As he lounges there, Rodney has to ask himself what in the fuck he was thinking, why he’d thought this was anywhere in the vicinity of a good idea in the first place. Him, lounging, sexily. Him. Now, John; John could pull this off— easily. He’s already almost always slouchy and languid, boneless and leaning, and sex on two legs. Rodney is twitchy and rigid, frenetic and tense. No one in two galaxies has ever described him as sex on two legs. Except for John, maybe. But John doesn’t count. John is weird and certifiable.
———
I have so much writing that’s a paragraph here, a paragraph there… snippets of inspiration that may or may not go anywhere. Thought maybe I’d share them 🤷🏼♀️
John wakes to the click-clacking of keyboard keys being pressed just this side of too hard. He doesn’t check the time. It could be 11pm, 1am or 3. It doesn’t really matter. John long ago gave up on berating the man for his poor sleeping habits. Atlantis needs too much from him and Rodney asks too much of himself. Instead, John slips from the warmth of the blankets and curls his arms around Rodney from behind. He rests his head against the nape of Rodney’s neck, then presses a kiss there.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
He presses another soft kiss to punctuate the point.
Rodney’s body slumps, coiled tension releasing. It works today, but it doesn’t always. Sometimes there’s no slump. Sometimes there’s Rodney shaking him off with muttered words John never quite makes out and the click-clacking of the keyboard resumes. John never argues anymore, just slips back into bed and drifts back off, ensuring that he, at least, has had enough rest to be alert and able to protect his scientist.
Today, though, Rodney follows him, shedding uniform clothes until he’s down to an undershirt and briefs. John slides to the far side of the bed, the cold side, letting Rodney slip into the warmth John left behind. He lets him wriggle and settle, watching as he sighs contentedly in his newly created pocket of comfort. John slides back, curling an arm and leg over Rodney, who wriggles and settles and sighs contentedly once more. John waits, listens, for Rodney’s breathing to even out. Makes sure.
😄 - Most excited that John and Rodney are arguing and hot under the collar in this one! Rodney’s being an ass, John’s calling him on it and damn if I’m not having fun writing the back and forth (as in, just was writing it, not 15 minutes ago, floooooooow).
👤 - POV is John. And he’s pissed. Which makes him kiss forcefully, apparently.
John reaches for the small notebook Rodney has been scribbling in intently, oblivious to John’s entrance to the lab. He jolts just before John can grasp it, his face a picture of comical horror. He clutches the notebook tightly enough to his chest to crush it and pushes his rolly chair with enough force that it flies back until it smacks another console.
John grins. Whatever it is, it must be good , but even if it isn’t, he’s always up for a game of keep-away.
“Working on a new theory you don’t want anyone to see yet?”
John takes a slow, deliberate step forward. Rodney re-angles his chair and pushes it again, slamming into another console.
“Or maybe it’s a ‘Dear Diary, Radek is more brilliant than I will ever let on.‘“
Rodney’s face gets all cute (ie. annoyed and pinched). “Sure Sheppard, right beside my Rodney+John heart doodles.”
John takes another few unhurried steps and puts a hand over his heart. “Aww, Rodney, I didn’t know you cared.”
He’s out of his chair now, trying to side-step John (he’s run out of room to retreat) in a maneuver that might have worked, if John hadn’t been the one who’d taught it to him. He catches Rodney’s wrist and with a precise squeeze, Rodney yelps and drops the notebook, right into John’s waiting hands.
“Entirely unfair!” Rodney bites off, ‘annoyed and pinched’ is now turning into a glower (also cute and, yes, John is entirely aware of how far gone this makes him in the Rodney-crush department). “You’re using your military ninja powers on me. Does privacy mean nothing to you?!”
They do a little dance, of sorts, with Rodney trying to grab his journal back and John deftly keeping it just out of reach. “C’mon buddy, if it’s not a diary or a top-secret Nobel winning theory…?”
He vaults over a console, temporarily stymieing Rodney’s progress, and flips it open. Whatever John was expecting, it wasn’t this.
“Huh.”
“Huh? That’s it? Sheppard, we are too old to be doing this. It’s ridiculous. Undignified. Give it back.”
Rodney’s rounding the console, but John has vaulted neatly over another, eyes never leaving the page.
“Damn. You’re really good. Why would you hide this?”
“Give. It. Back.”
