He holds the pen awkwardly, wondering if it works at all like a stylus. It's been so long... Paper takes up too much space for them to use it in Atlantis. He's torn these faded yellow pages from the back of a book John gave him for his birthday - Catch-22. He's not much of a reader, but he likes it. Yossarian reminds him of John - the smart and decent guy trying to fight the madness of the military machine. And it's funny in the way John is funny, the way Rodney loves - sharp and witty and sarcastic, but optimistic in the middle of a situation that by all means should be considered hopeless.'
Of course, he's not much of a writer either. Not that any degree of eloquence would make this any easier. Rodney says a lot of things, and very little of them well, but he's worst at saying goodbye. He remembers Matilda and how she threw a potted plant at him when he came around after their breakup. He thought they could still be friends. He thinks about when they were sending him back to Russia and Samantha Carter gave him a kiss on the cheek and he panicked. He remembers leaving Copernicus with his neighbor - how he had to resist the urge to babble, telling her all of the things he needed, as though the girl had never seen a cat before. He even remembers staring at the phone for three hours the night before he shipped out, wondering if he should call his sister.
But this is the hardest goodbye of his life - that, he knows without a doubt. But, if being with John -being here on Atlantis, knowing that each day the Wraith could attack, and any one of them could draw their last breath- has taught him anything, it's taught him how to be strong.
So he takes a deep breath and puts pen to paper:
Dear John,
I guess this is a 'Dear John' letter. Wow, that was bad. I never thought I'd ever have to write this to you. I never even thought I'd have to write anything again....
He studies his handwriting. It's the typical scientist's scrawl. He can write neatly when he really concentrates - he just pretends he's doing one of those idiotic drafting projects they made him do for one of his degrees in engineering. But he knows John will be able to read it. He had expected that John would write as precisely as he flies, with those deliciously controlled and delicate hands. He smiles as he remembers the time he found John staring at an equation he had written on the whiteboard - how he had told John to stop looking at things beyond his comprehension before he accidentally fried his brain. And he remembers his astonishment as John had just grinned that skeptical but mischievously playful grin of his and gone to work scrawling on the board, arriving at R-nought times the derivative of pi times e over y equals x(t) triple prime plus 54,653: Rodney = Jerk + 54,653. John had flounced off humming 'I Get Around,' leaving Rodney gaping at the board, frantically searching the work for mistakes and searching his heart for a last bastion of cynicism, a part that hadn't just fallen head over heals in love with John Sheppard. Math always made Rodney weak in the knees.
No, John would be able to read it. But when he looks over the words over again, he realized how tactless they seem. John never said 'I love you;' neither of them is the mushy teddybears and red balloons romantic type, but that doesn't mean this wouldn't hurt. Rodney doesn't know much about John's past - that would be too much of a girly relationship question, but he's not even sure anyone has broken up with the guy before. He can't really think of why anyone would... even now that he's about to do it himself, he knows that John's the one that you do your damnedest to 'never let get away.'
He gives the yellowed paper a final hard stare then crumples it up in disgust, pulling at his collar to try and release the sweat he can feel pooling there. He contemplates writing neater this time, but decides against it.
Dear John,
It's not you, it's...
He scowls, disgusted with himself. He's about to crumple up this sheet too when he realizes that he doesn't have many left. So he carefully folds it, ignoring the ink smearing on his fingertips as he tears the top of the page away. It doesn't have to be neat. *John will understand,* he tells himself.
He needs to concentrate. Or maybe he needs to relax. His skin is crawling. Everything feels so wrong. He feels wretched and unworthy, like that guy in the book John used to say Rodney reminded him off... the guy from Dostoyevsky's *Notes From Underground.* " I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I'm an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver."
He needs inspiration. He needs it the same way he told Colonel Carter that he needed art. John used to be his art... his inspiration. He wonders how he can give that up. But it's not really his choice, is it?
He sighs and walks over to his computer, resisting the urge to type out this letter then copy it. For some reason, he feels the overwhelming need for authenticity. Instead, he turns on some of the music John dumped onto his hard-drive, for his 'musical edification.' He knows exactly which song to play... by John's favorite band, the Grateful Dead.
The cheerful syncopation of the beat almost makes him let loose the tears that have been threatening to spill for hours now.
