the mirror crack'd (snippets - SGA fic)
This is total self-indulgence porn snippet-y business, and not entirely what I planned to work on tonight, but so be it, eh? As it is, thus far, a not-necessarily connected series of snippets, because girl!Rodney is so much fun that I have to have about thirteen realities existing in my head at the same time and picking just one is too hard. I am, as ever, deeply indebted tokatrin, who started this with the basis (and best) of the third snippet, and also gave me a line from the second verbatim.
the mirror crack'd: girl!Rodney splinters from across the multiverse (or, crack snippets in D minor) (3600 words, R overall.)
edit: the first snippet has a spoiler for one line of dialogue from SG-1 10x13, Road Not Taken.
* * *
snippet x of xx, Earth
Rodney looms in the doorway of her lab - although 'loom' isn't at all the right word, it's more of a self-conscious slump, and Sam isn't sure she's ever seen him look so acutely uncomfortable; if his body language was any clearer it'd be screaming in letters a foot high. When he moves into the lab proper (and more direct light), the reasons for his muted behaviour become strikingly clear.
She swallows, hard, and tries not to stare - even by SGC standards, this is a new one, and he has to have had more than enough of that already.
"Yes, yes, the irony is superb, I am deeply uncomfortable, Radek says he can fix it if I get out of his way, and no, I am not just in here to hide out from all the grunts who want to try their third-best pickup lines because it's just that funny."
He looks a lot cheerier bitching about it, and Sam manages to drag her eyes back up to his face just in time for him to give her a crooked, rueful smile, and she can't help but smile back at that.
"You're awfully quiet," he says, looking (what else?) suspicious. "No scandalous comments to make? Reflections on how the lack of testosterone improves my character?" That has the ring of a direct quote from someone, though she can't quite make up her mind who. "C'mon, Sam, get it over and done with and then give me something to do while that three ring circus two levels down remember how to find their asses blindfolded and mend the many, many errors of their ways, not least of which is, well, this." He gestures, back to looking uncomfortable as he knocks his gesturing hand into his own hip, clearly ill at ease with the novelty of curves.
"No, I'm just- remembering something you said to me, once. You may have been half right." Because McKay makes an alarmingly attractive woman, and try as she might, Sam can't entirely not notice that. He just looks confused (which also looks good on him, damn it), eyes wide and ridiculously blue. Small wonder, really, given that it wasn't him, exactly, who said it. But he doesn't need to know any of that - not least because she's not sure which is worse: McKay finding out some alternate version of her actually married him (and presumably slept with him), or McKay turned back into a guy and jerking off to the thought of having had hot lesbian sex with her.
She really wishes she wasn't so sure it would be hot.
With a purely internal sigh, Sam shoves him in the direction of some simulations she'd been intending to get to before half of Atlantis descended upon the mountain for their yearly intellectual raiding party, and turns back to her own work, resolutely ignoring the event-horizon shimmer of potential humming through the back of her mind. She's been mostly straight most of her life. It's McKay. She's not even tempted.
That last bit's a lie.
* * *
snippet y of xx, Earth.
So, John and Rodney have to go undercover at a straight bar.
It's possibly the stupidest plan he's ever heard of, and, frankly, he's not even sure why - surely there are other ways to accomplish this? Ways involving minions, preferably.
But Elizabeth had given them their marching orders and muttered something about making the best of the situation which, wow, was so not even remotely what Rodney wanted to be hearing then, because she wouldn't even meet his eyes at the moment, and sent them on their merry way. Well, he supposed Sheppard was merry. He wasn't, so much.
And not just because he wasn't entirely sure he could even breathe properly in the getup that Elizabeth had manhandled him into, surely these sorts of things should be, well, less binding, and he squirmed against the seat belt and tried very hard not to look at the speedometer as Sheppard took a corner far faster than Rodney really thought was called for.
Remarkably, they arrived in the asphalt lot behind the bar in one piece, and Rodney reminded himself that he was an atheist, or at the very least agnostic, and resolutely did not offer up prayers on high for his continued existence in this plane.
"Ready?" Sheppard asked, and Rodney steeled himself, fought down the urge to suck in his stomach, smoothed the skirt over his thighs - it had a worrying tendency to creep up, especially when he'd been sitting down, and he really, really should have insisted on accompanying Elizabeth shopping despite the prospect of actual death by sheer mortification because he might've only been female for about twelve hours (and he still wasn't done with the existential freakouts and perfectly rational hysteria, thank you very much, and it was deeply unfair of the world to throw him right back into work like this) but he was pretty sure he wasn't this kind of girl. Certain dormant instincts in his hind-brain were waking up and clamoring and most of what they were saying seemed to suggest he was more of a knee-length type of guy. Woman. Whatever. In fact, the 18th century was getting more appealing by the minute, lack of electricity and potable coffee notwithstanding.
