Work Text:
John was accustomed to missions with clear, precise, set-in-stone objectives. Objectives that he'd been trained to accomplish -- that he knew could be accomplished given the tools at his disposal. And even when the objectives failed to encompass everything he encountered during the course of a mission, there were still general guidelines to fall back on.
Acceptable behavior, acceptable risks, acceptable losses.
Perhaps that was why he felt so overwhelmed at unexpected moments, flying this one solo.
His mission parameters were vague and shady at best; illegal when he was being truthful with himself; and likely to spark an international diplomatic crisis at worst. His resources included a Twin Huey (currently grounded with the fuel gauge nudging empty), an alien Gameboy that didn't play Pong, and a lethal alien Taser that he'd vowed not to use because frankly the one-shot-stuns, two-shots-kills, three-shots-disintegrates routine scared the shit out of him.
Oh, and he couldn't forget his own charisma and eloquence and passionate devotion to his cause.
Riiiight.
So resources were a total wash. Luckily, managing Rodney didn't require any special resources, just patience and a steady hand -- same as any highly explosive material. And if Rodney's intellect was a formidable weapon that continued to twist beneath John's defenses? Well, the blows it landed stung with embarrassment, but did no lasting harm.
General Hammond had said: For god's sake, don't offer him anything unless you're convinced you can live with him.
Oddly enough, that had been the easiest thing to determine -- that he could live with Rodney. Actually live with him, in close proximity, and not succumb to the urge to bludgeon either one of them unconscious just for a chance at some peace and quiet. And even more important, but still falling into the same category, he knew that Rodney-
All right. He wanted to attribute it to professionalism, or practicality, or maybe even discretion. But John suspected, he sensed that the... attraction Rodney felt for him would not be allowed to impinge on their working relationship, for the unflattering reason that Rodney feared what John would do to him at the merest hint of inappropriate behavior.
Key words: working relationship.
General Hammond had also said: If he cooperates, he's going to be your responsibility.
And goddamn, but which one was it? Was John expected to babysit McKay, or partner with him? Given that Rodney was a scientist and a civilian, were those duties even discrete?
Lacking guidance, John retreated to the most basic, ingrained tenet of military service, which was to cover his ass. He expanded his own mission parameters from "live with Rodney" to "work with Rodney". Then he briefly flirted with the idea of defecting to Russia, because there was abso-fucking-lutely no way that he could prepare Rodney for the Air Force. It would be easier to prepare the entire United States Air Force for Meredith Rodney McKay. But there was also no way that John was going to return home uninformed and ill-prepared, to stumble into god only knew what sort of tense political climate. Not while he was escorting a potential disaster of Rodney's caliber.
So he devised tests, barely -- badly? -- disguised as outlandish recreational activities.
He tested Rodney's coordination and endurance; his situational awareness and reflexes; his creativity and flexibility (make that intellectual creativity and flexibility). John learned that Rodney was decisive in an engineered crisis, but that a marching band could sneak up on him when he was engrossed in a project. He determined that the "authority issues" repeatedly emphasized in McKay's official dossier were more like "stupidity issues" -- not that the distinction was appreciable to a man whose intelligence quotient placed him above 99.99999 percent of the population.
It was valuable, strategic knowledge to have, even if most of the findings simply confirmed John's apprehension. McKay was about as suited to field work as... well, most of the scientists the SGC turned loose on alien worlds with a flak jacket and a set of dog tags.
No wonder their mortality rate was high.
Worse, John's assessment lacked one vital measurement. A bad result was, in this case, preferable to uncertainty -- just as John would rather know he was down to his last bullet than pull the trigger blindly, unsure if the weapon would fire ten times, or once, or not at all.
But of course, his only attempt to find Rodney's snapping point not only failed; it backfired spectacularly.
The argument began over something inane. Intentionally so, on John's part. For the test, he needed an excuse to kick Rodney's blood pressure up about fifty points, and playing the military trump on top of the stupid card was the fastest method he knew.
