Borrowed Time
by lamardeuse
Author's note: Thanks to tx_tart for most marvelous inspiration. Feedback her on her gorgeous manip here.
Author's note 2: Thanks to my flist, especially chickwriter, for the research help.
His last year at Northeastern, Rodney lets his hair grow longer. He tells himself it's because he's crazy busy preparing his dissertation and he doesn't have time to get it cut, or because this winter is colder than usual and he needs all the insulation he can get, but he knows he's lying.
He lets his damned hair grow because John likes it.
John's currently sitting beside him on his couch – their couch now, for all the time John spends over at Rodney's tiny apartment – his nose buried in a differential calculus book, and he's not even glancing at Rodney, but his left hand is languid and warm in Rodney's hair, nails occasionally grazing Rodney's scalp. As a result, Rodney's concentration keeps wavering; ordinarily this would be cause for a sharp remark, but instead he leans into the touch ever so slightly, like a cat reluctant to acknowledge anyone's ownership.
It's another lie, because he's done everything but purr at John's feet, paws in the air, and John has to know he's hooked. Any day now John is going to leave (well, okay, more like a little under two months, though Rodney is not counting) and Rodney's going to be left standing at the dock like a weeping bride watching her husband sail away on the troop ship.
He looks up from the notes that haven't made any sense for half an hour and stares at John. After a few moments, John looks up, placidly returning Rodney's gaze.
“Will you be flying into any war zones?” Rodney blurts.
John blinks at him. “Right now?”
Rodney huffs impatiently. “In the future, in the future. Are you going to be shot at?”
John shrugs, his hand still absently stroking. “I'm joining the Air Force, Rodney.”
“Which means?”
John returns his attention to his book. “Which means it's a distinct possibility.”
Rodney pulls away, ending the distraction of John's caressing hand. “How can you just – be so – so –”
“Nonchalant? Casual? Flippant?”
“– so much of an asshole about it,” Rodney finishes, eyes narrowing.
John passes a hand over his face, closes his book and sets it deliberately on the coffee table, then hitches one leg up on the sofa to face Rodney. “I guess I don't really know where this is coming from,” he says slowly. And I don't want to know, Rodney hears in his body language, in the careful drawl of his voice.
Rodney knows that he shouldn't be doing this, because this isn't going to last and both of them know it. It doesn't matter that Rodney's been watching way too much CNN for news of small countries the Americans are thinking of invading and staying up late reading the specs on F-16s and Pave Low helicopters, and if John had any idea how crazy you had to be to fly one of those things, he'd –
“Hey, you with me?” Rodney jerks his head up; John's hand is back, this time gentle on his shoulder, sliding toward his neck, and Rodney's powerless to do anything but sit there transfixed as John strokes a thumb across his lips.
“Look, it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna be okay,” he adds, with a confidence that's preposterous because he can't know anything of the kind. Rodney opens his mouth to say as much, only before he can speak John's mouth is on his, hungry and sure, and it's too much effort to shove him away.
They go on like that for a while; John's busy and Rodney's busier, and they spend a good portion of their time together studying, with the occasional break for a movie or a football game, and one memorable evening when they go to a Star Trek marathon at BU and spend the rest of the night debating the relative merits of Lucas versus Roddenberry, an argument which ends in truly spectacular sex. One night, they go out for dinner at John's suggestion, and Rodney's self-conscious the whole time, awkward and nervous, as though they're being watched.
“You know,” John says later that night, when Rodney's brushing his teeth before bed, “it's not like people are going to see us out together and think we're a couple.”
Rodney wants to argue about that, but it's true; they don't blow one another in public places or even exchange longing glances or hold hands across the table. Still, that doesn't change the fact that after a ridiculously short time, Rodney can feel the weight of his relationship with John evenly distributed over the surface of his skin, like a familiar blanket he always has wrapped around him. He wishes he knew what he was going to do with himself when it ends.
“Fine,” he says instead, after spitting his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, “I'm just trying to protect you from rumors.”
John shrugs. “I don't care if there are. Nobody here knows I'm planning to join the Air Force except you.” He steps up behind Rodney and wraps his arms around him from behind, smiling at their reflection in an enigmatic fashion.
“What?” Rodney squeaks, annoyed that he's momentarily stunned speechless by the picture they make, annoyed that when he looks in the mirror two months from now, he'll be the only one looking back.