Something in Rodney’s tone makes him look up. Glowery has been replaced by a mix of genuine anger, distress and… embarrassment? He can’t see why. Sketches of slender fingers, studies of eyes, a sort of imperfect bumpy nose, full lips, ears that look elven… oh.
Shit.
Rodney uses his stunned realization to snatch it back, stuffing it under his jacket and out of reach unless John really wants to work for it. He doesn’t. He’s seen enough and Rodney’s twisted red face is twisting guilt in his gut.
“It helps me think, okay? When I’m stuck. And I’m really stuck on this stupid transporter issue and everyone is down my god damned back about it because they have to walk everywhere. Like I want to walk everywhere? Are they fucking kidding me? I’m the poster child for not wanting to walk. My sciatic nerve is telling me every day just now not happy it is about it. So I sketch. I do things with my hands. I used to play piano but we don’t have one here, so I sketch and it clears my mind and so what if I sketch you. I’m with you all the fucking time, so your features are just familiar. But no, you’ve got to make it weird. Do you know what a challenge it is to sketch your stupid hair? Have you ever—”
“Rod-ney!”
“What?!”
John waits. A solid beat. Just to be sure the ramble isn’t going to forge on.
“Do you sketch Ronon and Teyla?”
Rodney doesn’t need to answer aloud. It’s written on his face from the moment the question leaves John’s lips. Rodney’s so truthfully blunt he’s never learned how to be a good liar. He starts trying to answer, to deny, but he’s stammering now and John grins, putting a shushing finger over Rodney’s lips. He hadn’t thought Rodney could blanch harder but he has.
John steps back and cocks a hip. Rodney’s gaze snaps there, then snaps back.
“How would you like a live subject?”
“Wait— what?”
“Because your sketchbook seems to be missing some things.”
“Missing…”
“Things you aren’t so familiar with…”
John places his thumbs in his front pockets and angles his hands just so. Rodney’s eyes dart helplessly again. His face is still very red, but it’s not anger anymore.
“Right. Things…”
“Yes.” John grins. “I’d be happy to help you with those… things.”
Rodney’s eyes are meeting his again, a little frantic. “O-okay. I-I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud, but this is so far out from where I thought my day was going, and sometimes I really misread hints. Even hints this—” His hand flaps in John’s general direction.
John laughs. The frantic babbling is cute too. Yes, very far gone.
“My cock, Rodney. Things is my cock.”
“Oh thank god.”
John tilts his head to the side, angling toward the door.
“Now?” Rodney’s voice is a little strangled and damned if that isn’t cute too.
“Yes, Rodney, now.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. They end up in his quarters, where John models, naked, as promised. The sketch, however, day after day, remains mysteriously incomplete— no matter how many times they try.
What if evacuating to the alpha site and never being able to return to earth or Atlantis turned out to be the best thing ever for John and Rodney?
“Do you miss it?”
John doesn’t answer right away. He keeps looking up at the sky in a distant, unblinking sort of way. A long piece of grass hangs from his lips, his back resting against the solidity of the tree trunk behind him.
Not this had ever been his idea of perfection, anymore than it was John’s. Lounging in a meadow? For what was now an indeterminate amount of time? No. The old Rodney would have seen this as a moronic waste of productive hours. Moreover, even if the old Rodney had been game to try, he’d have been such a fidgety mess within 5 minutes, he’d have had to get up and do something. Even if all he could do was pace and work on his latest theory in his own head. Something that had happened all too often on diplomatic off-world missions until one of his teammates threatened various levels of bodily harm unless he sat down (“right the hell now” - John).
Not this had ever been his idea of perfection, anymore than it was John’s. Lounging in a meadow? For what was now an indeterminate amount of time? No. The old Rodney would have seen this as a moronic waste of productive hours. Moreover, even if the old Rodney had been game to try, he’d have been such a fidgety mess within 5 minutes, he’d have had to get up and do something. Even if all he could do was pace and work on his latest theory in his own head. Something that had happened all too often on diplomatic off-world missions until one of his teammates threatened various levels of bodily harm unless he sat down (“right the hell now” - John).
