Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead by Speranza, commentary by Girlnamedpixley
Title: Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead
Author: Speranza
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Commentator: Girlnamedpixley
Back to Part One
22
Rodney wakes up, by force of habit, at seven in the morning. He’s warm, sweating a little, because he’s all tangled up with John Sheppard, who’s sleep-heavy and loose-limbed and snoring faintly. Rodney has to tilt his head to a weird angle to see John’s face. He looks different-younger, and kind of sweeter than normal-and Rodney’s not at all sure that he likes it: he misses John’s irony and faint but constant tinge of hostility. I’m really attached to that line - that Rodney’s not sure he can handle a John who looks younger and sweeter. (I do, however, thank him for the visual).
This lunatic is my best friend on this planet, he thinks, and instantly amends, or any other, and maybe that should worry him, but in fact, he finds it staggeringly reassuring, and closes his eyes again.
23
The next time he wakes up, John’s awake too, blinking stupidly and still looking sleepy. “Hey,” John says, in a scratchy morning voice. “Wow. I slept really well-” and Rodney blinks and jerks to look at the clock. It’s nearly eleven, and kickoff’s at one, and Denver’s an hour away by car-God, he has to rent a-
“Get dressed,” Rodney says, sitting up quickly. “Hurry.”
But John just pushes himself up on his elbow and looks at him lazily, the covers pooling low. Rodney’s eyes are drawn to where the arrow of hair on John’s belly disappears below the white cotton sheet. “What’s the rush?” Jesus Christ. The correct answer here, Rodney, is “No rush. No rush at all. No football tickets sitting on my desk anywhere. Nothing to do but stay here and have incredible, amazing sex for as long as you’re willing to be naked and look at me like that.”
Rodney forces his eyes back to John’s face, and is reassured to see irony and faint hostility back in full force. “We’re going to Denver.” Spoilsport.
John rarely looks surprised, but he looks pretty surprised now. “We’re going to Denver? Why?”
“Because,” Rodney says haughtily, shoving off the covers off, “I am reliably informed that there is football there.”
24
“Are you serious?” John asks, as Rodney searches for his clothes. “No, really,” John says, banging on the bathroom door, “Rodney, are you serious?” and then again, in the elevator on the way to the lobby, “You’re serious, right?” Sigh. Okay fine. It was worth getting dressed.
25
The concierge gives him the key to a white Honda, though John manages to liberate it before he can get to the driver’s side door. Sighing, Rodney resigns himself to the passenger seat.
John frowns down at the dashboard as he shoves the key in. “You got an automatic?”
“This is America. It’s all they had.”
“I hate automatics,” John says, looking over his shoulder as he shoves the car into reverse. “They suck.”
“Obviously, but beggars can’t be-” and Rodney is flung back as John throws the car into drive. They pull out of the hotel parking lot with a screech of tires, and really, it feels just like home. “Slow down,” he tells John, as John speeds up the ramp onto I-25 north. “No, really; you’re going to get a ticket,” and when John shoots him a wry, sideways glance, Rodney bursts out laughing. “Sorry, yes, go ahead. Floor it,” he says, and John does.
26
John makes what mapquest tells him is an hour and eleven minute drive in forty-one minutes, grinning maniacally the whole way, the western sky above a near-electric blue. Can’t you just SEE that? They see the stadium ten minutes before they actually reach it-it just keeps getting bigger-and when John finally begins the long, slow crawl around the gigantic parking lot, Rodney gets the first of the day’s panic attacks. There are so many cars, in so many colors, and he supposes that living on a island in outer space with three hundred people for a year is bound to do something to one’s sense of perception. John must feel it too, because on the third turn, he reaches out and puts his hand on Rodney’s arm. “S’okay,” John says softly, reassuringly, glancing over. “Breathe deep, hang on.” You really can imagine how overwhelming that would be after the past few years for them. It’s a wonder they’re not all feeling utterly claustrophobic.
Rodney breathes deep and hangs on, and the panic passes: it’s just a parking lot, it’s just cars, just people. They find a space and begin the long hike toward the stadium, joining more and more people, more and more people, more and more until they’re finally passing into the cavernous interior hallways. They stop at the box office and pick up the tickets Rodney’s reserved (“I’m always serious,” Rodney explains) and then move, as directed, toward the “green zone.” Rodney insists upon snacks, so they stop at a refreshment stand and order beer, hot dogs, nachos, super pretzels, and a huge carton of popcorn. John pulls out his wallet and pays the girl behind the counter, then turns to a kid beside them who’s unraveling a wad of crumpled dollar bills, and says, “You want popcorn?”
The kid looks up at John nervously, like he’s a nut, which he is, and then John pulls a bunch of twenties out of his wallet. “Here,” John says, “buy popcorn for your friends.” The kid looks like he’s about to run for it, because somebody probably told him not to take money from insane Air Force majors, so Rodney says, in an impatient tone the kid is sure to recognize as adult, “It’s okay, you can take it. We’re leaving the country soon.” They are. Both of them. No matter what the SGC says.
27
Rodney sees a narrow strip of blue sky at the top of the concrete stairs, and then they’re out, in the open air of the stadium-where Rodney gets his second panic attack. He’s gone to professional hockey games before, but those stadiums hold maybe 20,000 people, tops. This must be four times that, he’s never seen so many seats, so many people, and there’s chatter and yelling and the loudest, most terrible organ music in the world-
“Rodney,” and John’s shifting the beer and the hot dogs in his arms, and his voice is worried. “Are you-”
“Yes, fine; I’m fine,” Rodney says, and takes a deep breath. “It’s probably just a blood sugar thing,” he adds, ripping off a piece of super pretzel and shoving it into his mouth, which actually makes him feel better.
“Okay,” John says, and when he shifts again, he says: “Because, you know, if you hate it, we can leave,” and Rodney can see how hard it is for John to say that, because while he’s managed to keep his face neutral, every muscle in his body is tensed with please, no, please, please, please. Awwww. Rodney, honey…you are SO whupped.
“No, no, no,” Rodney says, and John’s body relaxes so fiercely that he nearly drops the beer and the hot dogs. “Let’s find our seats,” and now he’s really glad that the only tickets they had left were expensive, because their seats are really good-at least judging by the increasingly envious looks of the people they’re passing and the way John’s almost bouncing on his toes.
“Okay, so look,” John says, once they’ve found their seats and slotted their beers into the cupholders and put their food on the little overhang provided for their convenience, “football isn’t as much about spectacle as it is about sound. Now if you look over there,” and John’s pointing at something, but Rodney has no idea how he’s supposed to pick whatever-it-is out of that sea of people, “you’ll see some speakers, just beneath the commentator’s booth: they project sound waves over the crowd. Sometimes,” John concludes earnestly, just as Rodney figures out he’s being messed with, “I like to watch with my eyes closed,” and then it’s Rodney’s turn to feign seriousness as he beats John around the shoulders and chest and yells, “God! You are such an asshole!” while John twists away, hands raised to protect his face, and laughs and laughs. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BEST JOHN MOMENT OF THE STORY! (except for that naked in bed, half-covered by the sheet part. That was awesome on a whole different level.)
28
He likes it all much more than he expects to: sitting outside in the crisp air, eating hotdogs, drinking beer, the endless waiting for seven seconds of actual football action, watching John leap out of his seat and yell and wave his hands for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. John is more than willing to explain himself, however, sketching the plays in the air with his hands, or diagramming them on a napkin with a felt-tipped pen. It’s almost too much information, and Rodney tries to keep up with the flow of it, listening and nodding, nodding and listening-until it suddenly occurs to him that this must be what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of his own expository diatribes. He feels his mouth crook into a smile, and suddenly John’s saying, “What? What?” Could they be any cuter? Could they? COULD THEY?
