Fic: It Takes a Week to Form an Ulcer (SGA)
Hooboy, this is officially the longest fic I have ever had the honor (or pain) to write. I put a lot of work into it, and I'm proud of that--proud of this. It was a learning experience, one I'm sure I needed. WRITING GROWTH! Very important.
Anyways, I owe a lot of thanks to bitter_crimson for being an incredible beta and helping me pinpoint my problem areas and all the things I needed to re-work. I'd probably still be tearing out chunks of my hair if it wasn't for her. (YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU LOTS). I also owe thanks to quidditchkiss and avoteforla for pulling writing support. It takes a village and all that. Right, so, fic.
It Takes a Week to Form an Ulcer
SGA, AU, McKay/Sheppard, NC-17, 11,047 words
Rodney McKay has never been good with relationships, so when his current 'significant other' Katie Brown forces him into Couples Therapy he thinks things can't get much worse--until he meets his therapist: Dr. John Sheppard.
Couples Therapy. It’s a phrase that sets men’s teeth on edge, a phrase that has them reaching for the nearest suitcase (or duffle bag) and not even bothering to lovingly wrap their knickknacks before they head for the door. It was a phrase that had Rodney choking on his rack of lamb at Gordon’s Grille the Thursday before last.
“Therapy?” he’d wheezed, fingers slipping around his glass as he tried to bring it to his mouth without physically inhaling the water. Katie was little help, dabbing at his shirt like he was a trauma patient who’d just been pulled from some biological spill-- she wasn’t even meeting his eyes.
“I just,” she sighed, folding up her hands defensively, “I think if we want this relationship to go somewhere we’re going to need to work at it.”
The word ‘relationship’ caused Rodney to relapse, the Maitre d' rushing over to the table to see if he needed assistance. Rodney couldn’t even muster the annoyance to wave him off, instead sitting slumped in his seat and blinking widely at the woman across from him.
Twenty minutes prior to this outburst she had been completely content with their mutual agreement of sex and companionable silence. It had been working out great-- at least Rodney had thought so.
“Rodney,” she tried, finally meeting his eyes, “please.”
----
The chairs in the psychiatry office are an awkward combination of wicker and felt, and Rodney can feel his skin recoiling at the touch of it. Fleetingly he feels a pang for the metal fold-out chairs at work. They aren’t anymore comfortable, but at least on those his ass falls asleep and eliminates the pain. Here he can’t seem to find any hospitable position, shifting indecisively as he tries to fill out the starred information on the chart the receptionist had given him.
“Stop fidgeting,” Katie is in a tweed suit, pencil-thin skirt hugging her curves.
“I’m not fidgeting,” he grumbles in a hoarse whisper, eying the other couples in the office with intense disdain. The fact that he was even here was humiliating, let alone the fact that Katie had forced him into a sports coat, one that itched and pulled around his elbows. “Is it hot in here?”
“You’re overreacting,” she hisses, cheeks flaming red. The old couple across from them smiles accommodatingly and Rodney gives them a jerky nod, his own cheeks flushing pink in response.
Katie had been acting off since they’d set out that morning, clicking her teeth in that absurdly annoying way like she did when she felt put-upon. This was your idea, Rodney thinks scathingly, giving up on the chart and grabbing for some of the spare magazines spread across the coffee table beside him. He ends up with Popular Science, muttering his way through most of the articles and writing corrections and insults into the margins with a pen he’d looted from Katie’s purse.
“Dr. McKay, Dr. Brown?” The receptionist is smiling plastically, hands motioning for them to follow her, “Dr. Sheppard will see you now.”
Dr. Sheppard, Rodney snorts like he’s offended by the implication. Therapists were as good as voodoo priests and witch doctors--never mind the fact that Rodney regularly saw a shrink (that was a completely different relationship though, one he’d devoted years to facilitating).
The office is spacious, couches lush and covered in leather. Rodney tamps down the urge to run his fingers over the shelves, telling himself that the mahogany wood is only there to compensate for whatever this man is lacking.
When Rodney finally catches sight of him he decides that it can’t be much.
“Dr. McKay. Dr. Brown.” The man’s teeth are impeccable, pearly white against his perfectly curved lips-- Rodney hates him immediately. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“Thank you so much for meeting us on such short notice,” Katie says, taking a seat, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
We? Rodney thinks, Short notice? Was their relationship in such dire condition that they needed immediate attention? Don’t be ridiculous, this is just a consultation. Rodney sits down in the chair next to her stiffly, mouth slanted. There’s a heavy feeling in the back of his throat, something thick that he can’t shake.
“Not a problem,” Sheppard says, sitting down behind his own desk with ease, body curving with the sort of languid contentment Rodney could never hope to achieve, “And call me John.” Katie nods appropriately and Rodney bites his tongue to keep from mimicking like a four-year-old. “So,” it takes Rodney a moment to realize that Sheppard has their charts, skimming them lightly for information, “It says here you both work at the Air Force Flight Test Center.”
From the raised eyebrow Rodney can tell that Sheppard is well aware of what that means. He folds his arms across his chest, “Yes,” he says, tone clipped.
“Astrophysics and Botany, I’m sure working for a facility like that eats up a lot of your time.”
Rodney isn’t entirely sure what Katie has written on her own chart, but he can garner from Sheppard’s line of questioning and Katie’s stiff posture (not to mention a lot of one-sided conversations he probably should have paid attention to) that it has to do with the hours he keeps. “Yes,” he says again, “it can.”
“The two of you don’t keep similar hours?” Bingo.
“No,” Katie supplies and Sheppard nods, “I’ve talked to Rodney about changing his schedule, but he never seems willing.”
“I don’t have a set schedule,” Rodney grouses, like it should be obvious to both of them that someone of his caliber is working indefinitely, even now he’s computing-- figuring equations and internalizing their outputs. The fact that he was even being asked these questions was irritating. Sheppard--and Katie especially--already had set ideas on what the “problem” in regards to their relationship was.
“Do you think that--”
“Look,” Rodney snaps, “Dr. Sheppard, we all know why we’re here,” he makes a broad hand gesture, “Katie knew what my job was like when we first--” he struggles for wording, “--established our relationship. The fact that she’s suddenly taken offense to it is frankly--”
“Unwarranted?” Sheppard supplies.
Rodney grinds down on the word ‘Yes,’ it tastes bitter even to his own tongue. “They’re not unwarranted,” he says, emphasis implying all he needs it to, “It’s just--I don’t see why we need help to discuss it.”
Sheppard takes it in stride, shifting his focus to Katie who’s begun to ring her hands nervously. “Katie?” he asks, tone indicating that Rodney isn’t to interrupt.
“I’ve tried,” she says, “but every time I bring it up he becomes offended--like, like our relationship isn’t as important as his work.”
“It’s not,” Rodney says without thinking, wincing even as the words leave his mouth. Well, that was an ugly color on him.
Katie stares at him blankly, eyes gathering water. “I,” she starts, words getting caught up in her throat. John looks horribly sympathetic, brows drawn down and concern etched into every crevice of his body. It’s enough to make Rodney feel contrite.
