(no subject)
Cruelly felled by illness and then distracted by family (and now currently travelling), but I give you a few more AU swatches from this prompt post.
.Playing the Body (NC17)
for amberlynne, because I want to kill her. Wherein Rodney should get two minutes for roughing, but John gives him something else.
“This isn’t the goddamned Stanley Cup Mc-” The forearm digging into John’s back forces the Kay out of his mouth along with all the air in his lungs.
“So?” McKay grunts, wedging a knee between John’s legs and scraping at the puck with a skate. John tries to concentrate on jamming the puck against the boards, though all of Rodney’s solid weight and his broad, broad shoulders crowd him up into the glass, and Rodney’s thigh works its inexorable way between his.
John shoves back, trying to get an elbow in Rodney’s ribs. It works; Rodney makes a pained, harassed sound and the pressure across John’s shoulders vanishes. The puck slips free, sliding along the blade of John’s stick and he lunges for it, but McKay pounces like a thinly-haired, cranky tiger and checks it loose.
The puck bounces end over end into the neutral zone, and John imagines he feels claws digging into his sweater as Rodney keeps him from skating after it, never mind Rodney has gloves on. Rodney’s center picks the puck up and speeds over center ice to organize an attack, and John shakes Rodney off, tries to breathe and get himself back together before the game comes his way again.
Behind him, Rodney’s straightening his helmet and rubbing his side - and glaring at John, who shrugs unrepentantly.
For a guy who is convinced the world exists purely to cause him pain, Rodney McKay enjoys inflicting it on other people - positively gets off on it, almost. John’s spine cracks a bit. A few months ago, he’d have thought Rodney’s brand of pain centered on obliterating the self-worth of his enemies, but now John’s pretty sure Rodney’s repressing serious hostility. Or at least redirecting it; one of the guys from Rodney’s office says he’s pretty good with the yelling insults.
“That was fucking boarding, and you know it,” John tells him. The slither and scrape of blades is still distant, broken by thumps of bodies connecting with glass or flesh or ice.
“It was not, you big baby,” Rodney sniffs.
“Was so.”
“Was not.”
They keep up the argument through the rest of the game, even though Lorne tells them to save it for later. Was so, Was not, “please shut the fuck up,” Ronon says at last, and even though Rodney’s on his team he looks about ready to plant Rodney’s face in the ice to keep him quiet.
A gaggle of little kids comes on the ice for their turn. Despite the weight of his pads and sweater, John feels like he’s coming out of his skin, dripping sweat even though the ice tells him he should be cold and he knows it’s around twenty degrees outside the arena.
“It was not,” Rodney says as he shoves his water bottle (no Gatorade ever) into his duffel and flings himself down on the (splintery, tetanus-infested) bench to take off his boots. “Have you read the NHL rulebook?”
“You mean the Bible? No.” John pulls off his sweater and messes with the Velcro on his pads for a moment before offering, “I never thought I’d ice skate, let alone play hockey.”
This is true. He’d only started last year, falling on his ass more times than he’ll ever admit to anyone. For that matter, he’d never thought he’d live in a place where hockey’s the college game of choice, not football, and then Lorne had invited him to play some games with the guys - they pitched in to buy rink time at the local arena - and John’s ended up being part of something that’s halfway between pickup games and the bowling leagues John remembers from his small-town (southern) childhood.
“Oh,” is what Rodney says after a moment. His shoulders aren’t that much less broad when he pulls his pads off, and his t-shirt hikes up a bit when he tugs his sweater back on. “Deprived as a kid, huh?”
“Shut up,” John tells him, and then adds provocatively, “Was too.”
Rodney slants him a look that’s supposed to be menacing, but is ruined by his red face and excitement-bright eyes, and he’s one of the few people John’s met who leaves two hours of post-work exertion even more charged-up than he’d been before. Then again, Rodney’s so very unlike even those few people, John can’t quite - even a year later - figure out where to put him.
For the moment, though, once they dump their gear in the back and pile into Rodney’s truck, once they get back to Rodney’s house and its ramshackle-academic interior (books, papers, DVDs everywhere), John figures a good place to put Rodney is hard up against the wall of his shower.
And this time it’s John with his forearm pressed across the impossible breadth of Rodney’s shoulders, slipping, catching on the protrusions of his shoulder blades, his hip, thigh, gliding along Rodney’s, knee working between Rodney’s legs, squeak of bare feet on tile and heat pouring like water off Rodney’s body.
“Well?” John says, the question a sly lick over Rodney’s ear.
“I don’t care what you do,” Rodney pants, a desperate whine escaping him when John gets his thigh wedged between Rodney’s, cock riding slickly against Rodney’s ass, and thrusts up meaningfully. “That... that was - oh fucking god -that was not boarding.”
