TEAM HOME: Rolling stone, "The Distance between Two Points"
Title: The Distance between Two Points
Author: tex and lamardeuse
Team: Home
Prompt: Rolling stone
Pairing(s): John/Rodney, John/Nancy, John/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None (spoilers to Outcast)
Summary: Home isn't always a place.
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**
John Thoreau Sheppard was born during the Summer of Love in San Francisco, 1967. He was the product of his father’s great rebellion and Patrick never let him forget it.
Patrick walked out of the St. Francis on the Powell Street side and let the doorman hail him a cab. It was only ten in the morning and he was already feeling rushed and harassed. His father was pushing him to make a decision about his place in the business, his goals and the direction he was going and this trip was supposed to help with that. Patrick was handling the details of an expansion of their business to the West Coast. It was a huge responsibility but despite his degree from Harvard and the experience he’d gained since graduation, he was feeling overwhelmed and smothered by his father’s attention.
The girl appeared at his side, transmitting calm and sweetness. Come with me, she said, and she took his hand in hers. Patrick was startled, then intrigued. She was beautiful, so unlike the girls he knew back home, with their sweater sets and pinned up hair. Long, straight black hair framed her narrow face, her eyes a rich brown. She looked like some ethereal creature, dressed in something white and gauzy that billowed around her slender body like smoke. Just the feel of her warm, soft hand in his gave his body a jolt, like he’d been startled out of sleep.
He was the oldest son. His father had expectations, plans for him. But something, perhaps those very expectations and the weight of them that he’d carried since he was a teenager, compelled Patrick to tighten his fingers around hers and allow her to lead him across the street, into the cacophony of Union Square.
He yanked off his tie and opened his shirt collar and took his first breath of free air. And Patrick ended that first day, not in his comfortable room at the St. Francis, but asleep on a mattress on the floor of a Divisadero Street flat, his arms full of a girl named Skye.
After a couple of days, she earnestly told him that her name wasn’t really Skye (he’d kissed her soundly for that). Her name was Sarah Kelley, she was 20 and she had arrived in San Francisco from Wichita only two days before they met. Wichita had never felt like home, and when she learned that some friends were planning to travel west, she decided to tag along. Patrick held her close and told her that his story was much the same; he didn’t tell her about his family or where he came from. It all seemed so far away, anyway.
Patrick fell into his new life with abandon, giving up his suits for jeans and tee shirts he found in second (and third) hand stores in the Haight. He quit shaving, and for a time when he and Skye were kicked out of the Divisadero flat, they learned the efficiency of bathing in the water fountain in Golden Gate Park. After that, Patrick got a job bussing tables in a tearoom and Skye joined a group of street musicians, playing for change from passersby.
The owners of the tearoom allowed Patrick and Skye to occupy a tiny back room with barely enough space for a mattress and a chair and gave them a hot meal at night. It was a far cry from their previous lives but they had all they needed. At night, they read to each other from Thoreau and Whitman, and spent hours making love.
The first time that Skye got sick, she tried to soothe Patrick’s worry, blaming it on the previous day’s lunch. He grabbed onto that excuse with both hands because the alternative was too frightening. After the second and third time, though, neither of them could deny the truth. Skye cried happy tears in Patrick’s arms and Patrick shivered and blinked rapidly - they were going to be parents.
Patrick decided he owed his father a phone call and he made it the next morning, from a phone booth near the tearoom. They hadn’t spoken in months, since the day that Patrick had decided to make a home in San Francisco with Skye. His father had been furious and blamed him for the potential downfall of the family business in particular and the US economy in general. So the call that he made to tell his parents about Skye’s pregnancy was half Fuck you and half a proud See what I did.
But Patrick didn’t get the reaction he had anticipated. His mother told him how happy she was, how much she loved him and tearfully begged him to return. Even his father seemed pleased and eager to forgive and forget. When he got off the phone, Patrick was shaken and suddenly terrified by the enormity of it all. As the months passed, he and Skye spent a lot of time holding each other and not saying what they were both thinking - that a postage stamp sized room was no home for a little baby.
They got married at city hall two months before their son was born in the back of the tearoom. They named him John, for Skye’s grandfather and Thoreau, to honor their beginnings.
“When you were a baby, you were very sick.” His mother used to hold him in her lap with her arms around him and tell him about the other place he lived. “So Granny and Grandpa came and brought some really smart doctors who made you feel better. And then, we all got on an airplane and now, this is our home.” Whenever his Mom told the story, her eyes would look sad. So John would look up, pat her cheek and say, “Shhh, I’m all better now.”
There were two gates at John’s house - a big one, by the road where the street was busy and there were lots of cars and another, smaller gate close to the house - and between the two gates was a long road that went all the way up the hill. Straight, no curves and when John got on his bike, he could ride from the top to the bottom without even pedaling. It was fun, especially after he learned to ride no handed because it was almost like he was flying.
Sometimes, when his mom or Davey the tattletale or Miss Annie or the guys who worked with the horses weren’t watching, he’d go around and around on the driveway, as fast as he could and then take off down the hill and that, John was sure, was flying.
He could barely feel the wheels on the road and the wind would rush by his ears so that it sounded like plane engines. And when he put his arms out, he pretended they were wings and that when he got to the bottom of the hill, he’d just keep going - up over the heavy iron gate, over the cars, over the trees, over the Bay, even and up into the stars. It was the most fun ever.
One day, though, when John rode down the hill, he decided to see what happened if he stood up on the pedals.
It didn’t work so well the first time.
John lay in the grass for a while after he fell, trying to get his breath back and that’s when he noticed his arm hurt really bad. He was older then, almost seven, so he didn’t cry, even though he kinda wanted to. He lifted his head and blinked fast, till his eyes stopped being blurry and at the top of the hill, he could see the gate around his house.
It looked so far away and when he stood up, John felt funny, like the time he got on the merry-go-round at the playground after he ate all that spaghetti. But he started walking anyway, keeping his eyes on the gate, then the piece of the roof that he could see when he got a little closer.
It took a long time but John made it to the driveway and when he saw his house, he started to cry. He just wanted to get inside - if he could just get to his room, he’d be okay. He'd just got some really cool planes for his birthday and his mom was going to help him put strings on them so they could hang them from the ceiling. He wanted to do that today; he didn’t want to ride bikes anymore.
When he was close enough, John saw his mom in the big front window and when she saw him, she started to run.
When they got back from the hospital, John felt funny, sleepy and dizzy all at once and his left arm was in a white cast. His dad came to the hospital and didn’t even go back to work after. He carried John inside and put him in bed and he didn’t yell once. His mom didn’t either, even though he broke the rule about riding his bike with no hands.
He went to sleep pretty fast and when he woke up, it was dark and his mom was there, sitting next to him, holding his hand.
“You mad at me?” John asked.
His mom shook her head. “No, sweetheart, I’m not mad.”
“I broke the rule.”
His mom rubbed her thumb over his hand. “Yes, you did. But I know you’re sorry. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but - ”
“But what?”
“It’s like flying, Mom. It’s the most funnest thing I’ve ever done.”
His mom smiled at him. John thought his mother was the prettiest mother in the whole town. All the other mothers had their hair all pulled up into buns or ponytails but John’s mom’s hair was long and straight, like a waterfall and it was the same color as John’s. “Oh, John. I know how much you want to fly and you’ll do it one day. But you have to wait until you’re a big guy, okay? No more flying down the drive way.”
John sighed. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good. Now. Are you hungry?”
John nodded happily.
“How about a hamburger? Chips?”
“Oh, yeah.”
His mom leaned over and kissed him on top of the head. “Be right back.”
“Mom? Can you bring me one of my new planes?”
She brought him one of the old ones, the one with the blades in front that his dad called a prop. John put it in bed with him and moved the prop around and around with one finger.
He could hear his dad’s voice downstairs and his mom’s, too. John liked it when the house was quiet and he could hear his parents talk. Sometimes, late at night, they yelled and it scared Davey and he would crawl into bed with John. And the worst thing was when his mom’s eyes looked red.
But when things were quiet, like now, it was the best thing ever. It made him feel like everything was okay. Like even with a broken arm, everything was going to be okay.
John stopped trying to please his father when he was thirteen, six months to the day after his mother died. It was more terrifying than anything he'd ever done, like suddenly stepping out into space, no gravity anywhere.
And then it felt fucking terrific.
When he was fourteen, John told his father he didn't want to become a businessman like him.
When he was sixteen, he told his father he was going to Stanford, not Harvard. (By then, it was getting easier.)
When he was nineteen, he told his father he was joining the Air Force when he graduated. (Piece of cake.)
He never told his father that he was bi, because he only told him things he couldn't avoid telling him. After all, he might come home one day in a uniform, but he'd never show up on his father's doorstep arm in arm with another guy. There were some things even John knew were Just Not Done.
Santa Cruz in the summertime was a crazy, tourist-packed furnace, and the only good place to be - for John, at least - was on the beach, or better yet, in the water. This wasn't the best season for waves, but a lot of the guys out there were primarily there to get laid, and there was just enough surf for them to accomplish the goal of looking sufficiently impressive to score.
