New SGA fic: Everything Else Is Secondary
Title: Everything Else Is Secondary
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash
Summary: He just wants to drum.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~ 5500
Story notes: Hi, I’m an AU. I’m not anything remotely like crack; however, I exist solely because Skoosie wanted to write John in girlpants. So. If you’re against John wearing girlpants, I might not be for you. Huge thanks to druidspell for beta’ing me, shining me up, and generally making Skoosie smile with her kick-ass commentary.
A/N: Yeah, what she said. Also, this turned out a hell of a lot more serious than I thought it would, and I could probably fiddle around with it forever, changing stuff, but I won’t. 25 semi-chronologic snapshots of the band ABM, but mostly it’s about John.
Everything Else Is Secondary
One.
There are three beats John always misses on Blaming Boots For Your Existence. Three perfect beats, McKay tells him, pissed, because he’s written them in for a reason and John just. He gets mental blocks sometimes.
Like eating the ham he insists his mom buy before it goes iridescent, or calling his girlfriend on her birthday - or any day, really, and he thinks maybe they broke up at some point, except she keeps calling him - or playing those three fucking beats after the second verse of Blaming Boots, which doesn’t really matter, anyhow, since Parrish can totally pick his cues out of thin air if he has to, and John secretly thinks the measure of silence is cool.
Still. He flips a stick and grins half-apologetically at McKay. “Sorry,” he says, and it’s only been a month, so he’s still kind of waiting for McKay to give him the this-isn’t-working-out speech he’s apparently given many, many drummers before him.
McKay scowls, but bends over his guitar, going over the last riff again - and again, because he says it sounds wrong, even though he can’t figure out exactly why yet.
Cadman laughs. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, John,” she says, but John knows they won’t keep him around just for that.
*
Two.
“No one loves the bass player,” Cadman pouts, dropping down on the couch.
Parrish stretches out his long legs and pokes her thigh with a toe. “Everyone loves you.”
“Everyone loves you,” she counters, and Parrish’s pale face flushes pink and he scrubs a big hand over his shorn head. He let Cadman dye it blue, then let Bates shave most of it off.
Parrish has a weird sort of appeal, since he’s tall and gawky with this dumb-ass smile that folds up nearly his entire face. When they’d met, John had shaken his hand and watched him duck his head in acute embarrassment as Bates said, “Fucking awesome voice, man,” and he’d nodded and silently hoped that wasn’t all they had to offer. He isn’t, like, shallow or anything, but yeah. He knows how it works.
Parrish does have a good voice, though, perfect pitch, his stage presence rocks, and his eyes - when he bothers to take off his glasses - are fucking gorgeous: this wide, amazing brown.
From behind, John clamps his hands on Cadman’s shoulders, shakes her. “Little Laura love me,” he sing-songs. “Love, love me do.”
“Fuck off,” she giggles, swiping at his hand.
Everyone loves the bass player. John just thinks Cadman needs everyone to show it.
*
Three.
John first meets McKay at a party. John’s pretty trashed. McKay insults his pants and tugs on his belt loop, and John’s kinda certain he flirts shamelessly, even though he doesn’t remember exactly what happens. McKay never brings it up.
The second time they meet, John has his iPod on, at the back of Wayne’s Music Plus, improvising rhythm under Sabotage on a crappy set of used drums. He’s got his eyes closed, and McKay scares the shit out of him by slapping the back of his head.
“Hey,” he says when he’s finally gotten John’s attention. “You play for anyone?”
John grins, because McKay is all cheekbones and soft, curly hair, and his mouth slants down on one side. “Myself.”
“Funny.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re not the worst I’ve heard, so.” He hands John a torn sheet of notebook paper, a barely legible name and number on it. “If you’re interested.”
John calls that night. The number is Bates’ cell, and Bates tells him to stop by for practice the next day in a gruff, bored voice. He almost doesn’t go, but then he remembers McKay in his threadbare t-shirt, and his keen blue eyes.
*
Four.
They have two guitars; John’s not sure why. Sometimes McKay plays rhythm behind Bates, and sometimes he plays piano, but it sounds awesome either way.
Parrish doesn’t play at all, his hands useless for anything except a microphone. Bates calls him fluff, but Cadman calls him the really tasty fluff that makes a sundae that much better.
Cadman is occasionally as much of a frontman as Parrish is, and occasionally she hides back with John, picking notes with her head down, curtain of blonde hair shadowing her face. John can never predict her mood, but Parrish knows, stepping up his performance even before she slinks away. It isn’t often, and no one ever talks about it, but those are the nights that Cadman curls up on Bates in the van and Bates lets her.
Those are the nights that McKay worries, too - about the band, about his lyrics, about his rapidly thinning hair, about the arguable intelligence of their target audience - and he stays up with John, cross-legged on the floor, head tipped back on the worn couch in the apartment he shares with Parrish. John sleeps on the couch, usually, because he doesn’t like to disturb his mom that late, and McKay’s rambling never keeps him awake for very long.
*
Five.
Bates is actually the only original member of Able-bodied Men. Apparently, they sucked before McKay came around, Cadman and her kohl-smudged eyes in tow. They found Parrish by pure chance, because McKay had needed a roommate, and Parrish likes to sing in the shower and makes up songs when he cooks or when he’s high.
McKay periodically tries to get John to vote for a name change, but they always end up keeping ABM, since Cadman likes it, and Cadman, John finds out, can be a spoiled little princess. Nobody seems to mind, so John doesn’t either.
Sometimes, Bates is a spoiled little princess, too.
Most of the time, though, Bates is bitter and angry, and John thinks he’s maybe seen him smile, like, once. John’s also seen him punch someone in the head for insulting McKay, though, so he thinks he’s a pretty good guy.
*
Six.
John is eighteen and lives with his mom.
McKay’s eighteen, has already been through college once - which John didn’t really believe until he saw the framed diploma - and lives with Parrish in a trashy apartment in a shitty part of town. He’s some sort of musical genius. All technical, so he lets Bates take the lead on stage and bitches about pace and beats that John misses, and almost all their songs are written by him and Bates, or him and Cadman, or just him.
John didn’t actually graduate high school. He isn’t stupid; he never explains to anybody why. It isn’t a big deal, anyway, even though McKay likes to pester him about it.
“Here,” McKay says, dropping a pile of books on the coffee table.
John is wrapped in an old comforter, barely awake. “What?”
McKay is dressed for work; old jeans and a blue, grease-stained shirt, his name etched on the pocket. He grins at him, not a little manically. “One word for you, Sheppard: GED.”
“Isn’t that more of an acronym?”
“Whatever. Just do it.”
It’s too early for John to be truly pissed off, so he pulls the blanket over his head and turns over into the couch cushions, ignoring McKay’s strident, “Your brain is literally rotting inside your skull!”
John doesn’t necessarily care. He just wants to drum.
*
Seven.
“Look,” McKay says, eyes narrowed and fingers clutching John’s wrist, paused over the snare, “it’s not. It’s not like this is hard, right? For you. You could play this backwards if you had to, so just.”
John blinks at him, deliberately slow. He doesn’t like the three fucking beats. He’s not sure why, he just doesn’t, and he wishes McKay would get off his case about it.
