Fic
Um. So this is ridiculously late, but I wanted to thank whoever nominated my stories for the McShep Awards. Thank you very much.
I've been doing stupid things like applying for jobs and trying to write two papers for publication, oh, and do this whole dissertation thing. But then I thought I should stop wasting time on that and do something worthwhile, like write some more porn.
One day I will write a shorter fic...that is not about everything.
Title: 70/30
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Word Count: ~11,000
Summary: 'the glowing green rhomboid I touched on PPT-145 turned me gay'. Includes: gay porn, anonymous sex, two weddings, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, an overwrought security protocol, and voluntary homosexuality.
In retrospect, this story owes a lot to toomuchplor's excellent, excellent fic Straight As A Circle. Which you have, of course, already read. But feel free to take this opportunity to read it again. Anyway, my story is kind of the reverse, or the inverse, converse, obverse of that...
The Ancient artifact hadn’t seemed to do much of anything at the time - just glowed faintly green. In fact, that’s the only reason he remembers it at all. In John’s experience, unidentified 10,000 year old technology tends to turn blue, red, or possibly yellow in his presence. So he remembers thinking the green was kind of unusual. In retrospect he thinks it should have turned neon pink and starting playing disco hits. At least then he would have had a little warning.
*
John’s not actually entirely sure how he figures it out. As a hypothesis, ‘the glowing green rhomboid I touched on PPT-145 turned me gay’ lacks a little something in the Occam’s Razor department. But there’s this moment during mandatory civilian weapons’ training when Sergeant Milner is demonstrating the proper firing stance. John’s eyes flick over and then just catch on the line of Milner’s arm, to his shoulder, the muscle flexing under the sleeve, and he knows, like a switch has been flipped, the proverbial light bulb going on - only it’s not over his head, but somewhere considerably lower. In John’s sorta long and not so illustrious career it’s safe to say that he’s seen a lot of guys fire a lot of guns. And never once before in all those times has he thought it was hot.
The panic only lasts for about a week. He spends it doing a lot of running and thinking really hard about breasts. But then he gives that up because this is the Pegasus Galaxy and he as a lot of shit to do. Plus he figures there’s even odds this will just go away by itself given enough time. So John breezes past denial, skips anger and bargaining completely and coasts into some place just short of acceptance. Unfortunately, it’s a stage that seems to basically consist of being endlessly and inappropriately aroused.
It’s unpleasantly like being sixteen years old again, when linoleum makes you think of sex. Only this time it’s male linoleum. The shoulders make sense. And ass, definitely - ass is universal currency. Yes, check, ass is great, ass is reassuring and familiar. Ass is hot, hot, hot. Muscles, sure: pecs, abs, biceps, deltoids, triceps, quads, etc., etc. But John has caught himself staring more than once as Private Williams slopped root-bean-grain mash onto his plate, Williams’ knuckles prominent, the ladle swallowed up in his meaty hand. On Tuesday, John entered the Control Room on the heels of Dr. Markow, whose hair was curling shower-wet at the nape of his neck, and he had to execute a crisp about-turn and walk right out again, dodging three techs and a startled Elizabeth. John’s turn-ons now apparently include: forearms and wrists, that knobby little bone on the side of the knee, belts, leather boots and earlobes.
For the past week, instead of getting better, things seem to be getting worse. John can feel the dial pushing past Possibly Gay, Slightly Gay and Mostly Gay, on its way to Queer as a Three Dollar Bill. He hasn’t told anyone about this, for fairly obvious reasons. For starters, who the hell can even begin to guess how this will fuck with DADT? But when he turns and sees Ronon striding around the corner to the armory and John nearly comes in his pants, he decides it’s time to call in reinforcements. “McKay,” he grits out, slapping on his radio, “I need your help with something. I’ll be in the lab in 5 minutes.” Then he gives himself a minute to get his breathing under control before he exits the safety of the transporter.
*
First he has to convince Rodney he’s got a serious situation. Then he has to convince him the situation’s not too serious. And finally, there’s nothing for it but to just tell him exactly what the situation is.
“Huh,” says Rodney. “That’s new.” And he gets up to root around in a cabinet against the far wall, pulling out a box marked “Might Kill You”, shoving aside another labeled “Will Seriously, Seriously Kill You”, and reaching behind a third with the warning “Extreme Paradox - Could be Fatal?”, to finally start rooting around in a fourth labeled “No One’s Died Yet.” With a small sound of satisfaction, Rodney extracts the rhomboid. And John has to bite back his instinctive urge to scream at McKay not to touch it. Anyway, it’s not glowing this time.
“I can’t imagine what they’d want a device like this for,” Rodney’s muttering. “It’s not like they had a problem with population control. Quite the opposite, actually. And how the hell is this supposed to work, anyway?” He puts the rhomboid down on his work station and prods at it with a pair of what look like very small forceps. “It could be genetic, chemical, psychological…possibly electro-physiological.” The forceps beep, and Rodney steps back frowning. “Have you talked to Carson about this yet?”
“No!” says John, perhaps a little more forcefully than absolutely necessary.
Rodney blinks at him for a minute. “Oh. Oh, right. The whole…thing,” he waves an all-encompassing hand.
“Yes, Rodney. The whole thing,” he grits out. “Which I’d appreciate if you kept in mind. No one knows about this.”
“Of course. Of course. But it’s not really my area of expertise, the whole biological muckity-muck.”
“Yeah, but you’re a genius. You can figure it out.”
“Of course I can figure it out. But it’s going to take a little time.” Rodney tosses the rhomboid into an unlabelled cardboard box under the table. John knows it’s the priority box for immediate investigation, but that’s not enough when there are at least fifteen different flavors of ‘immediate’.
“McKay!” John grabs Rodney’s arm. “I need you to fix this!”
“And I will!” snaps Rodney, pulling his arm back. “But, as you may imagine, there are a few other slightly more pressing problems that require my attention. And I’m sorry that you’re experiencing a crisis of sexual identity, but we’re all going to be experiencing crises of a much more basic existential nature if I don’t put out at least a few of the many fires my estimable colleagues have managed to start this week, plus that little matter of generally keeping us in breathable air and potable water. I assure you I’ll look into this matter as soon as possible.” Rodney pauses to take a breath, and John can almost see him changing conversational gears. “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re complaining about here. I mean, now you can have sex whenever you want, no waiting.”
John’s pretty sure he actually chokes on his own tongue for a minute. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, of course, it’s not like you had to wait around much before, I’m sure. But, come on, guys are easy. And statistically, you’re much better off. The men on this expedition outnumber the women two to one.”
“Right,” he narrows his eyes, “and only ten percent of them are gay, which leaves me one to six against.” John pauses just short of banging his head against the lab table, grabbing onto his hair with both hands. He can’t believe this is the conversation he’s having with Rodney McKay about the Ancient tech that turned him gay. He doesn’t want to do this, but he hadn’t wanted to have to tell Rodney at all, because no matter how much he has John’s back, discretion is not the first word that leaps to mind when one thinks of Dr. Meredith Rodney McKay. But John doesn’t see any way around it, short of telling Carson, and Elizabeth, and being grounded, and the inevitable leak to the SGC, and his inevitable reassignment back to Earth.
“Look, Rodney,” he says quietly. “I need you to fix this. I need you to fix this yesterday. Because… Because I can’t do my job.” His voice cracks embarrassingly on that last word, and he backs away from Rodney fast, wiping his sweaty palms on his BDUs. “Rodney, I can’t. It’s like I’m getting all this new sensory information, and I don’t have any kind of filter at all. My concentration’s shot to hell. I’m - all I can think about is sex. Anything at all will - anything - earlobes, for Christsakes. I don’t have any control over this thing.” He trails off into silence.
