Happy Birthday, sethoz! *hugsliekwhoa*
Title: Don't Ask Anymore
Wordcount: ~2,300
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Merry Months of AU #8: Reporter!Rodney & Musical Star!John
AN: sethoz wanted Evita crack!fic. While this is loosely inspired by that movie, it's not really crack. *coughs* Sorry. It's still your birthday present, though - hope you like. :)
x-posted: harlequin_sga, mckay_sheppard
And I know it's spelled 'Ronon' - this is AU.
~~~
Cover by smuffster
Don't Ask Anymore
John Sheppard always knew he wanted to be a star, even before Robert Darlin discovered him. With his good looks, he figured, and his talent in both acting and singing, it would only be a matter of time.
~~~
John came home late, smelling of smoke and cheap perfume and even cheaper beer. It was nothing unusual, and Rodney barely looked up from his paper on 19th century colloquialisms in modern-day English. And dropped his pen in surprise when he was hugged tightly from behind, John's alcohol-laden breath hot and moist against his neck.
"'ve I ever told you how much I love you?" John slurred, and Rodney rolled his eyes.
"You don't love anyone - you're the very definition of 'social butterfly'," he answered calmly. "I'm prepared to overlook that fact in favour of your talents in bed, though."
"Awww, Rodney, you say the nicest things."
"Yes, I'm a true romantic. Go take a shower, you stink."
John flipped him off, but trotted over to the bathroom nevertheless. Rodney resumed working on his paper. You didn't get a BA in English simply by being brilliant, and although Rodney was a genius, he still had to work every once in a while.
His lover, for want of a better word, came out of the shower half an hour later, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, his hair still damp and tousled. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Rodney silently with an odd expression on his face.
"What?" Rodney finally wanted to know. John pushed himself away from the door and walked over to him, putting his arms around Rodney and nibbling along his earlobe.
"Would I be here if I didn't love you?" he murmured
"You're here because I pay the rent, John."
That was all there was to it, really. John had taken some kind of liking to Rodney and thereby drastically improved the student's reputation, and in return, Rodney paid for John's food, his clothes, their apartment. Even with all the money his parents sent him, it was perhaps not easily affordable, but they managed. He liked to think that there were at least some feelings involved, but at twenty he was old and bright enough to know better.
Still, Rodney let himself be dragged off into their bedroom without offering resistance, and when they fell asleep, sticky and sated, he allowed himself to dream.
~~~
In 1990, Sheppard met the musical producer Robert Darlin. Darlin's wasn't a big name in the business, but he did have some influence. Enough to get Sheppard's career started by finding him some minor roles in various small-town productions.
~~~
There was a taxi waiting when Rodney got home. Two suitcases were standing by the door, and John was dragging another one through the kitchen.
"What's this?" Rodney inquired.
"I'm moving out."
"Where?"
"Uh," John pulled a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. "Littlefield?"
"Why?"
"I met this guy who knew some other guy and introduced me - I've got a role, Rodney! Isn't that great?" John beamed, and Rodney nodded.
So it was over. Well, it wasn't like this was in any way unexpected - social butterfly, and all that. And yet Rodney was surprised to feel a brief pang of something like hurt. It passed rather quickly, though.
"Don't be mad, Rodney." John leaned in, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Rodney let him. "We had a lot of fun, didn't we?"
"Yes. I think the best moment was when you took years off my life with that insane idea of being H.I.V. positive and naturally having infected me," Rodney snapped, but he didn't mean it. The best moment had been when John had smiled at him one morning, sleepy and lying in a patch of sunshine, looking so ridiculously beautiful it had made Rodney's heart ache.
And John knew that.
"When you're a famous reporter," he said, "I'll give you an interview."
"When I'm a famous reporter," Rodney shot back, "I won't have the time for trite matters like interviewing musical stars."
John chuckled at that.
"You know, I think I'll miss you. Weird, huh?"
"We've been living together for three years; of course you'll miss me." And vice versa, although Rodney didn't say it.
"Well. Take care, Rodney," John said, and opened the door.
"Yeah. You, too."
Rodney stood in the kitchen after John had stepped outside, listening to the sounds of him and the taxi driver loading his luggage into the trunk. He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, stomped out of the kitchen, and opened the front door.
"Good luck!" he called just as John was getting into the taxi.
John gave a last little wave, and then he was gone.
~~~
1994 was a good year for John Sheppard. Offers kept coming in, and he accepted a leading part in Miller's 'The Very Best Of Musical', a show touring from a small town on the East Coast all the way across the States and to the Pacific.