John thrusts up again. Rodney’s hands aren’t clever enough to find purchase on the tile wall; they slip and slide, Rodney fighting him for balance instead of the puck, and in the end John’s the only thing keeping him up. He’s got Rodney braced between the wall of his body, Rodney’s spine curving to match the bend of John’s torso, and the hand wedged between them - tile hard against John’s knuckles, the sharp punctuation of Rodney’s hips against his wrist and palm when they snap forward.
“Christ.” The word’s torn from Rodney. His head is down like he’s on the bench, fighting for breath and control, but John knows he’s watching himself as he fucks up into John’s hand. John can’t see with Rodney’s shoulders hunched over, but memory is enough to make him shudder, Rodney’s red, hard cock, the long and powerful flex of his thighs and ass that rolls up through John’s body like the tide.
When Rodney comes it’s with a last desperate twist into John’s hand, and one last thrust by John, who’s cradled his own cock in the crease of Rodney’s ass. Rodney spills hot over John’s hand, his own belly, shaking and coming down with curses and breath that says he still can’t believe this, he fucking came his brain out, jesus, John, and that was not fucking boarding, you idiot.
John laughs brokenly, grateful for the scaffolding of Rodney-flesh and bone holding him up, even though Rodney trembles under him.
“This is going to end badly,” Rodney grumbles, and for a moment John thinks he’s talking about this - them - and goes still, hand frozen on Rodney’s hip. But then Rodney says if he gets brain damage from collapsing in the shower and hitting his head, John will pay, oh, will he pay, and John makes himself say something about maybe Rodney wearing his helmet in the shower from now on.
“Because that’s so sexy.” Rodney wriggles wetly against him as he washes himself off. John watches the water swirl down his legs (he’s losing his tan, he thinks distantly, and tells himself not to freak out) and down the drain. “Not that you need a helmet, between the neurological damage you doubtless sustained in your... your life before, and also, the astounding amount of shellac you probably apply to your hair every day.”
“Hey,” John protests. “I don’t use any... any shellac, thank you. Or anything else.” He fumbles the shower curtain open and remembers that he has to lift his feet up high enough to get over the edge of the tub. Hockey and sex have pretty much destroyed his coherence for the night; he finds his towel automatically, and in the dark bedroom he finds the t-shirt and boxers Rodney keeps for him by touch.
Rodney faceplants into bed, moaning quietly about John breaking him and how John will never be forgiven, but there’s no objection when John slides in behind him and pulls the two of them into an easy, familiar warmth that makes John almost forget about how here it’s dark out by four, and that there hasn’t been sun for five days.
“Tell me about the sixth attacker rule later,” John whispers to Rodney’s warm, damp neck, “and I’ll suck you off.”
“Mmmmph, you know that rule,” Rodney mumbles.
“Still,” John says.
.The Naturalist
for beeej and her awesome Master & Commander art.
“You have the command of the Pegasus, I understand, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pity,” Captain Everett mumbled into his wineglass, “that Captain Sumner should have died before you even reached the Indies.”
“Yes, sir.” John tightened his grip on his knife, because it was either that or pull at his collar, or maybe strangle Everett. He stared at the man across the table, who was too busy eating to pay attention to John or the sudden, tense silence around him. “I think I speak for Lieutenants Ford, Lorne, and Bates when I accept your… your condolences on their behalf.”
“Oh, leave Sheppard alone, Everett,” Admiral O’Neill said from the head of the table. The expression he fixed on John, however, did not do much in the way of reassurance, and neither did the sudden devotion of the rest of the company to their plates. John swallowed, and O’Neill’s expression became knowing. “Bound for India, eh?”
“Yes, sir. My despatches came through today.”
“Good,” Admiral Landry mumbled. “Good mission, excellent mission.”
The man across from John speared a piece of beef from the serving platter, muttered something unintelligible and uncomplimentary, and continued eating. He looked a lot more comfortable now than during the pre-supper conversation, when he had been tugging at his collar and hiding behind O’Neill. Next to him, his dinner companion regarded him with a mixture of awe and fascinated horror, then transferred her attention to John.
“Sheppard here was promoted after the battle off Antigua, Lady Chaya,” O’Neill said to the young woman. Her smile sharpened into something more like interest, or speculation, something John was used to seeing but not in the context of silk and fine wine and porcelain. “Two prize ships taken and he secured the garrison even when they’d lost a full fifteen men and Captain Sumner.”
“Promoted the second word came back,” Landry added, but in a tone that suggested he did not entirely think this was a good thing.
“An honor, sir,” John said, and gazed morosely into his wineglass.
O’Neill, Everett, and Landry didn’t say anything, but then, they didn’t need to. Sumner’s presence hovered clammily over John’s shoulder as he choked down his meal, which was the most exotic he’d ever eaten but managed to taste like sawdust. . Across the table, the Lady Chaya tried to catch his eye, but eventually subsided when John started drawing patterns in the extra sauce on his plate.