29
John buys more beer from a roving huckster lugging a cooler, and tips the delighted kid more than the price of the bottles, and Rodney takes a moment to mark this place, this moment, in his memory: the impressionist painting that is 80,000 people, the vibration of their stomping, cheering bodies, the crisp Colorado weather, that amazingly blue western sky. Because they’ll never be here again, in this place, in this moment. Rodney’s got his head tipped back and is watching a single puff of white cloud drift across the sky when suddenly John’s looming over him, John and everyone else is the whole stadium. He scrambles to his feet-he’s missed the first touchdown-but it doesn’t matter: John is hugging him wildly, lifting him nearly off his feet, and the roar of 80,000 people sounds almost like music.
30
They wander the huge concrete halls of the stadium at halftime; it’s a fairly new stadium and like a mall inside, with a couple of restaurants and all sorts of shops. John walks past a sports memorabilia store, then stops and does a double-take, and Rodney has just a moment to insist, “Oh, God, please-no shopping!” but John is already pushing through the glass door, and with a groan, Rodney follows.
John heads past the Broncos pennants and Broncos mugs and Broncos refrigerator magnets and Broncos sweatpants and shorts and t-shirts and signed footballs and, Jesus, snow globes, and goes straight to a wall of football jerseys. Every possible team in the history of the world seems to be represented, and Rodney’s relieved that John at least seems to know what he wants, and so they won’t be trapped here, endlessly browsing. John snags a long-sleeved maroon t-shirt off the wall-Boston College, number 22, which figures: Rodney’s seen the damn Hail Mary videotape enough times to know that that’s Flutie’s number-takes it off the hanger, and throws it over his shoulder. Fine, great, they’re done: let’s go!-except apparently they aren’t done, because John is frowning and flipping through the rest of the Boston shirts, and Rodney puts on a giant foam hand and begins theatrically tapping at his watch. John rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop searching, and Rodney groans and turns to look at a table of impossibly tacky knick-knacks.
He hears John grunt in satisfaction, turns around, and gets a maroon t-shirt slapped onto his face. Growling, Rodney pulls it off and glares at John, who’s already moving toward the cashiers and looking smug. Rodney looks down at the shirt in his hand-it’s an Eagles shirt, number 20, size large-and follows John to the register.
“Is this supposed to be for me?” Rodney demands, and it comes out sounding pissier than he means it to; he’s actually kind of touched to be on the team. I admit, I saw this coming. I actually remember the Flutie game. (Shut up. Yes, I’m that old.) And it was as incredible as John says it was. As soon as he pulled out the #20 jersey I was all “PHELAN!!!!! AWWWWWWW!!!!”
“Yep,” John says, without looking at him. He takes the shirt back, puts it with the other, gets in line. “Call it a present.”
“Flutie went to Canada, you know,” Rodney says, which is what he always says when John goes on about the Hail Mary, except now it sounds different; now it sounds like a proposition. John shoots a look at him. Rodney has to look away. “Who’s number 20?” he asks without turning back, but John doesn’t answer, and a moment later, Rodney hears him being charming to the salesgirl, saying, “Yeah,” and “No problem,” and “No, I’ll pay cash.”
“Gerry Phelan,” John says, when he turns away from the counter, and Rodney’s about to say, “Who?” when the loudspeakers come on and announce that the second half’s about to start. Outside, people are moving rapidly toward the bleachers with their food and beer, and Rodney’s about to join the flow when John tugs him in the other direction.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way,” Rodney says, but John is doggedly pulling him upstream, dodging and weaving through the crowd, and then John pulls him into the rapidly emptying men’s room, and Rodney has a moment of thinking, stupidly, Oh, well, yes; it was a lot of beer, before John practically hurls him into a stall and shoves him up against the door, and Rodney only has a moment to blurt, “Wait, what are you-?” before one of John’s hands is hot against his mouth, and the other is groping low in his pants, and John’s whispering, “Shh,” and biting his ear softly, “shut up,” and then he’s kissing Rodney’s face and working his cock hard and fast. John’s hand is tight, hot, slick, strong, and Rodney groans into John’s palm as John coaxes his orgasm out of him (“C’mon, Rodney; c’mon, attaboy, there we go-”) in several violent-sharp spurts. Okay, the verbal coaxing of the orgasm? Yeah. That would be a previously-unknown kink, discovered through this story.
Afterwards, Rodney leans back against the flimsy partition, quietly panting, as John pulls a wad of toilet paper off the roll. But this isn’t over; this is so not over. Rodney raises both hands, grabs John by the ears and pulls him in for a kiss. John makes a soft noise of surprise, and then groans and opens his mouth when Rodney keeps right on kissing him. John lets Rodney roll him back against the door and spreads his legs when Rodney nudges between them with his knee. Rodney blindly manages to open the button of John’s jeans and tug down the zipper, and then he’s shoving his hand into John’s pants. John moans desperately into his mouth and pushes his dick into Rodney’s hands, and when he comes, Rodney keeps kissing him: when he comes, and for a good while after. Part of me wants to bask…part of me is just thinking, “Ew. A stadium bathroom, guys? Really? A PUBLIC STALL??? Do you at least have hand sanitizer???”
31
John sits in blissed-out stupefaction for the rest of the game, though whether it’s the football or the beer or the sex, Rodney can’t say. He himself is enjoying his own state of blissed-out stupefaction, which is definitely sex-related: he’s had two sensational orgasms in the space of 24 hours, breaking a streak of-oh, really longer than is worth thinking about. The Broncos had managed to score another touchdown while they were jerking each other off in the men’s room, though John didn’t seem to mind having missed it. (“That’s cool,” John said, and waved for the roving beer guy to bring him another beer.) The universe obliges John Sheppard by letting the Broncos score one more time in the second half, though it fails to provide the Hail Mary pass that Rodney is half-expecting. Well Rodney got his moment with the music. It’s only fair that John should get to have the football gods smile upon him.
Still, it seems to be a good enough game and when it ends, John is grinning goofily and generally looking happier than Rodney’s ever seen him look. John hands him the car keys and sits, slouched and relaxed, in the passenger seat, head lolling against the headrest while Rodney negotiates the horrible, post-game traffic. “Do you remember when-” and “That last touchdown, that play that Preston made, Jesus-” and Rodney smirks and nods, feeling smug but not really paying attention to the details. Instead, he listens to John’s voice, the soft rumble of it, the ebb and flow of his enthusiasm-and when John stops talking, it’s like someone’s turned off the radio.
Rodney shoots a quick look over into the passenger seat. John’s watching him silently, thoughtfully, and then he says, to Rodney’s complete and utter surprise, “Where’s your cat?”
Rodney shoots a boggle-eyed look at him. “What?”
“Your cat,” John repeats. “The cat in the picture. Is she dead?”
“He,” Rodney says, sharply correcting him, “and no, he isn’t dead! What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Well, he could be dead,” John points out, reasonably. “It could be an old picture.”
“Well, he’s not. He’s fine,” Rodney says, realizing a moment later that of course he has no idea if Kepler is fine or not.
“So where is he?” John asks.
“He’s with my neighbor, my old neighbor, in the complex where I used to-what does it matter?”
“In Colorado Springs?” John presses.
“No, in Fountain: I wanted to live as close to my lab as-seriously, why does it matter?”
John says, “We could go see him,” and something really furious rises up in Rodney’s gut, because honestly, he went out of his way to make this a nice day for John, and this asshole is mocking him. Rodney tears his eyes from the road to give John a hard stare-but John just blinks and says, “Hey, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” and Rodney suddenly understands that John is perfectly serious.
This is the only moment in the entire story that falters a bit for me. I don’t understand the anger here. Truly, it perplexes me and I’ve read it a hundred times trying to follow the logic, but it never quite rings true for me. I always think John asking about Rodney’s cat and suggesting they go see him seems sweet from the start, but somehow Rodney does an instant 180 from blissed out and happy to thinking of John as an asshole, which I don't get. But it’s a minor detail and we’re quickly past it.
