Advantage by resonant, commentary by ladyvyola 1/2
Title: Advantage
Author: resonant8
Fandom: SGA
Commentator: ladyvyola
"Advantage" is one of my go-to fics, and not just because it plays with one of my favorite kinks, the "serve-or-die" scenario. It’s wonderfully written and explores, through Rodney "Hey, I can be sensitive!" McKay, just what it means to be responsible for the welfare of another human being when it would be all too easy to abuse them.
It’s also very funny and hot as hell.
When they climbed out of the jumper, Elizabeth looked at the mark between Sheppard's eyebrows, and then she exchanged a glance with Carson, and then she shot an expectant look at Rodney.
Terrific. Why not Ford and Teyla? Why did he have to be the object of that please-explain-now look? Yay! Rodney’s POV. This should be very fun.
"Listen, before you say anything, it wasn't my idea and it wasn't my fault," he said. I admit it. I adore petulant, defensive Rodney . And see? Rodney’s already living down up to my expectations.
"Exactly what --" Elizabeth began.
"I mean, I know it might appear on the surface as though this works to my advantage, but I am just as unhappy about it as Major Sheppard is, believe me."
"Tell me what --"
"And whatever the Athusong city guards may claim, I was not treating Major Sheppard like a servant. I was treating Major Sheppard exactly the way I always treat him --" Exactly!
"Which you have to admit is a lit--" Sheppard began.
"Let me finish," Rodney said, raising a hand.
Sheppard broke off in mid-word. That was novel enough that it took Rodney a couple of seconds to get back on track.
Here’s just a little taste of how off-balance this is going to make Rodney. That’s my favorite theme in this story - everybody else is concentrating on Sheppard (including Rodney) and no one is thinking about the deeper implications for Rodney.
"Uh, right. So the city guards are going to claim that they observed our behavior, decided Major Sheppard was my personal servant or my bodyguard or whatever, and then treated him according to the traditional dictates of the Athusong --"
"Asuthong," Teyla corrected him.
"Let's not get hung up on details here," Rodney said, because how many interruptions could one conversation sustain? "The point is, the guards looked the four of us over and decided which one it would be to their advantage to, to remove from the negotiation, and they picked the major and slapped that slave-marking device on his forehead without asking anyone, and after that no one would listen to him. And they know something about Wraith strategy and tactics, but the other three of us don't have Major Sheppard's odd little knack for negotiation by randomness --" Mmmmmm. Social scientist!Rodney.
"Hey," Sheppard protested.
"And so we got nowhere, revealed our presence, and showed them the gate and the jumper for nothing, and now Major Sheppard thinks he's my slave, and just please, please tell me you can undo this, Carson, because I can't have him tagging after me like an oversized kid brother --"
"Hey," Sheppard said irritably.
"He seems all right," Elizabeth said.
"Major?" Rodney tossed him three of the very delicious khama nuts that were the one and only good thing to come of this trip. "Here. Juggle."
You have read this story before, right? ‘Cause I’m gonna spoil you right now. It’s the nuts. And see how smoothly Resonant’s slipped them into the story?
"I can't juggle," Sheppard said, sending two of them flying at once. "Never had the knack," he went on as the third one joined them, three perfect parabolas, over and over.
Elizabeth glanced at Rodney and back at Sheppard. "Looks like you can," she said.
"No, no, I've tried," Sheppard said, still tossing nuts. "I always drop them." Still. Tossing. Nuts. Oh, Res. That’s sheer poetry. Or something. :)
For a long moment they all watched Sheppard juggle, and then Rodney said, "You can quit any time you want."
I always want to jump up and down and point out Res’s delicate touch here. From the start, Rodney couches his orders in the mildest form. He does that automatically because he's Rodney and quite frankly, he doesn't much care what you do as long as you don't inconvenience him. But eventually he's going to have to start thinking about the implications of every word that comes out of his mouth and how they affect someone else's mental and physical well-being. Oh, Rodney!
"OK," Sheppard said. "Hey, cool, watch this," and he switched to a circle pattern. "Toss me another one." He caught it in midair and sent it flying with the rest.
"So, hey," Rodney said, "you can do impossible things if I tell you to? Go walk on the ceiling."
Sheppard gave him a look of withering scorn. "Right."
"At least it doesn't seem to have affected his personality," Elizabeth said.
That’s what you think, Liz. Another fascinating aspect of this story is how subtly John is affected. It’s only Rodney that seems to have any idea of what’s going on. It’s not until John’s true free agency is restored that we can see how (involuntarily) restrained he has been.
----------
The mark on Sheppard's forehead was dark blue and roughly circular. Teyla said it might be a letter from the Asuthong alphabet, but it was too smudged to be sure.
Carson scraped a bit of it off (a process which took some skin cells, too, and allowed Sheppard to strike a number of stoic poses) and discovered it was nothing but an unusually persistent sort of vegetable dye.
Stoic!Sheppard. Rodney is pretty sure that stoicism is a complete waste of time - if you don’t complain, how will they know you’re in pain? - but he probably appreciates the aesthetic aspects.
"That's good. That's good," he said. "I imagine what we'll find in his bloodstream will be an agent that increases suggestibility, perhaps combined with a mild depressant. They come up unexpectedly and poke his forehead with something sharp, you see, they tell him he's a slave, everyone treats him like a slave, he comes to believe he's a slave."
What he actually found in Sheppard's bloodstream, after an hour's worth of testing, wiped the smile off his face.
"I've never seen the like," he said in a hushed voice, eyes never leaving the display where a molecule went on rotating. "It's not unlike a virus, and you can see the lipid envelope -- very fascinating, really. Already Major Sheppard's body is beginning to produce something analogous to antibodies." He pulled up another display. It looked like some sort of dog toy. "Based on the behaviors of these bodies in laboratory conditions, I'm guessing the majority of the infection should be overcome in twenty-four hours."
"So, what, we wait?"
"Aye, we wait. And you don't tell him to do anything that's hazardous to his health."
You can tell these people have never read slavefic. Health hazards should be the least of their worries.
"I'm not going to tell him to do anything at all," Rodney said, "because I'm going to be very busy pulling the science team's collective head out of its collective ass for the rest of the day."
But that was where the next complication came up, because Sheppard, who had left for his own errands, came drifting back almost immediately, and lurked around at the edge of Rodney's peripheral vision until Rodney broke off brainstorming with Zelenka to say irritably, "What?"
"What? Nothing."
"Why are you here?"
Sheppard shrugged. "Nowhere else to be."
"So you thought you'd come and pester -- wait. Are you feeling some sort of compulsion to stay close to me?"
Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Yes, me and the birds and the stars and --"
No regulator on his mouth, I see.
"Major Sheppard. Tell me. Is the stupid alien slave virus making you stay close to me?"
"Yes," Sheppard said, glaring at him.
Pow! And Rodney goes right to the heart of the problem.
"They made him your slave? Pity it wasn't someone prettier," Zelenka said. Aw, Zelanka, why you gotta be hatin' on the Major? His prettiness is legendary in the Pegasus Galaxy! "Tell me about it," Rodney said. "Well," he went on to Sheppard, "how do you feel about making yourself useful and bringing up something to eat?"
Sheppard didn't trot off like a good slave, and he didn't roll his eyes like normal Sheppard. He shifted from foot to foot and then said, in a choked tone that suggested he was speaking under protest, "I feel conflicted."
"Oh, my god, I've made you talk about your feelings. That stuff is strong," I’ll be over here, trying to stifle my giggles. Rodney said. "All right. Let me rephrase that. Describe the slave thing's Rodney’s a bit in denial here, still thinking of this as an external problem. conflicting impulses."
Sheppard's shoulders came down a couple of inches. "It wants me to do what you want, but it also wants me to stay in earshot. Maybe it's because you didn't give a direct order."
"Well, that's easy. Go down to the mess and get lunch for all three of us."
"I'll expect a good tip," Sheppard said, and left.
Zelenka was giving him an I can't believe you just did that look, not that that was unusual.
"He'll feel better if he keeps busy," Rodney said. Rodney the concrete thinker. Clear, precise, impersonal orders. He really doesn’t have any idea what’s going to happen.
----------
"Hey," Sheppard said as Rodney arrived in the gateroom. "Just who I wanted to see. Tell me to hang from the top railing."
Rodney looked up at the second-floor railing. "What, you're a chimpanzee now?"
"C'mon," Sheppard wheedled. "I can almost do it by myself, see?" and he took an enormous upward leap, a hang-from-the-backboard sort of leap. His hands didn't come anywhere near the railing, though they did go well above the level of the upper floor.
"So you're thinking an order from me is going to add half a meter to your vertical jump? This is the sort of thing that gets people thrown out of the Olympics in disgrace."
Under Pegasus Galaxy Olympic regulations, Michael Phelps is required to compete nude. I am so there.
Sheppard just went on looking at him expectantly, and Ford and Elizabeth and Bates turned their expectant looks from him to Rodney and back again. "Fine, Major. Jump up and hang from the railing, if it makes you happy."
Before he'd even finished the sentence, he was looking at Sheppard's boots. They dangled at face level for a few moments, and then Sheppard crashed heavily to the floor, laughing. "Did you see that? That was so cool. Watch!" And he did it again.
"Maybe 'If it makes you happy' is a functional part of the order," Elizabeth mused, "and his mind interprets that to mean 'any time you want to.' "
"Or," Ford panted from midair, "he could do it -- all along -- and the order just -- unlocked his potential." His unassisted high jump was a bit higher than Sheppard's had been, but not high enough to allow him to touch the rail. "Wish you could -- do that for me."
"Any time you need someone to order you to do something useful," Rodney began, and was interrupted by the thud of Sheppard coming down again. There, in a nutshell (c wat I did thar!), is Rodney.
"C'mon," he was saying, beaming. "Let's go get a jumper and find out what's a mechanical limit and what's a human one."
The contrast between John's "public" slave behavior and his private is striking. It's not that he and Rodney are actively hiding anything, but it just shakes out that the rest of Atlantis sees only the tip of the iceberg. He's active and demanding and self-directed. Nobody seems to realize that that is only because Rodney hasn't prevented such behavior.
----------
"Suppose I ordered you to go away," Rodney said four hours later, when Sheppard had taken the dirty dishes back to the mess and fetched a dropped whiteboard marker and eaten way more than his share of khama nuts Okay, see how easy she makes dropping clues look? and made Rodney look really bad in front of Zelenka by pointing out that he'd factored in water pressure on the subaqueous shields twice in different places.