Sheppard was waiting on the pavement for him, frowning slightly, and Rodney panicked, looking down to see what he was doing wrong (and he was not getting used to those any time soon, although cleavage from this perspective was admittedly a novel experience, though one he could've lived without), and gritted his teeth, determined to get it over and done with.
"Lead on," he said grandly and shouldered past the Colonel and into the dim recesses of the bar.
He drifted to a halt almost immediately, waiting just out of the entryway for his eyes to adjust, and ignoring the flutter of chill air on the back of his knees (he didn't think his knees had been out in public since possibly 1997, yet another reason this was an immensely bad idea) as Sheppard held the door open behind him for a moment.
He stared longingly at the bar (god, beer. Rodney was ready and willing to embrace traditional problem-solving techniques on this one, ie, liberal application of alcohol until he could forget the fairly unmissable fact that his dick was gone) before frowning and scanning the faces on the stools, looking for someone who met the description of their contact. Sheppard's elbow dug into his ribs and he twisted his head around to glare, hissing "what?" indignantly.
"Try to blend in, would you, McKay?" and Sheppard's bumping his shoulder (normal) and then reaching around to settle his hand at the small of Rodney's back, guiding him towards one of the booths (definitely not standard procedure) and, okay, acting in character, right, he can get behind this.
They slide onto the cracking vinyl seats, which scratch at Rodney's thighs, and he squirms again, cursing Elizabeth in three languages (and people say he doesn't listen in the labs) for not given him even another inch or two of fabric. Sheppard mumbles something Rodney is sure is drawly and laconic and just about levitates back up, slinking over to the bar and returning in record time with two drinks. Rodney's never been served that fast in his life, and if he wasn't half-afraid to move lest he leave skin behind (and was he ever grateful he'd vetoed the pantyhose on principle now) he'd almost be tempted to see just how much of a difference having a great rack (if he did say so himself - and he did, because it he'd never seen the point of false modesty) makes.
Rodney sucks down the drink at record speed and manfully resists the urge to drop his head onto the scarred wood of the table and whine "why me?" Sheppard seems to take it as a given anyway, and pats his hand awkwardly, before stretching, cracking his neck as he looks around the bar, subtly scanning. Rodney stares mournfully into the bottom of his glass, bites his lip, scratches the side of his nose and then sighs. Still monitoring the room, Sheppard hardly moves a muscle, although he's faking loose-limbed relaxation with everything in him. Rodney grumbles something like "for crying out loud," and fishes around down the neckline of his shirt, tugging the bra strap up - again - with disgust. Sheppard kicks his ankle, hard.
"What?" Rodney's maybe a little loud, a lot indignant.
Sheppard glares, hisses "Jesus, Rodney, don't do that, okay?"
"Do what?" Rodney's genuinely confused. It's about the millionth time he's had to flick that damn strap back onto his shoulder, there are obvious gaping design flaws in the garment, and lingerie has never seemed less sexy to him than after an hour's experience of having to wear it.
"That," Sheppard waves his hands in illustration, and with a start Rodney locks back into focus to realise that Sheppard is not surveilling the bar for a renegade member of whatever shadow organisation is dogging their steps this week, Sheppard is staring helplessly at Rodney's chest, biting the corner of his mouth (Rodney refuses to find that endearing) and blatantly checking him out.
"Christ, you can't help yourself, can you? Kirk!" Rodney yelps and crosses his arms, forgetting the cleavage enhancing effects thereof, and so is treated to the sight of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard choking on his beer like the most undignified college freshman in history. "You deserved that," he informs him, and hands over a napkin.
Their contact arrives - finally - and they exchange code words and double-speak and veiled threats and innuendo, and Rodney is unspeakably bored by it all which, given the glances Sheppard is shooting him is probably showing. Information safely handed over (tucked inside another napkin, Rodney hopes Sheppard isn't going to mix the two up) they part ways, the woman leaving with a saucy wink which doubtless has half the bar assuming she's left her number for a threesome, and Rodney gropes around for his third beer, the world gone distinctly fuzzy around the edges.
Sheppard stretches his legs under the table and brushes the side of his ankle against Rodney's calf.
Rodney makes a whimpery noise in the back of his throat, already pink-cheeked from the alcohol and forgets everything his mother always told Jeannie about sitting like a lady with her knees together.