“Um, ok. I,” Rodney clears his throat awkwardly. “I didn’t realize. I’ll look at it again tonight, ok? I’m sorry, that’s really the best I can do. I -“
“Ok, good. Great. Thank you,” and John all but runs from the lab.
*
John doesn’t hear from Rodney for two days. After another day spent doing paperwork, sparring with Teyla, and helpfully accessing bits of the Atlantis database for the anthropologists, who are 76% female, John gets back to his quarters to find a jewel case sitting on his bed with a post-it note attached.
‘No progress so far. Sorry. Maybe this will help. -MRM’
John doesn’t really have any idea what that could mean, but he pops the CD into his laptop and double-clicks on the first file without really thinking about it. It takes him about 30 seconds to process that what he’s looking at is porn, and 15 more (pan out from the mouth on the dick, to the dick attached to the mouth on the dick) to figure out that it’s gay porn. He panics and slams the laptop shut, knocking over his desk chair in his haste to get away from the incriminating evidence. What the fuck was Rodney thinking?
John paces to the other side of the room and back, takes a deep breath, pulls his chair back upright, sits in it, and cracks open his laptop, which promptly resumes with the cocksucking. There’s no extraneous action, no distracting soundtrack, just a guy on his knees with another guy’s dick in his mouth. It’s the hottest porn John’s seen since Wednesday, when Chavez pinned Timmons to the mat in seven moves.
It’s short, only about five minutes long, but that’s 22 seconds longer than he needs. John’s still holding his softening cock when the clip ends abruptly - cutting out between one wet, deep, enthusiastic slurp and the next. John cleans himself up then spends the rest of the night burning through the whole CD. Almost all the files are like that, short concentrated fragments of sex, like the favorite scenes from the favorite movies of people who knew they needed to get the most bang for their buck in the fewest possible bits. People who knew they’d be watching these movies over and over again.
It’s not like John’s going to be able to get it up again, but there’s something deeply satisfying, almost calming, about watching two (or more) naked guys, guys who are being extremely gay together. John watches until his eyes start to burn: fucking and sucking and rimming, and 69s and fucking and deep throating. more fucking and even one scorching QuickTime reel that’s nothing but kissing. He falls into bed around 0400 feeling a little more at peace with this whole gay thing. And then he thinks of Rodney scavenging the Atlantis intranet for all the secreted and encrypted gay porn he could find. Rodney really is the best friend he’s ever had. And the thought actually manages to choke him up for a minute until he realizes what’s happening to him. Motherfucker! He thinks angrily, rolling over and punching his pillow, he is so fucking gay now.
*
Intensive exposure to gay porn has actually helped to take the edge off. Chalk up one more point to the Rodney McKay school of problem solving. Ears, knees and hairy wrists are off the list. And John figures he’s accelerated his acclimatization process to the point where he’s about 22 in gay years. He estimates that it will be safe to put his team back into active rotation and out of his fabricated training schedule by the time he’s hit 25. His 25th gay birthday, he’s decided, will coincide with the day he can be in the same room as Ronon Dex for more than five minutes without feeling any compulsion to throw himself down at the other man’s feet and offer himself up for sex.
It takes exactly eight more days.
*
On MTl-144, the Kruthians require visitors to assist the harvest by participating in a ceremonial joining. Which is pretty par for the course in Pegasus. John’s already been married four times, no big deal. Except suddenly it seems weird to pledge himself in holy matrimony to a guy, in exactly the same way it felt weird before to get hitched to a woman as part of a fertility rite on an alien planet. The thing is, there’s a split-second where he could actually imagine being married to Rodney McKay - if he weren’t career military, and they were magically transported to Canada, and if he was out of his fucking mind.
If Teyla’s surprised by his request she doesn’t let it show, just inclines her head formally and says, “I would be honored.” John’s worried for a minute that McKay might make something of it, but he doesn’t even look up from his handheld, just waves a hand dismissively, “Fine. Fine. Be polygamous. See if I care.”
The ceremony is beautiful.
He and Teyla are dressed in crimson robes over white shifts, and led barefoot over a carpet of red flower petals that release a sweet, jasmine-like scent with each step they take. The path winds through intricately arranged rock gardens, and in most places is wide enough for two, but sometimes narrows so that John goes first, leading Teyla, or Teyla goes first, guiding John. Every time they touch each other, all of the 33 attendants ring a fluting silver chime.
He and Teyla make a game out of it, trying to see if they can catch their watchers off guard. John brushes his left big toe against the outside of Teyla’s heel, and the chimes ring out. Teyla draws her right arm up to tuck her hair back, sliding her pinky finger against John’s on the way down; the chimes ring out. John pretends to trip, his arm going out, stopping just short of Teyla’s shoulder; the chimes are silent. By the time they reach the altar, they’re flushed and laughing, still shadowed by their 33 infallible attendants.
“Wait,” says John, as they turn to climb the three altar steps. Teyla looks at him expectantly, and he stoops to scoop up a red blossom and tuck it behind her ear, arranging her hair to fall to either side of her shoulders. Both Teyla’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. But then her lips curve up into a smile. John smiles back, and then takes her hand to the accompaniment of an orchestral movement of chimes.
John gets married to the most beautiful woman in at least two galaxies, with probably two of the surliest bridesmaids (although Rodney tries to insist he’s the best man, but Ronon just growls at him until he goes back to throwing his half of the flower petals into the air). And it really should be just about the happiest day in recent memory, except for the niggling little voice in the back of John’s head that seriously doubts he would have felt the need to style his wife’s hair on their wedding day, Before He Turned Gay.
*
John loses his gay virginity on GHD-492. Teyla’s in charge of negotiations and Ronon’s on McKay duty, so when Trif asks John if he would like a tour of the palace architecture, Johns says yes. He does take time to appreciate the intricately frescoed ceiling on the second antechamber of the great hall as Trif drops to his knees. But he loses a little focus right about the time a big hand gets wrapped around his dick, followed by a hot, wet, big mouth. He drops a hand to tangle in short silky hair, and just has time to trail his fingertips against a lightly stubbled jaw before he’s coming, and coming, and coming.
John has a brief flash of performance anxiety as he’s maneuvering through the five layers of hook-and-eye fastenings on Trif’s pants, but it disappears as soon as he gets his first look at the goods. He wants that. He wants to put it in his mouth. And John’s no stranger to giving head, even enthusiastically, but it’s not like he himself ever directly got off on eating pussy. He gets a sort of confused idea that that damn rhomboid has turned him gayer than he was straight before, but he quickly buries that train of thought, which cannot lead to anything good. What the hell, thinks John, live the dream. And he goes all the way down.
*
John’s now discerning enough to be developing a type, and it isn’t Private Williams, and it isn’t Septumgalan Trif - it isn’t even Ronon Dex. He figures he’s hit about 29 in gay years. He’s normalizing fast and estimates 3-4 weeks until he’s completely caught up in his psychosexual development. He hasn’t yet quite gotten over his skittishness with the Marines. And he isn’t entirely ready to stop juggling his team out of any rotations that seem potentially dangerous.
Teyla only says, “It is nice to visit old allies and renew our ties.”
Ronon grunts and says, “I’m bored, Sheppard.”
But Rodney snaps, “Quit your whining. At least most of the marriage ceremonies are already out of the way. And I, for one, find a mission free of shooting, running, enforced captivity, religious intolerance, consciousness-altering sentient organisms, fascist warlords, and Faustian bargains to be a refreshing change of pace.”