John usually ignored everyone else when he was surfing; he still wasn't as good at it as he wanted to be, and he didn't need the distraction of admiring onlookers or gaping teenage girls. But this day was different, because when he happened to glance back at the beach after a particularly spectacular wipeout, he saw Todd watching him.
Todd was a surfer's surfer, a guy in his mid- to late thirties who was in better shape than most of the college kids on boards. He had a decent job doing something - John had no idea what - but he also managed to spend about half his life on the beach, which was the kind of wholehearted, obsessive dedication most of the other guys appreciated. They'd talked a few times, about football, mostly, and John had thought he'd seen something in his eyes once, but in the next breath he'd convinced himself he was crazy. Besides, he was self-aware enough to realize he had a little crush on the guy, and so he knew he wasn't exactly a good judge.
Now, though, there was no mistaking it; Todd was watching him, and maybe he'd been watching him for weeks, and John had been too oblivious to see it. As he waded through the surf to the shore, he convinced himself the rubbery feeling in his legs was from the adrenaline of the wipeout.
Todd's chin lifted when John walked up to him. “Thought you'd bit it there for a second,” he said, casually. Too casually? John had no clue. And what did that even mean, anyway?
Focus, John. He answered with a slow smile he hoped looked even a little bit sexy. “I'm still here,” he said, holding out his free arm, “in one piece.”
Todd took the invitation for what it was, gaze skidding down the length of John's body, and holy shit, holy shit, John had been right, and this was really going to happen - maybe -
“You had enough for the day?” Todd asked, jerking his head sideways. “'Cause if you had, I thought I'd take you to dinner.”
John shrugged, like it was no big deal, like his heart wasn't pounding three hundred miles an hour. “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”
Half an hour later, John discovered that 'take you to dinner' meant melt-in-your-mouth surf and turf at Todd's five-star beachfront hotel, which apparently he fucking owned. Two hours after that, John was splayed out on Todd's bed like a sacrifice, groaning into the space bounded by his folded arms as Todd slid a slick finger into his ass.
“You've never done this before, have you?” Todd breathed, and John tensed, arm muscles bunching under his forehead. “Tell me.”
John only swiveled his hips, urging Todd in deeper, because it wasn't something Todd needed to know, and it sure as hell wasn't something John wanted to tell. When Todd finally pushed his cock inside, trying to make a home for himself in John's body, John let him in, because John knew he wouldn't overstay his welcome. Probably for the same reason, Todd asked John to move in with him a week later.
In August, after a summer of sun, surfing, sand and sex, John packed his bags and headed off to his senior year at Stanford, and just like the last time he'd left home, nobody was there to wave goodbye.
When John told Nancy he was leaving for good, she shook her head, and then she actually chuckled.
“What's so damn funny?” John demanded, feeling more brittle and likely to shatter than he ever had in his life. Nancy must have heard it in his tone, because her head snapped up, and for an instant, there was a hint of fear on her face, like she'd finally realized just what he did for a living.
“It's just -” Nancy hesitated, then sighed. “It's only that I don't know if you were ever really here.”
He met Nancy at William and Mary, where he was getting his Master's degree part-time. She was a TA in his stats course, and she helped him get caught up when he missed classes because of missions. One night he took her out to thank her and she watched him the whole time with an odd, measuring look on her face, like she was trying to cram him into an x-y axis, compute his standard deviation over time. It was comforting, somehow, to think that somebody might be able to figure him out.
Two years later, they were married, and even with a fourteen-month engagement, John still woke up the morning after his wedding wondering who this person was. Because the reality was that Nancy was as much of a mystery to him as he still was to her, and numbers hadn't helped at all. She got snapped up by the NSA the minute she finished her thesis defense, so they bought a house halfway between Langley and DC, an aging Cape Cod in an unremarkable neighborhood with creaky stairs and a back yard whose lawn had long since given up the will to live. John flew missions into places no American would be caught alive in, and a week later he'd be walking back and forth across that blasted, moss-encrusted terrain pushing a broadcast spreader full of lime, and then the absurdity of his life would come up and smack him in the face like a wet fish. He knew he had to get away from that house and that godforsaken lawn or he'd lose what was left of his mind.
He didn't talk about it, just started looking in the DC classifieds, and when he found a good apartment, he picked her up from work one Friday and drove over to it. The real estate agent knew she had him, but she wasn't sure about Nancy, and neither was John.
“John, are you sure?” she said, and her hand strayed over the marble countertop and he thought, please, please with the fervency of prayer.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling like a shit, “I think it's going to make a great home.”
He convinced her, and in the process, he even convinced himself. By the time John packed his bags the night of the move, he actually thought this might be the last time he'd want to.
“Sheppard,” Colonel Varner said, his smile mostly a snarl, “I am going to ship your insubordinate ass to the end of the world, and I fucking hope you fall right off it.”
“Can't wait, sir,” John said, and wasn't at all surprised to realize he meant it.
Antarctica was the best place he'd ever lived. Really. There were a lot of social goings-on at McMurdo, parties and casual hookups and crazy stunts involving barbecuing with the aid of acetylene blowtorches, hell, maybe even satanic rituals out back of the biology labs for all John knew. Best of all, though, was that you had the option not to participate if you wanted, and John didn't want. He didn't need anything to distract him from the isolation of the place; that was one of its prime attractions, as far as he was concerned. After politely turning down offers a few times, he found that people just quit asking and let him be. It was great.
About seven months into his tour, he started ferrying civilians, foreign military and USAF personnel to this base about two hundred klicks from McMurdo, in a place no one else knew a base existed, using a Jet Ranger with civilian markings instead of his usual Chinook. His CO quietly told him not to worry, that he would file John's flight plans for him, and John nodded and said yes, sir, because this much he remembered from his time with black ops - die if you must, but do not under any circumstances leave a paper trail. In those temperatures, John knew it would be suicide if they went down and there was no easy way to find them, so he concentrated on not going down. He didn't even wonder why he'd been tapped as the ferryman across the Styx; it was obvious enough. He just concentrated on doing his job, because as shitty as it was, it was all he had left.
One day, he walked into the hangar and landed in the middle of an impending international incident. Johnson, one of the pilots for the Christchurch run, was being berated by a guy wearing a fleece jacket in the most eye-bruising shade of orange John had ever seen. The 'international' came from Orange Guy's pronounced Canadian accent, which was lacing his mile-a-minute invective. John liked Canadian accents, had always found them kind of lilting and musical - before now, that is, because this guy's ranting was about as musical as a wet fart.
“Really, what part of 'you're going too fast, you moron?' don't you understand?” Orange raged. “I realize that some of the words were two-syllable and thus were perhaps confusing, but you could have asked for clarification - oh, wait, that's five syllables - ”
Johnson, who was about the most well-adjusted - and the nicest - guy on base, actually turned toward Orange with eyes that looked - huh. Kind of like one of those demented Pekingese dogs you'd see in supermarket parking lots, the ones who'd yip and bark at you with such ferocity that you knew if they ever managed to escape the confines of their owners' Volvo would bite your face clean off. Maybe he wasn't so well-adjusted after all, or maybe it was just that Orange could bring out the hidden psychopath in Santa Claus.
Before Johnson could be court martialed for the (undoubtedly justifiable) murder of a civilian, John pasted on his best smile and stepped forward. “You been breaking the speed of sound in that Herc again, Ho-Jo?” he drawled, stepping forward.
Johnson shot him a look of abject gratitude. “'Bout as much as you are in that busted-ass shithook of yours, Shep,” he said, the inclination to homicide leaving his demeanor.
Orange stared back and forth between them for a moment, then waved a hand. “Hello, I was talking?” he demanded.
“Yeah, I heard you,” John said, grinning as he turned to Orange. “I think the penguins on the other side of the island heard you, too.”
Johnson snorted. When Orange rounded on him, he ducked his head and said, “Well, gotta go, bye,” and broke the speed of light leaving the hangar deck, because suddenly he was just gone.
“I wasn't finished with you!” Orange shouted at the empty air. John stepped closer, and Orange wheeled back around, and suddenly they were practically nose to nose. Orange's eyes were really, really blue, and his cheeks were pink from either the cold or fury or both, and he smelled - kind of good, and shit, no, no.
“What?” Orange demanded, and okay, this was getting stupid.
“What's your name?” John demanded back.
Orange actually puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, and John did not just find that cute. “My name is Doctor M. Rodney McKay,” he said.
“Medical?”
“Physics,” McKay said, “and engineering.”
“That's good,” John said, “'cause your bedside manner would probably kill people.”
“Oh, like I haven't heard that one before,” McKay shot back. “And what's your name?”
“Major John T. Sheppard, United States Air Force,” John said, sticking out a hand.
McKay raised his eyebrows. “Your christening must have taken all day,” he drawled, and John barked a surprised laugh as McKay took his hand and shook it, his grip firm and strong. “I take it you're going to be my torturer for the second leg of this interminable journey?”
