Day 16: Harlequin Week by Propaganda (SGA)
Title: Gun Safety
Author: Propaganda (notpoetry)
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8,250
Prompt: Quiet and studious, Lady Ivy Rutherford is content merely to observe the intrigues and scandals of Queen Eleanor's glittering court. But then the Queen insists that Ivy would be the ideal mentor for notorious heartbreaker Roger Stancliff. Her duty? To transform the arrant knave into a courtly knight. A simple task for such a proper lady!
But in the sultry castle grounds just who is educating whom? Chaste, courtly love seems much less appealing than losing herself in the passion of Roger's arms...
Notes: I ... took a little liberty with my prompt. Thank you to eleveninches, sathinks, taylorkate, and barely_bean, who all listened to me say, "It's basically Pygmalion, right? So why can't I think of anything?" about a thousand times a day and thankfully refrained from beating me silly.
This is an AU that veers from canon right at Rising and is just different enough to matter.
They really shouldn't have held the meeting in a conference room that looked out over the gate, John thought, watching the scientists and technicians wind in and out of the maze of consoles that operated the thing. Three months here, and he still hadn't done more than walk through the gate room on routine patrols. He'd run to the balcony at the near-daily "Unscheduled gate activation" alarms, and watched the wormhole blast into life at every chance he got, but he'd only walked through it once: that first dizzying trip from Earth to Atlantis.
He snapped back to his attention as Dr. Weir said, "Major Sheppard? Sergeant Bates? Do you have anything to add?"
John saw Bates level a sullen glare at her, and carefully schooled his expression into blankness. "No, ma'am," he said, hoping that she didn't expect him to say anything. Bates echoed him, but Colonel Sumner, standing next to Weir, unfolded his arms and said, "Dr. Weir, I'm afraid I'll have to repeat my objection regarding the level of commitment you expect from my men."
Weir raised her eyebrows and held out her hands. "Your two second officers don't object," she said. "And I, personally, have divided the list so that no one is taking on a heavier load than the others."
John swallowed. More work? Please let them be assigning new away teams, he prayed, and wished, for the first time ever, that he'd paid attention in a staff meeting.
"My men are busy," Sumner growled. "And so are your civilians. I don't understand how you expect them all to find the time to learn this."
John felt his shoulders slump and leaned back in his chair. Weir probably wanted them all to learn how to read Ancient or something. Great. Just great.
Weir smiled thinly. "Oh, I'm sure they'll manage," she said. "Gentlemen? Thank you for your time. I'll post the assignments in the mess hall in about an hour."
Bates said, "Thank you, Ma'am," and Sumner growled, "Dismissed." John snapped off a salute and booked it. He had nowhere to be, but the less time spent in a room with Sumner, the better.
He'd almost forgotten about the meeting -- whatever it was about, anyway -- until he walked past the mess hall an hour or so later and found a cluster of blue-shirted scientists huddled around the bulletin board on the wall. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sidled up, and found Simpson, one of the physicists who always tracked him down no matter where he was and smiled prettily until he turned on some piece of Ancient tech or another. He tapped her on the shoulder and said, "What's going on?"
"Arms training," she said, beaming. "The Marines are going to teach us how to fire guns!"
"It's a waste of time," a voice rang out, and the tight knot of people suddenly split apart like the Red Sea parting. John recognized the man shoving his way out of the group -- he was one of the scientists who was always in the lab while John was there, deputized for the use of his gene. John liked him because he'd never asked him to turn anything on, but remembered that he never knew the names of his scientists. "I hope they know I'm not actually going to show up," Rodney McKay said to the scientist at his elbow -- a short, bespectacled man with fuzzy hair. Zlenko? No, Zelenka. "This Major Jerkoff I got assigned to will just have to find something better to do with his time. I know I certainly will."
"Funny," John said, stepping smoothly out into McKay's path. "I thought I was the only major on this base. You'll have to introduce me to this Major Jerkoff the next chance you get."
McKay's chin went up and Zelenka started to snicker. "Major Sheppard, didn't see you there," he said, and jammed his elbow into Zelenka's ribs. Zelenka choked and slunk off, glaring over his shoulder at McKay. "I think we can both agree that there's no need for me to learn how to fire a gun, mm? You and the other jarheads are more than capable of taking care of us. Yes? Good." He turned and started to walk away, but John found himself reaching out and grabbing McKay's shoulder.
"Hang on just a second, McKay," he said slowly. "First off, I think it says right there on the paper: mandatory civilian arms training. Second, defensive weapon skills are a very good thing to have, especially if you're planning on going off-world anytime soon. And third, it's my duty as your assigned officer to make sure that you show up to said arms training. So I'll be by to collect you at, oh, how's oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning? Good? Perfect. See you then." He let go of McKay and gave him a sloppy little salute, then shoved his hands back into his pockets and sauntered off the way he'd came.
Behind him, McKay spluttered, "Oh-seven-hundred? That's -- that's -- oh, hell no! Major!"
John turned around and tipped his head to one side. "By the way," he called, "the Marines are the jarheads. That's not my nickname at all." McKay flung his arms out to his sides and opened his mouth, and John waved at him. "See you tomorrow morning, McKay." He turned back around and headed into a transporter, and found himself whistling. Just a little.
===
John knocked on McKay's door at 06:45. "Hey Doctor McKay," he called, grabbing his foot and stretching his hamstring. "Answer the door." He knocked again, waited a few seconds, then started pounding.
It only took seventy-two seconds before the door slid open and McKay reached out and grabbed his wrist. "You, shut the hell up," he snarled. His hair was sticking straight up and his face was lined with wrinkles from the bed sheets. John found himself grinning.
"Sorry I'm early," he said. "But hey, since you're up, you wanna go for a run with me?"
McKay gaped at him, and John saw him reaching for the door activator. He shoved his foot in the jamb before the door could close all the way.
"Major," McKay said slowly, "I could pull out the crystal that keeps this door from closing on your foot, and then we'd see how often you go for early-morning runs."
John shrugged and gave McKay a lazy smile. "Yeah, but you won't, 'cause then I'd never come down to your lab and turn on all those shiny things for your scientists. 'Cause I won't be able to walk. And also, I'll hate you and everybody else who ever wore a blue shirt."
McKay's jaw clenched, but he moved his hand off the crystal. "Let it be known that I'm only doing this because I value scientific research over your stupid bones." The door slid back open and McKay turned and disappeared into his room. He was wearing plaid boxers. John grinned.
McKay found it hard to bitch and run at the same time, which John had hoped would be the case. He led them on a quick jaunt along the outer borders of the main tower, then down several flights of stairs until they reached the firing range. McKay doubled over and downed an entire water bottle in fifteen seconds, while John toweled off and went over to the gun locker and extracted the pistol he'd selected earlier that morning.
"We're going to focus on some low-caliber weapons today," he told McKay, who just glared at him balefully, chest still heaving. He lifted the pistol up and and held it away from himself, toward the range. "Do you know basic gun safety?" McKay nodded. "Tell me what you know."
"Enough not to shoot myself," McKay panted. John gestured with his free hand, and McKay rolled his eyes. "Treat the gun as if it were loaded. Be aware of your surroundings. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Common sense, Major."
"Good," John said. "Watch me. Watch everything I do." He held the gun up and pointed at it. "This is an M9A1, so essentially a Beretta 92F. It is a semi-automatic, single-double action recoil operated pistol that uses a fifteen-round staggered magazine, is a nine millimeter caliber, and fires a bullet at well over a thousand feet per second."
"None of that means anything to me," McKay said.
John smirked. "I know. I'm just showing off."
McKay smacked his forehead. "Do you mind? I have places to be and now, thanks to you, I need a shower so badly that I can see the paint peeling off the walls when I walk by."
"Can it for a minute, okay?" John tossed him a pair of safety earmuffs and settled his own over his head, then picked up a magazine and headed for the range. He loaded the pistol, lifted it, flicked off the safety, and fired several rounds into the paper target. Every jerk of the gun in his hand, every hole torn in the target sent pure adrenaline and satisfaction sparking through John's veins. He turned the safety back on, unloaded the magazine, then turned around and grinned at McKay, who was slightly slack-jawed.
"You -- you hit the center almost every time," McKay said.
"Yeah," John said with a shrug, and pulled off his earmuffs. "I'm kinda out of practice. Come here."
McKay came. John grabbed his shoulders and moved behind him, nudging him into a good position. "Feet apart like -- good. Turn just slightly toward the target. Now, here." He loaded the pistol, double-checked the safety, and handed the gun to McKay, who immediately lifted it toward the target. "Whoa, whoa, no! Slow down." John settled his hands onto McKay's shoulders and leaned in. "Slow," he said, letting the sibilance hiss out between his teeth. He could feel the muscles under his hands tightening, and couldn't stop the smile that slid onto his face. He could also feel the heat rising from the back of McKay's neck, and knew there was a fierce blush spreading over his face. "Slow is key, Doctor McKay."
John saw the muscle in McKay's jaw jump. "Do you mind?" he said loudly. "I'm trying to focus here, and you're very distracting."
"Like a real life combat situation is gonna be a tea party," John said, but loosened his grip. "Focus, okay? Focus. Then, when you find that headspace, flick off the safety."
McKay's finger immediately flipped the switch. John rolled his eyes. "Okay, trigger-happy, you're ready? Fire at will."
"Fire at will?" McKay squeaked, and John grinned.
"Fire at will."
Without warning, McKay unloaded the clip into the target at the end of the range. Or, well, toward the target, but John saw bullets bury themselves in the thick padding on the back wall, and even some on the side walls. Two, then three bullets ripped through the paper target, considerably below the tight cluster of holes John had made. There was a click and McKay let his arms fall.
"Wow," he breathed. "That was -- wow."
"Not too bad." John retrieved a new magazine and took the pistol from McKay. "Now this time, aim for the target."
McKay jerked indignantly. "What? I -- I hit it!"
