Mission: Highly Improbable, Really--SGA
Organizing some files, I found this, my one and only attempt at writing Rodney McKay's POV. I wrote it for darkrose for last year's 3_ships challenge. Stargate: Atlantis, with all four lead characters and a few guest stars just for fun.
As I told Darkrose, it's low on kink, but hopefully high in pretty? And manliness.
Mission: Highly Improbable, Really
The Athos Matchmaking Agency is very reputable, excellent references. People in the know praise it highly.
After all, Rodney does his research. Just because he doesn't have the time or inclination to randomly date completely inappropriate people in the vague hopes that someone halfway decent will turn up eventually doesn't mean he shouldn't get to have a pretty face to come home to every day. Look how well things worked out for Jeannie and what's his name. Rodney wouldn't be stupid enough not to put his career first, of course, because that would cause a tragic loss to the advancement of several branches of physics throughout the world, but someone to look after his cat and have dinner with him when he's in town would be nice. Maybe iron his shirts. He has his cleaning lady to do that, of course, but he's fairly sure eye candy should be put to some kind of use, not just lay around the house eating bonbons all day and watching ESPN.
Still, that's what the agency is for.
"So I need a guy," he tells the nice lady in the impeccable navy suit.
"I see," she says, her face serene as she sits across the desk from him. "You have come to the right place, Mister-"
"Doctor."
She raises one elegant eyebrow and nods to herself, as if confirming something. A small note in his file and she smiles at him, cool and professional. "Doctor McKay. Why don't you tell me a little more about the kind of person you seek?"
"Oh, you know," Rodney waves an arm around airily. "Someone good. None of those sloppy-second, brain deficient rejects you haven't been able to pawn off on anybody yet. Someone smart. And tall. I think I'd like somebody tall. And hot. You do have hot people, don't you?"
Ms. Emmagan doesn't smile, but her voice sounds amused. "We do, indeed."
"Right. So, smart, tall, hot. And male. I put down male, right? Oh, and uh. Manly. Not that I'm not manly myself, but, you know. We can both be manly together."
She nods briskly, makes another small note, and rises. "Thank you for your time, Doctor McKay. I believe with this interview, the computerized profile you filled out and your other tests we have everything we need to find you a suitable companion."
"Great!" Rodney lets her usher him out the door, already digging out his iPhone. "I gotta go to Minsk now, they're giving me an award for my very important contributions to scientific research, but I'll be back in town next week."
"We'll be in touch," Ms. Emmagan says firmly, and all but pushes him out the door. "Chuck will see you out."
***
The agency sucks.
They set him up with this nightmare of a guy, Peter something, who has an actual freaking ponytail, and Rodney was very clear when he said manly, not thirteen-year-old girl.
Also, Peter apparently thinks he's hot stuff in the scientific community, which a) ha, and b) never in a million years will that happen. His theories are so monumentally stupid it's not even fun to tear them apart; they're just unimaginative and boring. And wrong.
Also, he's kind of an asshole.
***
"Seriously," Rodney barks at Ms. Emmagan. "Smart. Tall. Hot. Manly. Four things. How is it possible that you thought it would be a good idea to set me up with someone who manages to be exactly none of those four things? Four!"
Ms. Emmagan makes another of her tiny notes in Rodney's file, and smiles to herself. "I believe you were warned about our screening process, Doctor McKay. How you react to the people you meet with is as important as any other part of the process. Your encounter with Peter-"
"And what bargain-basement sham of a university gave that guy a Ph.D. in the first place, if that's even true?"
"-has yielded a wealth of useful information," she finishes smoothly. Rising, she ushers him towards the door. "We'll be in touch."
***
Rodney has already perused the menu and interrogated the waiter to find an appealing and completely citrus-free meal, and is now sipping his mineral water without lemon, thank you very much, while waiting for his latest match to arrive. Plus, now he gets to look carefree and spontaneous when he just orders his dish based on a quick glance at the menu. Or maybe he'll look knowledgeable and worldly, like he actually spent time learning about all those fancy Tuscan food terms.
