second.”

John raised an eyebrow. Waited.

“Do you ever wonder why we never…” Rodney made a twisting sort of gesture with his hand, then said, “You know. Like Teyla and Kanaan?”

John stared. “What?”

Annoyed eyes met his. “What?”

John suddenly wished Teyla was here, if only so he’d have someone to exchange incredulous glances with. “No,” he said, as firmly as he could manage. “Funny enough, I’ve never wondered why we’ve never had a baby together.”

Rodney shot him a scathing look. “Hilarous, Colonel.”

John tilted his head in false-consideration. “Though if we did—”

“I’m not talking about us.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?” Even for Rodney, this conversation was frustratingly scattered. 

“Can I ask…” Rodney trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant. Taptap-taptap went his fingers against Ancient concrete, fast and anxious. John let his eyes follow the tense line of Rodney’s shoulders; the muscle jumping in his jaw. “That is, I know you don’t normally talk about… well, anything, but—” 

If this went on much longer, John really would kill him. Zelenka would help him hide the body; he was almost positive. “Spit it out, McKay.”

Rodney met his eyes. “You said once that you weren’t good at being married.”

John's eyebrows shot up, mentally kicking himself for his ill-advised confession that had apparently lodged itself in Rodney's brain. At the time, he’d hoped Rodney would forget about it; or at the very least, that he'd follow Ronon’s lead and have the decency to never mention it again. But even half-drunk under alien skies, John should have known that was unlikely. 

“Guess I did,” John said cautiously.

“Why weren’t you?” Rodney asked. “Good at it, I mean.”

“You really know how to ruin a nice afternoon, Rodney, you know that?”

Rodney’s hesitance gave way to annoyance. “Oh, melodramatic much?” 

“I’m just saying, you oughta warn a guy before you bring up his divorce out of nowhere.”

“Didn’t I just ask you not to go all Sheppard on me?”

John resisted the childish urge to shove Rodney into the water. “You still haven’t explained what that even means.”

“You know, I've heard that normal people can have a casual discussion about their lives without looking like they're being tortured for bits of top-secret intelligence.”

In the privacy of his own mind, John could admit he had a point. Aloud, he said, “Psychopaths, all of ‘em.”

That earned him a genuine grin, and something in John that had been wound up tight and brittle loosened, just a bit. It was only Rodney, after all.

“So,” Rodney said awkwardly. “Um. You weren't… good at being married?”

There was something comforting, John often thought, about being friends with someone who was even worse at this than he was. “You know me. Wasn't really my thing.”

“Sheppard,” Rodney snapped, and suddenly there was a thread of desperation under his words. John’s gaze sharpened, and Rodney let out a frustrated breath through his teeth. 

What the hell? 

“Please,” Rodney finally said, quietly, and if he hadn’t already had John’s undivided attention, that single word would’ve done it. “I need… please.”

“Okay,” John said slowly, drawing out the word. “You gonna tell me why you care?”

Rodney waved a dismissive hand; yes yes.

John sighed and leaned back, his hands flat on the concrete behind him. It was strange, trying to find words for something he’d never spoken about aloud. “Well, it was a long time ago. I was bad at… I don’t know what you call it. Being with someone, I guess.”

“You mean—”

“I mean,” John interrupted, because suddenly he knew he had to get it out quickly or it wouldn’t come out at all. “I was on edge all the damn time. Trying to guess what she wanted. What I was supposed to do.”

John took a breath, worked his jaw. Reminded himself that this was important to Rodney, for some reason. 

“I’d ask her what she wanted, because there was no way in hell I was figuring it out on my own. And she’d always say something that made me—” John cut himself off, not sure how to describe the cloying anxiety that had always crept over him in those moments, sickly-sweet and nauseating.

“What?” Rodney asked.

John wasn’t sure he would ever have enough words; not for this. “She’d ask me… whatever. Y’know. And I’d…” John gestured jerkily with one hand. “I don’t know how to say it. I’d panic, I guess. Eventually she got tired of trying.” He huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “Takes two to tango, and all that.”

“Never took you for much of a tango-er,” Rodney said absently.

Despite himself, John felt the corner of his lip twitch into a smile. “Not so much.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. John could feel Rodney watching him, but he kept his gaze firmly on the horizon. It was only Rodney, and these wounds were a decade buried, but John still felt flayed open.

“You know,” Rodney finally said. “I always sort of wondered if you and Ronon would… you know.”

John knew what he was asking. “Nah,” he said. “That was never the problem.”

