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The problem with burns was the pain lingered. Getting shot hurt more in the moment, but the lingering sensation of the rope burns on his palms didn’t go away. Not completely. It would fade to a dull throb until he shifted, one finger twitching, the skin pulled, and the pain came roaring back. Rodney was sitting on the edge of his bed, the backs of his hands pressed against his forehead as he took deep breaths, trying not to move too much until the pain passed.
He was fine. He hadn’t broken his leg by Sam. His shoulders hurt, he was tired, his hands ached, and all he wanted was a shower.
The pain passed, and Rodney took a deep breath, knowing what he needed to do, but he knew what would happen when it did. He had never been quick, but now he wished he was faster as he took another deep breath and was about to snatch his shirt off, get rid of it before the pain set in, and he could ride it out when his door rang.
Rodney looked up. “It’s open,” he said, knowing there were few people who bothered him in his room.
The door opened, and John stepped in, taking one look at Rodney and grimacing. “Alright, buddy?”
Rodney thought about nodding, but it was John, so he settled for shaking his head. “Burns suck.”
“Oh, yeah. Would rather get stabbed, honestly,” John said, dropping into Rodney’s desk chair and rocking back on two of the legs. “Or shot.”
“Right? And what a sad state of affairs my life is in to now have preferences for injuries,” Rodney muttered, resting his head back on the backs of his hands.
The problem wasn’t entirely the burns. The main problem was Rodney moved his hands. He talked with them and fiddled with things. He used them. And he could feel his fingers twitching, wanting to reach for something to do aside from the total immobility Rodney was forcing on them by sheer force of conscious will—a battle against his unconscious desires.
“I hate concussions the most,” John offered. “Just sitting in a dark room with nothing but your thoughts? No, thank you.”
“Normally, I’d say allergic reaction because suffocation because your own body hates you, combined with all-over itchiness, is just miserable. But right now, this,” Rodney said, waving his hands before his brain caught up.
The pain hit, and he hissed, closing his eyes and dropping his chin against his chest, taking deep breaths as he waited for it to pass. There was a thump, and Rodney opened his eyes to see boots appear in his line of vision.
“Nothing to do,” Rodney hissed through clenched teeth. “Painkillers don’t work as well for this, and I’m not in the mood to deal with unwinding the bandages for more topical ointment. Not that I'm supposed to use it if I can help it. It's all moot anyway because I want to shower. So I just need to ride this out."
Talking helped him focus, and then the pain settled, the heat lingering for a moment before fading. Rodney slumped in relief, lifting his head to see John’s face, twisted in an awkward mask of worry and regret, his hands held slightly up, fingers spread wide like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with them.
“Unclench, Colonel. It’s fine.”
“You’re injured.”
“Stop the presses. The man can see.”
“Don’t be a dick about it.”
Rodney glared at John, knowing the pain was making him unreasonable, but John just sighed and walked towards the ensuite, the shower starting a second later before he walked back out. “Come on.”
“Come on, what?” Rodney demanded.
“Let me help,” John said, the offer kind, but it would be better if he were looking at Rodney.
“I am fine on my own,” Rodney said stiffly.
“Sure you are. But it’s fine to accept help.”
Rodney hoped his snort conveyed his amusement at John’s telling someone else that. John’s mouth curled into a grin. “Yeah. Whatever. Do as I say, not as I do.”
“If I did what you did, I would’ve blown us up getting out of there, and somehow, it would’ve worked.”
“The proper placement of perfectly timed C4 is a well-established winning method,” John said, face straight. “Works as advertised about oh…fifty percent of the time.”
“Only fifty?”
“We can’t account for outside forces, so yeah, I’m sticking with fifty,” John said before tapping Rodney on the forehead. “Come on. Either you accept help, or you can sit here, feeling gross and miserable. I’m not going to wash you, but if we can at least get you naked, you can rinse off, and I can help with your hands before you go to bed.”
Rodney wanted to protest, but the thought of getting rid of the dust and grit sticking to his skin appealed more than his sense of propriety, and he stood up with a huff. He didn’t have to accept gracefully, after all. “Fine.”
“Arms up.”