"Yeah, twice. You know what?" John pushed McKay's fingers into a grip around the handle, then reached around him and settled his own hands on top. McKay stiffened, but John ignored it. His hips were snugged up tight against McKay's ass, and he tried not to breathe in -- the warm, musky smell of McKay's hair and skin were reminding him of things he'd tried very hard to repress. John felt his cock twitch in his pants and closed his eyes, shifting back a little so McKay wouldn't notice. It's just proximity, he told himself, and steadied his shaky breathing. "I'll do the aiming. You do the trigger-pulling."
"Fine." McKay flicked off the safety. "Fire at will?"
"Fire at will," John echoed.
McKay squeezed off a few short rounds. "Good," John said, even though only one bullet hit the target. He felt McKay's hands tighten under his own and dug his fingernails in a little. "Wait, don't shoot." John settled his forefinger over McKay's on the trigger. "First, a lesson on military slang, since you seem to be confused."
"What --"
John fired a round. McKay's arms were starting to shake. John knew he should stop, but there was a tightening in his gut and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. "You called me a jarhead, yesterday. That's not right. Marines are jarheads." He nudged McKay's shoulder forward with his own, and inhaled. God, he smelled good. "Don't call them grunts, or they'll get pissed."
McKay's finger twitched, and he let off another round. "Careful," John said. His nose was practically pressing into McKay's hair, and he found himself praying that no one would walk in. This would be hard to explain. Hell, it was hard to explain to himself. He swallowed and tried not to think about how pathetic and sex-starved he must be if he was getting turned on by some loudmouth scientist. Or maybe it was the guns. That must be it, he told himself. All that manly testosterone. And the guns.
"Major," McKay said, and John knew he didn't imagine the waver in his voice. "You're making me nervous."
"Good," John said, and fired again. "We don't have any Navy men around, but if we did, we'd call 'em pier-queers. Out of their hearing, of course."
"Pier-queers. Got it."
"Do you know what a grunt is?"
"No," McKay mumbled.
"Army infantryman." John let off another round, then dropped one hand back to settle on McKay's hip. "Turn your hips forward a little," he said, and felt his breathing catch when McKay pushed back against him before shifting forward. "Good. You can also call a grunt a crunchy, or a nug, or a ground-pounder, but only do it to their face if you want your nose punched in."
"I'll remember that," McKay said.
"Good," John said, and shot off another round. "Remember this. I'm not a jarhead, or a pier-queer, or a grunt. I'm a flyboy, and I'll never take it as an insult, because that's what I do. I fly." He emptied the magazine, let go of McKay's hand, and stepped back.
McKay let his arms drop. "Major," he started.
"Go get a shower, McKay," John said. "I'll see you later."
He jogged out of the room, careful not to look back, and tried to ignore his half-hard cock.
===
He woke McKay up at 06:30 every morning for the next week, and 06:15 the next week after that. Their morning sessions became something he looked forward to, something he reminded himself of while he was teaching other scientists at the firing range who didn't have half McKay's intelligence or willingness to learn (and, if he were honest, weren't half as attractive), or while he was helping Miko and Kavanaugh dig through boxes of Ancient tech and turn on things that wound up being toasters or cassette players or useless in ways they couldn't even understand, or when he was ankle-deep in paperwork that was probably never going to make it back to the SGC. He hoped that McKay wasn't noticing that John was trying to spend more time at him at the range, since their daily schedules kept them moving in opposite circles, but when he rounded the corner to McKay's hall at 06:05 on Monday morning, three weeks after they'd started the training, he was surprised to find McKay already awake, dressed, and doing stretches outside his door.
"You're late," McKay said shortly.
"Thought I'd let you sleep in a little," John said, and jogged past him. "Let's go."
McKay followed him silently for most of the way, but as they started to run down the stairs toward the firing range, he caught up to John and said, "Listen, can we do something other than the Beretta today?"
John smiled and rounded the landing. "Didn't I say that slow is key?"
"Okay, yes, you did, but I'm getting bored."
John rolled his eyes and jumped the last few stairs to the next landing. "You think I'm having any fun, McKay?"
"You sure seem to be enjoying yourself," John heard him mutter. He felt his jaw tighten and jumped the last few stairs to the ground level.
"Gotta get my kicks somewhere," was all he said, and led McKay into the firing range. It was empty, and he went to the gun locker and pulled out two SIG 226 side-arms while McKay toweled himself off. "We'll move up a little bit," he said. "I won't give you baby steps on this one."
McKay took the proffered gun and held it away from him; he still used exaggerated safety measures, but John guessed that it was better than no safety measures at all, and at least he'd quit holding the gun like it was a cobra about to bite him. "It looks like the Beretta," he said.
"Sig Sauer P226 DAO," John said, tossing McKay a magazine and heading for the range. "Stands for Double Action Only," he added, at McKay's confused look. "You still don't know what that means, why do you bother asking?"
"Double action means that the trigger cocks and releases the hammer with the same function," McKay said, and took up his position in front of the range. John stared at him, and McKay twisted over his shoulder to look at him. "What? I did some research. I like to know things."
"If you say so," John said, and lifted his gun. "You okay over there?"
"You're not going to show me how to use it?" McKay looked down at the gun in his hands, then back over at John.
John shrugged. "You got all the basics down with the Beretta. It's kind of point-and-click from there." And I don't want to look like I'm enjoying myself, he added silently. It was stupid of him to assume that his downright overt interest in McKay while they were at the firing range had gone unnoticed. What had started out as an attempt to get back at a mouthy civilian had totally and utterly backfired, and every night for weeks now, John had found himself jerking off in bed to the remembered feel of McKay's broad shoulders under his hands, or the tight curve of his ass pressed back against John's hips.
He shook himself and leveled his gun at the firing range. "All set? Fire at will."
They each let off several rounds, and John took pleasure in noting that he couldn't tell which hits on the target were his, and which were McKay's. The man's aim had improved by leaps and bounds in only a few weeks.
"Hey, Major?"
John adjusted his stance and looked over at McKay. "Yeah?"
McKay wasn't looking at him, and seemed to be still focused on the range. "Pilots in the Air Force have call signs, right?"
"Yeah." John chewed his lower lip and wondered where this was going.
"Are they nicknames like how we call the Marines 'grunts,' or how they call the scientists 'beakers?'"
John winced. Figured that it would get back to the scientists. "Hey, that's not a derogatory name, it's .... a term of endearment."
McKay snorted. "Yeah. Better than 'cannon-fodder.' That one's my favorite."
Figured they'd hear that, too. "McKay, you gotta understand how the soldiers on away teams feel about the civilians." Or how I assume they feel, John thought bitterly, thinking about his lone gate trip. "It's dangerous out there, and it's hard enough to watch your own back, but to have responsibility for a couple of untrained civilians --"
"No, no, I get it," McKay said, and squeezed off a second round. The paper target was in shreds. John couldn't help but feel a little pride at that. "We're just extra load."
"Hey," John said, flicking his safety back on. "This is a scientific expedition. The soldiers are here to watch your collective back."
McKay snorted. "Yeah? Tell that to Colonel This-Is-A-Military-Situation."
John sighed in sympathy, but felt he had to make the token effort at defending his commanding officer. "Look, Colonel Sumner's trying to make the best of a bad situation --"
"How?" McKay demanded, and fired again, then again. Both shots buried themselves in the back wall. "By locking down the gate? By only letting my scientists go to planets that have been scoured by your jarheads to make sure that there's nothing that could hurt us there -- and nothing worth investigating? How are we ever going to find a ZedPM at this rate, Major? For that matter, how are we going to get allies to trade with us for things like, oh, I don't know food?" McKay dropped his head and looked down at the ground, and John sighed, set his gun down, and went over to him.
"You've spoken to Doctor Weir about this, I'm guessing?" John said, laying a hand on McKay's shoulder and trying to ignore the little thrill that shivered up his spine.
"Twice a day, every day," McKay said bitterly. "She claims she has to defer to Sumner in off-world matters, but I think he's got her hands tied, just as much as he's tied mine." He turned and gestured, looking right at John, and John suddenly realized just how blue McKay's eyes were. "I know we can't overrule him when it comes to the military," he said forcefully, "but I'm just trying to look out for my team --"
"I get it," John said, and found himself suddenly understanding how much McKay really did look out for his team, and wasn't just out for his own interests in this mission. "I really do. I'll speak to her about it, okay?"
McKay snorted. "I'm not anticipating much good to come from that, but thank you for the effort." He straightened his back and lifted his chin, the motion that John had come to view as the patented I'm-Rodney-McKay-Now-Leave-Me-And-My-Brilliance-Alone move. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to practice my aim."
John couldn't help but smile. "Okay, okay," he said, stepping back and holding his hands up in front of him. "Go for it. Fire at will."
McKay lifted up his gun, flipped off the safety, let off a round, then looked over at John and said, "You promise you'll talk to Doctor Weir?"
"First thing this morning," John said. "After a shower, I mean."
The corner of McKay's mouth tugged up in a smile. "Okay. Um, thanks. Flyboy."
John grinned. "You're welcome, beaker."
===
"Doctor Weir!"
John caught up with her just as she was leaving her office. "Major Sheppard," she said, inclining her head. "I'm sorry, can it wait just a moment? I've got a large team off-world right now and they're late for their check-in."
"That's the triple-deployment, right?" John asked, and Weir nodded. John remembered the mission mostly for the amount of red-tape-induced headaches it had caused. Colonel Sumner had taken three gate teams, plus fourteen other assorted Marines and scientists, off-world to lay claim to an abandoned Ancient lab they'd found on a reconnaissance mission. It had taken McKay days to convince Sumner to bring along more than the standard brace of science team members. McKay himself had wound up going with them that morning, and John remembered looking down at the Gate Room from his standard place on the balcony, P-90 at the ready. McKay had turned and looked up at John, and when he'd caught John's eye, he'd waved, just a little. John had grinned and given him a head-nod back, and McKay had gone through the gate with one hand resting on his side-arm. "Mind if I come with?"
