the first time you kiss ryland, it’s rough, rushed. you thought he was going to die, he thought he was going to die. there was a lot of blood and it was truthfully the first kiss either of you had had in a very long time. so his five o’clock shadow brushed roughly against your chin, his lips nearly bruising yours with the way it which he tries to mold his lips to fit yours perfectly. but you wouldn’t want to change it for the world.
and the next time you kiss is much gentler. as is those that follow. sometimes one of you are a little more eager, hands reaching for hems of shirts and pant buttons. and it’s long, a kiss that leaves you gasping for air yet yearning for their touch to be your air so you don’t have to let go another second. yet the simple ones are the ones you remember the most. how he always tends to wrap his arms around your waist, palms pressed against your back to keep the two of you close. while your hands always seem to cup his cheeks, thumbs grazing his cheekbones as you take in every taste and smell of his being.
which leaves your last kiss the most bittersweet. you knew it was coming, you watched as his body started to shrink slightly in his bed. the eridians tried everything they could to convince you that he has more time. but when you know, you know. so you sat by his bedside, staring down at him in his bed, tubes connected in every part of his body. brushing back at his hair, you whispered sweet nothings to him. a rush running through your veins when he kisses you back. it wasn’t long after that he passed, an hour at most. but feeling him gain enough strength to send one last expression of love back to you left you feeling comforted.
!! This Fic Contains Manga Spoilers!!
As Zanka is trotted through the streets of The Ruined Doll Festival by Goka, he sinks back into his memories of his time in The Hell Guard, viewing them in a new light.
5 Years Ago
The Dungeon is not a place entirely unfamiliar to Zanka. Only high ranking personnel were allowed within the walls, and though Zanka is still but a student Kyokua was in charge and decided he should come from time to time to familiarize himself with the place.
Zanka had sat in for a few sessions with prisoners, Kyokua had shown him the tools they would use on criminals to extract valuable information.
Morbid, perhaps, but Zanka knew this was a necessary cruelty in order to establish control and order on the ground. If he hoped to ever stay on the same level of his siblings he would have to learn to become numb to the screams and begging of low life criminals who did not deserve to be pitied.
Kyouka had always cultivated a particular interest in science, as such she came to be curious about Givers. It no longer was enough to subdue, arrest, and execute. Now she had to find out how this happened in the first place.
Why do some humans, if they were even human, have this ability? Was an entire lineage capable of being a Giver if one possessed the power?
If not, how did it fester?
If she could find the source of the rot, she figured they could be closer to purging it.
It was during one of these experiments that Zanka was brought in alongside her again, the giver was defiant, a rogue criminal whose instrument had been a simple can he carried around his belt tied with a string.
According to the reports Kyouka had him study before coming in the simple can when activated would transform into a flail like weapon, capable of launching to absurd distances, it could be used for both combat and for a swift escape, utilizing it more as a grappling hook and launching away.
Kyouka had taken the opportunity to personally apprehend him in order to attempt an ‘experiment’ as she vaguely put it.
Their footsteps echoed down the hall, though Zanka’s own were practically drowned out but the powerful and sure steps of Kyouka, her heels making the very walls of the dungeon more intimidating as they reached cells.
Several prisoners had pushed themself against walls, most of them beyond the point of begging for freedom and simply trying not to bring attention to themselves at all, as if they pushed themselves far enough into the wall they could become invisible.
The way Kyouka’s very presence demanded respect and submission made Zanka want to strive to do the same. Keeping his back as ridged as hers and attempting to match her stride despite their height difference. They were flanked by six other lower ranking guards according to them.
Most sessions required only two other guards, however for Givers the number went up with their unpredictability.
Kyouka leads them to the entrance of the torture cell, where the Giver, Furace, had already been transferred and chained.
The posted guards bowed their heads to them, but Kyouka did not respond, simply giving them the signal to open the doors.
Furace sat on the ground, hardly given a choice as he was shackled to the ground in the center of the room. Sometimes Zanka felt it resembled a main course displayed on a dining table.