“Nothing,” John says softly, head bowing to bite Rodney's neck, somewhere between playful and wicked, and Rodney's suddenly forgotten why he was so worked up. John's hands slide to Rodney's hips, fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs, smoothing over his skin. Rodney makes a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat and leans his head back against John's shoulder.
“Mmm,” John purrs, burying his nose in Rodney's hair, “let's just – ”
“Yeah,” Rodney agrees, because really, talking is overrated. John mouths his way across Rodney's jaw, and Rodney tilts his head just far enough to kiss and be kissed, tongue darting out to wet John's lower lip. John sucks in air, a short gasp that is immensely satisfying, though not as satisfying as being grabbed and turned in John's arms so that John can kiss him full on and grip his ass with both hands. John, Rodney has discovered, really seems to like his ass, though they still haven't taken that final step yet. Rodney's not quite sure why John's danced around it for this long, unless he's picked up on Rodney's reluctance. It's not so much the reality of it that's holding Rodney back as much as the symbolism of it: he knows that if he says yes to this, he'll have given something irreplaceable to John, and he doesn't want to think about all the pieces of him that are already going to pack their bags and leave with the bastard when he goes.
“Do you realize,” Rodney manages between kisses, “how many – of our sexual encounters – begin in the bathroom?”
“Nnnnn,” John says, not pausing in his exploration of Rodney's collarbone with his tongue, “whuddaya think that means?”
“I don't know, but I'm sure getting over it is going to involve expensive therapy,” Rodney retorts. John chuckles lowly, and Rodney shivers at the sound and the accompanying squeeze.
“W – we could,” he whispers against John's neck, so quietly he can barely hear himself, “that is, if you want – I mean –”
John's hands still on Rodney's ass, then slowly glide upwards to his waist. “No, that's – uh, that's fine –”
Rodney's cheeks are flaming as he nods almost violently, wishing he'd never brought it up. “Okay, no, good, whatever –” and Rodney's hands are busy and trembling as they practically rip the buttons out of John's shirt. He vaguely hears John murmuring, “Hey,” and “Slow down,” but it doesn't matter, and after a while he shuts up and helps.
It's only later, lying awake in the dark with John breathing shallowly beside him, one arm draped possessively over Rodney's chest, that he realizes it's entirely possible they're scared of the same thing.
By the time he's done talking to his father, Rodney's too worked up to go to the lab and run the simulation he was planning, so instead he walks the fifteen blocks to John's fraternity at the edge of the MIT campus. He's standing stupidly outside the door when it opens and John walks out. It's a measure of Rodney's state of mind that he isn't even surprised by this odd bit of serendipity; for all he knows he could have been standing out here for an hour or more.
“Rodney?” John's frowning at him in the semi-darkness, eyes squinting attractively. He's always attractive, a dark-haired singularity with his own crushing gravity. Don't get too close, Rodney's instincts scream, but it's too late for that, for everything.
“Hey, what's going on? You never come over here.”
Rodney looks up at him then, beyond caring if that's concern or accusation he reads in Sheppard's tone. “My father's not coming to my graduation. He's going to be in London that week, and he says he can't make it.”
John's frown turns to a scowl. “What's more important than you getting your doctorate?”
Rodney chuckles, remembering his father's words. “Lots of things, I imagine,” he mutters, “after all, it's only an engineering degree.” At John's puzzled expression, he waves a hand. “He's a theoretical physicist, you see – I never could get him to see the point of...” He trails off, belatedly feeling foolish at standing here in the middle of a grey April afternoon explaining his issues with his father on the steps of a frat house. “Not that it matters. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have –”
“Wait!” John's hand grips his arm before he can turn. “Don't – look, let's go do something.”
Rodney shakes his head. “You're going somewhere.”
John shrugs. “Yeah, the library. Real exciting.”
Rodney sighs, remembering. “You have an exam to study for. I'm sorry –”
“God, this is serious. You're way too polite,” John gripes. Taking him by the arm, he starts to drag him off down the street.
“I'm Canadian,” Rodney snaps. “It's a national trait.”
“The rest of Canada, maybe,” John drawls, ignoring Rodney's attempts to free himself. “When you do it, it's just plain wrong.”
They end up at the Hayden Planetarium, where John buys tickets for both of them and steers Rodney through the crowds of schoolkids to a relatively unoccupied spot in the last row. The theme is 'The Legends of the Sky' and the narration takes them through the mostly Greek and Roman mythical figures that dominate the constellations. By the time they get to Orion, Rodney notices that John's hand is resting on top of his, warm and reassuring. Rodney hesitates for a moment, then turns his own hand palm up, slipping his fingers between John's slightly longer ones.