Sheppard stays sober enough to drive them back to the secured housing they're all based in and Rodney absolutely does not spend most of the way telling himself that crawling into the backseat with him would be a bad idea. They pass the napkin onto Elizabeth along with a verbal report, and Rodney hiccups and then has to excuse himself to find the washroom, where he discovers the alarmingly tiny size of his bladder, lectures himself soundly in the mirror on appropriate professional behaviour, and then walks with great dignity out the door and straight into Sheppard's chest.
They end up necking in the washroom ("It won't be monitored." "Are you sure?" "Do you really think the boffins at Cheyenne are that interested in watching off-duty Marines belch and scratch their balls?" "Right.") for what feels like hours, and by the time that they manage to wrench apart Rodney is perfectly sober, speckled with beard-burn from collarbone to jaw, and breathing like he'd just run three miles back to the 'gate.
Sheppard gets a hand up Rodney's shirt, curling warm across his stomach, sliding it determinedly upwards, and wow, breasts are even better when they're your own, and he moans "yes," brokenly into John's mouth before remembering where they are, hastily amending that to "no!" and trying to pull away. John has one hand twisted into the waist of his shirt, and wow, he really hopes it doesn't crease too badly because he does not want to have to explain that to Elizabeth, and he isn't giving Rodney an inch.
"Pick one," Sheppard says, and Rodney's brain almost shorts out, because it turns out that female arousal is just as stupidity-inducing as the male version, because there's John Sheppard wrapped around him like the ultimate wet dream, and instead of considering the team and the mission and, oh, little matters like friendship and duty and prior heterosexual tendencies and unprovoked sex changes that may or may not be reversible, Rodney just hooks his fingers into the waistband of John's tight jeans and says "fuck me."
It turns out the bedrooms aren't monitored, either, although John does make fun of Rodney for stopping long enough to check.
* * *
snippet xy of xx, Atlantis
Rodney is hiding out in John's quarters because no amount of yelling, threatening and/or bribery has been sufficient to keep the female scientists (and the Marines, who are - if possible - even worse) from treating him like a life-size Barbie doll. Katie Brown had looked starry-eyed and offered to paint his nails. Miko had handed him lip balm (which, okay, was actually useful and unopened, and therefore almost not creepy) and Cadman had been giving his hair looks which made even John's blood run cold by association and making off-hand comments suggesting a myriad of ways she could improve Rodney's sense of style.
No one is taking him seriously, which he made the mistake of saying out loud only to be met with a caustic Dr Coleman who had merely said "wow, funny what a difference that second x chromosome makes, isn't it?" Rodney had beat an understandable tactical retreat at that point, or so he explained from John's bed, which he'd appropriated immediately on coming in, curled up with his chin on his knees.
John is trying desperately not to find it cute. Or worse, hot. Rodney on a normal day is engaging and attractive and worth the effort of needling into entertaining rants, a pleasure to watch (and John Sheppard, with fifteen-plus years in the Air Force, has gotten really good at looking). Rodney with a hip-swinging walk, sleekly voluptuous and brimming with righteous indignation at the unverse's refusal to bend back into shape for him is like some kind of skewed mirror-image - just as enticing in completely different ways. His mouth goes crooked even more often than usual, uncertainty see-sawing with the usual arrogant confidence, the march of expression across his face just as much of a giveaway as it has always been. John really does not want to know what it says about him that he finds the uncertainty not a refreshing change but kind of a turn-on. Just another way that Pegasus is fucking them all up even more than they were to start with.
Rodney alternates between spending all of his time in the labs bludgeoning lesser mortals into progress on the parts of the machine he can't seem to touch (a safety mechanism, Zelenka had said, but couldn't explain why) and with his off-world team. He doesn't run with Ronon - "ow, never again, end of story, did I mention ow?" had been the result of the first ill-advised attempt - but they seem to entertain themselves sufficiently with bad 80s DVDs. Teyla doesn't speak much of what they do, but John suspects it's meditating - some kind of Rodney-friendly meditation, whatever that might be, because Rodney always seems calmer after he's been cloistered with Teyla for an hour or two, and he and John, well, they hang out. Just like normal.
If normal was John forcing himself to sit as close as he used to do and not one bit closer, that is, because Rodney with curves spilling out of an ill-fitting uniform sends all the wrong messages to the basement levels of John's brain, down where logic won't touch. It's harder and harder to tell himself 'hands off' when that person is now wrapped in a body that fits every parameter of what John's always been allowed to touch; the forbidden temptation of flat chest and broad shoulders and cock replaced by the flare of hip that flows smoothly into thighs, the swell of breast which makes John just want to lean over and-- well.