“Katie,” he shifts awkwardly, “It’s not that you aren’t--it’s--you mean something to me.” He suddenly hates the English language, wishing for the simplicity of numbers, of variables. He never did too well when it came to conveying feeling, the fact that he was even here with her now should say something, but she didn’t see it that way, she never would.
“I see,” Katie says, voice even, “I mean something to you.” Her mouth is tight and Rodney can see the tension in her face as she struggles to stay composed. John isn’t doing much, just sitting behind his desk and staring. He was supposed to be doing something, wasn’t he? Smoothing rough edges, healing psychological wounds, joining hands with the romantically inept and leading them into a world of appropriate bonding.
Rodney feels something turn over in his stomach as he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say.
Thankfully, John steps in, “Okay,” he says, “That’s good. We can move on from here.” Katie is still stiff, hands fisting her skirt in agitation.
Rodney slouches down in his own chair, rumpled and defeated.
----
They schedule another appointment for the following Tuesday, Katie sidestepping him easily as soon as the date is set. Rodney is left alone to shovel bills from his wallet to a very amused receptionist. From the atmosphere in the waiting area, he assesses that their situation is far from new.
He feels mortified, stomping from the room with the grace of a large aquatic mammal. He purposely knocks over the receptionist’s pens in spite and steps on a few of them with little intention of picking them up. Idiot, he thinks. What did these people know about his life? They had no idea about the complexity of his work, the speed at which an experiment could go wrong if the incorrect input was fed to the system. Months of work could spark out in a matter of seconds. You couldn’t waste time with useless distractions. It wasn’t his fault relationships fell to the wayside.
When he gets outside he tugs off his jacket, Nevada heat already searing his skin. He can’t see Katie, or his car.
“Problems?” Rodney twists in place, surprised to find Dr. Sheppard behind him. The guy doesn’t even look like a doctor with his stylized hair and--are those flip-flops?
“No,” he says, smoothing down his own clothes self-consciously.
“She took your car,” John says, looking bemused. Rodney feels color rising to his cheeks for the umpteenth time that day.
“How would you--” John lifts a brow, “Okay, yes,” he snaps, “she took my car.” When Sheppard doesn’t move he becomes agitated, “Shouldn’t you be in your office ruining lives?”
John shrugs, “I’m off early.”
Rodney stares at him, lips twitching before he finally turns his back and hopes with enough concentration he can will the man away. After a minute he loses patience, “What?”
John grins, “You want a ride?”
The question throws Rodney, “What?”
“A ride,” John says again, this time with hand motions. Rodney repeats the question mentally, and John begins to look uncomfortable, “I figured it was better than taking the bus,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but if you--”
“Okay,” Rodney says.
“Good,” the corner of John’s mouth tugs up, and he turns to head towards the other side of the parking lot.
“Is this normal for you?” Rodney asks, squinting. The sun is blinding and he finds himself zeroing in on Sheppard’s hips to direct him.
“Is what normal?” Sheppard says over his shoulder.
“Taking patients home.” The sidewalk outside the building is cracked, weeds pulling up from the ground with a startling efficiency. Rodney finds himself getting caught up on the dents, the shift of Sheppard’s backside only adding to his stilted equilibrium.
“More normal than you’d think,” Sheppard says. His grin is warm, offered with the same loose nature his body seems to breathe. It makes Rodney feel awkward and bulky.
“I appreciate the charity,” Rodney says dryly, feeling slightly miffed that he’s just one more male in a long line of hapless men Sheppard has had to save from public transportation.
“Here,” John says, standing next to a run-down truck.
“This is your car?” It looks entirely out of place in the parking lot, dulled paint made all the more noticeable by the sleek Buick beside it. It’s surprisingly right for Sheppard.
“Yep,” John says, keying open his own door before leaning across the seat to get at Rodney’s. The leather interior is slightly worn, soft to the touch. Rodney slides in easily, shuffling himself into position as John starts the engine.
“So,” John’s smiling again, “where do you live?”
----
The car ride is interesting to say the least, Rodney seemingly unable to keep his mouth shut and John content to insert questions when there’s a lull, and not just any questions-- intelligent questions, ones that require thought and a basic knowledge of the subject at hand.
“What do you mean Batman’s not a superhero?”
“He has no super powers,” John says, like Batman is somehow inadequate in the “super-world” because he can’t shoot lasers from his crotch or fuck a woman in six seconds flat.
“He’s part of the Justice League!” Rodney says, eyes wide and incredulous.
“So’s Green Lantern and he’s not a superhero either.”
“Who care’s about the Green Lantern!” Rodney is now officially amazed, blown away by Sheppard’s complete disregard for Batman’s (devastating) capabilities. The fact that Batman does not fall into the genetically capable category and still manages to be incredible should only add to his appeal. “Batman’s a genius.”
“I never said he wasn’t,” John’s a fraction from rolling his eyes, “I just said he wasn’t a superhero.”
“Oh right,” Rodney says, crossing his arms, “and I suppose you think Superman is great.”
John’s lips pull down, “What’s wrong with Superman?”
“Oh my god, pull over the car right now.” This time John does roll his eyes, purposely changing lanes and child-locking the doors as Rodney waves his arms about. “You’re a Superman fan. The guy flies around in spandex with a big red cape.”
“Batman has a cape,” John has now developed a full pout, the affects of which are completely lost to Rodney as he barrels on.
“Batman’s cape is black and foreboding,” he says, “not cherry red and superfluous.”
“Superman’s cape is aerodynamic! The amount of friction a person would encounter going at that velocity through the atmosphere is monumental; the cape shields anyone he has with him.”
“Great, so the cape makes sure that Lois Lane makes it back to the Daily Planet with her hair in place--are you lecturing me on Fluid Dynamics?”
“I--what?”
Rodney looks completely stalled, face mirroring John’s confusion, “Fluid Dynamics.” He repeats, “With the cape and the--” here he makes a motion meant to signify wind. It looks more like a wave, but John gets his point.
“Oh.”
“I don’t even know why I’m asking, it’s not like you have the first idea what--”
“It’s the study of fluids in motion, McKay. I think most first graders could grasp the concept, though not all of them could link it up with continuum mechanics or write out the Navier-Stokes equation for you.”
Rodney’s face contorts back into a mask of confusion, a look he’s finding ever present in the company of Sheppard, “Yes, well,” he licks his lips, “I didn’t think--”
“Don’t worry, McKay. I picked up a minor in aeronautics. The basic physics class or two is pretty par for the course.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Rodney says, “are you telling me you were able to minor in aeronautics and you still chose to become a couples therapist?” He watches in amazement as John shrugs.
“Wasn’t my first choice,” he says, “but I like people.”
“God, you are insane.” John grins and laughs as Rodney shifts into an immediate barrage of questions, testing the bounds of John’s knowledge for holes.
They’ve slipped into a discussion on dark matter by the time they reach Rodney’s condo. A little four room complex with white washed stone, bright against the Nevada backdrop. “This it?” John asks, as he slows the car to a stop.
