#ambiguous ending

The blood was oozing over his hands, staining his jacket, dripping to the floor and settling in a pool beneath him. There was a chill, in spite of the sweltering, humid heat around them. The cold seemed to come from within; it was in his very bones, freezing him from the inside out.

Exhaustion tugged at him; sleep sounded like a great idea. Fantastic, actually. Way better than bleeding out on this godforsaken planet. Right now he couldn’t really remember why he shouldn’t just give in. A chance to just drop off into the void, forget about all this; this mission that had gone pear-shaped the second they’d stepped through the ‘Gate.

Except just when his eyes fluttered closed there was a yell, right in his face. Fresh hands clasped over his stomach, pressing against the wound and causing new waves of agony to roll over him. His eyes flew open as he released a gasp of pain. 

“Stay awake, McKay!” Sheppard barked, his face set but oddly pale. A muscle jumped in his jaw. 

Why? He wanted to ask, but all that came out was a pained whine. Sheppard’s hands pressed more firmly against the wound. If this was dying, he wouldn’t recommend it! Cold and in agony, silently wishing he’d believed in some sort of afterlife so this wouldn’t just be…it.

He swallowed and almost choked; there was blood forcing its way up his throat. Not content with spilling out from his stomach, it had chosen a new, slightly slower exit! From above him he could hear Sheppard curse, and then something was being placed under his head, raising it off the floor. 

“Come on, McKay,” there was something in Sheppard’s voice that Rodney had only heard a handful of times before: fear, “you’re gonna be fine.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” He murmured, his voice so low he wasn’t even sure Sheppard would catch it. Above him the other man froze. 

“I’m not,” Sheppard replied stubbornly, “Beckett will be here soon. He’ll patch you up. You’ll be fine. You’ll be bitching about the Infirmary sheets in no time.” 

Rodney blinked up at him; that fear was still there, wavering in Sheppard’s voice, barely hidden behind his eyes. He hated being the cause of it but…he was so tired. 

With a great effort he lifted his free hand from where it rested on the floor, and covered Sheppard’s hand on his stomach. 

“Too scratchy.” He mumbled, his eyes drifting closed. The pain was easing now.

“Mhm, what else?” Sheppard raised his voice. “Come on, Rodney, prime time to moan at me. Whatever you want.” He sounded desperate now.

And that’s a good thing, right? That he can recall the contents of his closet. The colors, patterns, and textures all neatly arranged. Except for one.

He huffs a shallow laugh only to make himself cough. Oh, and gurgle. That’s not good.

His brain pushes the thought away, compensating for his failing body by focusing on the hideous teal tropical shirt hanging in the center of the metal rod. A blast of color situated between the brownish orange plaid and a forest green tee.

He always hated that thing, with its loud palette and gaudy flowers. But Tommy loved it, thought it was perfect for every occasion—barbecues with the 118 and Harbor, the beach, working in the garage. Getting the mail.

It was all of these ordinary, mundane memories that were at the core of why he could never admit to knowing exactly where it was. He could have given it back and simply bought another. But it wouldn’t have been the same. Nothing’s been the same.

Tonight was supposed to be different though. A fresh start, another try. A chance at something real. Something he hoped could eventually take the shape of forever.

“I found him!”

“Jacobs! Donato! Get your asses over here!”

“Evan? Hey, Evan. Baby, wake up. Stay with me, okay?”

Tommy’s hand is hot against his cheek. Or maybe it’s just that Buck’s gotten so cold.

“Stay with me, just a little longer.”

He thinks he says something meaningful. Okay or I’ll try. Another gurgle bubbles up alongside it.

No matter what happens Tommy’s got him, that’s the important part. In a twisted, fucked up way they made it back to each other in time.

His field of vision narrows further, until his view is Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. And if that’s the last face he sees, the last voice he hears, the last featherlight touch on his skin, well, maybe ‘not exactly the way he wanted’ isn’t the worst thing.