John’s not a bigot; he’s not a homophobe. He knows that sexual orientation doesn’t have anything to do with doing your job. He knows there are plenty of homosexuals in the military. He knows liking cock doesn’t mean you can’t throw down. And he knows that some gay guys are hard-assed, cool under fire, first in, last out. He just doesn’t know what kind of gay guy he is yet. And he won’t risk his team more than he has to on an unknown quantity. He can’t take the chance of not being up to the job.
The decision gets taken out of his hands on SLQ-119.
It’s not first contact. It’s not even second or third contact. John’s never personally met these guys before, but mission reports indicate that the Pwori are laid back and hard working, friendly, but not too friendly, and well on their way to becoming secure trading partners for Atlantis. John thinks they’re leaning more towards the ‘not too friendly’ end of things when he steps out of the wormhole and into the muzzle of some kind of ten pound blunderbuss.
“Whoa. Whoa,” he says, raising his hands in the universal gesture of ‘I am now unable to utilize my own weapon, but am still more than ready to punch you in the head if necessary.’ He slides slowly in front of McKay, Teyla stepping up to flank him, Ronon fading into the background.
“There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding. We’re the Lantean trading party. I’m John Sheppard. This is Teyla Emmagan. Dr. Rodney McKay. Ronon Dex.” He smiles all around at the assembled weaponry: nine large-bore guns, six catapults, various cutlery, and one of something that might actually be a flame-thrower.
“There is no mistake,” intones a tall grizzled guy holding a sword. “You are the usurpers of the sacred home of the Ancestors, defilers of worlds, traitors to Man, wakers of the Wraith.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound very flattering when you put it like that,” says John, both hands still up in front of him, still completely harmless, still weaponless, the second and third fingers of his right hand pressed tightly together. “So. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the trade agreement’s off. In that case, we’ll just be -“ and he drops to his knees, barreling into the nearest blunderbuss holder, while Teyla takes out sword-guy in two swift moves, and Ronon throws Rodney to the ground, firing into the crowd and taking out three men. Then things get a little confused for a while and end up with him and McKay sheltered in a small stand of trees and Ronon and Teyla pinned down behind the ring.
“Can you dial the gate remotely from here, McKay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” McKay snorts. “Because while you were busy Greco-Roman wrestling over there I was re-inventing three branches of physics and miniaturizing a DHD to fit in my pocket.” But he’s got his laptop out and there’s some weird crystal-microchip hybrid John’s never seen before attached to the USB port, so he takes that as a yes.
“Teyla, copy,” John says, tapping his radio. Teyla confirms that she and Ronon are pinned down behind the gate, but uninjured, which is something. John takes the next ten minutes, in which the Pwori still seem to be reloading their muskets, to take a quick look at the puncture wound on his leg. It’s not serious, but it’s bleeding a lot and trickling down his inner thigh, which is a really unpleasant sensation. He rips his BDU’s enough to slap a field dressing on it, and is in the process of trying to pour water down the leg of his pants when Rodney straightens up, saying, “There! I think I’ve - What are you doing?”
“Um. Nothing,” says John, hurriedly shoving the canteen away. “Did you do it? Can we dial out?”
“What? No. Are you stupid?” snaps Rodney impatiently. “We can’t dial out without access to the DHD. But,” he raises a finger, “I’ve arranged to send a signal to the gate that will simulate a dial-in.”
*
“I hate this plan,” mutters Rodney from behind his tree trunk.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” says John. “It’s your plan.”
“It is not my plan,” hisses Rodney. “I just provided the distraction.”
“Exactly,” says John. And he puts an end to that conversation by dodging out from behind his tree, sprinting five yards and diving behind the next tree, drawing fire from at least two gunners. “Okay,” he pants into his radio. As much fun as it is to have the Pwori take potshots at him all afternoon, they need to get the ball rolling before reinforcements arrive. “McKay, report.”
Rodney breathes noisily into his radio, then barks, “Teyla, your 1:00 is completely out; 3:00 and 4:00 are at half; 9:00’s fired one shot.” There’s a pause, during which John probably only imagines he can hear the faint tapping of computer keys. “Ok. Nobody get killed. Sending signal now.” And the chevrons around the gate start bursting into life, one by one. The Pwori fall back ten feet, which is about five feet short of where John needs them to be.
Right as the sixth chevron lights up, John taps his headset, and the billowing fog of a smoke grenade fills the ring. It doesn’t look anything like the wormhole backwash, but it throws the Pwori off for a second, a second John takes to set off three flash bangs in rapid succession right behind the rear guard. Half the Pwori line turn towards the new threat, which is when Ronon comes through the ring shooting: three shots and 9:00, 3:00 and 4:00 go down like carnival ducks. Teyla’s laying down P-90 fire, right into the dirt, shooting clumps of grass and rock into the air, making the front line dance back into the men behind them. And then John’s running.
“Mark!” he yells, and Teyla smoothly raises her weapon into the air, while John tags Rodney at the DHD with the anchor for the string of Christmas Lights (micro-charges of C4 on a cable, wired in parallel, of course, with three different detonation sequences - one of Cadman’s inventions), and hotfoots it right by the Pwori line, Ronon and Teyla firing over his head, Rodney steadily cursing in his ear over the open radio line.
“Fire in the hole!” he bellows, just as the lone Pwori flamethrower spits into life, which is how they end up separated from their attackers by a wall of flames, a wall of flames that immediately starts licking closer.
When John gets back to the other side of the gate, Teyla’s got a bandana up over her nose and mouth, Ronon looks mildly irritated, and Rodney’s covered in ash and dust, fuming, and doing something really fast and really dirty to the insides of the DHD.
“Don’t even talk to me,” Rodney snarls as soon as he sees John. And John immediately puts up both hands in the universal gesture of ‘I’m done blowing things up. The rest is your show.’
“Not only,” continues Rodney under his breath as he yanks a cluster of optical filaments out of their casing, “have you managed to damage the dialing mechanism with your little heart-warming display of massively excessive, unnecessary, and redundant over-kill, but you’ve guaranteed that this now malfunctioning device is our only way of this deathtrap. And, as a little bonus, if I can get this sophisticated and delicate piece of machinery to start working - through the engineering equivalent of essentially kicking it several times, I might add - so that it can successfully break us all up into tiny quantum-mechanically mysterious pieces and reconstitute us in a manner to which we have all grown accustomed, then the odds become quite good that we’ll actually be able to take a pleasant little memento of the towering inferno with us. Of course, that’s all contingent upon the unproven ability to sustain a wormhole this close to - Atlantis, do you read? We’re coming in hot. Literally. Clear the floor!”
Then John’s shoving Ronon and Teyla through the eye, turning to Rodney right before the wormhole winks out. “Shit!” But Rodney hasn’t even paused. He’s on his knees swapping around crystals like a really ace casino dealer. The flames are distorting the air all around them now; it’s hotter than fuck, and John feels like he’s swallowed about a pound of ash. The next time Rodney’s head pops up above the console he forces yellow safety goggles on him, donning his own pair and struggling into his heavy expedition jacket. Abandoning the rest of their gear, John scavenges all the water bottles he can find and methodically begins dousing himself, soaking his pants and the exposed parts of his face. He starts on the bits of McKay he can reach: his back and the backs of his legs, emptying two canteens, until he can see skin through the material.
