Happy Birthday!
I wrote you a fic but I ated it couldn't finish it on time. So instead, let's play Birthday Fic Choose Your Own Adventure! You control the story! After all, there's no one more suited to guiding John and Rodney to a happy ending than you!
United States of Hysteria, Part I
The problem was Rodney could never say no to her. Sure, he would try, blustering his way through arguments that always ended with him giving in without even realizing he had. No wonder Jeannie had liked her. Because on second thought, yes, that's what the real problem was: that ever since he had, like any sensible foreigner living in the United States of Hysteria, returned home to Vancouver, Jeannie had come to think it was her god-given sisterly duty to set him up on blind dates. None of these dates ever worked out-mostly, as Rodney posed at dinner one night, because Jeannie had a tendency to set her brother up not with ladies suited to his preferences (blonde, feisty, regrettably far away) but with women she would want to date if she were a lesbian, and was there perhaps something she wanted to share? Which caused Jeannie to roll her eyes at him, Kaleb to look a little too intrigued and thus earn a gentle kick from his wife under the table, and Madison to ask pipingly, "What's a lesbian?"
Oddly, Rodney still got invited to his sister's house quite regularly. He had a hard time saying no to those invitations, too.
But not as hard a time as he had saying no to Teyla. It had started on the first date they went on, courtesy of Jeannie's leaves-something-to-be-desired matchmaking skills. Not that Teyla, arriving at the restaurant sexy and confident in a sleek purple dress, left much of anything to be desired, really. She was gorgeous. She listened to him babble with at least a passable imitation of interest. She had an amazing smile, and the stirrings of a sly sense of humor, and she didn't get too mad when she told him she was an assistant director at the North American Refugee Centre and his first response was to snort and inform her that her organization surely had the worst acronym he'd ever heard outside of a bad spy show. But then at the end of the night, after she'd insisted on paying half the check and before (in Rodney's head) he slipped her coat over her shoulders and gave her a goodnight kiss that left her physically aching to see more of him (perhaps right away, in the back seat of his car?), she'd leaned across the table, taking his hand in her slim, cool one, and said, "Rodney. I've had such a good time, but I'm not really in a place where I can be in a relationship right now. Can we still be friends?"
No. No, he did not want to "still be friends," because while Rodney was many things (an unmatched genius; somewhat wasted in Canada but much too smart and fond of his own skin to go back to the somewhat financially greener but far too likely to implode pastures down south; a bit of a hypochondriac), he was not a masochist.
He opened his mouth to tell Teyla as much, but when he saw her smile, warm and sincere, the words sputtered and died. And instead he said, "Sure."
Teyla was so damnably hard to say no to. He should have, he thought now, just called her a dumb brunette when he had the chance and made his escape. Because now it was too late. Teyla liked him. And she no longer took him seriously when he said, "Are you out of your mind? No way!"
She didn't yell back. That was part of what gave her her secret powers, Rodney deduced-she never yelled, and yelling (any but his own) was what the bulk of his childhood had trained him to ignore. Instead she just sighed and looked vaguely disappointed in him. "Rodney," she said, "Don't you care about what's going on in the world? As Canadians, we're extraordinarily lucky; we're in a position where we can really help people, really do some good. You could save someone's life."
Rodney could have reasonably argued that what she was proposing would distract him from vital research that could one day positively impact the lives of every person on the planet. Instead he chose to splutter, "You're asking me to prostitute myself!"
Teyla rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not. And anyway, I'm signing up for the program, too."
"Oh, that makes it so much better," Rodney said. Which apparently qualified as a yes.
Kaleb did a spit take when Rodney shared what Teyla had talked him into doing, which taught Madison some important lessons about what happened to partially-masticated tofu when it splattered. Jeannie, meanwhile, paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and blinked several times before saying, "So, wait. Teyla-Teyla Emmagan-is basically hooking you up with a mail-order bride?"
"It's for a good cause!" Rodney reminded her, blushing.
"What's a mail-order bride?" Madison asked.