“What? Oh, yes, yes this is it.” Rodney falters, he hadn’t been paying attention to the scenery, too caught up in prodding John for information. Now that they’re here he suddenly feels awkward again. He fumbles with his jacket, internally debating whether or not to invite Sheppard inside. He wants to, but he’s unsure of the decorum for these types of things, is it polite to invite John inside after he drove him home, or is he supposed to just get out of the car and go on with his life? Was there a particular etiquette one needed to follow when it was their therapist? “Would you like to come inside?” he finally asks, voice as confident as he can manage.
John blinks at him, surprise etching across his features before it slips away, “S’probably not a good idea,” he says, “seeing as how I’m supposed to be counseling both you and your girlfriend. You can’t play favorites.”
He winks and Rodney feels his cheeks color, “Right,” he says, “Of course.” trying haplessly for the door handle only to realize it’s not where it should be. He feels a surge of panic twitch through his system. Door handle, he thinks, where is the--
“Here” John leans across him, and Rodney can swear he feels the heat of his body. It’s completely irrational and he plans to berate himself for it later. Sheppard smells like sweat and summer heat, something sweet against Rodney’s tongue. Rodney bites his lip, sucking in a breath and pressing back into the seat to give John as much room as possible. The door clicks open in a rush of air and Rodney shivers.
“Th-thank you.” He slips from the vehicle gracelessly, turning to give John a small wave before walking stiffly to his door. He can hear the truck start up again, rumble back across the pavement before it moves off. Rodney turns to watch it disappear, keys dangling from his fingers. He’s surprised to feel disappointed. Sighing, he turns to open the door and kick Ringo, his tabby, back into the confines of the house.
“No, Ringo. Bad.” The cat weaves between his legs, tail flicking impatiently as Rodney ignores him to get at the answering machine. The red light is blinking incessantly--three new messages--he sighs--first message, Tuesday two p.m. It’s Zelenka, voice breathing heavy syllables into the speakers as he informs Rodney of a glitch in the programs they’ve been running at work. Rodney snorts; he’d told Zelenka his equations were wrong. They’d been running simulations for the past month, feeding lines of data into the system one by one, making sure that each and every variable was properly placed. It was in the last line that they’d found problems. Something small and inconspicuous that had them all cocooned in the labs till the early hours of morning. Rodney would probably have been there right now if it weren’t for the therapy appointment.
He erases the message and directs Ringo to the kitchen, moving the cat with his feet as it trips over him meowing. “Yes, food,” he tells it, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He figures he’ll take an hour, eat, shower and then head in to work to tell everyone they’re morons and should seriously consider sparing society by not procreating.
----
He’s out of the shower in ten minutes, brain beating out equations at an alarming rate. Ringo has taken up residence in the middle of his bed, following him with sleepy eyes as he loops between his room and home office, littering the hallway with loose papers and abandoned socks. There’s already ink smeared up the expanse of his arm, blue stripe tipping off by his elbow. He crams a line of numbers into the space between his thumb and pinky, scribbling in tiny notations where he can. He pulls on socks one handed, other arm free to wave about as he tries to maintain balance. It’s an act he’s well acquainted with.
As soon as he manages to get his pants up and round his ankles he grabs for a t-shirt and trips down the stairs. It isn’t until he’s outside in the driveway in bare sock clad feet that he remembers he has no means to get to work.
“Yes, well then,” he’d forgotten that Katie had taken his car, that Sheppard had driven him home. Car, he thinks, need car.
A scan of the area produces one of his neighbors, currently out trimming her azaleas while her Mazda collects heat in the driveway. Rodney stares at it, weighing the likelihood of her letting him borrow it, especially since he can’t remember her name. As soon as she catches sight of him she glares, gathering up her shears and stomping inside. Rodney snorts, illiterate cow. If what’s-her-face wasn’t going to play ball than it was likely the rest of his neighbors weren’t going to be much help either.
So Rodney had missed a few neighborhood meetings, forgotten to check a few pamphlets, or to sign one of the numerous petitions that had been stuffed through his mail slot. It wasn’t his fault that the corporation funding their condo symposium wanted to pull the guarantee on the lots behind their complex and fill the fields with pavement--either way Rodney was still going to spend the better half of the summer hacking up mucus from the back of his throat. Besides, he had far more important and pressing things to do then get plastered and find a cause.
He calls Radek and meets him in the driveway a half an hour later.
“You know I hate you.”
Rodney rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t be here if you hated me.”
“On contrary,” Radek says, shifting the car into gear, “I am here because you have no soul and I know what you would do to my plants.”
The plants in question are monkshood and orange agoseris and Rodney is almost 93% positive that they hate him. Weeds, he hisses every time he passes, clutching his pens. They eat pens--and sandwiches, and on the rare occasion important data feeds. Rodney has taken to giving Radek’s desk a wide girth, sometimes pouring Kavanagh’s coffee into their pots when he has the proper equipment--read: gloves and safety goggles. The things produce enough spores to clog all of his internal arteries.
“I wouldn’t kill your plants,” Rodney says flippantly, buckling his seat belt, “I’m already on Mother Nature’s shit list.”
“Is not inconvenient you are dating botanist then?” Rodney’s face pulls down, arms folding across his chest defensively. Radek continues on oblivious, “Perhaps this is why you two do not move in together?”
“Thank you Maury Povich, but no.”
“Who is Maury Povi--”
“Look, the fact that Katie and I don’t live together is hardly an indication of--” here Rodney waves his hands, broad gestures meant to signify ‘relationship’ and ‘troubles.’ Radek blinks at him behind his glasses.
“Did you not have therapy appointment today?”
Rodney manages to choke out a few choice words before Radek nods and merges onto the highway.
----
There’s something comforting in the redundancy of running simulations, knowing that the equations you input are going to have a set sum, something definite and unchanging. The fact that said equations are being used to test the bounds of wormhole physics, utilizing hypothetical information and unfound theories just keeps it interesting.
“I believe it was the comma in third line down that caused problem.”
Rodney holds out a hand for the report, pulling it into his immediate vicinity as soon as the paper hits the pads of his fingers. He’s currently etching thick numerals into a pad of tracing paper, inking superlatives like ‘least’ and ‘smallest’ around a diagram of a Schwarzschild wormhole with a bent biro.
“Mmm,” he says, barely glancing at the output data.
“I believe also, the two preceding lines of data need to be reversed.” At this remark Rodney looks up,
“What?”
Radek sighs, “The current order is causing the experiment to overload, if we--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodney says, snapping his fingers and turning back towards his desk, “just give me the last output data.”
“I have already--”
“What?”
“I said, I have already given you the data.” Radek points and Rodney follows the curve of his finger to the thick wad of papers hanging off the side of his desk.
“Yes, right.” He tugs them into his direct line of sight and makes short work of the new notations, threading his own ideas into the margins and crossing out all the edits he finds unnecessary or just plain stupid. “Here,” he says, holding out the pack to Zelenka, “and make Kusanagi run the simulation this time.”