".... Driving that train, high on cocaine, Casey Jones is ready, watch your speed..."
He remembers the time he made some cocaine in the lab, on a dare. He remembers John doing a line like he was born for it, not even leaving a dusting of white power below his nose as evidence. And he remembers the fight they had afterwards when he refused to ever make more... how John had threatened to go to one of the other scientists, and how hard it had been to stand his ground. He had never been afraid of John until that night. But they'd survived it - as they'd survived so goddamn much. But they wouldn't survive this.
"... Trouble ahead, trouble behind, And you know that notion just crossed my mind..."
John doesn't like this particular song. Rodney thinks it's probably because he never sees going fast as a bad thing. Rodney just liked the idea of John as the oblivious troublemaker. He'd end up with a spear to his throat, and he'd give Rodney this long suffering look that said, 'what'd I do? It wasn't me!' Now, Rodney thinks about what the song really means... that maybe there's more blame to be placed for recklessness like that. Because there's never a chance you take when the only one affected is you. He thinks that, as much as he loves John, he's no good at being in command. And maybe that staying the same team was the worst in the long line of John's mistakes. But, what were they supposed to do? How could they explain it without giving themselves away?
"... This old engine makes it on time, Leaves Central Station 'bout a quarter to nine..."
He sighs and sits down again, filled so full with inspiration and regret that it seems to overflow onto the old yellowing pages.
Dear John,
I want to begin by saying that I care about you. I care about you so much that it hurts. And that's why I'm breaking up with you. You've always known that I'm weak. I can't charge into things, damn the torpedoes full speed ahead. I'm not a risk taker. In fact, I'd qualify myself a rather risk-adverse. At least I was before I met you. But I have my limits. I know how much you love to push the limits, but you've reached mine....
"... Hits River Junction at seventeen-to, At a quarter to ten you know it's travlin' again...."
... In an earlier version of this letter, I said that it's not you, it's me, and I mean it. I would like nothing more than to stay with you... hide my pain, put on the proud face for everyone else. But I can't, John. I'm not you....
He hates himself at this moment. He knows he should be stronger. But, if he doesn't fault John his inability to make responsible decisions, he can let himself off the hook for his weakness, even if he hates it.
"... Driving that train, high on cocaine, Casey Jones is ready, watch your speed..."
He lets the first tear spill on the paper, smudging the messy curls of his writing. At least John will know it's authentic now. Aren't there all sorts of fables involving lovers and letters and tears? Not that it makes this any easier. He wipes the moisture from his eyes and thinks that it's the bravest thing he's done today.
... I can't keep doing this. I can't walk down these halls, looking from face to face - the people you flirt with to keep up the illusion, the people *I* flirt with in retaliation. I can't meet their eyes anymore. I can't sit down in a room full of people without having to resist the urge to yell how much I love you. I can't keep all these emotions you stir in me inside for much longer before the cracks in the surface start to show. The secrecy is killing me. I know: you're military, so you've been doing it all you life. I should be able to too. But I can't....
He thinks of that time, sitting around the campfire on some alien world. John made some ridiculous comment and Ford responded by saying 'Jesus, Sir, that's so gay.' He wasn't being malicious. Rodney knows that if Ford ever found out, he'd probably freak out, but he'd deal. And, even if he was from Idaho and in the marines, he'd never be the type to beat someone up for being gay. He can't even blame Ford for his naivety.
What really disturbed him was looking at John across the fire, how he'd stopped twirling the stick he was holding in the dirt, eyes dark and body tense. And he remembers the forced casualness in his voice. 'Actually, Ford, I think my comment was so lame, it'd even be an insult to homosexuals.' And they'd both laughed about in that guffawing military way of theirs. Rodney just stared at them in shock - surprised that John Sheppard didn't have a sarcastic comeback... that he didn't stand up for himself and every man he'd ever loved, Rodney included.
It was then that Rodney learned the other side of John's reckless abandon... the inherent self-destructive desperation in it. Rodney was by no means out of the closet, but John... John'd lived years with his friends calling people like him the enemy, the epitome of weakness, and had been forced to agree with it. Rodney wonders how long it is before stuff like that starts to get to you... wears away even boundless sarcastic nonchalance like John's. He wonders if it's already gotten to him as well.
"... Trouble ahead, trouble behind, And you know that notion just crossed my mind...."
