Golden Boy by chopchica
Title: Golden Boy
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash, John/OMC post-slash
Rating: R
Length ~4,000 words
Summary: Five times John wanted to come out.
Notes: Mega thanks go out to shetiger and yin_again for betaing, along with equally huge thanks to all of the above, plus beadattitude, synecdochic, and lcsbanana for hand-holding, cheerleading, and general encouragment. Any mistakes left in this are mine, all mine.
ETA: There is a tiny, tiny, and mostly insignificant spoiler for The Game in here. One of my betas hasn't seen it yet and doesn't like spoilers and didn't have an issue with it, but I know some people are really sensitive about spoilers.
Golden Boy
- so you can shine divine -
Most of the unculled planets Teyla’s recommended really know how to throw a party - and the Yocim are no exception. It’s hard to stay sober while everybody around him drinks the ceremonial wine, and the ceremonial ale, and the ceremonial shots of something that looks and smells like tequila, but John’s got no choice; somebody has to be the designated driver.
Ronon and Teyla split off from the team long ago; Teyla joining the dance around the fire, and Ronon…doing some sort of manly bonding game with the other manly warriors, John doesn’t want to know.
Rodney’s still sitting next to him, steadily getting more and more trashed. It’s not like him - he’ll take disturbing amounts of stimulants, but he almost never drinks. But there’s a short-haired blonde - Calenye - filling and refilling his mugs. She’s already threat enough, but even worse, she’d been introduced over dinner as one of the Yocim’s top scientists.
John can see the writing on the wall, and there’s no fucking way. He wants to shove the contents of the pitcher down the front of her dress, or right through the laces, which look ready to pop with her next breath. It’s time for desperate measures. Rodney’s drunk enough, that for once, he doesn’t need to be subtle, because he’s been doing this for years, and Rodney’s never caught on.
“Rodney,” he says helpfully, “don’t forget to radio home and say goodnight to your kids. You know how they cry when they don’t hear from you. And remember you promised Deidre you’d bring her some flowers when you came back.”
Calenye gasps and pushes herself off of Rodney’s lap, slapping his face and storming away.
Rodney blinks a few times, and then stands up, weaving slightly and pointing his finger at John.
“You,” he says loudly, with the dignity of somebody who is so far past drunk he’s almost back to sober, and won’t remember a thing tomorrow, “are a cockblocking asshole.”
John gives him a lazy smirk. His work here is done.
“You can’t do this anymore,” Rodney tells him the next morning while they’re walking back to the gate.
John slips on his sunglasses. “Sorry,” he says insincerely. “I didn’t know she’d think I was serious.”
“The problem with you,” Rodney says, “is you’re never serious.” There’s a new quality to his voice - John’s never heard it before in the all the years he’s known Rodney. He’s annoyed each time he learns Rodney keeps secrets from him; Rodney is supposed to be an open book - his open book.
“I’m not known for my patience, and I’ve only been willing to wait so long,” Rodney says. “So long, Colonel.”
There are parts of himself John thought he’d lost long ago, but apparently he’s wrong, because deep inside he grows colder and colder and for the first time, he falters and steps out of pace. Rodney looks back but doesn’t stop and John slows down even more, until he’d need to double-time it to catch up with Rodney again.
He remembers the way he used to run up the stairs, two at a time, like he was running away, like he was running toward something better. The gate’s ahead of him now, but John doesn’t speed up. There’s nowhere else to go.
**
- stay in your shadow, don’t block the light -
Staying in the background is something John’s learned to do with ease, and he’s ready to fall into his usual place on this mission, except right off the bat, he makes two fatal mistakes - he kills his commanding officer, right before waking up tens of thousands of space vampires, but even worse, he lets McKay get to him, and for once, can’t keep his mouth shut. John’s theoretically trained to handle the former, but he’s not remotely prepared for the look McKay gives him after the latter - for the looks McKay’s continued to give him ever since.
John’s never been one to say much, and it turns out he’s the perfect foil for McKay - who, as far as he can tell, started talking at birth, and hasn’t shut up since. McKay hadn’t had too much to say to him back in Antarctica aside from, “now touch this,” and “did I say to touch this; I don’t think so, considering that I don’t feel like dying today and taking most of the planet with me!” It’d been amusing to realize McKay thought of him as nothing more than a pair of usable hands, with a lump of a body attached. For once, John had been safe to look and known he wasn’t being seen in return.
Those days are long gone. Now, no matter where he goes, no matter what he does, McKay isn’t only on his mind, he’s right by John’s side, talking and talking and waving his hands, and each time, John tells himself to stay quiet, even McKay needs some sort of reaction in order to keep going. But he can’t. McKay gets to him every single time, and John finds himself poking and teasing, so he can watch McKay sputter and wave those hands some more. He’s horrified to realize if McKay had pigtails, he’d probably be pulling them and god, he’s turned into Billy Miller, he’s even got the drawl down pat. If he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to push McKay up against a locker and go for it.