If nothing else, it would spread his name across the country.
~~~
Rodney had been working for the Langton Sunday a little over half a year, doing reports on local festivities, sports and the occasional freak accident, whatever was the interest of the day. It was in no way a fulfilling job, but a job it was, and it would look good on his curriculum once he started looking for a real occupation again. Which would be in, oh, about five and a half months.
Right now, though, there was a more pressing matter to be dealt with.
"A football game? You're kidding, right?"
Larry, his boss and the owner of the small newspaper, shrugged apologetically.
"It was that or the pumpkin festival over at Ron Harper's. I know how much you hate the guy."
"Well, I think 'hate' may be too big a word for an unsophisticated imbecile like Harper, but I do get your point. Still, a football game?"
He hated football. It was stupid, it was boring, and the fans actually thought it was violent. Hockey was violent. Football was like bungee jumping from the top of a standing bus - less than thrilling.
"They're doing some musical best-of in the City Hall tonight," Larry offered after a moment of heavy thinking. Needless to say, he loved football. "That show got very good reviews on their previous stops - want to go there? Their lead performance guy has promised us an interview after the gig is over."
The lead performance guy, namely one John Sheppard. His name wasn't big enough to have made it to the show's advertising posters, not yet, but the audience loved his voice, his easy smile, his laidback attitude. It was only a matter of time before he made it big.
Of course, Rodney wasn't keeping track of him or something. He just liked to be informed.
"No," he said finally. "Let Julie handle that one."
He had neither the time nor any inclination to sit through hours of artificially cheerful or sappy tunes just to hear John Sheppard sing and watch him act.
Not yet.
~~~
In the fall of 2001, John Sheppard was at the top. He was playing the role of Col. Jack O'Neill in Martin Lloyd's 'The Star Gate', a musical that attracted thousands.
John Sheppard was a star.
~~~
"You that New York Times guy?"
Rodney looked up from where he was watching New York's high society file out of the Majestic Theater, raising an eyebrow at the dreadlocked giant in front of him.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Sheppard wants to see you backstage." The giant strolled away without looking back to see if Rodney was following him, and Rodney suppressed a quick flash of anger. He got up from his seat nevertheless, too curious to stay away.
John had already changed into street clothes by the time Rodney was more or less pushed into his dressing room.
"Rodney!" His quick, slightly ironic smile was the same as ten years ago. "Drive with me back to the hotel? I believe I owe you an interview."
Rodney shrugged.
"Well, it will hardly be Pulitzer Prize material, but seeing as how I didn't have anything planned for tonight, I guess you'll do."
John grinned at that.
"Still arrogant as hell, huh? I like that."
It was a sleek, black, European car that got them to John's hotel, with the giant behind the steering wheel. John's suite was huge, artfully decorated without appearing uncomfortable. Rodney took a good look around, and finally picked up a small bottle with pills he had spotted on a side table.
"Tension headaches?"
"Uh, no."
"So what then?" Rodney wasn't even asking as a reporter - he just wanted to know.
John picked up a small menu and stared down at it.
"Hey, you hungry? I could call room service."
"John."
The singer grimaced.
"Coronary artery disease. It's a genetic... thing."
A heart disease. How the hell did one become a musical actor if one had a genetic heart disease? Rodney forced himself to stay calm.
"There is this thing called bypass surgery, you know."
"Not if you also have the von Willebrand disease."
"The what?"
"Blood clotting problem."
Rodney stared.
"And you never stopped to think that it might be more wholesome to your health if you, say, picked another job?" he asked slowly, like talking to a little child, or, well, someone very stupid.
"This is what I want, Rodney," John said simply. "It's what I always wanted."
"Even though it can kill you."
John shrugged. For a brief moment, Rodney considered simply leaving. This whole thing they had was unhealthy, in more ways than one. Then John smiled that mischievous smirk of his, and it was like the last ten years had never happened.
"Want me to show you the rest of the suite?"
It had probably been inevitable from the moment Rodney set foot in the Majestic that they would end up in the bedroom. John had picked up quite a few things over the last few years, and Rodney hadn't exactly been celibate himself. It was rough and dirty, more like fighting than sex, and Rodney fell asleep with the smug feeling of superiority - he had made John come one more time than vice versa.
When he woke up early the next morning, John had left him a note to call his manager to make an appointment for that interview. Rodney scribbled his own affronted note on the back of the slip of paper, and slapped it on John's pillow.