"You're welcome to," she said, and he followed her down to the Gate Room.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about the away teams," he said. "I've been training a lot of the scientists with the side-arms, and I think they're a valuable asset that we're not using."
"Is that so?" She gave him a distracted smile over her shoulder and leaned down to confer with one of the technicians. "Any word?"
"No ma'am," the tech said. "They're over fifteen minutes late."
Weir frowned. "That's very worrying," she said.
"We should dial in," John started, but was interrupted by the activation klaxon.
"Unscheduled off-world activation," the tech said. "Receiving IDC ... it's Sergeant Stackhouse, ma'am."
"Let it through," she ordered, and John watched the chevrons spin and the wormhole erupt into life.
"Atlantis! Doctor Weir! This is Sergeant Stackhouse." Stackhouse's voice came in over their headsets, clear and loud.
"We hear you, Sergeant," Weir said, bracing her hands on the balcony and leaning forward. "What's going --"
"Requesting immediate military backup and medical personnel," Stackhouse said. "We're taking fire --"
"What sort of weapons do they have, Sergeant?" John broke in. Weir shot him a look, but didn't say anything.
"Major Sheppard? They have primitive firearms, sir. Like muskets, and something they're shelling us with, and something like if a cannon and a flame-thrower had a baby."
"We'll send backup. What's your position and the state of the wounded?"
"They're holding behind a wooded ridge approximately one, one and a half klicks east of the Stargate, sir. Markham and Driscoll and two, three of the scientists, they've all been shot, or hit with shrapnel. They're alive, but --" There was a low whistling noise, like an incoming mortar. Stackhouse yelled, "Ending transmission, sir!" and the wormhole died.
John wheeled around and sprinted for the armory, half-reeling with full Dolby Digital Surround Sound, Technicolor visions of McKay lying shot full of holes on some alien planet. He jammed one hand on his radio and barked orders to Bates. "I want five -- no, eight Marines in full combat gear suited up in the gate room in thirty seconds, and I want a solid medical coverage team with them."
"Sir --"
John jammed his arms into a tac vest and snapped, "Bates, I'm really not in the mood for a pissing contest, so if you're going to argue with me, your orders are to go fuck yourself. Understand?"
There was silence on the radio for a long moment, and then Bates said, "Sir, I was only going to ask if you wanted heavy artillery support."
John exhaled and pressed his forehead against the wall of the armory, and tried not to think about McKay bleeding out, a million lightyears away. He'd only barely gotten to know the man in the last three weeks -- he had no reason to be losing his mind over this mission when McKay probably wasn't even hurt -- but several others were. He dragged in another lungful of air and said, "I'm sorry, Sergeant. No. No, I don't think that'll be necessary -- they're apparently fighting with muskets and a flame-thrower, but I think the ambush was what shocked our guys. Semi-automatics and grenades all around, though."
"Yes, sir. Meet you in the Gate Room, sir. Bates out."
The radio clicked off and John strapped his P-90 to his chest. Don't think about McKay, he willed himself. Just make sure that everyone is safe, and don't think about McKay.
===
The alien world didn't look anything like John had been expecting. Blue sky, green grass, yellow sun -- not an antennae-sporting alien in sight. The wormhole flashed out of existence behind them, and John twisted around, pretending he was counting heads but really watching the last flicker of the wormhole fade away. Traveling through space. Jesus. Why didn't he get to do this every day? Why only on the day when people were hurt and possibly dying and McKay was out there and also possibly hurt and dying and --
He exhaled slowly, trying to jam his brain back into some kind of order, and watched his breath dissipate into the freezing air around them. Bates gave him a cool look and John fought the urge to scuff his toes in the dirt. Maybe it was a good thing he'd been relegated to work as a human on-switch; he definitely wasn't fit for command, if all he could think about was one potentially-wounded scientist out of two dozen good men and women.
"Okay," John said loudly. "Thompson and Bates, you guys stay here with the med-evac team and guard the gate. The rest of you are with me. Bates, if I don't radio you within fifteen minutes, I want you to call Atlantis and request full support." Bates nodded, looking like he took John seriously, for once. John turned and looked around for a moment, and then heard the sharp, unmistakable echo of gunfire.
"It's coming from over there, sir," said one of the Marines, a kid named Ford, pointing over toward a forest. The trees were devoid of leaves, but it still looked like rough going.
"Of course it's through a forest," John muttered, and started jogging east. He spared a moment to be thankful for all those mornings he'd gone running with McKay, and hoped that there'd be more mornings just like that.
They ran through the trees for a few minutes, dead leaves and twigs crunching under their feet, John conscious every second of the imminent possibility of sprained ankles and branches to the head. Ford voiced his thoughts for him. "Wish we had a truck," he said. "Wish we had a big giant Hummer."
"If wishes were horses, Lieutenant," John said.
"So long as I'm wishing," Ford said, "then I wish for a spaceship."
"You and me both," John muttered, but Ford's response was drowned out by a high-pitched scream. It took John a moment to realize that it was the same whistle that had interrupted Stackhouse's transmission -- it just sounded about a thousand times deadlier in person. "Everybody down!" he ordered, and hit the ground just in time to feel the percussive impact as the mortar exploded, sending dirt and stones and branches flying. John felt shrapnel rain down on his head, then heard wood splintering and looked up.
"Fuck --" He rolled onto his knees and scrambled away, and heard the branch crack as it split all the way and fell to the ground not two inches from where he'd been lying a moment ago. He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, smearing dirt all over his face, and looked around. "Report," he barked.
"Ross and me are here," Ford called. "Uh, so's Adams, but he caught a branch with the back of his head and he looks woozy. And Nguyen and Koczynski kept running. They were out of the shell's range."
John fought the urge to smack his forehead and took a deep breath. At this rate, the attackers would have subdued their men, stolen their weapons, and built an entire new civilization by the time his team arrived for the grand rescue. "Jesus Christ. Okay, Ross, you take Adams back to the gate. Ford, follow me. We can't be far."
They weren't far at all, and could hear the gunfire from both sides. John nearly tripped over Koczynski lying on the ground a few hundred yards away. He dropped to his knees and hissed, "Explain, Lieutenant."
The Polish kid was pale to start with, but he went positively white under the force of John's glare. "Sir, they've got some kind of cannon set up that way," he whispered, jerking his head toward a thick stand of trees. "That's what they shelled us with. They're getting our guys now."
John glanced over at Ford and Nguyen, who was splayed flat on his belly and looked ready to crawl through the dirt like a jungle trooper. John sent up a swift prayer that the Marines behind the line had some vague idea of what they were doing, because his men sure didn't have the faintest clue. "Okay, new plan," John said, as though they'd ever had a plan to begin with. "Ford and Nguyen, you head north and take out whoever you come across, unless they belong to us. Meet up with the rest of the men behind the ridge. Koczynski, same plan, except we're headed south." John got to his feet and looked around. "Got it?"
The men nodded and John jerked his head. "Go!"
Ford and Nguyen took off running through the trees, and John helped Koczynski to his feet. "First off-world mission?" he couldn't help asking, and was unsurprised when Koczynski nodded. "Okay, let's go."
They circled around the stand where the trees were thickest, and John saw that Koczynski had been right -- they were definitely operating some kind of cannon out of there, probably because the trees were a natural barrier. John kept his P-90 cocked as they drew closer, until they were nearly level with the men scattered in a loose line through the trees, firing weapons that looked like they'd fallen off the back of a prop truck on the set of a bad Revolutionary War movie. "Koczynski?" John said quietly, and the young man nodded. "Stay put. I'm going to --"
There was a yell, and suddenly all the heads whose backs John had previously been examining were now turned and looking straight at him. "Oh, fuck," John said. "Run!"
They sprinted through the trees, running for the steep hill in front of them, and John heard thunk thunk thunk as bullets buried themselves in the tree trunks around him. He grabbed first a log, then a stump, and then somehow they'd made it and he was vaulting himself up over the top of the ridge and skidding down, banging his ass on what felt like every rock in God's green creation as he went.
He tumbled to a stop in the ditch at the bottom of the ridge, and lifted his head up out of the dirt and looked right into the wide blue eyes of Rodney McKay.
"Oh, thank God," John groaned, and dropped his forehead back to the ground.
"Major?" A hand curled around the back of his neck. "Did you get shot? Are you bleeding? What are you doing here?"
"Those questions seem kind of out of order," John said, and hauled himself into a sitting position. Rodney was crouched down next to him, his side-arm dangling from one hand between his knees. "What's going on?"
Rodney wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. His face was pale underneath all the grime and sweat. "We got ambushed," he said. "We were walking toward the lab when all of a sudden these, these people started firing guns and, and flaming balls of something at us, and then something that explodes when it hits the ground, and Sumner's unconscious and so are a bunch of my team, and weren't your guys supposed to be protecting us --"
John grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and shook him. "Focus," he hissed. "How many people are wounded?"
Rodney shook his head. "I -- I don't know. Two of the Marines fell when we first got attacked, and one of my team. Simpson and Collins are both unconscious, and two of the geologists are missing."
"Okay." John got to his feet and looked around. Several Marines were lying up at the top of the hill, and John's heart stopped for a moment before he realized that they were firing on the attackers. Six, maybe seven more people were clustered about two hundred feet away at the afar end of the ridge. John squinted, but only saw blue shirts, and hoped that Ford and Nguyen and Koczynski were up at the top of the hill.
"What are you doing way down here?" he asked Rodney, who looked around.
"There were two Marines here with me," he said. "I -- I don't know where they went."
John felt his jaw clench. "If they were under my command, I promise you, I'd find out who they were and bust them down so fast --"
Another scream broke the air, and the men at the other end dove for the dirt. John grabbed the front of Rodney's jacket and pulled him down on top of him, curling his body around Rodney's. The mortar hit and exploded and sent sharp pieces of rock raining down on them both. John grimaced as he felt cuts open up on his hands, but didn't move until Rodney shoved at him.