Teyla had also requested that Rodney ask any single, trustworthy work colleagues if they'd be willing to participate in NARC's program. ("I'm sorry, give me a minute, but that's just the worst acronym ever." "Take your time, Rodney.") Even without Teyla watching over his shoulder like an overgrown (and much more attractive) Jiminy Cricket, Rodney apparently couldn't wiggle out of this request, either, which was how he found himself accompanied to the program's first meeting by a fellow scientist whom Rodney had previously referred to as "that Czech guy," even though the guy-whose name was apparently Radek Zelenka-was in fact a Canadian citizen and had actually spent more time living in the country than Rodney had.
There were coffee and doughnuts set up at one side of the conference room and Rodney quickly availed himself of them. He was still licking jelly off his fingers when Teyla called the meeting to order and proceeded to explain what a good thing they were doing by being here tonight. There were thousands-if not more-American refugees who had illegally crossed the border and were now living in danger of deportation-not to mention whatever worse fate awaited them in their home country. Much to the distress of Teyla and everyone else at NARC (Rodney snorted and elbowed Zelenka, who seemed to war with being amused or remaining appropriately grave) the Canadian government had set a cap on the number who could easily become citizens.
"The alternatives proposed by Parliament-the overly-complicated points system which I'm sure you've all read about, plus a lesser-known-but no less real-suggestion that special camps be set up for the refugees in the Yukon-are so far from adequate that we're falling back on other measures." Teyla had a great speaking presence, Rodney had to admit: authoritative but friendly. "This is not an official program," she continued. "You won't find it on any of the Centre's budget plans or schedules. But it's very important to us, and we're very grateful to you all for agreeing to participate. Now, Chuck's going to pass around some paperwork we need you to fill out, and meanwhile, I'll get started answering any questions you might have."
Rodney mostly ignored the dumb clarifying questions of people who'd been too stupid to pay attention and focused on the stack of forms he was handed along with a pen and a clipboard. He signed a release and a "non-disclosure pledge"-he noted the slightly less-than-assertive language, most likely due to the fact that what they were planning was essentially illegal, leaving the organizers with little recourse in court. Much more interesting to him, however, was the clipped group of pages labeled "Personality Profile and Preferences." As Teyla explained, while the organization was in no way actually matchmaking, the various pairs would be required to cohabitate, and it would be better for all concerned if the resulting newlyweds weren't at each other's throats. Rodney scribbled some good starting points on to the form, and was about to raise his hand and loudly ask where was the appropriate space to write "Sexy blonde," when it suddenly hit him: as far as he knew, Sam very well could be one of the refugees. She had, after all, always been very outspoken...
He felt suddenly cold, the room suddenly claustrophobically small. For all he knew, she could be a political prisoner, locked in a tiny cell somewhere. She could be-
Rodney filled out the rest of the form as quickly and as honestly as he could.
He didn't think about it much over the next few weeks. He tried not to think about the situation "down south," as so many people called it now-as if the old name suddenly had a new twisted power, like it was the frickin' United States of Voldemort. He had gotten out while the getting was good, like any intelligent person would have, and he had a new life now, a steady university job. He had a much better relationship with his sister than he had ever thought possible, and he had gorgeous, amazing, passionate friends like Teyla, who didn't want to date him but were apparently perfectly happy to marry him off to some other random person.
"About that," said Teyla, over lunch one day. Rodney had momentarily paused in complaining about how Radek, who had apparently taken Rodney's inviting him to participate in a secret, illegal, immigration law-thwarting nuptials scheme to mean that they were now friends, and who had known his new bride-to-be for all of three days, was already filling up valuable research time with constant talk about how wonderful and smart and funny she was-"And Rodney, let me tell you, she is also a very beautiful woman"-and asking Rodney if he would be the best man at the wedding, like it was real or something. "Anyway, it's ridiculous and very annoying, and when am I going to get my beautiful and grateful refugee bride, huh, Teyla? It's been almost a month!"
