Work Text:
The night Finn leaves for California, John turns in just after dark, desperate to escape the grief rising up from every shadowed corner of the farmhouse. He pulls the comforter tight about him, closes his eyes against the wash of emptiness at his side.
"John."
And isn't that just what he needs, to hear voices - to have his memories come back to stoke his loss.
"John, wake up."
He shakes his head, keeps his eyes firm closed.
"Please, John."
It's the pleading that does it, that makes him turn his head and open his eyes, look into the spill of moonlight that's falling soft against Rodney's shirt.
"Hi." Rodney's face - such affection . . . he . . .
"You're - " dead, John thinks, but " - young," is what he says, heart aching to see Rodney as he'd looked years before.
"So are you."
"I'm - " But he glances at his hand and the skin is tight, his knuckles smooth where hours before they'd been swollen with age. "What - " He sits up, feels the pull of muscles in his abdomen, the strength in his limbs. "Rodney?"
Rodney smiles and holds out his hand. "C'mon. I've been waiting."
John stares at his hand, can't bear the idea that this is some trick, a dream, extends his arm and - oh, warm fingers against his own, weaving through his, pulling him to his feet. "You're here."
"Yeah," Rodney breathes, ghosting a kiss to his cheek, smelling of dust and soap and lab space. "Together."