The Giver, despite his circumstances, merely gives them a smirk as they enter and shut the door.
“Looks like the Shit Guard decided to grace me with their presence huh?”
This kind of behavior is not unusual for Givers, they are always the haughtiest, believing themselves to be superior to that of an average human. They soon quickly learn the Hell Guard does not produce an average human.
Kyouka produces a can from her bag, slowly and deliberately, turning it round in her hand in a mocking manner.
“This is yours is it not?”
Furace’s face finally falls, eyes betraying what he quickly tries to mask.
“I don't know what you are talking about. Just a piece of trash.” his voice waivers. A thief but a horrible liar, Zanka notes with a roll of his eyes.
“Hm? Trash you say. Well that won’t do now will it.” Kyouka’s voice is firm, as her grip tightens around the can, she begins to pace around him, circling like a noxious-blood hound. Due to the chains Furace can not turn his head to follow her stride, in vain tugging at the chains but is forced still by several over guards pushing their glaives against his neck. pinning him back to the ground.
Despite his defiant expression Zanka catches a whisper of the man’s breath catching in his throat producing a truly pitiful noise.
“Your type never enters schools correct? Would you like a history lesson then?”
“Shove it up your ass.” In a flash Kyouka’s hand retrieves her whip and the sound cracks through the air, meeting skin swiftly followed quickly by a scream.
Zanka has long since learned not to react to the sounds,
“Clearly you are uneducated, but we shall correct that. Won't we?”
Though he sneers he does not provoke Kyouka further. Satisfied with this, Kyouka continues to finish her pace around him.
“The Kamuatari District was established long ago, by our ancestors. There was a time when our walls were open to all, we shared our resources, our cultivated fields and safe fortified walls to those who sought it. However, more and more filth entered our city. Raiders, layabouts, and thieves.” Kyouka punctuated the thief part by digging her heel into Furace’s hand.
“The Nijiku are proud Co-Founders, we set the foundations for The Hell Guard to rid our streets of all ilk. It took many years but we are now the last true standing fortress of Humanity. A guiding light to all of Humanity."
“So,” Kyouka continues, standing back in front of Furace one hand still holding the can and the other her whip “filth like this does not belong within our walls. Do you agree?”
Furace chuckles low and dark.
“Nah, cause it's already filled to the brim with trash dressed up in fancy-” his insult is cut short by another four lashes.
The man squirms and fights against his restraints but it only serves to cut himself further on the glaives the guards had not moved. Once he settled on panting, Kyouka stepped away, turning her back to the thief as she observed the can.
Truly unremarkable in every way, how this could come to be a treasure to the man Zanka couldn't fathom.
“I have always wondered, what becomes of a Giver who loses their Instrument."
Furnace stills, his eyes blow wide as he attempts to lift his head, eyes almost screaming ‘you wouldn’t.’ Kyouka hangs her whip back at her waist then trails her hand along her tanto, slowly seething it and brandishing it against the firelight of the cell. The reflection against it allows both for Kyouka to look back towards the prisoner and for the prisoner to see her cold uncaring eyes.
“W-what are you doing?” Furace finds his voice.
“Remain calm. This is but an experiment. Be proud, perhaps if you're lucky we will include you in a footnote of our history books.” Kyouka speaks smoothly, her voice regaining its mocking edge as she raises her dagger against the can slowly piercing it.
“Stop it! Please…please I’ll do anything, I will tell you everything, I’ll give everything back jus-” Kyouka tosses the can in the air and cleanly slices entirely through the fragile tin
The shrieks are the loudest Zanka has ever heard in his life. The shrill sound cuts into the air far harsher than the sounds even the whip had just moments ago.
The weight of the shrieks even paused Kyouka, it was so rare to see his sister sport an expression aside from apathy, but she was there on full display of the other guards eye wide and mouth hanging agape at the scene unfolding.
The man writhes and screams, “You bitch you fucking bitch I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking-”
Pop.
In his struggle, the man managed to dislocate his right hand, freeing himself of the shackles, feebly trying to push forward.