McKay curses and shoves John’s hand away and stalks off, whipping the guitar strap over his head and dropping it on the sagging couch with uncharacteristic carelessness. He stomps up the stairs and slams the basement door behind him.
Cadman winces, but waves it off. “Don’t worry. Mom’ll give him cookies and he’ll be fine in an hour,” she says.
In an hour, McKay’s still visibly pissed, mouth tight, but he’s back downstairs, and he makes Cadman pick up the slack over John’s dead air.
John plays it perfectly the next time through, but McKay doesn’t look up from his hands.
*
Eight.
John’s been in and out of bands since he was fourteen. Most of them were really, really bad. John isn’t going to gloss over his past; almost all of them sucked. He liked being in each of them, though, and still hangs out with Ronon, the guitarist-slash-lead singer from Eat Your Toast.
Ronon looks awesome on stage, but he can’t play for shit and his voice sounds like a dying water buffalo. John never understood why he was in Eat Your Toast to begin with - for a while, John thought they were going for a we’re-so-horrible-we’re-good hook. Now, Ronon takes venue security jobs where he can, and sneaks John in for free.
John loves watching the drummers. The pause and pound kicks up his heartbeat, makes his fingers twitch, makes his breath catch. Sometimes, in the middle of all those writhing, screaming kids, he closes his eyes and blocks out everything but the rhythm, the backbone stronger than anything John thinks he can ever do.
He wants to stand out, but he’s afraid all anyone will see is flaws.
*
Nine.
McKay tells John he had a horrible childhood.
“My parents loved to scream at each other,” McKay says, peeling away at the label of a Molson’s. “I left for college on the first scholarship I could find, and then they broke up and died or something. I don’t know; I never talk to them. Why?”
John shrugs. “Just curious.” His mom is the only family he’s ever known. She wants him to leave and follow his own dreams or whatever, but she’s always been sort of a free spirit. John doesn’t want her to be alone.
“Hmm.” McKay nods absently. “I have a sister. I called her once, and she told me to drop dead. She’s absolutely delightful.”
“Right, McKay.”
“No, no, I mean it. She’s, like, alone and at college and she doesn’t want to see me. Good for her.”
John thinks he sounds kind of bitter.
*
Ten.
Cadman has a dad that everyone’s afraid of, but John’s never met him. Her mom’s nice, though, because the basement where they practice isn’t even soundproofed, and she always makes them cookies.
McKay and Cadman squabble like siblings. It’s sort of endearing, and John usually doesn’t mind when they stop practice because McKay thinks Cadman’s, “Wrong, so very wrong, and stop poking me! Oh my god, you’re, like, eight!” and she ends up straddled over his stomach, fingers tickling that spot just below his ribs that makes him howl.
Cadman flirts almost constantly with Bates, but John doesn’t think she means anything by it. He’s pretty sure Bates and Cadman are best friends. It’s hard to tell, since Bates is always so distant, but his eyes get soft whenever he watches her, and Cadman always, always goes to him when she’s upset.
When John asks Parrish about it, Parrish shrugs and says, “He’s protective,” and, “You’ve seen him fight,” and, “Just wait ‘til he breaks a guy’s arm for making you cry,” and John laughs, because he’s supposed to laugh, but he doesn’t think Parrish is joking.
*
Eleven.
John is in the band two months when his girlfriend actually breaks up with him. She says everything she needs to say on his voicemail, because he hardly ever answers his cell, and he never really sees her. He’s kind of relieved about it.
He’s so relieved that he spends the night on the bathroom floor in McKay’s apartment, cheek cool on the lip of the tub.
Parrish finds him first, stumbling bleary-eyed over the threshold sometime after three a.m. “John?”
“Davy,” John says. He wishes he was drunk. Also, he thinks there’s something in his eyes.
Parrish hunches down in front of him, wide hands reaching out to cage his face. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Fine.” His voice is thick. He’s aware that he’s not, in fact, fine.
Parrish seems to sense this. “I’ll get Rodney,” he says, and John almost laughs, ‘cause yeah. Get the whole gang in there.
He scrubs his face with his palms, cheeks itchy, and he thinks maybe he’s been crying for a while without realizing it. Then he hears McKay snap, “What-are you leaking all over our bathroom?” and John does laugh, because Jesus.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Yeah, you look it. Scoot over, will you?” McKay doesn’t wait for John to move, just shimmies his body in between him and the wall. “God, do you know how incredibly unsanitary this is? Couldn’t you have broken down in the kitchen? Where there’s coffee?”
“Rodney,” Parrish chides, folding himself up against the door, sock-feet pressing into John’s.
“Right, okay.” He rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
John sighs, drops his head onto his upraised knees. “My girlfriend dumped me.”
The silence is hollow, their breathing echoing on the tile. He turns his head and peeks over at McKay.
“You have a girlfriend?” he asks finally, completely stunned, mouth slack.
John bites his bottom lip.
Parrish giggles, muffled into his arm.
John grins, sniffs wetly, shifts to rest his head on McKay’s shoulder. “No,” he says, and breathes out.
*
Twelve.
McKay is not in perfect shape. He has broad shoulders, and a slightly soft middle, and he wears thin t-shirts under ugly striped button-downs. John calls him a comfy fashion disaster and likes watching his ass when they’re on stage. It’s pretty fantastic.
McKay calls John a stick with hair, and John responds by wearing the tiniest pairs of pants he can pull on, waistlines cutting directly across his hipbones. He notices the black ones manage to almost shut McKay up and make his eyes wander, so he wears them the most.
Cadman actually picked them out on a first-of-many mall trip together, where they bonded over frozen yogurt and wedge-heeled boots and the spectacular one-day sale at Macys. She says they’re girlfriends now and pats his ass in a proprietary way. It’s worth it to see McKay turn bright red.
*
Thirteen.
John makes out with Cadman exactly once, and it’s kind of terrible. She has pointy elbows and small hands, and John feels more awkward than anything else.
After that, he sticks to the drunken masses at parties and after shows. The drunken masses seem to like him. The sober ones, too, actually, but since John is almost always drunk, it doesn’t really matter.
McKay catches him in a full-body lean against some boy with possibly even sharper hips than himself and tells him it’s time to go. He’s very quiet and stone-faced. John doesn’t argue.
Competent, forceful McKay is kind of hot.
This isn’t the only reason John tries to grope him on the ride home, but it’s a good one.
John really doesn’t want to talk about it the next day, but it’s obvious McKay does. He sends John little twitchy looks from beside him on the couch, fingers tapping pulse-quick rhythms on his thighs. John eventually just tugs up his hoodie, curls his legs into the cushions and settles his head on McKay’s lap, displacing his hands.
McKay stiffens, and then brings a palm down to curve over John’s side.
*
Fourteen.
Bates owns a huge econo van that was once a prison transport. It’s awesome. There’s a big black panther airbrushed on the side, complete with kick-ass purple highlights and jungle fronds, and the entire interior is crisscrossed with multi-colored graffiti, penned and markered messages from everyone and anyone who’s ever crashed inside.
John hasn’t written anything himself yet, but he sees McKay’s distinctive scrawl everywhere, bits of lyrics, shorthand, half-formed grocery lists.
The only other hand just as prevalent is Teyla’s. She’s only signed a few, but she wrote in block-print red, so they’re all easy to pick out. Short, oddly formal notes that resonate with John, and he finds his fingers and eyes tracing as many as he can reach on long rides. I am not who you think you are, she wrote. There is never enough.