“So you’ll be escorting part of the merchant fleet on your return trip,” Lady Chaya said. John replied with something vaguely affirmative-sounding, and the man at Lady Chaya’s elbow snorted.
“And on the way, he’ll be escorting Sir Rodney to the new observatory at Bombay,” O’Neill added.
“Excuse me?” John said, and added ‘sir’ only after a pointed look from O’Neill. “I’m doing what?”
“You did read your despatches.” O’Neill narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, sir, but they - they didn’t say anything about Sir Rodney.” John paused, and added, “Sir.”
“Oh my God,” the man across the table said. His fork and knife clattered to the tabletop. “Jack, please tell me you aren’t…”
“Rodney, Pegasus is a ship of war. You couldn’t possibly be safer.”
“He doesn’t even know I’m… oh my God.” The man sat back with such violence he almost tipped over, and the baleful gaze he fixed on John had absolutely nothing of friendliness in it. Impatience, John supposed, with the idiocy of the world in general and John Sheppard in particular. He glared back.
“What? What? We’re due to sail in two days and he was supposed to have the hold cleared out!” McKay picked up his fork and began to wave it in agitation; the Lady Chaya shrank away, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you have any idea the amount of preparation I need? You can’t just… just fling telescope mirrors in like bags of wheat, Captain.”
“Captain John Sheppard,” O’Neill said dryly, “may I please introduce Sir Rodney McKay of the Royal Society.”
“Youngest ever elected,” McKay said with a final glower at John. He set down his fork and Lady Chaya breathed a sigh of relief.
“So they’re trying to pack you off to India?” John didn’t even try to keep back his smirk, although he thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to antagonize someone with a connection to the nobility.
“If by ‘pack’ you mean ‘go to do critical research into the island universe controversy,’ then yes, they are.” McKay folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head in a way that John supposed was meant to be challenging and belligerent. That McKay succeeded only made it worse. “What about you?”
“Rodney, Captain Sheppard…” Annoyance stretched O’Neill’s voice to dangerous thinness. John muttered a graceless, barely-respectful apology - to O’Neill and not to McKay - and McKay snorted. O’Neill sighed. “You gentlemen will, you realize, have to tolerate each other for the next three months?”
“Yes, sir,” John said.
“Three months,” McKay muttered, and went pale under his irritation.
“At least,” O’Neill added.
.The Good Sheppard
For mklutz and a bunch of other people who wanted something along the lines of SisterAct. So, I give you lounge-singer!John and Det. McKay.
All John wanted from life was to make it big as a country singer, but he wasn’t twangy enough and his guitar wasn’t gigantically acoustic or electric enough, and he was too “old school,” because while it was fine to like Johnny Cash and acknowledge him as an influence, “country rock” wanted - needed - something more.
Also, John flatly refused to change his name to Johnny, even though his agent said it would help. Some things, even making it big as a country singer, weren’t worth it.
“Johnny Sheppard could play the Super Bowl halftime show.” His agent had almost been on his knees at that point, probably, John supposed, because an agent operating out of a strip mall in Reno (between a barber shop and a five-and-dime) had to get what he could.
“Yeah, well, John Sheppard will be watching from home,” he’d said to Lucius, and left.
He’d walked out of Lucius Talent and Modeling Agency and almost straight into a black Cadillac limo and the slightly creepy guy standing in front of it. And, as it had turned out, slightly creepy guy was Acastus Kolya, the owner of the Genii and Ground Zero casinos - huge, famous Las Vegas casinos - and the Cadillac was the car that would end up taking John to and from the casino lounges.
And really, that part wasn’t bad at all. He got to play the guitar and sing, and play whole albums of Johnny Cash if he felt like it, because really, people don’t go to casino lounges to listen to music. They go, as John had pointed out to him just after his world went up in huge clouds of fucked-up smoke, to drink a lot so they can lose even more money.
It also turned out to be the car that took him to Kolya’s suite in the Underground Hotel (also owned by Kolya-Genii LLC), and John wondered why, despite months of sex and what amounted to cohabitation, even though Kolya was almost never home, Kolya never stopped being “Kolya.” John had tried “Acastus” in his head (“Oh, God, yes, Acastus, give me your huge throbbing cock!”), felt the sudden onset of brain stem death, and stopped.
In the very, very end, the Cadillac turned out to be the car Detective Rodney McKay blew up in an attempt to get them the hell away from Kolya and his crazed mob hitmen.
Mob hitmen! Kolya was a mobster.
John never saw it coming.
“Oh my God.” McKay was sitting at his desk, head tipped back so he could stare at the ceiling. “I’ve never run so much in my life. Those places are goddamn mazes.”
“Yeah.” John slouched in his chair and wondered if McKay was stroking out. “Been hittin’ the donuts there?”
