ficlet: salt and water
Title: salt and water
Author: rebecca
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Summary: fall into the abyss
Wild. Unpredictable. A swell of calm hiding unknown depths and treacherous currents, a storm masked by a surface peace.
John.
Rodney sees the waves when he looks at John. He sees the peace of the ocean in the morning, and the tsunami cresting over the city during the storm.
He sees the tide, inexorable, changing, mutable and firm. He sees the shades of blue, from the pale spray to the deep blue depths at night. Rodney hears the rush of water, the splash of the waves lapping at the city, and when he tastes salt on John's lips he does not know if it is John's sweat or his come or the ocean water.
John surrounds him, crashes over him, gets inside him in ways Rodney never thought possible. It doesn't matter if John's the one on his knees or if Rodney's cock is buried inside John's body, John is always the one in control. John is the one who holds Rodney when it's over, the one who strokes his back, and John's whisper in his ear is the soft susurration of water against the city.
Rodney tries to swim, to keep up with John's tides and eddies, but he can't even tread water. He drowns, over and over again, falling deep into John's embrace, held safe miles below the surface, and when he finally sees sky again his lungs choke on the air. Falling back, falling under, is easier and more seductive than anything he has ever had or done in his life, and every time John touches him he goes down.
He wakes at night from dreams of the ocean, visions so real he touches his face to see if it is wet. Next to him, John sleeps peacefully, his breath the rhythm of the waves outside, and Rodney resists the sudden urge to kiss him, to taste the cold brine and breathe in the salt.
He sits up instead, looking out the window at the dark sky and the unfamiliar stars. He looks around the room, at his laptop, at the solid, real things he has. Things he knows, things he can handle. Mechanics, computers, math, it's what he knows, what he does. Not this overwhelming, terrifying abyss he can't even begin to quantify, as vast as the sky above and infinitely more dangerous. And not for the first time, Rodney thinks of leaving, of getting his shoes and his jacket and slipping out the door.
John sighs in his sleep and turns onto his stomach, one hand landing on Rodney's thigh. Solid, warm, everything the ocean isn't, and Rodney looks at John's hand as if expecting it to turn fluid and wash away, leaving nothing behind but salt crystals and a memory.
But it doesn't, and next to him John is soundly, reassuringly real and asleep. Rodney sighs and closes his eyes, sliding back down to lie next to John. He kisses John's hair gently, breathing in shampoo, not saline, and when he shoves John's arm away so he can get settled it lands with the solid slap of flesh on flesh, not water against metal.
And this is why he can't leave, why he surrenders again and again, why no matter how much the ocean scares him he will never reach land. John is real, as tangible and palpable as the city they live in, and it is that solidity Rodney clings to, even as the water pours over him and submerges him and the only breath he has is what John gives him. This is what keeps him here, night after night. John is real, he is here, and Rodney can reach for him and hold him and touch him, feeling John's skin under his fingertips, tasting John's come in his mouth, using these things to remind himself of who he is, where he is.
Rodney lives on a floating city in the middle of an ocean in a galaxy different from the one in which he was born and there is a race of aliens trying to kill them all and the most unreal thing in his life is John. He acknowledges the absurdity of it, admits that this may be nothing more than the strange imaginations of a not particularly fanciful man, and will die before he admits any of this to another living soul.
So he goes on with his life, and he pulls miracles out of his nonexistent hat on a regular basis, and if he ever raises a hand to his lips, tasting salt, no one has to know.
Author: rebecca
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Summary: fall into the abyss
Wild. Unpredictable. A swell of calm hiding unknown depths and treacherous currents, a storm masked by a surface peace.
John.
Rodney sees the waves when he looks at John. He sees the peace of the ocean in the morning, and the tsunami cresting over the city during the storm.
He sees the tide, inexorable, changing, mutable and firm. He sees the shades of blue, from the pale spray to the deep blue depths at night. Rodney hears the rush of water, the splash of the waves lapping at the city, and when he tastes salt on John's lips he does not know if it is John's sweat or his come or the ocean water.
John surrounds him, crashes over him, gets inside him in ways Rodney never thought possible. It doesn't matter if John's the one on his knees or if Rodney's cock is buried inside John's body, John is always the one in control. John is the one who holds Rodney when it's over, the one who strokes his back, and John's whisper in his ear is the soft susurration of water against the city.
Rodney tries to swim, to keep up with John's tides and eddies, but he can't even tread water. He drowns, over and over again, falling deep into John's embrace, held safe miles below the surface, and when he finally sees sky again his lungs choke on the air. Falling back, falling under, is easier and more seductive than anything he has ever had or done in his life, and every time John touches him he goes down.
He wakes at night from dreams of the ocean, visions so real he touches his face to see if it is wet. Next to him, John sleeps peacefully, his breath the rhythm of the waves outside, and Rodney resists the sudden urge to kiss him, to taste the cold brine and breathe in the salt.
He sits up instead, looking out the window at the dark sky and the unfamiliar stars. He looks around the room, at his laptop, at the solid, real things he has. Things he knows, things he can handle. Mechanics, computers, math, it's what he knows, what he does. Not this overwhelming, terrifying abyss he can't even begin to quantify, as vast as the sky above and infinitely more dangerous. And not for the first time, Rodney thinks of leaving, of getting his shoes and his jacket and slipping out the door.
John sighs in his sleep and turns onto his stomach, one hand landing on Rodney's thigh. Solid, warm, everything the ocean isn't, and Rodney looks at John's hand as if expecting it to turn fluid and wash away, leaving nothing behind but salt crystals and a memory.
But it doesn't, and next to him John is soundly, reassuringly real and asleep. Rodney sighs and closes his eyes, sliding back down to lie next to John. He kisses John's hair gently, breathing in shampoo, not saline, and when he shoves John's arm away so he can get settled it lands with the solid slap of flesh on flesh, not water against metal.
And this is why he can't leave, why he surrenders again and again, why no matter how much the ocean scares him he will never reach land. John is real, as tangible and palpable as the city they live in, and it is that solidity Rodney clings to, even as the water pours over him and submerges him and the only breath he has is what John gives him. This is what keeps him here, night after night. John is real, he is here, and Rodney can reach for him and hold him and touch him, feeling John's skin under his fingertips, tasting John's come in his mouth, using these things to remind himself of who he is, where he is.
Rodney lives on a floating city in the middle of an ocean in a galaxy different from the one in which he was born and there is a race of aliens trying to kill them all and the most unreal thing in his life is John. He acknowledges the absurdity of it, admits that this may be nothing more than the strange imaginations of a not particularly fanciful man, and will die before he admits any of this to another living soul.
So he goes on with his life, and he pulls miracles out of his nonexistent hat on a regular basis, and if he ever raises a hand to his lips, tasting salt, no one has to know.