Either way, he's congratulating himself on his foresight when an extremely large man wearing ripped jeans and shoulder-length dreadlocks strolls over on freakishly long legs and… looms over him.
"Yes?" Rodney asks, still looking around for his date. "Can I help you?"
The man looks amused. "Maybe."
"Oh, well that wasn't vague at all. If you're looking for advice on what to order, may I suggest the restaurant across the street. Or anyplace away from this table. I'm waiting for somebody."
The man nods thoughtfully. "You're high-maintenance."
Rodney splutters on his lemon-free water. "Excuse me? I am not high-maintenance. I am low-maintenance. I am self-maintaining. And what business is that of yours, anyway?"
The man shrugs and pulls out one of the chairs at Rodney's table, folding his long frame into it. "Don't know yet. You gonna order?" He snags a piece of black-olive focaccia from the bread basket and dips it into Rodney's little dish of olive oil.
"Hey! Do you mind? I don't want my date to arrive and think I'm already cheating on him with some gigantic, freakishly good-looking, bread-stealing-"
"You think I'm good-looking, huh?" And that smirk is not even a little bit attractive.
"What? No! I mean, yes. I'm not blind, you know. And it's not like you don't know it, too. I mean, you're-" Rodney waves helplessly in the giant's direction. "Really, really hot. And tall. And very manly. And you're…" He stops, frowning. A terrible thought occurs to him. "Ronon?"
Ronon's smirk widens. "Rodney," he says politely, muscled arms folded across his impressive chest.
"Oh, my God," Rodney moans. "Oh, my God. What were they thinking? Look at you! Look at me! How old are you, anyway? Don't answer that! And, and I said smart! Obviously not as smart as me, because how could that happen, and I'm sure you're very smart in a large person kind of way, but-what do you do, anyway?"
"I'm a classical pianist." Ronon grabs another slice of bread, dips it into the oil, and bites down with gusto.
Rodney blinks. "Really?"
"No."
"Oh. Yes, well, most classical pianists are a lot smaller than you, I think. And not as hot. Why do you need a dating agency, anyway? You probably just have to walk down the street and people throw their panties at you."
"Yeah," Ronon says. "That gets old after a while." His freakishly handsome face closes off, and for a moment Rodney is surprised to realize he misses how open and warm it had been before, even when Rodney was maybe, possibly, conceivably being a tiny little bit less than pleasant.
"Right," Rodney says. "Okay. So, you contacted the agency, I contacted the agency. And they somehow thought we'd be a decent match." A disturbing thought occurs to him. "Or they're just testing me again."
Ronon smiles-not a smirk this time, just a little curl of amusement, and Rodney suddenly finds it hard to breathe. That smile should come with a warning label, for the good of mankind.
"They set you up with some no-goes, huh? Me, too."
"How do you know I'm not one of them?" Rodney blurts.
Ronon tilts his head, the soft, thick dreadlocks framing his face sliding with the movement. "Don't know. I have a feeling."
"Oh. Well, am I what you were looking for?"
"Don't know yet," Ronon says, but his eyes are soft, and Rodney thinks he's in a lot of trouble.
This is all really, really wrong.
***
You'd think Ms. Emmagan would go along with that, but she seems unimpressed at Rodney's report.
"He's like a caveman!" Rodney finally yells, hoping to get through to her. "A really, really hot caveman."
"I see," Ms. Emmagan makes another of her endless little notes.
"Really, really hot."
"Ronon is also tall," she notes mildly. "And smart. And…"
"Incredibly manly, yes, yes," Rodney says. "Brimming with testosterone. Possibly manlier than the combined manliness of the populations of several small countries. Luxembourg, definitely. He's way manlier than all of Luxembourg."
"But?"
"He's also really nice!," Rodney frowns. "I never said anything about nice. Nice people can't stand me! He'll be running for the hills in the manliest way possible inside of a week!"
"I see," she says again, and makes another tiny, stupid little note. Rodney squints and leans across the desk, but it doesn't even look like English. "So, in future, we should seek men who are smart, tall, hot, manly and not nice."