Still, he can’t quite tamp down the furious thing inside him. “Why the hell would you want to see my cat?” and John thoughtfully waggles his head and then says, finally, “I don’t know. You brought his picture to Atlantis. I thought you’d want to,” and maybe it’s because John’s just raised the idea that Kepler could be dead, but Rodney suddenly really does want to see his cat, and so he stays on 25 south and heads for Fountain.
32
He has his old key to the building, but he buzzes anyway, because there’s no point in going up if Sarah’s not home. But a moment later, the intercom blares static and a sing-songy voice says, “Who is it?” and Rodney clears his throat and says, “It’s Rodney McKay,” and then, when there’s no answer for a moment: “Your neighbor? From 3B? You’ve got my-”
“Rodney McKay? Wow. What are you-” and then there’s a buzz, and Sarah’s saying come up, come on up, and so Rodney pushes through the door. John follows him across the lobby to the elevator.
They have to pass his apartment to get to Sarah’s, and Rodney walks past it without letting his eyes so much as waver, but John-John is Major John Sheppard of the United States Air Force, and unfortunately not at all stupid, and so he stops when they pass 3B and says, “Hey, was this your apartment?” A moment later, John is leaning forward, having spotted the tiny lettering in the nameplate of the brass knocker, and then John turns around and glares at him. “You still live here?”
Rodney stops, sighs, turns around. “I still pay rent. Or the bank does.”
John turns around again and stares at the door like he’s never seen a door before. Or like he’s Superman and he can see straight through it. “But why,” John begins, gesticulating toward the apartment, “why didn’t you-?” and it’s a reasonable question; he never thought to come here, not once. Maybe because even in his own fabricated reality version of this place, there were no messages on his answering machine: just corn chips and television. And while corn chips and television are mighty fine things, they somehow don’t seem like quite enough anymore. What exactly did he leave behind? His collection of science fiction paperbacks? His old physics club t-shirts?
“There’s nothing-” Rodney begins, and then turns the words around. “There isn’t anything,” and then he’s walking fast down the hallway. *pets Rodney* It’s okay, honey. It’s all ahead of you now. Let the apartment go! Atlantis and John are so much more. Sarah Mendelsohn’s in 3H, and Rodney rings the bell. There is a sound of yowling cats, and Rodney grins stupidly, because one of them is Kepler, he’s absolutely sure of it: he’d know that ornery screech anywhere. And then the lock is turning and the apartment door is opening-and boy, Sarah looks good, but then, she always did.
Rodney says, “Hi, Sarah,” and Sarah grins and cocks one hip and says, “Hey there, Rodney. Come on in,” and for a moment, Rodney has déjà vu, because he could swear that Sarah’s coming on to him a little, just like in his fabricated reality scenario, except then of course she says, “Who’s your friend?” and right, yes: earth is still on its axis, never mind. “This is,” Rodney begins, but then he stops, because there’s Kepler, all four feet firmly planted and glaring defiantly at him from in front of the sofa, and Rodney knows that look, it’s: you are such an asshole, you said you’d be home hours ago. And haven’t we all seen that expression on a cat? I have absolutely no doubt that’s exactly what he’s thinking. Vaguely, he hears John say, “Hi, I’m John,” and Sarah saying, in that weird, flirtatious voice, “Hi.” Rodney rolls his eyes. As do we all. Give it up, Sarah. You’re getting Nowhere.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry,” he tells Kepler, “but you’re a cat, and I’m committed to having you fed on a regular basis, but I’m not letting my life revolve around you,” but Kepler isn’t buying this, not at all. “You’ve got a nice place here, you like Sarah and Percy,” Percy was Sarah’s cat, “-so you’re fine,” Rodney says, jerking a hand out toward him, “in fact, you’re fat, so don’t start with me. I come all this way to see you and what do I get? Cat attitude,” and this line of reasoning seems to work, or maybe Kepler’s just nostalgic for Rodney’s crankiness, because all of a sudden he’s coming over, and rising up on his back legs and pawing at Rodney’s pants, and Rodney sighs and bends to lift his fat ass off the floor. “C’mere, you stupid-” Rodney grumbles, though this really isn’t fair: Kepler’s the smartest cat he knows, and more intelligent than many people he’s worked with. And Kepler’s warm and heavy and doing that weird thing he does sometimes where he tries to nurse at Rodney’s left earlobe, and Rodney twists his head away and says, “Stop it, you crazy-” but he can’t help but hug the cat tight. Oh. See, right here…I was already thinking ‘well there’s no WAY we’re leaving him behind now. Hell even *I’m* attached to him.’
“Yeah, I think he misses you,” Sarah says, with a sigh. “He keeps thinking that maybe tonight you’ll come home from the lab,” and then she’s explaining to John that she’s a doctor, and that she-like most of the people in the building-works over at the Cheyenne Mountain complex, in the infirmary, and ha, she used to think that doctors were insanely obsessive workaholics, but then (and now she’s smirking at Rodney) she began hanging out with physicists. “Doctors are relaxed,” Sarah tells John, making it seem like a come-on.
“Uh-huh,” John says, noncommittally, and then he’s coming over and tilting his head sideways and peering down at the cat, and Rodney says, “Kepler, this is John,” and then, the most amazing thing happens: Kepler glares at John resentfully, and John arches an eyebrow and briefly lets his faint air of hostility become real hostility, and then Kepler slowly unflattens his ears. For some reason this makes me think of Paul Hogan psyching out the big…whatever it was in Crocodile Dundee II. Which makes me picture John in a hat with crocodile teeth around it. Which just makes me laugh. “C’mere, let me have him,” John says, and opens his hands. Rodney’s expecting Kepler to freak out and attack, but Kepler just hangs limply and lets himself be given over to John. John crooks a long finger and skritches him first under his chin and then behind his ear, and Jesus, Rodney can hear the blissed-out purring from here. “You psyched out my cat,” Rodney says, almost accusingly.
John smiles faintly and shrugs. “He seems pretty good-natured,” which is a preposterous thing to say about Kepler, who has five kinds of personality disorder, but then John says something even more ridiculous: “Let’s spring him.”
“What?”
“Spring him. Take him with us. Take him home,” John says, and this last is directed in a casually pointed way toward Sarah, who visibly deflates-and honest to God, could this day get any better? No. No it couldn’t. I’m BURSTING with love.
33
“Are you crazy?” Rodney asks, even as he’s throwing Kepler’s bowl into a plastic bag. “This is crazy,” he says. “No, really. John. This is-” but John’s zipping the cat into his jacket until only his furry head is visible (WHY??? WHY has no one made a manipulation of that? It’s just crying out for one.), and geez, it’s pretty clear who’s alpha cat now. Rodney asks questions that start, “How are we going to-?” and “What if we get-?” and “How can we possibly-?” but John just smiles and snags the car keys from his fingers and says, “I’ve got some ideas.”
34
They arrive back at the hotel overburdened with stuff: they’ve got their souvenir t-shirts and the cat bowl and a portable litter-box and a bag of litter and a sack of cat food. John is also lugging an acoustic guitar and two carrying cases that he’s just bought: one, a soft case of black nylon, the other a hard case lined with red velvet. (“I didn’t know you played guitar,” Rodney said. “I don’t,” John replied, with a grin, “but I look like I do, don’t I?” Kepler yowled unhappily.)
They manage to get Rodney’s door open and lug all their stuff inside. John unzips his jacket and Kepler springs down to the floor and begins to explore the room, nosing into the bags and Rodney’s shoes and eventually settling down happily on top of a pair of corduroy pants. John puts out bowls of food and water while Rodney sets up the portable litter-box in the bathroom-and then suddenly, there’s an angry knocking on the door, and Rodney and John jerk up to look at each other, and Rodney can see that they’re both having the same reaction: holy shit, it’s the cat police! I distinctly remember that making me laugh out loud HUGE the first time I read it. Because that is *exactly* what my first thought would be. Jump sky high, throw my hands in the air and just know immediately that I was busted by the cat police!