They have team movie nights and team dinners and team breakfasts, but sometimes it’s just the two of them playing their game and watching each other over the tops of the screens. John can’t keep from rolling his eyes at Nola’s Samantha Carter hair, and sees McKay narrow his in return. He knows McKay doesn’t see the world the same way everybody else does and wonders when he’ll learn what’s whizzing around in his brain.
He doesn’t have to wait too much longer.
“You’ve been training with Teyla a lot, huh?” McKay says casually, except John knows him too well by now, and ‘McKay’ and ‘casual’ are mutually exclusive.
John shrugs. “She’s taught me a lot.” He can’t stop the smirk. “You’d learn a lot too if you weren’t so scared of being beat up by a girl.”
“Is that what you like?” McKay asks, because unlike John, he’s able to take those risks.
John’s never been one to talk much, but McKay deserves an honest answer - as honest as John can be.
“She’s on my team.” He wishes he could say more; there’s a lot he’s been wishing lately.
“Just once,” McKay says, and John’s surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. “Just once, I wish you’d give up the act and say what you really mean.”
He looks back down at the screen and they never talk about it again, never talk about anything like it again. John doesn’t even think about it until weeks later, right before he runs out the door.
“So long, Rodney,” he says, and he’s never meant anything more.
**
- and the whole world was lying at your feet -
The briefing is even more excruciating than John had expected: Sumner’s face like a mask, and Weir glaring at McKay whenever he opens his mouth until McKay rolls his eyes so hard it looks like they’re going to fly out of his head and land in the mugs of coffee he’s double-fisting. All John can say in its favor is it’s over quickly and everybody clears out fast, until it’s just him and Jackson, and John realizes he’s been set up.
He glares, but O’Neill gives a little wave on his way out and closes the door firmly behind him.
Jackson stares at him expectantly, but John’s played this game before - way too many times, and from what he’s heard of Jackson, he’s a formidable opponent, but so is John, and Jackson’s not going to win this one.
John’s right; Jackson blinks and talks first. And keeps talking. And talking, and talking, and talking, and John’s not sure he’s ever heard anybody talk this much before - except for maybe McKay, but so far, McKay hasn’t talked so much to people as he has to the air.
He tunes in and out, long enough to hear things like, “chance of a lifetime,” and, “give anything to be in your shoes,” and wonders what exactly O’Neill has on this guy that’s keeping him rooted firmly on planet Earth, when clearly all Jackson wants to do is fly.
Even Jackson has to take a breath eventually, and when he does, he notices John hasn’t said a word in return.
“Look, John,” Jackson says, “I’ve seen your file,” and that makes John sit up straight, because the hell? Jackson shakes his head and gives John a sympathetic smile. “It’s how things are done here; we don’t have the luxury of secrets.”
He pauses for breath - again, even takes a sip of water. “It doesn’t matter to us whether you were right or wrong. You made the choice you had to make, and that’s what it means to be here. We don’t tend to get that luxury either. Sometimes people live and it’s because of you. Sometimes people die and it’s because of you. Sometimes I’ve died and the people I left behind - I don’t know if they’ll ever truly get over it. But none of it matters, because it’s not why we’re here.”
“Why are you here, then?” John asks, because if Jackson is the best cheerleader the SGC has, it’s even more fucked-up than he’d thought.”
Jackson looks at him like he’s some sort of undiscovered specimen. “Didn’t you hear anything I said? We’re here because it’s worth it. Why did you do what you did in Afghanistan, especially when you knew the consequences? Hell, why did you join the Air Force in the first place? There are other ways to fly - without the limitations they’ve set for you. It’s what we do. We can be more. You can be more.”
He can’t be saying what John thinks he’s saying. Except maybe he is.
“It’s a new world, John. It’s a new galaxy. You can start again - make yourself whatever you want to be, whoever you’ve always wanted to be. Isn’t that worth it?”
John’s always been good at reading his cues. This is the part where he’s supposed to step in and agree, be honest for once, receive the absolution Jackson’s promising. It’s almost tempting enough to go for it - Jackson is very good at what he does.
He thinks about the way O’Neill looks at Jackson: the possessiveness in his voice when he says, “you’re going over my dead body - or yours.” - everybody around them either deliberately ignoring what’s right in front of their eyes, or somehow living in the land of delusion and denial. From what John’s seen of the SGC so far, they don’t seem to miss a trick. There are snakes in people’s stomachs and worlds beyond comprehension - even people like Jackson dying, and dying, and dying again, despite currently being healthy and whole and staring expectantly at John across the table. Maybe things are different here. Maybe he can be different.