"I'd do it, but I wouldn't be able to relax until I could hear you." They'd arrived at Rodney's room, which was definitely out of earshot of Sheppard's. Sheppard was yawning.
"OK, fine, go get a mattress or a cot or something and you can sleep on the floor. But just this once," Rodney said. "Oh, and hey, see if you can find me a blanket made out of something found in nature. I think this one is spun out of milk bottles."
I like how Rodney is adaptable yet oblivious here. He solves the immediate problem but then tacks on an order without thinking. But it's not a "me master, you slave" order. It's a "me Rodney, you scrounger of bedding so since you're going that way…" order. That's the kind of slave owner Rodney is by nature. It's only as the plot thickens that he's going to have to really think about what he's doing.
----------
When Rodney woke up the next morning, Sheppard was sitting up, watching him. His eyebrows were pulled together.
"Is it worn off? Snap your fingers."
Sheppard snapped his fingers glumly. "That's not all."
"What, is there something new?"
"You're hungry. You have a slight caffeine-withdrawal headache. Your elbows are dried up because the sheets are rougher than you're used to -- who knew you were such a princess, McKay? Your right shoulder and the back of your neck are stiff. And, uh, your bladder is full."
And we have plot thickening! I repeat: we have plot thickening! It's hysterically funny that Rodney, the man who will actually tell you all these things about himself (an inverted form of control) is now involuntarily broadcasting such information whether he wants to or not (total lack of control).
Rodney felt himself flushing, because that last one was clearly a euphemism that meant Sheppard had noticed that parts of Rodney greeted the new day with more enthusiasm than the rest of him, which he couldn't take care of in his usual morning way because Sheppard was in his room. "Why, thank you, Doctor Sheppard," he snapped. "And how's my cardiovascular health today?"
"Pretty poor," Sheppard said. "Don't you get it? This thing is telling me everything you need and pushing me to do something about it."
"Jeez. These people can do that?"
"McKay, I have an almost irresistible desire to come put lotion on your elbows. Hee!Please give me something to do."
"Get me some of those khama nuts out of the desk drawer," Rodney said hastily, "and then you can have the shower first."
Rodney looked glumly at the closed shower door. Wondering whether it was worse to have Sheppard know he was hard, or to have Sheppard know why he wasn't any more, pretty much took care of that problem. Poor princess!
When Sheppard came out of the bathroom, he brought a glass of water and stood over Rodney, glowering damply, until Rodney drank it all, and then he said, "That's better," and sat down on Rodney's bed and started cutting his toenails with Rodney's clippers.
"Ew," Rodney said, "cut that out." Sheppard stopped immediately. His face was freshly scrubbed and shaved, and he looked ridiculously wholesome except for the murderous glare. "What?" Rodney said. "I don't care if you're in chemical bondage. I don't want your toenail clippings on my bed. Go do that someplace else."
Why do I find the phrase "I don't care if you're in chemical bondage" so funny?
Still glaring, Sheppard went and sat in Rodney's desk chair. Rodney gave up and went to take a shower.
There was nothing unusual about having Sheppard eating breakfast with him, and nothing really unusual about his behavior there, at least after Rodney told him, "I want you to do whatever you want to do -- as long as it doesn't involve telling me what to eat and what not to eat."
It was unusual to have Sheppard lingering around the lab instead of getting on with his own life. "Don't you have work you need to be doing?" Rodney said after Sheppard had brought him another glass of water, located his laser pointer under two weeks' worth of power grid printouts, and turned off a lamp that Rodney hadn't even noticed was bothering his eyes. "I mean, I would imagine that there are things to glare at, things to shoot, things to fly really fast --"
The subtlety of the things John notices really gets me here.
So Sheppard left, but after half an hour he drifted back in to hand Rodney an antacid tablet. Rodney sighed. "Look. Tell me what you need to be doing and I'll order you to do it."
Rodney McKay: not one of nature's slave owners.
"Normally I'd be getting ready to hear everyone's weekly reports."
"All right, fine, I order you to go get ready for your reports." It was actually kind of fun to say 'I order you' to someone who took it seriously, and he got into the role a bit, giving a regal wave of his hand. Zelenka snorted behind him. Sheppard rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, sir," with amazing insincerity, and left.
On the other hand, Rodney McKay: one of nature's benevolent monarchs.
And half an hour later he was back again with a painkiller and yet another glass of water, saying, "Jesus, Rodney, lay off whatever you're drinking before you give yourself a coronary."
Rodney, who had been drinking something that the Erdeven considered a path to achieving godhead -- and they were only exaggerating a little -- said, "Shut up." For once Sheppard actually did, but then he paced and twitched until Rodney said, "Fine, say what you've got to say."
"I need to hear briefings, and I can't because you won't take care of your immediate physical needs."
"Unless you gave birth to me and I've forgotten, my immediate physical needs are none of your business," Rodney said, "and I wish you'd leave me alone."
"I wish I could, believe me," Sheppard said, rubbing his temples. Rodney hated to be charmed by what everyone else was charmed by, but Sheppard looked so ruffled that his resolve took a serious hit.
"Perhaps if you ordered him not to pay attention to you," Zelenka said.
"Sure, why not. Don't pay attention to me, Major."
Sheppard's eyes squeezed shut. "Ow, ow, paradox," he said, grimacing. "Christ, that's even worse. Brain's like a hamster on a wheel."
"OK, never mind," Rodney said.
Sheppard relaxed all at once. "Thanks."
The whole thing is so damn insidious. I think that's why this story pushes my buttons so hard. It just keeps building and building as it creeps up behind you….
In the end, Rodney had to actually go with him to the briefings, which were unimaginably tedious. Worse yet, he had to roll his head around to loosen up his neck muscles, and prevent himself from feeling tense and restless, because as soon as he did, Sheppard felt compelled to help, and nothing brought a military briefing to a halt faster than the commanding officer stopping to say, "Deep breaths, McKay."
When the last of the military people had filed out, Rodney and Sheppard looked at each other.
"So obviously missions are out until this thing wears off," Rodney said.
So few words yet Res paints a full (and funny) picture. Show, not tell, like an Atlantean koan. :)
"I'll tell Elizabeth. You go get lunch."
"I thought I was the one giving orders," Rodney said.
"And eat something with fiber in it, jeez." Yeah. I got nothin'.
----------
"Carson, it's getting worse," he said. "He can read my mind now, and he won't leave me alone."
"You can read his mind?"
"Not exactly," Sheppard said, and stopped, and opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Oh, go ahead and tell him. My personal boundaries are gone already," Rodney said.
Sheppard shot him one of those you-asked-for-it looks. "He has a tension headache around his eyes," he said to Carson. "His right arm and shoulder and the back of his neck are stiff. Sometimes he gets shooting pains in his upper trapezius. That Erdeven stuff he drinks makes his heart pound and his hands shake. He forgets to eat, and then he remembers and stuffs some random thing down in four bites and gets a stomachache. I'm not going to get into the state of his digestion. I don't know how long it's been since he got laid, but it's clearly far too --"
"Hey, hey, stop," Rodney said. Aw, Rodney, it's not like you have any dignity left, either.
Sheppard gave him a reproachful look. "Don't you know better than to issue a command without parameters?"
"You're not a computer," Rodney said, "and I know this because computers don't whine. It's one of the things I like about them." Computer!John. I'd hit that and so would Rodney,
"You know, Rodney," Carson said, "the etel wasn't meant to be consumed like coffee. The Erdeven drink it in wee cups the size of eggshells, in a controlled environment, with foods that may neutralize some of the effects --"
"Were we here to talk about my habits? Because maybe I'm insane, but I could have sworn we were here because Major Sheppard still has an alien drug in his system that makes him think he's my personal body servant."
Have you been reading darkrosetiger's A Question of Compromise WIP, where Joe actually is the personal body servant of David and Jason? If this is the first time you've heard of it, how much do you love me right now?
Carson turned to Sheppard, and opened his mouth to ask a question, and they both glanced at Rodney. "I'll leave," Rodney said.
"No," Sheppard said anxiously, and Carson looked from one to the other.
"That's another thing," Rodney said. "It makes him nervous if he's out of earshot of me, unless I've sent him on an errand. Major, I'm going to step outside, because I want you to be able to speak freely to your doctor.about what your options are, and while you've never shown any particular compunction about hurting my delicate feelings, I don't trust this thing to let you think straight unless I tell you that's what I want."
I fall in love with Rodney whenever I read this bit.
"Rodney," Sheppard said. "Stay," and he wasn't pleading or anything -- his voice had no expression at all -- but Rodney stayed.
Carson couldn't do anything about the problem. The virus was still detectable in Sheppard's bloodstream, and he had no idea why the antibodies weren't working.
He'd located a chemical that neutralized the virus in a test tube. The drawback was that it was very, very poisonous.
"I do still think your body ought to be able to take care of this on its own," Carson said, "though I admit I thought it would have done already. If you don't mind my saying so, you've never been one to relish doing what you're told," he went on, which was like saying up was up. "I'm surprised you're taking this so well."
And once again, everybody ignores the obvious. If Sheppard is taking his slavery well, it's not because he's an emotionally well-adjusted human being enduring a temporary inconvenience. It's because he's in chemical bondage, people! He has to take it well. Where the hell is Heightmeyer anyway?
"He isn't telling me what to do," Sheppard said. "Much. Ow." Carson pressed Sheppard's fingers over the spot where he'd withdrawn the needle. "Anyhow, he could use some looking after. You wouldn't believe the things he --"
"Yes, thank you, that will be enough on that subject," Rodney said. "Hey, Major, if you're done getting drained of blood, go get that other laptop, will you? It's on the table next to my bed."
"You're very comfortable ordering him around," Carson said. What? Like Rodney is acting any differently than usual?
"I've always thought that a truly civilized society would find a way to liberate superior minds from tedious busywork," Rodney said. It's a motto to live by. "Besides, he's military. It makes him happy to have orders to follow."
"Oh, certainly," Carson said. This is why it's better when Carson sticks to mice.
But it did make Sheppard happy. When he brought back the laptop, he looked more relaxed than he had since they came back from Suthong. "Is it possible that the mark rewards him for obedience?" Rodney asked.
"Aye, it's possible," Carson admitted. "Or it may keep up a lowgrade pain or discomfort stimulus which fades only when he has an order to follow."
"See?" Rodney said. "It's for his own good." Benevolent. Monarch.