You do not change with words.
Life is the length of my smallest dream.
*
Fifteen.
When Cadman curls up with John on the sofa, he’s not alarmed. She’s sort of like that. Affectionate without being too handsy.
Parrish is quiet, though, and when Bates arrives, he just stares at her and says, “Take off your sweatshirt.”
“Fuck off, Jerm,” she growls. She pushes away from John to reach for her bass and Bates steps in front of her, expression dark but hands loose at his sides.
“Take off your sweatshirt,” he repeats.
“Jeremy, I.” She stops, shoulders slumping in defeat. She hugs her arms around her middle. “Please.”
Bates just softly touches her hair, brushing it out of her eyes, and she leans towards him, into the cup of his palm without making any other contact at all.
John feels awkward and intrusive. McKay is pointedly fiddling with his guitar and Parrish is leafing through pages of new lyrics, humming under his breath.
Later, they start practicing at John’s house. The basement is smaller and McKay keeps calling John’s mom a hippie, but it’s okay.
Later, John sees the yellow-purple bruises on Cadman’s arms and doesn’t say a thing.
*
Sixteen.
“Shit,” Cadman whispers, then giggles and presses her fingers to her mouth, her other hand shackling John’s wrist.
John is only half as drunk as he was ten minutes ago. He’s also not sure this is a good idea anymore, but it’s a little late for second thoughts. The fire licks from the inside out, the smell of gasoline high in the air, and when the tank blows he covers Cadman’s head with his arm.
Cadman can’t stop laughing.
“You realize we just committed arson,” John says. He’s absolutely certain Bates will kill him if he finds out. No, not if. When. There is no way he won’t find out about this, and there’s also no way he’ll blame Cadman.
“He,” Cadman gasps into John’s shirt, “he fucking loved that car.”
“Okay.” John nods, even though she can’t see it, hand still cradling her head. “Okay, let’s get out of here, though, all right?” He can hear the wail of sirens getting closer.
She tightens her grip on his wrist. “I wish I could see his face,” she says fiercely. “I wish-”
“Yeah.”
She tips her head back to look up at him. Her eyes are sparkling, damp, and she’s not exactly happy, but she doesn’t look miserable either. John’ll take that.
“Yeah,” she says, and grins. “Yeah.”
*
Seventeen.
Parrish gets fired from Subway for showing up completely toasted, but mainly for eating all the pepperoni and about a pound of Swiss cheese right before the lunchtime rush. John gets his mom to hire him at her garden store. Turns out he’s great with plants, and John’s mom is fairly easygoing, so it ends up being an okay fit.
McKay is a mechanic. McKay being a mechanic turns John on. John reasons this could be because he works for a local Mercedes dealer and lets John hang around and salivate from a safe distance, or it could be because it’s just one more variable proving McKay’s hands are very, very talented.
Bates likes to tell them that the band is a fulltime job, but Cadman is still attempting to finish high school, and McKay and Parrish have bills to pay.
Currently, John really doesn’t. He helps his mom out when she asks or bugs McKay at work or plays video games at Bates’ apartment and listens to him bitch about focus and commitment.
Bates has bills to pay and they apparently get paid, but John has no idea how. His family’s rich or something; he’s not interested enough to ask, even when it’s just the two of them.
They drink natty light and get pathetic buzzes, and Bates says, “Someday, John,” and John echoes, “Someday,” even though he thinks they’re doing pretty good exactly how they are.
*
Eighteen.
John is sort of amazed when he realizes the crowd mostly knows all the words to their songs. It’s bordering on surreal when he slips down to the bar afterwards, sipping water and getting stopped every few feet by friendly hands, perfect strangers who know his name.
He grins for them; flirts, even, since he can’t really help himself. He leans towards pretty girls, bone-thin boys and talks close to their ears, thanks them, and then he searches out McKay.
McKay is solid. McKay’s hair sticks to his sweat-damp skin, and he hums with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, music still vibrating in his head. John can tell.
He palms John’s nape companionably, and later he’ll obsess about every facet of their performance, but now he’s loose and happy and smiling sideways at John.
John smiles back.
*
Nineteen.
“Sit still,” Cadman says, settling down on John’s lap, legs splayed on either side of his.
John isn’t moving. He plants his hands on her hips, though, and obediently tilts his head up. She brushes his hair back off his forehead, chews thoughtfully on her lower lip, then switches her grip to his chin, pinching it between her thumb and curled forefinger.
“Parrish let you do this?” John asks, skeptical.
“He looks like a zombie raccoon,” McKay says absently, hunched over the coffee table with his notebook and a laptop.
“Shut up,” Cadman says, smiling. “It’ll look great, John. Trust me.”
John doesn’t trust Cadman. Well, not with anything involving makeup and his face, but he’s seriously bored, and there’s nothing else to do.
“Look up.” She’s holding up the stick of eyeliner, fingers resting on the top of his cheek. The pads are rough against his skin, nails bitten jagged just above the quick.
John looks up.
“We’ll go for subtle,” she assures him, nodding, and John feels pressure along his lower lid, fights not to blink.
McKay snorts.
John totally agrees, since he doesn’t think subtle and Cadman have ever actually met.
Her hands are steady, though, and John closes his eyes when she tells him to, and when she’s done, she caps the liner with a soft snick and sits back on his knees with smug satisfaction. “Prefect.”
“Yeah?” John asks, arching a brow.
“Yep. You’re beeeeauuutiful.” She smoothes a thumb under his left eye. “Right, Rodney?”
“Zombie. Raccoon,” McKay says without looking up.
Cadman sticks her tongue out at his back, then slides John a sly smile. Gracelessly agile, since her dismount is perfectly silent, but her approach lacks finesse, she tackles McKay onto his side, hands slipping into his hair to hold him down. “You’re next, Rodney,” she says, and McKay yelps, “No, oh no, back off, devil woman!”
“Aww, c’mon,” John drawls. “You’ll be all prettified.”
“Pointy things are not allowed anywhere near my face,” he pants, twisting until Cadman is pinned under him, laughing hysterically. “Give?”
She stretches up and licks his cheek.
“Oh, yuck,” he says, jerking back to scrub his face with a sleeve. “Dave’s a terrible, horrible influence on you.” He jabs a finger at her, inches from her nose. “If you start biting, I’m buying you a muzzle.”
Cadman wriggles out from underneath him and scrambles to her feet, still laughing. John thinks it’s a pretty fucking fantastic sound.
*
Twenty.
The party is dull, and John’s eyes itch, and McKay had disappeared with a little foreign guy soon after they’d gotten there, deep in animated conversation.
They’re not anywhere they usually go. He has no clue whose house it is, doesn’t really recognize anyone, and guys his height but twice his size keep eyeing him with interest he can’t define, and he’s not sure he wants to. He shifts on his feet and wishes he hadn’t let Cadman dress up his eyes again. Though the girls’ jeans probably don’t help any, either.
Cadman slides into his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Okay?”
“Sort of feel like a fuzzy bunny thrown in with some hungry dogs,” he replies.
She scans the room, nods. “We’re definitely in the wrong place. Bad call by Jerm.”
“Is he actually friends with these people?” It’s like an American Eagle ad, only more drunk and belligerent.