"Well, not not nice. Just… less nice."
"Of course." She smiles warmly and accompanies him out the door. "We'll be in touch."
***
Rodney didn't think Ms. Emmagan had it in her to be petty, but that's the only possible reason he could be forced to endure a date with Laren.
He's so… polite, and proper, and underneath it all, Rodney can tell there's something lurking that can't be trusted.
And Rodney's people skills suck, so if even he can tell, it really can't be good. Laren seems a little too interested in Rodney's work, and very earnest about the benefits of scientific advancement, and very…
Rodney claims a headache and bails out early.
***
After that, he's kind of afraid to question the agency's judgment to Ms. Emmagan's face, so he meekly accepts yet another date, hoping he's back in her good graces.
The man he meets has a lean, athletic build wrapped up in a soft black sweater and jeans, nice eyes and an explosive mess of hair. Rodney can't quite figure out if it's that way on purpose or not, or why they keep setting him up with guys with hair that makes a statement. Rodney's hair has never made a statement, and it's not like he ever gave hair that much thought, anyway.
"I'm John," the man with the hair says cheerfully. "You must be Rodney."
"Um," Rodney says. "Yes."
"So, I guess this is the part where we get to know each other," John says, munching on a tortilla chip. "Salsa?"
"There might be lime in it," Rodney says, distracted. He can't quite figure out what shade of green John's eyes are. Or are they hazel?
"Oh, are you allergic?"
"I don't know," Rodney says.
This is a really, really bad idea.
***
"He drains my IQ!" Rodney exclaims. "How is that possible? It's like every second with him costs me IQ points! I was-I was a babbling idiot! He started talking to me gently, like you do with three-year-olds."
Ms. Emmagan hides her smile admirably, but Rodney can still see it there, lurking behind the surface.
"Seriously, how is that even possible? It's like he, he had some sort of brain-melting death ray!"
She coughs. "I very much doubt John has a brain-melting death ray," she says.
***
Rodney actually does want to seem mature and serious about the Athos Agency's "process," wants to give them whatever data they need to just magically find the right person for Rodney so Rodney can stop wearing suits to go meet strangers in restaurants.
In fact, just in case it's the restaurants causing the problem, Rodney decides to try the all-important second date in a coffee shop instead. Ms. Emmagan suggests what turns out to be a very good one only a fifteen-minute drive from Rodney's house.
It goes okay. Rodney has a couple of second dates, and they're not spectacular failures but they're not exactly… well, they're not exactly springboards to third dates, or anything further. At this point, Rodney's beginning to wonder if there ever will be anyone willing to put up with Rodney and sit on his couch watching stuff on ESPN. He doesn't even need the shirt-ironing, he decides. A simple "How was your day?" would be fantastic.
Ms. Emmagan convinces him to give brain-melting John another chance, so Rodney takes extra B vitamins to protect the goods before heading out there, takes along the latest scientific journals so he can chuckle at other people's gross misconceptions, because that always calms him down, and waits for the man to show up.
Six and a half feet of unearthly jailbait slings itself into the couch across from Rodney's comfy armchair.
"Good coffee, huh?" Ronon asks. "My uncle can always track down the best Kona."
Rodney pales. "What-what are you-I'm not-"
Ronon tilts his head. "I really think you're smart enough to finish your sentences. Makes me wonder if it's just me."
"What? Yes, I always-I'm very good at finishing sentences, actually." Rodney likes to back up his statements with cold, hard facts, so he feels obligated to make conversation with Ronon in order to prove his ability to make conversation with Ronon.
They're deep in the midst of a critical analysis of the Matrix trilogy, which Rodney normally would never on pain of death reveal he actually owns multiple copies of, when John shows up. John's hair is looking like he just rolled out of bed, he's wearing a loose white button-down shirt and Rodney can't believe he almost forgot John was coming in all the vicious smearing of the sequels.
Ronon looks at John, a long, slow once-over, and John lifts his chin and stares back.
"Wanna fuck?" Ronon asks John.
John grins. "Oh, yeah."