"They keep sending those over," Rodney said breathlessly. His face had a bit more color to it, John thought, a little giddy. Explosions always did that to him. "I think we could get away, I mean, those guys have, what, gunpowder muskets? But -- it's those whistling things that do a lot of damage."
"They're called shells, Rodney," John said, and checked the clip in his side-arm. He had a slightly hysterical thought and felt a grin split his face. Rodney gave him a strange look.
"What?"
"I just had a suicidal idea," John said.
Rodney threw up his hands and backed away. "I don't think this situation has quite gotten to the honor-killing point yet, Major --"
John cuffed him on the back of the head. "Calm down, McKay. I mean -- I think I know how to take out the shellers."
"How -- ack!"
John grabbed Rodney by the wrist and pulled him up the incline. "How much ammo do you have?" he asked.
"My clip is full, and I've got an extra in my tac vest. Why -- oh, no, no, no." Rodney yanked his arm out of John's grasp, then pinwheeled to keep from losing his balance and falling down the hill. John grabbed him and steadied him, and Rodney thanked him by shoving a finger in his face. "That is more than suicidal -- that's just plain stupid. There are five guys down there --" Rodney flung his hand back toward the group at the far end. "Why don't you take one of them and carry out this insane excuse for a plan?"
"Because I trust you, and also because all those men are scientists," John said, and let go of Rodney's jacket. "Come on, follow me."
They climbed to the top of the ridge and squatted down behind its peak. John could feel Rodney pressed up tight against him, a solid bulk of warmth from shoulder to knee, and willed himself to focus. He waited until the first whistle of an incoming mortar, then launched himself to his feet and over the hill, scrambling down the way he'd first come up. Rodney was cursing under his breath at his side, but at least he was keeping up. They hit the bottom of the hill and ran for the cover of the next stand of trees, bullets whizzing past so close that John could feel the breeze they left in their wake.
Rodney reached the trees and tumbled to the ground, clutching his chest. "I'm going to die," he wheezed. "I'm going to die of a heart attack and it's all your fault."
John nudged him with his boot. "Get up, you're fine, you're in the best shape of your life since I made you start running, I guarantee it."
Rodney climbed to his feet, glaring at him. "I hate you so much," he said. "Somehow, this whole fucked up mission is entirely your fault. I know it."
"Small chance of that," John said. "Listen, we're going to basically run out behind their line right now, and the plan really isn't anything more than shoot the guys firing the shells before they shoot us." Rodney opened his mouth to say something, but John grabbed his arm and held up a finger. "So I'm going to say this, and you're not going to say anything, then we're going to run out there, got it?"
Rodney nodded, wide-eyed and silent for the first time.
"I think you're a loudmouth and a hard-ass and you need to remember your scientists' names," John said. "I think you're oblivious and egotistical and a complete genius, and there isn't anyone else in the world I'd want at my back more than you right now."
"Oh my god, we're going to die," Rodney said.
John grinned at him. "Most likely," he said, then pulled Rodney toward him and pressed a hard, fast kiss to his mouth. "So long, Rodney," he said, then sprinted out of the trees, firing blindly toward the line of men.
That's all he remembered. After that, it went white.
===
John heard the door open and knew who it was without turning to look. "Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun," he said, lifting it to his shoulder. "Fires nine millimeter rounds, modifies to semiautomatic and fully automatic, and fires thirteen rounds a second."
There was silence for a long minute. "None of that means anything to me," Rodney finally said.
"I know," John said, and flicked the safety on. "I was just showing off." He dropped the gun to his side and looked over at Rodney, who was leaning against the door.
Rodney looked back at him, then said, "Well, no, I understood the thirteen rounds a second part." He paused for a moment, then added, "That's about eight hundred rounds per minute."
John felt himself smile against his will. "Yeah," he said. "That's right."
"I didn't really think you'd be down here," Rodney said. "I mean, firing guns has to hurt your shoulder and everything."
John shrugged. "It's this shoulder," he said, tapping his left one. "I take the impact with my right."
"I know," Rodney said. He picked at his fingernails for a minute, then said, "Sorry I didn't come by."
John turned back to the range and lifted the MP5 to his shoulder again. "I figured you had your reasons," he said. "I was asleep most of the time, anyway."
"I did come by," Rodney said. "Just not while you were awake."
John felt the corner of his mouth twist up in a little smile. "I know," he said. "The nurses told me."
"Those lying witches," Rodney muttered, and John's smile spread over his whole face. "What else did they tell you?"
"Not much," John said, and flicked off the safety. The paper target was utterly still in the dead air of the range, and he let his eyes trace over it for a moment before squeezing down on the trigger and letting off a very satisfying round. "Ford and Sumner told me a lot, though," he said, watching the newly shredded target flutter.
"Yeah?" Rodney said. John heard him come up behind him, but it was still a shock when Rodney's hands settled onto his hips. He tried very hard not to breathe. "What did they say?"
John turned on the safety. "That I ran out there like a man with a death wish," he said. "That I shot five guys and killed the sheller before I caught a bullet with my shoulder and went down. That you came out three steps behind me and killed the rest."
Rodney's fingers spasmed on John's hips, then traced up and around the waistband of his pants, before hooking into his front pockets. "I guess that's right," Rodney said. John stiffened as Rodney leaned in and pressed his nose to John's hair, and inhaled.
"What -- what are you doing?"
"You used to do this to me," Rodney said. John could feel Rodney's breath ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck. "You used to stand behind me and lean in and -- and breathe instructions in my ear and I always wondered what it felt like from your end, moving me like a puppet and telling me ..." He trailed off, and John felt the softest brush of lips against the side of his neck before Rodney's hands came up and lifted the gun out of his grasp, and set it down on the floor, out of the way.
"Rodney," John said quietly.
"You stood behind me and lectured me," Rodney said. The pads of his fingers skimmed lightly over the skin between John's t-shirt and his pants. "Told me the nicknames you have for each other in your military, and -- and that you're a flyboy."
"Glad you remembered," John managed.
""I wanted to know ..." Rodney's arms circled around his waist and pulled him close, snugging his ass back against Rodney's hips.
"Rodney," John said, and let his hands settle over Rodney's wrists.
"Do you remember what you did before you ran out there?" Rodney asked, resting his cheek on John's shoulder. There was a sharp flare of pain before it settled back into the familiar dull ache.
John's eyes fluttered closed. "I kissed you," he said. Rodney's arms tightened around him and he squirmed a little, helplessly, pushing back against him. He heard Rodney let out a little choked-off gasp before his hips twitched and pressed against John's ass. John reached behind him and grabbed Rodney's thighs, digging his fingers in hard. "I told you that I wanted you at my back, and I kissed you."
"Right," Rodney said. He turned his face and pressed it against John's shoulder, and John could feel his breathing quicken as his hips jerked forward again, and again. John's throat tightened at the hard press of Rodney's erection against his ass, and he let his mouth fall open and his tongue swipe over his lower lip. "And -- and then you said --"
"So long, Rodney," John said, and let out a groan as Rodney's hand dropped down and squeezed his cock through his pants. "Ah --"
"I ran after you so I could make sure you wouldn't die," Rodney said, and kissed the side of John's neck. John inhaled sharply and tried to remember why this was a very bad idea. "I wanted to have the privilege of killing you myself. I mean -- so long, Rodney?"
"It wasn't -- oh, oh, fuck --" John dropped his head back to Rodney's shoulder and tightened his hands on his thighs as Rodney undid the fly on John's pants and slipped his hand inside.
"It wasn't meant to be a goodbye? I'd certainly hope not, Major." Rodney thrust his hips forward and squeezed John's cock, and John wrenched forward out of Rodney's grasp, then twisted around and grabbed the back of his neck and held him still as he kissed him, pressing their mouths together for a hard, fast second before Rodney's lips parted and John slipped the tip of his tongue against the corner of his mouth. He heard Rodney moan and dropped a hand down between their bodies to curl around the bulge in Rodney's pants.
"Listen," he said against Rodney's mouth. "I meant what I said."
Rodney laughed a little and kissed him again, pushing forward into John's hand. "God -- about me being egotistical and a hard-ass and --"
"Yeah," John said, pulling back and grinning. God, Rodney made him feel stupid and giddy -- like explosions and adrenaline, in the best possible way. "But I meant it about wanting you at my back, too."
Rodney groaned and let his head fall to John's shoulder -- his good shoulder this time, he noted. "Please don't let that be the set-up for a bad joke along the lines of, 'But I want you on my back even more,' or something that you'll probably find hilarious and will make me want to smack you."
John found himself laughing, and Rodney butted his head against his shoulder and slapped a hand against his thigh and said, "Come on, come on, your hand was on my cock a second ago, what happened to that?" John hummed in assent and let his fingers trace over the outline of Rodney's cock through his pants, and Rodney said, "God, I'm never letting you do that again."
John's hand stilled and he felt his stomach drop. "What, I thought you wanted --"
Rodney slapped his thigh again. "No, idiot, keep doing that. I meant about -- about running out in front of lots of men with guns who want to kill you, and, and giving me some big revelation right before you think you're going to die -- I'm never letting you die."
John laughed and held Rodney's face between his hands as he kissed him, then leaned back and said, "Good luck with that one, Rodney."
"No, I mean --" Rodney's mouth twisted and John recognized the expression that meant Rodney was trying to find some way to say exactly what he meant without giving John any room to wiggle out of it. "I'm never letting you die like that," he said, and his hands were tight and possessive on John's hips. "I'll -- you're not going to stay on the ground. You're a flyboy, right, that's what you said, so I'll -- I'll build you a plane. I'll build you a spaceship."
John grinned so hard he forgot to breathe. "Rodney?"
Rodney lifted his eyes and met John's -- clear and blue and bright. "Yeah?"
"Now you're just showing off." He kissed Rodney hard and pulled him close, and felt him start to laugh. Rodney deserved to show off, John decided, and kissed him again.