Two of the guards step in front of Zanka swiftly even as he readies himself for a fight, the other two rush forward while the glaive holders kick down on the man’s back but before any can make it far a controlled hand shoots up. A stand-down signal.
There is a pause and a moment of hesitance before the glaives ease on the man's throat and the others relax their postures.
Furace pants with exertion but still tries in vain to push his right arm forward, his eyes aren't focused on them, instead they are trained on the now destroyed can at Kyouka’s feet.
Kyouka stares, instinctively her head tilts as if trying to dissect the situation with her eyes alone. Then Kyouka raises her shoe, just slightly, and kicks the can towards the thief, landing just barely within his reach.
The man does not use his freed hand to swipe or attack, he doesn't even use it to gesture crudely at them, instead he lunges his limp hand attempting to find purchase on the crumbled up can to no avail, making his pitiful whimpers all the louder till he is able to scoop the item and drag it back towards his body.
Zanka pushes past the two guards to get a better view, regardless it's not as if he needs protection, he can handle himself just fine if a fight breaks out.
Taking his spot next to Kyouka they both study the man, though Kyouka stares with a twinkle in her eye as if she has connected another invisible string in her head Zanka can only stare back with contempt.
After countless torture methods, all sorts curel devices that tested to limit of the human body, and soul crushing words, none of it had not broken the man. Yet this was what did him in? To the point of sniveling tears and babbling like a child.
Though the shrieks have subsided, the Thief still lets out whimpers and gasps his whole body shaking as more tears spill onto the floor. As he nuzzles the can its splintered sharp edges cut into his face and hands, if he notices he hardly reacts, only seeking the closeness of that can regardless of how it only serves to harm him now.
It’s futile the way weak sparks of anima attempt to breathe life back into the item, dull orange steadily fading into nothingness.
“I’m sorry…” he whispers, low in his throat and Zanka knows the apology is not directed to them but the intimate object, “I’m sorry.”
The glow of his eyes fade, till he too falls completely silent and still on the ground.
‘Pathetic’. Zanka sneers.
After that Zanka was excused to go back to his training and studies, Kyouka had a few more experiments she wished to try on the Giver. However it seemed Furace had efficiently become a mute, even the worst of Kyouka’s methods only drew out a soft groan or grunt.
Kyouka had tried to wait it out but after several weeks it became clear the man was nothing more than an empty husk, and he was disposed of.
As they sat at the dinner table giving their reports to mother and father of their days, Kyouka let out a sigh, unbecoming at the table as her frustration seeped through her recounting.
“If you can not stand to live after losing everything then you might as well already be dead.”
Present
‘You might as well already be dead.’
Zanka lets out another cough, Goka is carrying him stomach down on his shoulder and every slight movement jabs his bones into Zanka’s open bleeding wound. Blood trickles down his lip with the effort he bites them in order to not let out any pathetic sounds that would surely earn a further scolding from Goka and Kyouka.
Despite his best attempts Zanka was only halfway successful in stopping the tears brimming at the corner of his eye.He longed to reach for Lovely, to pull her away from Goka’s grasp yet he couldn't even lift his head for long before feeling dizzy.
Pathetic. Zanka thinks to himself, eyes trained on Lovely and the way Goka holds her too tightly and the way her bandages have started to slip off her wood.
No one should be holding her, certainly not Goka and his stomach twists at the idea of Kyouka getting her hands on Lovely.
Pathetic. Zanka’s brain repeats like it's a mantra reminding him over and over of his own shortcomings.
It hasn't even been long since he was discharged from the infirmary and given the all clear to continue work again. It had already already patronizing enough only being allowed out on missions with Team Child but now surely the Cleaner won't ever trust him with another important task again.
Maybe they will make him a permanent fixture in Team Child, since he never really seems to grow anyways.
“Zanka! Zanka, please keep your eyes open.” That voice, Eishia?
“Sir please just-put him down, he needs his wounds tended to imminently.” It is her, Zanka forces his eyes open, Eishia is in front of him, lifting his head and he knows he must look awful, Eishia was always the most considerate about his aversion to touch.