Cadman shrugs. “He gets around.”
John leans back against the wall, flashing the big blond blatantly staring at him a wicked grin. Probably not the best move, but his answering full-body flinch is totally worth it. Maybe. If he doesn’t get his buddies to beat him up. John can normally hold his own in a fight, but the guy’s a tank and, as McKay so loves to point out, John’s maybe one-forty soaking wet, with the delicate wrists to match.
“Where’s Rodney?” Cadman asks.
“Making friends. Can we get out of here?” Thank god Parrish hadn’t come. He would’ve been folded up and eaten as soon as he’d stepped through the door.
“Yeah.” She squeezes his waist. “Let’s go.”
The next day, McKay is still half-asleep when he stumbles into John’s basement, eyes slit and yawns popping his jaw one after the other.
Bates has a split lip and tape over his knuckles.
“Rough night?” John asks from behind his kit, eyebrows arched.
Bates grunts, but largely ignores him and starts setting up, tugging his amp away from the wall.
“He was defending your honor,” McKay says, mouth quirked with amusement. He’s at the keyboard today, fingers flexing over the plastic keys.
John blinks. “Really?” Huh.
“Are we gonna practice or not?” Bates spits out, dark eyes narrowed on John, practically daring him to say anything at all about his slightly swollen jaw.
Heaven forbid someone actually acknowledges Bates’ soft heart to his face. John’ll just get his mom to bake him brownies.
*
Twenty-one.
“He’s huge,” John says, slumped back, head nestled in the corner of the couch and one foot up on McKay’s lap. “Like, ginormous.”
“Andre the Giant huge or, like, Chris Jericho?” Parrish asks. He’s sprawled on the floor in front of the TV and has ECW, which is in a sad, sad state, on mute.
“Jericho,” John says. “Only bigger.”
Parrish tilts his head. “Hmmm. I’d still go with Jeremy.”
As much as John likes Bates - and his hidden soft heart - if they’re talking hypothetical cage match to the death, he has to side with Ronon. Ronon’s like a bear, only less hairy. Bates is strong, but wiry and compact.
John jiggles his foot. “What d’you think, Rodney?” he asks.
“I think this is a stupid conversation,” McKay says, squeezing John’s toes. He’s reading and being anti-social.
“Come on, you have to choose,” John says.
McKay rolls his eyes, flips his book over his thigh to keep his place. “Is Ronon that mammoth security guard with the dreads?”
John nods.
“Then I agree with Dave.”
“No way!” John protests, tugging his foot out of McKay’s grip and sitting up.
“Jerm has rage on his side,” McKay points out, then ticks off his fingers. “Adrenalin, rage, a deep suspicion of strangers that borders on hatred. Ronon has this dead-fish stare, and I’m not entirely sure he has a functioning brain.”
“Care to make a wager?” John asks, because Ronon’s like a ninja. John’s seen him take out dudes twice his size. Ignoring the whole no-musical-talent thing, he’s the coolest guy John knows.
“Considering this is not an actual upcoming event we’re talking about? No, not really.”
John pouts and McKay goes back to his book, and Parrish rolls over and stares at the ceiling, absently scratching his belly.
“Hey,” he says, “anyone else hungry?”
*
Twenty-two.
When Bates and Ronon finally meet, John expects sparks, teeth-baring, blood. Something. What he gets is a lukewarm handshake and semi-pleasant grunts of greeting.
It’s all sort of anti-climatic, but then McKay calls Ronon a giant yak and there’s that good old animosity, Bates with his hackles up, slipping in front of McKay who is being very effectively loomed over by a narrow-eyed Ronon.
John puts his hands on his hips and tosses McKay a wide grin. Let the battle begin.
Cadman breaks it up before anything can happen, though, and John supposes since it’s her birthday, he can’t be too upset about it.
Also: cake.
*
Twenty-three.
McKay is not just a musical genius.
He’s got shelves of books on physics and calculus and astronomy. He’s got reams of papers packed with formulas too complicated for John, who’s always been innately good with math, and he writes freelance for low-tier science mags. He also writes scathing letters to scientists that he never sends about how very, very wrong they are, and they end up in piles under the coffee table, stuck to the fridge, stuffed in outdated journals.
John’s a little puzzled by the band thing - the serious aspirations.
When he asks, though, McKay turns bright red and mutters something about unexpected attachments and being young, anyway, so what does it matter?
It isn’t the sort of explanation he expects from McKay, but then, John knows he’s got photos, collages, all over his bedroom. Photos of him and Cadman, of Parrish and Cadman, of crowds of people John hasn’t met yet, and there’s even one of Bates, Cadman hanging off his back, a rare flash of overt happiness in his eyes and the curve of his mouth.
McKay’s never had a family like this before.
John can see why he wouldn’t want to leave them behind.
*
Twenty-four.
Cadman, because apparently she hates him so very, very much, drags John to her junior prom. She doesn’t give him much of a choice in the matter, and she’s much stronger than she looks.
“Why me?” John whines. She’s bullied him into dark gray cigarette pants that barely cover his ass, and he’s seriously considering never going shopping with her again, since he keeps losing more and more of his dignity. He feels completely out of place.
“You’re the prettiest,” she says, linking their arms together as they step in front of the camera. “Now smile.”
He grimaces as the flash goes off, commemorating his discomfort. They’ve very obviously gone with a burlesque theme, heavy reds and thick blacks and low-lit chandeliers. The ballroom is littered with plush chaises and curtained nooks, and he really has to wonder what teacher approved that. “I don’t have to dance, do I?”
“Of course you do. We’re making a statement.”
“Right,” John drawls skeptically. Cadman actually fits in with her classmates for once, fancy dress and all. He’s not sure what statement she’s trying to make. He suspects she just really wanted to go.
They only stay for an hour, though, and then Parrish is signaling them from the doorway.
“Showtime,” John whispers in her ear. “You gonna wear that onstage?”
“Hell, yeah.” She adjusts her bust line. “My boobs look great.”
*
Twenty-five.
Simon Says Your Mom packs the house. John has never heard them before, but their drummer was in ABM once upon a time, before having a massive falling out with Bates, and McKay is practically sparkling with excitement.
“You’ll love them,” McKay says, and John wonders at his complete lack of enmity towards the drummer that left them in a lurch. It’s John’s gain, of course, but he’s still curious.
Five minutes in and John already knows why it took so long to replace her, and he thinks they got a raw deal with him.
The band’s okay. The lead singer’s kind of reedy, voice thinning with too much ambition, but they back him up well. The drummer, Teyla. She’s fucking amazing. She’s completely calm, serene, while the world crashes down around her. She plays like a maniac, and her forehead is smooth and all her concentration is in her fingers, in the palms of her hands. Jesus.
He knows why the crowd is there, cheering for the mediocre. Teyla should be backing Cadman and Parrish, not John.
He says as much to her afterwards, tucked in a booth at the back of the bar, waiting for McKay to bring them drinks.
“I left an uncomfortable situation,” she says, smiling at him across the table. She is small and dark and elegant and doesn’t look like a drummer. She looks exactly how John pictured her. “I have no regrets.”
She arches her eyebrows, an unasked question, and John remembers her words from the ceiling of the van, small and precise just over the passenger seat. He remembers, Everything else is secondary.