'There's nothing about you I don't already know.'
They didn't talk again after that.
~~~
On August 16th 2005, at the height of his career, John Sheppard collapsed during a performance, shocking fans and co-workers alike. It was the last time he ever appeared in public.
~~~
John was pale when Rodney stepped into his surprisingly spartan bedroom.
"I didn't think you'd come."
"Oh, please, like I had a choice. That behemoth of yours practically carried me to the car," Rodney lied, and sat down beside the bed.
"Yeah, Ronan's convincing like that." John grinned, but it looked pained. There was a long pause, Rodney fidgeting, John just watching him, and finally, Rodney couldn't take it anymore.
"Did you want anything in particular, or were you just feeling lonely?" he asked, coming across more irritated than he had intended to, not knowing how to take it back.
"You won the Pulitzer Prize. Last year." John sounded oddly proud at the statement.
"So what, you figured you'd finally give me that interview?"
"I figured I owe you one. It's only fair that I give my last interview to you."
"Stop being such a drama queen," Rodney snapped, "you're sick, not dying."
He paused. "Are you?"
John answered with a non sequitur.
"They won't let me back on stage." It was said in such a small, forlorn voice that for one moment, Rodney had a weird sense of seeing double: the image of John Sheppard, easygoing singer and actor, overlaid by the impression of a worn-out, miserable, ordinary man. It threw him, and he picked up John's hand to cover up his discomfort.
"You're cold," he noted. "Want me to go see if I can find some hot water bottles for you?"
"Rodney, are you listening? I said-"
"I heard you just fine!" the reporter interrupted angrily. "So you won't get to perform anymore, tough luck. There are other things in life besides being adored by the masses, you know."
John shook his head, clearly disappointed at Rodney's inability to understand.
"There's nothing left," he whispered, weary, closing his eyes. Rodney clasped the pale hand in his a little tighter.
"You always were an idiot," he answered brusquely, causing John to give a feeble smile. The room was silent after that, neither of them quite knowing what to say. After being apart for almost fifteen years, they'd both changed. Perhaps too much.
Rodney was still stroking John's hand when the other man fell asleep.
~~~
2006, Rodney McKay won his second Pulitzer Prize for his authorised biography of John Sheppard. His partner didn't attend.
~~~
End.
Wordcount: ~2,300
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Merry Months of AU #8: Reporter!Rodney & Musical Star!John
AN: sethoz wanted Evita crack!fic. While this is loosely inspired by that movie, it's not really crack. *coughs* Sorry. It's still your birthday present, though - hope you like. :)
x-posted: harlequin_sga, mckay_sheppard
And I know it's spelled 'Ronon' - this is AU.
~~~
Cover by smuffster
Don't Ask Anymore
John Sheppard always knew he wanted to be a star, even before Robert Darlin discovered him. With his good looks, he figured, and his talent in both acting and singing, it would only be a matter of time.
~~~
John came home late, smelling of smoke and cheap perfume and even cheaper beer. It was nothing unusual, and Rodney barely looked up from his paper on 19th century colloquialisms in modern-day English. And dropped his pen in surprise when he was hugged tightly from behind, John's alcohol-laden breath hot and moist against his neck.
"'ve I ever told you how much I love you?" John slurred, and Rodney rolled his eyes.
"You don't love anyone - you're the very definition of 'social butterfly'," he answered calmly. "I'm prepared to overlook that fact in favour of your talents in bed, though."
"Awww, Rodney, you say the nicest things."
"Yes, I'm a true romantic. Go take a shower, you stink."
John flipped him off, but trotted over to the bathroom nevertheless. Rodney resumed working on his paper. You didn't get a BA in English simply by being brilliant, and although Rodney was a genius, he still had to work every once in a while.
His lover, for want of a better word, came out of the shower half an hour later, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, his hair still damp and tousled. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Rodney silently with an odd expression on his face.
"What?" Rodney finally wanted to know. John pushed himself away from the door and walked over to him, putting his arms around Rodney and nibbling along his earlobe.
"Would I be here if I didn't love you?" he murmured
"You're here because I pay the rent, John."
That was all there was to it, really. John had taken some kind of liking to Rodney and thereby drastically improved the student's reputation, and in return, Rodney paid for John's food, his clothes, their apartment. Even with all the money his parents sent him, it was perhaps not easily affordable, but they managed. He liked to think that there were at least some feelings involved, but at twenty he was old and bright enough to know better.