“Shut up, I have a sidearm.” McKay tapped his service pistol meaningfully. He took a deep breath, and despite having spent the last two hours running for his life (and finding out Kolya was a mobster and planning to have him killed for what he knew, which, hey, it was just money-laundering, it wasn’t murder... well, there’d been that too), John was able to appreciate the nice expanse of McKay’s chest and shoulders.
“So,” McKay said. His color seemed a bit closer to normal, but his eyes were still wide and his hair remained hysterical, tufted and spiked, and alarmed as the rest of McKay looked. “So you have now officially made it onto Acastus Kolya’s hitlist. It’s a good thing we’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“Yeah, it’s a good thing - wait, you what?”
“We’ve been trying to break into Kolya’s organization for months now,” McKay said, and it was like someone had flipped a switch, because the guy in front of him with his rolled-up shirt sleeves and intense blue eyes was nothing like the grim-yet-oddly-bitchy guy who’d grabbed John and yanked him behind the shelter of the slot machines and told him to shut up and keep down. “However, the Genii - that’s what they call themselves - are pretty paranoid.” McKay’s tone became briefly admiring before shifting back to frustration. “We haven’t been able to get a plant in there - at least, one who wasn’t discovered and didn’t end up dying horribly with various bits cut off him.”
“Bits?” John swallowed.
“Bits.” McKay peered at him, fingers drumming out an impatient rhythm on his desk. “But now... now we have you.”
“Me.” John looked over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t another lounge singer with a mobster boyfriend whom they’d caught with the literally and figuratively smoking gun. Unfortunately, there was only him. “And where do I come into this?”
McKay clearly pitied John for his stupidity, though he didn’t actually say it. What he did say was, “You’re the first and only person we’ve been able to find who has personally witnessed Acastus Kolya in the commission of a crime. We’ll need you to testify once we’re able to bring him and the rest of the Genii to trial. At this point, it’s only a matter of time.”
“Testify?” John echoed. McKay’s nod was the one John had seen adults give to exceptionally stupid children. “You’re insane, McKay. I won’t do it.”
“I’m very sane, and you will.” McKay leaned back and looks, and John seriously, seriously did not like his expression. “You don’t have to testify, but I should also point out that you’ll die anyway. Kolya will find you and, after some interval of torture, kill you, no matter if you swear on a roulette wheel that you’ll never talk. You’re pretty, but not that pretty, and also, you sound like the wrong end of a frog.”
“Excuse me? What the fuck?” John struggled to find his balance again, but almost being murdered by his boyfriend (“boyfriend” also never quite seemed to work when applied to Kolya) and then running for his life and being rescued by an arrogant jerk... just, no. John Sheppard did country, not drama. “First of all, I play and sing fine, and second - ”
“Keep telling yourself that,” McKay snapped. “Look, your life is in danger and we need you. I need you.” He blinked and was, for a moment, gratifyingly awkward. “That is, I need you professionally. As a witness. A witness who does not have his brains splattered over a back alley, or have his tufty scalp mailed to me express. And while I’m sure you would be very pretty as a horribly mutilated corpse, I really would prefer to have you alive.”
“Me too,” John agreed.
McKay visibly relaxed. “Okay, we’ll put you in witness protection while we finish building the case. We’ve been putting together evidence for some time now, and really, it’s only a matter of time before Kolya goes down in smoke.”
“Why’s that?” John asked, leaning back and offering McKay his best smirk, the one that sometimes got a reaction from the jaded girls in audiences. “I mean, he’s been in Vegas for twenty years and none of you have caught him yet.”
“I just got on the case six months ago,” McKay said, “transferred from LA, and my case record since I joined Major Crimes? Perfect. Number of convictions? Ten. Ten for goddamn ten.”
“Gold star for you,” John muttered. “So, fine, I’ll testify. Where are you going to stash me? Dunkin’ Donuts?”
* * *
“I was joking about the Dunkin’ Donuts,” John said to McKay five days later.
“And I’m not joking about this,” McKay said placidly. “Now, your appointment with the Mother Superior - Sister Teyla, by the way - is in ten minutes, and you are...?” A moment, and McKay scowled. “And you are?” he barked.
“Sister Johanna Katherine, from the Convent of Our Lady of - Cincinnatti?”
“Siena,” McKay corrected. “She’ll tell you all about, well, what you need to know, and all the rules and everything. My rule is, don’t ever call me unless it’s a dire emergency - and by dire, I mean, Kolya is about to hit you with a crucifix - and I will call you once every week.”
John stared up at the Convent of the Divine Heart. Soot and grit had worked their way into the smallest nooks of the stone walls, and acid rain had eaten away at what little stonework hadn’t already fallen off. It looked like there’d once been stained glass in the sanctuary windows, but it was mostly solid steel bars now, plywood over one, and a dilapidated sign in front of the church announced that service times were 8AM 1 AM S T SU.
“I’m going to be a nun,” John muttered.
“Yes.” McKay sat back in the driver’s seat and beamed. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”
“Just one question, McKay.”
“What?”
