.2-second gratuitous McKay/Sheppard ficlet
This doesn't even have a title because I wrote it in two seconds, under the combined influence of foxxcub (whose very brilliant idea provided the seed for this) and sheafrotherdon who wanted to see more on a related topic RIGHT NOW.
Involves beach volleyball, mostly as an excuse to get John's shirt off in the sunlight.
"Volleyball? What do you mean, volleyball?"
"It's an English word, Rodney." John twirls the volleyball on the tip of his finger. Satisfyingly, it makes about three revolutions before falling off and bouncing awkwardly off John's thigh when he reaches for it.
"Yes, but... volleyball?"
John shrugs. "We haven't been out to the mainland a lot lately, and I thought I'd teach Teyla and Ronon how to play."
Privately, Rodney thinks it's bad enough John's exposed them golf, but John's wearing his "You're my team and you do what I say" look, which is very authoritative and distracting, so Rodney resigns himself to a day of sand and sunburn and fending off John's attempts to make him play.
Once they're there, he parks himself on a towel with his SPF-100 sunscreen and water bottle and watches appreciatively as John strips off his shirt, leaving him in khaki cutoffs and sunglasses, and did... Rodney blinks, in case the sun's messing with his vision, but it isn't: John's tan is everywhere, running down his chest and stomach to where the cutoffs ride precariously on his hips, and Rodney's willing to bet it keeps going, too.
John starts to go over the rules, which flow over Rodney in a meaningless wave of drawling and patient explanation as he pretends to focus on his data tablet. The flex and give of John's muscles as he moves slowly to demonstrate, sunlight playing over his skin and catching in the dogtags on his chest, an absent hand pulling up khakis bent on falling off. (Because John isn't wearing boxers oh God.) Rodney gulps down half his water bottle.
They've started a game, Rodney successfully resisting John's attempts to pull him in, thank God because John in real-time is even better, everything hiding under t-shirts and tac vests stripped bare, only muscle and movement and sun gilding all of it as he twists and dives and comes up with a mouthful of sand and laughter.
Then Ronon returns John's volley with a vicious spike that connects with John's forehead instead of the hand he has upraised to deflect the blow, and Rodney, Rodney can move like the wind when he needs to, so he's by John's side in a second, glowering Ronon away and batting down John's inquisitive hands.
"I ask you, why does all that hair not protect you better?" He scowls down at his own reflection in John's sunglasses. "Seriously, it's practically shellacked."
"Ow," John mutters.
"Don't move," Rodney snaps. "Ronon probably drove part of your skull into your under-utilized temporal lobe." He turns to shout orders at Teyla to go to the puddle jumper and get... get stuff and Ronon to go do something other than try to kill people.
"I'll try," Ronon says, and follows Teyla.
So they're alone under the Pegasus version of a palm tree with John's impromptu volleyball net flapping in the breeze. John's cheek is warm and rough with sand and stubble against Rodney's knee.
"You're pretty good," Rodney says, after .9 seconds of unbearable silence.
"Thanks." John pauses. "Wait. You were watching?" Rodney doesn't need to say anything; John already looks far too victorious for a man with bone fragments lodged in his brain. "You were! You were watching."
"All three of you," Rodney says, not as forcefully as he would have liked. "And the concussion is making you hallucinate, so be quiet."
"You were." John says this quietly but with conviction. "We're going to... um, talk about this later, McKay."
The leer is visible even behind the outsized aviator glasses and Rodney almost smacks him in the head, but oh yeah, concussion, and settles for huffing and poking John's shoulder, which is sun-warm and firm and sleek under the sand.
-end-
Now with off-the-cuff comment!fic. What happens on the way back to the jumper.
Involves beach volleyball, mostly as an excuse to get John's shirt off in the sunlight.
"Volleyball? What do you mean, volleyball?"
"It's an English word, Rodney." John twirls the volleyball on the tip of his finger. Satisfyingly, it makes about three revolutions before falling off and bouncing awkwardly off John's thigh when he reaches for it.
"Yes, but... volleyball?"
John shrugs. "We haven't been out to the mainland a lot lately, and I thought I'd teach Teyla and Ronon how to play."
Privately, Rodney thinks it's bad enough John's exposed them golf, but John's wearing his "You're my team and you do what I say" look, which is very authoritative and distracting, so Rodney resigns himself to a day of sand and sunburn and fending off John's attempts to make him play.
Once they're there, he parks himself on a towel with his SPF-100 sunscreen and water bottle and watches appreciatively as John strips off his shirt, leaving him in khaki cutoffs and sunglasses, and did... Rodney blinks, in case the sun's messing with his vision, but it isn't: John's tan is everywhere, running down his chest and stomach to where the cutoffs ride precariously on his hips, and Rodney's willing to bet it keeps going, too.
John starts to go over the rules, which flow over Rodney in a meaningless wave of drawling and patient explanation as he pretends to focus on his data tablet. The flex and give of John's muscles as he moves slowly to demonstrate, sunlight playing over his skin and catching in the dogtags on his chest, an absent hand pulling up khakis bent on falling off. (Because John isn't wearing boxers oh God.) Rodney gulps down half his water bottle.
They've started a game, Rodney successfully resisting John's attempts to pull him in, thank God because John in real-time is even better, everything hiding under t-shirts and tac vests stripped bare, only muscle and movement and sun gilding all of it as he twists and dives and comes up with a mouthful of sand and laughter.
Then Ronon returns John's volley with a vicious spike that connects with John's forehead instead of the hand he has upraised to deflect the blow, and Rodney, Rodney can move like the wind when he needs to, so he's by John's side in a second, glowering Ronon away and batting down John's inquisitive hands.
"I ask you, why does all that hair not protect you better?" He scowls down at his own reflection in John's sunglasses. "Seriously, it's practically shellacked."
"Ow," John mutters.
"Don't move," Rodney snaps. "Ronon probably drove part of your skull into your under-utilized temporal lobe." He turns to shout orders at Teyla to go to the puddle jumper and get... get stuff and Ronon to go do something other than try to kill people.
"I'll try," Ronon says, and follows Teyla.
So they're alone under the Pegasus version of a palm tree with John's impromptu volleyball net flapping in the breeze. John's cheek is warm and rough with sand and stubble against Rodney's knee.
"You're pretty good," Rodney says, after .9 seconds of unbearable silence.
"Thanks." John pauses. "Wait. You were watching?" Rodney doesn't need to say anything; John already looks far too victorious for a man with bone fragments lodged in his brain. "You were! You were watching."
"All three of you," Rodney says, not as forcefully as he would have liked. "And the concussion is making you hallucinate, so be quiet."
"You were." John says this quietly but with conviction. "We're going to... um, talk about this later, McKay."
The leer is visible even behind the outsized aviator glasses and Rodney almost smacks him in the head, but oh yeah, concussion, and settles for huffing and poking John's shoulder, which is sun-warm and firm and sleek under the sand.
-end-
Now with off-the-cuff comment!fic. What happens on the way back to the jumper.