There’s a hiccough from the gate, then a kind of ominous noise from the DHD. Rodney hasn’t said anything in at least 45 seconds, which makes John very, very nervous. He’s got two fingers poised above McKay’s collar, ready to grab and run them through the circle of flames if it comes to that. But then Rodney makes a sound like he’s hacking up a hairball, says, “I’ve got it. Ow, fuck! I just need to - be ready, Colonel. The carrier crystal blew, so I’ve re-routed - we’ve got 10 seconds, that’s it. Are you listening? Right when you see the blue. It’s starting the dialing sequence - goddamn IDC - we really need a faster protocol. Are you ready? Right when the -“
Yellow, green, blue means go - and John hauls Rodney out from the inside of the DHD, shoves him forward 1, 2, 5 steps: 7 seconds, and tackles him through the stargate, plastering his wet front to Rodney’s wet back, stuffing his face into Rodney’s neck, bracketing his arms over both their heads, skidding across the gateroom floor on a puddle of water, while the hot breeze of rematerializing combustion shoots over their heads, scorching the back of John’s neck, followed by the cool relief of Atlantis’ emergency sprinkler system: soft exploding pellets of super-saturated hydro-polymers.
“Oh, god. My back,” Rodney groans. John rolls off him onto the floor, and gets a polymer soft-gel right in the eye.
*
John takes a super hot, super long, super gay shower in which he uses four different sweet smelling skin and hair products. Then he spends five minutes in front of the mirror, ignoring his hair (which is still completely hopeless), and deciding between the two pairs of non-uniform pants he owns. He hums ‘Ring of Fire’ all the way to the Control Room, where he swaps out Lorne’s team (they can go despair over the rising cost of hipsap root), and writes in SGA-1 for next week’s visit to QRC-112: Terrain: Unknown; Resources: Unknown; Population: Potentially Hostile.
*
They’re trudging slowly and sweatily over the rocky cliffs of WML-933, following the rumor of a civilization that scavenges and trades in Ancient artifacts. Teyla and Ronon have point. John is on McKay duty. Rodney grunts and grumbles and swears and generally bemoans his fate, and the third time he slips on loose shale and almost takes a header into the sandy dirt, grumbles under his breath, “You know, I’m pretty sure I liked it better when you were feeling unsure about your masculinity.”
The comment catches John so off-guard that he barks out a surprised laugh. Rodney quirks half a grin his way. Then he’s off again.
The thing is, Rodney really can be discreet. He can be so discreet that John can forget he knows about it, can almost forget there’s anything to know about. Ronon and Teyla don’t even know what’s going on - not really. And not a single person on Atlantis has looked at John sideways. He owes Rodney for this - he owes him big-time. And he’s just jogging up to McKay to express some of this immense gratitude he’s feeling, when Rodney pops completely out of existence. He gets as far as “What the -,” when Teyla similarly disappears. John drops his pack and runs straight out for Ronon, and he’s barely an arm’s length away when Ronon just ceases to be there.
John’s got two choices. He can turn around now and try to make the five mile hike back to the gate for reinforcements, or he can follow his team. He can feel it, at the back of his mind, a little push that says ‘go here’, getting steadily stronger and stronger. ‘Ok,’ thinks John, ‘take me there.’
He rematerializes with his beretta out and cocked, and immediately sights on the guy in the purple scarf standing a little too close to Rodney. “Step back,” he barks. Instead, the guy steps closer with an incongruously pleased smile. “I said, Step back!” The guy falters for a minute, and Rodney huffs impatiently. “No. No. Colonel, relax. This is Pilnit,” he goes on, as if that explains everything. “Simple security protocol. No need to over-react. As you may have noticed, that was a Transporter Beam. Similar to the Asgard’s, but Ancient in design. Pilnit was just telling me about it.”
John scans the open galleria. There are no visible threats. Teyla nods slightly, and Ronon flicks his dreadlocks back. They both still have all their weapons. John slowly flips the safety on, and even more slowly, holsters his weapon.
“See? See?” Rodney carols. “We’re all friends here.” He indicates the be-scarfed inhabitants of the open plaza with an outstretched arm. “You’ve got fabulous new technology we’ve never seen before. And we,” And here Rodney indicates himself with a palm to his chest, “have got amazing levels of expertise you’ve never before encountered. We have so much to talk about.” And he sweeps down the hallway with his new best friend Pilnit, snapping his fingers at the rest of them to follow.
The Ifsit live in a population-controlled community at the bottom of a deep, deep glacial crevasse. The only way in or out is essentially by transporter beam. Rodney starts to look a little green when he gets this news, and John leans in to whisper “Trans.Porter.Beam.” into his ear until his breathing is under control. And then John kind of has to say it over again a few times in his head, because he’s not exactly thrilled either to be stuck in a giant crack in the earth with no back door. Even Teyla looks a little tight around the mouth. Ronon wins the prize, though, for the most unhappy camper, either fondling his blaster or taking compulsive inventory of his knife collection the entire time they’re there.
The Ifsit don’t get a lot of visitors, so the presence of his team kind of throws the whole place into carnival mode. There’re flower garlands (which look more like fungus garlands, actually), and music, and speeches, and toasts, and dancing, and laughing. The Ifsit science division is already following Rodney around like a family of ducklings which, at two hours, twenty minutes, puts them in serious contention for The Alien Culture Most In Awe of McKay’s Intellect. Since all other members of the top five have, at one point or another, and in some cases, more than once, tried to poach John’s Chief Science Officer, he puts Teyla and Ronon on perimeter security and goes to break up the little fan club.
“Ok, guys,” he says briskly. “You’ve had your fun. Why don’t we let Dr. McKay take a crack at the buffet table here before it’s all gone.”
“Oh, yes,” pipes up a little guy in a green scarf. “I would be most pleased to bring Dr. McKay a selection of the best offerings.”
Rodney’s clearly getting ready to graciously accept this tribute when a statuesque woman in a vermilion scarf glides up and claps her hands once. The scientists immediately scatter.
“I am Dimilit Pilnaha’it,” she says.
“John Sheppard. Nice to meet you.” John grins and extends a hand, wrapping his other firmly around Rodney’s elbow.
“Dr. - Dr. Rodney McKay. It’s very nice to meet you and your - hospitality is. Although I haven’t actually got a chance yet to - the technology you have here is really fascinating. And the city. Yes, the city too - very beautiful. The beautiful…”
Dimilit flicks a brief glance Rodney’s way, then dismisses him, turning back to John. And John’s relieved first, and then he’s a little irked.
“Tell me, John Sheppard, I have never seen our transporting device react as it did with you today. It was as if you were able to exert some sort of control over it.”
“Yeah…I’m guess I’m just gifted,” John says, and throws in a suggestive leer.
She gives him an appraising look that says she has no doubts whatsoever about the extent of his gifts. Rodney’s trying to squirm away from him, but John just tightens his grip.
“It wasn’t ‘til I met Rodney, though, that I really realized my gifts to their full potential,” John continues, sliding a hand across McKay’s shoulder to rest on the nape of his neck, pulling Rodney’s near arm around to John’s hip. Rodney goes stiff and pink, and starts to struggle instinctively, until the penny drops, and he suddenly leans sideways into John, squeezing his waist in a vice-like grip.
“Oh. Uh. I’ve really opened up whole worlds to Shep-John,” says Rodney smugly. And John laughs into Rodney’s neck, turning his head to see Dimilit Pilnaha’it’s sour, pinched mouth.
“You are It’alit,” she says crisply, and continues, in the tone of one reciting a childhood lesson, “I acknowledge and respect your noble sacrifice.”
“Thanks,” says John brightly. “But it’s really no sacrifice at all.” And he presses a kiss right below Rodney’s ear, running his hand up into Rodney’s hair while Rodney brings both arms up around John’s back, pressing him closer.
Until suddenly he’s pushing John away. “She’s gone,” Rodney says. “And I’m, uh, going to get something to eat.”
The buffet table contains 20 different dishes, and John’s pretty sure they’re all composed primarily of mushroom.
“So. Thank you for the. Thank you,” says Rodney, flushed pink and addressing the serving forks, but with a small, pleased smile.
