Title: Babble
Author: kbk
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't really want them, stubborn bastards.
Notes: Well, I was sleep-deprived and babbling and decided to do it as a character rather than myself, or something like that.
Summary: Rodney is pushing himself.

They always act like he does it on purpose, when it's just that time slips away from him in increments of just-a-little-longer and one-more-hour and it'll-be-done-soon and before he knows it sunrise is shedding light through the window. And magnetic north is roughly in that direction, too, which is either extremely temporary in geological - xenogeological? xenological? mmm, Xena - terms or sheds serious doubt on conventional linkage of planetary growth to dynamo theory. Not that that's something Rodney should be thinking about because the sun is shining and he has to leave, right now, so he can catch a couple of hours snooze before the morning meeting and so he won't still be here when Sheppard comes jogging past because he'll give him that disappointed look again - and really, so what if he doesn't conform to sleep cycles? He's a grown man and perfectly capable of making his own decisions and certainly does not need to be chivvied along like a toddler with promises that it'll all still be there in the morning - when there is, in fact, the possibility that it won't, not that he's about to calculate specific odds on it but it's at least worth mentioning - and that his bed is nicely comfortably waiting for him and that if he plays his cards right he might even get tucked in, though that was only offered once, facetiously, and admittedly at the time he'd been tired enough to mention that he didn't remember ever having been tucked in without even having wanted the sympathetic look, because the looks were nice and sometimes led to more but really, John was enough the way he was, more than enough, probably knew far too much about him already, and apparently smart enough to realise that the sympathy was unwanted within about two seconds of it having shown up in his face, even if it lingered around the eyes. Dark eyes.

He really, really ought to just shut down his laptop right now, because he has paper and he has a pen and his brain is only really babbling at this stage anyway so whatever he desperately needs to note down only has a fifty-fifty chance of being worth anything at all and he is saving and he is closing and he is saving and closing and closing once more and as he waits through the whirring of the shut-down he stands and stretches and ohh, that's nice. That's very nice. That's realigning the vertebrae nicely - he gets a childish delight from the snaps and pops that his spine can make, even though it's most likely a sign of early-onset osteoporosis or, whatsit, decaying discs - but his quadriceps are not happy, and so he's bent over rubbing them, his head dropped to rest on the laptop because he's really a lot more tired than he'd realised when he was occupied, and of course that's when a throat clears in the doorway.

Not just any throat - now he's got a picture of a disembodied throat floating around, which is vaguely disturbing - but Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard's throat, and the fact that Rodney can recognise the man just from the sound is also vaguely disturbing, but not as disturbing as the heat in his face when he looks up to see the Colonel leaning in the doorway, all tousled and rumpled and a bit sweaty in his appropriate 'sweats', his expression a combination of amusement and elaborate disapproval.

Rodney frowns back, stepping pointedly away from the desk. "I'm just on my way out. Laptop's off and everything, see?" The laptop chooses that moment to churr loudly and clunk twice before finally shutting down, at which point John's expression is comprised almost entirely of amusement.

"Uh-huh. Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll provide a military escort." Sheppard briefly straightens to full attention, then slouches back against the doorway with a flippant grin.

"I mind. I can find my own way. And you probably smell." John almost certainly smells, actually, because he is sweaty. Rodney finds himself moving towards the door and sniffing unobtrusively at the air, and yeah, smell. Not that it's a bad smell, all things considered, because the sweat is fresh and the underlying man clean and it's all oddly reminiscent of exertion much more fun than jogging, but, uh, that's not something he ought to be thinking about.

"Jesus, Rodney, you are so off your game." John's half-laughing, but there's a perplexed little crinkle between his eyebrows, and then a little proximity alert goes off in Rodney's brain because he's too close, too close, but John slides into the corridor and gestures towards the living quarters and they've walked down this corridor a hundred times before. No need for alarm, nothing to harm, MacDonald had a farm, John's tapping Rodney's arm... Ah.

"Yes, well, my witty retorts are apparently composed in a portion of my brain currently asleep." That comment almost disproves itself, but Rodney can hear the flat tiredness of his voice and knows it would be apparent even to someone less observant than Sheppard.

John smirks anyway, because exhaustion isn't a good enough excuse to change the game they play. "If you'd sleep all at once like normal people, that wouldn't be a problem."

Rodney smirks back, because the way to reply is far too easy. "I am many things, but normal is hardly one of them."

John doesn't pick up the change in conversation; he's too stubborn. "You know, Caldwell would be well within his rights to remove you from missions until you're properly rested." It's a taunt, a threat, a dare - one that Rodney chooses to evade.

"That would take a few years, so I don't think he's gonna." Hell, it would probably take the rest of his natural lifespan to recover all the sleep he's lost since high school, and he doesn't really expect to live that long, especially if he stays in this goddamn galaxy, with its Wraith and Genii and soldiers and friends and home and family... Bastards that they all are.

"You don't have to keep pushing like this." John doesn't look at him this time, just keeps walking. Obviously things are getting a little too serious for his comfort, but it's all his fault and so Rodney feels no sympathy.

"I don't intend to." Of course, his intentions don't seem to have much effect on what actually happens, but nobody else needs to know that.

John frowns at him a little - the man definitely knows him too well. "Then I'll see you at lunch," he says, and just stands there with his hands in his pockets.

Rodney takes a few more steps before he realises they're at his door. He really ought to put a nameplate up at some point. Still. Two hours, and then. Huh. "Are you excusing me from the morning meeting?"

"Absolutely. I'll tell them so." John rocks onto the balls of his feet and back, and it takes several long moments for Rodney to work out where he knows that move from, because he's never seen it before. Just done it. He almost doesn't hear the rest of what John says. "Unless you have anything urgent to bring up."

"No, no, everything's all right." There's a flash of frustration in John's eyes when he hears that, and for the life of him Rodney doesn't know why. He's not used to being the easier one to understand. "I'll see you at lunch, then." He opens his door and takes two steps inside, but John hasn't moved, is just looking at him. He looks back, and after a moment John shrugs.

"Guess so," he says. "Pleasant dreams."

Rodney has to smirk a little at that, because even before he came here he had more nightmares than otherwise, but he nods at John, and closes the door before either of them can say anything else. He doesn't trust himself when he's this tired. Which is a good argument for making sure he gets enough sleep, but really, he tries. He does. It's just so hard to walk away from something that might save them all. He doesn't understand how the rest of them do it - how they ever manage to relax, how Major, no, Lt Col Sheppard manages to sit himself down and watch that goddamn 'football' game when he could, should, be switching on and manipulating every bit of Ancient tech they've come across. But John deserves to relax, really must when he has the time for it, he's done so much, risked himself so many times, dealt with so many things he was never trained for... No matter. Forget it, Rodney, and go to sleep.

He strips off his jacket, his radio, his shoes and trousers, and just lets himself fall onto the bed. He'll move soon, get himself under the covers, get some sleep. He will. Just a minute.

He'll move soon.