As if it was his fault that his brain worked at the speed of light — ideas, connections, innovations, solutions — all coming to him, all the time, no matter where he was or what he was doing. And, that wasn’t all that was going on up there. Oh no. There was the portion dedicated to worry, analyzing all the ways things could go wrong all the time. Of course, there was also all of his observations (“complaints” - Ronon), trivia, wit, etc., taking up what little mental space was left. His brain was busy. He was busy. So sue him if pacing helped. Also, how was he supposed to dump all of that out of his brain and just be… still? Improbable. Impossible. Or had been.
Life had been a lot different since the evacuation, since the Stargate had become inert.
Just as there wasn’t a lot of call for flying puddle jumpers that had no way of being re-charged (emergencies only), there wasn’t a lot of call for astrophysics on a brand new colony with nothing but the technology they’d been able to bring with them. New things, things old Rodney would never have imagined for himself, kept him busy — tilling the earth, building shelters, sanitizing water — until his mind was the most empty and still that it had ever been. Clear enough to finally see things he’d missed on Atlantis— John’s smiles and smirks that were for him alone, John’s teasing that was so obviously flirting, John’s eyes on him all the time.
“Sure. I miss it. Sometimes.”
“But?” It sounded like there was a but.
“But I have other things now. Things I didn’t have then.” The thumb that had been brushing Rodney’s collarbone moves up, brushes his cheekbone instead. Warmth having nothing to do with the sun unfurls in his chest.
“‘Other things,’ huh? Rodney-shaped things perhaps?”
John rolls his eyes in that theatrical way of his, but doesn’t stop cupping his cheek. “Yes, dumbass.”
Rodney sniffs. “Oh the sweet things you say to me. The romance! I’m overwhelmed! Watch while I faint like a southern belle from your pretty words.”
That gets him launched off John’s lap, something he almost protests, but very quickly John is on top of him, a comfortable, familiar weight pressing him into the soft grass.
“I’ll have you know I meant dumbass very affectionately.”
“Oh yes, it’s one of the universally acknowledged terms of endearment. Right up there between baby and darling.”
John adopts a falsetto. “Oh my darling, Rodney.” He drops lilting tone. “Better?”
“Yes, baby.”
John’s nose crinkles adorably. “Can we agree pet names are not our thing?”
“Unless they’re ‘dumbass’?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“Fine. Kiss me dumbass.”
John grins one of those grins that are for Rodney alone. “Don’t mind if I do.”
The kiss is soft. Sweet. Slow. Gentle. Unhurried. Things they have time for without an ancient city constantly breaking down, without off-world missions going awry, without enemies trying to kill them every week.
They’ve lost some things. Yes. Things that were important to them both, but they’ve gain so much they didn’t have before.
He’s glad John sees it.
On AO3
*shoutout to the lovely @dedkake for screencap help
*If you have a credit for this pic please let me know.
Underwater AU
McShep | 1072 words | G | AU-gust 2022
When they arrive in Atlantis the city doesn’t rise, but the shield doesn’t fail. They’re stuck at the bottom of the ocean. John’s not feeling it. At all. Rodney to the rescue.
More and more, John spends time here. It’s one of the few places in Atlantis where the ceiling is made of windows, so it’s the only place he can look up, up, up…
It’s an atrium, or would be, if the room was in use.
It’s not.
There are large, empty planters— places where life should flourish, but doesn’t. Hasn’t. Not for thousands of years. Life needs light. Nothing new can grow, not without the sun, which can’t reach this deep, but is somewhere up there, and so far out of reach. The room is an empty vessel without the sun, without life. Scraggly branches, ten thousand years dead, mock the room’s purpose. Uncleared, unimportant, with the room not in use.
John chokes off a laugh. Or is it a sob?
Utterly useless.
Maybe someone will find him here 10,000 years hence, scraggly bones, with as little purpose as the room they find him in.
Head tilted back against the edge of the couch, he stares at where the sky should be, where the water is instead. He feels the crushing weight of it against his bones, shield be damned, until his ribs, his lungs ache with it. He can’t breathe, air coming in ragged gasps.
He’s never told anyone where he goes, sometimes only coming back to the little pocket of the city they inhabit if the radio chirps. If he notices. It doesn’t chirp often.
Then there’s Rodney.
“Major, I have been looking for you everywhere in this godforsaken tomb of a city. I know you’re off shift but most of us keep our radioes on. Emergencies? Ever heard of those? Do I need to put a little bell on you? Subcutaneous transmitter? Or a—”
Apparently all it takes to shut up one Motormouth McKay is one Air Force Major staring into the abyss, barely breathing.