----------
After a blissfully Sheppard-free afternoon (during which he had eaten two things that were very much like apples, not that he planned to admit that to Sheppard), Somebody in this relationship seems able to take orders. I'm just sayin'. Rodney returned to his room and found that a cot had been moved in and set against the wall at right angles to his bed. He stopped short at the invasion of his personal space, and while he was still staring, Sheppard skidded around the corner. "Oh," he said when he saw what Rodney was looking at.
"Yeah," Rodney said. "I suppose protest would be futile?" Sheppard gave him a pleading look, and Rodney sighed. "All right, never mind, you can be my roommate if that's what you need. Just please don't give me tips on regulating my digestion in front of Lieutenant Johanssen any more. She's a beautiful woman and I'd like to retain some shred of personal dignity." Yeah, good luck with that.
"Well," Sheppard said after a minute, "I was in the middle of a jog."
"I'd never have guessed," Rodney said, looking at the ring of sweat that darkened the collar of his T-shirt.
"Go get changed and you can come with me."
"I don't jog," Rodney said. "I don't run for recreation. I run when someone's after me with a weapon."
"That can be arranged," Sheppard muttered, and then he lurked around Rodney's door for so long that Rodney gave in and went jogging with him just to get rid of him. Again with the following orders. Res, you are one sneaky writer.
It actually wasn't so bad. He never had to humiliate himself by saying, "Slow down," because Sheppard could sense when he was out of breath without being told, so it was pretty easy to settle into a reasonable pace.
Sheppard led him past the water-treatment area and out a door he'd seen a million times, and suddenly they were actually outside. They jogged around a wide curve with the city on one side and the apparently endless sea on the other, and then out a long pier with the sea on both sides, and then up a short flight of stairs to a circular platform where they could see forever in every direction.
The city looked tiny and misty behind them, and Rodney suddenly realized two things: that he never went outside except on missions, when mortal danger tended to mute his appreciation of the fresh air, and that this was closer to genuine solitude than he'd had since he came to Atlantis.
"Hey," he said to Sheppard. "This is great."
"Thought you'd like it," Sheppard said.
Pretty, pretty Atlantis. I like the scope this scene gives the story. Not that I have any objections to spending a lot of time in Rodney's quarters. But it's good to step back and see the rest of the picture sometimes.
----------
There was something very much like real bacon in the mess the next day, which Rodney, not being an early riser at the best of times, would have missed if Sheppard hadn't grabbed him a plateful and left it on the desk beside his bed. He'd left a big glass of water there, too, with some ice still in it, and he'd moved the laptop over to the other desk so he wouldn't have to worry about spills.
Of course it would have been nicer to have someone fussing over him because he liked him, rather than because he was under chemical compulsion to take care of all his bodily needs, Rodney thought with his mouth full of bacon. But this wasn't bad.
Sheppard returned as Rodney was eating the last of the bacon. He glared at Rodney. "You didn't -- never mind."
"Spit it out, Major."
"You didn't jerk off." See what happens when you encourage him, Rodney?
"Jesus." Rodney covered his eyes with his hand. "Next time I tell you to say what's on your mind, remind me that I don't really want to know."
"But it was the whole reason I left."
"Oh, you gave me fifteen minutes. How generous of you."
"You need longer than fifteen minutes? What do you do, interpretive dance?" We should thank our lucky stars that we don't get Rodney holding forth on the virtues (or, more likely, lack thereof) of interpretive dance.
"What I need is real privacy, which apparently I'm not ever going to have again. I mean, put yourself in my shoes. If I were lurking outside your door, knowing--" I'm pretty sure I've read that fic. In several fandoms. I may have also written it. Oh, don't try to play innocent - you have, too.
"I don't lurk. And I can't not know. And if you don't do something about it, it's going to start taking care of itself in your sleep, and I'll be forced to know about that, too, so think about it. So I'm going to go out again -- is half an hour long enough, or do you need me to wait until lunchtime?"
"This is not going to happen, and the more you talk to me about it, the more you make sure it's not going to happen." If anyone starts to call it "Rodney's happy time" (tm Transformers the movie), I'm packing up and moving out.
Sheppard gave him a smirk that told Rodney he'd noticed that Rodney was lying. But, hell, this kind of conversation would be a turn-on for a lot of people. He wouldn't be surprised if Sheppard himself -- well, he was certainly not going to look. This, and the whole rest of the scene, with Rodney owning the situation and his reactions and being mature, is something I appreciate. I want to read grown-ups acting and reacting like grown-ups, not barely coherent adolescents, you know?
"Fine," he snapped. "Go take a nice long jog, and then go take a nice long shower in your own room, and keep your telepathy turned off, please."
"I don't have telepathy. I just know when you need something. And if I could turn it off, I would, believe me, because sometimes what you need is a swift kick." He left with the attitude of someone who was pissed that the door wouldn't slam. Worst. Slave. Ever. At least in the Verbal. Later, he's gonna ace the Practical.
"Way to inspire my libido, there," Rodney said into the quiet, well-mannered hiss of the door.
He'd never had to jerk off on demand, and as he assembled his lube and his washcloth, it seemed like the most joyless thing he could imagine, and he wanted not to, except that Sheppard was out there, and he knew what Rodney needed --
His cock stirred in his loose hold.
What the hell was that? He glared down at it, as though it could explain itself. He was getting off on knowing that Sheppard was out there somewhere killing time, waiting for him to jerk off? He wondered if Sheppard could tell that he'd gotten started, if he'd be following along --
God, yes. This was doing something for him, for real. He pressed two fingers into the base of his cock -- not that he needed anything to make him any harder; he was doing just fine in that respect -- and made a ring of his other thumb and forefinger, twisting just below the head, making it last. Sheppard apparently thought he'd do it fast; maybe that was the way he liked it himself, oh, god, if he could tell what Rodney was doing maybe he'd learn something, that sweet sensation of going right up to the edge and staying there, until your breath came hard and you could feel your heart racing, until your hands shook and your eyes squeezed shut and your lips pulled back, just like that, maybe he'd never tried it, maybe he was heading back to his quarters now, cock heavy in his running shorts, maybe he was going to try it right now --
Coming was like a fist clenching, over and over, and he hung on through it, gentling his hand and holding on -- gentle enough and slick enough and you could keep it going, no spasms but shivery pleasure right on the edge of pain for a few minutes, until either you got hard again or your body finally said Enough. He wondered if Sheppard knew about that, if he ever -- the picture pushed another quick squeeze out of him --
OK, fine, fine, a little belated self-awareness, that was fine, he got it already. Either he had a thing for guys or he had a thing for an audience that was so strong that the identity of the audience didn't matter much. Fine.
There was something to be said, actually, for learning this stuff about yourself when you were past that who-am-I anxiety, he thought as he wiped off and headed for the shower. It would have freaked him right out at sixteen, but here he was, full of endorphins and well-being, and apparently either bisexual or an exhibitionist or possibly both. And he felt fine.
Fine. Remember that word. Rodney's going to be abusing it like poetry pretty soon.
When he came out in his shorts and T-shirt, Sheppard was lying on the cot, also freshly showered, smirking at him. "Feel better?"
"Do you?" Rodney asked him, because there was no way Sheppard hadn't just been up to the same thing.
He hadn't remembered to put the lube away -- it was still out there on the desk -- but he couldn't bring himself to care.
----------
"We have to do something about this," Elizabeth said when Sheppard followed Rodney into a science team briefing.
Rodney looked at him -- having Sheppard following him everywhere had stopped seeming strange to him, and anyway, one of the agenda items was finding some way to make the jumpers more power-efficient, which was something Sheppard actually knew something useful about.
But if it was a problem for Elizabeth, he'd fix it. "He can leave if I send him on an errand. Want him to bring up some of the khama nuts?"
Elizabeth shook her head like he was some kind of selfish jerk, which was totally unfair -- she was the one who wanted Sheppard gone. "I meant something about the continued effects on Major Sheppard's free will, though I know you don't want to sacrifice your personal fiefdom."
"Hey," Rodney said, waving his hand at the scientists around the table. "These are my personal fiefdom, thank you very much. ::sing-song:: Mon-arch! Major Sheppard is a colleague suffering from an alien attack, which, I remind you, is not my fault," but of course it never did any good to talk to these people. "Anyhow, Carson's only managed to upgrade the antidote from 'fatal' to 'almost fatal.' "
"How bad is it?" Elizabeth asked Sheppard.
Sheppard's eyes cut sideways to Rodney. "Go ahead," Rodney said, "tell her the truth."
Something happened to Sheppard's face, but he said to Elizabeth, "It's not too bad. The virus makes it all feel normal. These people wouldn't recognize the truth if Rodney stood up and said, "Now Major Sheppard is going to tell you the truth." Um…. I miss going offworld, though. Gets boring just hanging around washing McKay's socks."
"Figure of speech," Rodney said hastily. "He's only done that once."
Outside the door of the meeting room, Sheppard rounded on him with the narrow-eyed look he usually reserved for Wraith ships. "Do not order me to tell the truth in front of Elizabeth and the science staff," he said. Rodney had seen people mistake that voice for a friendly drawl, but only people who didn't know Sheppard very well.
"What, you wanted to lie and you couldn't?"
"Have you ever been under physical compulsion to answer every question truthfully? She could have asked me anything. I'll rig up a pentathol drip for you and you can see what it's like," he said, and stalked off. I'm pretty sure I've read that fic, too. It may have had penguins in it. Oh, SGA penguin crack! Never forsake me.
He was still gone when Rodney went to bed, which meant either the compulsion was weakening or he was very seriously pissed off.
Rodney really needed to cut out the etel. It was beginning to interfere with his sleep.
----------
By the fourth day, it was obvious that Sheppard's antibodies weren't going to do the trick unassisted.
"So I think we need to send a team back to Suthong to get information and hopefully find a cure," Elizabeth said to the hastily assembled group in the lab. "Radek, would you be able to represent the science side?"
"Wait, wait, hold on," Rodney objected. He was pleased to see that Sheppard was shaking his head, too. "If you're sending a team back to Suthong, it needs to be the same team."
"But you and Major Sheppard have both told me that offworld missions aren't safe for him due to his condition."
"Yes, I remember, thank you, and I stand by that, but there are special circumstances here that -- Major, back me up on this. No, wait, don't. Say anything you want. Or, or nothing."
"McKay's right," Sheppard said. "If we sent a different team, they'd probably pull the same stunt on one of them. Oh, god. Can you imagine the geometric progression of chaos and disaster? But they know us, and they can see the mark, so they can't pretend to misunderstand."