“Hang on a second,” Rodney yells, while they work in silent unison to get Kepler and his stuff shoved into the bathroom. Then Rodney takes a deep breath and opens the door, while John lounges near the desk, apparently trying to look casual.
It’s Beckett, looking flustered. “Rodney,” he says, “where on earth have you-” and just then, Beckett sees John. “Major! You’ve got to get to base: they’ve been looking and looking for you! Didn’t you get their messages?”
John frowns and slowly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I haven’t been in my room. What’s going on?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” Beckett replies, “except Elizabeth sent me over to bang on your door personally. Whatever it is, though, it’s important: she was meeting with all the top military brass, and you could cut the tension in there with a knife, I swear to God.” Beckett only makes a tiny appearance in this fic, but his dialogue is excellent. I can hear Paul delivering these lines and see the expression on his face when he says them.
Rodney’s about to protest that it’s late, it’s dark, whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, surely, when John says, tiredly, “Okay. Let me just put on my uniform.” And it’s funny, but two days ago Rodney wouldn’t have seen the live-wire tension underneath John’s pose of ironic exhaustion, but now he does see it: sees both tension and fear. Actually…I think he would have seen it. He just wouldn’t have realized he was seeing it. I hold fast to my belief that he’s had the John Sheppard Operating Manual since paragraph one.
“I’ll come with you,” Rodney says, and John pauses, halfway out the door, and nods sharply before disappearing. Rodney grabs his own regulation gear out of the closet, waves Beckett toward a chair, and opens the bathroom door-forgetting entirely about Kepler, who shoots out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell. Rodney whirls around, but Beckett is already leaning forward and making kissy-faces at the cat, who is regarding him with disdain.
“Puss, puss,” Beckett says, extending his hand and snapping his fingers. “Aren’t you a pretty kitty?” and Rodney sighs and groans and goes to get changed.
35
John is an entirely different person on the way back to Cheyenne Mountain: he’s in uniform, straight-backed and hard-faced and entirely unlike the lazy, joshing slacker who jerked him off in the men’s room and kidnapped his cat. In fact, if Kepler were to see the barely-suppressed hostility in John’s eyes, in his flared nostrils and the defiant jut of his chin, he would hide under the bed and never come out. Rodney hopes it has the same effect on the SGC brass. I know how this story turns out and every time I read it, I feel my own posture get a little more rigid and tense when John’s in his uniform here. I just want to take him and Rodney away to a nice empty room and squish them together and make them be happy and cat-kidnappy and football gameish and have hot hotel room sex again.
Once they’re inside the mountain, Beckett leads the way, and John follows, and Rodney brings up the rear, and it feels eerily like they’re escorting John to a court martial, or a firing squad, or his own funeral. Beckett knocks softly on a door, which is opened by a marine, and Beckett’s right: the circular arch of the conference table is full of the Pentagon’s top brass and the SGC’s top generals. John shoots a single, swift glance at Rodney and looks away just as fast, but Rodney hears John’s tense voice in his head just as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud: McKay, you bastard, if this goes the wrong way, you’ve got to help me, you promised, and Rodney nods sharply and immediately starts planning scenarios. Fifty bucks says he already has 10 in various stages of planning.
“Major Sheppard,” General Landry drawls, “so glad you found time to join us.”
Sheppard shows him a faint, crooked smile. “Well, the Broncos were playing, sir,” and that gets him a few low chuckles around the room.
“Hm, yes, I see,” Landry replies, and then he turns and says, “General O’Neill, would you kindly explain the situation to Major Sheppard.”
“Yeah, sure,” General O’Neill says, and slouches back in his chair. “Major, you should know that your apparent inability to follow a proper chain of command has provided us all with many hours of fun-filled entertainment. You should also know,” and something in the General’s voice goes airy, and Rodney instinctively tenses for bad news, “that the decision was very nearly taken to remove you from the Atlantis expedition entirely,” and Rodney feels simultaneously furious and overjoyed, because a decision was nearly taken, which of course means it wasn’t. “However,” General O’Neill adds in that same, airy voice, “the point was then made that this would only mean putting you under some other poor bastard’s command, probably someplace where those very interesting genetics of yours would be of no use at all.” Suddenly General O’Neill sits up and leans forward, lacing his fingers together. “My own personal opinion is that the only way to deal with soldiers like you is to promote them until they have to take themselves seriously,” and wait, did he say-? “Which sucks, by the way.”
“Sir?” John sounds like he’s strangling. “I’m sorry, did you say-?” Rodney jerks to stare at Elizabeth, who’s sitting there, looking exhausted and smug. Rodney lets the question show on his face-”For real?”-and watches her nod.
General O’Neill shrugs, reaches forward for a small pretzel, and tosses it into his mouth. “Yeah. We’re promoting you to Lieutenant Colonel and officially appointing you the military commander of Atlantis. Wacky world, isn’t it?” Oh it is. It definitely is. But it’s a wonderful one, too, and John’s going HOME!
36
They all four of them end up back in the hotel bar, celebrating late into the night with bottle after bottle of champagne and plate after plate of terrible bar food, and when John opens his wallet at the end of the night and gives all his money to their waiter, everyone assumes that he’s drunk.
Rodney knows better.
37
Rodney and Carson half-carry, half-drag John back up to his room, pull off his shoes, and dump him on his bed while Elizabeth stands there, still holding a glass of champagne, and says, “Goodnight, Colonel!” Then they all tromp back into the hall, wish each other good night, and let themselves into rooms 912, 914, and 918.
Rodney has a moment of something very near to joy when he’s greeted by his cat, and he bends and hugs Kepler to his chest for a long moment before dropping him onto the bed and going to change into a t-shirt and shorts. For some reason, Rodney’s joy at being greeted by Kepler just fills me with happiness. He’s taking him home! He’s taking them BOTH home. He puts on the Boston Eagles t-shirt John bought him, and then frowns, goes to his laptop, and googles “Gerry Phelan number 20.” He feels a lump rise in his throat at the first link that comes up: “Forever And Ever, The Pass: Flutie to Phelan still a miracle 15 years later,” and when he clicks on the article, there’s a picture with a caption: “Gerard Phelan, the kid who caught the most famous hail-mary in college football.”
Rodney slowly shuts the laptop. Behind him, Kepler is pacing back and forth across the bed, testing his claws on the bedspread, though he stretches out contentedly when Rodney gets under the covers and turns off the light.
It isn’t more than 20 minutes later when there’s a soft knock at the door, and Rodney comes instantly awake and opens his eyes in the dark. He scrambles out of bed-vaguely processing a pissed-off ‘meow’ from Kepler, who’s been knocked onto the floor-opens the door, and pulls John inside. The door’s not even fully shut when John’s on him, groping and kissing and murmuring, “Rodney, Jesus, can you believe-” and yes, yes, Rodney can believe it, except no, he can’t believe any of this, none of this can be happening, and Rodney’s got John’s erection in his hand and he’s kind of using it to steer him back toward the bed. That visual never fails to make me laugh.
Rodney pushes John down onto his back and climbs on top of him, greedily tugging at his thick spiky hair and pushing his tongue deep into John’s mouth. When they finally break apart, John grabs Rodney’s shoulder hard, yanks his head down, and whispers furiously into his ear, “I want you to fuck me.” Rodney groans aloud, because he wants that so much-he wants to fuck John Sheppard into next week, into the next galaxy. We all want that Rodney. We really do. And if the world was a true and just place, Speranze would have written a coda to this story already where she tells us all about you doing just that. But alas…she has not. Still, I’m rooting for you! But John quickly presses his hand to Rodney’s mouth to stifle the sound, and then gingerly removes it again.
“Shh. The walls here are thin,” John says, and kisses him.
Rodney laughs softly, and then kisses him back. “Yes, yes, I know.”