In fact, the subject of the argument was so unimportant that he wasn't able to recall it by the time he'd backed Rodney into a corner. Physically crowded him there -- he had a couple inches on McKay, which the thick soles of his boots exaggerated, and he'd been on the receiving end of enough bitch-outs to be able to play the part of the raging asshole officer with authentic panache. He jabbed his finger into McKay's sternum and flung around words like responsibility and failure and lives at stake.
And then it happened.
"No, you listen to me!" he shouted, all up in McKay's face, nice and intimidating. Rodney's bewildered expression turned, not scathing and defensive as anticipated, but absolutely wretched. It was so wrong that John... faltered.
That's when Rodney said, "Oh. You're doing this on purpose," with such stunning relief that John's chest clenched in sympathy.
Just like that, his command of the situation was gone, shot to hell, as was his balance. He backed off a step, blinking. "Yeah. I am. Was. Jesus, I'm sorry. You're not-"
Rodney aimed for lightness and fell well short, but the effort was valiant. "No, I see what you were doing. Tough love, for my own good, all of that. I get it." His gaze ducked sharply to the left, to avoid resting on John.
"No Rodney," John tried again, his voice a little more hoarse than could be attributed to the shouting. "I fucked it up." He gestured between them. "You're supposed to come equipped with a thicker skin. It's supposed to sting, hit too close to home, but you're supposed to muster some good old-fashioned indignation and get pissed off. Maybe take a swing at me. Not... figure it out. Figure me out. I forget that you're too damned smart to play these games."
It was as close as he dared come to admitting where he'd miscalculated. He hadn't realized he and Rodney were enough like friends that he could hurt Rodney, get under his skin and inflict real damage, in a way some asshole stranger never could.
Rodney still wasn't trusting John with anything remotely like eye contact. He fidgeted and opened his mouth to speak, but the sounds that came out weren't words; they weren't reassuring, either.
So John gripped the back of Rodney's neck, almost rough, and dragged him in close. But it wasn't a real hug until Rodney's arms tentatively came around his waist. John stayed very still, losing track of the heartbeats he was counting, until the apology took; until at last he felt Rodney relax against him. "I promise, no more FNG tactics," he murmured.
"Fucking new guy," Rodney said, and made a sound, near John's ear, that might have been a desiccated chuckle. His arms slipped back to his sides when he straightened. "I forget that you're an officer. I've been lead on enough projects to know what a pain in the ass it is to try to pound the new guy into place without disrupting the rest of the well-oiled machinery."
John let his fingers brush Rodney's nape a final time. Rodney's attention leaped up to his face, allowing John to smile ruefully and admit, "I'm a shitty officer. It's easier to just-" Pretend to be everyone's friend. Only he wasn't pretending now, so, helpless, he finished the sentence with a shrug.
Rodney's confidence was visibly seeping back. "I was a shitty project lead. I was convinced that the only way to get anything done quickly and accurately was to do every job myself."
"I think that's called perfectionism," John pointed out, "and a lot of people will tell you there's nothing wrong with it."
"Oh sure, it's great. Right up until you realize that there aren't physically enough hours in a day to finish everything that needs to be done, and you start making careless mistakes because you're trying to focus on two dozen tasks at once, and then you waste god knows how much time working on something you didn't realize was already complete because your well-meaning yet inept assistants have started delegating things behind your back."
"Not that you would know that from experience," John said primly.
Rodney swept the suggestion away with his hand. "Me? Of course not."
"Just as I, uh... don't know from experience that- Crap, I can't say that, because I wasn't going to admit no one ever thought I'd make it past Captain." Not his friends, not his crew. Least of all John himself.
"But... right there, you just admitted..." Rodney pointed at him. "Seriously, Captain?"
"I guess in a way, they were right." John shrugged again, casual and self-deprecating, and he didn't finish the thought aloud: John Sheppard hadn't lived to make it past Captain. Not on his own merit.
There was an obvious twist to Rodney's mouth seconds later, when he reached the same conclusion. But, thank god, his continued silence signaled the end of the topic, the argument, and the discussion in general.
Which left John dazedly wondering how many times Rodney was going to rescue his ass before John was in a position to start returning the favor.