“Looks that way,” John said easily, ignoring the warmth that lingered in his palm after McKay had released him. “But if you start freaking out on me while I'm flying, I promise you I will pitch you into the nearest ice crevasse. Got it?”
McKay's chin lifted even further, gaze measuring John's resolve, and his estimation of his soon-to-be passenger went up a few notches. Then he nodded, once, and John felt a strange, molasses-taffy pull toward this annoying asshole that made no sense whatsoever.
“Good,” John said. “We'll be leaving in twenty, then.”
Two hours later, they were hovering over the weird domed structure that denoted the secret base, and John turned to see such a look of wonder and pure happiness on McKay’s face that it stopped John's breath for a moment.
“What?” John demanded.
“I just - ” McKay visibly groped for words. “I think I've finally come home.”
“Weird place to find it,” John murmured, “on the edge of the world.”
McKay nodded. “What better place to fall off the world,” he said, “than at its edge?” and John turned to stare at him, narrowly avoiding losing control of the chopper as he did.
When he walked through the wormhole and into Atlantis for the first time, the city lit up for him. When he was forced to leave, he expected Atlantis to go dark. But it didn’t and John felt the betrayal down to his bones.
The SGC found him an apartment. It was light years away from the cool bachelor pad he’d conjured up on the Mist Planet. Three rooms and a bath, white walls, stained carpet, a view of the parking lot. John had seen military prisons with a more soothing atmosphere.
Rodney called the next day while he was still at the SGC and John took a moment out of his busy day to whine and complain to the only person he could. And Rodney made sympathetic noises until he finished.
“Huh. Sounds like one of those places for the mentally ill that you hear about in the States. When they go in and find people glued to their beds from infected sores.” John ground his teeth together. “Not helping.”
“Or it’s like that movie, Brubaker. The reformer comes in to make big changes and he finds a bunch of bodies buried in a field on the back 40. ”
“Rodney, I’m not kidding. I’m thinking of stealing an assault rifle from the armory and going on a shooting spree.”
“Okay, I get it, calm down.” He was using that quiet, soothing voice that Rodney always used whenever he sensed that John was pretty close to the edge, which, considering where they’d spent the last few years, averaged out to about twice a week. “Look, just - get out of there. You can stay at my house. I probably should have offered it from the beginning.”
“So why the hell didn’t you?”
“How did I know you wouldn’t get all weird on me? I don’t have that many friends in this galaxy, Colonel. I can’t afford to alienate the few that I have.”
John tried to control his breathing. Rodney’s offer was kind of - sweet and the tightness in his chest started to rearrange itself. He let his head fall against the back of his desk chair and he closed his eyes, letting Rodney’s chatter wash over him.
“I’ll overnight the keys to you so you can move in tomorrow. And don’t worry - a cleaning service comes in bimonthly so everything should be in order. Listen, don’t break anything. And no parties. And of course, it goes without saying that I don’t want any floozies in my bed - ”
“I’m hanging up now, Rodney,” John said, before Rodney could quote him any more rules. “And - thanks.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, nonplussed, and John could practically see him on the other end of the line, see his face clearing, that slight, wary smile curving his mouth whenever someone said something nice to him. “You’re welcome,” he added, with a genuine warmth that John remembered long after he’d hung up.
***
John told the SGC thanks but no thanks and let himself into Rodney’s condo with two boxes and a gym bag late the next afternoon. Rodney had been right - the place smelled clean and a quick check of the kitchen and the bathroom confirmed it. There was a layer of fine dust on everything but John had lived with far worse.
From the outside, McKay’s condo looked like any other but the inside looked weirdly like the interior of a cabin deep in the Canadian woods. Not that John had ever been in the Canadian woods, deep or otherwise, but he’d seen enough episodes of Bonanza to recognize “lodge” when he saw it. The horizontal plank paneling was the worst offender but it also made a strange kind of sense, considering the owner.
Still, it was a helluva lot better than the alternative and John unpacked and spent the first night hunkered down in front of the TV on a very comfortable couch.
It wasn’t until later, when he showered in Rodney’s shower and crawled into Rodney’s bed that John understood what Rodney meant by “getting weird”. It was weird. Or maybe just ironic, that he should end up here, in Rodney’s bed, after spending most of the last two and a half years keeping his and Rodney’s relationship strictly platonic.
The more time they spent together, the more John had to learn not to stare at Rodney’s mouth or his nipples in those damn blue science team shirts and he had to work really hard to never, ever let thoughts of Rodney sneak into his head when he was jerking off.
But all that discipline went to hell after John slipped between the sheets of Rodney’s bed. At first, he blamed the heat pooling in his groin to his long dry spell. He kept his eyes closed and tried desperately to fall asleep. He tossed and he turned and on one of those turns, John pressed his face into a pillow that he could have sworn smelled like Rodney. The vague arousal that had been teasing him suddenly had direction and John was hard and aching, thinking about the nights that Rodney had been right here, maybe as horny as John was and as alone, wanting to fuck somebody who was absent and untouchable.
John flipped onto his back, feeling edgy and restless. He kept his hands at his sides, opening and closing, away from his body, because his skin, all of his skin was hot, sensitized to the slightest touch. The calluses on his hands caught on the smooth sheets and John knew just how good those rough spots felt on his dick once it was slick, once he was pushing up into the tight grip of his fingers. He thought about Rodney’s hands, Rodney’s big, capable hands, wrapped around his dick, Rodney’s wide mouth pressed against John’s neck, panting and kissing him, touching him -
John pushed his hips up just a little, against the soft barrier of the sheet and blanket, just a tease, then let one hand brush across the front of his boxers, where his dick was pushing at the opening, nearly jutting out of the slit. Pleasure burned through him from that barely-there touch and with a groan from deep in John’s chest, he shoved his hand down his boxers and let himself think about Rodney.
Rodney and his pale, wide shoulders and his broad chest and his thighs and his blue eyes that showed every single thing he was thinking and feeling. After just a dozen strokes, John came with a harsh gasp.
Afterward, he felt thoroughly wrecked but ready to try and sleep. He cleaned himself up and got back into Rodney’s bed, lying on his stomach with his arms stretched wide, as though he were embracing something - or someone.
***
During the first week, he didn’t spend much time at Rodney’s house. There was a three day orientation session he was expected to attend (as if he had never been offworld before, John thought crankily) and General Landry threw him two minor, unimportant missions one right after another.
During the second week, though, he had the weekend to himself and John spent it puttering around the condo.
Living in Rodney’s house was a little like walking around inside Rodney’s head. He didn’t go snooping through drawers but there was stuff out in the open that John couldn’t help but look at. Like Rodney's music. Rodney’s CD collection was modest but eclectic - Rachmaninoff and Chopin next to Van Morrison, The Doors and every 80s compilation Rhino Records ever made.
There were no fewer than six sets of bookshelves in the condo, crowded with books and journals on a variety of subjects, mostly physics and engineering but there were also some basic cookbooks and a sweet collection of vintage Batman comics.
In the kitchen, there was a cappuccino machine that looked as complicated as a particle accelerator, a drawer full of takeout menus and several top of the line appliances that looked like they’d never been used.
All in all, the whole thing left John with a warm affection for Rodney that he had trouble getting rid of.
***
Three weekends after he moved in, a storm moved over the Rockies, bringing rain, gusting winds and occasional hail. It was a perfect night for reading. John had just sterilized his hands and was about to grab Batman #18 (1942 Fourth of July issue, with the Dark Knight battling Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito) from its archival folder when the doorbell rang.
John opened it and saw Rodney’s wet, unhappy face looking back at him. “We need to get drunk,” John said.
Rodney elbowed his way inside. “Now you’re talking.”
He ordered pizza while Rodney showered, changed and did a discreet check of the condo. “Why did you move my computer? I didn’t authorize that,” Rodney said as he came out into the living room in bare feet, sweat pants and an MIT tee shirt, all pink-skinned and clean smelling.
John tried to breathe through his mouth and busied himself with taking the tops off of two beers while he answered. “I couldn’t see the TV with it way over there. I wanted to surf the ‘Net while Star Trek was on.”
“Oh, well. As long as you had a good reason.”
Rodney dropped down on the love seat beside John and John handed him a beer. “Here ya go, buddy. Welcome home.”
As soon as John said the word, a corner of Rodney’s mouth dropped and John tried to backtrack. “Uh, I mean, welcome back to, well, this place - ”
“Yes. Articulate as always. Thank you, Colonel, I know what you meant.” Rodney took a long drink and John flushed when he caught himself watching with too much interest. John took a swig himself and tried to cool down. It was the first time he’d been with Rodney since the super spectacular jerk-off session of three weeks earlier and John felt hot and a little freaked out. His jeans started to feel a little tight and John had to talk himself down in a hurry.
And really, was that all it took? One little slip and now, he couldn’t control himself? No, he thought, of course he could. And the beer? The beer would help. Even though it never had before.
“You know what? I’m starting to feel a little sentimental here and you know how I hate that. I’m going to put on a movie.”
