John makes a point of being the first one to show up for the meeting. Everything's just too loud, too frantic around him, and even though there's a perfectly good reason for all the chaos he thinks he'll stop functioning altogether if he can't get away from it.
The empty briefing room is just as peaceful as he expects; standing just inside as the doors hiss shut, he can almost believe nothing's wrong. Then he looks out through the open balcony doors and sees the missiles that are gradually pounding through Atlantis' shield, and the illusion is shattered.
A second later, John realizes that he's not the first arrival but the second; Rodney's already standing outside on the balcony. He's staring up at the explosions as if hypnotized, gripping the railing tightly.
For the first time, John wonders how Rodney's still even standing. He knows from personal experience that uppers, even the heavy-duty shit Beckett's been pumping into Rodney and Zelenka, can only go so far. There's something else going on there. More than drugs, maybe even more than Rodney's persistent-- and too nearly correct-- belief that he's entirely and solely responsible for the survival of the city. John kind of wonders what it is.
Even as he thinks this, John's already moving across the room to join Rodney outside; the other man doesn't seem to notice his presence.
"Don't worry about it," John says, realizing too late that Rodney won't know where the hell that came from.
"Oh, I worry." Rodney tightens his hands on the railing without even glancing over in surprise. Impossibly, his knuckles whiten even further. "I worry about everything. Even, believe it or not, the imminent destruction of the city we happen to live in. And since telling me not to worry won't make the Wraith go away, you might as well save it."
"Cut it out," John tells him a little more firmly. He drops a hand on one of Rodney's and starts trying to pry it from the railing. "Five minutes out here instead of in the lab isn't going to make much difference in the long run."
Rodney finally looks at him, just a tad startled. "And just who gave you permission to try and read my mind?"
"No one." John shrugs, still working on Rodney's hand. "Just . . . you've got a couple minutes here. Enjoy it while it lasts. God knows you've earned it."
He finally gets Rodney to let go of the railing, and-- instead of pulling away like John expects-- Rodney wraps his hand around John's instead, stroking it gently with his thumb.
Neither of them speaks for a couple of minutes; they just stand there looking up at the detonating missiles. It occurs to John that it looks like a huge monochrome fireworks display.
"I used to like fireworks," Rodney says contemplatively, as if in response to John's thought. "Now I'm not so sure."
John chuckles a little, even though it's not funny at all, and tightens his grip just a little on Rodney's hand.
They keep not talking for a minute more, until the swish of a door signals the arrival of more people and they have to let go of each others' hands.
Rodney keeps looking upward for a moment longer. "It's almost pretty, isn't it?"
"Almost." John snorts. "Not quite."
He makes sure to brush his hand against Rodney's again, ever so lightly, before they turn together and the frantic babble inside overwhelms them once more.
END