Yeah, John is pretty sure he's in the running for 'bad person of the year' with those kinds of thoughts, although if you consider the rest of the population of Pegasus he's probably not going to win. The lone redeeming point is that Rodney doesn't seem to have noticed.
Or that's what John had thought, anyway, until he swung into his room after a long and infinitely boring meeting with Lorne and Caldwell about the new types of paper-pushing the Air Force wanted to pay him to waste his time with this year. Meetings that were just him and Lorne tended to figure a lot more sarcasm and making of paper-planes (usually out of the instruction sheets for whatever hoops they were meant to be jumping through when they had time off from saving the galaxy and all) but Caldwell on base meant feet on the floor and not on the desk and that he had to smile through the bullshit, both of which were distinctly less than relaxing activities on what was supposed to have been his afternoon off.
"McKay?" he gets out, and if it sounds more strangled and less 'cool, suave and charming leader of men' then that's just between him and Rodney. Because Rodney is perched on the corner of John's desk, hands flat on his thighs, and oh god, that's a lot of leg, because John doesn't have the faintest idea where someone could find a black miniskirt on Atlantis but clearly it's possible, because there's Rodney. Wearing it.
John's eyes track upwards, although it's difficult, because legs, and Rodney has great ones, as a man or a woman. He notes the science-blue tank top, cotton obviously worn thin and soft with age, because John can clearly see the pattern of lace of his bra, vaguely floral whorls through the skin-tight fabric. Rodney's hair is messy, but it looks like a more deliberate kind of messy, like someone's had their hands in it. John swallows envy, swallows hard, drifting closer without much conscious input from the parts of his brain that are still online; hungry-mouthed and wide-eyed.
Rodney lifts his chin, obviously steeling himself, hands flying gracefully, nervously as he tries to explain, "I thought you- I mean, I feel completely under-dressed, not to mention slightly cold, but Laura said you'd probably- but if you don't think so, I can-" and then he shuts up abruptly, almost with a squeak as John halts just inside his personal space, raising his hand so that his index finger traces lightly around the hem of Rodney's shirtsleeve, shifting from fabric to skin almost at random. It makes Rodney go silent and just shiver, and that's such a novelty that John has to do it again.
"Cold?" he whispers, almost ruthlessly, leaning back on his heels to look Rodney up and down again, taking a proprietary pride in the way Rodney's back arches, the way his nipples are clearly outlined even through two layers of clothing.
That's apparently enough to let Rodney clamber back towards more familiar footing, because he shoves at John's shoulder and calls him names and threatens to pipe Celine Dion into his room in the middle of the night if John can't get a move on and stop teasing already.
"You know, teasing implies I'm not actually going to put out, Rodney," John says, leaning in to breathe over Rodney's shoulder, nuzzling at his ear and Rodney's head falls back into the wall with an audible thud. "You better," Rodney snaps, but his hands are too tight on John's hips, dragging him closer, speaking the nervousness he's doing his best to pretend out of existence.
There's a moment of uncertainty - John knows exactly where he wants to put his hands, but practically-gold-engraved invitation aside, he's not entirely sure he should, still - and then with a sigh John leans heavily into Rodney, pressing him full-length into the wall, fingers skimming under the shirt and dragging it up to catch under his arms. The lace scratches at his fingertips as his palms flatten on Rodney's sides, warm skin on skin, and he ducks his head down to just look, just a little more. The bra is black and sheer, and running solely on instinct John leans in, mouths at his breast through the fabric, the nipple peaked and firm against his tongue, and Rodney's choked moan is the best thing he's heard all afternoon. He licks and sucks until the lace is damp against his mouth, the flat of his tongue working over the very tip of the nipple, pressing in over and over until Rodney's clawed his shirt out of his trousers and has his hands up the back of John's shirt, nails digging into his shoulderblades. His lips are tingling by the time he stops, and his teeth nearly catch in the lace, which surprises an entirely unsexy snicker out of Rodney, letting them both just draw back and breathe for a moment.
John's thumb is rubbing circles on the side of his left breast, feeling Rodney's lungs inflate, ribs lift with every breath, and he fancies he can feel his heart thudding double-time through it, too. His other hand slips from Rodney's side, dragging along the upper curve of the bra, deftly tracing the distorted V it forms.
"What brought this on?" John asks, surprising himself by speaking, his palm following his eyes to cup Rodney's jaw, getting a ghost-impression of what this could be if Rodney was his usual self, the imagined prickle of stubble against his hand somehow turning his arousal up another notch.
"Got sick of waiting," Rodney said, blunt and honest and perfectly himself, and John leaned in to kiss him at last, equally sick of waiting, and thoroughly determined to not be stuck just looking ever again.