John watched Rodney get up and go to the entertainment center. “What are you doing? There aren’t any - ” Before he could finish his thought, Rodney pushed at something on the bottom of the cabinet and a door sprung open, revealing a hidden compartment full of DVDs.
“Awesome,” John said, going over to join Rodney on the floor. “Whatcha got in there?”
“My taste tends to run more to comedy than drama. I know, surprising, isn’t it? I suppose it has to do with my desperate need for release from - ”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Oh, Young Frankenstein? Cool.”
Rodney grinned at him. “That’s Frauhk-en-steen.”
John grinned back and they held each other’s gazes for a beat longer than was really necessary. John broke first and turned his attention back to the movies. After a couple of seconds of browsing, he pulled a case out. “Oh, this is the one. I haven’t seen this in years.”
Rodney looked at the cover and nodded his approval. “High Anxiety it is.”
The pizza arrived during Dr. Wentworth’s murder. He and Rodney ate and drank and laughed their asses off and it was the most at ease John had been since leaving Atlantis.
By the time the movie was over, they had gone through an entire supreme pizza and two six packs. John’s head felt almost as heavy as his gut and judging from the way Rodney was slumped next to him, he was in much the same shape.
“Wow,” Rodney muttered, wiggling down a little further and putting his feet up on the coffee table, “I’m drunk.”
“Me, too.” John blinked slowly at the darkened TV screen. He nudged Rodney with an elbow. “Movie’s over.”
“Ow. That’s my liver.” Rodney elbowed him back. “I’m going to need that later tonight.”
John leaned his head back and smiled. “Probably need it right now.”
“Hmm. Hey, y’know what?” John turned his head and Rodney was looking back at him, smiling his lopsided, sweet smile. “You’re a good tenant.”
“I’m not paying you anything, Rodney.” John’s heart flipped. His head was spinning, too, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the liquor. He liked that smile on Rodney. He wanted to lean over and stamp a kiss right on top of it.
“No, no, I just meant - this is nice. Just you and me, like when we were - like old times.”
John looked away from Rodney and toward the TV again. No, Rodney. Don’t do it.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But you know how good I am about bringing up forbidden subjects.” John hated the way Rodney sounded, kind of miserable and lost.
“We don’t belong here anymore. This is all wrong. And I’m afraid - that we’re never going back. Do you ever think about that?”
John closed his eyes. No. He had never thought about it. Except before he fell asleep at night. Or when he was offworld with the wrong team. Or every time he had to open a door with his hand. But John knew he couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t acknowledge the possibility that they’d never see Atlantis again. It just hurt too much.
“It’s home, in a way that this can never be again. I didn’t realize - not until they kicked us out.”
John felt movement against his hand where it rested on the couch and looked down to see Rodney’s big square hand, pressing insistently against the side of John’s. Any notion that John had about breathing disappeared in the rush of heat and panic that engulfed him. Then Rodney’s little finger lifted and curled around John’s and they were almost holding hands and John struggled not to make an embarrassing sound.
“Teyla and Ronon. I can’t get them out of my head. They need us. I won’t be able to live with myself if - if something were to - ”
He couldn’t take it anymore, Rodney’s voice, Rodney’s pushy damn words. It took just a small movement and their hands were pressed palm to palm, pulse to pulse, fingers interlaced and holding on tight.
“Don’t, Rodney,” John said, his voice hoarse and strained, both from the conversation and Rodney’s touch. He sat there, letting Rodney’s warmth bleed into him. “Just. Don’t.”
“John?” He looked didn’t look at Rodney but looked at their hands, clasped together and he wanted - he wanted so much. “Are we - is this because we’re fucked up because we can’t go home? Or is it - could it be something else?”
Rodney’s voice ended on a hopeful upswing and it nearly broke John to hear it. His heart was pounding in his chest and his throat was tight with regret for all the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. Still, it was a while before he could let go. He stood up, slowly because he was still dizzy as hell and he gently pulled his hand away from Rodney’s.
“We should get to bed,” John said hoarsely. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. You take the bed.”
He imagined that he could hear Rodney swallow hard, just before he stood up. John took a quick glance at Rodney’s face and found that Rodney looked just as wrecked as John felt.
“Oh. Are you sure? I would argue but that’s a prescription mattress and - ” Rodney sounded breathless and defeated and it was all so wrong.
John started babbling. He had no idea what he was saying. “Yeah, no problem. This is a good couch. I’ll be fine.”
But neither of them moved and the silence went on for so long that John looked up. Rodney was watching him, John realized, with such open emotion that John couldn’t take a breath. If he’d ever needed, or wanted, proof that he could have Rodney McKay, it was right there, in Rodney’s blue eyes.
But when Rodney walked past him, John let him go.
He grabbed a blanket and pillow out of the closet, stripped off his jeans and turned all the lights out. But he didn’t even pretend that he was going to sleep. Instead, he stretched out on the couch and listened to the sounds of Rodney getting ready for bed. The shower went on and then off and then everything went silent.
John turned on his side, shivering. He wrapped his arms around himself and thought about the world of possibilities that had been opened up to him tonight, thought about getting up and just fucking taking what he wanted. They couldn’t go home to Atlantis; Atlantis was gone, maybe forever. But Rodney was here- and he was -
He got to his feet before he could change his mind. John went down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. In seconds, Rodney was there, in tee shirt and boxers, his hair damp and wildly out of place, backlit by the small bedside lamp.
“Colonel? What’s wrong?”
John put his hands on Rodney’s broad shoulders and he kissed him, stroking his tongue into Rodney's mouth, making his case without a word. And when Rodney kissed him back, there was only a single thought in John's head.
Finally.
The Tiram people were, much to John’s surprise, the simple farmers that Teyla had described in the briefing. Teyla negotiated a nice trade; for a portion of their crops, the Lanteans would provide laborers and assistance with improved farming techniques.
There were no weird alien rituals to perform, no alien gods offended and no secret underground bunkers. They stood around the DHD with the Tiram leadership and took their leave, shaking hands and making promises to see each other again soon.
Still, John wouldn’t let himself relax until they were back on home soil again. “Well, that was easy,” he said to his teammates once they were back in the gateroom.
“Yep,” Ronon said and then rubbed his hands together. “Okay. Time for lunch.” And he’s gone.
Teyla smiled. “And it is time for Torrin’s lunch as well. I’ll see you later for sparring, Rodney?”
Rodney’s expression faded a little. “Right.” And Teyla left them, too.
John looked at Rodney, resting his hands on his P-90. “How about you? Lunch?” John allowed his gaze to travel over Rodney slowly. He could do that now and he didn't give a fuck who saw him. All that mattered was that everyone was safe. Rodney was safe.
"Yes. After I change.” They dropped off their weapons at the armory and their tac vests in the ready room. They were silent during the ride in the transporter but once they were in Rodney’s quarters, John pulled Rodney close and gave him a hard kiss. “Asshole,” he said, pressing kisses along Rodney’s face and neck. “I saw that milkmaid flirting with you.”
Rodney’s big hands squeezed John’s ass. “She had a genuine interest in science,” Rodney said, and John heard the teasing note in his voice.
“Like hell,” John growled in Rodney’s ear. “She had a genuine interest in getting into your pants.”
John felt Rodney smile against his neck. “Apparently, she’s not the only one.” And John had already started working on Rodney’s zipper so he couldn’t argue the point.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
He was barely listening, he was so intent on his task. “What?” John as he opened up Rodney’s pants and got his hand on Rodney’s big, hard dick. He gave it a few quick strokes before pushing Rodney toward the bed.
Rodney’s arms tightened around him, his gaze hot and hungry. “It turns you on. Watching people flirt with me. Doesn’t it?”
John thought about that girl, the pretty Tiram girl who had followed Rodney around all morning, who had looked at Rodney like he was a big bowl of cream, like she wanted to lick him all over. And he realized that Rodney was right. It had turned him on.
He smiled slowly and kissed Rodney’s mouth and nipped at his tongue. “Yeah, I like it,” John said roughly, rubbing his bristly chin against Rodney’s, “because I know they aren’t going to get anywhere. Because I know you’re going home with me.”
“John,” Rodney groaned and manhandled John over to the bed. John got his pants open in record time and Rodney settled over him, pushing their cocks together. They moved together and every slide and drag of skin against skin brought them closer to the edge of sweet release. John arched up, rubbing his chest against Rodney’s, his heart full of things he never believed he would have.
Afterwards, Rodney curled up against him and went right to sleep. But John couldn’t close his eyes. He looked around, at Rodney’s Wall of Fame, at the laptop open on his desk, at their clothes strewn about on the floor. Beyond, he looked to the balcony where the ocean of New Lantea shimmered and shifted and John thought he’d never been more content.
Sometimes, the Pegasus Galaxy really kicked their asses but sometimes, like right now, everything just fell into place and lined up, like a perfect equation or an especially stellar wave.
And sometimes, John thought about his mom, who had taught him that it didn’t matter how many homes he had, as long as he ended up in the one that made him happiest. Lying there, with Rodney’s arm heavy over his chest and with Atlantis’ embrace around both of them, John knew he’d found that place.