Rodney looked at John, really looked at him, and saw nothing but his friend wanting to help him out, and he forced down the nagging doubt, reminding him of high school locker rooms that magically ate his clothing a couple of times a month. Or the snide comments on a daily basis. John was his friend. He didn’t need to be here, but he was.
“I hate this,” Rodney said, just so John knew before he slowly raised his arms, grimacing as John quickly and efficiently stripped off his shirt.
“Same. Usually, people I’m undressing don’t look like they’re about to go to their own funeral,” John replied, dropping his hands to undo Rodney's pants to let them drop so Rodney could step out of them.
At least he had been able to toe out of his shoes and socks when he had gotten back. Standing in his boxers, he found the urge to drop his hands and cover himself, but he managed to stop in time.
“Boxers?” John asked, giving Rodney the out.
“They’ll be coming off anyway,” Rodney muttered, dropping his hands and walking into the ensuite that had fogged up with the steam coming out of the shower.
“Just let the water do the job for you,” John said from a few steps behind. “Let me know when you finish, and I’ll get a towel.”
Before Rodney could question anything, John pantsed him and left, the door sliding shut, leaving Rodney in the bathroom with his boxers around his ankles and more amused than he had thought he would be. He’d never expected in his life to be happy about being pantsed. Stepping out of them, he shuffled into the shower, turning and sticking his hands out straight so they weren’t caught under the spray of water.
Even just the water running down him, he could see swirls of dirt at his feet as he stood, shifting under the spray and letting the water do the work for him. He turned as best as he could, dropping his head back and relaxing a little bit, even when his hands throbbed, making it impossible for him to forget the injury.
He thought about lingering, but his already sore shoulders started protesting him keeping them up, and he stepped out, slowly letting his elbows drop, but left his hands up so water wouldn’t run down. He stared at the door and wished he could finish this himself, but he knew he couldn’t.
“John,” he said, voice softer than he wanted, but the door slid open, and John stepped into view, head turned to the side and towel out.
Rodney's rush of gratitude at having a friend who just helped rather than poked and propped almost sent him to his knees, but he settled for stepping in close and letting John wrap the towel around him, covering him up with a clinical detachment that made Rodney feel better. Even the brush of fingers against his skin didn’t make him flinch as the towel wrapped around his waist.
“Come on. I found a shirt and some boxers. Quicker we do this, the quicker it’s done with,” John said, shooting him a half smile.
“Thank you,” Rodney said gratefully.
John waved it off, grabbing a second towel and quickly drying Rodney before helping him into a shirt that was old and soft from wear and washes. “Alright, this is gonna be the quickest bit, okay? Brace your elbow on my shoulder, get your feet in them, and I’ll pull ‘em up.”
“Lots of experience with this?” Rodney couldn’t help but ask to try and push away the discomfort at his friend helping him dress.
“Old squad member of mine crashed once, broke both of his thumbs, and we were on a communication blackout, so we couldn’t get him airlifted out. We all helped,” John explained, crouching and holding out the boxers. “Quicker, the better.”
Rodney trusted John and braced an elbow on his shoulder as he stepped into them, thankful when John pulled them up under the towel. It wasn’t comfortable, and he could feel his boxers sticking to his damp legs, but he was dressed, and when John pulled the towel away and threw it to the corner, he felt better than he had since they had finally gotten back to Atlantis. He moved, twisting and getting his boxers and shirt to settle more comfortably.
“Both thumbs?” he asked, knowing John would wave off another thank you but didn’t know what else to do.
John was rummaging through the supplies Jennifer had given him. “Sit down. And yeah, he was miserable. Couldn’t do anything without help. It got better after a few weeks, but the first few days? Shit. Try eating when your thumbs don't work.”
Rodney sat on the edge of the bed, watching as John hooked an ankle around the chair, sat down, and rolled over with bandages and cream in his lap. “Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad about this,” Rodney said, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down. "Although I'm not looking forward to trying to eat tomorrow."
“Nah, burns still suck,” John said, beginning to unwrap them. “Had a few minor ones when I crashed out in ‘Stan, nothing big but shit, they pulled the whole time. And with the heat? Sometimes, it felt like my skin was on fire.”
John wasn’t rough, but he didn’t linger, his hands moving confidently, only pausing briefly when the bandages came off, revealing the angry burn across his palms. He knew it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Most of his palms were an angry red, with scratches and abraded skin making up the majority of it. But some large pieces of skin were missing, the area underneath an angry, raw color that made Rodney want to close his hands to hide the view.