Where are they? Far from the main stage clearly but still in the festival.
“You are a Giver.” Goka speaks moving away from Eishia and Zanka finds himself craving Eisha’s touch once more. Over her shoulder Zanka can see several other patients, all resting on makeshift beds due to the tragedy, Eisha really does work fast. A few of them already look in stable condition.
“Y-yes. Yes I am sir. I’ve treated Zanka before, I-I am aware of his vitals I can take it from-”
“This is what Zanka has reduced himself to, depending on a so-called healer to erase his mistakes. No, The Hell Guard will take it from here. ” Goka surveys the scene as well, but with a less impressed lens.
Zanka squeezes his eyes shut. Iron hit his tongue as the steady ooze of blood finally erupting with the big he was digging into his lip.
Why was this always so humiliating, when the Cleaners have to interact with his family? At every turn he did his best to ensure it wouldn't happen often but now it is.
Pathetic, pathetic.
“Zanka won’t make it with an ordinary doctor! By the time you get him there he-he could…”
Goka interrupts her, firm on his stance.
“A Nijiku will not succumb to such pathetic wounds. Perhaps the time he spends recovering will remind him what is at stake.”
Dread sinks to the bottom of his stomach as Goka turns them away, he doesn't want to end up back in the Kamuatari District, but he’s too weak to fight off Goka especially now at such a disadvantage.
“Pathetic?” Zanka opens his eyes. That was a tone he’s never heard on Eishia, sharp, angry. Cold. Even Goka turns back slightly to look back at her, her head hangs low but her shoulders shake.
“Pathetic.” Eishia repeats, lifting her head, eyes burning with rage, “Your brother is dying and the only thing you can think to say about it is pathetic!?”
“The only thing pathetic here is your treatment of someone you're supposed to love! If something would make it easier for your sibling to survive, wouldn't you want to do it?!” her voice cracks tears welling in her eyes as her voice gets louder. Zanka realizes August is nowhere in sight, he usually is by her side for the Doll Festival since she gets anxious in big crowds. Now she is alone and to make matters worse she seems to be some of the very few doctors here to help do damage control.
Is August okay? Zanka wonders, trying to spot in him the crowd.
“Put him down.”
Both Goka and Zanka blink in surprise. No one speaks to The Hell Guard like this, with such a commanding tone.
“Now.” Even with the tears spilling out Eishia somehow remains intimidating.
For a moment Zanka worries Goka will be harsh, will turn his back and continue to walk away. Then slowly he feels himself being lowered, Eisha rushes over and gently guides his body onto one of the set up beds on the ground.
With a grunt Zanka is finally laying down and he feels like he can finally breathe without opening his wound further. It’s a relief even with how uncomfortable the bed is and how painful his wound remains. But still his eyes fell on Lovely, still held in Goka's grasp.
Eisha stands firm this time, wiping her tears quickly to regain her composure. “Give me Lovely Assistaff.”
Goka appears confused then glances to Lovely. For a moment Zanka’s heart skips a beat, his mind flashes images of that destroyed can clattering on the dungeon floor. Zanka never did learn their name.
But Goka does something Zanka does not expect, he fixes the slipping bandages on Lovely and finally hands her off to Eisha who lets out a sigh, betraying her suddenly bold nature before she kneels back to Zanka’s side, laying Lovely down next to him.
Shakily Zanka lets his fingers trace her wood, the comfort the touch alone brings is almost enough to entirely dull the pain he is going through.
“It’s okay Zanka, we’ll get you back and running in no time.” For a moment Zanka stares at her, she shoulders are ridged in the same way Alice’s are when she is concentrating, her brows furrowed and though exhaustion seeps into her eyes there is a stronger spark within them. A spark determined to do all she can despite the odds and despite the limits of their medical knowledge. They will continue to push the boundaries of what they know about medicine, he is sure of it.
“You really are a Stilza.” Eishia lets out a soft laugh at that, a smile returning to her face.
