hopeful

I have never asked anything for purely selfish reasons from my friendslist. At least, never openly, I just implied.

This is *serious*.

I still can't send out email, but can receive it, which is kind of like being a roach motel, and wow, gross.

So I need a favor.

Just email svmadelyn at svmadelyn@livejournal.com and tell her that I am a dim shadow of my sparkly self if she does not come online *right now* to entertain me.

So far, three have been sent, and she mocks me. I'd hate to resort to desperate measures to get her attention.

I do things like this, left unsupervised.

*****

They held him down the first time.

Rodney doesn't remember anything about that day before that, coming conscious on some horror-movie version of a medical bed, eyes opening on almost-silent grunts, dragged from unconsciousness by something he can't even name. John was strapped down to another bed and convulsing under the attentions of three white-clad bodies.

Spine a painful arch from the thin mattress, mouth gagged, eyes rolled back, and God, Rodney remembers thinking. God. He was *screaming*.

They held him down and shot him up, watching him seizing with detached curiosity, then took him away, to that room, to the chair, strapped him in, made him their living, breathing key, their way to activate a fortress and take over a world.

Rodney doesn’t remember anything until they brought him back, dumping him on the cool floor of their cell, still shaking with involuntary reaction. Rodney remembers pulling him to the cot and stretching him out, John's fingers tangled in the sheet beneath his cheek, saying the same thing over and over.

His name, hissed sharply between clenched teeth. His rank. His serial number.

Neither of them slept that night.

rageful

*speechless with rage*

SHE'S SENDING ME VICIOUS TOYING EMAIL I CANNOT ANSWER!

*****

"Five. I was five."

Rodney closes his eyes against the edge of desperation bleeding through the toneless voice. "Five. That's when your father took you up in a jet. That's when you knew you wanted to fly."

John's head in his lap turns, dark eyes as unreadable as blank glass. He's lost weight again--Rodney hadn't known the chair could do that, because God knew, they got enough to eat, but John's worn down to bone and thin skin, angular beneath the loose cotton-like clothes they'd been given when their uniforms gave out. Pared down, and somehow, it makes him look weirdly younger, dangerously fragile.

A little shake rocks him, and Rodney braces his hands on John's shoulders until it passes. A few seconds, and John evens out again. It takes longer every night. If John's not a junkie for them already, he will be soon. "I don't remember my mother."

Rodney hadn't ever thought to ask about her. Fuck. "She was like you. Smart. Sharp." Carefully, he touches John again. Body memory, he thinks, when John doesn't jerk away instantly. "Brilliant."

"Homicidal." Thinning lips twist, and John tries to pull away. He could, easily, but Rodney tightens his fingers.

"No. You're not."

He is, an unsheathed knife, a gun with a broken safety. Rodney hadn't known how to hate like this--the Wraith were the manifestations of the boogeymen of childhood closets and nightmares, but even that paled to the here and now of watching them take John and then bring him back a little less.

The sheer, unending nausea of watching John pulled to pieces in front of his eyes; knowing that John comes back every day knowing there's something forever missing. He keeps his touch gentle, and John relaxes back into him, eyes closing with a sigh, going boneless. Not asleep--he doesn’t sleep without whatever they give him to counteract whatever the fuck else they give him to get him in that chair--but almost, almost at peace.

"Rodney." John's voice is soft, echoes of an amused drawl from a lifetime ago, when that and a smile could light up a room, no ATA gene required. When he could take Rodney's breath with just a look. "I remember your name, you know."

Rodney smiles, and his hands move on their own, brushing across dark hair gently, just feeling him here. "Yeah?"

"Even--" John shivers again, and Rodney reaches for the blanket, pulling it up around the too-thin body, tucking it securely. They've fallen asleep like this, John's arm, like now, wrapped tightly around his thigh, like Rodney might vanish if he doesn't. Waking up with those fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, face buried against his side. Rodney can't remember a time he wasn't able to touch John. "Even when I forget mine."

Rodney forces himself to breathe, stroking the dark hair back. "I'll remember for us both."

*****

I will mpreg every character you ever loved Harlenquin romance style, I swear.