Just perfect. End of story.
Author: Speranza
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Commentator: Girlnamedpixley
Back to Part One
22
Rodney wakes up, by force of habit, at seven in the morning. He’s warm, sweating a little, because he’s all tangled up with John Sheppard, who’s sleep-heavy and loose-limbed and snoring faintly. Rodney has to tilt his head to a weird angle to see John’s face. He looks different-younger, and kind of sweeter than normal-and Rodney’s not at all sure that he likes it: he misses John’s irony and faint but constant tinge of hostility. I’m really attached to that line - that Rodney’s not sure he can handle a John who looks younger and sweeter. (I do, however, thank him for the visual).
This lunatic is my best friend on this planet, he thinks, and instantly amends, or any other, and maybe that should worry him, but in fact, he finds it staggeringly reassuring, and closes his eyes again.
23
The next time he wakes up, John’s awake too, blinking stupidly and still looking sleepy. “Hey,” John says, in a scratchy morning voice. “Wow. I slept really well-” and Rodney blinks and jerks to look at the clock. It’s nearly eleven, and kickoff’s at one, and Denver’s an hour away by car-God, he has to rent a-
“Get dressed,” Rodney says, sitting up quickly. “Hurry.”
But John just pushes himself up on his elbow and looks at him lazily, the covers pooling low. Rodney’s eyes are drawn to where the arrow of hair on John’s belly disappears below the white cotton sheet. “What’s the rush?” Jesus Christ. The correct answer here, Rodney, is “No rush. No rush at all. No football tickets sitting on my desk anywhere. Nothing to do but stay here and have incredible, amazing sex for as long as you’re willing to be naked and look at me like that.”
Rodney forces his eyes back to John’s face, and is reassured to see irony and faint hostility back in full force. “We’re going to Denver.” Spoilsport.
John rarely looks surprised, but he looks pretty surprised now. “We’re going to Denver? Why?”
“Because,” Rodney says haughtily, shoving off the covers off, “I am reliably informed that there is football there.”
24
“Are you serious?” John asks, as Rodney searches for his clothes. “No, really,” John says, banging on the bathroom door, “Rodney, are you serious?” and then again, in the elevator on the way to the lobby, “You’re serious, right?” Sigh. Okay fine. It was worth getting dressed.
25
The concierge gives him the key to a white Honda, though John manages to liberate it before he can get to the driver’s side door. Sighing, Rodney resigns himself to the passenger seat.
John frowns down at the dashboard as he shoves the key in. “You got an automatic?”
“This is America. It’s all they had.”
“I hate automatics,” John says, looking over his shoulder as he shoves the car into reverse. “They suck.”
“Obviously, but beggars can’t be-” and Rodney is flung back as John throws the car into drive. They pull out of the hotel parking lot with a screech of tires, and really, it feels just like home. “Slow down,” he tells John, as John speeds up the ramp onto I-25 north. “No, really; you’re going to get a ticket,” and when John shoots him a wry, sideways glance, Rodney bursts out laughing. “Sorry, yes, go ahead. Floor it,” he says, and John does.
26
John makes what mapquest tells him is an hour and eleven minute drive in forty-one minutes, grinning maniacally the whole way, the western sky above a near-electric blue. Can’t you just SEE that? They see the stadium ten minutes before they actually reach it-it just keeps getting bigger-and when John finally begins the long, slow crawl around the gigantic parking lot, Rodney gets the first of the day’s panic attacks. There are so many cars, in so many colors, and he supposes that living on a island in outer space with three hundred people for a year is bound to do something to one’s sense of perception. John must feel it too, because on the third turn, he reaches out and puts his hand on Rodney’s arm. “S’okay,” John says softly, reassuringly, glancing over. “Breathe deep, hang on.” You really can imagine how overwhelming that would be after the past few years for them. It’s a wonder they’re not all feeling utterly claustrophobic.
Rodney breathes deep and hangs on, and the panic passes: it’s just a parking lot, it’s just cars, just people. They find a space and begin the long hike toward the stadium, joining more and more people, more and more people, more and more until they’re finally passing into the cavernous interior hallways. They stop at the box office and pick up the tickets Rodney’s reserved (“I’m always serious,” Rodney explains) and then move, as directed, toward the “green zone.” Rodney insists upon snacks, so they stop at a refreshment stand and order beer, hot dogs, nachos, super pretzels, and a huge carton of popcorn. John pulls out his wallet and pays the girl behind the counter, then turns to a kid beside them who’s unraveling a wad of crumpled dollar bills, and says, “You want popcorn?”
The kid looks up at John nervously, like he’s a nut, which he is, and then John pulls a bunch of twenties out of his wallet. “Here,” John says, “buy popcorn for your friends.” The kid looks like he’s about to run for it, because somebody probably told him not to take money from insane Air Force majors, so Rodney says, in an impatient tone the kid is sure to recognize as adult, “It’s okay, you can take it. We’re leaving the country soon.” They are. Both of them. No matter what the SGC says.
27
Rodney sees a narrow strip of blue sky at the top of the concrete stairs, and then they’re out, in the open air of the stadium-where Rodney gets his second panic attack. He’s gone to professional hockey games before, but those stadiums hold maybe 20,000 people, tops. This must be four times that, he’s never seen so many seats, so many people, and there’s chatter and yelling and the loudest, most terrible organ music in the world-
“Rodney,” and John’s shifting the beer and the hot dogs in his arms, and his voice is worried. “Are you-”
“Yes, fine; I’m fine,” Rodney says, and takes a deep breath. “It’s probably just a blood sugar thing,” he adds, ripping off a piece of super pretzel and shoving it into his mouth, which actually makes him feel better.
“Okay,” John says, and when he shifts again, he says: “Because, you know, if you hate it, we can leave,” and Rodney can see how hard it is for John to say that, because while he’s managed to keep his face neutral, every muscle in his body is tensed with please, no, please, please, please. Awwww. Rodney, honey…you are SO whupped.
“No, no, no,” Rodney says, and John’s body relaxes so fiercely that he nearly drops the beer and the hot dogs. “Let’s find our seats,” and now he’s really glad that the only tickets they had left were expensive, because their seats are really good-at least judging by the increasingly envious looks of the people they’re passing and the way John’s almost bouncing on his toes.
“Okay, so look,” John says, once they’ve found their seats and slotted their beers into the cupholders and put their food on the little overhang provided for their convenience, “football isn’t as much about spectacle as it is about sound. Now if you look over there,” and John’s pointing at something, but Rodney has no idea how he’s supposed to pick whatever-it-is out of that sea of people, “you’ll see some speakers, just beneath the commentator’s booth: they project sound waves over the crowd. Sometimes,” John concludes earnestly, just as Rodney figures out he’s being messed with, “I like to watch with my eyes closed,” and then it’s Rodney’s turn to feign seriousness as he beats John around the shoulders and chest and yells, “God! You are such an asshole!” while John twists away, hands raised to protect his face, and laughs and laughs. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BEST JOHN MOMENT OF THE STORY! (except for that naked in bed, half-covered by the sheet part. That was awesome on a whole different level.)
28
He likes it all much more than he expects to: sitting outside in the crisp air, eating hotdogs, drinking beer, the endless waiting for seven seconds of actual football action, watching John leap out of his seat and yell and wave his hands for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. John is more than willing to explain himself, however, sketching the plays in the air with his hands, or diagramming them on a napkin with a felt-tipped pen. It’s almost too much information, and Rodney tries to keep up with the flow of it, listening and nodding, nodding and listening-until it suddenly occurs to him that this must be what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of his own expository diatribes. He feels his mouth crook into a smile, and suddenly John’s saying, “What? What?” Could they be any cuter? Could they? COULD THEY?