"Right, exactly, plus who knows better than we do what to ask about? Of course, they won't let him speak, so he'll have to give one of us his input beforehand, but at least he'll be there and he can signal me, us, if something's not adding up."
"I want them to look me in the eye and tell me there's nothing they can do," Sheppard said in a dangerous voice, and Elizabeth said, "Well, all right, then."
----------
As it turned out, the Asuthong didn't look Sheppard in the eye and tell him, because they didn't look at him at all; once they'd spotted the mark on his face, they paid no more attention to him than they would have paid to a horse. In fact, Rodney had to prevent them from taking him away to be cleaned and fed.
The jerk with the floppy hair who'd ordered this done in the first place was "unavailable." The new jerk with floppy hair told them blandly that he couldn't understand why the effect wasn't wearing off. They had long-term marks, of course, for their own slaves, but they used the one-day mark for visitors. Charming. Like a day pass at the local amusement park. Not.
A dead-eyed middle-aged man with a red mark on his forehead was ordered over, and he stood, not moving or raising his eyes, while Carson drew blood and scraped skin. He didn't answer Carson's questions until ordered to do so, and then he used a voice that sounded like it hadn't been used for years. Ew, ick, yuck. Res reminds us of the reality lurking behind scenes.
Rodney looked at Sheppard, trying to imagine him shuffling around with his head chemically emptied of everything but the desire to obey. But Sheppard was looking satisfyingly tight-lipped and smoldery, even back in the jumper when he wordlessly went over to the med kit and handed Rodney a bandaid for his blister before taking the pilot's seat.
At least they got more khama nuts, so it wasn't an entirely wasted trip. So by this time, the nuts are just a wonderful running gag, so front and center that you forget that they might have anything to do with the mystery. I wish I had as deft a touch when embedding plot points.
----------
That night, Sheppard was so full of snappy comebacks, got in so many sly putdowns on Rodney, that Rodney was momentarily reassured. Until it occurred to him that Sheppard was giving him what he needed most, namely some reassurance that he was still himself and not really a slave at all. Evidently "your master needs you to pretend he isn't your master" wasn't the kind of paradox that hurt Sheppard's head. Who says Rodney can't be perceptive? He's actually pretty good at recognizing defense mechanisms.
Carson, when they could get him to look up from the apparently fascinating puzzle of the two pseudoviruses, confirmed that the chemistry of the permanent bond was totally different. All he could do was keep working on reducing the toxicity of the antidote. The whole "the good news? We have a cure. The bad news? It'll kill you," is simple and elegant.
----------
"You're tense," Sheppard said.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Thanks very much," he said. "That's like saying, 'You're breathing.' "
"You're making me tense. If you're wound this tight all the time, it really explains your personality."
"No, no, my personality would make perfect sense if you met my family," Rodney said, putting away a laptop because what he needed was on another laptop, and why the hell had he ever thought networking the personal machines was a secondary priority? "My tension, on the other hand, is a direct result of the utter, blinding incompetence of Samtow and Mitchell, which I suppose could be traced to their parents." Maybe it was on the first laptop after all. The intertwining of Rodney's internal and external thoughts is well done. Throw in running commentary on his physical health andyou have the John Sheppard personalized soundtrack.
Sheppard was wincing as though Rodney was making loud noises in his ear.
"If it's that bad for you, Major, you could make yourself useful. Either find the power consumption projections file or give me a backrub."
Sheppard handed him a folder. "Mitchell does projections on paper, remember? You had quite an extensive analysis of the problems that entailed at the last briefing, but she has some sort of mystical compulsion."
That left the backrub. Rodney looked at him hopefully.
"Sorry," Sheppard said. "Can't help you. Don't know how."
"You don't know how to give a backrub?"
"I don't know how to give a backrub that doesn't end up in bed." Who's surprised? It's not like giving a sensual backrub that practically turns your partner into a puddle of goo could possibly be a tactic to keep from having to talk about your own feel -- Oh, wait. John Sheppard: Smooth Operator.
"Figures." Rodney rolled his head forward. The muscles in his neck twanged like rubber bands. He was pretty sure he'd rather have a backrub than sex, which was kind of a sad commentary, actually. "I don't know," he said. "Try me."
Sheppard's palms spread out large and warm on his shoulders -- he hadn't had a backrub from a guy since the collapse of the web boom had killed off the phenomenon of the corporate masseur, beautiful bit of throwaway background but the bigger hands were definitely an advantage -- and Sheppard's thumbs went unerringly to the worst spots with just exactly the right pressure -- whoa, semi-telepathic contact was even more of an advantage.
Sheppard's hands pushed a glob of fiery pain up each side of Rodney's neck and out, leaving behind a streak of absence-of-pain that was better than pleasure.
Sheppard groaned when Rodney did. Me, too. I want this backrub so damn much.
"Is it that bad for you?" Rodney was full of backrub-generated affection, which was just as bad as the alcohol-generated kind. Cupboard love!
"Same as it is for you, except I keep trying to loosen up my back and fix my posture, and nothing helps because it's not my body." I can't imagine how frustrating that would be. No wonder the Asuthong slaves shut down. Sheppard did the same thing again starting from lower down on Rodney's shoulder blades, and Rodney sighed happily. "If you did some ab work, your spine would be better supported, and your neck wouldn't hurt all the time."
"Or, alternately, if a genie came and gave me a set of magic wings -- oh, yeah, yeah, right there," he added unnecessarily, because of course Sheppard knew it was a good spot, and he went to work on it. "God, yes."
"Raise your right arm," Sheppard said, and worked all along that shoulder. "Can't you do some of your touchpad work lefthanded?"
Rodney didn't even dignify that with an answer, just dropped his head forward, because it seemed likely that something nice would happen if he did.
Sheppard's hands stilled on his shoulders for a second, and Rodney could feel it all shifting gears, even before Sheppard ran his nails lightly up the back of Rodney's neck, making him hiss at the gooseflesh rising on his arms.
He couldn't even say it wasn't what he wanted, because it felt fantastic. He was just as hungry for this kind of touch as he had been for the backrub. Did I mention I also have a big "touch-starved" button? See also Touch by astolat. For just a second his whole imagination flamed up with the idea of what it would be like with someone who could sense his desires and had a compulsion to fulfill every one, and he closed his eyes. And then he reluctantly brought his sanity back online and opened them again. "Yeah, that's, I see what you mean about your backrubs," he said.
"Yeah," Sheppard said. It was probably going to hurt him just as much to walk away as it was going to hurt Rodney. Weird how it was so hard to give up when it wasn't really what either of them wanted in the first place.
Oh, boys. ::smishes together then clubs with clue bat:: I only do it because I care.
And the stupid slave thing was going to make Sheppard hurt because Rodney wouldn't let him give him what he needed. Rodney rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"All right," he said, turning in his chair. "All right, no, I think not, but, you know what? Why don't we go down to the weight room and you can show me how to do the ab machine?"
God, he had to be the biggest idiot in the world -- there was something badly wrong with his life when he was prepared to turn down one of those kinds of backrubs, and in favor of sit-ups, for crying out loud.
Greater love hath no slave owner….
Sheppard raised his head with a look of utter, adoring gratitude, as though he'd already thought Rodney was the greatest thing since crunchy peanut butter and Rodney had just proved he was grape jelly too.
It was just the virus, Rodney told himself, and grinned back at him. "OK, right, let's get the suffering over with."
----------
Rodney woke up next morning with a strange, not unpleasant tightness in his stomach muscles and a completely familiar tightness elsewhere. Thank heaven Sheppard had finally learned just to give him some space in the mornings without having to have a big conversation about what he needed privacy for. He can be taught!
If he'd let that backrub go where it wanted to go, it would have ended up -- well, here in his bed, actually.
He tried to put a more appealing partner into the picture as the person dedicated to fulfilling his every need. Lieutenant Johanssen with her hair out of that long braid, that Athosian woman with the freckles who sometimes came with Halling from the mainland, Shelly who'd cut his hair back home -- but it seemed weird and creepy to imagine getting this kind of service from women he hardly knew, even though both Johanssen and Maira were probably stronger than he was and Shelly was always armed with a pair of sharp scissors.
Maybe if she wasn't drugged, but was doing it out of gratitude? Because he'd saved her life, and her family, and her village? Because on her planet, average-looking but brilliant astrophysicists with poor social skills were the ultimate objects of desire? Because a broken gate had stranded them on another planet for a year, and she'd come to revere him? Jesus, what good was an imagination if it was going to insist on a higher level of plausibility than his real life did?
Oh, dear god, I'm Rodney McKay. I have to force myself to handwave this sort of thing. But most of the time I just get distracted and ramble down some stupid dead-end trying to make everything work. Dear Vyola's Brain, The whole point of a fantasy is that there doesn't need to be an elaborate, established background. No love, Me.
All right, fine, damn it. Suppose it was Sheppard himself? Who actually seemed to like him, who weirdly enough knew him better than anybody had since grade school, who could make bad jokes at his expense even under the influence of an alien slave virus, who made moany sex noises while giving him a backrub --
Oh, hell, it just figured that would work when nothing else did.
He let himself imagine it. Sheppard's nails running lightly up the back of his neck again, Sheppard's lips following them. Sheppard's arms wrapping around him and leaning him back against that warm body, Sheppard's mouth on his ear and his face and his mouth, because physical pleasure was nice, very nice, but if he was going to get his dearest wish, it would be for something that went deeper --
No. No. He was willing to be pathetic up to a point, but there had to be limits.
Sheppard's hands on his body, then, knowing what he needed before he knew it himself. Sheppard's mouth -- Sheppard's mouth --
Oh, god, it would be so good.
The really, really, really great thing about Res is that she's not a tease. If the story's imaginary sex is good, the story's real sex is even better.
I love her for her brain. Really.
----------
Sheppard gave Carson a blank look every time Carson suggested that he should be more worried than he was about having some unknown alien pseudovirus flowing in his bloodstream and forcing him to notice whether or not Rodney was getting enough sleep. Yes, pestering the slave about how you think he should feel is oh, so effective.
"It's fine," he said dismissively, as though Carson were pestering him about a hangnail.
Rodney, too, had gotten used to it pretty quickly. He could have done with less of the mother-hen act. On the other hand, having someone actually notice when he had a headache, and bring him a glass of water and one of his private stock of effective painkillers, and make him pinch the web between his thumb and forefinger to see if that would help with the pain -- well. To have somebody actually care -- it was, it was nice. ::sniff:: What? I got something in my eye.