“Guess I’m just a late bloomer huh?” Zanka nods, from one late bloomer to another.
“Thank you, Eishia.”
Eishiapauses, opens her mouth, and Zanka is sure he’s about to hear her stutter out that she hasn't even done anything yet or that she won't be able to do much good but she will try. Instead he hears something he’s never heard her say before.
He’s trying to stay focused after you promise him a yummy meal and lots of uninterrupted sexy time. But only if he keeps his cool during this online council meeting.
That’s usually a failure on his part because Karen and others are getting on his last nerve. But he’s receiving extra encouragement tonight. You’re teasing him from under the desk. And it’s borderline distracting. He’s making a mental note to get you for that.
“Remember what I said,” you whisper, rounding the corner to prepare for the evening’s upcoming festivities.
As much as he doesn’t like being contested by anyone in this town, Ted doesn’t mind a challenge from you.
(Wanted to base this on the song by Shiloh Dynasty, literally called "Losing Interest." Creating angst with WondLa. Enjoy a cry! 🙃)
The soft song rang in her ears. The soft song's lyrics rattled in her chest.
'Losing Interest, you won't find no better than this...' She whispered softly, her Siren call echoing through her lips. A bit of gold blood trickled down her nose. She was losing the battle she had to face. The song was still in effect, its abilities coursing through her veins, but only for so long. Faith, the once mighty first pure blood Celestial classed Darkling, was losing. Redimus, standing behind her, watched her small frame singing the song, slumped onto her knees in defeat, severely injured from what they had encountered. He was at a loss for words, considering she took such a fatal hit for him. He felt so worthless in such a moment, seeing someone three times smaller than him, taking such a killing hit for him. Her frame only grew smaller, her abilities being drained from her Siren call, making her form turn into that of a 6 year old version of herself.
"Faith...? Are you -...?" Redimus choked out softly, slowly extending a large taloned hand to her shoulder, trying to provide support for something that was deemed inevitable. She turned to face him. Her once adult like features were that of a small child. His eye widened in shock at her new features, seeing tears flowing down her face, blood still dripping from her nose, and now her mouth as she whispered the song that ached in her chest.
"I swear, girl, if you leave, just let me know so I won't look dumb, when you move on..." She whispered the last part of her song before collapsing into his arms, her body engulfed by one of his arms alone. He didn't know the implications of the song meant for her, but he knew it was causing her some sense of pain. The Doctor hadn't explained this part of her abilities yet, but this? This was a new thing for Redimus to see. To see a song of all things, weakening someone who just took a brutal hit by the wretched Daleks that tried killing Redimus. The Daleks were getting what they wanted, though, and that was to kill the main 'weapon' that the Doctor relied on: Faith. Her entire existence was an anomaly, and she shouldn't even be alive and breathing now. A sharp cough escaped the young Faith's body, blood spewing from her lips and nostrils; a definite sign of her struggle to survive. Redimus cradled the frail Faith in his arms, immediately running as the words Faith sang rang in his head, trying to figure out what it meant.
'Losing Interest...? What could dat mean? What iz Faith trying to -...?" It finally clicked. Faith wasn't losing interest in a partner, as the lyrics stated. She was losing interest in living. Her life being in constant peril, being in constant chaos. She never had the time to live a life of peace. Redimus had to act fast to the TARDIS to save her. To give her the right chance to live life peacefully. The Doctor couldn't give her such a chance, but maybe Redimus could at least try. He just couldn't fail her after he's failed himself and so many others in his life because of his mistakes. He had to make this right.
Arriving at the TARDIS, he saw an aggravated Doctor, his brows furrowed in with a deep rage over the Daleks, stealing an ancient Darkling weapon; the one kind of weapon that takes longer to heal from for any species, especially Darklings. Regular weapons had no effect on Darklings, but the ironic twist was that their own weapons could end them instantly.