“Sure,” says John, bumping his shoulder. “Hey, you should try this one. It tastes like roast beef.”
Part 2
I've been doing stupid things like applying for jobs and trying to write two papers for publication, oh, and do this whole dissertation thing. But then I thought I should stop wasting time on that and do something worthwhile, like write some more porn.
One day I will write a shorter fic...that is not about everything.
Title: 70/30
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Word Count: ~11,000
Summary: 'the glowing green rhomboid I touched on PPT-145 turned me gay'. Includes: gay porn, anonymous sex, two weddings, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, an overwrought security protocol, and voluntary homosexuality.
In retrospect, this story owes a lot to toomuchplor's excellent, excellent fic Straight As A Circle. Which you have, of course, already read. But feel free to take this opportunity to read it again. Anyway, my story is kind of the reverse, or the inverse, converse, obverse of that...
The Ancient artifact hadn’t seemed to do much of anything at the time - just glowed faintly green. In fact, that’s the only reason he remembers it at all. In John’s experience, unidentified 10,000 year old technology tends to turn blue, red, or possibly yellow in his presence. So he remembers thinking the green was kind of unusual. In retrospect he thinks it should have turned neon pink and starting playing disco hits. At least then he would have had a little warning.
*
John’s not actually entirely sure how he figures it out. As a hypothesis, ‘the glowing green rhomboid I touched on PPT-145 turned me gay’ lacks a little something in the Occam’s Razor department. But there’s this moment during mandatory civilian weapons’ training when Sergeant Milner is demonstrating the proper firing stance. John’s eyes flick over and then just catch on the line of Milner’s arm, to his shoulder, the muscle flexing under the sleeve, and he knows, like a switch has been flipped, the proverbial light bulb going on - only it’s not over his head, but somewhere considerably lower. In John’s sorta long and not so illustrious career it’s safe to say that he’s seen a lot of guys fire a lot of guns. And never once before in all those times has he thought it was hot.
The panic only lasts for about a week. He spends it doing a lot of running and thinking really hard about breasts. But then he gives that up because this is the Pegasus Galaxy and he as a lot of shit to do. Plus he figures there’s even odds this will just go away by itself given enough time. So John breezes past denial, skips anger and bargaining completely and coasts into some place just short of acceptance. Unfortunately, it’s a stage that seems to basically consist of being endlessly and inappropriately aroused.
It’s unpleasantly like being sixteen years old again, when linoleum makes you think of sex. Only this time it’s male linoleum. The shoulders make sense. And ass, definitely - ass is universal currency. Yes, check, ass is great, ass is reassuring and familiar. Ass is hot, hot, hot. Muscles, sure: pecs, abs, biceps, deltoids, triceps, quads, etc., etc. But John has caught himself staring more than once as Private Williams slopped root-bean-grain mash onto his plate, Williams’ knuckles prominent, the ladle swallowed up in his meaty hand. On Tuesday, John entered the Control Room on the heels of Dr. Markow, whose hair was curling shower-wet at the nape of his neck, and he had to execute a crisp about-turn and walk right out again, dodging three techs and a startled Elizabeth. John’s turn-ons now apparently include: forearms and wrists, that knobby little bone on the side of the knee, belts, leather boots and earlobes.
For the past week, instead of getting better, things seem to be getting worse. John can feel the dial pushing past Possibly Gay, Slightly Gay and Mostly Gay, on its way to Queer as a Three Dollar Bill. He hasn’t told anyone about this, for fairly obvious reasons. For starters, who the hell can even begin to guess how this will fuck with DADT? But when he turns and sees Ronon striding around the corner to the armory and John nearly comes in his pants, he decides it’s time to call in reinforcements. “McKay,” he grits out, slapping on his radio, “I need your help with something. I’ll be in the lab in 5 minutes.” Then he gives himself a minute to get his breathing under control before he exits the safety of the transporter.
*
First he has to convince Rodney he’s got a serious situation. Then he has to convince him the situation’s not too serious. And finally, there’s nothing for it but to just tell him exactly what the situation is.
“Huh,” says Rodney. “That’s new.” And he gets up to root around in a cabinet against the far wall, pulling out a box marked “Might Kill You”, shoving aside another labeled “Will Seriously, Seriously Kill You”, and reaching behind a third with the warning “Extreme Paradox - Could be Fatal?”, to finally start rooting around in a fourth labeled “No One’s Died Yet.” With a small sound of satisfaction, Rodney extracts the rhomboid. And John has to bite back his instinctive urge to scream at McKay not to touch it. Anyway, it’s not glowing this time.
“I can’t imagine what they’d want a device like this for,” Rodney’s muttering. “It’s not like they had a problem with population control. Quite the opposite, actually. And how the hell is this supposed to work, anyway?” He puts the rhomboid down on his work station and prods at it with a pair of what look like very small forceps. “It could be genetic, chemical, psychological…possibly electro-physiological.” The forceps beep, and Rodney steps back frowning. “Have you talked to Carson about this yet?”
“No!” says John, perhaps a little more forcefully than absolutely necessary.
Rodney blinks at him for a minute. “Oh. Oh, right. The whole…thing,” he waves an all-encompassing hand.
“Yes, Rodney. The whole thing,” he grits out. “Which I’d appreciate if you kept in mind. No one knows about this.”
“Of course. Of course. But it’s not really my area of expertise, the whole biological muckity-muck.”
“Yeah, but you’re a genius. You can figure it out.”
“Of course I can figure it out. But it’s going to take a little time.” Rodney tosses the rhomboid into an unlabelled cardboard box under the table. John knows it’s the priority box for immediate investigation, but that’s not enough when there are at least fifteen different flavors of ‘immediate’.
“McKay!” John grabs Rodney’s arm. “I need you to fix this!”
“And I will!” snaps Rodney, pulling his arm back. “But, as you may imagine, there are a few other slightly more pressing problems that require my attention. And I’m sorry that you’re experiencing a crisis of sexual identity, but we’re all going to be experiencing crises of a much more basic existential nature if I don’t put out at least a few of the many fires my estimable colleagues have managed to start this week, plus that little matter of generally keeping us in breathable air and potable water. I assure you I’ll look into this matter as soon as possible.” Rodney pauses to take a breath, and John can almost see him changing conversational gears. “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re complaining about here. I mean, now you can have sex whenever you want, no waiting.”
John’s pretty sure he actually chokes on his own tongue for a minute. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, of course, it’s not like you had to wait around much before, I’m sure. But, come on, guys are easy. And statistically, you’re much better off. The men on this expedition outnumber the women two to one.”
“Right,” he narrows his eyes, “and only ten percent of them are gay, which leaves me one to six against.” John pauses just short of banging his head against the lab table, grabbing onto his hair with both hands. He can’t believe this is the conversation he’s having with Rodney McKay about the Ancient tech that turned him gay. He doesn’t want to do this, but he hadn’t wanted to have to tell Rodney at all, because no matter how much he has John’s back, discretion is not the first word that leaps to mind when one thinks of Dr. Meredith Rodney McKay. But John doesn’t see any way around it, short of telling Carson, and Elizabeth, and being grounded, and the inevitable leak to the SGC, and his inevitable reassignment back to Earth.
“Look, Rodney,” he says quietly. “I need you to fix this. I need you to fix this yesterday. Because… Because I can’t do my job.” His voice cracks embarrassingly on that last word, and he backs away from Rodney fast, wiping his sweaty palms on his BDUs. “Rodney, I can’t. It’s like I’m getting all this new sensory information, and I don’t have any kind of filter at all. My concentration’s shot to hell. I’m - all I can think about is sex. Anything at all will - anything - earlobes, for Christsakes. I don’t have any control over this thing.” He trails off into silence.
