Archive of Our Own ^beta

The wreck started in turn three of Bristol. To be honest, it didn't look that bad at first--Kasey Kahne spun and took out one of the Busch brothers, who took Sheppard along with him up into the wall. Rodney was thinking more of the damage to the car and their points standings, until Sheppard didn't answer Radek over the radio.

"Sheppard? John?" Zelenka demanded. The broadcast feed showed the emergency crews approaching the front of the Number 21 car. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney could see Elizabeth hurrying towards them from Caldwell's pit stall.

"Have you heard--" she began, but just then Rodney's headset crackled to life and everyone on Sheppard's frequency came to a sudden halt.

"…the hell was that?"

Rodney sagged against the side of the war wagon. The TV feed was showing Sheppard crawling out of the car--with help, but mostly under his own steam. A NASCAR official approached Elizabeth, and Rodney knew before the guy opened his mouth that he was going to say "infield care center."

"Radek," Elizabeth said, and Rodney turned in surprise to see Zelenka behind him.

"I'll get everything packed up. Let us know if they're sending him up to the hospital."

"As soon as I know something." Elizabeth gestured to Rodney, and he fell into step behind her, like always.

There really shouldn't be a "like always" for these things.

***

They worked their way down Pit Row, past all the other teams. Everyone gave them sideways glances, but didn't stop what they were doing. A wreck like this meant caution, which meant cars coming in to pit. Everyone else here had a race to finish.

Several cameras were focused on them as they approached the care center. Rodney picked his gaze up from the ground enough to see Ford, lurking off to the side where he really wasn't needed by his crew. Their eyes met briefly, and Rodney nodded at him and tried to smile. Ford nodded back, but his expression was still solemn as he turned to talk to one of the camera operators.

And then they were inside, and he could hear Sheppard arguing weakly with the doctor, and Rodney reminded himself to breathe.

"John," Elizabeth said, a faint smile crossing her face, "are you arguing about going to the hospital?"

"I'm fine," Sheppard said in a voice that barely carried a few feet.

Rodney narrowed his eyes at him. "Yes, of course you are. You're just white as a sheet and bleary-eyed because you wanted the sympathy."

"Something like that." Sheppard tried to sit up, then made a sad little sound and lay back down.

"He has a concussion again," Rodney said to Elizabeth.

"I do not!"

"That's his third in four years," she said.

"I'm fine!"

"Yeah, but he got the second one playing basketball with Ronon. That shouldn't count."

"Don't remind me," she said. "He took me out when he went down, remember?"

"Well, serves you right for playing two-on-two with Teyla and The Thing."

"Hey, remember me? Stock car racer, your employee, mild headache but otherwise fine and ready to go home?"

Rodney crossed his arms. "Sit back up and say that."

Sheppard got one arm half under him before he flopped back down. Both Rodney and Elizabeth winced. "I hate you both," he said.

Rodney put a hand on Sheppard's shoulder. "Want me to meet you at the hospital?"

"Please," Sheppard said to the ceiling. "I'll save you my Jell-o."

***

Rodney drummed a hand on the steering wheel and tried not to check the car clock again. Some commentator was nattering on about next week's race on the radio; Rodney kept a miniscule amount of attention on the sound just in case they said something about a Weir team and re-ordered his to-do list in his head.

The "new" house (three years and counting) was a couple of twisty roads off the main highway, set back against rows of maple and ash trees, and fronted by a huge yard Sheppard refused to pay anyone to mow. Rodney took the last blind corner a little too fast, and parked Allison in the driveway instead of waiting for the garage door opener to work. He was on a deadline.

He headed up to the apartment above the garage. He and Sheppard spent most of their time in the house proper, but Rodney preferred the bed in "his" apartment (he'd paid enough for it), and once he got Sheppard up the stairs, everything was on one level, so there wouldn't be any trotting up and down stairs for glasses of water. It took eighteen of his allotted twenty minutes to stash the groceries in the fridge, remake the bed, and clear off all the crap he'd left on the couch. Then he wasted another eight minutes trying to find Sheppard's favorite sweats, which he was sure had been left in his bedroom somewhere. Finally he gave up and grabbed a random set out of his dresser. He'd look in the main house when they got back.

He zipped around in the driveway and headed for the road, muttering under his breath at the waste of time. If Sheppard tried to get out of there without him, he'd--

There was a flash of red in his peripheral vision, and then the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. And then nothing.

***

It was the weirdest feeling. He hurt like a son of a bitch, but he couldn't quite focus enough to care.

It took Rodney a while to analyze the situation, but he finally stayed conscious long enough to think about it. Conclusion: really good drugs.

He stared at the ceiling and ran a mental diagnostic. Left leg, very painful; right leg, not noticeable. Chest pain. Neck and head sore but nothing alarming. Right arm, functional. Left arm…he couldn't move his left arm.

The drugs muted both the panic and his attempt to jerk his head to the left. He inched around and made his eyes focus on his arm. There was nothing wrong with his arm; there was just someone asleep on top of it.

"John?" He swallowed a couple of times and tried again. "John?"

Sheppard's head did jerk up. He looked blankly at Rodney for a second, and then his expression changed into something Rodney had never seen before. He felt Sheppard's hand close almost painfully over his.

"I'm okay," he said, his voice still cracked and rusty, and tried to squeeze Sheppard's hand back.

"Okay," Sheppard said. "Fine. Good. Good." He covered his eyes with his free hand. Rodney stared at him, the beginnings of real fear starting to work their way through the narcotics, but Sheppard took his hand away and smiled at him with too-bright eyes. "Good," he said again.