He thinks about the hope on Weir’s face when she talks about Atlantis, the joy when she told him about his gene and what it’ll mean to the mission. It’s been a long time since anybody’s looked at him like this, since anybody’s talked about his future with excitement and anticipation - at least, the good kind of anticipation.
He thinks about McKay, shocking John out of his frozen, white world with his ridiculous orange fleece, the first real color John had noticed in months, so soft John had wanted to touch, to see how it felt. The reluctant admiration mixed with annoyance in McKay’s eyes, the twist of the mouth that makes John want to push and push and push, just to see how far he can go.
He thinks about how he sat down and the entire world lit up for him, the itch that’d always been at the very back of his mind exploding into sound and color and a whisper he couldn’t ignore, telling him they’d lost faith but now he was here, finally here, it was time.
Then he remembers the look in Sumner’s eyes, like he’s just waiting for a reason, the satisfaction in Harrison’s voice when he’d given John his new orders, the lack of any response from his father, which he’d learned to expect, but never stopped hoping for. The choice he’d had to make - and how he’d been willing to give anything up in order to fly, only to find it was a lie, the pleasure they got in keeping him from doing anything but the most basic runs.
He thinks about cold that burns, even more than the heat of Afghanistan, he’d never known it could be like this, so empty and clear and nothing but his own thoughts and the open sky, still too far away. He hadn’t lied to O’Neill, he did like it there - in his own way - but you can only stay trapped in ice so long before you freeze through and through.
He remembers how good he is at saying nothing at all.
**
- poster boy, you’re society’s child -
By the time they move to Austin for his sophomore year, John has the drill down cold. He sits in the back row for all of his classes and never raises his hand, even when he knows the answer. He keeps up with his homework and pulls a ‘B’ in every class, smiles politely at the teachers who suggest he might not be fulfilling his potential and perhaps he’d like to join the math team?
He ignores the flyers for football tryouts, and goes for the track team instead, because he might not want to draw attention to himself, but he still needs to run. Being asked out by girls is a bit new - it’s only been happening since he turned fourteen, but he says no as nicely as he can, tells them about The Girl He Had To Leave Behind. It’d been a relief to discover he still liked girls, but he’s learned loose ends hurt when you pull them out.
He’s done this six times in the last five years, and his skateboard was left behind two moves ago. He realized a long time ago that if he wanted to fly, he’d better practice now by staying below the radar.
He hadn’t planned on Billy Miller.
Billy Miller, who beats John’s time every single time they race, and grins at him afterwards like he knows some sort of secret. Billy Miller, who’s always slouching against his locker whenever John walks down the hall. Billy Miller, tall and blond, with eyes that always look like they’re laughing at John. Billy Miller, who runs his finger down the back of John’s neck right before they leave the locker room for practice, and laughs quietly when John shudders.
He tries to beat off that night, clutching the battered Hustler he’s been hiding in his comic book collection for the last two years. Pouty lips and shaved pussy are as hot as ever, but he can’t stop his mind from going there - imagining a bigger hand, rougher fingertips, blunt teeth on his thigh.
He comes so hard it’s difficult to stay quiet, and resolves to never think about Billy again.
The next day, Billy corners him in the locker room after everybody’s left, pinning John back against the wall with a casual arm braced over his head. “Why’re you always in such a hurry, Shep?” he drawls, and that’s another thing John hates, the way Billy calls him ‘Shep’ in his long, drawn-out voice, like he’s really saying something else.
John tries to make some sort of excuse, so he can slide out and away, but Billy steps closer, until they’re almost touching. Billy’s breath is surprisingly cool on his face, and John realizes he must be blushing. It’s mortifying.
“I think you want to stay,” Billy says, and catches John’s jaw with his free hand, pressing a thumb into the pulse point John can feel beating at the base of his neck. When he leans in, John doesn’t move away.
He’s kissed a few girls before, and it’s nice - soft and fun. Nice. This isn’t nice. It’s not soft, and it’s not fun. It’s hard and rough and…more. Something John never even knew he could have.
After that, it’s easy. Easy to let Billy slide his hand into John’s pants and jerk him off until John comes, gasping against the side of Billy’s neck. Easy to slide his own hand down in return.
Nobody notices. They dawdle after practice and Billy offers to drive him when it’s raining. They make plans to hang out at Billy’s house - his parents are never there and even when they are, they never knock - and sometimes there are other people there, but usually it’s just the two of them and it always ends up with them going a bit further, until they’re both naked and there isn’t much further to go. It goes on for weeks, and then months, and nobody notices.