Then he hears the bell chime on the door. "Come in." He hers her soft footsteps approach behind him as he turns the paper over, careful not to smudge it. He knows he should have expected her, but he thinks that she must be early. He couldn't possibly have wasted his entire afternoon brooding over this.
"Rodney." His first name still sounds strange on her tongue - as though her people don't quite know how to say the sounds... like when he used to go to China and people would call him 'Docta Lodney Mah-Kay.' "I hope I find you well?" She sounds as though she doubts it.
"... Trouble ahead, Lady in red, Take my advice, you'd be better off dead...."
He stands, intending to be strong. Strong for her... but mostly for himself. He doesn't want her to see his weakness. ... bad enough John has to.
But he fails yet again. Just as he failed John. The second he stands to face her, he's in her arms, running to the nearest comforting embrace.
He inhales the sweet flowery scent that always seems to waft off her - even when he's drenched in mud and sweat, she smells like the cosmetics section of a department store. He knows he should be turned on, his face pressed into her silky smooth hair, her body hard and lithe against him, those feminine curves and seductive strength he's so-often fantasized about. She feels as perfect in his arms as he imagined - petite and embraceable, but as dangerous as a whirlwind, that perfect reaction at the center of an atomic bomb, the nanosecond before it explodes.
But she's one of the most gentle souls he knows. All that power... and her caress, the lilting sing-song of her voice, can transport you back to the time when you listened to lullabies, squirming in your mother's arms. John is all fire and unpredictability and Teyla is comfort and security embodied, the two blades of the sword of power. Occam's razor... but science never tells you how to choose between parts. The detached clinical atmosphere of the lab never tells you how to abandon theories you've devoted so much to. You're supposed to be happy whether or not your hypothesis is proved right or wrong, as long as something is proved. But it never works out that way. Somehow, he thinks, he never quite gets the perfect conditions... just as you can't reach absolute zero.
She kisses his cheek, lips so soft and tender, missing the rough stubble and the sloppy passion. He battles against the tears. "I... I'm not ready." He wants to go. He wants to get this over with. But he can't move on.
"Do not worry, Rodney. I will wait as long as is necessary." Her voice is level, as always. He's glad she's in control of the situation, because, God, he's not. Teyla his always been such a calm steady presence - even when she made her dislike for his abundant bitching clear. John once told her that it was the 'curse of the spoiled rotten.' Of course, John was often the one doing the spoiling. Rodney remembers the day that John lied and told Elizabeth that they were doing a survey of the mainland, just because he thought Rodney had been working too hard and had decided to take him for a picnic on the most beautiful deserted beach on the south coast, silencing Rodney's concerns that the head scientist and the ranking military officer couldn't afford to be off-base doing nothing for an entire day.
"...Switchman's sleeping, train hundred and two is On the wrong track and headed for you...."
Teyla sends delicate fingers massaging through his hair and he leans into the caress. She doesn't know about he and John. He contemplated telling her once, right after she'd shared with him the details of her father's death... how lost and uncertain she felt when she was first had to lead her people. He still doesn't know why she was willing to open up so completely to the self-proclaimed Mr. Insensitive... probably some misguided attempt to 'help him.'
But he's glad he didn't tell her, because it wasn't much later that he discovered her people's views of homosexuality, and it wasn't the loving, all-embracing, hippie/socialist nativism he was expecting. When Ford had explained the meaning of the word 'faggot,' pre-empting one of John's notoriously crappy definitions, Teyla had simply remarked 'I thought such a thing was of myth alone, a remnant from the days long before the Ancestors.' She uses the same tone of voice people use when they try to say that pedophilia is 'a sexual preference' not an illness.
It made sense from a biological point of view, actually. The Wraith, and any societies who needed to sustain a population robust enough to survive culling would certainly not favor any genes that could contribute to a decreased number of reproductive pairs. It wasn't that Teyla was insensitive, it was just that trying to explain it to her would be like trying to discuss quantum mechanics with a chipmunk - it wasn't a reality to her.
He releases her with a world-weary sigh. As much as it hurts, he needs to finish this. "I have to..." He waves his hands and the pens and paper, unable to articulate what it is he's doing... to make it seem real.
"Of course. I will wait." She sits primly on the edge of his bed, making it seem as though it was never made for sleeping or lovemaking, only for sitting with your back ramrod straight, waiting.