At which point Teyla said, "About that," and Rodney realized that she must have come to her senses and decided not to use him after all.
But instead of just telling him (and hello, it's not like he would be offended; he hadn't wanted to do this in the first place), she started talking about how there was a bit of a discrepancy between the candidates and the volunteers-there was a greater number of men in each group, and therefore-
Rodney said, "Wait. What?"
"Just based on your personality profiles, the best match for you is one of our male candidates-"
"Teyla!" His throat started to feel tight, like the idiot waiter had accidentally slipped a slice of lemon into the water glass.
"-And he's in particular danger if he gets caught; he's a former member of their military, an Air Force Major who spoke out-"
Rodney stopped hyperventilating for a moment. "Did you say an Air Force Major?"
Teyla nodded.
Rodney paused, looking down at his half-eaten pasta. He didn't believe in fate or symbolism or any of that other English major crap Kaleb liked to blather on about. But then again. But then again-he hated feeling helpless, and he wanted to do something for Sam. In some strange, roundabout way that would never make sense if he ever actually tried to explain it-this was something he could do for Sam.
And for Teyla. And for...whatever the guy's name was.
"All right, fine," he said, sighing heavily. "But you totally owe me."
"I'll buy you flowers for the wedding," Teyla said, smiling with her whole face. "I'll bake you a cake."
Rodney narrowed his eyes. "You owe me something that won't give me, the br-the other groom, and the entire wedding party crippling stomach cramps."
Teyla leaned across the table and kissed his cheek, which, considering that it was farther than he got the entire (brief but memorable) time they were dating, Rodney figured was a pretty good start.
Rodney's mail-order-only-in-the-sense-that-sometimes-those-companies-got-the-order-totally-wrong-and-didn't-include-a-packing-slip-and-also-had-terrible-customer-service-usually-based-in-India refugee immigrant husband arrived bearing a small backpack, the worn clothes on his back (all black), and a grim expression. He was escorted by Teyla's assistant Chuck, who Rodney would have sworn was smirking at him, except Teyla had already told him that Chuck had volunteered to take one of the other "extra" male refugees. Which, actually, didn't disqualify him from smirking anyway, but if he was in fact gloating, he didn't linger to do it. He merely said, "Rodney McKay, this is John Sheppard; John Sheppard, Rodney McKay."
"Doctor Rodney McKay," Rodney couldn't stop himself from correcting, so the first real display of emotion his saw his future husband make took the form of an eyeroll.
"I'll leave you two to get to know each other," said Chuck. He left, presumably to go get to better know his own future hubby. He probably had team-building-type activities planned, the little boy scout. Rodney scowled.
Then he realized that he and Sheppard-no, no: John; if they were going to be married they'd probably also have to be on a first name basis-were both still standing out on the stoop like idiots. "Well, come on in," Rodney said, and John said "Thanks" in a way that made Rodney mentally cross "grateful" off the list of characteristics he'd been hoping for, right after "female."
This was sure going well.
Lacking any idea of what else he was supposed to do with him, Rodney gave John a quick tour. The kitchen and living room seemed to go over okay (John even seemed mildly intrigued by Rodney's selection of DVDs and cheesy sci-fi novels), but Rodney felt a deep pall of awkwardness settle over them when they got to the bedroom. "So this is, um." Rodney swallowed. "I have a bad back, I need a prescription mattress, otherwise I'd offer to take the couch every other night or something, but maybe we can get you, I don't know, like, a foldaway cot or a trundle bed; I wish there were a guest room, I told the realtor I wanted a house with a guest room, but you know what the Vancouver housing market is like, I was lucky not to get a place with a leftover grow-op choking the basement and all the available closet space..." He trailed off, sensing John's pronounced silence. He coughed and pointed to the bureau. "I, uh, cleared out a drawer for you."
"Gee," said John, hoisting up the backpack by one finger, "I sure hope there's room for all my stuff."
Rodney wasn't really sure if this was the type of joke he was supposed to laugh at or not. Maybe he should have paid more attention during Teyla's Q&A.