"Take her to her room. She has a pool specifically for healing. Now!" The Doctor ordered Redimus, pointing down a corridor within the ever expanding TARDIS. Redimus nodded, scrambling on his multiple limbs to her chambers, her eyes becoming vacant as they gazed up at him. Her breathing was growing weaker by the second. Her once icy blue eyes dimmed to that of a chill grey, her hair following the same color shade. Fear was dwelling deep in Redimus's chest and stomachs, something he hadn't felt in such a long time. Once he found her chambers, he noticed a severe change in its color scheme. Originally full of plants and life, a vibrant green, had now grown into a muddled brown, an indication of death itself. Her room was affected by her own health, creatures she had kept as her beloved pets began to grow skinny, their bones visible through their thin skin, threatening to pierce through it like a needle into fabric. He went to one of the many doors in her room, gently placing her in the still bright blue water. It's atmosphere cooling and shockingly still full of life. Her blood began to drip onto his fur, staining it a bright gold, clumping his hide together, looking like sickening designs of jewelry. He gently placed her in, holding her head above the water.
"Pleaze, do not die like diz. I beg of you. Faith..." He muttered under his breath, his coarse hide bristling with dread. Her eyes never once blinked, locked onto him the entire time. Her mouth weakly hung open, blood staining her lips and nose until he gently wiped it with the padding of his thumb. His words were now becoming a prayer in her ears, hoping they would twitch with life. But, no response. Nothing was escaping her lips or nose. No signs of breathing. No signs of movement. Nothing. Redimus could only hold her little head in one of his taloned hands, his talons nowhere near harming her delicate skin. Redimus clenched his eye shut, the water around her body becoming sickly green as the golden blood mixed with the bright blue water.
'Pleaze... pleaze live... Breathe, speak, do zomething to know you're okay!' He thought to himself. He wanted to shake her awake as if she were merely sleeping. Her vacant eyes were telling another story, though. His breathing had grown hoarse with a sob in his chest, swelling and making him feel the ache of loss. Faith wasn't responding to any of his pleas, and his prayers were going unanswered. The water was slowly healing her wounds, but her life was escaping her body faster than it could handle.
"Faith, do not leave diz world without one more fight! I did not geet dragged onto diz crazy journey by zome weak creature! I've seen you do zo many amazing things! You fought so many things I had never before seen in all of my life! You can't... go like diz. I am begging you, Faith. I have seen you take zo many blows from zo many things. You took on fights too big for anybody your size to handle, but you did it! I've seen you do zo many things. Now, I'm begging to see you live!" He pleaded to her, a sob lingering in his throat every time he spoke. Her eyes were still vacant until her lips slightly twitched, slowly swallowing what blood and saliva lingered in her mouth.
"Redimus..." A small whisper was all Faith could choke out. Her voice sounding so frail and innocent, her youthful form showing the amount of energy, was sapped from her body. He weakly smiled at her, still holding her head in one hand, the other hand cleaning the blood and gently rubbing the surface of the bruises that lingered on her tiny face.
"I'm here! I'm here. Eet iz going to be okay, Faith. I'm sorry for letting you down. I shouldn't have gotten in the way. I shouldn't -!" He choked out, begging for her forgiveness for his stupidity. The reality of it all was that it wasn't even his fault. He was used to constantly blaming himself for mistakes that he just so happened to have either witnessed or was poorly ridiculed at the time, like with his brother, Besteel, which led to his cruel acts on those animals in the Queen's menagerie. Faith could only cough, blood still coming out of her mouth. Now, there was a problem: her golden blood had now taken a much darker color. Black. Redimus stared wide-eyed at the new hue, knowing what it meant for her people. Black was a cursed color amongst her people. Black meant death in more ways than one. If you bled black blood, you would be doomed the second it appeared. And here was Faith, black blood trickling down her lips. Redimus slowly shook his head, feeling absolute defeat at the sight. He knew nothing could be done the moment that color blood was present. His odd little friend was now dying, and there was nothing that could be done. Nothing except try to make her death easier in such a crippled state. His eye stung with tears, knowing he was losing his odd traveling companion, who showed him more sympathy than others he had faced in his time, even more than the Doctor, Rose Tyler, and Mickey the human companions they traveled with. She protected him like nobody else before, and yet what did he have to show in return? Weakness. That's all that lingered on his mind.