29
John buys more beer from a roving huckster lugging a cooler, and tips the delighted kid more than the price of the bottles, and Rodney takes a moment to mark this place, this moment, in his memory: the impressionist painting that is 80,000 people, the vibration of their stomping, cheering bodies, the crisp Colorado weather, that amazingly blue western sky. Because they’ll never be here again, in this place, in this moment. Rodney’s got his head tipped back and is watching a single puff of white cloud drift across the sky when suddenly John’s looming over him, John and everyone else is the whole stadium. He scrambles to his feet-he’s missed the first touchdown-but it doesn’t matter: John is hugging him wildly, lifting him nearly off his feet, and the roar of 80,000 people sounds almost like music.
30
They wander the huge concrete halls of the stadium at halftime; it’s a fairly new stadium and like a mall inside, with a couple of restaurants and all sorts of shops. John walks past a sports memorabilia store, then stops and does a double-take, and Rodney has just a moment to insist, “Oh, God, please-no shopping!” but John is already pushing through the glass door, and with a groan, Rodney follows.
John heads past the Broncos pennants and Broncos mugs and Broncos refrigerator magnets and Broncos sweatpants and shorts and t-shirts and signed footballs and, Jesus, snow globes, and goes straight to a wall of football jerseys. Every possible team in the history of the world seems to be represented, and Rodney’s relieved that John at least seems to know what he wants, and so they won’t be trapped here, endlessly browsing. John snags a long-sleeved maroon t-shirt off the wall-Boston College, number 22, which figures: Rodney’s seen the damn Hail Mary videotape enough times to know that that’s Flutie’s number-takes it off the hanger, and throws it over his shoulder. Fine, great, they’re done: let’s go!-except apparently they aren’t done, because John is frowning and flipping through the rest of the Boston shirts, and Rodney puts on a giant foam hand and begins theatrically tapping at his watch. John rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop searching, and Rodney groans and turns to look at a table of impossibly tacky knick-knacks.
He hears John grunt in satisfaction, turns around, and gets a maroon t-shirt slapped onto his face. Growling, Rodney pulls it off and glares at John, who’s already moving toward the cashiers and looking smug. Rodney looks down at the shirt in his hand-it’s an Eagles shirt, number 20, size large-and follows John to the register.
“Is this supposed to be for me?” Rodney demands, and it comes out sounding pissier than he means it to; he’s actually kind of touched to be on the team. I admit, I saw this coming. I actually remember the Flutie game. (Shut up. Yes, I’m that old.) And it was as incredible as John says it was. As soon as he pulled out the #20 jersey I was all “PHELAN!!!!! AWWWWWWW!!!!”
“Yep,” John says, without looking at him. He takes the shirt back, puts it with the other, gets in line. “Call it a present.”
“Flutie went to Canada, you know,” Rodney says, which is what he always says when John goes on about the Hail Mary, except now it sounds different; now it sounds like a proposition. John shoots a look at him. Rodney has to look away. “Who’s number 20?” he asks without turning back, but John doesn’t answer, and a moment later, Rodney hears him being charming to the salesgirl, saying, “Yeah,” and “No problem,” and “No, I’ll pay cash.”
“Gerry Phelan,” John says, when he turns away from the counter, and Rodney’s about to say, “Who?” when the loudspeakers come on and announce that the second half’s about to start. Outside, people are moving rapidly toward the bleachers with their food and beer, and Rodney’s about to join the flow when John tugs him in the other direction.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way,” Rodney says, but John is doggedly pulling him upstream, dodging and weaving through the crowd, and then John pulls him into the rapidly emptying men’s room, and Rodney has a moment of thinking, stupidly, Oh, well, yes; it was a lot of beer, before John practically hurls him into a stall and shoves him up against the door, and Rodney only has a moment to blurt, “Wait, what are you-?” before one of John’s hands is hot against his mouth, and the other is groping low in his pants, and John’s whispering, “Shh,” and biting his ear softly, “shut up,” and then he’s kissing Rodney’s face and working his cock hard and fast. John’s hand is tight, hot, slick, strong, and Rodney groans into John’s palm as John coaxes his orgasm out of him (“C’mon, Rodney; c’mon, attaboy, there we go-”) in several violent-sharp spurts. Okay, the verbal coaxing of the orgasm? Yeah. That would be a previously-unknown kink, discovered through this story.
Afterwards, Rodney leans back against the flimsy partition, quietly panting, as John pulls a wad of toilet paper off the roll. But this isn’t over; this is so not over. Rodney raises both hands, grabs John by the ears and pulls him in for a kiss. John makes a soft noise of surprise, and then groans and opens his mouth when Rodney keeps right on kissing him. John lets Rodney roll him back against the door and spreads his legs when Rodney nudges between them with his knee. Rodney blindly manages to open the button of John’s jeans and tug down the zipper, and then he’s shoving his hand into John’s pants. John moans desperately into his mouth and pushes his dick into Rodney’s hands, and when he comes, Rodney keeps kissing him: when he comes, and for a good while after. Part of me wants to bask…part of me is just thinking, “Ew. A stadium bathroom, guys? Really? A PUBLIC STALL??? Do you at least have hand sanitizer???”
31
John sits in blissed-out stupefaction for the rest of the game, though whether it’s the football or the beer or the sex, Rodney can’t say. He himself is enjoying his own state of blissed-out stupefaction, which is definitely sex-related: he’s had two sensational orgasms in the space of 24 hours, breaking a streak of-oh, really longer than is worth thinking about. The Broncos had managed to score another touchdown while they were jerking each other off in the men’s room, though John didn’t seem to mind having missed it. (“That’s cool,” John said, and waved for the roving beer guy to bring him another beer.) The universe obliges John Sheppard by letting the Broncos score one more time in the second half, though it fails to provide the Hail Mary pass that Rodney is half-expecting. Well Rodney got his moment with the music. It’s only fair that John should get to have the football gods smile upon him.
Still, it seems to be a good enough game and when it ends, John is grinning goofily and generally looking happier than Rodney’s ever seen him look. John hands him the car keys and sits, slouched and relaxed, in the passenger seat, head lolling against the headrest while Rodney negotiates the horrible, post-game traffic. “Do you remember when-” and “That last touchdown, that play that Preston made, Jesus-” and Rodney smirks and nods, feeling smug but not really paying attention to the details. Instead, he listens to John’s voice, the soft rumble of it, the ebb and flow of his enthusiasm-and when John stops talking, it’s like someone’s turned off the radio.
Rodney shoots a quick look over into the passenger seat. John’s watching him silently, thoughtfully, and then he says, to Rodney’s complete and utter surprise, “Where’s your cat?”
Rodney shoots a boggle-eyed look at him. “What?”
“Your cat,” John repeats. “The cat in the picture. Is she dead?”
“He,” Rodney says, sharply correcting him, “and no, he isn’t dead! What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Well, he could be dead,” John points out, reasonably. “It could be an old picture.”
“Well, he’s not. He’s fine,” Rodney says, realizing a moment later that of course he has no idea if Kepler is fine or not.
“So where is he?” John asks.
“He’s with my neighbor, my old neighbor, in the complex where I used to-what does it matter?”
“In Colorado Springs?” John presses.
“No, in Fountain: I wanted to live as close to my lab as-seriously, why does it matter?”
John says, “We could go see him,” and something really furious rises up in Rodney’s gut, because honestly, he went out of his way to make this a nice day for John, and this asshole is mocking him. Rodney tears his eyes from the road to give John a hard stare-but John just blinks and says, “Hey, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” and Rodney suddenly understands that John is perfectly serious.
This is the only moment in the entire story that falters a bit for me. I don’t understand the anger here. Truly, it perplexes me and I’ve read it a hundred times trying to follow the logic, but it never quite rings true for me. I always think John asking about Rodney’s cat and suggesting they go see him seems sweet from the start, but somehow Rodney does an instant 180 from blissed out and happy to thinking of John as an asshole, which I don't get. But it’s a minor detail and we’re quickly past it.