He walked forward and opened the drawer for John with a little Vanna White flourish that made him wince even as he performed it. Then he stepped back and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot while John carelessly pulled his few items of clothing (they were also all black, Rodney noticed, except for the boxers, which were blue-and at that he carefully jerked his eyes away) out of the backpack and stuffed them just as carelessly into the drawer. So much for the obsessive military neatness he'd always heard about.
John pushed the drawer closed with his hip, turning to face Rodney with the limp backpack in one hand and a large hardcover book that had apparently been at the bottom in the other. Rodney tilted his head and squinted nosily; apparently, John's "fleeing across the border" reading material choice was War and Peace. Rodney wondered if this was supposed to be ironic.
John eyed him, his face deceptively blank, though Rodney could tell he was being sized up. "Would you like me to cook dinner for you?" John said finally. "Or do something else?"
Rodney swallowed heavily. He was pretty sure John didn't mean it like that, but this whole conversation was making him hugely uncomfortable. Rodney was apparently going to have to start spending way more time at the university; maybe he could even move a cot into his office? He could get Teyla to pay for it, and help haul it up the stairs.
But first, to deal with the problem at hand. "No, that's fine," Rodney said firmly. (Although secretly the "someone cooking for him" part didn't sound so bad. Maybe later, after the whole situation had stopped seeming so deeply creepy.) "I actually kind of feel like pizza. You like pizza, don't you?" Everyone liked pizza. Even way-too-intense American exiles, Rodney would bet.
John seemed to consider this for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "Do you like lots of anchovies and pineapple on it?"
Rodney knew the politic thing, considering this was his future (fake) husband he was dealing with, would be to say, "I'm willing to try it," or "You can get that on your half," or "How 'bout two pizzas?" However, he'd about reached his limit of politic behavior for the day, starting when he hadn't opened the door shouting, "Breasts! Was it too much to ask that I be fake-married to an American refugee with breasts?" So he felt his face wrinkle up and he heard himself say, "About as much as I like eating week-old road kill."
To his surprise, John grinned. "Okay, good. I guess I can marry you after all, then."
They got pepperoni and sausage, which they ate while drinking a couple of beers (John nearly swooned) and watching some Canadian TV shows John had never heard of and that Rodney felt the need to educate him on. "The Vancouver film industry has practically tripled in size since, um..." Rodney broke off, suddenly embarrassed again. It surprised him, mostly because of how deeply it contrasted how much he'd actually started to relax in the last hour. But John just shrugged off the awkward silence and said, levelly, "You have no idea how nice it is to watch something that isn't produced by the Parents Television Council." And they left it at that.
After dinner, Rodney took out some work he needed to catch up on, but he left John the remote and couldn't help stealing occasional glimpses at his face as he flipped around and marveled at Canadian broadcasting's finest. "I can't believe you're watching Degrassi," Rodney said.
John looked positively rapt. "A character on this show just got an abortion. A high school girl on this show just got an abortion, and she's not being..."
Rodney sucked in a mouthful of air. He hadn't even thought about how different- "Do you want to watch something else?"
"No, no, this is great!" The tips of John's ears pinked lightly. "I mean, not that teenage pregnancy is great, but that you're...you're talking about it..."
It wasn't anything Rodney had done; it wasn't anything he'd even ever really thought or cared about. But he found himself nodding, and when he later pulled the cushions off the couch and brought John pillows and a couple blankets, John looked at him and said "Thank you" like he really meant it. Rodney went into the other room and lay on his cool, wide, prescription mattress, where he stared at the ceiling and felt guilty and proud, both warm in the center of his belly and deeply chilled-completely and utterly confused.
TBC…according to your whims! So, Birthday Girl, what would you like to have happen next? (Anyone can make suggestions, but in this land, Cate’s word is THE LAW.)
P.S. Have this birthday song of win.
