War doesn't stop for Sundays.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee
"Do you believe in God?" John asks.
Rodney's eyes are closed and the monitors are beeping steadily, loud enough he can't hear John's actual heartbeat, even though he has his head laid against his chest. "SG-1 has killed most of them. I suppose there might be one or two left."
"Rodney," John says. His voice sounds tired, too raspy to be recognizable and not slow enough. John always speaks slow, and this new urgency in his voice is more than a little unnerving.
"I believe what I can prove," Rodney says. "All and all, the Big Bang theory and evolution have more support than the Bible."
"Sometimes I believe in God," John tells him, like it's something he's not sure he wants to admit to, but he just can't stop himself. Near death experiences often lead to confessions, John's just not usually the type to speak them out loud.
Rodney stares at the infirmary ceiling, tinted blue by the faint lights in the corners of the room. Carson would kill him if he found him crammed into John's bed with him, but it was the first time John had ever asked him to stay.
"Well, we all have to believe in something," Rodney says.
blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Rodney found a delicate silver cross in the top drawer of John's nightstand once. "It was my mother's," John tells him.
She wasn't wearing it the day she died. The only time she forgets to put it on in over thirty years and that's the one time she never came home.
John thinks that's probably when he became superstitious, because a lot of the time, he knows, it's more superstition than it is faith.
He never used to wash his jersey after a good game. He puts his dog tags on backwards for luck. He never says the Lord's name in vain. And he always prays for forgiveness when he's about to pull the trigger, even though he isn't always sure anyone is listening.
"I never had time for religion," Rodney says, much later, after the silence grows with everything John doesn't say past that one simple answer, that one small concession. "I do all my best work on Sundays."
John could understand that. War doesn't stop for Sundays, and there hadn't been many Catholic churches in Afghanistan anyway. It was easy for a certain day to lose its meaning when all of them were the same.
Atlantis didn't have a chapel either. The Ancients didn't need Gods, they had themselves to worship.
"I used to go to church," John says. "I can't quite remember when it was I stopped."
That isn't entirely true and John carefully doesn't meet Rodney's eyes. The truth is that John used to go to confession, but he could never keep up with all of the Hail Marys.
Eventually he gave up trying. He'd just make the same mistakes again anyway.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our deaths.
A lot of people were deathbed Christians, begging forgiveness with their last breath, but John was always at his most faithful when things were going right.
It wasn't when he was cut down by arrows and knives and guns that he became a born again, it was always later, back on Atlantis, in all of its deceptive safety, that John thinks maybe he could believe in God, or guardian angels.
He was a master at the near miss, and not quite arrogant enough to believe he managed it all on his own.
Then again, there was always Rodney, if not divine intervention.
"So what do you believe in?" John asks.
"You," Rodney says instantly, and keeps his eyes on the ceiling, chin held stubbornly in refusal to take it back, or explain it away, because even if no one else gets it, John knows Rodney's really the brave one.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of they womb, Jesus," John whispers.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death," Rodney says, taking over, because he really does know everything.
"Amen," John says, quietly.
After another five thousand or so, he wonders if his conscience will be clear.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee
"Do you believe in God?" John asks.
Rodney's eyes are closed and the monitors are beeping steadily, loud enough he can't hear John's actual heartbeat, even though he has his head laid against his chest. "SG-1 has killed most of them. I suppose there might be one or two left."
"Rodney," John says. His voice sounds tired, too raspy to be recognizable and not slow enough. John always speaks slow, and this new urgency in his voice is more than a little unnerving.
"I believe what I can prove," Rodney says. "All and all, the Big Bang theory and evolution have more support than the Bible."
"Sometimes I believe in God," John tells him, like it's something he's not sure he wants to admit to, but he just can't stop himself. Near death experiences often lead to confessions, John's just not usually the type to speak them out loud.
Rodney stares at the infirmary ceiling, tinted blue by the faint lights in the corners of the room. Carson would kill him if he found him crammed into John's bed with him, but it was the first time John had ever asked him to stay.
"Well, we all have to believe in something," Rodney says.
blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Rodney found a delicate silver cross in the top drawer of John's nightstand once. "It was my mother's," John tells him.
She wasn't wearing it the day she died. The only time she forgets to put it on in over thirty years and that's the one time she never came home.
John thinks that's probably when he became superstitious, because a lot of the time, he knows, it's more superstition than it is faith.
He never used to wash his jersey after a good game. He puts his dog tags on backwards for luck. He never says the Lord's name in vain. And he always prays for forgiveness when he's about to pull the trigger, even though he isn't always sure anyone is listening.
"I never had time for religion," Rodney says, much later, after the silence grows with everything John doesn't say past that one simple answer, that one small concession. "I do all my best work on Sundays."
John could understand that. War doesn't stop for Sundays, and there hadn't been many Catholic churches in Afghanistan anyway. It was easy for a certain day to lose its meaning when all of them were the same.
Atlantis didn't have a chapel either. The Ancients didn't need Gods, they had themselves to worship.
"I used to go to church," John says. "I can't quite remember when it was I stopped."
That isn't entirely true and John carefully doesn't meet Rodney's eyes. The truth is that John used to go to confession, but he could never keep up with all of the Hail Marys.
Eventually he gave up trying. He'd just make the same mistakes again anyway.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our deaths.
A lot of people were deathbed Christians, begging forgiveness with their last breath, but John was always at his most faithful when things were going right.
It wasn't when he was cut down by arrows and knives and guns that he became a born again, it was always later, back on Atlantis, in all of its deceptive safety, that John thinks maybe he could believe in God, or guardian angels.
He was a master at the near miss, and not quite arrogant enough to believe he managed it all on his own.
Then again, there was always Rodney, if not divine intervention.
"So what do you believe in?" John asks.
"You," Rodney says instantly, and keeps his eyes on the ceiling, chin held stubbornly in refusal to take it back, or explain it away, because even if no one else gets it, John knows Rodney's really the brave one.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of they womb, Jesus," John whispers.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death," Rodney says, taking over, because he really does know everything.
"Amen," John says, quietly.
After another five thousand or so, he wonders if his conscience will be clear.
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