Still, he can’t quite tamp down the furious thing inside him. “Why the hell would you want to see my cat?” and John thoughtfully waggles his head and then says, finally, “I don’t know. You brought his picture to Atlantis. I thought you’d want to,” and maybe it’s because John’s just raised the idea that Kepler could be dead, but Rodney suddenly really does want to see his cat, and so he stays on 25 south and heads for Fountain.
32
He has his old key to the building, but he buzzes anyway, because there’s no point in going up if Sarah’s not home. But a moment later, the intercom blares static and a sing-songy voice says, “Who is it?” and Rodney clears his throat and says, “It’s Rodney McKay,” and then, when there’s no answer for a moment: “Your neighbor? From 3B? You’ve got my-”
“Rodney McKay? Wow. What are you-” and then there’s a buzz, and Sarah’s saying come up, come on up, and so Rodney pushes through the door. John follows him across the lobby to the elevator.
They have to pass his apartment to get to Sarah’s, and Rodney walks past it without letting his eyes so much as waver, but John-John is Major John Sheppard of the United States Air Force, and unfortunately not at all stupid, and so he stops when they pass 3B and says, “Hey, was this your apartment?” A moment later, John is leaning forward, having spotted the tiny lettering in the nameplate of the brass knocker, and then John turns around and glares at him. “You still live here?”
Rodney stops, sighs, turns around. “I still pay rent. Or the bank does.”
John turns around again and stares at the door like he’s never seen a door before. Or like he’s Superman and he can see straight through it. “But why,” John begins, gesticulating toward the apartment, “why didn’t you-?” and it’s a reasonable question; he never thought to come here, not once. Maybe because even in his own fabricated reality version of this place, there were no messages on his answering machine: just corn chips and television. And while corn chips and television are mighty fine things, they somehow don’t seem like quite enough anymore. What exactly did he leave behind? His collection of science fiction paperbacks? His old physics club t-shirts?
“There’s nothing-” Rodney begins, and then turns the words around. “There isn’t anything,” and then he’s walking fast down the hallway. *pets Rodney* It’s okay, honey. It’s all ahead of you now. Let the apartment go! Atlantis and John are so much more. Sarah Mendelsohn’s in 3H, and Rodney rings the bell. There is a sound of yowling cats, and Rodney grins stupidly, because one of them is Kepler, he’s absolutely sure of it: he’d know that ornery screech anywhere. And then the lock is turning and the apartment door is opening-and boy, Sarah looks good, but then, she always did.
Rodney says, “Hi, Sarah,” and Sarah grins and cocks one hip and says, “Hey there, Rodney. Come on in,” and for a moment, Rodney has déjà vu, because he could swear that Sarah’s coming on to him a little, just like in his fabricated reality scenario, except then of course she says, “Who’s your friend?” and right, yes: earth is still on its axis, never mind. “This is,” Rodney begins, but then he stops, because there’s Kepler, all four feet firmly planted and glaring defiantly at him from in front of the sofa, and Rodney knows that look, it’s: you are such an asshole, you said you’d be home hours ago. And haven’t we all seen that expression on a cat? I have absolutely no doubt that’s exactly what he’s thinking. Vaguely, he hears John say, “Hi, I’m John,” and Sarah saying, in that weird, flirtatious voice, “Hi.” Rodney rolls his eyes. As do we all. Give it up, Sarah. You’re getting Nowhere.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry,” he tells Kepler, “but you’re a cat, and I’m committed to having you fed on a regular basis, but I’m not letting my life revolve around you,” but Kepler isn’t buying this, not at all. “You’ve got a nice place here, you like Sarah and Percy,” Percy was Sarah’s cat, “-so you’re fine,” Rodney says, jerking a hand out toward him, “in fact, you’re fat, so don’t start with me. I come all this way to see you and what do I get? Cat attitude,” and this line of reasoning seems to work, or maybe Kepler’s just nostalgic for Rodney’s crankiness, because all of a sudden he’s coming over, and rising up on his back legs and pawing at Rodney’s pants, and Rodney sighs and bends to lift his fat ass off the floor. “C’mere, you stupid-” Rodney grumbles, though this really isn’t fair: Kepler’s the smartest cat he knows, and more intelligent than many people he’s worked with. And Kepler’s warm and heavy and doing that weird thing he does sometimes where he tries to nurse at Rodney’s left earlobe, and Rodney twists his head away and says, “Stop it, you crazy-” but he can’t help but hug the cat tight. Oh. See, right here…I was already thinking ‘well there’s no WAY we’re leaving him behind now. Hell even *I’m* attached to him.’
“Yeah, I think he misses you,” Sarah says, with a sigh. “He keeps thinking that maybe tonight you’ll come home from the lab,” and then she’s explaining to John that she’s a doctor, and that she-like most of the people in the building-works over at the Cheyenne Mountain complex, in the infirmary, and ha, she used to think that doctors were insanely obsessive workaholics, but then (and now she’s smirking at Rodney) she began hanging out with physicists. “Doctors are relaxed,” Sarah tells John, making it seem like a come-on.
“Uh-huh,” John says, noncommittally, and then he’s coming over and tilting his head sideways and peering down at the cat, and Rodney says, “Kepler, this is John,” and then, the most amazing thing happens: Kepler glares at John resentfully, and John arches an eyebrow and briefly lets his faint air of hostility become real hostility, and then Kepler slowly unflattens his ears. For some reason this makes me think of Paul Hogan psyching out the big…whatever it was in Crocodile Dundee II. Which makes me picture John in a hat with crocodile teeth around it. Which just makes me laugh. “C’mere, let me have him,” John says, and opens his hands. Rodney’s expecting Kepler to freak out and attack, but Kepler just hangs limply and lets himself be given over to John. John crooks a long finger and skritches him first under his chin and then behind his ear, and Jesus, Rodney can hear the blissed-out purring from here. “You psyched out my cat,” Rodney says, almost accusingly.
John smiles faintly and shrugs. “He seems pretty good-natured,” which is a preposterous thing to say about Kepler, who has five kinds of personality disorder, but then John says something even more ridiculous: “Let’s spring him.”
“What?”
“Spring him. Take him with us. Take him home,” John says, and this last is directed in a casually pointed way toward Sarah, who visibly deflates-and honest to God, could this day get any better? No. No it couldn’t. I’m BURSTING with love.
33
“Are you crazy?” Rodney asks, even as he’s throwing Kepler’s bowl into a plastic bag. “This is crazy,” he says. “No, really. John. This is-” but John’s zipping the cat into his jacket until only his furry head is visible (WHY??? WHY has no one made a manipulation of that? It’s just crying out for one.), and geez, it’s pretty clear who’s alpha cat now. Rodney asks questions that start, “How are we going to-?” and “What if we get-?” and “How can we possibly-?” but John just smiles and snags the car keys from his fingers and says, “I’ve got some ideas.”
34
They arrive back at the hotel overburdened with stuff: they’ve got their souvenir t-shirts and the cat bowl and a portable litter-box and a bag of litter and a sack of cat food. John is also lugging an acoustic guitar and two carrying cases that he’s just bought: one, a soft case of black nylon, the other a hard case lined with red velvet. (“I didn’t know you played guitar,” Rodney said. “I don’t,” John replied, with a grin, “but I look like I do, don’t I?” Kepler yowled unhappily.)
They manage to get Rodney’s door open and lug all their stuff inside. John unzips his jacket and Kepler springs down to the floor and begins to explore the room, nosing into the bags and Rodney’s shoes and eventually settling down happily on top of a pair of corduroy pants. John puts out bowls of food and water while Rodney sets up the portable litter-box in the bathroom-and then suddenly, there’s an angry knocking on the door, and Rodney and John jerk up to look at each other, and Rodney can see that they’re both having the same reaction: holy shit, it’s the cat police! I distinctly remember that making me laugh out loud HUGE the first time I read it. Because that is *exactly* what my first thought would be. Jump sky high, throw my hands in the air and just know immediately that I was busted by the cat police!