* * *
Stopping there, for now, because it's three am and these were meant to be, oh, you know, two or three paragraphs EACH. *headdesks* Also, if I have any horrific typoes or excessively repeated words, please let me know? See above re: '3am' and 'unbetaed'.
the mirror crack'd: girl!Rodney splinters from across the multiverse (or, crack snippets in D minor) (3600 words, R overall.)
edit: the first snippet has a spoiler for one line of dialogue from SG-1 10x13, Road Not Taken.
* * *
snippet x of xx, Earth
Rodney looms in the doorway of her lab - although 'loom' isn't at all the right word, it's more of a self-conscious slump, and Sam isn't sure she's ever seen him look so acutely uncomfortable; if his body language was any clearer it'd be screaming in letters a foot high. When he moves into the lab proper (and more direct light), the reasons for his muted behaviour become strikingly clear.
She swallows, hard, and tries not to stare - even by SGC standards, this is a new one, and he has to have had more than enough of that already.
"Yes, yes, the irony is superb, I am deeply uncomfortable, Radek says he can fix it if I get out of his way, and no, I am not just in here to hide out from all the grunts who want to try their third-best pickup lines because it's just that funny."
He looks a lot cheerier bitching about it, and Sam manages to drag her eyes back up to his face just in time for him to give her a crooked, rueful smile, and she can't help but smile back at that.
"You're awfully quiet," he says, looking (what else?) suspicious. "No scandalous comments to make? Reflections on how the lack of testosterone improves my character?" That has the ring of a direct quote from someone, though she can't quite make up her mind who. "C'mon, Sam, get it over and done with and then give me something to do while that three ring circus two levels down remember how to find their asses blindfolded and mend the many, many errors of their ways, not least of which is, well, this." He gestures, back to looking uncomfortable as he knocks his gesturing hand into his own hip, clearly ill at ease with the novelty of curves.
"No, I'm just- remembering something you said to me, once. You may have been half right." Because McKay makes an alarmingly attractive woman, and try as she might, Sam can't entirely not notice that. He just looks confused (which also looks good on him, damn it), eyes wide and ridiculously blue. Small wonder, really, given that it wasn't him, exactly, who said it. But he doesn't need to know any of that - not least because she's not sure which is worse: McKay finding out some alternate version of her actually married him (and presumably slept with him), or McKay turned back into a guy and jerking off to the thought of having had hot lesbian sex with her.
She really wishes she wasn't so sure it would be hot.
With a purely internal sigh, Sam shoves him in the direction of some simulations she'd been intending to get to before half of Atlantis descended upon the mountain for their yearly intellectual raiding party, and turns back to her own work, resolutely ignoring the event-horizon shimmer of potential humming through the back of her mind. She's been mostly straight most of her life. It's McKay. She's not even tempted.
That last bit's a lie.
* * *
snippet y of xx, Earth.
So, John and Rodney have to go undercover at a straight bar.
It's possibly the stupidest plan he's ever heard of, and, frankly, he's not even sure why - surely there are other ways to accomplish this? Ways involving minions, preferably.
But Elizabeth had given them their marching orders and muttered something about making the best of the situation which, wow, was so not even remotely what Rodney wanted to be hearing then, because she wouldn't even meet his eyes at the moment, and sent them on their merry way. Well, he supposed Sheppard was merry. He wasn't, so much.
And not just because he wasn't entirely sure he could even breathe properly in the getup that Elizabeth had manhandled him into, surely these sorts of things should be, well, less binding, and he squirmed against the seat belt and tried very hard not to look at the speedometer as Sheppard took a corner far faster than Rodney really thought was called for.
Remarkably, they arrived in the asphalt lot behind the bar in one piece, and Rodney reminded himself that he was an atheist, or at the very least agnostic, and resolutely did not offer up prayers on high for his continued existence in this plane.
"Ready?" Sheppard asked, and Rodney steeled himself, fought down the urge to suck in his stomach, smoothed the skirt over his thighs - it had a worrying tendency to creep up, especially when he'd been sitting down, and he really, really should have insisted on accompanying Elizabeth shopping despite the prospect of actual death by sheer mortification because he might've only been female for about twelve hours (and he still wasn't done with the existential freakouts and perfectly rational hysteria, thank you very much, and it was deeply unfair of the world to throw him right back into work like this) but he was pretty sure he wasn't this kind of girl. Certain dormant instincts in his hind-brain were waking up and clamoring and most of what they were saying seemed to suggest he was more of a knee-length type of guy. Woman. Whatever. In fact, the 18th century was getting more appealing by the minute, lack of electricity and potable coffee notwithstanding.
