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When John limps in the back door at a quarter past 11, half an hour later than he should have been back, Rodney is a sudden confusing flurry of "Oh my god, what did you do?" and "Was it a jellyfish?" and "Thank god you weren't running on the road!" and "Is anything broken?" while John shrugs off the hands patting him down and says "Ow" and "No, it wasn't a jellyfish, I just fell and twisted my ankle" and "Ow, ow" and tries to maneuver around Rodney and get to the couch.
John closes his eyes and counts to 50. His ankle's throbbing—he's twisted it enough times to know it's not broken, but it still hurts like hell—and it feels like there's sand embedded in his shoulder, and he's going to have to vacuum the damn couch, he's spilling so much sand into it, and Rodney's saying something about the emergency room or the A&P and John kind of wishes he'd just shut up for a minute. He only realizes he's said it out loud when Rodney blinks at him, mouth open, stunned quiet and hurt, says, "Fine," and grabs the keys to the Wagoneer and lets himself out the front door. He doesn't even slam it.
John stares at the door for a while, and at the table, which has some of Rodney's papers and a plate with toast crusts and an empty mug on one side and the newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee, still steaming a little, on the other, and then he sighs and hobbles to the kitchen to get ice and scrounge for Advil floating loose in the junk drawer.
John's still slumped on the couch and feeling pretty rough by the time Rodney returns, a grocery bag cradled in each arm. He puts them down in the kitchen and then comes back to run a hand through John's hair, so tender that John can hardly stand it, and John hears himself saying, "Sorry, sorry. I'm just, I'm a crappy— Sorry."
Rodney just takes his soggy dishtowel and plastic bag of melted ice and disappears into the kitchen again and comes back with a peanut butter and banana sandwich for John, and he picks at the foil seal of a new bottle of Advil while John eats gratefully. When Rodney asks him if he wants to take a shower, it sounds like the best idea anyone's ever had.
He leans on Rodney for the slow walk to the bathroom, and leans on him more while he wrestles his t-shirt and shorts off, hand braced on Rodney's broad shoulder, and Rodney reaches around and turns on the water and kisses John for long minutes before he lets him get in.
John dozes on the bed after his shower, ankle taped and propped up on a couple of pillows, and he isn't aware of falling asleep until Rodney's waking him up and telling him there's fish and potato salad if he wants it.
They eat on the porch and watch the sky grow darker, John pressed up against Rodney's side and idly picking at the label on Rodney's beer bottle (he wouldn't let John have one, giving him a giant glass of water and more Advil instead). He feels Rodney take a deep breath before he says, "It should be my job, you know? To help you when you need it. And you, I know you're Mr. Self-Sufficient, but you have to, you should really let me do that." And John wants to smirk and say, "So what's my job?" but what he does is nod and grip Rodney's thigh just above the knee, squeezing hard, and what comes out is "Yeah, it is" and "You do, Rodney" and "I will, I will," and this is how it's going to be, crickets and beach roses and moths flitting around the porch light and two mugs in the dish drain and them, together.