'I'm so weak. I can't even help her. I would be dead if eet weren't for her in zo many occasions. Eet iz my fault she is like diz.' He thought to himself.
"Losing Interest, you won't find no better than this... I swear, girl, if you leave, just let me know, so I won't look dumb, when you move... on..." The last of the song cracked through her bloody maw, a mere choked whisper until her voice grew silent once more, her now blackened blood trickling down her face and into her faded hair, staining it a sickly color. Redimus felt the blood on his hand, the texture equivalent to that of old and soggy coffee grounds, visibly looking like burnt oil. All he could do now was clench his eye shut over her small frame. He failed the one person who showed him compassion. Nothing could be done now. Nothing...
thank you to this post for providing me with much needed inspiration
read it below or on ao3
“McKay,” John snaps, like he’s been trying to get Rodney’s attention for a while. Maybe he has.
Regardless, Rodney’s focused now, his heart racing, everything he’s been saying about energy conservation in the drone storage facility dried up on his tongue.
John’s fingers are tight around his own where he’s holding them, halting whatever motion Rodney had been making to drive his point home. His hand is warm to the point of hot and just as steady as it is on his gun.
“You can let go now,” Rodney says, and he’s not imagining the way John’s ears turn red.
--
“This is why I don’t let anyone near my toolbox, by the way,” Rodney mutters, rubbing antiseptic cream into the cut on John’s hand before wrapping it.
He can almost hear the eye roll when John says, “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m saving our asses.”
The lights are still low in the back of the jumper, and when Rodney looks up from where he’s kneeling, he can’t quite make out the look on John’s face. Whatever it is, it doesn’t prepare him for the way John curls his fingers around Rodney’s and leans down to kiss him.
---
“Jesus, McKay,” John says, shoving Rodney back. He doesn’t let go, though, his fingers twisting in Rodney’s jacket. “What did you do to your hands, stick them in the ocean?”
“You’re the one who wanted to have beer on the pier tonight,” Rodney says, waving his hands around. They aren’t that cold, but, “It’s freezing, if you hadn’t noticed.”
John kisses him again, pressing his lips along Rodney’s jaw. “Here,” he says, pulling one of Rodney’s hands down between them, kneading it with strong fingers. “I bet I can warm you up.”
“Shut up,” Rodney says into the next kiss.
----
Rodney doesn’t think about it while it’s happening.
He doesn’t think about it until they’re sitting together in the briefing room the next morning.
John is tapping his thumb against the edge of the table, the fingers of his other hand tight on the arm of his chair and Rodney completely loses the thread of the conversation. Those hands had been just as active last night, running over Rodney’s face, his neck, down his chest, and back up again.
They hadn’t stopped moving until Rodney had laced their fingers together and pressed John’s hands into the mattress over his head.
-----
It’s just like any other mission. Of course, it would be easier if Teyla were there, or if John would at least look at him. But it’s not a normal mission. Teyla and her baby and the entire galaxy are depending on them, and John still won’t turn around.
“Let’s go, McKay,” John says around the bustling Marines.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Rodney says, but he forgets what he’s doing when John brushes past him, his fingers catching at Rodney’s, brief but unmistakable.
“One minute,” John says, his hand jumping up to pat Rodney’s shoulder as he passes.
+
John’s dozing with Torren asleep on his chest. It’s the only way they can keep John from moving during his recovery, but it looks natural enough to send Rodney into a little anxiety spiral, there in the chair beside John’s bed.
“McKay,” John says, muzzy with sleep. “Look.”
John’s got his arm twisted up to hold Torren’s hand loosely in his own. “So tiny,” he murmurs, reverent.
Rodney’s swallows, hates the way it hurts to see John smile like that.
“Come here,” John says, untangling himself from Torren to pull Rodney’s hand in, curling their fingers around Torren’s together.