Sheppard was waiting on the pavement for him, frowning slightly, and Rodney panicked, looking down to see what he was doing wrong (and he was not getting used to those any time soon, although cleavage from this perspective was admittedly a novel experience, though one he could've lived without), and gritted his teeth, determined to get it over and done with.
"Lead on," he said grandly and shouldered past the Colonel and into the dim recesses of the bar.
He drifted to a halt almost immediately, waiting just out of the entryway for his eyes to adjust, and ignoring the flutter of chill air on the back of his knees (he didn't think his knees had been out in public since possibly 1997, yet another reason this was an immensely bad idea) as Sheppard held the door open behind him for a moment.
He stared longingly at the bar (god, beer. Rodney was ready and willing to embrace traditional problem-solving techniques on this one, ie, liberal application of alcohol until he could forget the fairly unmissable fact that his dick was gone) before frowning and scanning the faces on the stools, looking for someone who met the description of their contact. Sheppard's elbow dug into his ribs and he twisted his head around to glare, hissing "what?" indignantly.
"Try to blend in, would you, McKay?" and Sheppard's bumping his shoulder (normal) and then reaching around to settle his hand at the small of Rodney's back, guiding him towards one of the booths (definitely not standard procedure) and, okay, acting in character, right, he can get behind this.
They slide onto the cracking vinyl seats, which scratch at Rodney's thighs, and he squirms again, cursing Elizabeth in three languages (and people say he doesn't listen in the labs) for not given him even another inch or two of fabric. Sheppard mumbles something Rodney is sure is drawly and laconic and just about levitates back up, slinking over to the bar and returning in record time with two drinks. Rodney's never been served that fast in his life, and if he wasn't half-afraid to move lest he leave skin behind (and was he ever grateful he'd vetoed the pantyhose on principle now) he'd almost be tempted to see just how much of a difference having a great rack (if he did say so himself - and he did, because it he'd never seen the point of false modesty) makes.
Rodney sucks down the drink at record speed and manfully resists the urge to drop his head onto the scarred wood of the table and whine "why me?" Sheppard seems to take it as a given anyway, and pats his hand awkwardly, before stretching, cracking his neck as he looks around the bar, subtly scanning. Rodney stares mournfully into the bottom of his glass, bites his lip, scratches the side of his nose and then sighs. Still monitoring the room, Sheppard hardly moves a muscle, although he's faking loose-limbed relaxation with everything in him. Rodney grumbles something like "for crying out loud," and fishes around down the neckline of his shirt, tugging the bra strap up - again - with disgust. Sheppard kicks his ankle, hard.
"What?" Rodney's maybe a little loud, a lot indignant.
Sheppard glares, hisses "Jesus, Rodney, don't do that, okay?"
"Do what?" Rodney's genuinely confused. It's about the millionth time he's had to flick that damn strap back onto his shoulder, there are obvious gaping design flaws in the garment, and lingerie has never seemed less sexy to him than after an hour's experience of having to wear it.
"That," Sheppard waves his hands in illustration, and with a start Rodney locks back into focus to realise that Sheppard is not surveilling the bar for a renegade member of whatever shadow organisation is dogging their steps this week, Sheppard is staring helplessly at Rodney's chest, biting the corner of his mouth (Rodney refuses to find that endearing) and blatantly checking him out.
"Christ, you can't help yourself, can you? Kirk!" Rodney yelps and crosses his arms, forgetting the cleavage enhancing effects thereof, and so is treated to the sight of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard choking on his beer like the most undignified college freshman in history. "You deserved that," he informs him, and hands over a napkin.
Their contact arrives - finally - and they exchange code words and double-speak and veiled threats and innuendo, and Rodney is unspeakably bored by it all which, given the glances Sheppard is shooting him is probably showing. Information safely handed over (tucked inside another napkin, Rodney hopes Sheppard isn't going to mix the two up) they part ways, the woman leaving with a saucy wink which doubtless has half the bar assuming she's left her number for a threesome, and Rodney gropes around for his third beer, the world gone distinctly fuzzy around the edges.
Sheppard stretches his legs under the table and brushes the side of his ankle against Rodney's calf.
Rodney makes a whimpery noise in the back of his throat, already pink-cheeked from the alcohol and forgets everything his mother always told Jeannie about sitting like a lady with her knees together.
Sheppard stays sober enough to drive them back to the secured housing they're all based in and Rodney absolutely does not spend most of the way telling himself that crawling into the backseat with him would be a bad idea. They pass the napkin onto Elizabeth along with a verbal report, and Rodney hiccups and then has to excuse himself to find the washroom, where he discovers the alarmingly tiny size of his bladder, lectures himself soundly in the mirror on appropriate professional behaviour, and then walks with great dignity out the door and straight into Sheppard's chest.