"What? What? Wait, what?" Rodney is sitting right here, thanks, and all the testosterone is kind of going to his head. Or maybe his stomach; he's feeling a little nauseous.
Ronon spares him a glance. "You can come, too."
"I can-this is my date," Rodney splutters, but Ronon is already hauling John in, and John is tall, yeah, but Ronon is taller, miles of long legs and arms and skin and he presses all of that into John and kisses him, and John is pressing back and this is quite possibly the hottest thing that has ever happened to Rodney, and it's not even happening to him, just near him, but oh, my God, it's still scorching. "I'm-yeah, okay," Rodney says, and hurries them out the door and into his car, hands nervous and sweaty on the wheel like he's on a getaway caper, taking off with the hottest guys in the state somehow bamboozled into letting him into their no doubt Olympic-quality sex.
***
"So, I don't know if I should pay you double or what," Rodney says, crossing his arms nervously.
Ms. Emmagan sits placidly across the desk.
"But I'm-I'm not giving them back. I want-I mean, they're people, of course they can go if they want to; I know I can't make them stay or anything, but I'm-I've really fallen for them," he says softly, miserably. "For them both. And they're really…"
"Smart, tall, hot and manly?" Ms. Emmagan asks, hint of a smile curling up the edges of her mouth.
"Oh!" Rodney blinks. "Well, yeah, they're that too, I guess. But they're so much more than that-John is so-and Ronon is really-and they both-"
Ms. Emmagan's smile blossoms, wide and beautiful, lighting up her face. "Congratulations, Doctor McKay. We are delighted to have facilitated another successful match. Please feel free to refer us to those of your friends you feel would fit in with our selective clientele."
Rodney nods emphatically. "You bet! Zelenka needs to get laid like, yesterday, or eight years ago, maybe, and Miko needs a life like you would not believe, and there has got to be someone on God's green earth suitable for Sam Carter, other than me, I mean, because, hello, very gay and in love with two men, but-"
"Rodney," Ms. Emmagan interrupts, almost fondly. "We wish you every happiness."
"Thanks," Rodney says, and he's smiling so hard his cheeks ache with it, and he's never been so happy in his life.
As I told Darkrose, it's low on kink, but hopefully high in pretty? And manliness.
Mission: Highly Improbable, Really
The Athos Matchmaking Agency is very reputable, excellent references. People in the know praise it highly.
After all, Rodney does his research. Just because he doesn't have the time or inclination to randomly date completely inappropriate people in the vague hopes that someone halfway decent will turn up eventually doesn't mean he shouldn't get to have a pretty face to come home to every day. Look how well things worked out for Jeannie and what's his name. Rodney wouldn't be stupid enough not to put his career first, of course, because that would cause a tragic loss to the advancement of several branches of physics throughout the world, but someone to look after his cat and have dinner with him when he's in town would be nice. Maybe iron his shirts. He has his cleaning lady to do that, of course, but he's fairly sure eye candy should be put to some kind of use, not just lay around the house eating bonbons all day and watching ESPN.
Still, that's what the agency is for.
"So I need a guy," he tells the nice lady in the impeccable navy suit.
"I see," she says, her face serene as she sits across the desk from him. "You have come to the right place, Mister-"
"Doctor."
She raises one elegant eyebrow and nods to herself, as if confirming something. A small note in his file and she smiles at him, cool and professional. "Doctor McKay. Why don't you tell me a little more about the kind of person you seek?"
"Oh, you know," Rodney waves an arm around airily. "Someone good. None of those sloppy-second, brain deficient rejects you haven't been able to pawn off on anybody yet. Someone smart. And tall. I think I'd like somebody tall. And hot. You do have hot people, don't you?"
Ms. Emmagan doesn't smile, but her voice sounds amused. "We do, indeed."
"Right. So, smart, tall, hot. And male. I put down male, right? Oh, and uh. Manly. Not that I'm not manly myself, but, you know. We can both be manly together."
She nods briskly, makes another small note, and rises. "Thank you for your time, Doctor McKay. I believe with this interview, the computerized profile you filled out and your other tests we have everything we need to find you a suitable companion."