Part 2
Author: resonant8
Fandom: SGA
Commentator: ladyvyola
"Advantage" is one of my go-to fics, and not just because it plays with one of my favorite kinks, the "serve-or-die" scenario. It’s wonderfully written and explores, through Rodney "Hey, I can be sensitive!" McKay, just what it means to be responsible for the welfare of another human being when it would be all too easy to abuse them.
It’s also very funny and hot as hell.
When they climbed out of the jumper, Elizabeth looked at the mark between Sheppard's eyebrows, and then she exchanged a glance with Carson, and then she shot an expectant look at Rodney.
Terrific. Why not Ford and Teyla? Why did he have to be the object of that please-explain-now look? Yay! Rodney’s POV. This should be very fun.
"Listen, before you say anything, it wasn't my idea and it wasn't my fault," he said. I admit it. I adore petulant, defensive Rodney . And see? Rodney’s already living down up to my expectations.
"Exactly what --" Elizabeth began.
"I mean, I know it might appear on the surface as though this works to my advantage, but I am just as unhappy about it as Major Sheppard is, believe me."
"Tell me what --"
"And whatever the Athusong city guards may claim, I was not treating Major Sheppard like a servant. I was treating Major Sheppard exactly the way I always treat him --" Exactly!
"Which you have to admit is a lit--" Sheppard began.
"Let me finish," Rodney said, raising a hand.
Sheppard broke off in mid-word. That was novel enough that it took Rodney a couple of seconds to get back on track.
Here’s just a little taste of how off-balance this is going to make Rodney. That’s my favorite theme in this story - everybody else is concentrating on Sheppard (including Rodney) and no one is thinking about the deeper implications for Rodney.
"Uh, right. So the city guards are going to claim that they observed our behavior, decided Major Sheppard was my personal servant or my bodyguard or whatever, and then treated him according to the traditional dictates of the Athusong --"
"Asuthong," Teyla corrected him.
"Let's not get hung up on details here," Rodney said, because how many interruptions could one conversation sustain? "The point is, the guards looked the four of us over and decided which one it would be to their advantage to, to remove from the negotiation, and they picked the major and slapped that slave-marking device on his forehead without asking anyone, and after that no one would listen to him. And they know something about Wraith strategy and tactics, but the other three of us don't have Major Sheppard's odd little knack for negotiation by randomness --" Mmmmmm. Social scientist!Rodney.
"Hey," Sheppard protested.
"And so we got nowhere, revealed our presence, and showed them the gate and the jumper for nothing, and now Major Sheppard thinks he's my slave, and just please, please tell me you can undo this, Carson, because I can't have him tagging after me like an oversized kid brother --"
"Hey," Sheppard said irritably.
"He seems all right," Elizabeth said.
"Major?" Rodney tossed him three of the very delicious khama nuts that were the one and only good thing to come of this trip. "Here. Juggle."
You have read this story before, right? ‘Cause I’m gonna spoil you right now. It’s the nuts. And see how smoothly Resonant’s slipped them into the story?
"I can't juggle," Sheppard said, sending two of them flying at once. "Never had the knack," he went on as the third one joined them, three perfect parabolas, over and over.
Elizabeth glanced at Rodney and back at Sheppard. "Looks like you can," she said.
"No, no, I've tried," Sheppard said, still tossing nuts. "I always drop them." Still. Tossing. Nuts. Oh, Res. That’s sheer poetry. Or something. :)
For a long moment they all watched Sheppard juggle, and then Rodney said, "You can quit any time you want."
I always want to jump up and down and point out Res’s delicate touch here. From the start, Rodney couches his orders in the mildest form. He does that automatically because he's Rodney and quite frankly, he doesn't much care what you do as long as you don't inconvenience him. But eventually he's going to have to start thinking about the implications of every word that comes out of his mouth and how they affect someone else's mental and physical well-being. Oh, Rodney!
"OK," Sheppard said. "Hey, cool, watch this," and he switched to a circle pattern. "Toss me another one." He caught it in midair and sent it flying with the rest.
"So, hey," Rodney said, "you can do impossible things if I tell you to? Go walk on the ceiling."
Sheppard gave him a look of withering scorn. "Right."
"At least it doesn't seem to have affected his personality," Elizabeth said.
That’s what you think, Liz. Another fascinating aspect of this story is how subtly John is affected. It’s only Rodney that seems to have any idea of what’s going on. It’s not until John’s true free agency is restored that we can see how (involuntarily) restrained he has been.
----------
The mark on Sheppard's forehead was dark blue and roughly circular. Teyla said it might be a letter from the Asuthong alphabet, but it was too smudged to be sure.
Carson scraped a bit of it off (a process which took some skin cells, too, and allowed Sheppard to strike a number of stoic poses) and discovered it was nothing but an unusually persistent sort of vegetable dye.
Stoic!Sheppard. Rodney is pretty sure that stoicism is a complete waste of time - if you don’t complain, how will they know you’re in pain? - but he probably appreciates the aesthetic aspects.
"That's good. That's good," he said. "I imagine what we'll find in his bloodstream will be an agent that increases suggestibility, perhaps combined with a mild depressant. They come up unexpectedly and poke his forehead with something sharp, you see, they tell him he's a slave, everyone treats him like a slave, he comes to believe he's a slave."
What he actually found in Sheppard's bloodstream, after an hour's worth of testing, wiped the smile off his face.
"I've never seen the like," he said in a hushed voice, eyes never leaving the display where a molecule went on rotating. "It's not unlike a virus, and you can see the lipid envelope -- very fascinating, really. Already Major Sheppard's body is beginning to produce something analogous to antibodies." He pulled up another display. It looked like some sort of dog toy. "Based on the behaviors of these bodies in laboratory conditions, I'm guessing the majority of the infection should be overcome in twenty-four hours."
"So, what, we wait?"
"Aye, we wait. And you don't tell him to do anything that's hazardous to his health."
You can tell these people have never read slavefic. Health hazards should be the least of their worries.
"I'm not going to tell him to do anything at all," Rodney said, "because I'm going to be very busy pulling the science team's collective head out of its collective ass for the rest of the day."
But that was where the next complication came up, because Sheppard, who had left for his own errands, came drifting back almost immediately, and lurked around at the edge of Rodney's peripheral vision until Rodney broke off brainstorming with Zelenka to say irritably, "What?"
"What? Nothing."
"Why are you here?"
Sheppard shrugged. "Nowhere else to be."
"So you thought you'd come and pester -- wait. Are you feeling some sort of compulsion to stay close to me?"
Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Yes, me and the birds and the stars and --"
No regulator on his mouth, I see.
"Major Sheppard. Tell me. Is the stupid alien slave virus making you stay close to me?"
"Yes," Sheppard said, glaring at him.
Pow! And Rodney goes right to the heart of the problem.
"They made him your slave? Pity it wasn't someone prettier," Zelenka said. Aw, Zelanka, why you gotta be hatin' on the Major? His prettiness is legendary in the Pegasus Galaxy! "Tell me about it," Rodney said. "Well," he went on to Sheppard, "how do you feel about making yourself useful and bringing up something to eat?"
Sheppard didn't trot off like a good slave, and he didn't roll his eyes like normal Sheppard. He shifted from foot to foot and then said, in a choked tone that suggested he was speaking under protest, "I feel conflicted."
"Oh, my god, I've made you talk about your feelings. That stuff is strong," I’ll be over here, trying to stifle my giggles. Rodney said. "All right. Let me rephrase that. Describe the slave thing's Rodney’s a bit in denial here, still thinking of this as an external problem. conflicting impulses."
Sheppard's shoulders came down a couple of inches. "It wants me to do what you want, but it also wants me to stay in earshot. Maybe it's because you didn't give a direct order."
"Well, that's easy. Go down to the mess and get lunch for all three of us."
"I'll expect a good tip," Sheppard said, and left.
Zelenka was giving him an I can't believe you just did that look, not that that was unusual.
"He'll feel better if he keeps busy," Rodney said. Rodney the concrete thinker. Clear, precise, impersonal orders. He really doesn’t have any idea what’s going to happen.
----------
"Hey," Sheppard said as Rodney arrived in the gateroom. "Just who I wanted to see. Tell me to hang from the top railing."
Rodney looked up at the second-floor railing. "What, you're a chimpanzee now?"
"C'mon," Sheppard wheedled. "I can almost do it by myself, see?" and he took an enormous upward leap, a hang-from-the-backboard sort of leap. His hands didn't come anywhere near the railing, though they did go well above the level of the upper floor.
"So you're thinking an order from me is going to add half a meter to your vertical jump? This is the sort of thing that gets people thrown out of the Olympics in disgrace."
Under Pegasus Galaxy Olympic regulations, Michael Phelps is required to compete nude. I am so there.
Sheppard just went on looking at him expectantly, and Ford and Elizabeth and Bates turned their expectant looks from him to Rodney and back again. "Fine, Major. Jump up and hang from the railing, if it makes you happy."
Before he'd even finished the sentence, he was looking at Sheppard's boots. They dangled at face level for a few moments, and then Sheppard crashed heavily to the floor, laughing. "Did you see that? That was so cool. Watch!" And he did it again.
"Maybe 'If it makes you happy' is a functional part of the order," Elizabeth mused, "and his mind interprets that to mean 'any time you want to.' "
"Or," Ford panted from midair, "he could do it -- all along -- and the order just -- unlocked his potential." His unassisted high jump was a bit higher than Sheppard's had been, but not high enough to allow him to touch the rail. "Wish you could -- do that for me."
"Any time you need someone to order you to do something useful," Rodney began, and was interrupted by the thud of Sheppard coming down again. There, in a nutshell (c wat I did thar!), is Rodney.
"C'mon," he was saying, beaming. "Let's go get a jumper and find out what's a mechanical limit and what's a human one."
The contrast between John's "public" slave behavior and his private is striking. It's not that he and Rodney are actively hiding anything, but it just shakes out that the rest of Atlantis sees only the tip of the iceberg. He's active and demanding and self-directed. Nobody seems to realize that that is only because Rodney hasn't prevented such behavior.
----------
"Suppose I ordered you to go away," Rodney said four hours later, when Sheppard had taken the dirty dishes back to the mess and fetched a dropped whiteboard marker and eaten way more than his share of khama nuts Okay, see how easy she makes dropping clues look? and made Rodney look really bad in front of Zelenka by pointing out that he'd factored in water pressure on the subaqueous shields twice in different places.
