we kept it safe and slow -

Okay, this is the last of my back-posting, I swear. Honest. I'll be up to date.

Title: Phobia
Rating: R
Fandom: SGA
Summary: A friend challenged me to write "aliens make them do it, only they don't do it, and the aliens are really child molestors." This isn't that fic, and it isn't happy. I'm sort of upset that I wrote it, actually.



Rodney thought the issue was settled. For one of the few (very few) times in his life, he was dead wrong.

John doesn’t let it go, and everything goes to hell in the mess, of all places.

Just eating a very, very late dinner of leftover god-I-hope-this-isn’t-lizard and slightly stale bread, Rodney isn’t expecting John to bring up P3X-974. Or its people, or its stupid ceremonies. Only, of course, John does.

“What was that all about, with the Ashokrans? You were kinda freaked out.”

The inquiry is made casually, and Rodney chokes on his please-please-please-be-chicken. John helpfully pounds on his back, in the most unhelpful way possible.

Damn the Ashokrans and their spring rituals, anyway. The expectation that the Lantean delegation would engage in their holiday had been unexpected and to Rodney, at least, a little frightening, because no. No no no no.

He’s barely gotten to the point where he can handle John watching him, John’s eyes following his every move with such intensity. He can’t imagine a crowd – those people – Teyla and Ronon, for Christ’s sake…no.

Rodney knew he was babbling, even as he opened his mouth. They had withdrawn from the crowd by several feet, to talk privately among the team, but no one had said anything. They all looked like they wanted someone else to go first.

"As much as I appreciate that it’s logical for the Colonel and I to do it, that really isn’t an option. Besides the – the difficulty that would be posed in writing our reports, after, I simply won’t be able to – to do anything under these conditions, and also-"

John had spoken gently, with a look Rodney had seen on him more and more, recently. It’s the look he gets when he corrects Simpson’s math, when he’s instinctively put together pieces he’d rather not be able to.

"Teyla can’t, so that leaves me and Ronon –"

Thank God, Rodney thought afterwards, for Teyla’s Xena Factor, because the burst of feminism that emerged from her had apparently scared John into forgetting how weird Rodney was acting.

"I am not able to bear children, John. And surely that is the only objection you can have to my participation?"

The dangerous gleam in her eyes, and the presence of sticks nearby, made sure John nodded quickly.

"Then Ronon and I will celebrate the festival. It is no hardship."

Ronon certainly hadn’t been upset, and the ceremony had gone off without a hitch. Ronon and Teyla had engaged in what appeared to be very enthusiastic celebration, and the Lanteans and village elders had watched, as the ceremony dictated.

“I – um, that is, I didn’t – I wasn’t comfortable with – I mean,” Rodney stammers, feeling more awkward than he ever has with John, ever. But he has no idea how to explain this bit of his history.

Rodney doesn’t think about It; he can’t. It would destroy his little façade of sanity. So he pretends It never happened; he dates and fucks and turns the damn lights off.

John’s different, maybe because Rodney’s fallen for him, maybe because John’s a little broken, too; sometimes Rodney wants to tell him, which is terrifying in and of itself.

It was humiliating when It happened; It still is, and there’s no way to bring It up comfortably, to look into John’s eyes and admit – no. It’s impossible and, he fears, inevitable.

Still, until now Rodney had thought the subject forgotten, by John at least.

But that would be too easy, and if this relationship is anything, it certainly isn’t easy.

Rodney decides he’s done stammering and goes back to eating, determined to hold off on this conversation.

“So when were you going to tell me aobut this phobia of yours?”

John is making even less sense than usual, Rodney thinks. “You’re making even less sense than usual.” Uh-oh. Inability to edit the contents of one’s brain as they emerge from one’s mouth is generally a bad thing, in Rodney’s experience, but he can’t seem to stop it. “I don’t have any phobias, except an understandable discomfort with small dark spaces, and that’s not really a phobia because it’s entirely justified-“

“Your phobia of being watched, or whatever it is.”

Rodney sighs, deeply, hating that there’s no real way out of this. If he lies, John will know he’s lying. So he stuffs the last of his if-that-was-a-scale-kill-me-now into his mouth and stands up.