"Great!" Rodney lets her usher him out the door, already digging out his iPhone. "I gotta go to Minsk now, they're giving me an award for my very important contributions to scientific research, but I'll be back in town next week."
"We'll be in touch," Ms. Emmagan says firmly, and all but pushes him out the door. "Chuck will see you out."
***
The agency sucks.
They set him up with this nightmare of a guy, Peter something, who has an actual freaking ponytail, and Rodney was very clear when he said manly, not thirteen-year-old girl.
Also, Peter apparently thinks he's hot stuff in the scientific community, which a) ha, and b) never in a million years will that happen. His theories are so monumentally stupid it's not even fun to tear them apart; they're just unimaginative and boring. And wrong.
Also, he's kind of an asshole.
***
"Seriously," Rodney barks at Ms. Emmagan. "Smart. Tall. Hot. Manly. Four things. How is it possible that you thought it would be a good idea to set me up with someone who manages to be exactly none of those four things? Four!"
Ms. Emmagan makes another of her tiny notes in Rodney's file, and smiles to herself. "I believe you were warned about our screening process, Doctor McKay. How you react to the people you meet with is as important as any other part of the process. Your encounter with Peter-"
"And what bargain-basement sham of a university gave that guy a Ph.D. in the first place, if that's even true?"
"-has yielded a wealth of useful information," she finishes smoothly. Rising, she ushers him towards the door. "We'll be in touch."
***
Rodney has already perused the menu and interrogated the waiter to find an appealing and completely citrus-free meal, and is now sipping his mineral water without lemon, thank you very much, while waiting for his latest match to arrive. Plus, now he gets to look carefree and spontaneous when he just orders his dish based on a quick glance at the menu. Or maybe he'll look knowledgeable and worldly, like he actually spent time learning about all those fancy Tuscan food terms.
Either way, he's congratulating himself on his foresight when an extremely large man wearing ripped jeans and shoulder-length dreadlocks strolls over on freakishly long legs and… looms over him.
"Yes?" Rodney asks, still looking around for his date. "Can I help you?"
The man looks amused. "Maybe."
"Oh, well that wasn't vague at all. If you're looking for advice on what to order, may I suggest the restaurant across the street. Or anyplace away from this table. I'm waiting for somebody."
The man nods thoughtfully. "You're high-maintenance."
Rodney splutters on his lemon-free water. "Excuse me? I am not high-maintenance. I am low-maintenance. I am self-maintaining. And what business is that of yours, anyway?"
The man shrugs and pulls out one of the chairs at Rodney's table, folding his long frame into it. "Don't know yet. You gonna order?" He snags a piece of black-olive focaccia from the bread basket and dips it into Rodney's little dish of olive oil.
"Hey! Do you mind? I don't want my date to arrive and think I'm already cheating on him with some gigantic, freakishly good-looking, bread-stealing-"
"You think I'm good-looking, huh?" And that smirk is not even a little bit attractive.
"What? No! I mean, yes. I'm not blind, you know. And it's not like you don't know it, too. I mean, you're-" Rodney waves helplessly in the giant's direction. "Really, really hot. And tall. And very manly. And you're…" He stops, frowning. A terrible thought occurs to him. "Ronon?"
Ronon's smirk widens. "Rodney," he says politely, muscled arms folded across his impressive chest.
"Oh, my God," Rodney moans. "Oh, my God. What were they thinking? Look at you! Look at me! How old are you, anyway? Don't answer that! And, and I said smart! Obviously not as smart as me, because how could that happen, and I'm sure you're very smart in a large person kind of way, but-what do you do, anyway?"
"I'm a classical pianist." Ronon grabs another slice of bread, dips it into the oil, and bites down with gusto.
Rodney blinks. "Really?"
"No."
"Oh. Yes, well, most classical pianists are a lot smaller than you, I think. And not as hot. Why do you need a dating agency, anyway? You probably just have to walk down the street and people throw their panties at you."