“Do they accept testimony from crazy people? Because I'm going to go insane.”
.Playing the Body (NC17)
for amberlynne, because I want to kill her. Wherein Rodney should get two minutes for roughing, but John gives him something else.
“This isn’t the goddamned Stanley Cup Mc-” The forearm digging into John’s back forces the Kay out of his mouth along with all the air in his lungs.
“So?” McKay grunts, wedging a knee between John’s legs and scraping at the puck with a skate. John tries to concentrate on jamming the puck against the boards, though all of Rodney’s solid weight and his broad, broad shoulders crowd him up into the glass, and Rodney’s thigh works its inexorable way between his.
John shoves back, trying to get an elbow in Rodney’s ribs. It works; Rodney makes a pained, harassed sound and the pressure across John’s shoulders vanishes. The puck slips free, sliding along the blade of John’s stick and he lunges for it, but McKay pounces like a thinly-haired, cranky tiger and checks it loose.
The puck bounces end over end into the neutral zone, and John imagines he feels claws digging into his sweater as Rodney keeps him from skating after it, never mind Rodney has gloves on. Rodney’s center picks the puck up and speeds over center ice to organize an attack, and John shakes Rodney off, tries to breathe and get himself back together before the game comes his way again.
Behind him, Rodney’s straightening his helmet and rubbing his side - and glaring at John, who shrugs unrepentantly.
For a guy who is convinced the world exists purely to cause him pain, Rodney McKay enjoys inflicting it on other people - positively gets off on it, almost. John’s spine cracks a bit. A few months ago, he’d have thought Rodney’s brand of pain centered on obliterating the self-worth of his enemies, but now John’s pretty sure Rodney’s repressing serious hostility. Or at least redirecting it; one of the guys from Rodney’s office says he’s pretty good with the yelling insults.
“That was fucking boarding, and you know it,” John tells him. The slither and scrape of blades is still distant, broken by thumps of bodies connecting with glass or flesh or ice.
“It was not, you big baby,” Rodney sniffs.
“Was so.”
“Was not.”
They keep up the argument through the rest of the game, even though Lorne tells them to save it for later. Was so, Was not, “please shut the fuck up,” Ronon says at last, and even though Rodney’s on his team he looks about ready to plant Rodney’s face in the ice to keep him quiet.
A gaggle of little kids comes on the ice for their turn. Despite the weight of his pads and sweater, John feels like he’s coming out of his skin, dripping sweat even though the ice tells him he should be cold and he knows it’s around twenty degrees outside the arena.
“It was not,” Rodney says as he shoves his water bottle (no Gatorade ever) into his duffel and flings himself down on the (splintery, tetanus-infested) bench to take off his boots. “Have you read the NHL rulebook?”
“You mean the Bible? No.” John pulls off his sweater and messes with the Velcro on his pads for a moment before offering, “I never thought I’d ice skate, let alone play hockey.”
This is true. He’d only started last year, falling on his ass more times than he’ll ever admit to anyone. For that matter, he’d never thought he’d live in a place where hockey’s the college game of choice, not football, and then Lorne had invited him to play some games with the guys - they pitched in to buy rink time at the local arena - and John’s ended up being part of something that’s halfway between pickup games and the bowling leagues John remembers from his small-town (southern) childhood.
“Oh,” is what Rodney says after a moment. His shoulders aren’t that much less broad when he pulls his pads off, and his t-shirt hikes up a bit when he tugs his sweater back on. “Deprived as a kid, huh?”
“Shut up,” John tells him, and then adds provocatively, “Was too.”
Rodney slants him a look that’s supposed to be menacing, but is ruined by his red face and excitement-bright eyes, and he’s one of the few people John’s met who leaves two hours of post-work exertion even more charged-up than he’d been before. Then again, Rodney’s so very unlike even those few people, John can’t quite - even a year later - figure out where to put him.
For the moment, though, once they dump their gear in the back and pile into Rodney’s truck, once they get back to Rodney’s house and its ramshackle-academic interior (books, papers, DVDs everywhere), John figures a good place to put Rodney is hard up against the wall of his shower.
And this time it’s John with his forearm pressed across the impossible breadth of Rodney’s shoulders, slipping, catching on the protrusions of his shoulder blades, his hip, thigh, gliding along Rodney’s, knee working between Rodney’s legs, squeak of bare feet on tile and heat pouring like water off Rodney’s body.
“Well?” John says, the question a sly lick over Rodney’s ear.
“I don’t care what you do,” Rodney pants, a desperate whine escaping him when John gets his thigh wedged between Rodney’s, cock riding slickly against Rodney’s ass, and thrusts up meaningfully. “That... that was - oh fucking god -that was not boarding.”