***

Rodney kept waking up into other people's conversations. Usually with Sheppard.

"…call the Little Debbie people?"

"Yes, I did." That was Elizabeth, he was pretty sure. "We're going to reschedule the shoot in a couple of weeks. I may have, um, exaggerated the extent of your injuries a little."

That snort was pure, one hundred percent, grade-A Caldwell. "She lied through her teeth. I heard her."

"Steven's right, I did. And that clears your schedule through qualifying Friday."

"Okay."

"John?"

"I don't think Rodney's ever missed a race before. Maybe a couple of Busch races. It's going to drive him up a wall."

No kidding, Rodney thought before he fell asleep again.

***

Sheppard and Ford were standing by the door, talking quietly. So quietly that Rodney obviously wasn't supposed to hear them; however, the entire hospital room consisted of Rodney's bed, a curtain, the chair Sheppard insisted on sleeping in, and a sink, so the door wasn't far enough away.

"I think I understand now why everyone treated me so funny after my accident," Ford was saying. "It's a lot different from this side."

"Yeah."

Rodney snuck a look at them. Sheppard was propped against the doorframe, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, hunched over a bit and staring at his shoes. Ford mirrored his position on the other side of the door.

"He'll be fine, you know. He's--he's probably going to enjoy having something new to complain about for a while."

Sheppard raised his head, shot Ford a deadly glare, and then shoved off of the doorframe. Rodney could hear his footsteps thudding down the hall.

"Shit," Ford said.

***

To Rodney's complete mortification, they did a story on him during the pre-race coverage. "I can't believe this," he bitched from his carefully propped up bed.

Doctor Whatshername, his least favorite intern, looked over at him from Sheppard's chair. "Why is this so bad? I thought you were one of the driving forces in NASCAR innovation."

"Yes, of course. But they didn't do this because they've suddenly recognized my pre-eminent genius. They did it because it's such a good story that Sheppard and I got hurt the same week. Look, look, they're following him around with a camera again."

"It's hard to be famous," the intern said.

Rodney wondered if he had enough strength back to throw things at her. "Listen, Whatsyourname, why are you even here bothering me?"

"Two reasons." She held up the appropriate number of fingers. "First, because there's some concern among your medical team that you'll work yourself up into a state during the race and re-damage something we're trying to fix--"

Rodney huffed.

"And second, my name is Dr. Keller, and my dad is Brian Keller, who--"

"Wait, Brian Keller, the engines guy from Landry Racing?"

"The one and only."

"And you're a doctor, really? Huh."

"Takes all kinds," Keller said dryly, but Rodney's cell phone was ringing and he dove for it.

"McKay."

"Hey, Rodney."

Rodney looked up at the TV, and Sheppard was in the background of a shot, leaning on his car and talking into his cell phone. "I can see you," he said stupidly.

The tiny Sheppard on his screen had a tiny smirk on its face. "Good to know."

"How's everything going?"

"It's quieter without you," Sheppard said, and Rodney frowned at the TV, "but much less efficient, too."

"Really?"

Sheppard smirked more. "Yes, really, you jackass. Stop fishing. We miss you."

Rodney smiled.

The camera cut away, and the background noise on the phone got louder. "I better go," Sheppard said.

"Okay. Don't wreck my car, hotshot. Again."

"Ha. I promise."

"No, seriously, John," Rodney said, lowering his voice and turning away from Keller. "Be careful, okay?"

"I'll be fine, Rodney. I'll be back tonight, I promise."

Rodney hung up and turned to Keller. "So, uh, ready to watch Weir Racing in action?"

She flipped a piece of popcorn at his head. "Twenty bucks says a Landry team beats 'em."

"Hey!"

A girl's gotta have her loyalties."

"Fine, I'll take the twenty I win from you and use it to pay for five minutes' care here. Hand over the popcorn."

***

A few days later, Rodney lowered himself cautiously onto his mattress.

"You okay?" Sheppard asked, hand half-extended in Rodney's direction.

"Sure. It was just a long ride." Rodney had gone the whole way with his eyes closed, and Sheppard's hand on his leg whenever he wasn't shifting.

"I'll get you your meds."

Rodney made a face. "Great, I'm still going to sleep all the time. It's just like being in the hospital, but with a better TV."

"Life's hard, McKay."

"Hey, don't mock me. I've been grievously injured. And what's taking so long? Did you lose my pills?"

He started to sit up, but Sheppard put a breakfast tray over his lap, blocking him.

Rodney blinked. Next to his pills and a bottle of water was a rainbow--literally, a rainbow--of prepackaged Jell-o, all flipped over so the colors showed.

"The orange ones are apricot and the yellow ones are banana pudding, so don't even think about freaking out," Sheppard said, settling next to him on the bed.

Rodney reached out, careful not to disrupt the rainbow, and cupped a hand around the back of Sheppard's neck. "I'm going to be fine, you know. No permanent damage."

"Yeah, I know," Sheppard said, but the hand he put against the side of Rodney's face was just a little on this side of steady.

"Look at me. I promise. I promise."

Sheppard tried to kiss him gently, but Rodney pulled him in harder until he was finally serious about it.

"I promise," Rodney said again, resting their foreheads together.

"I believe you."

"Good." Rodney looked back down at the tray. "Wait, the green ones aren't lime, are they?"

"No--"

"Because Jell-O is overly fond of the citrus flavors, and you can't be too careful--"

"Rodney."

--the end--