"Yeah," Ronon says. "That gets old after a while." His freakishly handsome face closes off, and for a moment Rodney is surprised to realize he misses how open and warm it had been before, even when Rodney was maybe, possibly, conceivably being a tiny little bit less than pleasant.
"Right," Rodney says. "Okay. So, you contacted the agency, I contacted the agency. And they somehow thought we'd be a decent match." A disturbing thought occurs to him. "Or they're just testing me again."
Ronon smiles-not a smirk this time, just a little curl of amusement, and Rodney suddenly finds it hard to breathe. That smile should come with a warning label, for the good of mankind.
"They set you up with some no-goes, huh? Me, too."
"How do you know I'm not one of them?" Rodney blurts.
Ronon tilts his head, the soft, thick dreadlocks framing his face sliding with the movement. "Don't know. I have a feeling."
"Oh. Well, am I what you were looking for?"
"Don't know yet," Ronon says, but his eyes are soft, and Rodney thinks he's in a lot of trouble.
This is all really, really wrong.
***
You'd think Ms. Emmagan would go along with that, but she seems unimpressed at Rodney's report.
"He's like a caveman!" Rodney finally yells, hoping to get through to her. "A really, really hot caveman."
"I see," Ms. Emmagan makes another of her endless little notes.
"Really, really hot."
"Ronon is also tall," she notes mildly. "And smart. And…"
"Incredibly manly, yes, yes," Rodney says. "Brimming with testosterone. Possibly manlier than the combined manliness of the populations of several small countries. Luxembourg, definitely. He's way manlier than all of Luxembourg."
"But?"
"He's also really nice!," Rodney frowns. "I never said anything about nice. Nice people can't stand me! He'll be running for the hills in the manliest way possible inside of a week!"
"I see," she says again, and makes another tiny, stupid little note. Rodney squints and leans across the desk, but it doesn't even look like English. "So, in future, we should seek men who are smart, tall, hot, manly and not nice."
"Well, not not nice. Just… less nice."
"Of course." She smiles warmly and accompanies him out the door. "We'll be in touch."
***
Rodney didn't think Ms. Emmagan had it in her to be petty, but that's the only possible reason he could be forced to endure a date with Laren.
He's so… polite, and proper, and underneath it all, Rodney can tell there's something lurking that can't be trusted.
And Rodney's people skills suck, so if even he can tell, it really can't be good. Laren seems a little too interested in Rodney's work, and very earnest about the benefits of scientific advancement, and very…
Rodney claims a headache and bails out early.
***
After that, he's kind of afraid to question the agency's judgment to Ms. Emmagan's face, so he meekly accepts yet another date, hoping he's back in her good graces.
The man he meets has a lean, athletic build wrapped up in a soft black sweater and jeans, nice eyes and an explosive mess of hair. Rodney can't quite figure out if it's that way on purpose or not, or why they keep setting him up with guys with hair that makes a statement. Rodney's hair has never made a statement, and it's not like he ever gave hair that much thought, anyway.
"I'm John," the man with the hair says cheerfully. "You must be Rodney."
"Um," Rodney says. "Yes."
"So, I guess this is the part where we get to know each other," John says, munching on a tortilla chip. "Salsa?"
"There might be lime in it," Rodney says, distracted. He can't quite figure out what shade of green John's eyes are. Or are they hazel?
"Oh, are you allergic?"
"I don't know," Rodney says.
This is a really, really bad idea.
***
"He drains my IQ!" Rodney exclaims. "How is that possible? It's like every second with him costs me IQ points! I was-I was a babbling idiot! He started talking to me gently, like you do with three-year-olds."
Ms. Emmagan hides her smile admirably, but Rodney can still see it there, lurking behind the surface.
"Seriously, how is that even possible? It's like he, he had some sort of brain-melting death ray!"
She coughs. "I very much doubt John has a brain-melting death ray," she says.
***
Rodney actually does want to seem mature and serious about the Athos Agency's "process," wants to give them whatever data they need to just magically find the right person for Rodney so Rodney can stop wearing suits to go meet strangers in restaurants.