"... Driving that train, high on cocaine..."
He lifts his pen, vowing to finish what he started.
... I need to move on. You have to understand that. It doesn't mean that I'll stop caring about you. You know that, as much as I like to bitch, I always care, right? I hope so. But I can't stand hurting when you hurt but not being able to show it. It's selfish, but I just need something easy. You've used up all my strength and I just need to move on...
"... Trouble ahead, trouble behind, And you know that notion just crossed my mind. . . "
He wants to write more, but he's run out of paper. He hasn't signed it, but he figures he doesn't need to. Should anyone ever find it, they won't be able to trace it to him... he and John will keep this secret to their graves. John is stubborn like that.
Rodney stands, tightening the collar he just loosened. He figures he owes it to John to look respectable and he owes it to everyone else to maintain the illusion... the people who couldn't stand to know that the ranking military officer, the hero, the dashing pilot who gives every priestess or chieftain's daughter an appraising eye, was actually doing the dorky scientist they all thought hadn't gotten laid since 1989. He owes it to them to appear as though he's not about to lose the one great love he'll ever be blessed with his entire pathetic life.
Teyla wraps an arm around him and they step out into the corridor. Nobody will meet his eyes, but he's glad for it. They make their way slowly but surely towards the gear-up room, where he knows they'll find John. He's been there since this morning, and he won't have moved.
"... Trouble with you is the trouble with me, Got two good eyes but you still don't see...."
John is lying casually on one of the bland gray benches, his eyes closed and a peaceful smile on his face. It's not Rodney's favorite expression, but he supposes that it's the best he can hope for in this situation. He loves how John can look so laid back, even dressed to the nines like that. It's the first time Rodney has seen him in his dress uniform, and he thinks that he looks damn sexy in it... wishes John would wear it more often.
He wants to lean down, kiss those sexy lips one last time, but he doesn't. Instead he takes his folded yellowed pages, crinkling in his shaking hand, and stuffs them into the pocket of John's blazer.
John doesn't move a muscle, trap Rodney's wrist playfully in his hand the way Rodney was half expecting him to. He's unpredictable even now, and Rodney feels the heat and love welling up within him, unbidden. How he'll miss that kind of unhinged passion.
He thinks of their last kiss... fiery and sloppy and hot despite the awkwardness, the forces pulling them apart, even as John was leaving a soup of both their blood on Rodney's cheek. That must be a marriage ritual in some culture somewhere. Rodney wonders if that makes him divorced.
He remembers stuttering weakly... wanting to apologies, even though John made the decision... John said it would be worth the risk, even when Rodney knew he was judging by the fire in Rodney's own eyes, not by the gilded scales of Costs and Benefits Elizabeth was always lecturing them about. Trouble... God, together they were so much trouble.
And he remembers wanting to move, trying desperately to go after him. They'd both made a mistake, why did John alone have to go out there to fix it? Why did he alone have to pay? Though that isn't really fair, because Rodney is paying at this very moment.
He looks down at the narrow shoulders, the messy hair and the perfectly thin and kissable lips, wishing he could see those dazzling green eyes. But John won't let him. He's a tease that way.
He thinks about the passion in those eyes, and tries not to think of them dull and lifeless, when he crawled out from behind that rock to find John lying with a crater in his chest. Looking at him now, you couldn't tell. John is good at hiding things.
"... Come round the bend, you know it's the end, The fireman screams and the engine just gleams..."
Rodney is suddenly angry. It's so much easier than being sad, after all. It's even easier than being in love.
He screams, throwing off Teyla's hand as she tries to squeeze his. "I'm breaking up with you, you bastard... can't you at least show a little bit of emotion please?!" He doesn't care who's watching anymore.
He is vindicated by what he thinks is the tiniest upturn of a lip, betraying that ever-present rigid control, but then he realizes that it's just the distortion caused by the tears paused on the lip of his eyes. He's never cried at a breakup before, but, then again, he's never been the one to end it.
Even as he whirls to leave, the tears flowing against the full force of his will, he knows that John won't read his letter. John's good at denial, almost as good as he is. Still, he hopes, as John flies through this foreign galaxy on more and more endless explorations, flying toward no particular night and no particular morning, and as he himself finally moves on, they can both be at peace.