He learns how to suck Billy off, how to hold his hips when he starts thrusting, partly to protect his mouth, but partly because it’s fun to watch him try. He learns that he likes it best when Billy rubs off against him, sometimes steady and slow, sometimes quick and jerky, always grinning down into his face, laughing whenever John makes noise. One day, Billy lets a finger brush against his hole, and John comes until it almost hurts.
It’s not always about being naked, either. They watch Superman and the game - whatever game is on, John likes them all. They sit sometimes and do their homework, and sometimes John looks up to see Billy staring at him. Usually, a few seconds later, Billy tackles him and says, “you’re doing it again,” and John realizes he’s been sucking on the end of his pen - which he always does when he’s thinking about math. He guesses he could try to stop, but why would he want to? They go out for pizza and Billy flicks pieces of mushroom at John’s face until John beans him with a slice of green pepper. John wishes it could go on forever, but he knows, probably better than anybody else, that it can’t.
And he’s right. They’re lying on Billy’s bed, still coming down, when Billy says, “Sarah Roe asked me to go to the prom with her.”
John stops putting all of his energy into not falling asleep, and turns to look at Billy. He wants to say something, but he can’t think of what.
“I told her I wasn’t sure I was able to go, and I’d get back to her.” Billy looks serious. John’s not used to that; with Billy, life is the joke he always gets.
John knows this is the part where he’s supposed to say, “tell her no,” but then what? He shrugs instead.
“John -“ Billy rakes a hand through his hair, and that’s new too. Unless he’s in the middle of coming, it’s always ‘Shep’. “You know I don’t-“
John does. He knows. It’s him who’s the coward here, not Billy. Because he can’t. Being with Billy may feel like flying, but it’s not flying, and John knows he can’t have both. Billy never really had John. Flying owns him. Billy only got him on loan.
“I’m sorry,” is all he’s able to say. He sits up and looks outside. If feels like it should be raining, storming, trees falling down all around them, but it’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny. He looks back. The least he can do is meet Billy’s eyes. “I can’t.”
Some little spark in Billy’s eyes dies out, but he nods and rubs a hand down John’s back. “Come lie down,” he says.
John closes his eyes and sees the sky.
**
- and you’ve got the brand new face -
It’s late by the time John makes it home, the sun barely a shadow over the trees, and he knows it’s not going to be pretty, but right now, he doesn’t care. He could use the distraction.
John knows all about fags - how they mince around and say, “fabulous!” all the time. and you can tell one just by looking at him.
Except maybe he’s wrong.
Wrestling with Jimmy Giardino was just like always, the football slipping away and John barely noticing because he was so focused on trying to keep Jimmy pinned down, Jimmy’s hands flailing around, trying to brace to push John over and rub his face into the dirt. Just like always…until Jimmy’s hand brushed the wrong way, and John got hard.
That isn’t so unusual. He’s twelve, and the thought of boobs or porn or sometimes just Amanda Jenkins’ hair gets him hard. But it isn’t supposed to happen with a guy and maybe it’s okay if it’s an accident, maybe it’s okay if they don’t mean it. Except for a second, John had wanted Jimmy’s hand to stay. Not because it was a hand, because it was Jimmy’s.
Instead he’d scrambled off of Jimmy and blurted out something about dinner and chopping celery and taken off his board, making it about ten blocks before hitting a pothole and wiping out spectacularly. His new jeans have holes at the knees now, and while John thinks it looks cool, he bets his mom isn’t going to feel the same way.
It’d be so gay if anybody knew, but sometimes John wishes he had the kind of family where he could come home without needing to hide his skateboard in the back of the garage first. The kind of family where…he doesn’t even know. But learning maybe he’s a fag after all makes him want to puke; he’s heard his father talking too loudly after a few beers about, “those fucking fairies ruining our country” and what he’d like to do to them, while his mothers shushes him frantically, her voice barely above a whisper, reminding him John might hear.
He slides the board into the spot he’d cleared out for it months ago, and tries to flatten his hair out before he goes into his house. The first thing he sees is his mother standing in the kitchen doorway. She looks ready to say something, but presses her lips together and vanishes back inside.
His father’s waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
“You’re grounded,” his father says flatly. “Get your ass upstairs and clean up that mess.”
John imagines telling him about the math test folded neatly in his backpack - the one with “A+” and “good job!” written across the top in red marker. He imagines telling his dad about how he’s been hiding books under his bed for months now - because sometimes he likes to read instead of playing sports or video games. He imagines saying, “Jimmy Giardino touched my dick and I liked it.”
He sees his father staring at the shirt he’d put on by accident this morning, so bleached and washed out it’s almost pink - part of why he’d been wrestling with Jimmy in the first place.
“And get out of those clothes. No son of mine is going to parade around looking like a sissy boy.”
“Yes, sir,” John says, and takes the stairs two at a time.