United States of Hysteria, Part I
The problem was Rodney could never say no to her. Sure, he would try, blustering his way through arguments that always ended with him giving in without even realizing he had. No wonder Jeannie had liked her. Because on second thought, yes, that's what the real problem was: that ever since he had, like any sensible foreigner living in the United States of Hysteria, returned home to Vancouver, Jeannie had come to think it was her god-given sisterly duty to set him up on blind dates. None of these dates ever worked out-mostly, as Rodney posed at dinner one night, because Jeannie had a tendency to set her brother up not with ladies suited to his preferences (blonde, feisty, regrettably far away) but with women she would want to date if she were a lesbian, and was there perhaps something she wanted to share? Which caused Jeannie to roll her eyes at him, Kaleb to look a little too intrigued and thus earn a gentle kick from his wife under the table, and Madison to ask pipingly, "What's a lesbian?"
Oddly, Rodney still got invited to his sister's house quite regularly. He had a hard time saying no to those invitations, too.
But not as hard a time as he had saying no to Teyla. It had started on the first date they went on, courtesy of Jeannie's leaves-something-to-be-desired matchmaking skills. Not that Teyla, arriving at the restaurant sexy and confident in a sleek purple dress, left much of anything to be desired, really. She was gorgeous. She listened to him babble with at least a passable imitation of interest. She had an amazing smile, and the stirrings of a sly sense of humor, and she didn't get too mad when she told him she was an assistant director at the North American Refugee Centre and his first response was to snort and inform her that her organization surely had the worst acronym he'd ever heard outside of a bad spy show. But then at the end of the night, after she'd insisted on paying half the check and before (in Rodney's head) he slipped her coat over her shoulders and gave her a goodnight kiss that left her physically aching to see more of him (perhaps right away, in the back seat of his car?), she'd leaned across the table, taking his hand in her slim, cool one, and said, "Rodney. I've had such a good time, but I'm not really in a place where I can be in a relationship right now. Can we still be friends?"
No. No, he did not want to "still be friends," because while Rodney was many things (an unmatched genius; somewhat wasted in Canada but much too smart and fond of his own skin to go back to the somewhat financially greener but far too likely to implode pastures down south; a bit of a hypochondriac), he was not a masochist.
He opened his mouth to tell Teyla as much, but when he saw her smile, warm and sincere, the words sputtered and died. And instead he said, "Sure."
Teyla was so damnably hard to say no to. He should have, he thought now, just called her a dumb brunette when he had the chance and made his escape. Because now it was too late. Teyla liked him. And she no longer took him seriously when he said, "Are you out of your mind? No way!"
She didn't yell back. That was part of what gave her her secret powers, Rodney deduced-she never yelled, and yelling (any but his own) was what the bulk of his childhood had trained him to ignore. Instead she just sighed and looked vaguely disappointed in him. "Rodney," she said, "Don't you care about what's going on in the world? As Canadians, we're extraordinarily lucky; we're in a position where we can really help people, really do some good. You could save someone's life."
Rodney could have reasonably argued that what she was proposing would distract him from vital research that could one day positively impact the lives of every person on the planet. Instead he chose to splutter, "You're asking me to prostitute myself!"
Teyla rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not. And anyway, I'm signing up for the program, too."
"Oh, that makes it so much better," Rodney said. Which apparently qualified as a yes.
Kaleb did a spit take when Rodney shared what Teyla had talked him into doing, which taught Madison some important lessons about what happened to partially-masticated tofu when it splattered. Jeannie, meanwhile, paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and blinked several times before saying, "So, wait. Teyla-Teyla Emmagan-is basically hooking you up with a mail-order bride?"
"It's for a good cause!" Rodney reminded her, blushing.
"What's a mail-order bride?" Madison asked.
Teyla had also requested that Rodney ask any single, trustworthy work colleagues if they'd be willing to participate in NARC's program. ("I'm sorry, give me a minute, but that's just the worst acronym ever." "Take your time, Rodney.") Even without Teyla watching over his shoulder like an overgrown (and much more attractive) Jiminy Cricket, Rodney apparently couldn't wiggle out of this request, either, which was how he found himself accompanied to the program's first meeting by a fellow scientist whom Rodney had previously referred to as "that Czech guy," even though the guy-whose name was apparently Radek Zelenka-was in fact a Canadian citizen and had actually spent more time living in the country than Rodney had.