John doesn’t think he has any regrets either.
Pairing: John/Rodney pre-slash
Summary: He just wants to drum.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~ 5500
Story notes: Hi, I’m an AU. I’m not anything remotely like crack; however, I exist solely because Skoosie wanted to write John in girlpants. So. If you’re against John wearing girlpants, I might not be for you. Huge thanks to druidspell for beta’ing me, shining me up, and generally making Skoosie smile with her kick-ass commentary.
A/N: Yeah, what she said. Also, this turned out a hell of a lot more serious than I thought it would, and I could probably fiddle around with it forever, changing stuff, but I won’t. 25 semi-chronologic snapshots of the band ABM, but mostly it’s about John.
Everything Else Is Secondary
One.
There are three beats John always misses on Blaming Boots For Your Existence. Three perfect beats, McKay tells him, pissed, because he’s written them in for a reason and John just. He gets mental blocks sometimes.
Like eating the ham he insists his mom buy before it goes iridescent, or calling his girlfriend on her birthday - or any day, really, and he thinks maybe they broke up at some point, except she keeps calling him - or playing those three fucking beats after the second verse of Blaming Boots, which doesn’t really matter, anyhow, since Parrish can totally pick his cues out of thin air if he has to, and John secretly thinks the measure of silence is cool.
Still. He flips a stick and grins half-apologetically at McKay. “Sorry,” he says, and it’s only been a month, so he’s still kind of waiting for McKay to give him the this-isn’t-working-out speech he’s apparently given many, many drummers before him.
McKay scowls, but bends over his guitar, going over the last riff again - and again, because he says it sounds wrong, even though he can’t figure out exactly why yet.
Cadman laughs. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, John,” she says, but John knows they won’t keep him around just for that.
*
Two.
“No one loves the bass player,” Cadman pouts, dropping down on the couch.
Parrish stretches out his long legs and pokes her thigh with a toe. “Everyone loves you.”
“Everyone loves you,” she counters, and Parrish’s pale face flushes pink and he scrubs a big hand over his shorn head. He let Cadman dye it blue, then let Bates shave most of it off.
Parrish has a weird sort of appeal, since he’s tall and gawky with this dumb-ass smile that folds up nearly his entire face. When they’d met, John had shaken his hand and watched him duck his head in acute embarrassment as Bates said, “Fucking awesome voice, man,” and he’d nodded and silently hoped that wasn’t all they had to offer. He isn’t, like, shallow or anything, but yeah. He knows how it works.
Parrish does have a good voice, though, perfect pitch, his stage presence rocks, and his eyes - when he bothers to take off his glasses - are fucking gorgeous: this wide, amazing brown.
From behind, John clamps his hands on Cadman’s shoulders, shakes her. “Little Laura love me,” he sing-songs. “Love, love me do.”
“Fuck off,” she giggles, swiping at his hand.
Everyone loves the bass player. John just thinks Cadman needs everyone to show it.
*
Three.
John first meets McKay at a party. John’s pretty trashed. McKay insults his pants and tugs on his belt loop, and John’s kinda certain he flirts shamelessly, even though he doesn’t remember exactly what happens. McKay never brings it up.
The second time they meet, John has his iPod on, at the back of Wayne’s Music Plus, improvising rhythm under Sabotage on a crappy set of used drums. He’s got his eyes closed, and McKay scares the shit out of him by slapping the back of his head.
“Hey,” he says when he’s finally gotten John’s attention. “You play for anyone?”
John grins, because McKay is all cheekbones and soft, curly hair, and his mouth slants down on one side. “Myself.”
“Funny.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re not the worst I’ve heard, so.” He hands John a torn sheet of notebook paper, a barely legible name and number on it. “If you’re interested.”
John calls that night. The number is Bates’ cell, and Bates tells him to stop by for practice the next day in a gruff, bored voice. He almost doesn’t go, but then he remembers McKay in his threadbare t-shirt, and his keen blue eyes.
*
Four.
They have two guitars; John’s not sure why. Sometimes McKay plays rhythm behind Bates, and sometimes he plays piano, but it sounds awesome either way.
Parrish doesn’t play at all, his hands useless for anything except a microphone. Bates calls him fluff, but Cadman calls him the really tasty fluff that makes a sundae that much better.
Cadman is occasionally as much of a frontman as Parrish is, and occasionally she hides back with John, picking notes with her head down, curtain of blonde hair shadowing her face. John can never predict her mood, but Parrish knows, stepping up his performance even before she slinks away. It isn’t often, and no one ever talks about it, but those are the nights that Cadman curls up on Bates in the van and Bates lets her.
Those are the nights that McKay worries, too - about the band, about his lyrics, about his rapidly thinning hair, about the arguable intelligence of their target audience - and he stays up with John, cross-legged on the floor, head tipped back on the worn couch in the apartment he shares with Parrish. John sleeps on the couch, usually, because he doesn’t like to disturb his mom that late, and McKay’s rambling never keeps him awake for very long.
*
Five.
Bates is actually the only original member of Able-bodied Men. Apparently, they sucked before McKay came around, Cadman and her kohl-smudged eyes in tow. They found Parrish by pure chance, because McKay had needed a roommate, and Parrish likes to sing in the shower and makes up songs when he cooks or when he’s high.
McKay periodically tries to get John to vote for a name change, but they always end up keeping ABM, since Cadman likes it, and Cadman, John finds out, can be a spoiled little princess. Nobody seems to mind, so John doesn’t either.
Sometimes, Bates is a spoiled little princess, too.
Most of the time, though, Bates is bitter and angry, and John thinks he’s maybe seen him smile, like, once. John’s also seen him punch someone in the head for insulting McKay, though, so he thinks he’s a pretty good guy.
*
Six.
John is eighteen and lives with his mom.
McKay’s eighteen, has already been through college once - which John didn’t really believe until he saw the framed diploma - and lives with Parrish in a trashy apartment in a shitty part of town. He’s some sort of musical genius. All technical, so he lets Bates take the lead on stage and bitches about pace and beats that John misses, and almost all their songs are written by him and Bates, or him and Cadman, or just him.
John didn’t actually graduate high school. He isn’t stupid; he never explains to anybody why. It isn’t a big deal, anyway, even though McKay likes to pester him about it.
“Here,” McKay says, dropping a pile of books on the coffee table.
John is wrapped in an old comforter, barely awake. “What?”
McKay is dressed for work; old jeans and a blue, grease-stained shirt, his name etched on the pocket. He grins at him, not a little manically. “One word for you, Sheppard: GED.”
“Isn’t that more of an acronym?”
“Whatever. Just do it.”
It’s too early for John to be truly pissed off, so he pulls the blanket over his head and turns over into the couch cushions, ignoring McKay’s strident, “Your brain is literally rotting inside your skull!”
John doesn’t necessarily care. He just wants to drum.
*
Seven.
“Look,” McKay says, eyes narrowed and fingers clutching John’s wrist, paused over the snare, “it’s not. It’s not like this is hard, right? For you. You could play this backwards if you had to, so just.”
John blinks at him, deliberately slow. He doesn’t like the three fucking beats. He’s not sure why, he just doesn’t, and he wishes McKay would get off his case about it.
McKay curses and shoves John’s hand away and stalks off, whipping the guitar strap over his head and dropping it on the sagging couch with uncharacteristic carelessness. He stomps up the stairs and slams the basement door behind him.