John thrusts up again. Rodney’s hands aren’t clever enough to find purchase on the tile wall; they slip and slide, Rodney fighting him for balance instead of the puck, and in the end John’s the only thing keeping him up. He’s got Rodney braced between the wall of his body, Rodney’s spine curving to match the bend of John’s torso, and the hand wedged between them - tile hard against John’s knuckles, the sharp punctuation of Rodney’s hips against his wrist and palm when they snap forward.
“Christ.” The word’s torn from Rodney. His head is down like he’s on the bench, fighting for breath and control, but John knows he’s watching himself as he fucks up into John’s hand. John can’t see with Rodney’s shoulders hunched over, but memory is enough to make him shudder, Rodney’s red, hard cock, the long and powerful flex of his thighs and ass that rolls up through John’s body like the tide.
When Rodney comes it’s with a last desperate twist into John’s hand, and one last thrust by John, who’s cradled his own cock in the crease of Rodney’s ass. Rodney spills hot over John’s hand, his own belly, shaking and coming down with curses and breath that says he still can’t believe this, he fucking came his brain out, jesus, John, and that was not fucking boarding, you idiot.
John laughs brokenly, grateful for the scaffolding of Rodney-flesh and bone holding him up, even though Rodney trembles under him.
“This is going to end badly,” Rodney grumbles, and for a moment John thinks he’s talking about this - them - and goes still, hand frozen on Rodney’s hip. But then Rodney says if he gets brain damage from collapsing in the shower and hitting his head, John will pay, oh, will he pay, and John makes himself say something about maybe Rodney wearing his helmet in the shower from now on.
“Because that’s so sexy.” Rodney wriggles wetly against him as he washes himself off. John watches the water swirl down his legs (he’s losing his tan, he thinks distantly, and tells himself not to freak out) and down the drain. “Not that you need a helmet, between the neurological damage you doubtless sustained in your... your life before, and also, the astounding amount of shellac you probably apply to your hair every day.”
“Hey,” John protests. “I don’t use any... any shellac, thank you. Or anything else.” He fumbles the shower curtain open and remembers that he has to lift his feet up high enough to get over the edge of the tub. Hockey and sex have pretty much destroyed his coherence for the night; he finds his towel automatically, and in the dark bedroom he finds the t-shirt and boxers Rodney keeps for him by touch.
Rodney faceplants into bed, moaning quietly about John breaking him and how John will never be forgiven, but there’s no objection when John slides in behind him and pulls the two of them into an easy, familiar warmth that makes John almost forget about how here it’s dark out by four, and that there hasn’t been sun for five days.
“Tell me about the sixth attacker rule later,” John whispers to Rodney’s warm, damp neck, “and I’ll suck you off.”
“Mmmmph, you know that rule,” Rodney mumbles.
“Still,” John says.
.The Naturalist
for beeej and her awesome Master & Commander art.
“You have the command of the Pegasus, I understand, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pity,” Captain Everett mumbled into his wineglass, “that Captain Sumner should have died before you even reached the Indies.”
“Yes, sir.” John tightened his grip on his knife, because it was either that or pull at his collar, or maybe strangle Everett. He stared at the man across the table, who was too busy eating to pay attention to John or the sudden, tense silence around him. “I think I speak for Lieutenants Ford, Lorne, and Bates when I accept your… your condolences on their behalf.”
“Oh, leave Sheppard alone, Everett,” Admiral O’Neill said from the head of the table. The expression he fixed on John, however, did not do much in the way of reassurance, and neither did the sudden devotion of the rest of the company to their plates. John swallowed, and O’Neill’s expression became knowing. “Bound for India, eh?”
“Yes, sir. My despatches came through today.”
“Good,” Admiral Landry mumbled. “Good mission, excellent mission.”
The man across from John speared a piece of beef from the serving platter, muttered something unintelligible and uncomplimentary, and continued eating. He looked a lot more comfortable now than during the pre-supper conversation, when he had been tugging at his collar and hiding behind O’Neill. Next to him, his dinner companion regarded him with a mixture of awe and fascinated horror, then transferred her attention to John.
“Sheppard here was promoted after the battle off Antigua, Lady Chaya,” O’Neill said to the young woman. Her smile sharpened into something more like interest, or speculation, something John was used to seeing but not in the context of silk and fine wine and porcelain. “Two prize ships taken and he secured the garrison even when they’d lost a full fifteen men and Captain Sumner.”
“Promoted the second word came back,” Landry added, but in a tone that suggested he did not entirely think this was a good thing.
“An honor, sir,” John said, and gazed morosely into his wineglass.
O’Neill, Everett, and Landry didn’t say anything, but then, they didn’t need to. Sumner’s presence hovered clammily over John’s shoulder as he choked down his meal, which was the most exotic he’d ever eaten but managed to taste like sawdust. . Across the table, the Lady Chaya tried to catch his eye, but eventually subsided when John started drawing patterns in the extra sauce on his plate.
“So you’ll be escorting part of the merchant fleet on your return trip,” Lady Chaya said. John replied with something vaguely affirmative-sounding, and the man at Lady Chaya’s elbow snorted.