John, as usual, gets him – maybe because his signals tend to be on the obvious side – and rises, too, following Rodney back to his room without a word. Once the door is shut and Rodney has seated himself tensely on the edge of the bed, he starts talking.

“I don’t want this to change anything, okay? You start treating me like I’m fragile, start second-guessing my decisions and this - this thing? Will be over before you know it, but I guess it’s only fair that you...I mean, I’m kind of fucked up; you deserve to know how fucked up, exactly…”

John sits on the bed beside him, close but not touching, and Rodney appreciates that more than he can explain.

“When I was eight, my cousin came to live with us. He was in college, had had some issues with drugs, and the family thought if he got out the dorms, maybe he could move on from all that. My parents, being the amazingly moronic people that they are, thought, Hmm, a former drug addict and complete loser staying down the hall from our kids?What a fabulous idea. So he moved in. Things didn’t get fucked up, really, until a month into our little arrangement…”

“Stephen? What are you doing in here? This is me and Rodney’s room.”

Jeanie was six and precocious, and sharing her room was an eight-year-old boy's worst nightmare. But Mom hadn't given them much of a choice, not while Stephen was here.

“I want to talk to Rodney.”

“Go away, Jeanie.” Rodney was grinning – Stephen was older and kind of cool, in a dangerous, rebellious way, and wanted to talk to him. The older boys in Rodney’s class – he was three years ahead and proud of it – didn’t even look at him, but Stephen was different. When Rodney talked he listened, or at least put on a good show, and sometimes at dinner his eyes would follow Rodney, as though he, at least, understood that Rodney was brilliant.

“I think I know where this is going.” John’s voice is choked, and Rodney nods quickly.

God, as long as he doesn’t have to spell it out. “Right, so, Jeanie...Jeanie didn’t leave. I thought she did but…she stood there in the doorway - there was this nook - and watched. And, uh, the next time...”

“There was a next time?” John has gone completely blank. Rodney closes his eyes against the mask on Sheppard's face.

There’s a touch against his side, and Rodney glances down to see that he’s clenched his left hand over his right forearm, closer to Kolya’s scar than he’d like –if there’s any memory he doesn’t need to mix with this one, it’s Kolya. John is gently prying his fingers loose. Touching him.

Gentle hands. John’s hands. Christ, he needs to get a grip.

“Tell me.” Insistent, low voice.

Rodney doesn’t want to.

“I can’t.”

“Tell me about Jeanie.”

Rodney lets out a shuddering breath, his heart racing. He feels like he’s just had an epipen, still partially anaphylactic and barely getting air while adrenaline surges through his veins. John’s holding his wrists now, loosely circling them in his hands, and oh, God, Rodney thinks maybe he can feel the grooves and swirls of John’s fingerprints, burning his clammy skin.

Dimly, he realizes he must be scaring the hell out of John, who’s never this careful with him. Ever.

“Tell me about Jeanie.”

“He – Stephen, I mean, obviously – would come in our room, late at night, and Jeanie would lay in the other bed, listening. Watching, sometimes. The…the sounds would wake her up.”

“And she never said anything?”

“She was a kid, and she was scared out of her mind.” The words come out harsher than he’d intended, and only then does he realize how much of him wants to agree, to blame it all on Jeanie. He starts to pull his hands away from John, who shifts to kneel in front of him and maintains his light grip around Rodney’s wrists.

“I wasn’t criticizing.”

Rodney can feel himself start to shake apart, and tries to pull away again, but John’s hands are steady. Before he can blink he’s been drawn into an almost-hug that, strangely, helps. His face is pressed into John’s shoulder and it’s so much easier, not looking.

There’s a choked, hurt sound that just keeps repeating and it takes a minute for Rodney to realize he’s the one making noise; everything has acquired a dreamlike quality; the dull stretch his back is starting to feel, an ache in his throat. All that seems real is that John knows, and John’s hands are still warm against Rodney's skin.

He’s still shaking, long after the sound is a mere echo.

But John’s hands are still there.