blue flamingos

Home Fires

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG1

Category/Rated: Slash, PG-13

Year/Length: 2008/ ~1016 words

Pairing: Cam/John

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.

Series: The Shadows 'verse

Author's Notes: Time stamp for [info]skieswideopen

Feedback: Yes please. Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.


It's partly Cam's fault, for not turning on a light, but he's not in the mood to be reasonable, falling over a box after an achingly long day running frighteningly young recruits through their paces at the alpha site.

"Sheppard! Are you trying to kill me? Because you're well on the way to succeeding."

He throws his bag and jacket on the arm chair, flipping on a lamp as he goes by and listening to sounds of movement. His knee's already begun to stiffen up from the drive home, and it twinges as he moves into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and smiling at the plastic box of pasta which wasn't in there in the morning; that has to be a good sign.

It was hardly worth turning the lamp on; he turns it off again as he leaves the room, limping down the corridor and into what is still, technically, his bedroom, though he hasn't had the bed to himself in nearly six months.

Nor will he tonight, he realizes. The lamp on his side of the bed – the only one, since he isn't supposed to be sharing it with anyone – is on, throwing soft light over the rumpled covers and the bedraggled head poking out of them.

John blinks up at him and smiles slowly. "You're home," he says, watching Cam lower himself carefully to sit on the side of the bed, and Cam knows he's grinning like an idiot, but he doesn't care. Hearing John Sheppard call this place home will never, ever get old. "How was your day?"

Cam groans at the memory, and the thought of doing it all again tomorrow. "Fine," he lies, rolling his eyes because he knows it will make John smile. "Until I got home and nearly killed myself falling over a box."

"Sorry," John says insincerely. "I was going to unpack it, honestly."

"You've been saying that since you moved in here," Cam points out. "At least put it in the other room so I don't keep tripping on it."

"Yes, dear," John says.

Cam moves to swat him round the side of his head, but somehow he loses the impetus before he makes contact, and ends up running his hand through John's hair instead. "How about you? You doing okay?"

"M'fine," John says, still sleepy. His skin's warm against Cam's hand; he must have been in bed for a while. "Slept most of the day. Shelley brought us pasta."

That explains the box in the fridge, but at least there was some missing, which means John actually ate. "Still tired?"

"Mm." John presses into Cam's hand like a cat, familiar and necessary, and Cam takes a deep breath, pushing down the remembered fear. The drug the Antricians had given John to keep him awake while they held him captive for the three days it took SG-1 to get to him left him exhausted when it burnt through his system. Lam kept him in the infirmary, the first night, keeping an eye on his bruises, his sprained wrist, and made small talk with Cam, who couldn't seem to move away, freaked out by the dead sleep John had fallen into, unable to relax until he woke up for half an hour, nineteen hours later.

It's been four days, long enough that it's starting to wear off, but Cam can't shake the memories off bursting into that cell and finding John wide-eyed and manic, barely able to recognize them.

"Hey," John says, wrapping his good hand round Cam's wrist. "I'm fine. Shelley stayed for an hour and I didn't even doze off once. Lam wants me in to be signed back onto active duty day after tomorrow. Quit worrying."

"Yes, dear," Cam parrots back automatically, and John sighs.

"Lie down," he says, flopping gracelessly over to pull out a corner of the twisted bedding. Apparently, he's a mobile sleeper when he's alone. "Tell me about your day. I'm bored here."

"Day-time TV not exciting enough for you?" Cam asks, standing up to remove his shirt and jeans. He showered at the mountain, so he's pretty much ready to go straight to bed, and whatever his mom says, his teeth aren't going to rot if he doesn't brush them for one night.

"There was a guy on Jerry Springer who was certain he'd been kidnapped by aliens who wanted to perform deranged sex acts on him," John says, his eyes on Cam as he fumbles with the last buttons on his shirt and shoves his jeans off. "How come we never meet the aliens who want to perform deranged sex acts on us?"

"Just unlucky, I guess," Cam says. John holds up the corner of the covers and he slides in, unable to stop the sigh of relief as he relaxes back into the soft mattress and the warmth left by John's body. Even the ache in his bad leg seems to ease.

John rolls over, carefully holding his sprained wrist up, and settles into Cam's side, twisting to kiss him. "Missed you," he says.

They've been living together for nearly six months now, since Cam's bad experience with the memory device, when he woke up the next morning to John looking solemnly at him and saying, "Yes. Okay." He still knows what John means though; he kept turning round to share a joke, and remembering that the person he wanted to share it with wasn't there.

"You'll be back in a couple of days," he says. "More excitement than you'll know what to do with."

"Good." John shifts again, resting his still-bandaged wrist on Cam's stomach, his fingers curling over Cam's ribs. "Can't let you lot have all the fun."

"We'll do our best not to," Cam agrees. That won't be hard, not really; he loves his team, but he feels like an outsider without John there.

"So tell me about the training runs," John says. "Find anyone good that we can poach?"

Cam wraps an arm round John's back, warm and cozy in their bed, and does exactly that.

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