Cadman winces, but waves it off. “Don’t worry. Mom’ll give him cookies and he’ll be fine in an hour,” she says.
In an hour, McKay’s still visibly pissed, mouth tight, but he’s back downstairs, and he makes Cadman pick up the slack over John’s dead air.
John plays it perfectly the next time through, but McKay doesn’t look up from his hands.
*
Eight.
John’s been in and out of bands since he was fourteen. Most of them were really, really bad. John isn’t going to gloss over his past; almost all of them sucked. He liked being in each of them, though, and still hangs out with Ronon, the guitarist-slash-lead singer from Eat Your Toast.
Ronon looks awesome on stage, but he can’t play for shit and his voice sounds like a dying water buffalo. John never understood why he was in Eat Your Toast to begin with - for a while, John thought they were going for a we’re-so-horrible-we’re-good hook. Now, Ronon takes venue security jobs where he can, and sneaks John in for free.
John loves watching the drummers. The pause and pound kicks up his heartbeat, makes his fingers twitch, makes his breath catch. Sometimes, in the middle of all those writhing, screaming kids, he closes his eyes and blocks out everything but the rhythm, the backbone stronger than anything John thinks he can ever do.
He wants to stand out, but he’s afraid all anyone will see is flaws.
*
Nine.
McKay tells John he had a horrible childhood.
“My parents loved to scream at each other,” McKay says, peeling away at the label of a Molson’s. “I left for college on the first scholarship I could find, and then they broke up and died or something. I don’t know; I never talk to them. Why?”
John shrugs. “Just curious.” His mom is the only family he’s ever known. She wants him to leave and follow his own dreams or whatever, but she’s always been sort of a free spirit. John doesn’t want her to be alone.
“Hmm.” McKay nods absently. “I have a sister. I called her once, and she told me to drop dead. She’s absolutely delightful.”
“Right, McKay.”
“No, no, I mean it. She’s, like, alone and at college and she doesn’t want to see me. Good for her.”
John thinks he sounds kind of bitter.
*
Ten.
Cadman has a dad that everyone’s afraid of, but John’s never met him. Her mom’s nice, though, because the basement where they practice isn’t even soundproofed, and she always makes them cookies.
McKay and Cadman squabble like siblings. It’s sort of endearing, and John usually doesn’t mind when they stop practice because McKay thinks Cadman’s, “Wrong, so very wrong, and stop poking me! Oh my god, you’re, like, eight!” and she ends up straddled over his stomach, fingers tickling that spot just below his ribs that makes him howl.
Cadman flirts almost constantly with Bates, but John doesn’t think she means anything by it. He’s pretty sure Bates and Cadman are best friends. It’s hard to tell, since Bates is always so distant, but his eyes get soft whenever he watches her, and Cadman always, always goes to him when she’s upset.
When John asks Parrish about it, Parrish shrugs and says, “He’s protective,” and, “You’ve seen him fight,” and, “Just wait ‘til he breaks a guy’s arm for making you cry,” and John laughs, because he’s supposed to laugh, but he doesn’t think Parrish is joking.
*
Eleven.
John is in the band two months when his girlfriend actually breaks up with him. She says everything she needs to say on his voicemail, because he hardly ever answers his cell, and he never really sees her. He’s kind of relieved about it.
He’s so relieved that he spends the night on the bathroom floor in McKay’s apartment, cheek cool on the lip of the tub.
Parrish finds him first, stumbling bleary-eyed over the threshold sometime after three a.m. “John?”
“Davy,” John says. He wishes he was drunk. Also, he thinks there’s something in his eyes.
Parrish hunches down in front of him, wide hands reaching out to cage his face. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Fine.” His voice is thick. He’s aware that he’s not, in fact, fine.
Parrish seems to sense this. “I’ll get Rodney,” he says, and John almost laughs, ‘cause yeah. Get the whole gang in there.
He scrubs his face with his palms, cheeks itchy, and he thinks maybe he’s been crying for a while without realizing it. Then he hears McKay snap, “What-are you leaking all over our bathroom?” and John does laugh, because Jesus.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Yeah, you look it. Scoot over, will you?” McKay doesn’t wait for John to move, just shimmies his body in between him and the wall. “God, do you know how incredibly unsanitary this is? Couldn’t you have broken down in the kitchen? Where there’s coffee?”
“Rodney,” Parrish chides, folding himself up against the door, sock-feet pressing into John’s.
“Right, okay.” He rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
John sighs, drops his head onto his upraised knees. “My girlfriend dumped me.”
The silence is hollow, their breathing echoing on the tile. He turns his head and peeks over at McKay.
“You have a girlfriend?” he asks finally, completely stunned, mouth slack.
John bites his bottom lip.
Parrish giggles, muffled into his arm.
John grins, sniffs wetly, shifts to rest his head on McKay’s shoulder. “No,” he says, and breathes out.
*
Twelve.
McKay is not in perfect shape. He has broad shoulders, and a slightly soft middle, and he wears thin t-shirts under ugly striped button-downs. John calls him a comfy fashion disaster and likes watching his ass when they’re on stage. It’s pretty fantastic.
McKay calls John a stick with hair, and John responds by wearing the tiniest pairs of pants he can pull on, waistlines cutting directly across his hipbones. He notices the black ones manage to almost shut McKay up and make his eyes wander, so he wears them the most.
Cadman actually picked them out on a first-of-many mall trip together, where they bonded over frozen yogurt and wedge-heeled boots and the spectacular one-day sale at Macys. She says they’re girlfriends now and pats his ass in a proprietary way. It’s worth it to see McKay turn bright red.
*
Thirteen.
John makes out with Cadman exactly once, and it’s kind of terrible. She has pointy elbows and small hands, and John feels more awkward than anything else.
After that, he sticks to the drunken masses at parties and after shows. The drunken masses seem to like him. The sober ones, too, actually, but since John is almost always drunk, it doesn’t really matter.
McKay catches him in a full-body lean against some boy with possibly even sharper hips than himself and tells him it’s time to go. He’s very quiet and stone-faced. John doesn’t argue.
Competent, forceful McKay is kind of hot.
This isn’t the only reason John tries to grope him on the ride home, but it’s a good one.
John really doesn’t want to talk about it the next day, but it’s obvious McKay does. He sends John little twitchy looks from beside him on the couch, fingers tapping pulse-quick rhythms on his thighs. John eventually just tugs up his hoodie, curls his legs into the cushions and settles his head on McKay’s lap, displacing his hands.
McKay stiffens, and then brings a palm down to curve over John’s side.
*
Fourteen.
Bates owns a huge econo van that was once a prison transport. It’s awesome. There’s a big black panther airbrushed on the side, complete with kick-ass purple highlights and jungle fronds, and the entire interior is crisscrossed with multi-colored graffiti, penned and markered messages from everyone and anyone who’s ever crashed inside.
John hasn’t written anything himself yet, but he sees McKay’s distinctive scrawl everywhere, bits of lyrics, shorthand, half-formed grocery lists.
The only other hand just as prevalent is Teyla’s. She’s only signed a few, but she wrote in block-print red, so they’re all easy to pick out. Short, oddly formal notes that resonate with John, and he finds his fingers and eyes tracing as many as he can reach on long rides. I am not who you think you are, she wrote. There is never enough.
