nny | (no subject)

Written for

the_oscar_cat because she asked me to, and damn am I honoured that she did. :)

This is an SG:A fic set before Missing and indulging my love of traditions.

Christmas-esque Story

The flags dance faster when the fire catches them, just for an instant before their colors fade to black and the words - already unintelligible - become completely unreadable. The winter-silver trees at the edge of the clearing catch the light and throw it back, and John just gets it. Understands the festival suddenly and viscerally and deep in the bone, someplace that mistletoe and fairy lights and shopping day countdowns could never and will never touch him.

Although he maybe understands the prayer flags the weird British guy had draped all over his workstation in McMurdo a little better, now.

He keeps his eyes on the edges of the tree, just a little beyond the flickering flames. The Athosians came first, of course, writing their prayers and draping their flags while Teyla was still trying to persuade Halling that they could be trusted with this (and they can be trusted with this, and they have been trusted with this, which means they're family, which is - which is new and old and right all at once). Unfamiliar language decorates the center of the tree, wound close to the trunk, poorly written words in childish hands tangled low in dried roots. And right at the edges, at the end of one of the branches, Ronon's weirdly neat script and Teyla's careful few words, John's own crabbed chickenscratch. But it's Rodney's spidery scrawl he's watching when the wind and the flames finally conspire to catch them, send their prayers off to be read wherever the Ancestors might be.

The Athosians bow deeply when the whole tree is burning, Teyla gesturing that the team should awkwardly echo, and it feels weirdly solemn and heavy until Halling lifts his head and his hands and Jesus, the smile on his face. If John were a more philosophical man he'd maybe be thinking that this is how they win - just a little, every day - but instead he just turns to Ronon and slaps him on the back as Halling's great shout of laughter rings through the clearing, leans down to kiss a startled Teyla's cheek and slings his arm across Rodney's shoulders as the drinks are brought out and the festival gets going.

And later, when the fire has brought the light back to the world and campfires have been lit from it, the four of them sit quietly and stare into the glow of their flames.

"Names," says Ronon, and no one has to ask whose, and -

"My people," from Teyla. Ashes dust their foreheads and their cheekbones just below their eyes - see clearly, Teyla had said solemnly as she touched darkened fingers to their skin, and think wisely. No one had been surprised by Rodney's snort, but that was Rodney, and that was family, and that was the way things were supposed to be.

John cocks his head and squints to his left, caught for a second by the way orange light gilds the angle of a jaw.

"Rodney?"

"I'm not telling." Shadows define the straight-cut line of his mouth. "They don't come true if you tell."

"That's wishes," he answers, stretching lazily, "these are prayers."

And Rodney slants him a sardonic sidelong glance and he laughs, not even needing to hear it.

"And you, Colonel?" Teyla is smiling, golden and beautiful, "what did you pray for?"

"I'm not telling if Rodney won't."

"It's nice to have confirmation of your infantile status," Rodney says loftily, and John's smile turns to a grin turns to a smirk.

"I know you are, but what am I?"

And then later still, when the fire is soft glowing embers, and Rodney has leaned close enough to John that his lower lip is likely leaving smears of ashes across John's ear.

(Speak truly.)

"Be safe," he says, breath-soft. "That was all."

John reaches across to grab Rodney's big square hand with calluses where none used to be and deliberately tangles their fingers together, the weaving linked directly to the knots in his stomach.

"Yeah," he says, equally as quiet. "Same here."