Zelenka mutters something in Czech, voice rumbling as he tugs the papers from Rodney’s grasp and makes his way across the lab. They’ve been there for four hours already, pressed between walls of cold steel and loud machinery. Rodney finds it hard to sleep at night without the whirring sound. Napping upright on a lab table always seemed to come more naturally to him than a pliant mattress and sixteen pillows. His own mattress is prescription and hard as a rock, which thinking on it, is probably why Rodney doesn’t mind the floor.
It’s a few minutes before he notices his cell phone blinking, red light hard to see under layers of carbon copy. He fishes it out from the debris on his desk, frowning immediately when the digital lettering reads 4 Missed Calls. Flipping the phone open, he can almost predict the name before he sees it: KATIE. Besides the fact that he gets terrible reception in the lab, Rodney can think of numerous people he’d rather talk to than his--well, her.
As much as he’d love to feign ignorance, however, he’s learned enough to know that the longer he goes without returning her calls, the worse it’s going to be for him the next time they speak--and he doesn’t really need her coming up with any more reasons to convince Sheppard he’s a dick. He hits ‘ENTER’ to return the call, waging that an attempt with possible interference is better than no attempt at all. It’s only slightly surprising when he gets Katie’s voicemail in return. He leaves a nondescript message and tosses the phone back across his desk.
Massaging the area between his brows, Rodney picks up the nearest pen and goes back to his tracing paper. When Radek returns with new results 15 minutes later Rodney has gotten absolutely nothing done.
“If Katie is camel, who is that?”
Rodney jumps at the sound of his voice, hand smearing ink across his latest concoction. Radek is hovering in his peripheral, leaning over Rodney’s back to get a look at the doodle shoved into a corner under the Σ in Ampere’s Law. Katie is indeed a camel, with at least six humps.
“That’s, uh, that’s our therapist.” Rodney is unsure how Sheppard ended up there, holding a riding crop and wearing a tilted safari hat.
“He tames camels?” Radek asks, not even twitching and Rodney suddenly wishes for one of the interior valves in the main processor to explode.
“Oh yes, it’s one of his hobbies. He tames camels between base jumping and weaving Navajo baskets with his teeth.” Rodney sneers, disgusted at himself for drawing the doodle on a nonexpendable sheet of data. Zelenka for the most part manages to keep his remarks to a minimum, walking away with an offhanded comment about Katie’s apparent ability to retain water.
Rodney crumples up the data sheet anyway.
----
It takes Katie a day and a half to return his car, abandoning it to the night guards in underground parking; the tank is empty. Rodney chalks it off as retribution paid in full, but continues to avoid all her usual haunts when he’s at work. His sudden increase in lab time sets all of his subordinates on edge and it isn’t long before Zelenka pushes him from the facility, Grodin holding Kavanagh down as Rodney throws expletives in his general direction. “Sleep, Rodney,” Radek says, and for once Rodney doesn’t argue.
The sun’s only been up a few hours, but Rodney’s gone without a proper night’s rest for two days. His system is still wired, operating on automatic as exhaustion breeds beneath his skin. He opts to pull into the nearest café and get a cup (or four) of coffee before he falls asleep at the wheel. It’s an in-between hour so the place is relatively quiet, a few people loitering as the shift changes and the new staff re-stocks swizzle sticks before the afternoon rush.
He spots a familiar head of dark hair and sits down before he can think about it, quelling his subconscious protests of ‘BAD IDEA’ with tired, company, caffeine, tired, Batman. Said head of hair looks up, surprised. “You probably shouldn’t ask me any questions until I get a coffee,” Rodney says, watching Sheppard grin and nod, contentedly going back to his newspaper. Rodney lets his eyes slip shut, tilting his head back to rest upon the couch edge. He can hear Sheppard turn pages as his drifts off.
When he wakes up Sheppard is still there, hovering in his space and pressing a large mug of coffee into his fingers. “How long have I--”
“About 20 minutes,” he says, “rough night?”
“If by rough you mean hours spent in a heaving basin of would-be nepotism and more-likely-than-not contagious stupidity, then yes.” Rodney blows across the top of the mug, barely containing a moan as the first rush of liquid slides down his throat. “What?” he says, noting Sheppard’s stare.
Sheppard straightens, shifting in his seat. “Uh, nothing. Good?”
“Mmm,” Rodney replies, warming his fingers around the rim. In some distant part of his consciousness he’s aware that he’s making inappropriate noises, but in the face of real coffee--not the cheap instant the lab had had to resort to pandering off the military reps on base--he didn’t think he could be held liable. “God,” he let’s out an elongated sigh, “this is imported, isn’t it?”
“Sumatran,” John says, eyes flickering to Rodney’s mouth and back, “It’s Indonesian.”
Rodney garbles appreciatively, burrowing deeper into his chair and mouthing what’s left of the substance in his cup. One of the staffers eyes him bemusedly as she passes, pausing to give John an even longer once over. He gives her a polite half-smile, tipping back his own coffee mug to down the rest.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Rodney asks, voice heavy and sleep tinged.
“Next appointment’s not till one,” John says.
“Do you ever work?”
“Do you ever not?” John’s splayed in the couch across from him, half-sprawled with his legs scuffing the coffee table legs. Rodney eyes him warily, his own body hollowing out an easy shape in the café’s illustrious couches. “Thought so,” John says when Rodney breaks eye contact.
“I’m not working now,” Rodney says, the statement’s self-evident, but he feels the overpowering need to defend his non-existent social life. “Besides,” he says, as John’s brows drifts towards his hairline, “a good work ethic is nothing to be ashamed of.”
John decides to let it go, giving Rodney a look that makes him think he’s filing this information away for later. Why did he sit down with his couple’s therapist again? Sleep deprivation, Rodney thinks, Can’t be held responsible. He’s too comfortable now to move anyway.
“So, I’m guessing you got your car back?”
“Yes,” Rodney says, deciding to leave out the fact that the tank had been empty and there was still an odd smell drifting from the vicinity of the trunk. He’d checked, but found no dead animals and he didn’t really want to investigate it further.
“You know,” John says, “I had an ex-girlfriend steal my car once.”
“What?”
“She stole my--”
“No, no, no,” Rodney says, “you have an ex-girlfriend?”
John pauses, “Yes,” he says, eying Rodney carefully, “lots of people have ex-girlfriends. Some-- even have ex-boyfriends.” Rodney notes the boyfriend remark but remains unmoved.
“Thank you for that startling insight, I’ll be sure to mark it down in case I have a sudden relapse in societal terminology.” he says dryly, “You’re supposed to be a relationship expert, you shouldn’t have exes.”
John looks like he wants to comment on the relationship expert part, but is unsure of where it’d lead, “I’d think you’d want advice from someone with experience.”
“And exactly how much experience do you have?”
John purses his lips, “Lots.”
“Great, so I’m getting relationship advice from the male equivalent of Liza with a ‘Z’”
“I don’t know that many show tunes.” John says, looking up as the afternoon rush begins to load. The sudden swarm doesn’t last more than five minutes, frazzled customers in suits teetering around each other in some unnatural dance; all anxious to get their coffee and to do so without touching each other. Rodney resists the urge to stick out a foot to trip one of them.
“So this ex-girlfriend that stole your car?”
