Five, One Twenty, Seven Thousand (And Some)
Five, One-Twenty, Seven Thousand (And Some) by sheafrotherdon
~ Episode tag to 4x15: Outcast. ~300 words



When John comes back, his stride is shorter, as though his father's death has shaken the rhythm of his breath, his being; as if at any moment he might stumble if his mind weren't furiously bent on the effort of standing tall.

Rodney knows him. There's no Ancient device to measure will, but Rodney knows fractals, the tug and shift of time, theories of gravity; he can calculate the determination carried in the clench and release of John's empty hand, the skitter of his gaze.

He doesn't expect John to come to his bed that night.

John doesn't.

For four days they circle, a team bent on grace. They say nothing, make no accommodation. A glance would be enough to disturb what's held together with instinct and coffee, anger and routine, so they offer kindness in a spray of ammunition, ritual bitching, the arc and mocking impact of a bantos stick.

It's that evening – five; one-hundred-and-twenty – that he comes home in darkness, sheds his clothes with a weariness Rodney can appreciate – seven-thousand-a-hundred-and-some. He pushes into Rodney's bed with his back to Rodney's body, self-protective still – half-curled away from the touch he doesn't ask for and suggests he doesn't need. But Rodney knows him – slides a hand from shoulder to elbow, over hip to belly, pulls him close and noses the back of his neck. John shudders head to toe, lets out a breath that scatters like buckshot.

"Rodney – "

"Shhhhhh." And Rodney brushes his lips to the bump of a vertebrae, fits his body to the arc of John's spine. "We're sleeping." Knee to knee; heel to ankle.

John nods; his stubble rasps against their pillow. "Son of a bitch," he mumbles, and Rodney tightens his hold.

"I know," he whispers, and presses lips to sweat-damp hair.



the numbers deciphered: five days, 120 hours, 7000+ minutes since John came home