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Sitting on the bench in the back of the jumper, John stares down at his hands. He can’t stop them from shaking. There’s blood smeared across his left hand and he’s lost in it for a moment. He’d almost ordered Ford to fire on children. Children who were killing themselves before they knew anything—dying for no good reason.
“Hey.” McKay’s voice cuts through the silence and John curls his hands into fists. “You going to come help with the ZedPM or what?”
John looks up at McKay and feels oddly loose in his presence. “What are we doing again? I thought you got it working.” His voice even sounds halfway to normal.
McKay makes a noise, something distant and distracted. “You sure you’re not in shock? There was a lot of blood out there.”
“I’m fine,” John says, spreading his hands for McKay to see—pleased when they remain steady.
This time, McKay makes a tight, disgusted sound and John remembers the blood. “Hasn’t anyone ever made you watch something on bloodborne pathogens?” McKay snaps, digging in one of his vest pockets to produce a little bottle of hand sanitizer.
Before John can protest, McKay drops to his knees beside him and starts to scrub at John’s hands with the soap and a handkerchief from god knows where, muttering all the while about the various and dire consequences of coming into contact with other people’s blood. It’s comforting and John doesn’t even try to figure out why. It doesn’t matter.
When McKay looks up at him, annoyed, John smiles back. “Does the Air Force pay you to give this lecture?” John asks.
McKay rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha,” he mutters, his focus already back on John’s hands. “They barely pay me to do my actual job.”
The blood is gone, wiped clean, but McKay doesn’t let go of his hand. John doesn’t want him to.
“McKay,” John says, every single thing he’s wanted to say today suddenly at the tip of his tongue.
McKay looks up again, almost concerned.
“I’m glad I didn’t die when I was twenty-five,” John says, turning his hand to catch McKay’s before he can pull away.
“What—” McKay says, his face twisting in confusion, but John cuts him off.
“I could’ve—I definitely wasn’t safe back then. And I knew people who—” he can’t talk about it, stutters past it instead. “I’m just glad I made it.”
“Well,” McKay says, eyes wide and searching. “I’m glad, too.”
John licks his lips and can’t look away from McKay. “I’m glad I got to see Atlantis,” he says, tightening his hold on McKay’s hand. “I’m glad I met you.”
McKay stares at him for a moment, eyebrows turning in a frown. “No,” he says, and the word twists sharply in John’s chest.
Something in McKay’s cheek twitches, and before John realizes what’s happening, McKay’s leaning in to place an awkward kiss to the back of his hand.
“No,” McKay says again, cutting off the response John’s barely thought of. He pushes himself back to his feet, out of John’s grasp, and starts fumbling away his soap, the dirty handkerchief abandoned on the floor. “We’re not doing this here. There are much cleaner, more private places where we can talk about that.”
All things considered, that’s fair. John slumps back, watching as McKay adjusts his vest. He tries not to think about what he’ll say later, when everything has had more time to settle. He tries not to think about the feeling of McKay’s lips on his skin.
“Now,” McKay says, holding his hand out. “Now we’re going to go back to the ruins to see if we can’t boost the range of the shield so these kids can keep on living.”
John doesn’t hesitate—he takes McKay’s hand and lets him pull him up.