“I reported it missing and the cops picked her up.” John’s eyes dance mischievously, and Rodney can’t help but smile.
“You two must still be close.”
part 2
Anyways, I owe a lot of thanks to bitter_crimson for being an incredible beta and helping me pinpoint my problem areas and all the things I needed to re-work. I'd probably still be tearing out chunks of my hair if it wasn't for her. (YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU LOTS). I also owe thanks to quidditchkiss and avoteforla for pulling writing support. It takes a village and all that. Right, so, fic.
It Takes a Week to Form an Ulcer
SGA, AU, McKay/Sheppard, NC-17, 11,047 words
Rodney McKay has never been good with relationships, so when his current 'significant other' Katie Brown forces him into Couples Therapy he thinks things can't get much worse--until he meets his therapist: Dr. John Sheppard.
Couples Therapy. It’s a phrase that sets men’s teeth on edge, a phrase that has them reaching for the nearest suitcase (or duffle bag) and not even bothering to lovingly wrap their knickknacks before they head for the door. It was a phrase that had Rodney choking on his rack of lamb at Gordon’s Grille the Thursday before last.
“Therapy?” he’d wheezed, fingers slipping around his glass as he tried to bring it to his mouth without physically inhaling the water. Katie was little help, dabbing at his shirt like he was a trauma patient who’d just been pulled from some biological spill-- she wasn’t even meeting his eyes.
“I just,” she sighed, folding up her hands defensively, “I think if we want this relationship to go somewhere we’re going to need to work at it.”
The word ‘relationship’ caused Rodney to relapse, the Maitre d' rushing over to the table to see if he needed assistance. Rodney couldn’t even muster the annoyance to wave him off, instead sitting slumped in his seat and blinking widely at the woman across from him.
Twenty minutes prior to this outburst she had been completely content with their mutual agreement of sex and companionable silence. It had been working out great-- at least Rodney had thought so.
“Rodney,” she tried, finally meeting his eyes, “please.”
----
The chairs in the psychiatry office are an awkward combination of wicker and felt, and Rodney can feel his skin recoiling at the touch of it. Fleetingly he feels a pang for the metal fold-out chairs at work. They aren’t anymore comfortable, but at least on those his ass falls asleep and eliminates the pain. Here he can’t seem to find any hospitable position, shifting indecisively as he tries to fill out the starred information on the chart the receptionist had given him.
“Stop fidgeting,” Katie is in a tweed suit, pencil-thin skirt hugging her curves.
“I’m not fidgeting,” he grumbles in a hoarse whisper, eying the other couples in the office with intense disdain. The fact that he was even here was humiliating, let alone the fact that Katie had forced him into a sports coat, one that itched and pulled around his elbows. “Is it hot in here?”
“You’re overreacting,” she hisses, cheeks flaming red. The old couple across from them smiles accommodatingly and Rodney gives them a jerky nod, his own cheeks flushing pink in response.
Katie had been acting off since they’d set out that morning, clicking her teeth in that absurdly annoying way like she did when she felt put-upon. This was your idea, Rodney thinks scathingly, giving up on the chart and grabbing for some of the spare magazines spread across the coffee table beside him. He ends up with Popular Science, muttering his way through most of the articles and writing corrections and insults into the margins with a pen he’d looted from Katie’s purse.
“Dr. McKay, Dr. Brown?” The receptionist is smiling plastically, hands motioning for them to follow her, “Dr. Sheppard will see you now.”
Dr. Sheppard, Rodney snorts like he’s offended by the implication. Therapists were as good as voodoo priests and witch doctors--never mind the fact that Rodney regularly saw a shrink (that was a completely different relationship though, one he’d devoted years to facilitating).
The office is spacious, couches lush and covered in leather. Rodney tamps down the urge to run his fingers over the shelves, telling himself that the mahogany wood is only there to compensate for whatever this man is lacking.
When Rodney finally catches sight of him he decides that it can’t be much.
“Dr. McKay. Dr. Brown.” The man’s teeth are impeccable, pearly white against his perfectly curved lips-- Rodney hates him immediately. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“Thank you so much for meeting us on such short notice,” Katie says, taking a seat, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
We? Rodney thinks, Short notice? Was their relationship in such dire condition that they needed immediate attention? Don’t be ridiculous, this is just a consultation. Rodney sits down in the chair next to her stiffly, mouth slanted. There’s a heavy feeling in the back of his throat, something thick that he can’t shake.
“Not a problem,” Sheppard says, sitting down behind his own desk with ease, body curving with the sort of languid contentment Rodney could never hope to achieve, “And call me John.” Katie nods appropriately and Rodney bites his tongue to keep from mimicking like a four-year-old. “So,” it takes Rodney a moment to realize that Sheppard has their charts, skimming them lightly for information, “It says here you both work at the Air Force Flight Test Center.”
From the raised eyebrow Rodney can tell that Sheppard is well aware of what that means. He folds his arms across his chest, “Yes,” he says, tone clipped.
“Astrophysics and Botany, I’m sure working for a facility like that eats up a lot of your time.”
Rodney isn’t entirely sure what Katie has written on her own chart, but he can garner from Sheppard’s line of questioning and Katie’s stiff posture (not to mention a lot of one-sided conversations he probably should have paid attention to) that it has to do with the hours he keeps. “Yes,” he says again, “it can.”
“The two of you don’t keep similar hours?” Bingo.
“No,” Katie supplies and Sheppard nods, “I’ve talked to Rodney about changing his schedule, but he never seems willing.”
“I don’t have a set schedule,” Rodney grouses, like it should be obvious to both of them that someone of his caliber is working indefinitely, even now he’s computing-- figuring equations and internalizing their outputs. The fact that he was even being asked these questions was irritating. Sheppard--and Katie especially--already had set ideas on what the “problem” in regards to their relationship was.
“Do you think that--”
“Look,” Rodney snaps, “Dr. Sheppard, we all know why we’re here,” he makes a broad hand gesture, “Katie knew what my job was like when we first--” he struggles for wording, “--established our relationship. The fact that she’s suddenly taken offense to it is frankly--”
“Unwarranted?” Sheppard supplies.
Rodney grinds down on the word ‘Yes,’ it tastes bitter even to his own tongue. “They’re not unwarranted,” he says, emphasis implying all he needs it to, “It’s just--I don’t see why we need help to discuss it.”
Sheppard takes it in stride, shifting his focus to Katie who’s begun to ring her hands nervously. “Katie?” he asks, tone indicating that Rodney isn’t to interrupt.
“I’ve tried,” she says, “but every time I bring it up he becomes offended--like, like our relationship isn’t as important as his work.”
“It’s not,” Rodney says without thinking, wincing even as the words leave his mouth. Well, that was an ugly color on him.
Katie stares at him blankly, eyes gathering water. “I,” she starts, words getting caught up in her throat. John looks horribly sympathetic, brows drawn down and concern etched into every crevice of his body. It’s enough to make Rodney feel contrite.