“Um, ok. I,” Rodney clears his throat awkwardly. “I didn’t realize. I’ll look at it again tonight, ok? I’m sorry, that’s really the best I can do. I -“
“Ok, good. Great. Thank you,” and John all but runs from the lab.
*
John doesn’t hear from Rodney for two days. After another day spent doing paperwork, sparring with Teyla, and helpfully accessing bits of the Atlantis database for the anthropologists, who are 76% female, John gets back to his quarters to find a jewel case sitting on his bed with a post-it note attached.
‘No progress so far. Sorry. Maybe this will help. -MRM’
John doesn’t really have any idea what that could mean, but he pops the CD into his laptop and double-clicks on the first file without really thinking about it. It takes him about 30 seconds to process that what he’s looking at is porn, and 15 more (pan out from the mouth on the dick, to the dick attached to the mouth on the dick) to figure out that it’s gay porn. He panics and slams the laptop shut, knocking over his desk chair in his haste to get away from the incriminating evidence. What the fuck was Rodney thinking?
John paces to the other side of the room and back, takes a deep breath, pulls his chair back upright, sits in it, and cracks open his laptop, which promptly resumes with the cocksucking. There’s no extraneous action, no distracting soundtrack, just a guy on his knees with another guy’s dick in his mouth. It’s the hottest porn John’s seen since Wednesday, when Chavez pinned Timmons to the mat in seven moves.
It’s short, only about five minutes long, but that’s 22 seconds longer than he needs. John’s still holding his softening cock when the clip ends abruptly - cutting out between one wet, deep, enthusiastic slurp and the next. John cleans himself up then spends the rest of the night burning through the whole CD. Almost all the files are like that, short concentrated fragments of sex, like the favorite scenes from the favorite movies of people who knew they needed to get the most bang for their buck in the fewest possible bits. People who knew they’d be watching these movies over and over again.
It’s not like John’s going to be able to get it up again, but there’s something deeply satisfying, almost calming, about watching two (or more) naked guys, guys who are being extremely gay together. John watches until his eyes start to burn: fucking and sucking and rimming, and 69s and fucking and deep throating. more fucking and even one scorching QuickTime reel that’s nothing but kissing. He falls into bed around 0400 feeling a little more at peace with this whole gay thing. And then he thinks of Rodney scavenging the Atlantis intranet for all the secreted and encrypted gay porn he could find. Rodney really is the best friend he’s ever had. And the thought actually manages to choke him up for a minute until he realizes what’s happening to him. Motherfucker! He thinks angrily, rolling over and punching his pillow, he is so fucking gay now.
*
Intensive exposure to gay porn has actually helped to take the edge off. Chalk up one more point to the Rodney McKay school of problem solving. Ears, knees and hairy wrists are off the list. And John figures he’s accelerated his acclimatization process to the point where he’s about 22 in gay years. He estimates that it will be safe to put his team back into active rotation and out of his fabricated training schedule by the time he’s hit 25. His 25th gay birthday, he’s decided, will coincide with the day he can be in the same room as Ronon Dex for more than five minutes without feeling any compulsion to throw himself down at the other man’s feet and offer himself up for sex.
It takes exactly eight more days.
*
On MTl-144, the Kruthians require visitors to assist the harvest by participating in a ceremonial joining. Which is pretty par for the course in Pegasus. John’s already been married four times, no big deal. Except suddenly it seems weird to pledge himself in holy matrimony to a guy, in exactly the same way it felt weird before to get hitched to a woman as part of a fertility rite on an alien planet. The thing is, there’s a split-second where he could actually imagine being married to Rodney McKay - if he weren’t career military, and they were magically transported to Canada, and if he was out of his fucking mind.
If Teyla’s surprised by his request she doesn’t let it show, just inclines her head formally and says, “I would be honored.” John’s worried for a minute that McKay might make something of it, but he doesn’t even look up from his handheld, just waves a hand dismissively, “Fine. Fine. Be polygamous. See if I care.”
The ceremony is beautiful.
He and Teyla are dressed in crimson robes over white shifts, and led barefoot over a carpet of red flower petals that release a sweet, jasmine-like scent with each step they take. The path winds through intricately arranged rock gardens, and in most places is wide enough for two, but sometimes narrows so that John goes first, leading Teyla, or Teyla goes first, guiding John. Every time they touch each other, all of the 33 attendants ring a fluting silver chime.
He and Teyla make a game out of it, trying to see if they can catch their watchers off guard. John brushes his left big toe against the outside of Teyla’s heel, and the chimes ring out. Teyla draws her right arm up to tuck her hair back, sliding her pinky finger against John’s on the way down; the chimes ring out. John pretends to trip, his arm going out, stopping just short of Teyla’s shoulder; the chimes are silent. By the time they reach the altar, they’re flushed and laughing, still shadowed by their 33 infallible attendants.
“Wait,” says John, as they turn to climb the three altar steps. Teyla looks at him expectantly, and he stoops to scoop up a red blossom and tuck it behind her ear, arranging her hair to fall to either side of her shoulders. Both Teyla’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. But then her lips curve up into a smile. John smiles back, and then takes her hand to the accompaniment of an orchestral movement of chimes.
John gets married to the most beautiful woman in at least two galaxies, with probably two of the surliest bridesmaids (although Rodney tries to insist he’s the best man, but Ronon just growls at him until he goes back to throwing his half of the flower petals into the air). And it really should be just about the happiest day in recent memory, except for the niggling little voice in the back of John’s head that seriously doubts he would have felt the need to style his wife’s hair on their wedding day, Before He Turned Gay.
*
John loses his gay virginity on GHD-492. Teyla’s in charge of negotiations and Ronon’s on McKay duty, so when Trif asks John if he would like a tour of the palace architecture, Johns says yes. He does take time to appreciate the intricately frescoed ceiling on the second antechamber of the great hall as Trif drops to his knees. But he loses a little focus right about the time a big hand gets wrapped around his dick, followed by a hot, wet, big mouth. He drops a hand to tangle in short silky hair, and just has time to trail his fingertips against a lightly stubbled jaw before he’s coming, and coming, and coming.
John has a brief flash of performance anxiety as he’s maneuvering through the five layers of hook-and-eye fastenings on Trif’s pants, but it disappears as soon as he gets his first look at the goods. He wants that. He wants to put it in his mouth. And John’s no stranger to giving head, even enthusiastically, but it’s not like he himself ever directly got off on eating pussy. He gets a sort of confused idea that that damn rhomboid has turned him gayer than he was straight before, but he quickly buries that train of thought, which cannot lead to anything good. What the hell, thinks John, live the dream. And he goes all the way down.
*
John’s now discerning enough to be developing a type, and it isn’t Private Williams, and it isn’t Septumgalan Trif - it isn’t even Ronon Dex. He figures he’s hit about 29 in gay years. He’s normalizing fast and estimates 3-4 weeks until he’s completely caught up in his psychosexual development. He hasn’t yet quite gotten over his skittishness with the Marines. And he isn’t entirely ready to stop juggling his team out of any rotations that seem potentially dangerous.
Teyla only says, “It is nice to visit old allies and renew our ties.”
Ronon grunts and says, “I’m bored, Sheppard.”
But Rodney snaps, “Quit your whining. At least most of the marriage ceremonies are already out of the way. And I, for one, find a mission free of shooting, running, enforced captivity, religious intolerance, consciousness-altering sentient organisms, fascist warlords, and Faustian bargains to be a refreshing change of pace.”
John’s not a bigot; he’s not a homophobe. He knows that sexual orientation doesn’t have anything to do with doing your job. He knows there are plenty of homosexuals in the military. He knows liking cock doesn’t mean you can’t throw down. And he knows that some gay guys are hard-assed, cool under fire, first in, last out. He just doesn’t know what kind of gay guy he is yet. And he won’t risk his team more than he has to on an unknown quantity. He can’t take the chance of not being up to the job.