**
Poll Vote for this story
Author: tex and lamardeuse
Team: Home
Prompt: Rolling stone
Pairing(s): John/Rodney, John/Nancy, John/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None (spoilers to Outcast)
Summary: Home isn't always a place.
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**
John Thoreau Sheppard was born during the Summer of Love in San Francisco, 1967. He was the product of his father’s great rebellion and Patrick never let him forget it.
Patrick walked out of the St. Francis on the Powell Street side and let the doorman hail him a cab. It was only ten in the morning and he was already feeling rushed and harassed. His father was pushing him to make a decision about his place in the business, his goals and the direction he was going and this trip was supposed to help with that. Patrick was handling the details of an expansion of their business to the West Coast. It was a huge responsibility but despite his degree from Harvard and the experience he’d gained since graduation, he was feeling overwhelmed and smothered by his father’s attention.
The girl appeared at his side, transmitting calm and sweetness. Come with me, she said, and she took his hand in hers. Patrick was startled, then intrigued. She was beautiful, so unlike the girls he knew back home, with their sweater sets and pinned up hair. Long, straight black hair framed her narrow face, her eyes a rich brown. She looked like some ethereal creature, dressed in something white and gauzy that billowed around her slender body like smoke. Just the feel of her warm, soft hand in his gave his body a jolt, like he’d been startled out of sleep.
He was the oldest son. His father had expectations, plans for him. But something, perhaps those very expectations and the weight of them that he’d carried since he was a teenager, compelled Patrick to tighten his fingers around hers and allow her to lead him across the street, into the cacophony of Union Square.
He yanked off his tie and opened his shirt collar and took his first breath of free air. And Patrick ended that first day, not in his comfortable room at the St. Francis, but asleep on a mattress on the floor of a Divisadero Street flat, his arms full of a girl named Skye.
After a couple of days, she earnestly told him that her name wasn’t really Skye (he’d kissed her soundly for that). Her name was Sarah Kelley, she was 20 and she had arrived in San Francisco from Wichita only two days before they met. Wichita had never felt like home, and when she learned that some friends were planning to travel west, she decided to tag along. Patrick held her close and told her that his story was much the same; he didn’t tell her about his family or where he came from. It all seemed so far away, anyway.
Patrick fell into his new life with abandon, giving up his suits for jeans and tee shirts he found in second (and third) hand stores in the Haight. He quit shaving, and for a time when he and Skye were kicked out of the Divisadero flat, they learned the efficiency of bathing in the water fountain in Golden Gate Park. After that, Patrick got a job bussing tables in a tearoom and Skye joined a group of street musicians, playing for change from passersby.
The owners of the tearoom allowed Patrick and Skye to occupy a tiny back room with barely enough space for a mattress and a chair and gave them a hot meal at night. It was a far cry from their previous lives but they had all they needed. At night, they read to each other from Thoreau and Whitman, and spent hours making love.
The first time that Skye got sick, she tried to soothe Patrick’s worry, blaming it on the previous day’s lunch. He grabbed onto that excuse with both hands because the alternative was too frightening. After the second and third time, though, neither of them could deny the truth. Skye cried happy tears in Patrick’s arms and Patrick shivered and blinked rapidly - they were going to be parents.
Patrick decided he owed his father a phone call and he made it the next morning, from a phone booth near the tearoom. They hadn’t spoken in months, since the day that Patrick had decided to make a home in San Francisco with Skye. His father had been furious and blamed him for the potential downfall of the family business in particular and the US economy in general. So the call that he made to tell his parents about Skye’s pregnancy was half Fuck you and half a proud See what I did.
But Patrick didn’t get the reaction he had anticipated. His mother told him how happy she was, how much she loved him and tearfully begged him to return. Even his father seemed pleased and eager to forgive and forget. When he got off the phone, Patrick was shaken and suddenly terrified by the enormity of it all. As the months passed, he and Skye spent a lot of time holding each other and not saying what they were both thinking - that a postage stamp sized room was no home for a little baby.
They got married at city hall two months before their son was born in the back of the tearoom. They named him John, for Skye’s grandfather and Thoreau, to honor their beginnings.
“When you were a baby, you were very sick.” His mother used to hold him in her lap with her arms around him and tell him about the other place he lived. “So Granny and Grandpa came and brought some really smart doctors who made you feel better. And then, we all got on an airplane and now, this is our home.” Whenever his Mom told the story, her eyes would look sad. So John would look up, pat her cheek and say, “Shhh, I’m all better now.”
There were two gates at John’s house - a big one, by the road where the street was busy and there were lots of cars and another, smaller gate close to the house - and between the two gates was a long road that went all the way up the hill. Straight, no curves and when John got on his bike, he could ride from the top to the bottom without even pedaling. It was fun, especially after he learned to ride no handed because it was almost like he was flying.
Sometimes, when his mom or Davey the tattletale or Miss Annie or the guys who worked with the horses weren’t watching, he’d go around and around on the driveway, as fast as he could and then take off down the hill and that, John was sure, was flying.
He could barely feel the wheels on the road and the wind would rush by his ears so that it sounded like plane engines. And when he put his arms out, he pretended they were wings and that when he got to the bottom of the hill, he’d just keep going - up over the heavy iron gate, over the cars, over the trees, over the Bay, even and up into the stars. It was the most fun ever.
One day, though, when John rode down the hill, he decided to see what happened if he stood up on the pedals.
It didn’t work so well the first time.
John lay in the grass for a while after he fell, trying to get his breath back and that’s when he noticed his arm hurt really bad. He was older then, almost seven, so he didn’t cry, even though he kinda wanted to. He lifted his head and blinked fast, till his eyes stopped being blurry and at the top of the hill, he could see the gate around his house.
It looked so far away and when he stood up, John felt funny, like the time he got on the merry-go-round at the playground after he ate all that spaghetti. But he started walking anyway, keeping his eyes on the gate, then the piece of the roof that he could see when he got a little closer.
It took a long time but John made it to the driveway and when he saw his house, he started to cry. He just wanted to get inside - if he could just get to his room, he’d be okay. He'd just got some really cool planes for his birthday and his mom was going to help him put strings on them so they could hang them from the ceiling. He wanted to do that today; he didn’t want to ride bikes anymore.
When he was close enough, John saw his mom in the big front window and when she saw him, she started to run.
When they got back from the hospital, John felt funny, sleepy and dizzy all at once and his left arm was in a white cast. His dad came to the hospital and didn’t even go back to work after. He carried John inside and put him in bed and he didn’t yell once. His mom didn’t either, even though he broke the rule about riding his bike with no hands.
He went to sleep pretty fast and when he woke up, it was dark and his mom was there, sitting next to him, holding his hand.
“You mad at me?” John asked.
His mom shook her head. “No, sweetheart, I’m not mad.”
“I broke the rule.”
His mom rubbed her thumb over his hand. “Yes, you did. But I know you’re sorry. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but - ”
“But what?”
“It’s like flying, Mom. It’s the most funnest thing I’ve ever done.”
His mom smiled at him. John thought his mother was the prettiest mother in the whole town. All the other mothers had their hair all pulled up into buns or ponytails but John’s mom’s hair was long and straight, like a waterfall and it was the same color as John’s. “Oh, John. I know how much you want to fly and you’ll do it one day. But you have to wait until you’re a big guy, okay? No more flying down the drive way.”
John sighed. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good. Now. Are you hungry?”
John nodded happily.
“How about a hamburger? Chips?”
“Oh, yeah.”
His mom leaned over and kissed him on top of the head. “Be right back.”
“Mom? Can you bring me one of my new planes?”
She brought him one of the old ones, the one with the blades in front that his dad called a prop. John put it in bed with him and moved the prop around and around with one finger.
He could hear his dad’s voice downstairs and his mom’s, too. John liked it when the house was quiet and he could hear his parents talk. Sometimes, late at night, they yelled and it scared Davey and he would crawl into bed with John. And the worst thing was when his mom’s eyes looked red.
But when things were quiet, like now, it was the best thing ever. It made him feel like everything was okay. Like even with a broken arm, everything was going to be okay.
John stopped trying to please his father when he was thirteen, six months to the day after his mother died. It was more terrifying than anything he'd ever done, like suddenly stepping out into space, no gravity anywhere.
And then it felt fucking terrific.
When he was fourteen, John told his father he didn't want to become a businessman like him.
When he was sixteen, he told his father he was going to Stanford, not Harvard. (By then, it was getting easier.)
When he was nineteen, he told his father he was joining the Air Force when he graduated. (Piece of cake.)
He never told his father that he was bi, because he only told him things he couldn't avoid telling him. After all, he might come home one day in a uniform, but he'd never show up on his father's doorstep arm in arm with another guy. There were some things even John knew were Just Not Done.
Santa Cruz in the summertime was a crazy, tourist-packed furnace, and the only good place to be - for John, at least - was on the beach, or better yet, in the water. This wasn't the best season for waves, but a lot of the guys out there were primarily there to get laid, and there was just enough surf for them to accomplish the goal of looking sufficiently impressive to score.