Still, Rodney let himself be dragged off into their bedroom without offering resistance, and when they fell asleep, sticky and sated, he allowed himself to dream.
~~~
In 1990, Sheppard met the musical producer Robert Darlin. Darlin's wasn't a big name in the business, but he did have some influence. Enough to get Sheppard's career started by finding him some minor roles in various small-town productions.
~~~
There was a taxi waiting when Rodney got home. Two suitcases were standing by the door, and John was dragging another one through the kitchen.
"What's this?" Rodney inquired.
"I'm moving out."
"Where?"
"Uh," John pulled a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. "Littlefield?"
"Why?"
"I met this guy who knew some other guy and introduced me - I've got a role, Rodney! Isn't that great?" John beamed, and Rodney nodded.
So it was over. Well, it wasn't like this was in any way unexpected - social butterfly, and all that. And yet Rodney was surprised to feel a brief pang of something like hurt. It passed rather quickly, though.
"Don't be mad, Rodney." John leaned in, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Rodney let him. "We had a lot of fun, didn't we?"
"Yes. I think the best moment was when you took years off my life with that insane idea of being H.I.V. positive and naturally having infected me," Rodney snapped, but he didn't mean it. The best moment had been when John had smiled at him one morning, sleepy and lying in a patch of sunshine, looking so ridiculously beautiful it had made Rodney's heart ache.
And John knew that.
"When you're a famous reporter," he said, "I'll give you an interview."
"When I'm a famous reporter," Rodney shot back, "I won't have the time for trite matters like interviewing musical stars."
John chuckled at that.
"You know, I think I'll miss you. Weird, huh?"
"We've been living together for three years; of course you'll miss me." And vice versa, although Rodney didn't say it.
"Well. Take care, Rodney," John said, and opened the door.
"Yeah. You, too."
Rodney stood in the kitchen after John had stepped outside, listening to the sounds of him and the taxi driver loading his luggage into the trunk. He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, stomped out of the kitchen, and opened the front door.
"Good luck!" he called just as John was getting into the taxi.
John gave a last little wave, and then he was gone.
~~~
1994 was a good year for John Sheppard. Offers kept coming in, and he accepted a leading part in Miller's 'The Very Best Of Musical', a show touring from a small town on the East Coast all the way across the States and to the Pacific.
If nothing else, it would spread his name across the country.
~~~
Rodney had been working for the Langton Sunday a little over half a year, doing reports on local festivities, sports and the occasional freak accident, whatever was the interest of the day. It was in no way a fulfilling job, but a job it was, and it would look good on his curriculum once he started looking for a real occupation again. Which would be in, oh, about five and a half months.
Right now, though, there was a more pressing matter to be dealt with.
"A football game? You're kidding, right?"
Larry, his boss and the owner of the small newspaper, shrugged apologetically.
"It was that or the pumpkin festival over at Ron Harper's. I know how much you hate the guy."
"Well, I think 'hate' may be too big a word for an unsophisticated imbecile like Harper, but I do get your point. Still, a football game?"
He hated football. It was stupid, it was boring, and the fans actually thought it was violent. Hockey was violent. Football was like bungee jumping from the top of a standing bus - less than thrilling.
"They're doing some musical best-of in the City Hall tonight," Larry offered after a moment of heavy thinking. Needless to say, he loved football. "That show got very good reviews on their previous stops - want to go there? Their lead performance guy has promised us an interview after the gig is over."
The lead performance guy, namely one John Sheppard. His name wasn't big enough to have made it to the show's advertising posters, not yet, but the audience loved his voice, his easy smile, his laidback attitude. It was only a matter of time before he made it big.
Of course, Rodney wasn't keeping track of him or something. He just liked to be informed.
"No," he said finally. "Let Julie handle that one."
He had neither the time nor any inclination to sit through hours of artificially cheerful or sappy tunes just to hear John Sheppard sing and watch him act.
Not yet.
~~~
In the fall of 2001, John Sheppard was at the top. He was playing the role of Col. Jack O'Neill in Martin Lloyd's 'The Star Gate', a musical that attracted thousands.
John Sheppard was a star.
~~~
"You that New York Times guy?"
Rodney looked up from where he was watching New York's high society file out of the Majestic Theater, raising an eyebrow at the dreadlocked giant in front of him.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Sheppard wants to see you backstage." The giant strolled away without looking back to see if Rodney was following him, and Rodney suppressed a quick flash of anger. He got up from his seat nevertheless, too curious to stay away.