“And on the way, he’ll be escorting Sir Rodney to the new observatory at Bombay,” O’Neill added.
“Excuse me?” John said, and added ‘sir’ only after a pointed look from O’Neill. “I’m doing what?”
“You did read your despatches.” O’Neill narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, sir, but they - they didn’t say anything about Sir Rodney.” John paused, and added, “Sir.”
“Oh my God,” the man across the table said. His fork and knife clattered to the tabletop. “Jack, please tell me you aren’t…”
“Rodney, Pegasus is a ship of war. You couldn’t possibly be safer.”
“He doesn’t even know I’m… oh my God.” The man sat back with such violence he almost tipped over, and the baleful gaze he fixed on John had absolutely nothing of friendliness in it. Impatience, John supposed, with the idiocy of the world in general and John Sheppard in particular. He glared back.
“What? What? We’re due to sail in two days and he was supposed to have the hold cleared out!” McKay picked up his fork and began to wave it in agitation; the Lady Chaya shrank away, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you have any idea the amount of preparation I need? You can’t just… just fling telescope mirrors in like bags of wheat, Captain.”
“Captain John Sheppard,” O’Neill said dryly, “may I please introduce Sir Rodney McKay of the Royal Society.”
“Youngest ever elected,” McKay said with a final glower at John. He set down his fork and Lady Chaya breathed a sigh of relief.
“So they’re trying to pack you off to India?” John didn’t even try to keep back his smirk, although he thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to antagonize someone with a connection to the nobility.
“If by ‘pack’ you mean ‘go to do critical research into the island universe controversy,’ then yes, they are.” McKay folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head in a way that John supposed was meant to be challenging and belligerent. That McKay succeeded only made it worse. “What about you?”
“Rodney, Captain Sheppard…” Annoyance stretched O’Neill’s voice to dangerous thinness. John muttered a graceless, barely-respectful apology - to O’Neill and not to McKay - and McKay snorted. O’Neill sighed. “You gentlemen will, you realize, have to tolerate each other for the next three months?”
“Yes, sir,” John said.
“Three months,” McKay muttered, and went pale under his irritation.
“At least,” O’Neill added.
.The Good Sheppard
For mklutz and a bunch of other people who wanted something along the lines of SisterAct. So, I give you lounge-singer!John and Det. McKay.
All John wanted from life was to make it big as a country singer, but he wasn’t twangy enough and his guitar wasn’t gigantically acoustic or electric enough, and he was too “old school,” because while it was fine to like Johnny Cash and acknowledge him as an influence, “country rock” wanted - needed - something more.
Also, John flatly refused to change his name to Johnny, even though his agent said it would help. Some things, even making it big as a country singer, weren’t worth it.
“Johnny Sheppard could play the Super Bowl halftime show.” His agent had almost been on his knees at that point, probably, John supposed, because an agent operating out of a strip mall in Reno (between a barber shop and a five-and-dime) had to get what he could.
“Yeah, well, John Sheppard will be watching from home,” he’d said to Lucius, and left.
He’d walked out of Lucius Talent and Modeling Agency and almost straight into a black Cadillac limo and the slightly creepy guy standing in front of it. And, as it had turned out, slightly creepy guy was Acastus Kolya, the owner of the Genii and Ground Zero casinos - huge, famous Las Vegas casinos - and the Cadillac was the car that would end up taking John to and from the casino lounges.
And really, that part wasn’t bad at all. He got to play the guitar and sing, and play whole albums of Johnny Cash if he felt like it, because really, people don’t go to casino lounges to listen to music. They go, as John had pointed out to him just after his world went up in huge clouds of fucked-up smoke, to drink a lot so they can lose even more money.
It also turned out to be the car that took him to Kolya’s suite in the Underground Hotel (also owned by Kolya-Genii LLC), and John wondered why, despite months of sex and what amounted to cohabitation, even though Kolya was almost never home, Kolya never stopped being “Kolya.” John had tried “Acastus” in his head (“Oh, God, yes, Acastus, give me your huge throbbing cock!”), felt the sudden onset of brain stem death, and stopped.
In the very, very end, the Cadillac turned out to be the car Detective Rodney McKay blew up in an attempt to get them the hell away from Kolya and his crazed mob hitmen.
Mob hitmen! Kolya was a mobster.
John never saw it coming.
“Oh my God.” McKay was sitting at his desk, head tipped back so he could stare at the ceiling. “I’ve never run so much in my life. Those places are goddamn mazes.”
“Yeah.” John slouched in his chair and wondered if McKay was stroking out. “Been hittin’ the donuts there?”
“Shut up, I have a sidearm.” McKay tapped his service pistol meaningfully. He took a deep breath, and despite having spent the last two hours running for his life (and finding out Kolya was a mobster and planning to have him killed for what he knew, which, hey, it was just money-laundering, it wasn’t murder... well, there’d been that too), John was able to appreciate the nice expanse of McKay’s chest and shoulders.