You do not change with words.
Life is the length of my smallest dream.
*
Fifteen.
When Cadman curls up with John on the sofa, he’s not alarmed. She’s sort of like that. Affectionate without being too handsy.
Parrish is quiet, though, and when Bates arrives, he just stares at her and says, “Take off your sweatshirt.”
“Fuck off, Jerm,” she growls. She pushes away from John to reach for her bass and Bates steps in front of her, expression dark but hands loose at his sides.
“Take off your sweatshirt,” he repeats.
“Jeremy, I.” She stops, shoulders slumping in defeat. She hugs her arms around her middle. “Please.”
Bates just softly touches her hair, brushing it out of her eyes, and she leans towards him, into the cup of his palm without making any other contact at all.
John feels awkward and intrusive. McKay is pointedly fiddling with his guitar and Parrish is leafing through pages of new lyrics, humming under his breath.
Later, they start practicing at John’s house. The basement is smaller and McKay keeps calling John’s mom a hippie, but it’s okay.
Later, John sees the yellow-purple bruises on Cadman’s arms and doesn’t say a thing.
*
Sixteen.
“Shit,” Cadman whispers, then giggles and presses her fingers to her mouth, her other hand shackling John’s wrist.
John is only half as drunk as he was ten minutes ago. He’s also not sure this is a good idea anymore, but it’s a little late for second thoughts. The fire licks from the inside out, the smell of gasoline high in the air, and when the tank blows he covers Cadman’s head with his arm.
Cadman can’t stop laughing.
“You realize we just committed arson,” John says. He’s absolutely certain Bates will kill him if he finds out. No, not if. When. There is no way he won’t find out about this, and there’s also no way he’ll blame Cadman.
“He,” Cadman gasps into John’s shirt, “he fucking loved that car.”
“Okay.” John nods, even though she can’t see it, hand still cradling her head. “Okay, let’s get out of here, though, all right?” He can hear the wail of sirens getting closer.
She tightens her grip on his wrist. “I wish I could see his face,” she says fiercely. “I wish-”
“Yeah.”
She tips her head back to look up at him. Her eyes are sparkling, damp, and she’s not exactly happy, but she doesn’t look miserable either. John’ll take that.
“Yeah,” she says, and grins. “Yeah.”
*
Seventeen.
Parrish gets fired from Subway for showing up completely toasted, but mainly for eating all the pepperoni and about a pound of Swiss cheese right before the lunchtime rush. John gets his mom to hire him at her garden store. Turns out he’s great with plants, and John’s mom is fairly easygoing, so it ends up being an okay fit.
McKay is a mechanic. McKay being a mechanic turns John on. John reasons this could be because he works for a local Mercedes dealer and lets John hang around and salivate from a safe distance, or it could be because it’s just one more variable proving McKay’s hands are very, very talented.
Bates likes to tell them that the band is a fulltime job, but Cadman is still attempting to finish high school, and McKay and Parrish have bills to pay.
Currently, John really doesn’t. He helps his mom out when she asks or bugs McKay at work or plays video games at Bates’ apartment and listens to him bitch about focus and commitment.
Bates has bills to pay and they apparently get paid, but John has no idea how. His family’s rich or something; he’s not interested enough to ask, even when it’s just the two of them.
They drink natty light and get pathetic buzzes, and Bates says, “Someday, John,” and John echoes, “Someday,” even though he thinks they’re doing pretty good exactly how they are.
*
Eighteen.
John is sort of amazed when he realizes the crowd mostly knows all the words to their songs. It’s bordering on surreal when he slips down to the bar afterwards, sipping water and getting stopped every few feet by friendly hands, perfect strangers who know his name.
He grins for them; flirts, even, since he can’t really help himself. He leans towards pretty girls, bone-thin boys and talks close to their ears, thanks them, and then he searches out McKay.
McKay is solid. McKay’s hair sticks to his sweat-damp skin, and he hums with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, music still vibrating in his head. John can tell.
He palms John’s nape companionably, and later he’ll obsess about every facet of their performance, but now he’s loose and happy and smiling sideways at John.
John smiles back.
*
Nineteen.
“Sit still,” Cadman says, settling down on John’s lap, legs splayed on either side of his.
John isn’t moving. He plants his hands on her hips, though, and obediently tilts his head up. She brushes his hair back off his forehead, chews thoughtfully on her lower lip, then switches her grip to his chin, pinching it between her thumb and curled forefinger.
“Parrish let you do this?” John asks, skeptical.
“He looks like a zombie raccoon,” McKay says absently, hunched over the coffee table with his notebook and a laptop.
“Shut up,” Cadman says, smiling. “It’ll look great, John. Trust me.”
John doesn’t trust Cadman. Well, not with anything involving makeup and his face, but he’s seriously bored, and there’s nothing else to do.
“Look up.” She’s holding up the stick of eyeliner, fingers resting on the top of his cheek. The pads are rough against his skin, nails bitten jagged just above the quick.
John looks up.
“We’ll go for subtle,” she assures him, nodding, and John feels pressure along his lower lid, fights not to blink.
McKay snorts.
John totally agrees, since he doesn’t think subtle and Cadman have ever actually met.
Her hands are steady, though, and John closes his eyes when she tells him to, and when she’s done, she caps the liner with a soft snick and sits back on his knees with smug satisfaction. “Prefect.”
“Yeah?” John asks, arching a brow.
“Yep. You’re beeeeauuutiful.” She smoothes a thumb under his left eye. “Right, Rodney?”
“Zombie. Raccoon,” McKay says without looking up.
Cadman sticks her tongue out at his back, then slides John a sly smile. Gracelessly agile, since her dismount is perfectly silent, but her approach lacks finesse, she tackles McKay onto his side, hands slipping into his hair to hold him down. “You’re next, Rodney,” she says, and McKay yelps, “No, oh no, back off, devil woman!”
“Aww, c’mon,” John drawls. “You’ll be all prettified.”
“Pointy things are not allowed anywhere near my face,” he pants, twisting until Cadman is pinned under him, laughing hysterically. “Give?”
She stretches up and licks his cheek.
“Oh, yuck,” he says, jerking back to scrub his face with a sleeve. “Dave’s a terrible, horrible influence on you.” He jabs a finger at her, inches from her nose. “If you start biting, I’m buying you a muzzle.”
Cadman wriggles out from underneath him and scrambles to her feet, still laughing. John thinks it’s a pretty fucking fantastic sound.
*
Twenty.
The party is dull, and John’s eyes itch, and McKay had disappeared with a little foreign guy soon after they’d gotten there, deep in animated conversation.
They’re not anywhere they usually go. He has no clue whose house it is, doesn’t really recognize anyone, and guys his height but twice his size keep eyeing him with interest he can’t define, and he’s not sure he wants to. He shifts on his feet and wishes he hadn’t let Cadman dress up his eyes again. Though the girls’ jeans probably don’t help any, either.
Cadman slides into his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Okay?”
“Sort of feel like a fuzzy bunny thrown in with some hungry dogs,” he replies.
She scans the room, nods. “We’re definitely in the wrong place. Bad call by Jerm.”
“Is he actually friends with these people?” It’s like an American Eagle ad, only more drunk and belligerent.