Rodney hummed in consideration, and John finally chanced a glance over at him. Rodney was watching him thoughtfully in a way that made the back of his neck itch.

“Stop that,” John said. 

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me.”

Rodney spluttered. “What, now I’m not allowed to—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They locked eyes for a moment before John broke, snorting out a laugh as Rodney collapsed into near-silent laughter, head bowed over his knees. John elbowed him, and Rodney shoved him back.

“Shut up, McKay,” John said easily, once Rodney had straightened back up and John’s smile had turned fond. The wind pulled at John’s hair, warm and salty. 

“Oh yes, very mature,” Rodney grumbled, but he was kicking his legs absently in his happy-comfortable rhythm. John closed his eyes for a moment, tipping his face to the sun. 

Then Rodney said, “Jennifer broke up with me, you know,” and John’s eyes flew open.

“What?”

Rodney eyed him. His legs stopped kicking. “Hm, you didn’t know that?”

“How the hell would I know that?” John asked incredulously.

“Well, I guess I just sort of—that is, I assumed, what with, you know—”

“Nevermind,” John said. Sometimes with Rodney, it was best to just move on. “When did this happen?”

“Um,” Rodney said. “Last week?”

“Last week?”

Rodney’s eyes danced around John’s shoulders before meeting his eyes. John couldn’t quite parse his expression. “...Yes?”

“And are you…” John trailed off. Freaking out? “Alright?”

“What?” Rodney asked. “Yes yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “Maybe, just spitballing here, because you waited an entire week to bring it up?”

“Five days,” Rodney muttered, which wasn't exactly a point in his favor.

“Fine, you waited five days to bring it up.”

Rodney met his eyes for a moment before looking away over the horizon. “Funny thing,” he said, fingers tapping. “I was, um. Relieved, when it happened.”

“Relieved,” John echoed flatly.

“It was all quite amicable, you know,” Rodney said. “She said her piece, and I said… Well, I’m sure I said something. Possibly something brilliant, but it may have been quite, ah, abrasive, and then… anyway, then she left, and all I could think was, oh thank G-d that’s over.” 

Rodney paused. Possibly for breath, or maybe for dramatic effect. “And not just the conversation, but the whole… well, the whole thing. You know?”

Huh, thought John. Unbidden, he thought of Nancy all those years ago as she handed over their divorce papers; remembered the way she’d caught a glimpse of his expression and had snapped, try to hide your goddamn relief, John.

Rodney’s hands twisted as he stared off into the middle distance. “And it's not that she wasn't… that is to say, Jennifer’s great, you know? Smart, funny, beautiful. Shockingly accepting of the fact that I'm, well, pretty screwed up. But I couldn't ever…” Rodney trailed off, then huffed a breath that was somehow both frustrated and amused at the same time. “I kept trying to… to be what she wanted, to live up to her expectations, and then when it was over, I…” 

Rodney's eyes found his. “It was the strangest thing. It was all over, and you’d think I’d be devastated, but… I wasn’t. Not even a little bit.”

“Huh,” John said intelligently, for lack of anything else to say.

Rodney snorted and laid flat on his back, grumbling the whole way down. “You understand that this is why people don’t tell you things, right? You're not exactly helping.”

“What, you need help now?”

“Well… no,” Rodney admitted.

John prodded his shoulder. “Sit back up. You’re gonna screw up your back.”

“My back’s already screwed up.”

“And then you’re gonna blame me for it.”

Rodney flapped a hand impatiently in his direction. “Shut up about my back. We’re talking about my weirdly Sheppard-esque breakup epiphany. This is huge, you know.”

“What the hell is there to talk about,” John said, hoping that if he ignored Sheppard-esque breakup epiphany Rodney would never say those words together again. “She broke up with you, you’re happy about it, end of story.”

“Huh,” Rodney said, and something in his expression shifted. John could tell he was walking the fine line between surprised and pleased. “You’re right. Of course you're right.”

“Thank you.”

Rodney’s expression tipped over into pleased. “I am happy,” he said, eyes soft with wonder. 

“That’s, uh…” John cleared his throat. “That’s good, buddy.”

Rodney smiled, his eyes drifting shut. “Hm,” he said, his legs kicking again. “It is, isn’t it?”

John watched him for a long, stretched-out moment; let his eyes trace over the lines of Rodney’s face and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders were as relaxed as they ever got, and John didn’t bother to hide the fond smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. The salty-warm breeze returned to play with his hair.

“Yeah,” John said, and meant it. “Real good.”