John usually ignored everyone else when he was surfing; he still wasn't as good at it as he wanted to be, and he didn't need the distraction of admiring onlookers or gaping teenage girls. But this day was different, because when he happened to glance back at the beach after a particularly spectacular wipeout, he saw Todd watching him.
Todd was a surfer's surfer, a guy in his mid- to late thirties who was in better shape than most of the college kids on boards. He had a decent job doing something - John had no idea what - but he also managed to spend about half his life on the beach, which was the kind of wholehearted, obsessive dedication most of the other guys appreciated. They'd talked a few times, about football, mostly, and John had thought he'd seen something in his eyes once, but in the next breath he'd convinced himself he was crazy. Besides, he was self-aware enough to realize he had a little crush on the guy, and so he knew he wasn't exactly a good judge.
Now, though, there was no mistaking it; Todd was watching him, and maybe he'd been watching him for weeks, and John had been too oblivious to see it. As he waded through the surf to the shore, he convinced himself the rubbery feeling in his legs was from the adrenaline of the wipeout.
Todd's chin lifted when John walked up to him. “Thought you'd bit it there for a second,” he said, casually. Too casually? John had no clue. And what did that even mean, anyway?
Focus, John. He answered with a slow smile he hoped looked even a little bit sexy. “I'm still here,” he said, holding out his free arm, “in one piece.”
Todd took the invitation for what it was, gaze skidding down the length of John's body, and holy shit, holy shit, John had been right, and this was really going to happen - maybe -
“You had enough for the day?” Todd asked, jerking his head sideways. “'Cause if you had, I thought I'd take you to dinner.”
John shrugged, like it was no big deal, like his heart wasn't pounding three hundred miles an hour. “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”
Half an hour later, John discovered that 'take you to dinner' meant melt-in-your-mouth surf and turf at Todd's five-star beachfront hotel, which apparently he fucking owned. Two hours after that, John was splayed out on Todd's bed like a sacrifice, groaning into the space bounded by his folded arms as Todd slid a slick finger into his ass.
“You've never done this before, have you?” Todd breathed, and John tensed, arm muscles bunching under his forehead. “Tell me.”
John only swiveled his hips, urging Todd in deeper, because it wasn't something Todd needed to know, and it sure as hell wasn't something John wanted to tell. When Todd finally pushed his cock inside, trying to make a home for himself in John's body, John let him in, because John knew he wouldn't overstay his welcome. Probably for the same reason, Todd asked John to move in with him a week later.
In August, after a summer of sun, surfing, sand and sex, John packed his bags and headed off to his senior year at Stanford, and just like the last time he'd left home, nobody was there to wave goodbye.
When John told Nancy he was leaving for good, she shook her head, and then she actually chuckled.
“What's so damn funny?” John demanded, feeling more brittle and likely to shatter than he ever had in his life. Nancy must have heard it in his tone, because her head snapped up, and for an instant, there was a hint of fear on her face, like she'd finally realized just what he did for a living.
“It's just -” Nancy hesitated, then sighed. “It's only that I don't know if you were ever really here.”
He met Nancy at William and Mary, where he was getting his Master's degree part-time. She was a TA in his stats course, and she helped him get caught up when he missed classes because of missions. One night he took her out to thank her and she watched him the whole time with an odd, measuring look on her face, like she was trying to cram him into an x-y axis, compute his standard deviation over time. It was comforting, somehow, to think that somebody might be able to figure him out.
Two years later, they were married, and even with a fourteen-month engagement, John still woke up the morning after his wedding wondering who this person was. Because the reality was that Nancy was as much of a mystery to him as he still was to her, and numbers hadn't helped at all. She got snapped up by the NSA the minute she finished her thesis defense, so they bought a house halfway between Langley and DC, an aging Cape Cod in an unremarkable neighborhood with creaky stairs and a back yard whose lawn had long since given up the will to live. John flew missions into places no American would be caught alive in, and a week later he'd be walking back and forth across that blasted, moss-encrusted terrain pushing a broadcast spreader full of lime, and then the absurdity of his life would come up and smack him in the face like a wet fish. He knew he had to get away from that house and that godforsaken lawn or he'd lose what was left of his mind.
He didn't talk about it, just started looking in the DC classifieds, and when he found a good apartment, he picked her up from work one Friday and drove over to it. The real estate agent knew she had him, but she wasn't sure about Nancy, and neither was John.
“John, are you sure?” she said, and her hand strayed over the marble countertop and he thought, please, please with the fervency of prayer.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling like a shit, “I think it's going to make a great home.”
He convinced her, and in the process, he even convinced himself. By the time John packed his bags the night of the move, he actually thought this might be the last time he'd want to.
“Sheppard,” Colonel Varner said, his smile mostly a snarl, “I am going to ship your insubordinate ass to the end of the world, and I fucking hope you fall right off it.”
“Can't wait, sir,” John said, and wasn't at all surprised to realize he meant it.
Antarctica was the best place he'd ever lived. Really. There were a lot of social goings-on at McMurdo, parties and casual hookups and crazy stunts involving barbecuing with the aid of acetylene blowtorches, hell, maybe even satanic rituals out back of the biology labs for all John knew. Best of all, though, was that you had the option not to participate if you wanted, and John didn't want. He didn't need anything to distract him from the isolation of the place; that was one of its prime attractions, as far as he was concerned. After politely turning down offers a few times, he found that people just quit asking and let him be. It was great.
About seven months into his tour, he started ferrying civilians, foreign military and USAF personnel to this base about two hundred klicks from McMurdo, in a place no one else knew a base existed, using a Jet Ranger with civilian markings instead of his usual Chinook. His CO quietly told him not to worry, that he would file John's flight plans for him, and John nodded and said yes, sir, because this much he remembered from his time with black ops - die if you must, but do not under any circumstances leave a paper trail. In those temperatures, John knew it would be suicide if they went down and there was no easy way to find them, so he concentrated on not going down. He didn't even wonder why he'd been tapped as the ferryman across the Styx; it was obvious enough. He just concentrated on doing his job, because as shitty as it was, it was all he had left.
One day, he walked into the hangar and landed in the middle of an impending international incident. Johnson, one of the pilots for the Christchurch run, was being berated by a guy wearing a fleece jacket in the most eye-bruising shade of orange John had ever seen. The 'international' came from Orange Guy's pronounced Canadian accent, which was lacing his mile-a-minute invective. John liked Canadian accents, had always found them kind of lilting and musical - before now, that is, because this guy's ranting was about as musical as a wet fart.
“Really, what part of 'you're going too fast, you moron?' don't you understand?” Orange raged. “I realize that some of the words were two-syllable and thus were perhaps confusing, but you could have asked for clarification - oh, wait, that's five syllables - ”
Johnson, who was about the most well-adjusted - and the nicest - guy on base, actually turned toward Orange with eyes that looked - huh. Kind of like one of those demented Pekingese dogs you'd see in supermarket parking lots, the ones who'd yip and bark at you with such ferocity that you knew if they ever managed to escape the confines of their owners' Volvo would bite your face clean off. Maybe he wasn't so well-adjusted after all, or maybe it was just that Orange could bring out the hidden psychopath in Santa Claus.
Before Johnson could be court martialed for the (undoubtedly justifiable) murder of a civilian, John pasted on his best smile and stepped forward. “You been breaking the speed of sound in that Herc again, Ho-Jo?” he drawled, stepping forward.
Johnson shot him a look of abject gratitude. “'Bout as much as you are in that busted-ass shithook of yours, Shep,” he said, the inclination to homicide leaving his demeanor.
Orange stared back and forth between them for a moment, then waved a hand. “Hello, I was talking?” he demanded.
“Yeah, I heard you,” John said, grinning as he turned to Orange. “I think the penguins on the other side of the island heard you, too.”
Johnson snorted. When Orange rounded on him, he ducked his head and said, “Well, gotta go, bye,” and broke the speed of light leaving the hangar deck, because suddenly he was just gone.
“I wasn't finished with you!” Orange shouted at the empty air. John stepped closer, and Orange wheeled back around, and suddenly they were practically nose to nose. Orange's eyes were really, really blue, and his cheeks were pink from either the cold or fury or both, and he smelled - kind of good, and shit, no, no.
“What?” Orange demanded, and okay, this was getting stupid.
“What's your name?” John demanded back.
Orange actually puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, and John did not just find that cute. “My name is Doctor M. Rodney McKay,” he said.
“Medical?”
“Physics,” McKay said, “and engineering.”
“That's good,” John said, “'cause your bedside manner would probably kill people.”
“Oh, like I haven't heard that one before,” McKay shot back. “And what's your name?”
“Major John T. Sheppard, United States Air Force,” John said, sticking out a hand.
McKay raised his eyebrows. “Your christening must have taken all day,” he drawled, and John barked a surprised laugh as McKay took his hand and shook it, his grip firm and strong. “I take it you're going to be my torturer for the second leg of this interminable journey?”