“Hang on a second,” Rodney yells, while they work in silent unison to get Kepler and his stuff shoved into the bathroom. Then Rodney takes a deep breath and opens the door, while John lounges near the desk, apparently trying to look casual.
It’s Beckett, looking flustered. “Rodney,” he says, “where on earth have you-” and just then, Beckett sees John. “Major! You’ve got to get to base: they’ve been looking and looking for you! Didn’t you get their messages?”
John frowns and slowly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I haven’t been in my room. What’s going on?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” Beckett replies, “except Elizabeth sent me over to bang on your door personally. Whatever it is, though, it’s important: she was meeting with all the top military brass, and you could cut the tension in there with a knife, I swear to God.” Beckett only makes a tiny appearance in this fic, but his dialogue is excellent. I can hear Paul delivering these lines and see the expression on his face when he says them.
Rodney’s about to protest that it’s late, it’s dark, whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, surely, when John says, tiredly, “Okay. Let me just put on my uniform.” And it’s funny, but two days ago Rodney wouldn’t have seen the live-wire tension underneath John’s pose of ironic exhaustion, but now he does see it: sees both tension and fear. Actually…I think he would have seen it. He just wouldn’t have realized he was seeing it. I hold fast to my belief that he’s had the John Sheppard Operating Manual since paragraph one.
“I’ll come with you,” Rodney says, and John pauses, halfway out the door, and nods sharply before disappearing. Rodney grabs his own regulation gear out of the closet, waves Beckett toward a chair, and opens the bathroom door-forgetting entirely about Kepler, who shoots out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell. Rodney whirls around, but Beckett is already leaning forward and making kissy-faces at the cat, who is regarding him with disdain.
“Puss, puss,” Beckett says, extending his hand and snapping his fingers. “Aren’t you a pretty kitty?” and Rodney sighs and groans and goes to get changed.
35
John is an entirely different person on the way back to Cheyenne Mountain: he’s in uniform, straight-backed and hard-faced and entirely unlike the lazy, joshing slacker who jerked him off in the men’s room and kidnapped his cat. In fact, if Kepler were to see the barely-suppressed hostility in John’s eyes, in his flared nostrils and the defiant jut of his chin, he would hide under the bed and never come out. Rodney hopes it has the same effect on the SGC brass. I know how this story turns out and every time I read it, I feel my own posture get a little more rigid and tense when John’s in his uniform here. I just want to take him and Rodney away to a nice empty room and squish them together and make them be happy and cat-kidnappy and football gameish and have hot hotel room sex again.
Once they’re inside the mountain, Beckett leads the way, and John follows, and Rodney brings up the rear, and it feels eerily like they’re escorting John to a court martial, or a firing squad, or his own funeral. Beckett knocks softly on a door, which is opened by a marine, and Beckett’s right: the circular arch of the conference table is full of the Pentagon’s top brass and the SGC’s top generals. John shoots a single, swift glance at Rodney and looks away just as fast, but Rodney hears John’s tense voice in his head just as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud: McKay, you bastard, if this goes the wrong way, you’ve got to help me, you promised, and Rodney nods sharply and immediately starts planning scenarios. Fifty bucks says he already has 10 in various stages of planning.
“Major Sheppard,” General Landry drawls, “so glad you found time to join us.”
Sheppard shows him a faint, crooked smile. “Well, the Broncos were playing, sir,” and that gets him a few low chuckles around the room.
“Hm, yes, I see,” Landry replies, and then he turns and says, “General O’Neill, would you kindly explain the situation to Major Sheppard.”
“Yeah, sure,” General O’Neill says, and slouches back in his chair. “Major, you should know that your apparent inability to follow a proper chain of command has provided us all with many hours of fun-filled entertainment. You should also know,” and something in the General’s voice goes airy, and Rodney instinctively tenses for bad news, “that the decision was very nearly taken to remove you from the Atlantis expedition entirely,” and Rodney feels simultaneously furious and overjoyed, because a decision was nearly taken, which of course means it wasn’t. “However,” General O’Neill adds in that same, airy voice, “the point was then made that this would only mean putting you under some other poor bastard’s command, probably someplace where those very interesting genetics of yours would be of no use at all.” Suddenly General O’Neill sits up and leans forward, lacing his fingers together. “My own personal opinion is that the only way to deal with soldiers like you is to promote them until they have to take themselves seriously,” and wait, did he say-? “Which sucks, by the way.”
“Sir?” John sounds like he’s strangling. “I’m sorry, did you say-?” Rodney jerks to stare at Elizabeth, who’s sitting there, looking exhausted and smug. Rodney lets the question show on his face-”For real?”-and watches her nod.
General O’Neill shrugs, reaches forward for a small pretzel, and tosses it into his mouth. “Yeah. We’re promoting you to Lieutenant Colonel and officially appointing you the military commander of Atlantis. Wacky world, isn’t it?” Oh it is. It definitely is. But it’s a wonderful one, too, and John’s going HOME!
36
They all four of them end up back in the hotel bar, celebrating late into the night with bottle after bottle of champagne and plate after plate of terrible bar food, and when John opens his wallet at the end of the night and gives all his money to their waiter, everyone assumes that he’s drunk.
Rodney knows better.
37
Rodney and Carson half-carry, half-drag John back up to his room, pull off his shoes, and dump him on his bed while Elizabeth stands there, still holding a glass of champagne, and says, “Goodnight, Colonel!” Then they all tromp back into the hall, wish each other good night, and let themselves into rooms 912, 914, and 918.
Rodney has a moment of something very near to joy when he’s greeted by his cat, and he bends and hugs Kepler to his chest for a long moment before dropping him onto the bed and going to change into a t-shirt and shorts. For some reason, Rodney’s joy at being greeted by Kepler just fills me with happiness. He’s taking him home! He’s taking them BOTH home. He puts on the Boston Eagles t-shirt John bought him, and then frowns, goes to his laptop, and googles “Gerry Phelan number 20.” He feels a lump rise in his throat at the first link that comes up: “Forever And Ever, The Pass: Flutie to Phelan still a miracle 15 years later,” and when he clicks on the article, there’s a picture with a caption: “Gerard Phelan, the kid who caught the most famous hail-mary in college football.”
Rodney slowly shuts the laptop. Behind him, Kepler is pacing back and forth across the bed, testing his claws on the bedspread, though he stretches out contentedly when Rodney gets under the covers and turns off the light.
It isn’t more than 20 minutes later when there’s a soft knock at the door, and Rodney comes instantly awake and opens his eyes in the dark. He scrambles out of bed-vaguely processing a pissed-off ‘meow’ from Kepler, who’s been knocked onto the floor-opens the door, and pulls John inside. The door’s not even fully shut when John’s on him, groping and kissing and murmuring, “Rodney, Jesus, can you believe-” and yes, yes, Rodney can believe it, except no, he can’t believe any of this, none of this can be happening, and Rodney’s got John’s erection in his hand and he’s kind of using it to steer him back toward the bed. That visual never fails to make me laugh.
Rodney pushes John down onto his back and climbs on top of him, greedily tugging at his thick spiky hair and pushing his tongue deep into John’s mouth. When they finally break apart, John grabs Rodney’s shoulder hard, yanks his head down, and whispers furiously into his ear, “I want you to fuck me.” Rodney groans aloud, because he wants that so much-he wants to fuck John Sheppard into next week, into the next galaxy. We all want that Rodney. We really do. And if the world was a true and just place, Speranze would have written a coda to this story already where she tells us all about you doing just that. But alas…she has not. Still, I’m rooting for you! But John quickly presses his hand to Rodney’s mouth to stifle the sound, and then gingerly removes it again.
“Shh. The walls here are thin,” John says, and kisses him.
Rodney laughs softly, and then kisses him back. “Yes, yes, I know.”
Just perfect. End of story.