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash, John/OMC post-slash
Rating: R
Length ~4,000 words
Summary: Five times John wanted to come out.
Notes: Mega thanks go out to shetiger and yin_again for betaing, along with equally huge thanks to all of the above, plus beadattitude, synecdochic, and lcsbanana for hand-holding, cheerleading, and general encouragment. Any mistakes left in this are mine, all mine.
ETA: There is a tiny, tiny, and mostly insignificant spoiler for The Game in here. One of my betas hasn't seen it yet and doesn't like spoilers and didn't have an issue with it, but I know some people are really sensitive about spoilers.
Golden Boy
- so you can shine divine -
Most of the unculled planets Teyla’s recommended really know how to throw a party - and the Yocim are no exception. It’s hard to stay sober while everybody around him drinks the ceremonial wine, and the ceremonial ale, and the ceremonial shots of something that looks and smells like tequila, but John’s got no choice; somebody has to be the designated driver.
Ronon and Teyla split off from the team long ago; Teyla joining the dance around the fire, and Ronon…doing some sort of manly bonding game with the other manly warriors, John doesn’t want to know.
Rodney’s still sitting next to him, steadily getting more and more trashed. It’s not like him - he’ll take disturbing amounts of stimulants, but he almost never drinks. But there’s a short-haired blonde - Calenye - filling and refilling his mugs. She’s already threat enough, but even worse, she’d been introduced over dinner as one of the Yocim’s top scientists.
John can see the writing on the wall, and there’s no fucking way. He wants to shove the contents of the pitcher down the front of her dress, or right through the laces, which look ready to pop with her next breath. It’s time for desperate measures. Rodney’s drunk enough, that for once, he doesn’t need to be subtle, because he’s been doing this for years, and Rodney’s never caught on.
“Rodney,” he says helpfully, “don’t forget to radio home and say goodnight to your kids. You know how they cry when they don’t hear from you. And remember you promised Deidre you’d bring her some flowers when you came back.”
Calenye gasps and pushes herself off of Rodney’s lap, slapping his face and storming away.
Rodney blinks a few times, and then stands up, weaving slightly and pointing his finger at John.
“You,” he says loudly, with the dignity of somebody who is so far past drunk he’s almost back to sober, and won’t remember a thing tomorrow, “are a cockblocking asshole.”
John gives him a lazy smirk. His work here is done.
“You can’t do this anymore,” Rodney tells him the next morning while they’re walking back to the gate.
John slips on his sunglasses. “Sorry,” he says insincerely. “I didn’t know she’d think I was serious.”
“The problem with you,” Rodney says, “is you’re never serious.” There’s a new quality to his voice - John’s never heard it before in the all the years he’s known Rodney. He’s annoyed each time he learns Rodney keeps secrets from him; Rodney is supposed to be an open book - his open book.
“I’m not known for my patience, and I’ve only been willing to wait so long,” Rodney says. “So long, Colonel.”
There are parts of himself John thought he’d lost long ago, but apparently he’s wrong, because deep inside he grows colder and colder and for the first time, he falters and steps out of pace. Rodney looks back but doesn’t stop and John slows down even more, until he’d need to double-time it to catch up with Rodney again.
He remembers the way he used to run up the stairs, two at a time, like he was running away, like he was running toward something better. The gate’s ahead of him now, but John doesn’t speed up. There’s nowhere else to go.
**
- stay in your shadow, don’t block the light -
Staying in the background is something John’s learned to do with ease, and he’s ready to fall into his usual place on this mission, except right off the bat, he makes two fatal mistakes - he kills his commanding officer, right before waking up tens of thousands of space vampires, but even worse, he lets McKay get to him, and for once, can’t keep his mouth shut. John’s theoretically trained to handle the former, but he’s not remotely prepared for the look McKay gives him after the latter - for the looks McKay’s continued to give him ever since.
John’s never been one to say much, and it turns out he’s the perfect foil for McKay - who, as far as he can tell, started talking at birth, and hasn’t shut up since. McKay hadn’t had too much to say to him back in Antarctica aside from, “now touch this,” and “did I say to touch this; I don’t think so, considering that I don’t feel like dying today and taking most of the planet with me!” It’d been amusing to realize McKay thought of him as nothing more than a pair of usable hands, with a lump of a body attached. For once, John had been safe to look and known he wasn’t being seen in return.
Those days are long gone. Now, no matter where he goes, no matter what he does, McKay isn’t only on his mind, he’s right by John’s side, talking and talking and waving his hands, and each time, John tells himself to stay quiet, even McKay needs some sort of reaction in order to keep going. But he can’t. McKay gets to him every single time, and John finds himself poking and teasing, so he can watch McKay sputter and wave those hands some more. He’s horrified to realize if McKay had pigtails, he’d probably be pulling them and god, he’s turned into Billy Miller, he’s even got the drawl down pat. If he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to push McKay up against a locker and go for it.