Author: Propaganda (notpoetry)
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8,250
Prompt: Quiet and studious, Lady Ivy Rutherford is content merely to observe the intrigues and scandals of Queen Eleanor's glittering court. But then the Queen insists that Ivy would be the ideal mentor for notorious heartbreaker Roger Stancliff. Her duty? To transform the arrant knave into a courtly knight. A simple task for such a proper lady!
But in the sultry castle grounds just who is educating whom? Chaste, courtly love seems much less appealing than losing herself in the passion of Roger's arms...
Notes: I ... took a little liberty with my prompt. Thank you to eleveninches, sathinks, taylorkate, and barely_bean, who all listened to me say, "It's basically Pygmalion, right? So why can't I think of anything?" about a thousand times a day and thankfully refrained from beating me silly.
This is an AU that veers from canon right at Rising and is just different enough to matter.
They really shouldn't have held the meeting in a conference room that looked out over the gate, John thought, watching the scientists and technicians wind in and out of the maze of consoles that operated the thing. Three months here, and he still hadn't done more than walk through the gate room on routine patrols. He'd run to the balcony at the near-daily "Unscheduled gate activation" alarms, and watched the wormhole blast into life at every chance he got, but he'd only walked through it once: that first dizzying trip from Earth to Atlantis.
He snapped back to his attention as Dr. Weir said, "Major Sheppard? Sergeant Bates? Do you have anything to add?"
John saw Bates level a sullen glare at her, and carefully schooled his expression into blankness. "No, ma'am," he said, hoping that she didn't expect him to say anything. Bates echoed him, but Colonel Sumner, standing next to Weir, unfolded his arms and said, "Dr. Weir, I'm afraid I'll have to repeat my objection regarding the level of commitment you expect from my men."
Weir raised her eyebrows and held out her hands. "Your two second officers don't object," she said. "And I, personally, have divided the list so that no one is taking on a heavier load than the others."
John swallowed. More work? Please let them be assigning new away teams, he prayed, and wished, for the first time ever, that he'd paid attention in a staff meeting.
"My men are busy," Sumner growled. "And so are your civilians. I don't understand how you expect them all to find the time to learn this."
John felt his shoulders slump and leaned back in his chair. Weir probably wanted them all to learn how to read Ancient or something. Great. Just great.
Weir smiled thinly. "Oh, I'm sure they'll manage," she said. "Gentlemen? Thank you for your time. I'll post the assignments in the mess hall in about an hour."
Bates said, "Thank you, Ma'am," and Sumner growled, "Dismissed." John snapped off a salute and booked it. He had nowhere to be, but the less time spent in a room with Sumner, the better.
He'd almost forgotten about the meeting -- whatever it was about, anyway -- until he walked past the mess hall an hour or so later and found a cluster of blue-shirted scientists huddled around the bulletin board on the wall. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sidled up, and found Simpson, one of the physicists who always tracked him down no matter where he was and smiled prettily until he turned on some piece of Ancient tech or another. He tapped her on the shoulder and said, "What's going on?"
"Arms training," she said, beaming. "The Marines are going to teach us how to fire guns!"
"It's a waste of time," a voice rang out, and the tight knot of people suddenly split apart like the Red Sea parting. John recognized the man shoving his way out of the group -- he was one of the scientists who was always in the lab while John was there, deputized for the use of his gene. John liked him because he'd never asked him to turn anything on, but remembered that he never knew the names of his scientists. "I hope they know I'm not actually going to show up," Rodney McKay said to the scientist at his elbow -- a short, bespectacled man with fuzzy hair. Zlenko? No, Zelenka. "This Major Jerkoff I got assigned to will just have to find something better to do with his time. I know I certainly will."
"Funny," John said, stepping smoothly out into McKay's path. "I thought I was the only major on this base. You'll have to introduce me to this Major Jerkoff the next chance you get."
McKay's chin went up and Zelenka started to snicker. "Major Sheppard, didn't see you there," he said, and jammed his elbow into Zelenka's ribs. Zelenka choked and slunk off, glaring over his shoulder at McKay. "I think we can both agree that there's no need for me to learn how to fire a gun, mm? You and the other jarheads are more than capable of taking care of us. Yes? Good." He turned and started to walk away, but John found himself reaching out and grabbing McKay's shoulder.
"Hang on just a second, McKay," he said slowly. "First off, I think it says right there on the paper: mandatory civilian arms training. Second, defensive weapon skills are a very good thing to have, especially if you're planning on going off-world anytime soon. And third, it's my duty as your assigned officer to make sure that you show up to said arms training. So I'll be by to collect you at, oh, how's oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning? Good? Perfect. See you then." He let go of McKay and gave him a sloppy little salute, then shoved his hands back into his pockets and sauntered off the way he'd came.
Behind him, McKay spluttered, "Oh-seven-hundred? That's -- that's -- oh, hell no! Major!"
John turned around and tipped his head to one side. "By the way," he called, "the Marines are the jarheads. That's not my nickname at all." McKay flung his arms out to his sides and opened his mouth, and John waved at him. "See you tomorrow morning, McKay." He turned back around and headed into a transporter, and found himself whistling. Just a little.
===
John knocked on McKay's door at 06:45. "Hey Doctor McKay," he called, grabbing his foot and stretching his hamstring. "Answer the door." He knocked again, waited a few seconds, then started pounding.
It only took seventy-two seconds before the door slid open and McKay reached out and grabbed his wrist. "You, shut the hell up," he snarled. His hair was sticking straight up and his face was lined with wrinkles from the bed sheets. John found himself grinning.
"Sorry I'm early," he said. "But hey, since you're up, you wanna go for a run with me?"
McKay gaped at him, and John saw him reaching for the door activator. He shoved his foot in the jamb before the door could close all the way.
"Major," McKay said slowly, "I could pull out the crystal that keeps this door from closing on your foot, and then we'd see how often you go for early-morning runs."
John shrugged and gave McKay a lazy smile. "Yeah, but you won't, 'cause then I'd never come down to your lab and turn on all those shiny things for your scientists. 'Cause I won't be able to walk. And also, I'll hate you and everybody else who ever wore a blue shirt."
McKay's jaw clenched, but he moved his hand off the crystal. "Let it be known that I'm only doing this because I value scientific research over your stupid bones." The door slid back open and McKay turned and disappeared into his room. He was wearing plaid boxers. John grinned.
McKay found it hard to bitch and run at the same time, which John had hoped would be the case. He led them on a quick jaunt along the outer borders of the main tower, then down several flights of stairs until they reached the firing range. McKay doubled over and downed an entire water bottle in fifteen seconds, while John toweled off and went over to the gun locker and extracted the pistol he'd selected earlier that morning.
"We're going to focus on some low-caliber weapons today," he told McKay, who just glared at him balefully, chest still heaving. He lifted the pistol up and and held it away from himself, toward the range. "Do you know basic gun safety?" McKay nodded. "Tell me what you know."
"Enough not to shoot myself," McKay panted. John gestured with his free hand, and McKay rolled his eyes. "Treat the gun as if it were loaded. Be aware of your surroundings. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Common sense, Major."
"Good," John said. "Watch me. Watch everything I do." He held the gun up and pointed at it. "This is an M9A1, so essentially a Beretta 92F. It is a semi-automatic, single-double action recoil operated pistol that uses a fifteen-round staggered magazine, is a nine millimeter caliber, and fires a bullet at well over a thousand feet per second."
"None of that means anything to me," McKay said.
John smirked. "I know. I'm just showing off."
McKay smacked his forehead. "Do you mind? I have places to be and now, thanks to you, I need a shower so badly that I can see the paint peeling off the walls when I walk by."
"Can it for a minute, okay?" John tossed him a pair of safety earmuffs and settled his own over his head, then picked up a magazine and headed for the range. He loaded the pistol, lifted it, flicked off the safety, and fired several rounds into the paper target. Every jerk of the gun in his hand, every hole torn in the target sent pure adrenaline and satisfaction sparking through John's veins. He turned the safety back on, unloaded the magazine, then turned around and grinned at McKay, who was slightly slack-jawed.
"You -- you hit the center almost every time," McKay said.
"Yeah," John said with a shrug, and pulled off his earmuffs. "I'm kinda out of practice. Come here."
McKay came. John grabbed his shoulders and moved behind him, nudging him into a good position. "Feet apart like -- good. Turn just slightly toward the target. Now, here." He loaded the pistol, double-checked the safety, and handed the gun to McKay, who immediately lifted it toward the target. "Whoa, whoa, no! Slow down." John settled his hands onto McKay's shoulders and leaned in. "Slow," he said, letting the sibilance hiss out between his teeth. He could feel the muscles under his hands tightening, and couldn't stop the smile that slid onto his face. He could also feel the heat rising from the back of McKay's neck, and knew there was a fierce blush spreading over his face. "Slow is key, Doctor McKay."
John saw the muscle in McKay's jaw jump. "Do you mind?" he said loudly. "I'm trying to focus here, and you're very distracting."
"Like a real life combat situation is gonna be a tea party," John said, but loosened his grip. "Focus, okay? Focus. Then, when you find that headspace, flick off the safety."
McKay's finger immediately flipped the switch. John rolled his eyes. "Okay, trigger-happy, you're ready? Fire at will."
"Fire at will?" McKay squeaked, and John grinned.
"Fire at will."
Without warning, McKay unloaded the clip into the target at the end of the range. Or, well, toward the target, but John saw bullets bury themselves in the thick padding on the back wall, and even some on the side walls. Two, then three bullets ripped through the paper target, considerably below the tight cluster of holes John had made. There was a click and McKay let his arms fall.
"Wow," he breathed. "That was -- wow."
"Not too bad." John retrieved a new magazine and took the pistol from McKay. "Now this time, aim for the target."
McKay jerked indignantly. "What? I -- I hit it!"