“Katie,” he shifts awkwardly, “It’s not that you aren’t--it’s--you mean something to me.” He suddenly hates the English language, wishing for the simplicity of numbers, of variables. He never did too well when it came to conveying feeling, the fact that he was even here with her now should say something, but she didn’t see it that way, she never would.
“I see,” Katie says, voice even, “I mean something to you.” Her mouth is tight and Rodney can see the tension in her face as she struggles to stay composed. John isn’t doing much, just sitting behind his desk and staring. He was supposed to be doing something, wasn’t he? Smoothing rough edges, healing psychological wounds, joining hands with the romantically inept and leading them into a world of appropriate bonding.
Rodney feels something turn over in his stomach as he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say.
Thankfully, John steps in, “Okay,” he says, “That’s good. We can move on from here.” Katie is still stiff, hands fisting her skirt in agitation.
Rodney slouches down in his own chair, rumpled and defeated.
----
They schedule another appointment for the following Tuesday, Katie sidestepping him easily as soon as the date is set. Rodney is left alone to shovel bills from his wallet to a very amused receptionist. From the atmosphere in the waiting area, he assesses that their situation is far from new.
He feels mortified, stomping from the room with the grace of a large aquatic mammal. He purposely knocks over the receptionist’s pens in spite and steps on a few of them with little intention of picking them up. Idiot, he thinks. What did these people know about his life? They had no idea about the complexity of his work, the speed at which an experiment could go wrong if the incorrect input was fed to the system. Months of work could spark out in a matter of seconds. You couldn’t waste time with useless distractions. It wasn’t his fault relationships fell to the wayside.
When he gets outside he tugs off his jacket, Nevada heat already searing his skin. He can’t see Katie, or his car.
“Problems?” Rodney twists in place, surprised to find Dr. Sheppard behind him. The guy doesn’t even look like a doctor with his stylized hair and--are those flip-flops?
“No,” he says, smoothing down his own clothes self-consciously.
“She took your car,” John says, looking bemused. Rodney feels color rising to his cheeks for the umpteenth time that day.
“How would you--” John lifts a brow, “Okay, yes,” he snaps, “she took my car.” When Sheppard doesn’t move he becomes agitated, “Shouldn’t you be in your office ruining lives?”
John shrugs, “I’m off early.”
Rodney stares at him, lips twitching before he finally turns his back and hopes with enough concentration he can will the man away. After a minute he loses patience, “What?”
John grins, “You want a ride?”
The question throws Rodney, “What?”
“A ride,” John says again, this time with hand motions. Rodney repeats the question mentally, and John begins to look uncomfortable, “I figured it was better than taking the bus,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but if you--”
“Okay,” Rodney says.
“Good,” the corner of John’s mouth tugs up, and he turns to head towards the other side of the parking lot.
“Is this normal for you?” Rodney asks, squinting. The sun is blinding and he finds himself zeroing in on Sheppard’s hips to direct him.
“Is what normal?” Sheppard says over his shoulder.
“Taking patients home.” The sidewalk outside the building is cracked, weeds pulling up from the ground with a startling efficiency. Rodney finds himself getting caught up on the dents, the shift of Sheppard’s backside only adding to his stilted equilibrium.
“More normal than you’d think,” Sheppard says. His grin is warm, offered with the same loose nature his body seems to breathe. It makes Rodney feel awkward and bulky.
“I appreciate the charity,” Rodney says dryly, feeling slightly miffed that he’s just one more male in a long line of hapless men Sheppard has had to save from public transportation.
“Here,” John says, standing next to a run-down truck.
“This is your car?” It looks entirely out of place in the parking lot, dulled paint made all the more noticeable by the sleek Buick beside it. It’s surprisingly right for Sheppard.
“Yep,” John says, keying open his own door before leaning across the seat to get at Rodney’s. The leather interior is slightly worn, soft to the touch. Rodney slides in easily, shuffling himself into position as John starts the engine.
“So,” John’s smiling again, “where do you live?”
----
The car ride is interesting to say the least, Rodney seemingly unable to keep his mouth shut and John content to insert questions when there’s a lull, and not just any questions-- intelligent questions, ones that require thought and a basic knowledge of the subject at hand.
“What do you mean Batman’s not a superhero?”
“He has no super powers,” John says, like Batman is somehow inadequate in the “super-world” because he can’t shoot lasers from his crotch or fuck a woman in six seconds flat.
“He’s part of the Justice League!” Rodney says, eyes wide and incredulous.
“So’s Green Lantern and he’s not a superhero either.”
“Who care’s about the Green Lantern!” Rodney is now officially amazed, blown away by Sheppard’s complete disregard for Batman’s (devastating) capabilities. The fact that Batman does not fall into the genetically capable category and still manages to be incredible should only add to his appeal. “Batman’s a genius.”
“I never said he wasn’t,” John’s a fraction from rolling his eyes, “I just said he wasn’t a superhero.”
“Oh right,” Rodney says, crossing his arms, “and I suppose you think Superman is great.”
John’s lips pull down, “What’s wrong with Superman?”
“Oh my god, pull over the car right now.” This time John does roll his eyes, purposely changing lanes and child-locking the doors as Rodney waves his arms about. “You’re a Superman fan. The guy flies around in spandex with a big red cape.”
“Batman has a cape,” John has now developed a full pout, the affects of which are completely lost to Rodney as he barrels on.
“Batman’s cape is black and foreboding,” he says, “not cherry red and superfluous.”
“Superman’s cape is aerodynamic! The amount of friction a person would encounter going at that velocity through the atmosphere is monumental; the cape shields anyone he has with him.”
“Great, so the cape makes sure that Lois Lane makes it back to the Daily Planet with her hair in place--are you lecturing me on Fluid Dynamics?”
“I--what?”
Rodney looks completely stalled, face mirroring John’s confusion, “Fluid Dynamics.” He repeats, “With the cape and the--” here he makes a motion meant to signify wind. It looks more like a wave, but John gets his point.
“Oh.”
“I don’t even know why I’m asking, it’s not like you have the first idea what--”
“It’s the study of fluids in motion, McKay. I think most first graders could grasp the concept, though not all of them could link it up with continuum mechanics or write out the Navier-Stokes equation for you.”
Rodney’s face contorts back into a mask of confusion, a look he’s finding ever present in the company of Sheppard, “Yes, well,” he licks his lips, “I didn’t think--”
“Don’t worry, McKay. I picked up a minor in aeronautics. The basic physics class or two is pretty par for the course.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Rodney says, “are you telling me you were able to minor in aeronautics and you still chose to become a couples therapist?” He watches in amazement as John shrugs.
“Wasn’t my first choice,” he says, “but I like people.”
“God, you are insane.” John grins and laughs as Rodney shifts into an immediate barrage of questions, testing the bounds of John’s knowledge for holes.
They’ve slipped into a discussion on dark matter by the time they reach Rodney’s condo. A little four room complex with white washed stone, bright against the Nevada backdrop. “This it?” John asks, as he slows the car to a stop.