They have team movie nights and team dinners and team breakfasts, but sometimes it’s just the two of them playing their game and watching each other over the tops of the screens. John can’t keep from rolling his eyes at Nola’s Samantha Carter hair, and sees McKay narrow his in return. He knows McKay doesn’t see the world the same way everybody else does and wonders when he’ll learn what’s whizzing around in his brain.
He doesn’t have to wait too much longer.
“You’ve been training with Teyla a lot, huh?” McKay says casually, except John knows him too well by now, and ‘McKay’ and ‘casual’ are mutually exclusive.
John shrugs. “She’s taught me a lot.” He can’t stop the smirk. “You’d learn a lot too if you weren’t so scared of being beat up by a girl.”
“Is that what you like?” McKay asks, because unlike John, he’s able to take those risks.
John’s never been one to talk much, but McKay deserves an honest answer - as honest as John can be.
“She’s on my team.” He wishes he could say more; there’s a lot he’s been wishing lately.
“Just once,” McKay says, and John’s surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. “Just once, I wish you’d give up the act and say what you really mean.”
He looks back down at the screen and they never talk about it again, never talk about anything like it again. John doesn’t even think about it until weeks later, right before he runs out the door.
“So long, Rodney,” he says, and he’s never meant anything more.
**
- and the whole world was lying at your feet -
The briefing is even more excruciating than John had expected: Sumner’s face like a mask, and Weir glaring at McKay whenever he opens his mouth until McKay rolls his eyes so hard it looks like they’re going to fly out of his head and land in the mugs of coffee he’s double-fisting. All John can say in its favor is it’s over quickly and everybody clears out fast, until it’s just him and Jackson, and John realizes he’s been set up.
He glares, but O’Neill gives a little wave on his way out and closes the door firmly behind him.
Jackson stares at him expectantly, but John’s played this game before - way too many times, and from what he’s heard of Jackson, he’s a formidable opponent, but so is John, and Jackson’s not going to win this one.
John’s right; Jackson blinks and talks first. And keeps talking. And talking, and talking, and talking, and John’s not sure he’s ever heard anybody talk this much before - except for maybe McKay, but so far, McKay hasn’t talked so much to people as he has to the air.
He tunes in and out, long enough to hear things like, “chance of a lifetime,” and, “give anything to be in your shoes,” and wonders what exactly O’Neill has on this guy that’s keeping him rooted firmly on planet Earth, when clearly all Jackson wants to do is fly.
Even Jackson has to take a breath eventually, and when he does, he notices John hasn’t said a word in return.
“Look, John,” Jackson says, “I’ve seen your file,” and that makes John sit up straight, because the hell? Jackson shakes his head and gives John a sympathetic smile. “It’s how things are done here; we don’t have the luxury of secrets.”
He pauses for breath - again, even takes a sip of water. “It doesn’t matter to us whether you were right or wrong. You made the choice you had to make, and that’s what it means to be here. We don’t tend to get that luxury either. Sometimes people live and it’s because of you. Sometimes people die and it’s because of you. Sometimes I’ve died and the people I left behind - I don’t know if they’ll ever truly get over it. But none of it matters, because it’s not why we’re here.”
“Why are you here, then?” John asks, because if Jackson is the best cheerleader the SGC has, it’s even more fucked-up than he’d thought.”
Jackson looks at him like he’s some sort of undiscovered specimen. “Didn’t you hear anything I said? We’re here because it’s worth it. Why did you do what you did in Afghanistan, especially when you knew the consequences? Hell, why did you join the Air Force in the first place? There are other ways to fly - without the limitations they’ve set for you. It’s what we do. We can be more. You can be more.”
He can’t be saying what John thinks he’s saying. Except maybe he is.
“It’s a new world, John. It’s a new galaxy. You can start again - make yourself whatever you want to be, whoever you’ve always wanted to be. Isn’t that worth it?”
John’s always been good at reading his cues. This is the part where he’s supposed to step in and agree, be honest for once, receive the absolution Jackson’s promising. It’s almost tempting enough to go for it - Jackson is very good at what he does.
He thinks about the way O’Neill looks at Jackson: the possessiveness in his voice when he says, “you’re going over my dead body - or yours.” - everybody around them either deliberately ignoring what’s right in front of their eyes, or somehow living in the land of delusion and denial. From what John’s seen of the SGC so far, they don’t seem to miss a trick. There are snakes in people’s stomachs and worlds beyond comprehension - even people like Jackson dying, and dying, and dying again, despite currently being healthy and whole and staring expectantly at John across the table. Maybe things are different here. Maybe he can be different.