"I'd do it, but I wouldn't be able to relax until I could hear you." They'd arrived at Rodney's room, which was definitely out of earshot of Sheppard's. Sheppard was yawning.
"OK, fine, go get a mattress or a cot or something and you can sleep on the floor. But just this once," Rodney said. "Oh, and hey, see if you can find me a blanket made out of something found in nature. I think this one is spun out of milk bottles."
I like how Rodney is adaptable yet oblivious here. He solves the immediate problem but then tacks on an order without thinking. But it's not a "me master, you slave" order. It's a "me Rodney, you scrounger of bedding so since you're going that way…" order. That's the kind of slave owner Rodney is by nature. It's only as the plot thickens that he's going to have to really think about what he's doing.
----------
When Rodney woke up the next morning, Sheppard was sitting up, watching him. His eyebrows were pulled together.
"Is it worn off? Snap your fingers."
Sheppard snapped his fingers glumly. "That's not all."
"What, is there something new?"
"You're hungry. You have a slight caffeine-withdrawal headache. Your elbows are dried up because the sheets are rougher than you're used to -- who knew you were such a princess, McKay? Your right shoulder and the back of your neck are stiff. And, uh, your bladder is full."
And we have plot thickening! I repeat: we have plot thickening! It's hysterically funny that Rodney, the man who will actually tell you all these things about himself (an inverted form of control) is now involuntarily broadcasting such information whether he wants to or not (total lack of control).
Rodney felt himself flushing, because that last one was clearly a euphemism that meant Sheppard had noticed that parts of Rodney greeted the new day with more enthusiasm than the rest of him, which he couldn't take care of in his usual morning way because Sheppard was in his room. "Why, thank you, Doctor Sheppard," he snapped. "And how's my cardiovascular health today?"
"Pretty poor," Sheppard said. "Don't you get it? This thing is telling me everything you need and pushing me to do something about it."
"Jeez. These people can do that?"
"McKay, I have an almost irresistible desire to come put lotion on your elbows. Hee!Please give me something to do."
"Get me some of those khama nuts out of the desk drawer," Rodney said hastily, "and then you can have the shower first."
Rodney looked glumly at the closed shower door. Wondering whether it was worse to have Sheppard know he was hard, or to have Sheppard know why he wasn't any more, pretty much took care of that problem. Poor princess!
When Sheppard came out of the bathroom, he brought a glass of water and stood over Rodney, glowering damply, until Rodney drank it all, and then he said, "That's better," and sat down on Rodney's bed and started cutting his toenails with Rodney's clippers.
"Ew," Rodney said, "cut that out." Sheppard stopped immediately. His face was freshly scrubbed and shaved, and he looked ridiculously wholesome except for the murderous glare. "What?" Rodney said. "I don't care if you're in chemical bondage. I don't want your toenail clippings on my bed. Go do that someplace else."
Why do I find the phrase "I don't care if you're in chemical bondage" so funny?
Still glaring, Sheppard went and sat in Rodney's desk chair. Rodney gave up and went to take a shower.
There was nothing unusual about having Sheppard eating breakfast with him, and nothing really unusual about his behavior there, at least after Rodney told him, "I want you to do whatever you want to do -- as long as it doesn't involve telling me what to eat and what not to eat."
It was unusual to have Sheppard lingering around the lab instead of getting on with his own life. "Don't you have work you need to be doing?" Rodney said after Sheppard had brought him another glass of water, located his laser pointer under two weeks' worth of power grid printouts, and turned off a lamp that Rodney hadn't even noticed was bothering his eyes. "I mean, I would imagine that there are things to glare at, things to shoot, things to fly really fast --"
The subtlety of the things John notices really gets me here.
So Sheppard left, but after half an hour he drifted back in to hand Rodney an antacid tablet. Rodney sighed. "Look. Tell me what you need to be doing and I'll order you to do it."
Rodney McKay: not one of nature's slave owners.
"Normally I'd be getting ready to hear everyone's weekly reports."
"All right, fine, I order you to go get ready for your reports." It was actually kind of fun to say 'I order you' to someone who took it seriously, and he got into the role a bit, giving a regal wave of his hand. Zelenka snorted behind him. Sheppard rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, sir," with amazing insincerity, and left.
On the other hand, Rodney McKay: one of nature's benevolent monarchs.
And half an hour later he was back again with a painkiller and yet another glass of water, saying, "Jesus, Rodney, lay off whatever you're drinking before you give yourself a coronary."
Rodney, who had been drinking something that the Erdeven considered a path to achieving godhead -- and they were only exaggerating a little -- said, "Shut up." For once Sheppard actually did, but then he paced and twitched until Rodney said, "Fine, say what you've got to say."
"I need to hear briefings, and I can't because you won't take care of your immediate physical needs."
"Unless you gave birth to me and I've forgotten, my immediate physical needs are none of your business," Rodney said, "and I wish you'd leave me alone."
"I wish I could, believe me," Sheppard said, rubbing his temples. Rodney hated to be charmed by what everyone else was charmed by, but Sheppard looked so ruffled that his resolve took a serious hit.
"Perhaps if you ordered him not to pay attention to you," Zelenka said.
"Sure, why not. Don't pay attention to me, Major."
Sheppard's eyes squeezed shut. "Ow, ow, paradox," he said, grimacing. "Christ, that's even worse. Brain's like a hamster on a wheel."
"OK, never mind," Rodney said.
Sheppard relaxed all at once. "Thanks."
The whole thing is so damn insidious. I think that's why this story pushes my buttons so hard. It just keeps building and building as it creeps up behind you….
In the end, Rodney had to actually go with him to the briefings, which were unimaginably tedious. Worse yet, he had to roll his head around to loosen up his neck muscles, and prevent himself from feeling tense and restless, because as soon as he did, Sheppard felt compelled to help, and nothing brought a military briefing to a halt faster than the commanding officer stopping to say, "Deep breaths, McKay."
When the last of the military people had filed out, Rodney and Sheppard looked at each other.
"So obviously missions are out until this thing wears off," Rodney said.
So few words yet Res paints a full (and funny) picture. Show, not tell, like an Atlantean koan. :)
"I'll tell Elizabeth. You go get lunch."
"I thought I was the one giving orders," Rodney said.
"And eat something with fiber in it, jeez." Yeah. I got nothin'.
----------
"Carson, it's getting worse," he said. "He can read my mind now, and he won't leave me alone."
"You can read his mind?"
"Not exactly," Sheppard said, and stopped, and opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Oh, go ahead and tell him. My personal boundaries are gone already," Rodney said.
Sheppard shot him one of those you-asked-for-it looks. "He has a tension headache around his eyes," he said to Carson. "His right arm and shoulder and the back of his neck are stiff. Sometimes he gets shooting pains in his upper trapezius. That Erdeven stuff he drinks makes his heart pound and his hands shake. He forgets to eat, and then he remembers and stuffs some random thing down in four bites and gets a stomachache. I'm not going to get into the state of his digestion. I don't know how long it's been since he got laid, but it's clearly far too --"
"Hey, hey, stop," Rodney said. Aw, Rodney, it's not like you have any dignity left, either.
Sheppard gave him a reproachful look. "Don't you know better than to issue a command without parameters?"
"You're not a computer," Rodney said, "and I know this because computers don't whine. It's one of the things I like about them." Computer!John. I'd hit that and so would Rodney,
"You know, Rodney," Carson said, "the etel wasn't meant to be consumed like coffee. The Erdeven drink it in wee cups the size of eggshells, in a controlled environment, with foods that may neutralize some of the effects --"
"Were we here to talk about my habits? Because maybe I'm insane, but I could have sworn we were here because Major Sheppard still has an alien drug in his system that makes him think he's my personal body servant."
Have you been reading darkrosetiger's A Question of Compromise WIP, where Joe actually is the personal body servant of David and Jason? If this is the first time you've heard of it, how much do you love me right now?
Carson turned to Sheppard, and opened his mouth to ask a question, and they both glanced at Rodney. "I'll leave," Rodney said.
"No," Sheppard said anxiously, and Carson looked from one to the other.
"That's another thing," Rodney said. "It makes him nervous if he's out of earshot of me, unless I've sent him on an errand. Major, I'm going to step outside, because I want you to be able to speak freely to your doctor.about what your options are, and while you've never shown any particular compunction about hurting my delicate feelings, I don't trust this thing to let you think straight unless I tell you that's what I want."
I fall in love with Rodney whenever I read this bit.
"Rodney," Sheppard said. "Stay," and he wasn't pleading or anything -- his voice had no expression at all -- but Rodney stayed.
Carson couldn't do anything about the problem. The virus was still detectable in Sheppard's bloodstream, and he had no idea why the antibodies weren't working.
He'd located a chemical that neutralized the virus in a test tube. The drawback was that it was very, very poisonous.
"I do still think your body ought to be able to take care of this on its own," Carson said, "though I admit I thought it would have done already. If you don't mind my saying so, you've never been one to relish doing what you're told," he went on, which was like saying up was up. "I'm surprised you're taking this so well."
And once again, everybody ignores the obvious. If Sheppard is taking his slavery well, it's not because he's an emotionally well-adjusted human being enduring a temporary inconvenience. It's because he's in chemical bondage, people! He has to take it well. Where the hell is Heightmeyer anyway?
"He isn't telling me what to do," Sheppard said. "Much. Ow." Carson pressed Sheppard's fingers over the spot where he'd withdrawn the needle. "Anyhow, he could use some looking after. You wouldn't believe the things he --"
"Yes, thank you, that will be enough on that subject," Rodney said. "Hey, Major, if you're done getting drained of blood, go get that other laptop, will you? It's on the table next to my bed."
"You're very comfortable ordering him around," Carson said. What? Like Rodney is acting any differently than usual?
"I've always thought that a truly civilized society would find a way to liberate superior minds from tedious busywork," Rodney said. It's a motto to live by. "Besides, he's military. It makes him happy to have orders to follow."
"Oh, certainly," Carson said. This is why it's better when Carson sticks to mice.
But it did make Sheppard happy. When he brought back the laptop, he looked more relaxed than he had since they came back from Suthong. "Is it possible that the mark rewards him for obedience?" Rodney asked.
"Aye, it's possible," Carson admitted. "Or it may keep up a lowgrade pain or discomfort stimulus which fades only when he has an order to follow."
"See?" Rodney said. "It's for his own good." Benevolent. Monarch.