“The legend of Pegasus is one of the most fascinating stories of all...” The narrator's droning voice washes over them both, but Rodney isn't listening; in the darkness of an imaginary night, he smiles and lets out a breath he wasn't conscious of holding.
“Hey, Shep! C'mon over!”
Rodney sighs heavily as they walk into the bar, but the sound is swallowed by the pounding techno beat of the music pouring from the speakers. In less than five months here, John has gotten to know more people than Rodney's managed in five years. However, while it's clear that John is friendly to a lot of people, Rodney soon realizes John doesn't make friends. He's good-looking, affable and easy to talk to, so it's not surprising that people gravitate to him, but Rodney can tell that he holds them at arm's length. He tries to imagine John in a military where men are so close that they would die for one another, and he can't picture it.
In less than two weeks John will report to Lackland AFB in Texas for officer training. His flight leaves at seven twenty on a Wednesday morning, and Rodney's graduation is the day before. John has promised to be at the ceremony, but they haven't talked about whether Rodney will be at the airport. A few weeks later, Rodney will board a plane for California to start postgraduate work in physics. It was a closely run race, but when the dust cleared in the skirmish to have Rodney McKay grace their institution, Cal Tech edged out the other candidates with a very attractive offer and a research grant that had made his father's mouth water. Rodney's tongue is sore from biting it.
John doesn't join the guy who yelled at him, only waves and smiles, and with a barely-there touch to Rodney's arm he's guiding him toward the back of the bar, where the music is less likely to puncture the eardrums.
John orders them a couple of beers and a mountainous order of nachos, and they pick through it while watching the patrons going to and fro. Rodney's never been much of a people-watcher, but John's constantly observing the parade of humanity, always with an air of detachment that doesn't fit his gregarious image. Sometimes Rodney thinks John is as mystified by other people as he is.
“So why are we here?” Rodney asks, voice cutting through the din.
John shrugs, head turning to contemplate a couple plastered against one another, dancing far too slowly for the music. “Thought you might need a change of scene. You're getting pretty pale.”
“Oh, yes, because there's so much sun in here,” Rodney huffs. He takes a sip of his beer as another thought occurs to him. “Look, I understand about talking about it. Or rather, not talking about it. What I mean is that we don't have to talk about it.”
John raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. That's – uh, good. I guess.”
“The point is, we can just go on as we have, for as long as we can. Now, I have exactly – ” he checks his watch “ – two hours and forty minutes before I have to force myself to go shopping for a suit, which is plenty of time for us to go back to my place and – ”
“Well, hello there!”
Rodney looks up, annoyed at being interrupted, to find two extremely good-looking girls looking down at him. Their gazes dart briefly to him before zeroing in on John. “Imagine meeting you here!”
John blinks away a curiously pained expression, then smiles and rises to his feet. As a result, Rodney's left to do the same or look like a cad. He chooses the non-cad option as John introduces Sarah and Denise, two fellow math students he knows from one of his classes.
“I'm actually taking computer math,” Sarah says, smiling at Rodney in a way that even he recognizes. He turns to John with an eyebrow slightly quirked; John's response is a lip-lick and a downcast flicker of his gaze before the charming smile bursts forth.
Oh, God, Rodney thinks, palms bursting into a sweat.
Before he can stop them, John's inviting the girls to sit with them, and they of course accept eagerly, sliding into either side of the booth so that the men can sit beside them. John chooses Denise's side, leaving Sarah for Rodney, whose stomach is now a whirling soup of beer and half-digested nachos.
“Siddown, Rodney,” John says, a touch of steel behind the words. In that moment, Rodney can see the officer he'll become, but what he doesn't know is that Rodney's never been very good at following orders.
“No, I'm afraid I'll have to beg off,” Rodney says, as coldly as he can manage considering he's shaking so hard he thinks everyone in the bar must be able to see it. “Another time, maybe, when I'm not busy, though I can't imagine when that will be – ” and all right, time to stop talking now.
The girls make disappointed cooing noises while John stares at him, obviously thrown by the change in plan. Without another word, Rodney turns on his heel and starts pushing his way through the gathering crowd of dancers and increasingly drunken people – another Saturday night on campus for most idiots, who are only here to party 'til they puke on daddy's money while they struggle through with C averages, or find a gorgeous, perfect future husband who will support them in the style to which they can easily become accustomed.
