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It’s like this: Rodney smiles, and John ducks his head.
It’s also like this: the raw sound of tearing fabric, a temporary diversion from the dozens of whining darts overhead, as John drags Rodney away from the DHD to the splashy ocean blue of the gate that just activated, with a hand fisted in the collar of Rodney’s shirt for lack of a better alternative because Rodney’s tac vest got lost the day before when they escaped the planet’s Wraith-worshipping inhabitants only after being captured and stripped of all their supplies and protection and weapons and crucial modes of communication. And in that moment as they stumble and jerk into a run for their lives, John catches a glimpse of the little hole he ripped next to the shoulder seam where a dime-sized bit of Rodney’s sweaty white bare skin now shows just over the collarbone, and in a millisecond that he has no reason to be registering with such awful clarity of mind, he thinks, I could fit my finger in there.
It’s like this, too: he cannot fit his finger in there. In this equation size is immaterial.
Sometimes, it’s like this: the little electric shock of accidentally brushing hands while John passes Rodney another beer, another beer, another beer, because a woman let Rodney down by being let down by him, and John is a friend.
Other times, it’s like this: the slight unwinding of priorities as John rounds a corner and spots two people standing very close, still so far away conversation is inaudible, and she is smiling and rosy-cheeked and prettily tucking her hair behind her ear, and he is Rodney, and John is a friend.
It’s like this: I’m fine.
And it’s like this: Rodney smiles, and John looks up, up into the sky, and thinks of flight and Ferris wheels and Johnny Cash, and is not distracted by any of it.
It’s like this: Zelenka stares as the keyboard clackclackclackclacks because Rodney’s hands keep flying as the coffee at his side cools to room temperature, and the thing at which Zelenka stares is Rodney’s clever fingers moving with the same professional skill that moves a good stripper, and John gets up to get himself another one sugar no milk and doesn’t come back.
It’s like this: he does not wonder if Zelenka was zoning out or paying attention. He does not wonder about it all day, and all night, staring at the dark ceiling.
It’s this: John does not commit the sin of visibly turning away in the locker room but knows with hard-won experience just how to angle himself so the most he will see is flashes of movement to the soundtrack of zippers and fabric and Rodney’s low grunt when he finds his laces tangled from when he put his boots away too carelessly after their last mission even though John warned him.
And it’s this: Caldwell’s eyes go from Rodney to John and John’s adrenaline spikes and then the conversation moves along but nobody says anything. John settles down to wait again.
And it’s this: he doesn’t know her but she’s beautiful and she doesn’t know him but she wants him and the next morning John wakes up and finds his boots under the bed and his boxers on the floor and can finally breathe again when she is still beautiful and sleeping as he pulls the door to her hut closed behind him.
It’s like this: they are walking under two bright suns in a sloped field of lilac grass which is rolling in the breeze like the waves around the city on a gentle day, and John is flanked by people he trusts as much as himself, and those people are laughing, and if somebody asked John how he is, he could tell the truth.
Until it’s like this: bright suns eclipsed by brighter light, laughter drowned out by noise, walking stopped by the shock wave. Vision that clears too slow, hands that fumble too long, a ratatatat aimed at retreating figures barely audible over the high whine in John’s ears, which is so bad he reflexively looks up expecting to see the suns blotted out by familiar shapes but they’re still there, and then he looks down and Rodney isn’t.
Then it’s like this: Ronon, back to John, bending over something black and white and far too red in the tall lilac grass.
It’s like this: a very sharp blur.
After which it’s like this: in the hospital bed Rodney is pale and still and clammy on the outside and in the chair next to it John is pale and still and clammy on the inside, and Ronon is pacing and Teyla is standing, and Rodney’s motionless hand is in hers, her other covering the top of it, and John is glad, even as he digs his nails into the palms of his hands. Someone should do it.
And it’s like this: Rodney has luck on his side one more time. When he leaves the infirmary, John pats his back and walks away.
It’s like this: whatever won’t make anyone look twice.
And like this: whatever won’t lead to questions.
And like this: whatever keeps him where he is, doing what he’s doing, with the people that he gets to do it with.
But ultimately, it’s like this: Rodney smiles, and John smiles too.
It’s like that.