"Yeah, twice. You know what?" John pushed McKay's fingers into a grip around the handle, then reached around him and settled his own hands on top. McKay stiffened, but John ignored it. His hips were snugged up tight against McKay's ass, and he tried not to breathe in -- the warm, musky smell of McKay's hair and skin were reminding him of things he'd tried very hard to repress. John felt his cock twitch in his pants and closed his eyes, shifting back a little so McKay wouldn't notice. It's just proximity, he told himself, and steadied his shaky breathing. "I'll do the aiming. You do the trigger-pulling."
"Fine." McKay flicked off the safety. "Fire at will?"
"Fire at will," John echoed.
McKay squeezed off a few short rounds. "Good," John said, even though only one bullet hit the target. He felt McKay's hands tighten under his own and dug his fingernails in a little. "Wait, don't shoot." John settled his forefinger over McKay's on the trigger. "First, a lesson on military slang, since you seem to be confused."
"What --"
John fired a round. McKay's arms were starting to shake. John knew he should stop, but there was a tightening in his gut and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. "You called me a jarhead, yesterday. That's not right. Marines are jarheads." He nudged McKay's shoulder forward with his own, and inhaled. God, he smelled good. "Don't call them grunts, or they'll get pissed."
McKay's finger twitched, and he let off another round. "Careful," John said. His nose was practically pressing into McKay's hair, and he found himself praying that no one would walk in. This would be hard to explain. Hell, it was hard to explain to himself. He swallowed and tried not to think about how pathetic and sex-starved he must be if he was getting turned on by some loudmouth scientist. Or maybe it was the guns. That must be it, he told himself. All that manly testosterone. And the guns.
"Major," McKay said, and John knew he didn't imagine the waver in his voice. "You're making me nervous."
"Good," John said, and fired again. "We don't have any Navy men around, but if we did, we'd call 'em pier-queers. Out of their hearing, of course."
"Pier-queers. Got it."
"Do you know what a grunt is?"
"No," McKay mumbled.
"Army infantryman." John let off another round, then dropped one hand back to settle on McKay's hip. "Turn your hips forward a little," he said, and felt his breathing catch when McKay pushed back against him before shifting forward. "Good. You can also call a grunt a crunchy, or a nug, or a ground-pounder, but only do it to their face if you want your nose punched in."
"I'll remember that," McKay said.
"Good," John said, and shot off another round. "Remember this. I'm not a jarhead, or a pier-queer, or a grunt. I'm a flyboy, and I'll never take it as an insult, because that's what I do. I fly." He emptied the magazine, let go of McKay's hand, and stepped back.
McKay let his arms drop. "Major," he started.
"Go get a shower, McKay," John said. "I'll see you later."
He jogged out of the room, careful not to look back, and tried to ignore his half-hard cock.
===
He woke McKay up at 06:30 every morning for the next week, and 06:15 the next week after that. Their morning sessions became something he looked forward to, something he reminded himself of while he was teaching other scientists at the firing range who didn't have half McKay's intelligence or willingness to learn (and, if he were honest, weren't half as attractive), or while he was helping Miko and Kavanaugh dig through boxes of Ancient tech and turn on things that wound up being toasters or cassette players or useless in ways they couldn't even understand, or when he was ankle-deep in paperwork that was probably never going to make it back to the SGC. He hoped that McKay wasn't noticing that John was trying to spend more time at him at the range, since their daily schedules kept them moving in opposite circles, but when he rounded the corner to McKay's hall at 06:05 on Monday morning, three weeks after they'd started the training, he was surprised to find McKay already awake, dressed, and doing stretches outside his door.
"You're late," McKay said shortly.
"Thought I'd let you sleep in a little," John said, and jogged past him. "Let's go."
McKay followed him silently for most of the way, but as they started to run down the stairs toward the firing range, he caught up to John and said, "Listen, can we do something other than the Beretta today?"
John smiled and rounded the landing. "Didn't I say that slow is key?"
"Okay, yes, you did, but I'm getting bored."
John rolled his eyes and jumped the last few stairs to the next landing. "You think I'm having any fun, McKay?"
"You sure seem to be enjoying yourself," John heard him mutter. He felt his jaw tighten and jumped the last few stairs to the ground level.
"Gotta get my kicks somewhere," was all he said, and led McKay into the firing range. It was empty, and he went to the gun locker and pulled out two SIG 226 side-arms while McKay toweled himself off. "We'll move up a little bit," he said. "I won't give you baby steps on this one."
McKay took the proffered gun and held it away from him; he still used exaggerated safety measures, but John guessed that it was better than no safety measures at all, and at least he'd quit holding the gun like it was a cobra about to bite him. "It looks like the Beretta," he said.
"Sig Sauer P226 DAO," John said, tossing McKay a magazine and heading for the range. "Stands for Double Action Only," he added, at McKay's confused look. "You still don't know what that means, why do you bother asking?"
"Double action means that the trigger cocks and releases the hammer with the same function," McKay said, and took up his position in front of the range. John stared at him, and McKay twisted over his shoulder to look at him. "What? I did some research. I like to know things."
"If you say so," John said, and lifted his gun. "You okay over there?"
"You're not going to show me how to use it?" McKay looked down at the gun in his hands, then back over at John.
John shrugged. "You got all the basics down with the Beretta. It's kind of point-and-click from there." And I don't want to look like I'm enjoying myself, he added silently. It was stupid of him to assume that his downright overt interest in McKay while they were at the firing range had gone unnoticed. What had started out as an attempt to get back at a mouthy civilian had totally and utterly backfired, and every night for weeks now, John had found himself jerking off in bed to the remembered feel of McKay's broad shoulders under his hands, or the tight curve of his ass pressed back against John's hips.
He shook himself and leveled his gun at the firing range. "All set? Fire at will."
They each let off several rounds, and John took pleasure in noting that he couldn't tell which hits on the target were his, and which were McKay's. The man's aim had improved by leaps and bounds in only a few weeks.
"Hey, Major?"
John adjusted his stance and looked over at McKay. "Yeah?"
McKay wasn't looking at him, and seemed to be still focused on the range. "Pilots in the Air Force have call signs, right?"
"Yeah." John chewed his lower lip and wondered where this was going.
"Are they nicknames like how we call the Marines 'grunts,' or how they call the scientists 'beakers?'"
John winced. Figured that it would get back to the scientists. "Hey, that's not a derogatory name, it's .... a term of endearment."
McKay snorted. "Yeah. Better than 'cannon-fodder.' That one's my favorite."
Figured they'd hear that, too. "McKay, you gotta understand how the soldiers on away teams feel about the civilians." Or how I assume they feel, John thought bitterly, thinking about his lone gate trip. "It's dangerous out there, and it's hard enough to watch your own back, but to have responsibility for a couple of untrained civilians --"
"No, no, I get it," McKay said, and squeezed off a second round. The paper target was in shreds. John couldn't help but feel a little pride at that. "We're just extra load."
"Hey," John said, flicking his safety back on. "This is a scientific expedition. The soldiers are here to watch your collective back."
McKay snorted. "Yeah? Tell that to Colonel This-Is-A-Military-Situation."
John sighed in sympathy, but felt he had to make the token effort at defending his commanding officer. "Look, Colonel Sumner's trying to make the best of a bad situation --"
"How?" McKay demanded, and fired again, then again. Both shots buried themselves in the back wall. "By locking down the gate? By only letting my scientists go to planets that have been scoured by your jarheads to make sure that there's nothing that could hurt us there -- and nothing worth investigating? How are we ever going to find a ZedPM at this rate, Major? For that matter, how are we going to get allies to trade with us for things like, oh, I don't know food?" McKay dropped his head and looked down at the ground, and John sighed, set his gun down, and went over to him.
"You've spoken to Doctor Weir about this, I'm guessing?" John said, laying a hand on McKay's shoulder and trying to ignore the little thrill that shivered up his spine.
"Twice a day, every day," McKay said bitterly. "She claims she has to defer to Sumner in off-world matters, but I think he's got her hands tied, just as much as he's tied mine." He turned and gestured, looking right at John, and John suddenly realized just how blue McKay's eyes were. "I know we can't overrule him when it comes to the military," he said forcefully, "but I'm just trying to look out for my team --"
"I get it," John said, and found himself suddenly understanding how much McKay really did look out for his team, and wasn't just out for his own interests in this mission. "I really do. I'll speak to her about it, okay?"
McKay snorted. "I'm not anticipating much good to come from that, but thank you for the effort." He straightened his back and lifted his chin, the motion that John had come to view as the patented I'm-Rodney-McKay-Now-Leave-Me-And-My-Brilliance-Alone move. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to practice my aim."
John couldn't help but smile. "Okay, okay," he said, stepping back and holding his hands up in front of him. "Go for it. Fire at will."
McKay lifted up his gun, flipped off the safety, let off a round, then looked over at John and said, "You promise you'll talk to Doctor Weir?"
"First thing this morning," John said. "After a shower, I mean."
The corner of McKay's mouth tugged up in a smile. "Okay. Um, thanks. Flyboy."
John grinned. "You're welcome, beaker."
===
"Doctor Weir!"
John caught up with her just as she was leaving her office. "Major Sheppard," she said, inclining her head. "I'm sorry, can it wait just a moment? I've got a large team off-world right now and they're late for their check-in."
"That's the triple-deployment, right?" John asked, and Weir nodded. John remembered the mission mostly for the amount of red-tape-induced headaches it had caused. Colonel Sumner had taken three gate teams, plus fourteen other assorted Marines and scientists, off-world to lay claim to an abandoned Ancient lab they'd found on a reconnaissance mission. It had taken McKay days to convince Sumner to bring along more than the standard brace of science team members. McKay himself had wound up going with them that morning, and John remembered looking down at the Gate Room from his standard place on the balcony, P-90 at the ready. McKay had turned and looked up at John, and when he'd caught John's eye, he'd waved, just a little. John had grinned and given him a head-nod back, and McKay had gone through the gate with one hand resting on his side-arm. "Mind if I come with?"