He makes it out into the night, as cold and crisp as any spring night back in Toronto – Christ, he knew he should have gone to Cal Tech from the beginning – and starts walking quickly in the direction of home.
“Rodney!”
Rodney's proud of the fact that his pace doesn't slow until Sheppard's hand catches his arm, trying to restrain him. He shakes it off and keeps walking.
“Rodney, goddammit, hold up.”
Rodney repels another attempt. “I get the message, thank you. Good night.”
“You don't get anything.”
Rodney knows why he's shaking now, because he's so furious he can barely see. “Oh really?” he snarls, rounding on John, intending to launch into a tirade, but when he turns and registers the bereft, helpless look on John's face, he can't think of a single thing to say.
“I did that for you,” John murmurs, eyes on Rodney's, holding him prisoner, “I thought you might – I thought it might be easier.” He spreads his hands. “You know, if you –”
“– Focused my inappropriate emotions on a more appropriate object?” Rodney snarls.
“Goddammit!” John takes a step toward him, face twisted. Rodney's too startled to step back, so he watches as John looms, filling his field of vision. “I didn't – I didn't expect it to matter.”
“To me?” Rodney demands, confusion making him even angrier.
“To either of us!” John runs a hand through his hair, takes a step back, then forward again in a bizarre parody of a waltz. “When I signed up for this semester, it was partly because, hey, MIT, and partly because nobody knew me here. Do you understand what I mean?”
Rodney's gut lurches again. “I think so,” he murmurs.
“Only it didn't happen the way I'd planned,” John breathes. “I ran into you that night, and that was it.”
Rodney folds his arms. “That must have been a terrible disappointment,” he mutters. “I ruined your chance for a four-month-long gay orgy.”
John steps forward and brackets Rodney's shoulders with his palms, then leans in, face a couple of inches from Rodney's. Rodney tries to remember how to breathe when he registers the look in John's eyes.
John brushes his lips against Rodney's, and Rodney's own hands tighten at his sides. “You aren't a disappointment,” John husks. “Not to me.”
“So what do we do now?” Rodney whispers.
John tilts his head and kisses Rodney softly, and Rodney's breath hitches. “We go home,” John murmurs.
And oh God, Rodney wants nothing more than to say yes to this, to him, but that's not what comes out of his mouth. “I can't,” he says. “We can't.”
John frowns and pulls back. “Why not?”
Rodney's jaw clenches convulsively. “Because you and I don't have a home together. And we never will, will we?”
John's mouth quirks in that almost-smirk that is anything but jovial. “Never is a long time.”
Rodney shakes his head. “I think it would be better if we just – said goodbye now.” He sticks out his hand, and John stares at it like he doesn't recognize what it is.
“You want to shake my hand?” John says, with an incredulous, choked chuckle.
Rodney lets his hand drop to his side. “Right, yes, good point. Well – ” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I'd better – ”
“Rodney,” John protests, but Rodney's already headed off down the street, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mind focused on taking one step after another.
Rodney's mother and sister show up for his graduation, and that's about it. Jeannie is twelve and a half and still a tomboy; she spends most of the post-graduation reception whining about the dress she's been forced to wear.
“Yeah, well, if I can wear a suit for a few hours, you can wear a dress.”
Jeannie makes a face at him. “Yeah, well, I notice your suit isn't lime,” she snaps.
“Jeannie, enough,” his mother sighs. She has that familiar pinched look he always associates with her, or at least her expression around him. The thought that she's now reserving it solely for Jeannie doesn't comfort him any. “Now, are you ready for the picture? Your father specifically requested that we take a picture.” She makes it sound like she'd rather have her eyes pulled out of her head with salad tongs, and Rodney takes a deep breath as she turns away to dig in her purse, steeling himself for the ordeal. His mother takes pictures approximately once a decade, mainly because it takes her about that long to focus the camera.
“How about a family portrait?”
Rodney spins to see John standing behind him, dressed in his best jeans and an argyle sweater that looks absolutely foolish on him. His wry expression is belied by a tightness around his eyes, and Rodney wants to kiss him senseless in front of his mother and Jeannie and her fluorescent dress.
John fills the silence by stepping forward and introducing himself to Rodney's mother and sister as a “buddy” of Rodney's. Within half a minute he's got both female McKays smiling coquettishly, and the thought of his mother flirting with his boyfriend is enough to loosen his tongue.