“Looks that way,” John said easily, ignoring the warmth that lingered in his palm after McKay had released him. “But if you start freaking out on me while I'm flying, I promise you I will pitch you into the nearest ice crevasse. Got it?”
McKay's chin lifted even further, gaze measuring John's resolve, and his estimation of his soon-to-be passenger went up a few notches. Then he nodded, once, and John felt a strange, molasses-taffy pull toward this annoying asshole that made no sense whatsoever.
“Good,” John said. “We'll be leaving in twenty, then.”
Two hours later, they were hovering over the weird domed structure that denoted the secret base, and John turned to see such a look of wonder and pure happiness on McKay’s face that it stopped John's breath for a moment.
“What?” John demanded.
“I just - ” McKay visibly groped for words. “I think I've finally come home.”
“Weird place to find it,” John murmured, “on the edge of the world.”
McKay nodded. “What better place to fall off the world,” he said, “than at its edge?” and John turned to stare at him, narrowly avoiding losing control of the chopper as he did.
When he walked through the wormhole and into Atlantis for the first time, the city lit up for him. When he was forced to leave, he expected Atlantis to go dark. But it didn’t and John felt the betrayal down to his bones.
The SGC found him an apartment. It was light years away from the cool bachelor pad he’d conjured up on the Mist Planet. Three rooms and a bath, white walls, stained carpet, a view of the parking lot. John had seen military prisons with a more soothing atmosphere.
Rodney called the next day while he was still at the SGC and John took a moment out of his busy day to whine and complain to the only person he could. And Rodney made sympathetic noises until he finished.
“Huh. Sounds like one of those places for the mentally ill that you hear about in the States. When they go in and find people glued to their beds from infected sores.” John ground his teeth together. “Not helping.”
“Or it’s like that movie, Brubaker. The reformer comes in to make big changes and he finds a bunch of bodies buried in a field on the back 40. ”
“Rodney, I’m not kidding. I’m thinking of stealing an assault rifle from the armory and going on a shooting spree.”
“Okay, I get it, calm down.” He was using that quiet, soothing voice that Rodney always used whenever he sensed that John was pretty close to the edge, which, considering where they’d spent the last few years, averaged out to about twice a week. “Look, just - get out of there. You can stay at my house. I probably should have offered it from the beginning.”
“So why the hell didn’t you?”
“How did I know you wouldn’t get all weird on me? I don’t have that many friends in this galaxy, Colonel. I can’t afford to alienate the few that I have.”
John tried to control his breathing. Rodney’s offer was kind of - sweet and the tightness in his chest started to rearrange itself. He let his head fall against the back of his desk chair and he closed his eyes, letting Rodney’s chatter wash over him.
“I’ll overnight the keys to you so you can move in tomorrow. And don’t worry - a cleaning service comes in bimonthly so everything should be in order. Listen, don’t break anything. And no parties. And of course, it goes without saying that I don’t want any floozies in my bed - ”
“I’m hanging up now, Rodney,” John said, before Rodney could quote him any more rules. “And - thanks.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, nonplussed, and John could practically see him on the other end of the line, see his face clearing, that slight, wary smile curving his mouth whenever someone said something nice to him. “You’re welcome,” he added, with a genuine warmth that John remembered long after he’d hung up.
***
John told the SGC thanks but no thanks and let himself into Rodney’s condo with two boxes and a gym bag late the next afternoon. Rodney had been right - the place smelled clean and a quick check of the kitchen and the bathroom confirmed it. There was a layer of fine dust on everything but John had lived with far worse.
From the outside, McKay’s condo looked like any other but the inside looked weirdly like the interior of a cabin deep in the Canadian woods. Not that John had ever been in the Canadian woods, deep or otherwise, but he’d seen enough episodes of Bonanza to recognize “lodge” when he saw it. The horizontal plank paneling was the worst offender but it also made a strange kind of sense, considering the owner.
Still, it was a helluva lot better than the alternative and John unpacked and spent the first night hunkered down in front of the TV on a very comfortable couch.
It wasn’t until later, when he showered in Rodney’s shower and crawled into Rodney’s bed that John understood what Rodney meant by “getting weird”. It was weird. Or maybe just ironic, that he should end up here, in Rodney’s bed, after spending most of the last two and a half years keeping his and Rodney’s relationship strictly platonic.
The more time they spent together, the more John had to learn not to stare at Rodney’s mouth or his nipples in those damn blue science team shirts and he had to work really hard to never, ever let thoughts of Rodney sneak into his head when he was jerking off.
But all that discipline went to hell after John slipped between the sheets of Rodney’s bed. At first, he blamed the heat pooling in his groin to his long dry spell. He kept his eyes closed and tried desperately to fall asleep. He tossed and he turned and on one of those turns, John pressed his face into a pillow that he could have sworn smelled like Rodney. The vague arousal that had been teasing him suddenly had direction and John was hard and aching, thinking about the nights that Rodney had been right here, maybe as horny as John was and as alone, wanting to fuck somebody who was absent and untouchable.
John flipped onto his back, feeling edgy and restless. He kept his hands at his sides, opening and closing, away from his body, because his skin, all of his skin was hot, sensitized to the slightest touch. The calluses on his hands caught on the smooth sheets and John knew just how good those rough spots felt on his dick once it was slick, once he was pushing up into the tight grip of his fingers. He thought about Rodney’s hands, Rodney’s big, capable hands, wrapped around his dick, Rodney’s wide mouth pressed against John’s neck, panting and kissing him, touching him -
John pushed his hips up just a little, against the soft barrier of the sheet and blanket, just a tease, then let one hand brush across the front of his boxers, where his dick was pushing at the opening, nearly jutting out of the slit. Pleasure burned through him from that barely-there touch and with a groan from deep in John’s chest, he shoved his hand down his boxers and let himself think about Rodney.
Rodney and his pale, wide shoulders and his broad chest and his thighs and his blue eyes that showed every single thing he was thinking and feeling. After just a dozen strokes, John came with a harsh gasp.
Afterward, he felt thoroughly wrecked but ready to try and sleep. He cleaned himself up and got back into Rodney’s bed, lying on his stomach with his arms stretched wide, as though he were embracing something - or someone.
***
During the first week, he didn’t spend much time at Rodney’s house. There was a three day orientation session he was expected to attend (as if he had never been offworld before, John thought crankily) and General Landry threw him two minor, unimportant missions one right after another.
During the second week, though, he had the weekend to himself and John spent it puttering around the condo.
Living in Rodney’s house was a little like walking around inside Rodney’s head. He didn’t go snooping through drawers but there was stuff out in the open that John couldn’t help but look at. Like Rodney's music. Rodney’s CD collection was modest but eclectic - Rachmaninoff and Chopin next to Van Morrison, The Doors and every 80s compilation Rhino Records ever made.
There were no fewer than six sets of bookshelves in the condo, crowded with books and journals on a variety of subjects, mostly physics and engineering but there were also some basic cookbooks and a sweet collection of vintage Batman comics.
In the kitchen, there was a cappuccino machine that looked as complicated as a particle accelerator, a drawer full of takeout menus and several top of the line appliances that looked like they’d never been used.
All in all, the whole thing left John with a warm affection for Rodney that he had trouble getting rid of.
***
Three weekends after he moved in, a storm moved over the Rockies, bringing rain, gusting winds and occasional hail. It was a perfect night for reading. John had just sterilized his hands and was about to grab Batman #18 (1942 Fourth of July issue, with the Dark Knight battling Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito) from its archival folder when the doorbell rang.
John opened it and saw Rodney’s wet, unhappy face looking back at him. “We need to get drunk,” John said.
Rodney elbowed his way inside. “Now you’re talking.”
He ordered pizza while Rodney showered, changed and did a discreet check of the condo. “Why did you move my computer? I didn’t authorize that,” Rodney said as he came out into the living room in bare feet, sweat pants and an MIT tee shirt, all pink-skinned and clean smelling.
John tried to breathe through his mouth and busied himself with taking the tops off of two beers while he answered. “I couldn’t see the TV with it way over there. I wanted to surf the ‘Net while Star Trek was on.”
“Oh, well. As long as you had a good reason.”
Rodney dropped down on the love seat beside John and John handed him a beer. “Here ya go, buddy. Welcome home.”
As soon as John said the word, a corner of Rodney’s mouth dropped and John tried to backtrack. “Uh, I mean, welcome back to, well, this place - ”
“Yes. Articulate as always. Thank you, Colonel, I know what you meant.” Rodney took a long drink and John flushed when he caught himself watching with too much interest. John took a swig himself and tried to cool down. It was the first time he’d been with Rodney since the super spectacular jerk-off session of three weeks earlier and John felt hot and a little freaked out. His jeans started to feel a little tight and John had to talk himself down in a hurry.
And really, was that all it took? One little slip and now, he couldn’t control himself? No, he thought, of course he could. And the beer? The beer would help. Even though it never had before.
“You know what? I’m starting to feel a little sentimental here and you know how I hate that. I’m going to put on a movie.”