In fact, just in case it's the restaurants causing the problem, Rodney decides to try the all-important second date in a coffee shop instead. Ms. Emmagan suggests what turns out to be a very good one only a fifteen-minute drive from Rodney's house.
It goes okay. Rodney has a couple of second dates, and they're not spectacular failures but they're not exactly… well, they're not exactly springboards to third dates, or anything further. At this point, Rodney's beginning to wonder if there ever will be anyone willing to put up with Rodney and sit on his couch watching stuff on ESPN. He doesn't even need the shirt-ironing, he decides. A simple "How was your day?" would be fantastic.
Ms. Emmagan convinces him to give brain-melting John another chance, so Rodney takes extra B vitamins to protect the goods before heading out there, takes along the latest scientific journals so he can chuckle at other people's gross misconceptions, because that always calms him down, and waits for the man to show up.
Six and a half feet of unearthly jailbait slings itself into the couch across from Rodney's comfy armchair.
"Good coffee, huh?" Ronon asks. "My uncle can always track down the best Kona."
Rodney pales. "What-what are you-I'm not-"
Ronon tilts his head. "I really think you're smart enough to finish your sentences. Makes me wonder if it's just me."
"What? Yes, I always-I'm very good at finishing sentences, actually." Rodney likes to back up his statements with cold, hard facts, so he feels obligated to make conversation with Ronon in order to prove his ability to make conversation with Ronon.
They're deep in the midst of a critical analysis of the Matrix trilogy, which Rodney normally would never on pain of death reveal he actually owns multiple copies of, when John shows up. John's hair is looking like he just rolled out of bed, he's wearing a loose white button-down shirt and Rodney can't believe he almost forgot John was coming in all the vicious smearing of the sequels.
Ronon looks at John, a long, slow once-over, and John lifts his chin and stares back.
"Wanna fuck?" Ronon asks John.
John grins. "Oh, yeah."
"What? What? Wait, what?" Rodney is sitting right here, thanks, and all the testosterone is kind of going to his head. Or maybe his stomach; he's feeling a little nauseous.
Ronon spares him a glance. "You can come, too."
"I can-this is my date," Rodney splutters, but Ronon is already hauling John in, and John is tall, yeah, but Ronon is taller, miles of long legs and arms and skin and he presses all of that into John and kisses him, and John is pressing back and this is quite possibly the hottest thing that has ever happened to Rodney, and it's not even happening to him, just near him, but oh, my God, it's still scorching. "I'm-yeah, okay," Rodney says, and hurries them out the door and into his car, hands nervous and sweaty on the wheel like he's on a getaway caper, taking off with the hottest guys in the state somehow bamboozled into letting him into their no doubt Olympic-quality sex.
***
"So, I don't know if I should pay you double or what," Rodney says, crossing his arms nervously.
Ms. Emmagan sits placidly across the desk.
"But I'm-I'm not giving them back. I want-I mean, they're people, of course they can go if they want to; I know I can't make them stay or anything, but I'm-I've really fallen for them," he says softly, miserably. "For them both. And they're really…"
"Smart, tall, hot and manly?" Ms. Emmagan asks, hint of a smile curling up the edges of her mouth.
"Oh!" Rodney blinks. "Well, yeah, they're that too, I guess. But they're so much more than that-John is so-and Ronon is really-and they both-"
Ms. Emmagan's smile blossoms, wide and beautiful, lighting up her face. "Congratulations, Doctor McKay. We are delighted to have facilitated another successful match. Please feel free to refer us to those of your friends you feel would fit in with our selective clientele."
Rodney nods emphatically. "You bet! Zelenka needs to get laid like, yesterday, or eight years ago, maybe, and Miko needs a life like you would not believe, and there has got to be someone on God's green earth suitable for Sam Carter, other than me, I mean, because, hello, very gay and in love with two men, but-"
"Rodney," Ms. Emmagan interrupts, almost fondly. "We wish you every happiness."
"Thanks," Rodney says, and he's smiling so hard his cheeks ache with it, and he's never been so happy in his life.