“Yes, that would be wonderful, we'd love a picture,” he babbles, snatching the camera out of his mother's hands and passing it to John. Their fingers brush as John takes it; their gazes meet and lock, and Rodney can see a matching fire in John's eyes.
“You cut your hair,” John says, and Rodney's hand flies self-consciously to the nape of his neck. John's gaze follows the motion, and Rodney suppresses a shiver.
“Where would you like us?” his mother asks, all a-flutter, and God.
John directs them to stand on the now-abandoned stage and takes so many snapshots that Rodney is ready to start screaming just as John decides they probably have enough good ones. Then he says, “Now, how about a couple of just Rodney?”
“Oh, well – ” Rodney begins, desperately wanting this horror to be over, aching to be alone with John for a minute, an hour, anything. John's leaving tomorrow morning, and he can't believe he was so stupid as to waste almost two weeks –
John's leaning in close, and suddenly it's as though his mother, his sister, the entire damned rest of the world disappears. “Just one for me, okay?” he murmurs. “You can mail it to me and I'll tack it over my bunk, like Betty Grable's pinup.”
Rodney snorts. “In that case, fire away,” he murmurs, holding up his diploma in one hand and giving him the thumbs up with the other.
John is laughing as Rodney shoves him through the door of his apartment. “You're crazy,” he breathes, but he's already stripping off that horrible sweater, tossing it onto the couch.
“I know I am,” Rodney admits as he toes off his dress shoes, because he fully believes he's gone completely around the bend. He and John took Jeannie and his mother to supper at their hotel, and then Rodney kissed them good night and told them he'd see them in the morning, and then it was one long blur from the hotel lobby to the T to Rodney's front door, feeling as though he was about to burst every step of the way.
“I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me,” John murmurs, “but I had to come. I promised.”
“Your integrity is one of the things I like best about you,” Rodney says solemnly, hands tugging on John's belt buckle.
“Good to know,” John drawls, hauling Rodney close and kissing him deeply. Rodney wraps his arms around John's lean, wiry body, fingertips seeking the always astonishing experience of John's soft, soft skin.
Things get a little frantic after that, and even though they manage to make it to the bed, there are a couple of elbows jabbed into ribs and a near-trip as Rodney's pants come off that almost leads to disaster. Luckily, John twists sideways at the last moment, and then they're tumbling onto the bed.
“Hey,” John says, and there's a touch of wonder in his voice that Rodney's never heard before. He opens his eyes to see John leaning over him, and reaches up to touch his face.
It's not going to be enough, he thinks, but it'll have to do.
Without a word, he rolls away from John and reaches into the nightstand for the supplies he bought two months ago and never showed him. John's eyes grow wide for a moment, and then his jaw sets and he nods. He pulls away to strip off his boxers, then turns back. “Uh, how do you want to – ”
Rodney looks down at the tube, cold and huge in his clumsy hand. “I, uh – however you think is best, really – ”
“If you don't want to, you know, it would be – ”
Rodney looks up at him, as panicked at the thought of not doing it as doing it. “No, no, I want – unless you don't – ”
John takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “No,” he says finally. “I mean, yeah, I want. I really, really want.” And then before Rodney can say something else that would be completely awkward, John rolls onto his stomach and pillows his head on his folded arms. Rodney stares at his ass for a full ten seconds before he realizes what the hell is going on.
“Oh,” he breathes, “oh. Oh, God, you mean you want me to – ”
John shoots him a glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“But – ”
John lets out a short, gusted breath and rests his forehead on his arms, so that when he speaks his voice is muffled. “Rodney. Please. I don't – I'm not going to get another chance.”
Rodney feels as if he's been sucker punched. “Well. It's not like you couldn't have found a willing partner in the last two weeks,” he says shakily.
John rolls onto his back again and brushes his fingers almost absently over the back of Rodney's clenched fist. “Yeah,” he says, gaze riveted to their hands, “I know it.”
Rodney's heart careens off his rib cage a few times before he leans down and covers John's mouth with his own, kissing him until they're both crazy with it. He lets John draw him down into his arms, into his body, and by the time he's so deep in John he knows he'll never be free of him, it's far too late for regrets or caution. Instead, he does the only thing he can do: he holds on for as long as he can.
He wakes up in the morning to a message hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper: a forwarding address at Lackland “so you can send me that picture,” and John's name. He carries the note around with him in his pocket for months, takes it out and studies it until the loops and whorls of those four letters are as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror.
He never does send the picture. And when he finally sees John again, it takes him three and a half years to say his name aloud.
End
December 2006
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