The decision gets taken out of his hands on SLQ-119.
It’s not first contact. It’s not even second or third contact. John’s never personally met these guys before, but mission reports indicate that the Pwori are laid back and hard working, friendly, but not too friendly, and well on their way to becoming secure trading partners for Atlantis. John thinks they’re leaning more towards the ‘not too friendly’ end of things when he steps out of the wormhole and into the muzzle of some kind of ten pound blunderbuss.
“Whoa. Whoa,” he says, raising his hands in the universal gesture of ‘I am now unable to utilize my own weapon, but am still more than ready to punch you in the head if necessary.’ He slides slowly in front of McKay, Teyla stepping up to flank him, Ronon fading into the background.
“There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding. We’re the Lantean trading party. I’m John Sheppard. This is Teyla Emmagan. Dr. Rodney McKay. Ronon Dex.” He smiles all around at the assembled weaponry: nine large-bore guns, six catapults, various cutlery, and one of something that might actually be a flame-thrower.
“There is no mistake,” intones a tall grizzled guy holding a sword. “You are the usurpers of the sacred home of the Ancestors, defilers of worlds, traitors to Man, wakers of the Wraith.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound very flattering when you put it like that,” says John, both hands still up in front of him, still completely harmless, still weaponless, the second and third fingers of his right hand pressed tightly together. “So. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the trade agreement’s off. In that case, we’ll just be -“ and he drops to his knees, barreling into the nearest blunderbuss holder, while Teyla takes out sword-guy in two swift moves, and Ronon throws Rodney to the ground, firing into the crowd and taking out three men. Then things get a little confused for a while and end up with him and McKay sheltered in a small stand of trees and Ronon and Teyla pinned down behind the ring.
“Can you dial the gate remotely from here, McKay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” McKay snorts. “Because while you were busy Greco-Roman wrestling over there I was re-inventing three branches of physics and miniaturizing a DHD to fit in my pocket.” But he’s got his laptop out and there’s some weird crystal-microchip hybrid John’s never seen before attached to the USB port, so he takes that as a yes.
“Teyla, copy,” John says, tapping his radio. Teyla confirms that she and Ronon are pinned down behind the gate, but uninjured, which is something. John takes the next ten minutes, in which the Pwori still seem to be reloading their muskets, to take a quick look at the puncture wound on his leg. It’s not serious, but it’s bleeding a lot and trickling down his inner thigh, which is a really unpleasant sensation. He rips his BDU’s enough to slap a field dressing on it, and is in the process of trying to pour water down the leg of his pants when Rodney straightens up, saying, “There! I think I’ve - What are you doing?”
“Um. Nothing,” says John, hurriedly shoving the canteen away. “Did you do it? Can we dial out?”
“What? No. Are you stupid?” snaps Rodney impatiently. “We can’t dial out without access to the DHD. But,” he raises a finger, “I’ve arranged to send a signal to the gate that will simulate a dial-in.”
*
“I hate this plan,” mutters Rodney from behind his tree trunk.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” says John. “It’s your plan.”
“It is not my plan,” hisses Rodney. “I just provided the distraction.”
“Exactly,” says John. And he puts an end to that conversation by dodging out from behind his tree, sprinting five yards and diving behind the next tree, drawing fire from at least two gunners. “Okay,” he pants into his radio. As much fun as it is to have the Pwori take potshots at him all afternoon, they need to get the ball rolling before reinforcements arrive. “McKay, report.”
Rodney breathes noisily into his radio, then barks, “Teyla, your 1:00 is completely out; 3:00 and 4:00 are at half; 9:00’s fired one shot.” There’s a pause, during which John probably only imagines he can hear the faint tapping of computer keys. “Ok. Nobody get killed. Sending signal now.” And the chevrons around the gate start bursting into life, one by one. The Pwori fall back ten feet, which is about five feet short of where John needs them to be.
Right as the sixth chevron lights up, John taps his headset, and the billowing fog of a smoke grenade fills the ring. It doesn’t look anything like the wormhole backwash, but it throws the Pwori off for a second, a second John takes to set off three flash bangs in rapid succession right behind the rear guard. Half the Pwori line turn towards the new threat, which is when Ronon comes through the ring shooting: three shots and 9:00, 3:00 and 4:00 go down like carnival ducks. Teyla’s laying down P-90 fire, right into the dirt, shooting clumps of grass and rock into the air, making the front line dance back into the men behind them. And then John’s running.
“Mark!” he yells, and Teyla smoothly raises her weapon into the air, while John tags Rodney at the DHD with the anchor for the string of Christmas Lights (micro-charges of C4 on a cable, wired in parallel, of course, with three different detonation sequences - one of Cadman’s inventions), and hotfoots it right by the Pwori line, Ronon and Teyla firing over his head, Rodney steadily cursing in his ear over the open radio line.
“Fire in the hole!” he bellows, just as the lone Pwori flamethrower spits into life, which is how they end up separated from their attackers by a wall of flames, a wall of flames that immediately starts licking closer.
When John gets back to the other side of the gate, Teyla’s got a bandana up over her nose and mouth, Ronon looks mildly irritated, and Rodney’s covered in ash and dust, fuming, and doing something really fast and really dirty to the insides of the DHD.
“Don’t even talk to me,” Rodney snarls as soon as he sees John. And John immediately puts up both hands in the universal gesture of ‘I’m done blowing things up. The rest is your show.’
“Not only,” continues Rodney under his breath as he yanks a cluster of optical filaments out of their casing, “have you managed to damage the dialing mechanism with your little heart-warming display of massively excessive, unnecessary, and redundant over-kill, but you’ve guaranteed that this now malfunctioning device is our only way of this deathtrap. And, as a little bonus, if I can get this sophisticated and delicate piece of machinery to start working - through the engineering equivalent of essentially kicking it several times, I might add - so that it can successfully break us all up into tiny quantum-mechanically mysterious pieces and reconstitute us in a manner to which we have all grown accustomed, then the odds become quite good that we’ll actually be able to take a pleasant little memento of the towering inferno with us. Of course, that’s all contingent upon the unproven ability to sustain a wormhole this close to - Atlantis, do you read? We’re coming in hot. Literally. Clear the floor!”
Then John’s shoving Ronon and Teyla through the eye, turning to Rodney right before the wormhole winks out. “Shit!” But Rodney hasn’t even paused. He’s on his knees swapping around crystals like a really ace casino dealer. The flames are distorting the air all around them now; it’s hotter than fuck, and John feels like he’s swallowed about a pound of ash. The next time Rodney’s head pops up above the console he forces yellow safety goggles on him, donning his own pair and struggling into his heavy expedition jacket. Abandoning the rest of their gear, John scavenges all the water bottles he can find and methodically begins dousing himself, soaking his pants and the exposed parts of his face. He starts on the bits of McKay he can reach: his back and the backs of his legs, emptying two canteens, until he can see skin through the material.
There’s a hiccough from the gate, then a kind of ominous noise from the DHD. Rodney hasn’t said anything in at least 45 seconds, which makes John very, very nervous. He’s got two fingers poised above McKay’s collar, ready to grab and run them through the circle of flames if it comes to that. But then Rodney makes a sound like he’s hacking up a hairball, says, “I’ve got it. Ow, fuck! I just need to - be ready, Colonel. The carrier crystal blew, so I’ve re-routed - we’ve got 10 seconds, that’s it. Are you listening? Right when you see the blue. It’s starting the dialing sequence - goddamn IDC - we really need a faster protocol. Are you ready? Right when the -“
Yellow, green, blue means go - and John hauls Rodney out from the inside of the DHD, shoves him forward 1, 2, 5 steps: 7 seconds, and tackles him through the stargate, plastering his wet front to Rodney’s wet back, stuffing his face into Rodney’s neck, bracketing his arms over both their heads, skidding across the gateroom floor on a puddle of water, while the hot breeze of rematerializing combustion shoots over their heads, scorching the back of John’s neck, followed by the cool relief of Atlantis’ emergency sprinkler system: soft exploding pellets of super-saturated hydro-polymers.