"You're welcome to," she said, and he followed her down to the Gate Room.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about the away teams," he said. "I've been training a lot of the scientists with the side-arms, and I think they're a valuable asset that we're not using."
"Is that so?" She gave him a distracted smile over her shoulder and leaned down to confer with one of the technicians. "Any word?"
"No ma'am," the tech said. "They're over fifteen minutes late."
Weir frowned. "That's very worrying," she said.
"We should dial in," John started, but was interrupted by the activation klaxon.
"Unscheduled off-world activation," the tech said. "Receiving IDC ... it's Sergeant Stackhouse, ma'am."
"Let it through," she ordered, and John watched the chevrons spin and the wormhole erupt into life.
"Atlantis! Doctor Weir! This is Sergeant Stackhouse." Stackhouse's voice came in over their headsets, clear and loud.
"We hear you, Sergeant," Weir said, bracing her hands on the balcony and leaning forward. "What's going --"
"Requesting immediate military backup and medical personnel," Stackhouse said. "We're taking fire --"
"What sort of weapons do they have, Sergeant?" John broke in. Weir shot him a look, but didn't say anything.
"Major Sheppard? They have primitive firearms, sir. Like muskets, and something they're shelling us with, and something like if a cannon and a flame-thrower had a baby."
"We'll send backup. What's your position and the state of the wounded?"
"They're holding behind a wooded ridge approximately one, one and a half klicks east of the Stargate, sir. Markham and Driscoll and two, three of the scientists, they've all been shot, or hit with shrapnel. They're alive, but --" There was a low whistling noise, like an incoming mortar. Stackhouse yelled, "Ending transmission, sir!" and the wormhole died.
John wheeled around and sprinted for the armory, half-reeling with full Dolby Digital Surround Sound, Technicolor visions of McKay lying shot full of holes on some alien planet. He jammed one hand on his radio and barked orders to Bates. "I want five -- no, eight Marines in full combat gear suited up in the gate room in thirty seconds, and I want a solid medical coverage team with them."
"Sir --"
John jammed his arms into a tac vest and snapped, "Bates, I'm really not in the mood for a pissing contest, so if you're going to argue with me, your orders are to go fuck yourself. Understand?"
There was silence on the radio for a long moment, and then Bates said, "Sir, I was only going to ask if you wanted heavy artillery support."
John exhaled and pressed his forehead against the wall of the armory, and tried not to think about McKay bleeding out, a million lightyears away. He'd only barely gotten to know the man in the last three weeks -- he had no reason to be losing his mind over this mission when McKay probably wasn't even hurt -- but several others were. He dragged in another lungful of air and said, "I'm sorry, Sergeant. No. No, I don't think that'll be necessary -- they're apparently fighting with muskets and a flame-thrower, but I think the ambush was what shocked our guys. Semi-automatics and grenades all around, though."
"Yes, sir. Meet you in the Gate Room, sir. Bates out."
The radio clicked off and John strapped his P-90 to his chest. Don't think about McKay, he willed himself. Just make sure that everyone is safe, and don't think about McKay.
===
The alien world didn't look anything like John had been expecting. Blue sky, green grass, yellow sun -- not an antennae-sporting alien in sight. The wormhole flashed out of existence behind them, and John twisted around, pretending he was counting heads but really watching the last flicker of the wormhole fade away. Traveling through space. Jesus. Why didn't he get to do this every day? Why only on the day when people were hurt and possibly dying and McKay was out there and also possibly hurt and dying and --
He exhaled slowly, trying to jam his brain back into some kind of order, and watched his breath dissipate into the freezing air around them. Bates gave him a cool look and John fought the urge to scuff his toes in the dirt. Maybe it was a good thing he'd been relegated to work as a human on-switch; he definitely wasn't fit for command, if all he could think about was one potentially-wounded scientist out of two dozen good men and women.
"Okay," John said loudly. "Thompson and Bates, you guys stay here with the med-evac team and guard the gate. The rest of you are with me. Bates, if I don't radio you within fifteen minutes, I want you to call Atlantis and request full support." Bates nodded, looking like he took John seriously, for once. John turned and looked around for a moment, and then heard the sharp, unmistakable echo of gunfire.
"It's coming from over there, sir," said one of the Marines, a kid named Ford, pointing over toward a forest. The trees were devoid of leaves, but it still looked like rough going.
"Of course it's through a forest," John muttered, and started jogging east. He spared a moment to be thankful for all those mornings he'd gone running with McKay, and hoped that there'd be more mornings just like that.
They ran through the trees for a few minutes, dead leaves and twigs crunching under their feet, John conscious every second of the imminent possibility of sprained ankles and branches to the head. Ford voiced his thoughts for him. "Wish we had a truck," he said. "Wish we had a big giant Hummer."
"If wishes were horses, Lieutenant," John said.
"So long as I'm wishing," Ford said, "then I wish for a spaceship."
"You and me both," John muttered, but Ford's response was drowned out by a high-pitched scream. It took John a moment to realize that it was the same whistle that had interrupted Stackhouse's transmission -- it just sounded about a thousand times deadlier in person. "Everybody down!" he ordered, and hit the ground just in time to feel the percussive impact as the mortar exploded, sending dirt and stones and branches flying. John felt shrapnel rain down on his head, then heard wood splintering and looked up.
"Fuck --" He rolled onto his knees and scrambled away, and heard the branch crack as it split all the way and fell to the ground not two inches from where he'd been lying a moment ago. He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, smearing dirt all over his face, and looked around. "Report," he barked.
"Ross and me are here," Ford called. "Uh, so's Adams, but he caught a branch with the back of his head and he looks woozy. And Nguyen and Koczynski kept running. They were out of the shell's range."
John fought the urge to smack his forehead and took a deep breath. At this rate, the attackers would have subdued their men, stolen their weapons, and built an entire new civilization by the time his team arrived for the grand rescue. "Jesus Christ. Okay, Ross, you take Adams back to the gate. Ford, follow me. We can't be far."
They weren't far at all, and could hear the gunfire from both sides. John nearly tripped over Koczynski lying on the ground a few hundred yards away. He dropped to his knees and hissed, "Explain, Lieutenant."
The Polish kid was pale to start with, but he went positively white under the force of John's glare. "Sir, they've got some kind of cannon set up that way," he whispered, jerking his head toward a thick stand of trees. "That's what they shelled us with. They're getting our guys now."
John glanced over at Ford and Nguyen, who was splayed flat on his belly and looked ready to crawl through the dirt like a jungle trooper. John sent up a swift prayer that the Marines behind the line had some vague idea of what they were doing, because his men sure didn't have the faintest clue. "Okay, new plan," John said, as though they'd ever had a plan to begin with. "Ford and Nguyen, you head north and take out whoever you come across, unless they belong to us. Meet up with the rest of the men behind the ridge. Koczynski, same plan, except we're headed south." John got to his feet and looked around. "Got it?"
The men nodded and John jerked his head. "Go!"
Ford and Nguyen took off running through the trees, and John helped Koczynski to his feet. "First off-world mission?" he couldn't help asking, and was unsurprised when Koczynski nodded. "Okay, let's go."
They circled around the stand where the trees were thickest, and John saw that Koczynski had been right -- they were definitely operating some kind of cannon out of there, probably because the trees were a natural barrier. John kept his P-90 cocked as they drew closer, until they were nearly level with the men scattered in a loose line through the trees, firing weapons that looked like they'd fallen off the back of a prop truck on the set of a bad Revolutionary War movie. "Koczynski?" John said quietly, and the young man nodded. "Stay put. I'm going to --"
There was a yell, and suddenly all the heads whose backs John had previously been examining were now turned and looking straight at him. "Oh, fuck," John said. "Run!"
They sprinted through the trees, running for the steep hill in front of them, and John heard thunk thunk thunk as bullets buried themselves in the tree trunks around him. He grabbed first a log, then a stump, and then somehow they'd made it and he was vaulting himself up over the top of the ridge and skidding down, banging his ass on what felt like every rock in God's green creation as he went.
He tumbled to a stop in the ditch at the bottom of the ridge, and lifted his head up out of the dirt and looked right into the wide blue eyes of Rodney McKay.
"Oh, thank God," John groaned, and dropped his forehead back to the ground.
"Major?" A hand curled around the back of his neck. "Did you get shot? Are you bleeding? What are you doing here?"
"Those questions seem kind of out of order," John said, and hauled himself into a sitting position. Rodney was crouched down next to him, his side-arm dangling from one hand between his knees. "What's going on?"
Rodney wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. His face was pale underneath all the grime and sweat. "We got ambushed," he said. "We were walking toward the lab when all of a sudden these, these people started firing guns and, and flaming balls of something at us, and then something that explodes when it hits the ground, and Sumner's unconscious and so are a bunch of my team, and weren't your guys supposed to be protecting us --"
John grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and shook him. "Focus," he hissed. "How many people are wounded?"
Rodney shook his head. "I -- I don't know. Two of the Marines fell when we first got attacked, and one of my team. Simpson and Collins are both unconscious, and two of the geologists are missing."
"Okay." John got to his feet and looked around. Several Marines were lying up at the top of the hill, and John's heart stopped for a moment before he realized that they were firing on the attackers. Six, maybe seven more people were clustered about two hundred feet away at the afar end of the ridge. John squinted, but only saw blue shirts, and hoped that Ford and Nguyen and Koczynski were up at the top of the hill.
"What are you doing way down here?" he asked Rodney, who looked around.
"There were two Marines here with me," he said. "I -- I don't know where they went."
John felt his jaw clench. "If they were under my command, I promise you, I'd find out who they were and bust them down so fast --"
Another scream broke the air, and the men at the other end dove for the dirt. John grabbed the front of Rodney's jacket and pulled him down on top of him, curling his body around Rodney's. The mortar hit and exploded and sent sharp pieces of rock raining down on them both. John grimaced as he felt cuts open up on his hands, but didn't move until Rodney shoved at him.