“Christ, McKay,” John muttered. “What were the instructions?”
“The topical on the non-exposed skin if needed, but try and avoid it for now with the open wound. Lightly wrap the dressing,” Rodney repeated what Jennifer told him.
John sighed, picked up the tube, and tossed it onto the bed. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Just…get on with it,” Rodney said, turning his head and closing his eyes as John started to rewrap his hands, doing his best to be careful, but it still hurt, and he could feel tears leak out of the corners of his tightly closed eyes.
The first one finished, and the second one had Rodney breathing harshly through his nose, feeling like he hadn’t even showered with the sweat breaking out across his skin.
“I’m uh…I’m reorganizing my injury list,” Rodney said through clenched teeth.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. This. This is the fucking worst. Give me an orange if I can get rid of this," Rodney said, with feeling.
John finished and rolled back, letting Rodney slump forward, the backs of his hands pressed against his forehead as he waited for the pain to pass, ignoring the tremors he could feel under his skin.
“Yeah, burns suck,” John repeated.
Rodney swallowed and nodded carefully. “This sucks,” he repeated, letting out a shudder as the pain passed, and he looked up at John, who was trying to look casual, but Rodney had known his friend for long enough to see the worry in the intense look.
“Yeah. Wish I could help more, but,” John trailed off with a shrug.
“You’ve done more than enough,” Rodney admitted, some part of him still surprised that he had a friend who cared enough to help him out when he needed it. He was used to being on his own, and five years ago, before Atlantis, he would’ve sucked it up and done everything with the constant pain in his hands. John had made it easier, and Rodney wished he could thank him somehow.
“You should try and get some sleep,” John said. “Helps the body heal faster. You get a time frame?”
“One to two weeks, a little longer for some of the worst parts,” Rodney said, turning his hands over carefully to look at his bandaged palms.
“So, sleep. Also, helps the time pass,” John said.
Now that he was thinking about it, Rodney could feel the bone-deep exhaustion from the exertion coupled with the fading adrenaline.
“I hate the Genii so much,” Rodney muttered, standing up and turning to look at the bed.
John appeared next to him, grabbing the blanket and pulling it back. “They’re not all bad. Ladon has his moments.”
“A feral dog has their moments. Ladon has rabies,” Rodney said, not his best, but John snorted anyway.
Rodney dropped a knee onto the bed and moved, doing his best to lie down without using his hands. He settled for dropping back with a huff when his fingers twitched with the promise of more pain if he moved anymore.
Stretching flat on his back, Rodney stared at the ceiling and wished that sleep would come easier. “I wish I had broken my leg. Sam can have the burned palms.”
“I don’t think Carter could’ve lowered you and Keller,” John said reasonably. “Get comfortable.”
“I am,” Rodney said, looking at John.
He was stretched out on his back, ankles crossed, and a thin pillow under his head. John gave him a once-over, lip curling. “Really?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” John said, flipping the covers up.
Rodney lifted his arms until the covers settled, and he dropped his hands, resting them down along his sides. John’s eyebrows went up.
“What!” Rodney demanded, feeling defensive.
John held up his hands. “Nothing,” he said, taking a step back.
“Sheppard!”
“Are you seriously comfortable?” John asked, looking at him askance.
Rodney scowled. “I sleep like this all the time!”
John gave him a once over before holding up his hands. “Whatever, dude. You look like you should be in a casket.”
“As soon as I can, remind me to flip you off,” Rodney snapped, wriggling to get more comfortable on the bed, feeling like he could pass out already. He closed his eyes. “And turn the lights off.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” John said.
The brightness behind his eyelids dimmed and then disappeared, and the sound of his door opening got his attention. Rodney opened his eyes and turned to see John silhouetted by the door. “John?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” Rodney said, hearing the catch in his voice.
“No problem, buddy. Sleep well,” John said, the door closing as he left.
Rodney stared at the door for a second, so grateful for the friendship that he half wanted to call John back just to blubber out his thanks somehow, but he kept his mouth shut, closed his eyes, and let his body relax, the events of the day quickly catching up and sending him to sleep.