“What? Oh, yes, yes this is it.” Rodney falters, he hadn’t been paying attention to the scenery, too caught up in prodding John for information. Now that they’re here he suddenly feels awkward again. He fumbles with his jacket, internally debating whether or not to invite Sheppard inside. He wants to, but he’s unsure of the decorum for these types of things, is it polite to invite John inside after he drove him home, or is he supposed to just get out of the car and go on with his life? Was there a particular etiquette one needed to follow when it was their therapist? “Would you like to come inside?” he finally asks, voice as confident as he can manage.
John blinks at him, surprise etching across his features before it slips away, “S’probably not a good idea,” he says, “seeing as how I’m supposed to be counseling both you and your girlfriend. You can’t play favorites.”
He winks and Rodney feels his cheeks color, “Right,” he says, “Of course.” trying haplessly for the door handle only to realize it’s not where it should be. He feels a surge of panic twitch through his system. Door handle, he thinks, where is the--
“Here” John leans across him, and Rodney can swear he feels the heat of his body. It’s completely irrational and he plans to berate himself for it later. Sheppard smells like sweat and summer heat, something sweet against Rodney’s tongue. Rodney bites his lip, sucking in a breath and pressing back into the seat to give John as much room as possible. The door clicks open in a rush of air and Rodney shivers.
“Th-thank you.” He slips from the vehicle gracelessly, turning to give John a small wave before walking stiffly to his door. He can hear the truck start up again, rumble back across the pavement before it moves off. Rodney turns to watch it disappear, keys dangling from his fingers. He’s surprised to feel disappointed. Sighing, he turns to open the door and kick Ringo, his tabby, back into the confines of the house.
“No, Ringo. Bad.” The cat weaves between his legs, tail flicking impatiently as Rodney ignores him to get at the answering machine. The red light is blinking incessantly--three new messages--he sighs--first message, Tuesday two p.m. It’s Zelenka, voice breathing heavy syllables into the speakers as he informs Rodney of a glitch in the programs they’ve been running at work. Rodney snorts; he’d told Zelenka his equations were wrong. They’d been running simulations for the past month, feeding lines of data into the system one by one, making sure that each and every variable was properly placed. It was in the last line that they’d found problems. Something small and inconspicuous that had them all cocooned in the labs till the early hours of morning. Rodney would probably have been there right now if it weren’t for the therapy appointment.
He erases the message and directs Ringo to the kitchen, moving the cat with his feet as it trips over him meowing. “Yes, food,” he tells it, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He figures he’ll take an hour, eat, shower and then head in to work to tell everyone they’re morons and should seriously consider sparing society by not procreating.
----
He’s out of the shower in ten minutes, brain beating out equations at an alarming rate. Ringo has taken up residence in the middle of his bed, following him with sleepy eyes as he loops between his room and home office, littering the hallway with loose papers and abandoned socks. There’s already ink smeared up the expanse of his arm, blue stripe tipping off by his elbow. He crams a line of numbers into the space between his thumb and pinky, scribbling in tiny notations where he can. He pulls on socks one handed, other arm free to wave about as he tries to maintain balance. It’s an act he’s well acquainted with.
As soon as he manages to get his pants up and round his ankles he grabs for a t-shirt and trips down the stairs. It isn’t until he’s outside in the driveway in bare sock clad feet that he remembers he has no means to get to work.
“Yes, well then,” he’d forgotten that Katie had taken his car, that Sheppard had driven him home. Car, he thinks, need car.
A scan of the area produces one of his neighbors, currently out trimming her azaleas while her Mazda collects heat in the driveway. Rodney stares at it, weighing the likelihood of her letting him borrow it, especially since he can’t remember her name. As soon as she catches sight of him she glares, gathering up her shears and stomping inside. Rodney snorts, illiterate cow. If what’s-her-face wasn’t going to play ball than it was likely the rest of his neighbors weren’t going to be much help either.
So Rodney had missed a few neighborhood meetings, forgotten to check a few pamphlets, or to sign one of the numerous petitions that had been stuffed through his mail slot. It wasn’t his fault that the corporation funding their condo symposium wanted to pull the guarantee on the lots behind their complex and fill the fields with pavement--either way Rodney was still going to spend the better half of the summer hacking up mucus from the back of his throat. Besides, he had far more important and pressing things to do then get plastered and find a cause.
He calls Radek and meets him in the driveway a half an hour later.
“You know I hate you.”
Rodney rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t be here if you hated me.”
“On contrary,” Radek says, shifting the car into gear, “I am here because you have no soul and I know what you would do to my plants.”
The plants in question are monkshood and orange agoseris and Rodney is almost 93% positive that they hate him. Weeds, he hisses every time he passes, clutching his pens. They eat pens--and sandwiches, and on the rare occasion important data feeds. Rodney has taken to giving Radek’s desk a wide girth, sometimes pouring Kavanagh’s coffee into their pots when he has the proper equipment--read: gloves and safety goggles. The things produce enough spores to clog all of his internal arteries.
“I wouldn’t kill your plants,” Rodney says flippantly, buckling his seat belt, “I’m already on Mother Nature’s shit list.”
“Is not inconvenient you are dating botanist then?” Rodney’s face pulls down, arms folding across his chest defensively. Radek continues on oblivious, “Perhaps this is why you two do not move in together?”
“Thank you Maury Povich, but no.”
“Who is Maury Povi--”
“Look, the fact that Katie and I don’t live together is hardly an indication of--” here Rodney waves his hands, broad gestures meant to signify ‘relationship’ and ‘troubles.’ Radek blinks at him behind his glasses.
“Did you not have therapy appointment today?”
Rodney manages to choke out a few choice words before Radek nods and merges onto the highway.
----
There’s something comforting in the redundancy of running simulations, knowing that the equations you input are going to have a set sum, something definite and unchanging. The fact that said equations are being used to test the bounds of wormhole physics, utilizing hypothetical information and unfound theories just keeps it interesting.
“I believe it was the comma in third line down that caused problem.”
Rodney holds out a hand for the report, pulling it into his immediate vicinity as soon as the paper hits the pads of his fingers. He’s currently etching thick numerals into a pad of tracing paper, inking superlatives like ‘least’ and ‘smallest’ around a diagram of a Schwarzschild wormhole with a bent biro.
“Mmm,” he says, barely glancing at the output data.
“I believe also, the two preceding lines of data need to be reversed.” At this remark Rodney looks up,
“What?”
Radek sighs, “The current order is causing the experiment to overload, if we--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodney says, snapping his fingers and turning back towards his desk, “just give me the last output data.”
“I have already--”
“What?”
“I said, I have already given you the data.” Radek points and Rodney follows the curve of his finger to the thick wad of papers hanging off the side of his desk.
“Yes, right.” He tugs them into his direct line of sight and makes short work of the new notations, threading his own ideas into the margins and crossing out all the edits he finds unnecessary or just plain stupid. “Here,” he says, holding out the pack to Zelenka, “and make Kusanagi run the simulation this time.”
Zelenka mutters something in Czech, voice rumbling as he tugs the papers from Rodney’s grasp and makes his way across the lab. They’ve been there for four hours already, pressed between walls of cold steel and loud machinery. Rodney finds it hard to sleep at night without the whirring sound. Napping upright on a lab table always seemed to come more naturally to him than a pliant mattress and sixteen pillows. His own mattress is prescription and hard as a rock, which thinking on it, is probably why Rodney doesn’t mind the floor.