He thinks about the hope on Weir’s face when she talks about Atlantis, the joy when she told him about his gene and what it’ll mean to the mission. It’s been a long time since anybody’s looked at him like this, since anybody’s talked about his future with excitement and anticipation - at least, the good kind of anticipation.
He thinks about McKay, shocking John out of his frozen, white world with his ridiculous orange fleece, the first real color John had noticed in months, so soft John had wanted to touch, to see how it felt. The reluctant admiration mixed with annoyance in McKay’s eyes, the twist of the mouth that makes John want to push and push and push, just to see how far he can go.
He thinks about how he sat down and the entire world lit up for him, the itch that’d always been at the very back of his mind exploding into sound and color and a whisper he couldn’t ignore, telling him they’d lost faith but now he was here, finally here, it was time.
Then he remembers the look in Sumner’s eyes, like he’s just waiting for a reason, the satisfaction in Harrison’s voice when he’d given John his new orders, the lack of any response from his father, which he’d learned to expect, but never stopped hoping for. The choice he’d had to make - and how he’d been willing to give anything up in order to fly, only to find it was a lie, the pleasure they got in keeping him from doing anything but the most basic runs.
He thinks about cold that burns, even more than the heat of Afghanistan, he’d never known it could be like this, so empty and clear and nothing but his own thoughts and the open sky, still too far away. He hadn’t lied to O’Neill, he did like it there - in his own way - but you can only stay trapped in ice so long before you freeze through and through.
He remembers how good he is at saying nothing at all.
**
- poster boy, you’re society’s child -
By the time they move to Austin for his sophomore year, John has the drill down cold. He sits in the back row for all of his classes and never raises his hand, even when he knows the answer. He keeps up with his homework and pulls a ‘B’ in every class, smiles politely at the teachers who suggest he might not be fulfilling his potential and perhaps he’d like to join the math team?
He ignores the flyers for football tryouts, and goes for the track team instead, because he might not want to draw attention to himself, but he still needs to run. Being asked out by girls is a bit new - it’s only been happening since he turned fourteen, but he says no as nicely as he can, tells them about The Girl He Had To Leave Behind. It’d been a relief to discover he still liked girls, but he’s learned loose ends hurt when you pull them out.
He’s done this six times in the last five years, and his skateboard was left behind two moves ago. He realized a long time ago that if he wanted to fly, he’d better practice now by staying below the radar.
He hadn’t planned on Billy Miller.
Billy Miller, who beats John’s time every single time they race, and grins at him afterwards like he knows some sort of secret. Billy Miller, who’s always slouching against his locker whenever John walks down the hall. Billy Miller, tall and blond, with eyes that always look like they’re laughing at John. Billy Miller, who runs his finger down the back of John’s neck right before they leave the locker room for practice, and laughs quietly when John shudders.
He tries to beat off that night, clutching the battered Hustler he’s been hiding in his comic book collection for the last two years. Pouty lips and shaved pussy are as hot as ever, but he can’t stop his mind from going there - imagining a bigger hand, rougher fingertips, blunt teeth on his thigh.
He comes so hard it’s difficult to stay quiet, and resolves to never think about Billy again.
The next day, Billy corners him in the locker room after everybody’s left, pinning John back against the wall with a casual arm braced over his head. “Why’re you always in such a hurry, Shep?” he drawls, and that’s another thing John hates, the way Billy calls him ‘Shep’ in his long, drawn-out voice, like he’s really saying something else.
John tries to make some sort of excuse, so he can slide out and away, but Billy steps closer, until they’re almost touching. Billy’s breath is surprisingly cool on his face, and John realizes he must be blushing. It’s mortifying.
“I think you want to stay,” Billy says, and catches John’s jaw with his free hand, pressing a thumb into the pulse point John can feel beating at the base of his neck. When he leans in, John doesn’t move away.
He’s kissed a few girls before, and it’s nice - soft and fun. Nice. This isn’t nice. It’s not soft, and it’s not fun. It’s hard and rough and…more. Something John never even knew he could have.
After that, it’s easy. Easy to let Billy slide his hand into John’s pants and jerk him off until John comes, gasping against the side of Billy’s neck. Easy to slide his own hand down in return.
Nobody notices. They dawdle after practice and Billy offers to drive him when it’s raining. They make plans to hang out at Billy’s house - his parents are never there and even when they are, they never knock - and sometimes there are other people there, but usually it’s just the two of them and it always ends up with them going a bit further, until they’re both naked and there isn’t much further to go. It goes on for weeks, and then months, and nobody notices.