"They keep sending those over," Rodney said breathlessly. His face had a bit more color to it, John thought, a little giddy. Explosions always did that to him. "I think we could get away, I mean, those guys have, what, gunpowder muskets? But -- it's those whistling things that do a lot of damage."
"They're called shells, Rodney," John said, and checked the clip in his side-arm. He had a slightly hysterical thought and felt a grin split his face. Rodney gave him a strange look.
"What?"
"I just had a suicidal idea," John said.
Rodney threw up his hands and backed away. "I don't think this situation has quite gotten to the honor-killing point yet, Major --"
John cuffed him on the back of the head. "Calm down, McKay. I mean -- I think I know how to take out the shellers."
"How -- ack!"
John grabbed Rodney by the wrist and pulled him up the incline. "How much ammo do you have?" he asked.
"My clip is full, and I've got an extra in my tac vest. Why -- oh, no, no, no." Rodney yanked his arm out of John's grasp, then pinwheeled to keep from losing his balance and falling down the hill. John grabbed him and steadied him, and Rodney thanked him by shoving a finger in his face. "That is more than suicidal -- that's just plain stupid. There are five guys down there --" Rodney flung his hand back toward the group at the far end. "Why don't you take one of them and carry out this insane excuse for a plan?"
"Because I trust you, and also because all those men are scientists," John said, and let go of Rodney's jacket. "Come on, follow me."
They climbed to the top of the ridge and squatted down behind its peak. John could feel Rodney pressed up tight against him, a solid bulk of warmth from shoulder to knee, and willed himself to focus. He waited until the first whistle of an incoming mortar, then launched himself to his feet and over the hill, scrambling down the way he'd first come up. Rodney was cursing under his breath at his side, but at least he was keeping up. They hit the bottom of the hill and ran for the cover of the next stand of trees, bullets whizzing past so close that John could feel the breeze they left in their wake.
Rodney reached the trees and tumbled to the ground, clutching his chest. "I'm going to die," he wheezed. "I'm going to die of a heart attack and it's all your fault."
John nudged him with his boot. "Get up, you're fine, you're in the best shape of your life since I made you start running, I guarantee it."
Rodney climbed to his feet, glaring at him. "I hate you so much," he said. "Somehow, this whole fucked up mission is entirely your fault. I know it."
"Small chance of that," John said. "Listen, we're going to basically run out behind their line right now, and the plan really isn't anything more than shoot the guys firing the shells before they shoot us." Rodney opened his mouth to say something, but John grabbed his arm and held up a finger. "So I'm going to say this, and you're not going to say anything, then we're going to run out there, got it?"
Rodney nodded, wide-eyed and silent for the first time.
"I think you're a loudmouth and a hard-ass and you need to remember your scientists' names," John said. "I think you're oblivious and egotistical and a complete genius, and there isn't anyone else in the world I'd want at my back more than you right now."
"Oh my god, we're going to die," Rodney said.
John grinned at him. "Most likely," he said, then pulled Rodney toward him and pressed a hard, fast kiss to his mouth. "So long, Rodney," he said, then sprinted out of the trees, firing blindly toward the line of men.
That's all he remembered. After that, it went white.
===
John heard the door open and knew who it was without turning to look. "Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun," he said, lifting it to his shoulder. "Fires nine millimeter rounds, modifies to semiautomatic and fully automatic, and fires thirteen rounds a second."
There was silence for a long minute. "None of that means anything to me," Rodney finally said.
"I know," John said, and flicked the safety on. "I was just showing off." He dropped the gun to his side and looked over at Rodney, who was leaning against the door.
Rodney looked back at him, then said, "Well, no, I understood the thirteen rounds a second part." He paused for a moment, then added, "That's about eight hundred rounds per minute."
John felt himself smile against his will. "Yeah," he said. "That's right."
"I didn't really think you'd be down here," Rodney said. "I mean, firing guns has to hurt your shoulder and everything."
John shrugged. "It's this shoulder," he said, tapping his left one. "I take the impact with my right."
"I know," Rodney said. He picked at his fingernails for a minute, then said, "Sorry I didn't come by."
John turned back to the range and lifted the MP5 to his shoulder again. "I figured you had your reasons," he said. "I was asleep most of the time, anyway."
"I did come by," Rodney said. "Just not while you were awake."
John felt the corner of his mouth twist up in a little smile. "I know," he said. "The nurses told me."
"Those lying witches," Rodney muttered, and John's smile spread over his whole face. "What else did they tell you?"
"Not much," John said, and flicked off the safety. The paper target was utterly still in the dead air of the range, and he let his eyes trace over it for a moment before squeezing down on the trigger and letting off a very satisfying round. "Ford and Sumner told me a lot, though," he said, watching the newly shredded target flutter.
"Yeah?" Rodney said. John heard him come up behind him, but it was still a shock when Rodney's hands settled onto his hips. He tried very hard not to breathe. "What did they say?"
John turned on the safety. "That I ran out there like a man with a death wish," he said. "That I shot five guys and killed the sheller before I caught a bullet with my shoulder and went down. That you came out three steps behind me and killed the rest."
Rodney's fingers spasmed on John's hips, then traced up and around the waistband of his pants, before hooking into his front pockets. "I guess that's right," Rodney said. John stiffened as Rodney leaned in and pressed his nose to John's hair, and inhaled.
"What -- what are you doing?"
"You used to do this to me," Rodney said. John could feel Rodney's breath ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck. "You used to stand behind me and lean in and -- and breathe instructions in my ear and I always wondered what it felt like from your end, moving me like a puppet and telling me ..." He trailed off, and John felt the softest brush of lips against the side of his neck before Rodney's hands came up and lifted the gun out of his grasp, and set it down on the floor, out of the way.
"Rodney," John said quietly.
"You stood behind me and lectured me," Rodney said. The pads of his fingers skimmed lightly over the skin between John's t-shirt and his pants. "Told me the nicknames you have for each other in your military, and -- and that you're a flyboy."
"Glad you remembered," John managed.
""I wanted to know ..." Rodney's arms circled around his waist and pulled him close, snugging his ass back against Rodney's hips.
"Rodney," John said, and let his hands settle over Rodney's wrists.
"Do you remember what you did before you ran out there?" Rodney asked, resting his cheek on John's shoulder. There was a sharp flare of pain before it settled back into the familiar dull ache.
John's eyes fluttered closed. "I kissed you," he said. Rodney's arms tightened around him and he squirmed a little, helplessly, pushing back against him. He heard Rodney let out a little choked-off gasp before his hips twitched and pressed against John's ass. John reached behind him and grabbed Rodney's thighs, digging his fingers in hard. "I told you that I wanted you at my back, and I kissed you."
"Right," Rodney said. He turned his face and pressed it against John's shoulder, and John could feel his breathing quicken as his hips jerked forward again, and again. John's throat tightened at the hard press of Rodney's erection against his ass, and he let his mouth fall open and his tongue swipe over his lower lip. "And -- and then you said --"
"So long, Rodney," John said, and let out a groan as Rodney's hand dropped down and squeezed his cock through his pants. "Ah --"
"I ran after you so I could make sure you wouldn't die," Rodney said, and kissed the side of John's neck. John inhaled sharply and tried to remember why this was a very bad idea. "I wanted to have the privilege of killing you myself. I mean -- so long, Rodney?"
"It wasn't -- oh, oh, fuck --" John dropped his head back to Rodney's shoulder and tightened his hands on his thighs as Rodney undid the fly on John's pants and slipped his hand inside.
"It wasn't meant to be a goodbye? I'd certainly hope not, Major." Rodney thrust his hips forward and squeezed John's cock, and John wrenched forward out of Rodney's grasp, then twisted around and grabbed the back of his neck and held him still as he kissed him, pressing their mouths together for a hard, fast second before Rodney's lips parted and John slipped the tip of his tongue against the corner of his mouth. He heard Rodney moan and dropped a hand down between their bodies to curl around the bulge in Rodney's pants.
"Listen," he said against Rodney's mouth. "I meant what I said."
Rodney laughed a little and kissed him again, pushing forward into John's hand. "God -- about me being egotistical and a hard-ass and --"
"Yeah," John said, pulling back and grinning. God, Rodney made him feel stupid and giddy -- like explosions and adrenaline, in the best possible way. "But I meant it about wanting you at my back, too."
Rodney groaned and let his head fall to John's shoulder -- his good shoulder this time, he noted. "Please don't let that be the set-up for a bad joke along the lines of, 'But I want you on my back even more,' or something that you'll probably find hilarious and will make me want to smack you."
John found himself laughing, and Rodney butted his head against his shoulder and slapped a hand against his thigh and said, "Come on, come on, your hand was on my cock a second ago, what happened to that?" John hummed in assent and let his fingers trace over the outline of Rodney's cock through his pants, and Rodney said, "God, I'm never letting you do that again."
John's hand stilled and he felt his stomach drop. "What, I thought you wanted --"
Rodney slapped his thigh again. "No, idiot, keep doing that. I meant about -- about running out in front of lots of men with guns who want to kill you, and, and giving me some big revelation right before you think you're going to die -- I'm never letting you die."
John laughed and held Rodney's face between his hands as he kissed him, then leaned back and said, "Good luck with that one, Rodney."
"No, I mean --" Rodney's mouth twisted and John recognized the expression that meant Rodney was trying to find some way to say exactly what he meant without giving John any room to wiggle out of it. "I'm never letting you die like that," he said, and his hands were tight and possessive on John's hips. "I'll -- you're not going to stay on the ground. You're a flyboy, right, that's what you said, so I'll -- I'll build you a plane. I'll build you a spaceship."
John grinned so hard he forgot to breathe. "Rodney?"
Rodney lifted his eyes and met John's -- clear and blue and bright. "Yeah?"
"Now you're just showing off." He kissed Rodney hard and pulled him close, and felt him start to laugh. Rodney deserved to show off, John decided, and kissed him again.