After that, Rodney comes to the atrium often.
“Chess?”
“Raid Zelenka’s coffee stash?”
“Cards?”
“I hear Roberts’ set up something that resembles bowling.”
It’s always hard to move at first, to shift the weight of the sea off him, but he does because he knows, after the first time, how vocally and stubbornly Rodney will insist if he doesn’t.
“Yeah, bowling, sure.”
*
This room isn’t any better than the atrium. There’s no view of the fathomless ocean that envelops them but it’s no less oppressive. The steady ache in his bones deepens.
“What do you want, McKay?”
John’s only been here once, months ago, when Rodney had first asked him to turn on one of funny, near-cylindrical ships. Military officer or glorified light-switch, he’s not sure which anymore. As Rodney babbles out an explanation, John finds it hard to follow. He’s trapped in a pocket of memory he’s tried hard to box up and away…
The ship opening up for him in a way nothing else in Atlantis has. A spaceship. It wants to be flown. It wants John to be the one to do it. It’s been suffocating, needing to break free into the atmosphere and beyond. The whole galaxy used to be open to it, and now… John knows without knowing that it’s something he can do, same as walking, as breathing. He’s the ship, the ship is him, the things they could do together.
But they don’t.
Grounded.
Permanently.
“Major!”
John blinks.
“You haven’t taken in a single word of my brilliance, have you?”
“Uh…”
“This is what happens when you pull miracles out of your ass every day. Everyone gets used to it. You are all witnessing genius and you can’t even see it anymore. I can’t believe—”
“Rodney!”
“Fine, fine.” Rodney crosses his arms, looks put upon. He pauses a moment for dramatic effect. “This.” He points at one of the ships. “It swims now.”
John blinks again. He can’t mean…
“For a race who made their city submergible you would think they would have figured out how to turn their ships into submarines, but no. Oh no. They left that up to one Genius Rodney McKay. Weeks of work. Weeks! Time I will—”
John can’t breathe. “Will it…” he can’t even say it. He just can’t.
Rodney’s voice goes soft. “Yeah, John. It will. All the way up to the surface.”
Something loosens and tightens in John all at the same time.
“Or, well, it makes it in 98% of the simulations which I’ll have you know is—”
Something breaks free.
His arms are around Rodney and they’re staggering back, all but crashing into the ship behind him because John has thrown himself forward, crushing Rodney to him. This… this… He buries his face into the heat of Rodney’s neck. Words build up, too many of them, scraping his throat raw. He gets two of them out, barely. “Thank you.”
Then Rodney is finally holding him back, broad hands scorching him through his t-shirt. He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle and pats him on the back. “It hasn’t worked yet.”
John tightens his hold, stays buried, emotions pinging around him wildly out of control, after being held tight for too long. “It doesn’t matter. God, Rodney, it doesn’t matter. You tried.”
“I did.”
For you.
He doesn’t say it, but John hears it, knows it. This isn’t one of Atlantis’ ongoing projects, though it clearly should have been. Rodney’s done this. On the side. For him.
When he pulls back, with more reluctance than he has ever pulled back from a hug, neither of them comment on the wetness he’s wiping away.
John feels his lips quirk up into a smile. “Wanna go for a ride?”
“In that tin can of death? Are you insane? Are you aware of how much pressure there is at this depth? 98% probability of success still means 2% chance—”
Without letting himself think, John grabs Rodney’s hand and tugs so that they’re pressed close again. His turns his smile into a pout. “Pretty please?”
“Oh for! Don’t look at me like that.” Rodney throws up his free hand. “This is going to be a thing, isn’t it? You do that with your mouth and I give in.”
“Is that a yes?”
Rodney sighs, trying but failing to look put upon. “The first of many I’m sure.”
When they break the surface of the water the steady aching pressure turns into a lightness, his bones going hollow and bird-like. When John looks up, up, up… there’s nothing but endless blue.
The @augustwritingchallenge came across my dash and my brain jumped on it and went nuts.
I’ve started 10 prompts.
10.
All McShep. 737 words so far. Nothing finished. I write a paragraph or couple lines of dialogue and move on to the next one. Why? I don’t know?! It’s fun??????
So by August I might have a deluge of McShep to post, or a whole lot of random unfinished nonsense.