“So,” McKay said. His color seemed a bit closer to normal, but his eyes were still wide and his hair remained hysterical, tufted and spiked, and alarmed as the rest of McKay looked. “So you have now officially made it onto Acastus Kolya’s hitlist. It’s a good thing we’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“Yeah, it’s a good thing - wait, you what?”
“We’ve been trying to break into Kolya’s organization for months now,” McKay said, and it was like someone had flipped a switch, because the guy in front of him with his rolled-up shirt sleeves and intense blue eyes was nothing like the grim-yet-oddly-bitchy guy who’d grabbed John and yanked him behind the shelter of the slot machines and told him to shut up and keep down. “However, the Genii - that’s what they call themselves - are pretty paranoid.” McKay’s tone became briefly admiring before shifting back to frustration. “We haven’t been able to get a plant in there - at least, one who wasn’t discovered and didn’t end up dying horribly with various bits cut off him.”
“Bits?” John swallowed.
“Bits.” McKay peered at him, fingers drumming out an impatient rhythm on his desk. “But now... now we have you.”
“Me.” John looked over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t another lounge singer with a mobster boyfriend whom they’d caught with the literally and figuratively smoking gun. Unfortunately, there was only him. “And where do I come into this?”
McKay clearly pitied John for his stupidity, though he didn’t actually say it. What he did say was, “You’re the first and only person we’ve been able to find who has personally witnessed Acastus Kolya in the commission of a crime. We’ll need you to testify once we’re able to bring him and the rest of the Genii to trial. At this point, it’s only a matter of time.”
“Testify?” John echoed. McKay’s nod was the one John had seen adults give to exceptionally stupid children. “You’re insane, McKay. I won’t do it.”
“I’m very sane, and you will.” McKay leaned back and looks, and John seriously, seriously did not like his expression. “You don’t have to testify, but I should also point out that you’ll die anyway. Kolya will find you and, after some interval of torture, kill you, no matter if you swear on a roulette wheel that you’ll never talk. You’re pretty, but not that pretty, and also, you sound like the wrong end of a frog.”
“Excuse me? What the fuck?” John struggled to find his balance again, but almost being murdered by his boyfriend (“boyfriend” also never quite seemed to work when applied to Kolya) and then running for his life and being rescued by an arrogant jerk... just, no. John Sheppard did country, not drama. “First of all, I play and sing fine, and second - ”
“Keep telling yourself that,” McKay snapped. “Look, your life is in danger and we need you. I need you.” He blinked and was, for a moment, gratifyingly awkward. “That is, I need you professionally. As a witness. A witness who does not have his brains splattered over a back alley, or have his tufty scalp mailed to me express. And while I’m sure you would be very pretty as a horribly mutilated corpse, I really would prefer to have you alive.”
“Me too,” John agreed.
McKay visibly relaxed. “Okay, we’ll put you in witness protection while we finish building the case. We’ve been putting together evidence for some time now, and really, it’s only a matter of time before Kolya goes down in smoke.”
“Why’s that?” John asked, leaning back and offering McKay his best smirk, the one that sometimes got a reaction from the jaded girls in audiences. “I mean, he’s been in Vegas for twenty years and none of you have caught him yet.”
“I just got on the case six months ago,” McKay said, “transferred from LA, and my case record since I joined Major Crimes? Perfect. Number of convictions? Ten. Ten for goddamn ten.”
“Gold star for you,” John muttered. “So, fine, I’ll testify. Where are you going to stash me? Dunkin’ Donuts?”
* * *
“I was joking about the Dunkin’ Donuts,” John said to McKay five days later.
“And I’m not joking about this,” McKay said placidly. “Now, your appointment with the Mother Superior - Sister Teyla, by the way - is in ten minutes, and you are...?” A moment, and McKay scowled. “And you are?” he barked.
“Sister Johanna Katherine, from the Convent of Our Lady of - Cincinnatti?”
“Siena,” McKay corrected. “She’ll tell you all about, well, what you need to know, and all the rules and everything. My rule is, don’t ever call me unless it’s a dire emergency - and by dire, I mean, Kolya is about to hit you with a crucifix - and I will call you once every week.”
John stared up at the Convent of the Divine Heart. Soot and grit had worked their way into the smallest nooks of the stone walls, and acid rain had eaten away at what little stonework hadn’t already fallen off. It looked like there’d once been stained glass in the sanctuary windows, but it was mostly solid steel bars now, plywood over one, and a dilapidated sign in front of the church announced that service times were 8AM 1 AM S T SU.
“I’m going to be a nun,” John muttered.
“Yes.” McKay sat back in the driver’s seat and beamed. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”
“Just one question, McKay.”
“What?”
“Do they accept testimony from crazy people? Because I'm going to go insane.”