It’s a few minutes before he notices his cell phone blinking, red light hard to see under layers of carbon copy. He fishes it out from the debris on his desk, frowning immediately when the digital lettering reads 4 Missed Calls. Flipping the phone open, he can almost predict the name before he sees it: KATIE. Besides the fact that he gets terrible reception in the lab, Rodney can think of numerous people he’d rather talk to than his--well, her.
As much as he’d love to feign ignorance, however, he’s learned enough to know that the longer he goes without returning her calls, the worse it’s going to be for him the next time they speak--and he doesn’t really need her coming up with any more reasons to convince Sheppard he’s a dick. He hits ‘ENTER’ to return the call, waging that an attempt with possible interference is better than no attempt at all. It’s only slightly surprising when he gets Katie’s voicemail in return. He leaves a nondescript message and tosses the phone back across his desk.
Massaging the area between his brows, Rodney picks up the nearest pen and goes back to his tracing paper. When Radek returns with new results 15 minutes later Rodney has gotten absolutely nothing done.
“If Katie is camel, who is that?”
Rodney jumps at the sound of his voice, hand smearing ink across his latest concoction. Radek is hovering in his peripheral, leaning over Rodney’s back to get a look at the doodle shoved into a corner under the Σ in Ampere’s Law. Katie is indeed a camel, with at least six humps.
“That’s, uh, that’s our therapist.” Rodney is unsure how Sheppard ended up there, holding a riding crop and wearing a tilted safari hat.
“He tames camels?” Radek asks, not even twitching and Rodney suddenly wishes for one of the interior valves in the main processor to explode.
“Oh yes, it’s one of his hobbies. He tames camels between base jumping and weaving Navajo baskets with his teeth.” Rodney sneers, disgusted at himself for drawing the doodle on a nonexpendable sheet of data. Zelenka for the most part manages to keep his remarks to a minimum, walking away with an offhanded comment about Katie’s apparent ability to retain water.
Rodney crumples up the data sheet anyway.
----
It takes Katie a day and a half to return his car, abandoning it to the night guards in underground parking; the tank is empty. Rodney chalks it off as retribution paid in full, but continues to avoid all her usual haunts when he’s at work. His sudden increase in lab time sets all of his subordinates on edge and it isn’t long before Zelenka pushes him from the facility, Grodin holding Kavanagh down as Rodney throws expletives in his general direction. “Sleep, Rodney,” Radek says, and for once Rodney doesn’t argue.
The sun’s only been up a few hours, but Rodney’s gone without a proper night’s rest for two days. His system is still wired, operating on automatic as exhaustion breeds beneath his skin. He opts to pull into the nearest café and get a cup (or four) of coffee before he falls asleep at the wheel. It’s an in-between hour so the place is relatively quiet, a few people loitering as the shift changes and the new staff re-stocks swizzle sticks before the afternoon rush.
He spots a familiar head of dark hair and sits down before he can think about it, quelling his subconscious protests of ‘BAD IDEA’ with tired, company, caffeine, tired, Batman. Said head of hair looks up, surprised. “You probably shouldn’t ask me any questions until I get a coffee,” Rodney says, watching Sheppard grin and nod, contentedly going back to his newspaper. Rodney lets his eyes slip shut, tilting his head back to rest upon the couch edge. He can hear Sheppard turn pages as his drifts off.
When he wakes up Sheppard is still there, hovering in his space and pressing a large mug of coffee into his fingers. “How long have I--”
“About 20 minutes,” he says, “rough night?”
“If by rough you mean hours spent in a heaving basin of would-be nepotism and more-likely-than-not contagious stupidity, then yes.” Rodney blows across the top of the mug, barely containing a moan as the first rush of liquid slides down his throat. “What?” he says, noting Sheppard’s stare.
Sheppard straightens, shifting in his seat. “Uh, nothing. Good?”
“Mmm,” Rodney replies, warming his fingers around the rim. In some distant part of his consciousness he’s aware that he’s making inappropriate noises, but in the face of real coffee--not the cheap instant the lab had had to resort to pandering off the military reps on base--he didn’t think he could be held liable. “God,” he let’s out an elongated sigh, “this is imported, isn’t it?”
“Sumatran,” John says, eyes flickering to Rodney’s mouth and back, “It’s Indonesian.”
Rodney garbles appreciatively, burrowing deeper into his chair and mouthing what’s left of the substance in his cup. One of the staffers eyes him bemusedly as she passes, pausing to give John an even longer once over. He gives her a polite half-smile, tipping back his own coffee mug to down the rest.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Rodney asks, voice heavy and sleep tinged.
“Next appointment’s not till one,” John says.
“Do you ever work?”
“Do you ever not?” John’s splayed in the couch across from him, half-sprawled with his legs scuffing the coffee table legs. Rodney eyes him warily, his own body hollowing out an easy shape in the café’s illustrious couches. “Thought so,” John says when Rodney breaks eye contact.
“I’m not working now,” Rodney says, the statement’s self-evident, but he feels the overpowering need to defend his non-existent social life. “Besides,” he says, as John’s brows drifts towards his hairline, “a good work ethic is nothing to be ashamed of.”
John decides to let it go, giving Rodney a look that makes him think he’s filing this information away for later. Why did he sit down with his couple’s therapist again? Sleep deprivation, Rodney thinks, Can’t be held responsible. He’s too comfortable now to move anyway.
“So, I’m guessing you got your car back?”
“Yes,” Rodney says, deciding to leave out the fact that the tank had been empty and there was still an odd smell drifting from the vicinity of the trunk. He’d checked, but found no dead animals and he didn’t really want to investigate it further.
“You know,” John says, “I had an ex-girlfriend steal my car once.”
“What?”
“She stole my--”
“No, no, no,” Rodney says, “you have an ex-girlfriend?”
John pauses, “Yes,” he says, eying Rodney carefully, “lots of people have ex-girlfriends. Some-- even have ex-boyfriends.” Rodney notes the boyfriend remark but remains unmoved.
“Thank you for that startling insight, I’ll be sure to mark it down in case I have a sudden relapse in societal terminology.” he says dryly, “You’re supposed to be a relationship expert, you shouldn’t have exes.”
John looks like he wants to comment on the relationship expert part, but is unsure of where it’d lead, “I’d think you’d want advice from someone with experience.”
“And exactly how much experience do you have?”
John purses his lips, “Lots.”
“Great, so I’m getting relationship advice from the male equivalent of Liza with a ‘Z’”
“I don’t know that many show tunes.” John says, looking up as the afternoon rush begins to load. The sudden swarm doesn’t last more than five minutes, frazzled customers in suits teetering around each other in some unnatural dance; all anxious to get their coffee and to do so without touching each other. Rodney resists the urge to stick out a foot to trip one of them.
“So this ex-girlfriend that stole your car?”
“I reported it missing and the cops picked her up.” John’s eyes dance mischievously, and Rodney can’t help but smile.
“You two must still be close.”
part 2