Cadman shrugs. “He gets around.”
John leans back against the wall, flashing the big blond blatantly staring at him a wicked grin. Probably not the best move, but his answering full-body flinch is totally worth it. Maybe. If he doesn’t get his buddies to beat him up. John can normally hold his own in a fight, but the guy’s a tank and, as McKay so loves to point out, John’s maybe one-forty soaking wet, with the delicate wrists to match.
“Where’s Rodney?” Cadman asks.
“Making friends. Can we get out of here?” Thank god Parrish hadn’t come. He would’ve been folded up and eaten as soon as he’d stepped through the door.
“Yeah.” She squeezes his waist. “Let’s go.”
The next day, McKay is still half-asleep when he stumbles into John’s basement, eyes slit and yawns popping his jaw one after the other.
Bates has a split lip and tape over his knuckles.
“Rough night?” John asks from behind his kit, eyebrows arched.
Bates grunts, but largely ignores him and starts setting up, tugging his amp away from the wall.
“He was defending your honor,” McKay says, mouth quirked with amusement. He’s at the keyboard today, fingers flexing over the plastic keys.
John blinks. “Really?” Huh.
“Are we gonna practice or not?” Bates spits out, dark eyes narrowed on John, practically daring him to say anything at all about his slightly swollen jaw.
Heaven forbid someone actually acknowledges Bates’ soft heart to his face. John’ll just get his mom to bake him brownies.
*
Twenty-one.
“He’s huge,” John says, slumped back, head nestled in the corner of the couch and one foot up on McKay’s lap. “Like, ginormous.”
“Andre the Giant huge or, like, Chris Jericho?” Parrish asks. He’s sprawled on the floor in front of the TV and has ECW, which is in a sad, sad state, on mute.
“Jericho,” John says. “Only bigger.”
Parrish tilts his head. “Hmmm. I’d still go with Jeremy.”
As much as John likes Bates - and his hidden soft heart - if they’re talking hypothetical cage match to the death, he has to side with Ronon. Ronon’s like a bear, only less hairy. Bates is strong, but wiry and compact.
John jiggles his foot. “What d’you think, Rodney?” he asks.
“I think this is a stupid conversation,” McKay says, squeezing John’s toes. He’s reading and being anti-social.
“Come on, you have to choose,” John says.
McKay rolls his eyes, flips his book over his thigh to keep his place. “Is Ronon that mammoth security guard with the dreads?”
John nods.
“Then I agree with Dave.”
“No way!” John protests, tugging his foot out of McKay’s grip and sitting up.
“Jerm has rage on his side,” McKay points out, then ticks off his fingers. “Adrenalin, rage, a deep suspicion of strangers that borders on hatred. Ronon has this dead-fish stare, and I’m not entirely sure he has a functioning brain.”
“Care to make a wager?” John asks, because Ronon’s like a ninja. John’s seen him take out dudes twice his size. Ignoring the whole no-musical-talent thing, he’s the coolest guy John knows.
“Considering this is not an actual upcoming event we’re talking about? No, not really.”
John pouts and McKay goes back to his book, and Parrish rolls over and stares at the ceiling, absently scratching his belly.
“Hey,” he says, “anyone else hungry?”
*
Twenty-two.
When Bates and Ronon finally meet, John expects sparks, teeth-baring, blood. Something. What he gets is a lukewarm handshake and semi-pleasant grunts of greeting.
It’s all sort of anti-climatic, but then McKay calls Ronon a giant yak and there’s that good old animosity, Bates with his hackles up, slipping in front of McKay who is being very effectively loomed over by a narrow-eyed Ronon.
John puts his hands on his hips and tosses McKay a wide grin. Let the battle begin.
Cadman breaks it up before anything can happen, though, and John supposes since it’s her birthday, he can’t be too upset about it.
Also: cake.
*
Twenty-three.
McKay is not just a musical genius.
He’s got shelves of books on physics and calculus and astronomy. He’s got reams of papers packed with formulas too complicated for John, who’s always been innately good with math, and he writes freelance for low-tier science mags. He also writes scathing letters to scientists that he never sends about how very, very wrong they are, and they end up in piles under the coffee table, stuck to the fridge, stuffed in outdated journals.
John’s a little puzzled by the band thing - the serious aspirations.
When he asks, though, McKay turns bright red and mutters something about unexpected attachments and being young, anyway, so what does it matter?
It isn’t the sort of explanation he expects from McKay, but then, John knows he’s got photos, collages, all over his bedroom. Photos of him and Cadman, of Parrish and Cadman, of crowds of people John hasn’t met yet, and there’s even one of Bates, Cadman hanging off his back, a rare flash of overt happiness in his eyes and the curve of his mouth.
McKay’s never had a family like this before.
John can see why he wouldn’t want to leave them behind.
*
Twenty-four.
Cadman, because apparently she hates him so very, very much, drags John to her junior prom. She doesn’t give him much of a choice in the matter, and she’s much stronger than she looks.
“Why me?” John whines. She’s bullied him into dark gray cigarette pants that barely cover his ass, and he’s seriously considering never going shopping with her again, since he keeps losing more and more of his dignity. He feels completely out of place.
“You’re the prettiest,” she says, linking their arms together as they step in front of the camera. “Now smile.”
He grimaces as the flash goes off, commemorating his discomfort. They’ve very obviously gone with a burlesque theme, heavy reds and thick blacks and low-lit chandeliers. The ballroom is littered with plush chaises and curtained nooks, and he really has to wonder what teacher approved that. “I don’t have to dance, do I?”
“Of course you do. We’re making a statement.”
“Right,” John drawls skeptically. Cadman actually fits in with her classmates for once, fancy dress and all. He’s not sure what statement she’s trying to make. He suspects she just really wanted to go.
They only stay for an hour, though, and then Parrish is signaling them from the doorway.
“Showtime,” John whispers in her ear. “You gonna wear that onstage?”
“Hell, yeah.” She adjusts her bust line. “My boobs look great.”
*
Twenty-five.
Simon Says Your Mom packs the house. John has never heard them before, but their drummer was in ABM once upon a time, before having a massive falling out with Bates, and McKay is practically sparkling with excitement.
“You’ll love them,” McKay says, and John wonders at his complete lack of enmity towards the drummer that left them in a lurch. It’s John’s gain, of course, but he’s still curious.
Five minutes in and John already knows why it took so long to replace her, and he thinks they got a raw deal with him.
The band’s okay. The lead singer’s kind of reedy, voice thinning with too much ambition, but they back him up well. The drummer, Teyla. She’s fucking amazing. She’s completely calm, serene, while the world crashes down around her. She plays like a maniac, and her forehead is smooth and all her concentration is in her fingers, in the palms of her hands. Jesus.
He knows why the crowd is there, cheering for the mediocre. Teyla should be backing Cadman and Parrish, not John.
He says as much to her afterwards, tucked in a booth at the back of the bar, waiting for McKay to bring them drinks.
“I left an uncomfortable situation,” she says, smiling at him across the table. She is small and dark and elegant and doesn’t look like a drummer. She looks exactly how John pictured her. “I have no regrets.”
She arches her eyebrows, an unasked question, and John remembers her words from the ceiling of the van, small and precise just over the passenger seat. He remembers, Everything else is secondary.
John doesn’t think he has any regrets either.