There were coffee and doughnuts set up at one side of the conference room and Rodney quickly availed himself of them. He was still licking jelly off his fingers when Teyla called the meeting to order and proceeded to explain what a good thing they were doing by being here tonight. There were thousands-if not more-American refugees who had illegally crossed the border and were now living in danger of deportation-not to mention whatever worse fate awaited them in their home country. Much to the distress of Teyla and everyone else at NARC (Rodney snorted and elbowed Zelenka, who seemed to war with being amused or remaining appropriately grave) the Canadian government had set a cap on the number who could easily become citizens.
"The alternatives proposed by Parliament-the overly-complicated points system which I'm sure you've all read about, plus a lesser-known-but no less real-suggestion that special camps be set up for the refugees in the Yukon-are so far from adequate that we're falling back on other measures." Teyla had a great speaking presence, Rodney had to admit: authoritative but friendly. "This is not an official program," she continued. "You won't find it on any of the Centre's budget plans or schedules. But it's very important to us, and we're very grateful to you all for agreeing to participate. Now, Chuck's going to pass around some paperwork we need you to fill out, and meanwhile, I'll get started answering any questions you might have."
Rodney mostly ignored the dumb clarifying questions of people who'd been too stupid to pay attention and focused on the stack of forms he was handed along with a pen and a clipboard. He signed a release and a "non-disclosure pledge"-he noted the slightly less-than-assertive language, most likely due to the fact that what they were planning was essentially illegal, leaving the organizers with little recourse in court. Much more interesting to him, however, was the clipped group of pages labeled "Personality Profile and Preferences." As Teyla explained, while the organization was in no way actually matchmaking, the various pairs would be required to cohabitate, and it would be better for all concerned if the resulting newlyweds weren't at each other's throats. Rodney scribbled some good starting points on to the form, and was about to raise his hand and loudly ask where was the appropriate space to write "Sexy blonde," when it suddenly hit him: as far as he knew, Sam very well could be one of the refugees. She had, after all, always been very outspoken...
He felt suddenly cold, the room suddenly claustrophobically small. For all he knew, she could be a political prisoner, locked in a tiny cell somewhere. She could be-
Rodney filled out the rest of the form as quickly and as honestly as he could.
He didn't think about it much over the next few weeks. He tried not to think about the situation "down south," as so many people called it now-as if the old name suddenly had a new twisted power, like it was the frickin' United States of Voldemort. He had gotten out while the getting was good, like any intelligent person would have, and he had a new life now, a steady university job. He had a much better relationship with his sister than he had ever thought possible, and he had gorgeous, amazing, passionate friends like Teyla, who didn't want to date him but were apparently perfectly happy to marry him off to some other random person.
"About that," said Teyla, over lunch one day. Rodney had momentarily paused in complaining about how Radek, who had apparently taken Rodney's inviting him to participate in a secret, illegal, immigration law-thwarting nuptials scheme to mean that they were now friends, and who had known his new bride-to-be for all of three days, was already filling up valuable research time with constant talk about how wonderful and smart and funny she was-"And Rodney, let me tell you, she is also a very beautiful woman"-and asking Rodney if he would be the best man at the wedding, like it was real or something. "Anyway, it's ridiculous and very annoying, and when am I going to get my beautiful and grateful refugee bride, huh, Teyla? It's been almost a month!"
At which point Teyla said, "About that," and Rodney realized that she must have come to her senses and decided not to use him after all.
But instead of just telling him (and hello, it's not like he would be offended; he hadn't wanted to do this in the first place), she started talking about how there was a bit of a discrepancy between the candidates and the volunteers-there was a greater number of men in each group, and therefore-
Rodney said, "Wait. What?"