----------
After a blissfully Sheppard-free afternoon (during which he had eaten two things that were very much like apples, not that he planned to admit that to Sheppard), Somebody in this relationship seems able to take orders. I'm just sayin'. Rodney returned to his room and found that a cot had been moved in and set against the wall at right angles to his bed. He stopped short at the invasion of his personal space, and while he was still staring, Sheppard skidded around the corner. "Oh," he said when he saw what Rodney was looking at.
"Yeah," Rodney said. "I suppose protest would be futile?" Sheppard gave him a pleading look, and Rodney sighed. "All right, never mind, you can be my roommate if that's what you need. Just please don't give me tips on regulating my digestion in front of Lieutenant Johanssen any more. She's a beautiful woman and I'd like to retain some shred of personal dignity." Yeah, good luck with that.
"Well," Sheppard said after a minute, "I was in the middle of a jog."
"I'd never have guessed," Rodney said, looking at the ring of sweat that darkened the collar of his T-shirt.
"Go get changed and you can come with me."
"I don't jog," Rodney said. "I don't run for recreation. I run when someone's after me with a weapon."
"That can be arranged," Sheppard muttered, and then he lurked around Rodney's door for so long that Rodney gave in and went jogging with him just to get rid of him. Again with the following orders. Res, you are one sneaky writer.
It actually wasn't so bad. He never had to humiliate himself by saying, "Slow down," because Sheppard could sense when he was out of breath without being told, so it was pretty easy to settle into a reasonable pace.
Sheppard led him past the water-treatment area and out a door he'd seen a million times, and suddenly they were actually outside. They jogged around a wide curve with the city on one side and the apparently endless sea on the other, and then out a long pier with the sea on both sides, and then up a short flight of stairs to a circular platform where they could see forever in every direction.
The city looked tiny and misty behind them, and Rodney suddenly realized two things: that he never went outside except on missions, when mortal danger tended to mute his appreciation of the fresh air, and that this was closer to genuine solitude than he'd had since he came to Atlantis.
"Hey," he said to Sheppard. "This is great."
"Thought you'd like it," Sheppard said.
Pretty, pretty Atlantis. I like the scope this scene gives the story. Not that I have any objections to spending a lot of time in Rodney's quarters. But it's good to step back and see the rest of the picture sometimes.
----------
There was something very much like real bacon in the mess the next day, which Rodney, not being an early riser at the best of times, would have missed if Sheppard hadn't grabbed him a plateful and left it on the desk beside his bed. He'd left a big glass of water there, too, with some ice still in it, and he'd moved the laptop over to the other desk so he wouldn't have to worry about spills.
Of course it would have been nicer to have someone fussing over him because he liked him, rather than because he was under chemical compulsion to take care of all his bodily needs, Rodney thought with his mouth full of bacon. But this wasn't bad.
Sheppard returned as Rodney was eating the last of the bacon. He glared at Rodney. "You didn't -- never mind."
"Spit it out, Major."
"You didn't jerk off." See what happens when you encourage him, Rodney?
"Jesus." Rodney covered his eyes with his hand. "Next time I tell you to say what's on your mind, remind me that I don't really want to know."
"But it was the whole reason I left."
"Oh, you gave me fifteen minutes. How generous of you."
"You need longer than fifteen minutes? What do you do, interpretive dance?" We should thank our lucky stars that we don't get Rodney holding forth on the virtues (or, more likely, lack thereof) of interpretive dance.
"What I need is real privacy, which apparently I'm not ever going to have again. I mean, put yourself in my shoes. If I were lurking outside your door, knowing--" I'm pretty sure I've read that fic. In several fandoms. I may have also written it. Oh, don't try to play innocent - you have, too.
"I don't lurk. And I can't not know. And if you don't do something about it, it's going to start taking care of itself in your sleep, and I'll be forced to know about that, too, so think about it. So I'm going to go out again -- is half an hour long enough, or do you need me to wait until lunchtime?"
"This is not going to happen, and the more you talk to me about it, the more you make sure it's not going to happen." If anyone starts to call it "Rodney's happy time" (tm Transformers the movie), I'm packing up and moving out.
Sheppard gave him a smirk that told Rodney he'd noticed that Rodney was lying. But, hell, this kind of conversation would be a turn-on for a lot of people. He wouldn't be surprised if Sheppard himself -- well, he was certainly not going to look. This, and the whole rest of the scene, with Rodney owning the situation and his reactions and being mature, is something I appreciate. I want to read grown-ups acting and reacting like grown-ups, not barely coherent adolescents, you know?
"Fine," he snapped. "Go take a nice long jog, and then go take a nice long shower in your own room, and keep your telepathy turned off, please."
"I don't have telepathy. I just know when you need something. And if I could turn it off, I would, believe me, because sometimes what you need is a swift kick." He left with the attitude of someone who was pissed that the door wouldn't slam. Worst. Slave. Ever. At least in the Verbal. Later, he's gonna ace the Practical.
"Way to inspire my libido, there," Rodney said into the quiet, well-mannered hiss of the door.
He'd never had to jerk off on demand, and as he assembled his lube and his washcloth, it seemed like the most joyless thing he could imagine, and he wanted not to, except that Sheppard was out there, and he knew what Rodney needed --
His cock stirred in his loose hold.
What the hell was that? He glared down at it, as though it could explain itself. He was getting off on knowing that Sheppard was out there somewhere killing time, waiting for him to jerk off? He wondered if Sheppard could tell that he'd gotten started, if he'd be following along --
God, yes. This was doing something for him, for real. He pressed two fingers into the base of his cock -- not that he needed anything to make him any harder; he was doing just fine in that respect -- and made a ring of his other thumb and forefinger, twisting just below the head, making it last. Sheppard apparently thought he'd do it fast; maybe that was the way he liked it himself, oh, god, if he could tell what Rodney was doing maybe he'd learn something, that sweet sensation of going right up to the edge and staying there, until your breath came hard and you could feel your heart racing, until your hands shook and your eyes squeezed shut and your lips pulled back, just like that, maybe he'd never tried it, maybe he was heading back to his quarters now, cock heavy in his running shorts, maybe he was going to try it right now --
Coming was like a fist clenching, over and over, and he hung on through it, gentling his hand and holding on -- gentle enough and slick enough and you could keep it going, no spasms but shivery pleasure right on the edge of pain for a few minutes, until either you got hard again or your body finally said Enough. He wondered if Sheppard knew about that, if he ever -- the picture pushed another quick squeeze out of him --
OK, fine, fine, a little belated self-awareness, that was fine, he got it already. Either he had a thing for guys or he had a thing for an audience that was so strong that the identity of the audience didn't matter much. Fine.
There was something to be said, actually, for learning this stuff about yourself when you were past that who-am-I anxiety, he thought as he wiped off and headed for the shower. It would have freaked him right out at sixteen, but here he was, full of endorphins and well-being, and apparently either bisexual or an exhibitionist or possibly both. And he felt fine.
Fine. Remember that word. Rodney's going to be abusing it like poetry pretty soon.
When he came out in his shorts and T-shirt, Sheppard was lying on the cot, also freshly showered, smirking at him. "Feel better?"
"Do you?" Rodney asked him, because there was no way Sheppard hadn't just been up to the same thing.
He hadn't remembered to put the lube away -- it was still out there on the desk -- but he couldn't bring himself to care.
----------
"We have to do something about this," Elizabeth said when Sheppard followed Rodney into a science team briefing.
Rodney looked at him -- having Sheppard following him everywhere had stopped seeming strange to him, and anyway, one of the agenda items was finding some way to make the jumpers more power-efficient, which was something Sheppard actually knew something useful about.
But if it was a problem for Elizabeth, he'd fix it. "He can leave if I send him on an errand. Want him to bring up some of the khama nuts?"
Elizabeth shook her head like he was some kind of selfish jerk, which was totally unfair -- she was the one who wanted Sheppard gone. "I meant something about the continued effects on Major Sheppard's free will, though I know you don't want to sacrifice your personal fiefdom."
"Hey," Rodney said, waving his hand at the scientists around the table. "These are my personal fiefdom, thank you very much. ::sing-song:: Mon-arch! Major Sheppard is a colleague suffering from an alien attack, which, I remind you, is not my fault," but of course it never did any good to talk to these people. "Anyhow, Carson's only managed to upgrade the antidote from 'fatal' to 'almost fatal.' "
"How bad is it?" Elizabeth asked Sheppard.
Sheppard's eyes cut sideways to Rodney. "Go ahead," Rodney said, "tell her the truth."
Something happened to Sheppard's face, but he said to Elizabeth, "It's not too bad. The virus makes it all feel normal. These people wouldn't recognize the truth if Rodney stood up and said, "Now Major Sheppard is going to tell you the truth." Um…. I miss going offworld, though. Gets boring just hanging around washing McKay's socks."
"Figure of speech," Rodney said hastily. "He's only done that once."
Outside the door of the meeting room, Sheppard rounded on him with the narrow-eyed look he usually reserved for Wraith ships. "Do not order me to tell the truth in front of Elizabeth and the science staff," he said. Rodney had seen people mistake that voice for a friendly drawl, but only people who didn't know Sheppard very well.
"What, you wanted to lie and you couldn't?"
"Have you ever been under physical compulsion to answer every question truthfully? She could have asked me anything. I'll rig up a pentathol drip for you and you can see what it's like," he said, and stalked off. I'm pretty sure I've read that fic, too. It may have had penguins in it. Oh, SGA penguin crack! Never forsake me.
He was still gone when Rodney went to bed, which meant either the compulsion was weakening or he was very seriously pissed off.
Rodney really needed to cut out the etel. It was beginning to interfere with his sleep.
----------
By the fourth day, it was obvious that Sheppard's antibodies weren't going to do the trick unassisted.
"So I think we need to send a team back to Suthong to get information and hopefully find a cure," Elizabeth said to the hastily assembled group in the lab. "Radek, would you be able to represent the science side?"
"Wait, wait, hold on," Rodney objected. He was pleased to see that Sheppard was shaking his head, too. "If you're sending a team back to Suthong, it needs to be the same team."
"But you and Major Sheppard have both told me that offworld missions aren't safe for him due to his condition."
"Yes, I remember, thank you, and I stand by that, but there are special circumstances here that -- Major, back me up on this. No, wait, don't. Say anything you want. Or, or nothing."
"McKay's right," Sheppard said. "If we sent a different team, they'd probably pull the same stunt on one of them. Oh, god. Can you imagine the geometric progression of chaos and disaster? But they know us, and they can see the mark, so they can't pretend to misunderstand."