John had already changed into street clothes by the time Rodney was more or less pushed into his dressing room.
"Rodney!" His quick, slightly ironic smile was the same as ten years ago. "Drive with me back to the hotel? I believe I owe you an interview."
Rodney shrugged.
"Well, it will hardly be Pulitzer Prize material, but seeing as how I didn't have anything planned for tonight, I guess you'll do."
John grinned at that.
"Still arrogant as hell, huh? I like that."
It was a sleek, black, European car that got them to John's hotel, with the giant behind the steering wheel. John's suite was huge, artfully decorated without appearing uncomfortable. Rodney took a good look around, and finally picked up a small bottle with pills he had spotted on a side table.
"Tension headaches?"
"Uh, no."
"So what then?" Rodney wasn't even asking as a reporter - he just wanted to know.
John picked up a small menu and stared down at it.
"Hey, you hungry? I could call room service."
"John."
The singer grimaced.
"Coronary artery disease. It's a genetic... thing."
A heart disease. How the hell did one become a musical actor if one had a genetic heart disease? Rodney forced himself to stay calm.
"There is this thing called bypass surgery, you know."
"Not if you also have the von Willebrand disease."
"The what?"
"Blood clotting problem."
Rodney stared.
"And you never stopped to think that it might be more wholesome to your health if you, say, picked another job?" he asked slowly, like talking to a little child, or, well, someone very stupid.
"This is what I want, Rodney," John said simply. "It's what I always wanted."
"Even though it can kill you."
John shrugged. For a brief moment, Rodney considered simply leaving. This whole thing they had was unhealthy, in more ways than one. Then John smiled that mischievous smirk of his, and it was like the last ten years had never happened.
"Want me to show you the rest of the suite?"
It had probably been inevitable from the moment Rodney set foot in the Majestic that they would end up in the bedroom. John had picked up quite a few things over the last few years, and Rodney hadn't exactly been celibate himself. It was rough and dirty, more like fighting than sex, and Rodney fell asleep with the smug feeling of superiority - he had made John come one more time than vice versa.
When he woke up early the next morning, John had left him a note to call his manager to make an appointment for that interview. Rodney scribbled his own affronted note on the back of the slip of paper, and slapped it on John's pillow.
'There's nothing about you I don't already know.'
They didn't talk again after that.
~~~
On August 16th 2005, at the height of his career, John Sheppard collapsed during a performance, shocking fans and co-workers alike. It was the last time he ever appeared in public.
~~~
John was pale when Rodney stepped into his surprisingly spartan bedroom.
"I didn't think you'd come."
"Oh, please, like I had a choice. That behemoth of yours practically carried me to the car," Rodney lied, and sat down beside the bed.
"Yeah, Ronan's convincing like that." John grinned, but it looked pained. There was a long pause, Rodney fidgeting, John just watching him, and finally, Rodney couldn't take it anymore.
"Did you want anything in particular, or were you just feeling lonely?" he asked, coming across more irritated than he had intended to, not knowing how to take it back.
"You won the Pulitzer Prize. Last year." John sounded oddly proud at the statement.
"So what, you figured you'd finally give me that interview?"
"I figured I owe you one. It's only fair that I give my last interview to you."
"Stop being such a drama queen," Rodney snapped, "you're sick, not dying."
He paused. "Are you?"
John answered with a non sequitur.
"They won't let me back on stage." It was said in such a small, forlorn voice that for one moment, Rodney had a weird sense of seeing double: the image of John Sheppard, easygoing singer and actor, overlaid by the impression of a worn-out, miserable, ordinary man. It threw him, and he picked up John's hand to cover up his discomfort.
"You're cold," he noted. "Want me to go see if I can find some hot water bottles for you?"
"Rodney, are you listening? I said-"
"I heard you just fine!" the reporter interrupted angrily. "So you won't get to perform anymore, tough luck. There are other things in life besides being adored by the masses, you know."
John shook his head, clearly disappointed at Rodney's inability to understand.
"There's nothing left," he whispered, weary, closing his eyes. Rodney clasped the pale hand in his a little tighter.
"You always were an idiot," he answered brusquely, causing John to give a feeble smile. The room was silent after that, neither of them quite knowing what to say. After being apart for almost fifteen years, they'd both changed. Perhaps too much.
Rodney was still stroking John's hand when the other man fell asleep.
~~~
2006, Rodney McKay won his second Pulitzer Prize for his authorised biography of John Sheppard. His partner didn't attend.
~~~
End.