They end up necking in the washroom ("It won't be monitored." "Are you sure?" "Do you really think the boffins at Cheyenne are that interested in watching off-duty Marines belch and scratch their balls?" "Right.") for what feels like hours, and by the time that they manage to wrench apart Rodney is perfectly sober, speckled with beard-burn from collarbone to jaw, and breathing like he'd just run three miles back to the 'gate.
Sheppard gets a hand up Rodney's shirt, curling warm across his stomach, sliding it determinedly upwards, and wow, breasts are even better when they're your own, and he moans "yes," brokenly into John's mouth before remembering where they are, hastily amending that to "no!" and trying to pull away. John has one hand twisted into the waist of his shirt, and wow, he really hopes it doesn't crease too badly because he does not want to have to explain that to Elizabeth, and he isn't giving Rodney an inch.
"Pick one," Sheppard says, and Rodney's brain almost shorts out, because it turns out that female arousal is just as stupidity-inducing as the male version, because there's John Sheppard wrapped around him like the ultimate wet dream, and instead of considering the team and the mission and, oh, little matters like friendship and duty and prior heterosexual tendencies and unprovoked sex changes that may or may not be reversible, Rodney just hooks his fingers into the waistband of John's tight jeans and says "fuck me."
It turns out the bedrooms aren't monitored, either, although John does make fun of Rodney for stopping long enough to check.
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snippet xy of xx, Atlantis
Rodney is hiding out in John's quarters because no amount of yelling, threatening and/or bribery has been sufficient to keep the female scientists (and the Marines, who are - if possible - even worse) from treating him like a life-size Barbie doll. Katie Brown had looked starry-eyed and offered to paint his nails. Miko had handed him lip balm (which, okay, was actually useful and unopened, and therefore almost not creepy) and Cadman had been giving his hair looks which made even John's blood run cold by association and making off-hand comments suggesting a myriad of ways she could improve Rodney's sense of style.
No one is taking him seriously, which he made the mistake of saying out loud only to be met with a caustic Dr Coleman who had merely said "wow, funny what a difference that second x chromosome makes, isn't it?" Rodney had beat an understandable tactical retreat at that point, or so he explained from John's bed, which he'd appropriated immediately on coming in, curled up with his chin on his knees.
John is trying desperately not to find it cute. Or worse, hot. Rodney on a normal day is engaging and attractive and worth the effort of needling into entertaining rants, a pleasure to watch (and John Sheppard, with fifteen-plus years in the Air Force, has gotten really good at looking). Rodney with a hip-swinging walk, sleekly voluptuous and brimming with righteous indignation at the unverse's refusal to bend back into shape for him is like some kind of skewed mirror-image - just as enticing in completely different ways. His mouth goes crooked even more often than usual, uncertainty see-sawing with the usual arrogant confidence, the march of expression across his face just as much of a giveaway as it has always been. John really does not want to know what it says about him that he finds the uncertainty not a refreshing change but kind of a turn-on. Just another way that Pegasus is fucking them all up even more than they were to start with.
Rodney alternates between spending all of his time in the labs bludgeoning lesser mortals into progress on the parts of the machine he can't seem to touch (a safety mechanism, Zelenka had said, but couldn't explain why) and with his off-world team. He doesn't run with Ronon - "ow, never again, end of story, did I mention ow?" had been the result of the first ill-advised attempt - but they seem to entertain themselves sufficiently with bad 80s DVDs. Teyla doesn't speak much of what they do, but John suspects it's meditating - some kind of Rodney-friendly meditation, whatever that might be, because Rodney always seems calmer after he's been cloistered with Teyla for an hour or two, and he and John, well, they hang out. Just like normal.
If normal was John forcing himself to sit as close as he used to do and not one bit closer, that is, because Rodney with curves spilling out of an ill-fitting uniform sends all the wrong messages to the basement levels of John's brain, down where logic won't touch. It's harder and harder to tell himself 'hands off' when that person is now wrapped in a body that fits every parameter of what John's always been allowed to touch; the forbidden temptation of flat chest and broad shoulders and cock replaced by the flare of hip that flows smoothly into thighs, the swell of breast which makes John just want to lean over and-- well.
Yeah, John is pretty sure he's in the running for 'bad person of the year' with those kinds of thoughts, although if you consider the rest of the population of Pegasus he's probably not going to win. The lone redeeming point is that Rodney doesn't seem to have noticed.