"Right, exactly, plus who knows better than we do what to ask about? Of course, they won't let him speak, so he'll have to give one of us his input beforehand, but at least he'll be there and he can signal me, us, if something's not adding up."
"I want them to look me in the eye and tell me there's nothing they can do," Sheppard said in a dangerous voice, and Elizabeth said, "Well, all right, then."
----------
As it turned out, the Asuthong didn't look Sheppard in the eye and tell him, because they didn't look at him at all; once they'd spotted the mark on his face, they paid no more attention to him than they would have paid to a horse. In fact, Rodney had to prevent them from taking him away to be cleaned and fed.
The jerk with the floppy hair who'd ordered this done in the first place was "unavailable." The new jerk with floppy hair told them blandly that he couldn't understand why the effect wasn't wearing off. They had long-term marks, of course, for their own slaves, but they used the one-day mark for visitors. Charming. Like a day pass at the local amusement park. Not.
A dead-eyed middle-aged man with a red mark on his forehead was ordered over, and he stood, not moving or raising his eyes, while Carson drew blood and scraped skin. He didn't answer Carson's questions until ordered to do so, and then he used a voice that sounded like it hadn't been used for years. Ew, ick, yuck. Res reminds us of the reality lurking behind scenes.
Rodney looked at Sheppard, trying to imagine him shuffling around with his head chemically emptied of everything but the desire to obey. But Sheppard was looking satisfyingly tight-lipped and smoldery, even back in the jumper when he wordlessly went over to the med kit and handed Rodney a bandaid for his blister before taking the pilot's seat.
At least they got more khama nuts, so it wasn't an entirely wasted trip. So by this time, the nuts are just a wonderful running gag, so front and center that you forget that they might have anything to do with the mystery. I wish I had as deft a touch when embedding plot points.
----------
That night, Sheppard was so full of snappy comebacks, got in so many sly putdowns on Rodney, that Rodney was momentarily reassured. Until it occurred to him that Sheppard was giving him what he needed most, namely some reassurance that he was still himself and not really a slave at all. Evidently "your master needs you to pretend he isn't your master" wasn't the kind of paradox that hurt Sheppard's head. Who says Rodney can't be perceptive? He's actually pretty good at recognizing defense mechanisms.
Carson, when they could get him to look up from the apparently fascinating puzzle of the two pseudoviruses, confirmed that the chemistry of the permanent bond was totally different. All he could do was keep working on reducing the toxicity of the antidote. The whole "the good news? We have a cure. The bad news? It'll kill you," is simple and elegant.
----------
"You're tense," Sheppard said.
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Thanks very much," he said. "That's like saying, 'You're breathing.' "
"You're making me tense. If you're wound this tight all the time, it really explains your personality."
"No, no, my personality would make perfect sense if you met my family," Rodney said, putting away a laptop because what he needed was on another laptop, and why the hell had he ever thought networking the personal machines was a secondary priority? "My tension, on the other hand, is a direct result of the utter, blinding incompetence of Samtow and Mitchell, which I suppose could be traced to their parents." Maybe it was on the first laptop after all. The intertwining of Rodney's internal and external thoughts is well done. Throw in running commentary on his physical health andyou have the John Sheppard personalized soundtrack.
Sheppard was wincing as though Rodney was making loud noises in his ear.
"If it's that bad for you, Major, you could make yourself useful. Either find the power consumption projections file or give me a backrub."
Sheppard handed him a folder. "Mitchell does projections on paper, remember? You had quite an extensive analysis of the problems that entailed at the last briefing, but she has some sort of mystical compulsion."
That left the backrub. Rodney looked at him hopefully.
"Sorry," Sheppard said. "Can't help you. Don't know how."
"You don't know how to give a backrub?"
"I don't know how to give a backrub that doesn't end up in bed." Who's surprised? It's not like giving a sensual backrub that practically turns your partner into a puddle of goo could possibly be a tactic to keep from having to talk about your own feel -- Oh, wait. John Sheppard: Smooth Operator.
"Figures." Rodney rolled his head forward. The muscles in his neck twanged like rubber bands. He was pretty sure he'd rather have a backrub than sex, which was kind of a sad commentary, actually. "I don't know," he said. "Try me."
Sheppard's palms spread out large and warm on his shoulders -- he hadn't had a backrub from a guy since the collapse of the web boom had killed off the phenomenon of the corporate masseur, beautiful bit of throwaway background but the bigger hands were definitely an advantage -- and Sheppard's thumbs went unerringly to the worst spots with just exactly the right pressure -- whoa, semi-telepathic contact was even more of an advantage.
Sheppard's hands pushed a glob of fiery pain up each side of Rodney's neck and out, leaving behind a streak of absence-of-pain that was better than pleasure.
Sheppard groaned when Rodney did. Me, too. I want this backrub so damn much.
"Is it that bad for you?" Rodney was full of backrub-generated affection, which was just as bad as the alcohol-generated kind. Cupboard love!
"Same as it is for you, except I keep trying to loosen up my back and fix my posture, and nothing helps because it's not my body." I can't imagine how frustrating that would be. No wonder the Asuthong slaves shut down. Sheppard did the same thing again starting from lower down on Rodney's shoulder blades, and Rodney sighed happily. "If you did some ab work, your spine would be better supported, and your neck wouldn't hurt all the time."
"Or, alternately, if a genie came and gave me a set of magic wings -- oh, yeah, yeah, right there," he added unnecessarily, because of course Sheppard knew it was a good spot, and he went to work on it. "God, yes."
"Raise your right arm," Sheppard said, and worked all along that shoulder. "Can't you do some of your touchpad work lefthanded?"
Rodney didn't even dignify that with an answer, just dropped his head forward, because it seemed likely that something nice would happen if he did.
Sheppard's hands stilled on his shoulders for a second, and Rodney could feel it all shifting gears, even before Sheppard ran his nails lightly up the back of Rodney's neck, making him hiss at the gooseflesh rising on his arms.
He couldn't even say it wasn't what he wanted, because it felt fantastic. He was just as hungry for this kind of touch as he had been for the backrub. Did I mention I also have a big "touch-starved" button? See also Touch by astolat. For just a second his whole imagination flamed up with the idea of what it would be like with someone who could sense his desires and had a compulsion to fulfill every one, and he closed his eyes. And then he reluctantly brought his sanity back online and opened them again. "Yeah, that's, I see what you mean about your backrubs," he said.
"Yeah," Sheppard said. It was probably going to hurt him just as much to walk away as it was going to hurt Rodney. Weird how it was so hard to give up when it wasn't really what either of them wanted in the first place.
Oh, boys. ::smishes together then clubs with clue bat:: I only do it because I care.
And the stupid slave thing was going to make Sheppard hurt because Rodney wouldn't let him give him what he needed. Rodney rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"All right," he said, turning in his chair. "All right, no, I think not, but, you know what? Why don't we go down to the weight room and you can show me how to do the ab machine?"
God, he had to be the biggest idiot in the world -- there was something badly wrong with his life when he was prepared to turn down one of those kinds of backrubs, and in favor of sit-ups, for crying out loud.
Greater love hath no slave owner….
Sheppard raised his head with a look of utter, adoring gratitude, as though he'd already thought Rodney was the greatest thing since crunchy peanut butter and Rodney had just proved he was grape jelly too.
It was just the virus, Rodney told himself, and grinned back at him. "OK, right, let's get the suffering over with."
----------
Rodney woke up next morning with a strange, not unpleasant tightness in his stomach muscles and a completely familiar tightness elsewhere. Thank heaven Sheppard had finally learned just to give him some space in the mornings without having to have a big conversation about what he needed privacy for. He can be taught!
If he'd let that backrub go where it wanted to go, it would have ended up -- well, here in his bed, actually.
He tried to put a more appealing partner into the picture as the person dedicated to fulfilling his every need. Lieutenant Johanssen with her hair out of that long braid, that Athosian woman with the freckles who sometimes came with Halling from the mainland, Shelly who'd cut his hair back home -- but it seemed weird and creepy to imagine getting this kind of service from women he hardly knew, even though both Johanssen and Maira were probably stronger than he was and Shelly was always armed with a pair of sharp scissors.
Maybe if she wasn't drugged, but was doing it out of gratitude? Because he'd saved her life, and her family, and her village? Because on her planet, average-looking but brilliant astrophysicists with poor social skills were the ultimate objects of desire? Because a broken gate had stranded them on another planet for a year, and she'd come to revere him? Jesus, what good was an imagination if it was going to insist on a higher level of plausibility than his real life did?
Oh, dear god, I'm Rodney McKay. I have to force myself to handwave this sort of thing. But most of the time I just get distracted and ramble down some stupid dead-end trying to make everything work. Dear Vyola's Brain, The whole point of a fantasy is that there doesn't need to be an elaborate, established background. No love, Me.
All right, fine, damn it. Suppose it was Sheppard himself? Who actually seemed to like him, who weirdly enough knew him better than anybody had since grade school, who could make bad jokes at his expense even under the influence of an alien slave virus, who made moany sex noises while giving him a backrub --
Oh, hell, it just figured that would work when nothing else did.
He let himself imagine it. Sheppard's nails running lightly up the back of his neck again, Sheppard's lips following them. Sheppard's arms wrapping around him and leaning him back against that warm body, Sheppard's mouth on his ear and his face and his mouth, because physical pleasure was nice, very nice, but if he was going to get his dearest wish, it would be for something that went deeper --
No. No. He was willing to be pathetic up to a point, but there had to be limits.
Sheppard's hands on his body, then, knowing what he needed before he knew it himself. Sheppard's mouth -- Sheppard's mouth --
Oh, god, it would be so good.
The really, really, really great thing about Res is that she's not a tease. If the story's imaginary sex is good, the story's real sex is even better.
I love her for her brain. Really.
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Sheppard gave Carson a blank look every time Carson suggested that he should be more worried than he was about having some unknown alien pseudovirus flowing in his bloodstream and forcing him to notice whether or not Rodney was getting enough sleep. Yes, pestering the slave about how you think he should feel is oh, so effective.
"It's fine," he said dismissively, as though Carson were pestering him about a hangnail.
Rodney, too, had gotten used to it pretty quickly. He could have done with less of the mother-hen act. On the other hand, having someone actually notice when he had a headache, and bring him a glass of water and one of his private stock of effective painkillers, and make him pinch the web between his thumb and forefinger to see if that would help with the pain -- well. To have somebody actually care -- it was, it was nice. ::sniff:: What? I got something in my eye.
Part 2