“Oh, god. My back,” Rodney groans. John rolls off him onto the floor, and gets a polymer soft-gel right in the eye.
*
John takes a super hot, super long, super gay shower in which he uses four different sweet smelling skin and hair products. Then he spends five minutes in front of the mirror, ignoring his hair (which is still completely hopeless), and deciding between the two pairs of non-uniform pants he owns. He hums ‘Ring of Fire’ all the way to the Control Room, where he swaps out Lorne’s team (they can go despair over the rising cost of hipsap root), and writes in SGA-1 for next week’s visit to QRC-112: Terrain: Unknown; Resources: Unknown; Population: Potentially Hostile.
*
They’re trudging slowly and sweatily over the rocky cliffs of WML-933, following the rumor of a civilization that scavenges and trades in Ancient artifacts. Teyla and Ronon have point. John is on McKay duty. Rodney grunts and grumbles and swears and generally bemoans his fate, and the third time he slips on loose shale and almost takes a header into the sandy dirt, grumbles under his breath, “You know, I’m pretty sure I liked it better when you were feeling unsure about your masculinity.”
The comment catches John so off-guard that he barks out a surprised laugh. Rodney quirks half a grin his way. Then he’s off again.
The thing is, Rodney really can be discreet. He can be so discreet that John can forget he knows about it, can almost forget there’s anything to know about. Ronon and Teyla don’t even know what’s going on - not really. And not a single person on Atlantis has looked at John sideways. He owes Rodney for this - he owes him big-time. And he’s just jogging up to McKay to express some of this immense gratitude he’s feeling, when Rodney pops completely out of existence. He gets as far as “What the -,” when Teyla similarly disappears. John drops his pack and runs straight out for Ronon, and he’s barely an arm’s length away when Ronon just ceases to be there.
John’s got two choices. He can turn around now and try to make the five mile hike back to the gate for reinforcements, or he can follow his team. He can feel it, at the back of his mind, a little push that says ‘go here’, getting steadily stronger and stronger. ‘Ok,’ thinks John, ‘take me there.’
He rematerializes with his beretta out and cocked, and immediately sights on the guy in the purple scarf standing a little too close to Rodney. “Step back,” he barks. Instead, the guy steps closer with an incongruously pleased smile. “I said, Step back!” The guy falters for a minute, and Rodney huffs impatiently. “No. No. Colonel, relax. This is Pilnit,” he goes on, as if that explains everything. “Simple security protocol. No need to over-react. As you may have noticed, that was a Transporter Beam. Similar to the Asgard’s, but Ancient in design. Pilnit was just telling me about it.”
John scans the open galleria. There are no visible threats. Teyla nods slightly, and Ronon flicks his dreadlocks back. They both still have all their weapons. John slowly flips the safety on, and even more slowly, holsters his weapon.
“See? See?” Rodney carols. “We’re all friends here.” He indicates the be-scarfed inhabitants of the open plaza with an outstretched arm. “You’ve got fabulous new technology we’ve never seen before. And we,” And here Rodney indicates himself with a palm to his chest, “have got amazing levels of expertise you’ve never before encountered. We have so much to talk about.” And he sweeps down the hallway with his new best friend Pilnit, snapping his fingers at the rest of them to follow.
The Ifsit live in a population-controlled community at the bottom of a deep, deep glacial crevasse. The only way in or out is essentially by transporter beam. Rodney starts to look a little green when he gets this news, and John leans in to whisper “Trans.Porter.Beam.” into his ear until his breathing is under control. And then John kind of has to say it over again a few times in his head, because he’s not exactly thrilled either to be stuck in a giant crack in the earth with no back door. Even Teyla looks a little tight around the mouth. Ronon wins the prize, though, for the most unhappy camper, either fondling his blaster or taking compulsive inventory of his knife collection the entire time they’re there.
The Ifsit don’t get a lot of visitors, so the presence of his team kind of throws the whole place into carnival mode. There’re flower garlands (which look more like fungus garlands, actually), and music, and speeches, and toasts, and dancing, and laughing. The Ifsit science division is already following Rodney around like a family of ducklings which, at two hours, twenty minutes, puts them in serious contention for The Alien Culture Most In Awe of McKay’s Intellect. Since all other members of the top five have, at one point or another, and in some cases, more than once, tried to poach John’s Chief Science Officer, he puts Teyla and Ronon on perimeter security and goes to break up the little fan club.
“Ok, guys,” he says briskly. “You’ve had your fun. Why don’t we let Dr. McKay take a crack at the buffet table here before it’s all gone.”
“Oh, yes,” pipes up a little guy in a green scarf. “I would be most pleased to bring Dr. McKay a selection of the best offerings.”
Rodney’s clearly getting ready to graciously accept this tribute when a statuesque woman in a vermilion scarf glides up and claps her hands once. The scientists immediately scatter.
“I am Dimilit Pilnaha’it,” she says.
“John Sheppard. Nice to meet you.” John grins and extends a hand, wrapping his other firmly around Rodney’s elbow.
“Dr. - Dr. Rodney McKay. It’s very nice to meet you and your - hospitality is. Although I haven’t actually got a chance yet to - the technology you have here is really fascinating. And the city. Yes, the city too - very beautiful. The beautiful…”
Dimilit flicks a brief glance Rodney’s way, then dismisses him, turning back to John. And John’s relieved first, and then he’s a little irked.
“Tell me, John Sheppard, I have never seen our transporting device react as it did with you today. It was as if you were able to exert some sort of control over it.”
“Yeah…I’m guess I’m just gifted,” John says, and throws in a suggestive leer.
She gives him an appraising look that says she has no doubts whatsoever about the extent of his gifts. Rodney’s trying to squirm away from him, but John just tightens his grip.
“It wasn’t ‘til I met Rodney, though, that I really realized my gifts to their full potential,” John continues, sliding a hand across McKay’s shoulder to rest on the nape of his neck, pulling Rodney’s near arm around to John’s hip. Rodney goes stiff and pink, and starts to struggle instinctively, until the penny drops, and he suddenly leans sideways into John, squeezing his waist in a vice-like grip.
“Oh. Uh. I’ve really opened up whole worlds to Shep-John,” says Rodney smugly. And John laughs into Rodney’s neck, turning his head to see Dimilit Pilnaha’it’s sour, pinched mouth.
“You are It’alit,” she says crisply, and continues, in the tone of one reciting a childhood lesson, “I acknowledge and respect your noble sacrifice.”
“Thanks,” says John brightly. “But it’s really no sacrifice at all.” And he presses a kiss right below Rodney’s ear, running his hand up into Rodney’s hair while Rodney brings both arms up around John’s back, pressing him closer.
Until suddenly he’s pushing John away. “She’s gone,” Rodney says. “And I’m, uh, going to get something to eat.”
The buffet table contains 20 different dishes, and John’s pretty sure they’re all composed primarily of mushroom.
“So. Thank you for the. Thank you,” says Rodney, flushed pink and addressing the serving forks, but with a small, pleased smile.
“Sure,” says John, bumping his shoulder. “Hey, you should try this one. It tastes like roast beef.”
Part 2