He learns how to suck Billy off, how to hold his hips when he starts thrusting, partly to protect his mouth, but partly because it’s fun to watch him try. He learns that he likes it best when Billy rubs off against him, sometimes steady and slow, sometimes quick and jerky, always grinning down into his face, laughing whenever John makes noise. One day, Billy lets a finger brush against his hole, and John comes until it almost hurts.
It’s not always about being naked, either. They watch Superman and the game - whatever game is on, John likes them all. They sit sometimes and do their homework, and sometimes John looks up to see Billy staring at him. Usually, a few seconds later, Billy tackles him and says, “you’re doing it again,” and John realizes he’s been sucking on the end of his pen - which he always does when he’s thinking about math. He guesses he could try to stop, but why would he want to? They go out for pizza and Billy flicks pieces of mushroom at John’s face until John beans him with a slice of green pepper. John wishes it could go on forever, but he knows, probably better than anybody else, that it can’t.
And he’s right. They’re lying on Billy’s bed, still coming down, when Billy says, “Sarah Roe asked me to go to the prom with her.”
John stops putting all of his energy into not falling asleep, and turns to look at Billy. He wants to say something, but he can’t think of what.
“I told her I wasn’t sure I was able to go, and I’d get back to her.” Billy looks serious. John’s not used to that; with Billy, life is the joke he always gets.
John knows this is the part where he’s supposed to say, “tell her no,” but then what? He shrugs instead.
“John -“ Billy rakes a hand through his hair, and that’s new too. Unless he’s in the middle of coming, it’s always ‘Shep’. “You know I don’t-“
John does. He knows. It’s him who’s the coward here, not Billy. Because he can’t. Being with Billy may feel like flying, but it’s not flying, and John knows he can’t have both. Billy never really had John. Flying owns him. Billy only got him on loan.
“I’m sorry,” is all he’s able to say. He sits up and looks outside. If feels like it should be raining, storming, trees falling down all around them, but it’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny. He looks back. The least he can do is meet Billy’s eyes. “I can’t.”
Some little spark in Billy’s eyes dies out, but he nods and rubs a hand down John’s back. “Come lie down,” he says.
John closes his eyes and sees the sky.
**
- and you’ve got the brand new face -
It’s late by the time John makes it home, the sun barely a shadow over the trees, and he knows it’s not going to be pretty, but right now, he doesn’t care. He could use the distraction.
John knows all about fags - how they mince around and say, “fabulous!” all the time. and you can tell one just by looking at him.
Except maybe he’s wrong.
Wrestling with Jimmy Giardino was just like always, the football slipping away and John barely noticing because he was so focused on trying to keep Jimmy pinned down, Jimmy’s hands flailing around, trying to brace to push John over and rub his face into the dirt. Just like always…until Jimmy’s hand brushed the wrong way, and John got hard.
That isn’t so unusual. He’s twelve, and the thought of boobs or porn or sometimes just Amanda Jenkins’ hair gets him hard. But it isn’t supposed to happen with a guy and maybe it’s okay if it’s an accident, maybe it’s okay if they don’t mean it. Except for a second, John had wanted Jimmy’s hand to stay. Not because it was a hand, because it was Jimmy’s.
Instead he’d scrambled off of Jimmy and blurted out something about dinner and chopping celery and taken off his board, making it about ten blocks before hitting a pothole and wiping out spectacularly. His new jeans have holes at the knees now, and while John thinks it looks cool, he bets his mom isn’t going to feel the same way.
It’d be so gay if anybody knew, but sometimes John wishes he had the kind of family where he could come home without needing to hide his skateboard in the back of the garage first. The kind of family where…he doesn’t even know. But learning maybe he’s a fag after all makes him want to puke; he’s heard his father talking too loudly after a few beers about, “those fucking fairies ruining our country” and what he’d like to do to them, while his mothers shushes him frantically, her voice barely above a whisper, reminding him John might hear.
He slides the board into the spot he’d cleared out for it months ago, and tries to flatten his hair out before he goes into his house. The first thing he sees is his mother standing in the kitchen doorway. She looks ready to say something, but presses her lips together and vanishes back inside.
His father’s waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
“You’re grounded,” his father says flatly. “Get your ass upstairs and clean up that mess.”
John imagines telling him about the math test folded neatly in his backpack - the one with “A+” and “good job!” written across the top in red marker. He imagines telling his dad about how he’s been hiding books under his bed for months now - because sometimes he likes to read instead of playing sports or video games. He imagines saying, “Jimmy Giardino touched my dick and I liked it.”
He sees his father staring at the shirt he’d put on by accident this morning, so bleached and washed out it’s almost pink - part of why he’d been wrestling with Jimmy in the first place.
“And get out of those clothes. No son of mine is going to parade around looking like a sissy boy.”
“Yes, sir,” John says, and takes the stairs two at a time.