Or that's what John had thought, anyway, until he swung into his room after a long and infinitely boring meeting with Lorne and Caldwell about the new types of paper-pushing the Air Force wanted to pay him to waste his time with this year. Meetings that were just him and Lorne tended to figure a lot more sarcasm and making of paper-planes (usually out of the instruction sheets for whatever hoops they were meant to be jumping through when they had time off from saving the galaxy and all) but Caldwell on base meant feet on the floor and not on the desk and that he had to smile through the bullshit, both of which were distinctly less than relaxing activities on what was supposed to have been his afternoon off.
"McKay?" he gets out, and if it sounds more strangled and less 'cool, suave and charming leader of men' then that's just between him and Rodney. Because Rodney is perched on the corner of John's desk, hands flat on his thighs, and oh god, that's a lot of leg, because John doesn't have the faintest idea where someone could find a black miniskirt on Atlantis but clearly it's possible, because there's Rodney. Wearing it.
John's eyes track upwards, although it's difficult, because legs, and Rodney has great ones, as a man or a woman. He notes the science-blue tank top, cotton obviously worn thin and soft with age, because John can clearly see the pattern of lace of his bra, vaguely floral whorls through the skin-tight fabric. Rodney's hair is messy, but it looks like a more deliberate kind of messy, like someone's had their hands in it. John swallows envy, swallows hard, drifting closer without much conscious input from the parts of his brain that are still online; hungry-mouthed and wide-eyed.
Rodney lifts his chin, obviously steeling himself, hands flying gracefully, nervously as he tries to explain, "I thought you- I mean, I feel completely under-dressed, not to mention slightly cold, but Laura said you'd probably- but if you don't think so, I can-" and then he shuts up abruptly, almost with a squeak as John halts just inside his personal space, raising his hand so that his index finger traces lightly around the hem of Rodney's shirtsleeve, shifting from fabric to skin almost at random. It makes Rodney go silent and just shiver, and that's such a novelty that John has to do it again.
"Cold?" he whispers, almost ruthlessly, leaning back on his heels to look Rodney up and down again, taking a proprietary pride in the way Rodney's back arches, the way his nipples are clearly outlined even through two layers of clothing.
That's apparently enough to let Rodney clamber back towards more familiar footing, because he shoves at John's shoulder and calls him names and threatens to pipe Celine Dion into his room in the middle of the night if John can't get a move on and stop teasing already.
"You know, teasing implies I'm not actually going to put out, Rodney," John says, leaning in to breathe over Rodney's shoulder, nuzzling at his ear and Rodney's head falls back into the wall with an audible thud. "You better," Rodney snaps, but his hands are too tight on John's hips, dragging him closer, speaking the nervousness he's doing his best to pretend out of existence.
There's a moment of uncertainty - John knows exactly where he wants to put his hands, but practically-gold-engraved invitation aside, he's not entirely sure he should, still - and then with a sigh John leans heavily into Rodney, pressing him full-length into the wall, fingers skimming under the shirt and dragging it up to catch under his arms. The lace scratches at his fingertips as his palms flatten on Rodney's sides, warm skin on skin, and he ducks his head down to just look, just a little more. The bra is black and sheer, and running solely on instinct John leans in, mouths at his breast through the fabric, the nipple peaked and firm against his tongue, and Rodney's choked moan is the best thing he's heard all afternoon. He licks and sucks until the lace is damp against his mouth, the flat of his tongue working over the very tip of the nipple, pressing in over and over until Rodney's clawed his shirt out of his trousers and has his hands up the back of John's shirt, nails digging into his shoulderblades. His lips are tingling by the time he stops, and his teeth nearly catch in the lace, which surprises an entirely unsexy snicker out of Rodney, letting them both just draw back and breathe for a moment.
John's thumb is rubbing circles on the side of his left breast, feeling Rodney's lungs inflate, ribs lift with every breath, and he fancies he can feel his heart thudding double-time through it, too. His other hand slips from Rodney's side, dragging along the upper curve of the bra, deftly tracing the distorted V it forms.
"What brought this on?" John asks, surprising himself by speaking, his palm following his eyes to cup Rodney's jaw, getting a ghost-impression of what this could be if Rodney was his usual self, the imagined prickle of stubble against his hand somehow turning his arousal up another notch.
"Got sick of waiting," Rodney said, blunt and honest and perfectly himself, and John leaned in to kiss him at last, equally sick of waiting, and thoroughly determined to not be stuck just looking ever again.
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Stopping there, for now, because it's three am and these were meant to be, oh, you know, two or three paragraphs EACH. *headdesks* Also, if I have any horrific typoes or excessively repeated words, please let me know? See above re: '3am' and 'unbetaed'.