John watched Rodney get up and go to the entertainment center. “What are you doing? There aren’t any - ” Before he could finish his thought, Rodney pushed at something on the bottom of the cabinet and a door sprung open, revealing a hidden compartment full of DVDs.
“Awesome,” John said, going over to join Rodney on the floor. “Whatcha got in there?”
“My taste tends to run more to comedy than drama. I know, surprising, isn’t it? I suppose it has to do with my desperate need for release from - ”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Oh, Young Frankenstein? Cool.”
Rodney grinned at him. “That’s Frauhk-en-steen.”
John grinned back and they held each other’s gazes for a beat longer than was really necessary. John broke first and turned his attention back to the movies. After a couple of seconds of browsing, he pulled a case out. “Oh, this is the one. I haven’t seen this in years.”
Rodney looked at the cover and nodded his approval. “High Anxiety it is.”
The pizza arrived during Dr. Wentworth’s murder. He and Rodney ate and drank and laughed their asses off and it was the most at ease John had been since leaving Atlantis.
By the time the movie was over, they had gone through an entire supreme pizza and two six packs. John’s head felt almost as heavy as his gut and judging from the way Rodney was slumped next to him, he was in much the same shape.
“Wow,” Rodney muttered, wiggling down a little further and putting his feet up on the coffee table, “I’m drunk.”
“Me, too.” John blinked slowly at the darkened TV screen. He nudged Rodney with an elbow. “Movie’s over.”
“Ow. That’s my liver.” Rodney elbowed him back. “I’m going to need that later tonight.”
John leaned his head back and smiled. “Probably need it right now.”
“Hmm. Hey, y’know what?” John turned his head and Rodney was looking back at him, smiling his lopsided, sweet smile. “You’re a good tenant.”
“I’m not paying you anything, Rodney.” John’s heart flipped. His head was spinning, too, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the liquor. He liked that smile on Rodney. He wanted to lean over and stamp a kiss right on top of it.
“No, no, I just meant - this is nice. Just you and me, like when we were - like old times.”
John looked away from Rodney and toward the TV again. No, Rodney. Don’t do it.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But you know how good I am about bringing up forbidden subjects.” John hated the way Rodney sounded, kind of miserable and lost.
“We don’t belong here anymore. This is all wrong. And I’m afraid - that we’re never going back. Do you ever think about that?”
John closed his eyes. No. He had never thought about it. Except before he fell asleep at night. Or when he was offworld with the wrong team. Or every time he had to open a door with his hand. But John knew he couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t acknowledge the possibility that they’d never see Atlantis again. It just hurt too much.
“It’s home, in a way that this can never be again. I didn’t realize - not until they kicked us out.”
John felt movement against his hand where it rested on the couch and looked down to see Rodney’s big square hand, pressing insistently against the side of John’s. Any notion that John had about breathing disappeared in the rush of heat and panic that engulfed him. Then Rodney’s little finger lifted and curled around John’s and they were almost holding hands and John struggled not to make an embarrassing sound.
“Teyla and Ronon. I can’t get them out of my head. They need us. I won’t be able to live with myself if - if something were to - ”
He couldn’t take it anymore, Rodney’s voice, Rodney’s pushy damn words. It took just a small movement and their hands were pressed palm to palm, pulse to pulse, fingers interlaced and holding on tight.
“Don’t, Rodney,” John said, his voice hoarse and strained, both from the conversation and Rodney’s touch. He sat there, letting Rodney’s warmth bleed into him. “Just. Don’t.”
“John?” He looked didn’t look at Rodney but looked at their hands, clasped together and he wanted - he wanted so much. “Are we - is this because we’re fucked up because we can’t go home? Or is it - could it be something else?”
Rodney’s voice ended on a hopeful upswing and it nearly broke John to hear it. His heart was pounding in his chest and his throat was tight with regret for all the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. Still, it was a while before he could let go. He stood up, slowly because he was still dizzy as hell and he gently pulled his hand away from Rodney’s.
“We should get to bed,” John said hoarsely. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. You take the bed.”
He imagined that he could hear Rodney swallow hard, just before he stood up. John took a quick glance at Rodney’s face and found that Rodney looked just as wrecked as John felt.
“Oh. Are you sure? I would argue but that’s a prescription mattress and - ” Rodney sounded breathless and defeated and it was all so wrong.
John started babbling. He had no idea what he was saying. “Yeah, no problem. This is a good couch. I’ll be fine.”
But neither of them moved and the silence went on for so long that John looked up. Rodney was watching him, John realized, with such open emotion that John couldn’t take a breath. If he’d ever needed, or wanted, proof that he could have Rodney McKay, it was right there, in Rodney’s blue eyes.
But when Rodney walked past him, John let him go.
He grabbed a blanket and pillow out of the closet, stripped off his jeans and turned all the lights out. But he didn’t even pretend that he was going to sleep. Instead, he stretched out on the couch and listened to the sounds of Rodney getting ready for bed. The shower went on and then off and then everything went silent.
John turned on his side, shivering. He wrapped his arms around himself and thought about the world of possibilities that had been opened up to him tonight, thought about getting up and just fucking taking what he wanted. They couldn’t go home to Atlantis; Atlantis was gone, maybe forever. But Rodney was here- and he was -
He got to his feet before he could change his mind. John went down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. In seconds, Rodney was there, in tee shirt and boxers, his hair damp and wildly out of place, backlit by the small bedside lamp.
“Colonel? What’s wrong?”
John put his hands on Rodney’s broad shoulders and he kissed him, stroking his tongue into Rodney's mouth, making his case without a word. And when Rodney kissed him back, there was only a single thought in John's head.
Finally.
The Tiram people were, much to John’s surprise, the simple farmers that Teyla had described in the briefing. Teyla negotiated a nice trade; for a portion of their crops, the Lanteans would provide laborers and assistance with improved farming techniques.
There were no weird alien rituals to perform, no alien gods offended and no secret underground bunkers. They stood around the DHD with the Tiram leadership and took their leave, shaking hands and making promises to see each other again soon.
Still, John wouldn’t let himself relax until they were back on home soil again. “Well, that was easy,” he said to his teammates once they were back in the gateroom.
“Yep,” Ronon said and then rubbed his hands together. “Okay. Time for lunch.” And he’s gone.
Teyla smiled. “And it is time for Torrin’s lunch as well. I’ll see you later for sparring, Rodney?”
Rodney’s expression faded a little. “Right.” And Teyla left them, too.
John looked at Rodney, resting his hands on his P-90. “How about you? Lunch?” John allowed his gaze to travel over Rodney slowly. He could do that now and he didn't give a fuck who saw him. All that mattered was that everyone was safe. Rodney was safe.
"Yes. After I change.” They dropped off their weapons at the armory and their tac vests in the ready room. They were silent during the ride in the transporter but once they were in Rodney’s quarters, John pulled Rodney close and gave him a hard kiss. “Asshole,” he said, pressing kisses along Rodney’s face and neck. “I saw that milkmaid flirting with you.”
Rodney’s big hands squeezed John’s ass. “She had a genuine interest in science,” Rodney said, and John heard the teasing note in his voice.
“Like hell,” John growled in Rodney’s ear. “She had a genuine interest in getting into your pants.”
John felt Rodney smile against his neck. “Apparently, she’s not the only one.” And John had already started working on Rodney’s zipper so he couldn’t argue the point.
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
He was barely listening, he was so intent on his task. “What?” John as he opened up Rodney’s pants and got his hand on Rodney’s big, hard dick. He gave it a few quick strokes before pushing Rodney toward the bed.
Rodney’s arms tightened around him, his gaze hot and hungry. “It turns you on. Watching people flirt with me. Doesn’t it?”
John thought about that girl, the pretty Tiram girl who had followed Rodney around all morning, who had looked at Rodney like he was a big bowl of cream, like she wanted to lick him all over. And he realized that Rodney was right. It had turned him on.
He smiled slowly and kissed Rodney’s mouth and nipped at his tongue. “Yeah, I like it,” John said roughly, rubbing his bristly chin against Rodney’s, “because I know they aren’t going to get anywhere. Because I know you’re going home with me.”
“John,” Rodney groaned and manhandled John over to the bed. John got his pants open in record time and Rodney settled over him, pushing their cocks together. They moved together and every slide and drag of skin against skin brought them closer to the edge of sweet release. John arched up, rubbing his chest against Rodney’s, his heart full of things he never believed he would have.
Afterwards, Rodney curled up against him and went right to sleep. But John couldn’t close his eyes. He looked around, at Rodney’s Wall of Fame, at the laptop open on his desk, at their clothes strewn about on the floor. Beyond, he looked to the balcony where the ocean of New Lantea shimmered and shifted and John thought he’d never been more content.
Sometimes, the Pegasus Galaxy really kicked their asses but sometimes, like right now, everything just fell into place and lined up, like a perfect equation or an especially stellar wave.
And sometimes, John thought about his mom, who had taught him that it didn’t matter how many homes he had, as long as he ended up in the one that made him happiest. Lying there, with Rodney’s arm heavy over his chest and with Atlantis’ embrace around both of them, John knew he’d found that place.
**
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