"Just based on your personality profiles, the best match for you is one of our male candidates-"
"Teyla!" His throat started to feel tight, like the idiot waiter had accidentally slipped a slice of lemon into the water glass.
"-And he's in particular danger if he gets caught; he's a former member of their military, an Air Force Major who spoke out-"
Rodney stopped hyperventilating for a moment. "Did you say an Air Force Major?"
Teyla nodded.
Rodney paused, looking down at his half-eaten pasta. He didn't believe in fate or symbolism or any of that other English major crap Kaleb liked to blather on about. But then again. But then again-he hated feeling helpless, and he wanted to do something for Sam. In some strange, roundabout way that would never make sense if he ever actually tried to explain it-this was something he could do for Sam.
And for Teyla. And for...whatever the guy's name was.
"All right, fine," he said, sighing heavily. "But you totally owe me."
"I'll buy you flowers for the wedding," Teyla said, smiling with her whole face. "I'll bake you a cake."
Rodney narrowed his eyes. "You owe me something that won't give me, the br-the other groom, and the entire wedding party crippling stomach cramps."
Teyla leaned across the table and kissed his cheek, which, considering that it was farther than he got the entire (brief but memorable) time they were dating, Rodney figured was a pretty good start.
Rodney's mail-order-only-in-the-sense-that-sometimes-those-companies-got-the-order-totally-wrong-and-didn't-include-a-packing-slip-and-also-had-terrible-customer-service-usually-based-in-India refugee immigrant husband arrived bearing a small backpack, the worn clothes on his back (all black), and a grim expression. He was escorted by Teyla's assistant Chuck, who Rodney would have sworn was smirking at him, except Teyla had already told him that Chuck had volunteered to take one of the other "extra" male refugees. Which, actually, didn't disqualify him from smirking anyway, but if he was in fact gloating, he didn't linger to do it. He merely said, "Rodney McKay, this is John Sheppard; John Sheppard, Rodney McKay."
"Doctor Rodney McKay," Rodney couldn't stop himself from correcting, so the first real display of emotion his saw his future husband make took the form of an eyeroll.
"I'll leave you two to get to know each other," said Chuck. He left, presumably to go get to better know his own future hubby. He probably had team-building-type activities planned, the little boy scout. Rodney scowled.
Then he realized that he and Sheppard-no, no: John; if they were going to be married they'd probably also have to be on a first name basis-were both still standing out on the stoop like idiots. "Well, come on in," Rodney said, and John said "Thanks" in a way that made Rodney mentally cross "grateful" off the list of characteristics he'd been hoping for, right after "female."
This was sure going well.
Lacking any idea of what else he was supposed to do with him, Rodney gave John a quick tour. The kitchen and living room seemed to go over okay (John even seemed mildly intrigued by Rodney's selection of DVDs and cheesy sci-fi novels), but Rodney felt a deep pall of awkwardness settle over them when they got to the bedroom. "So this is, um." Rodney swallowed. "I have a bad back, I need a prescription mattress, otherwise I'd offer to take the couch every other night or something, but maybe we can get you, I don't know, like, a foldaway cot or a trundle bed; I wish there were a guest room, I told the realtor I wanted a house with a guest room, but you know what the Vancouver housing market is like, I was lucky not to get a place with a leftover grow-op choking the basement and all the available closet space..." He trailed off, sensing John's pronounced silence. He coughed and pointed to the bureau. "I, uh, cleared out a drawer for you."
"Gee," said John, hoisting up the backpack by one finger, "I sure hope there's room for all my stuff."
Rodney wasn't really sure if this was the type of joke he was supposed to laugh at or not. Maybe he should have paid more attention during Teyla's Q&A.
He walked forward and opened the drawer for John with a little Vanna White flourish that made him wince even as he performed it. Then he stepped back and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot while John carelessly pulled his few items of clothing (they were also all black, Rodney noticed, except for the boxers, which were blue-and at that he carefully jerked his eyes away) out of the backpack and stuffed them just as carelessly into the drawer. So much for the obsessive military neatness he'd always heard about.
John pushed the drawer closed with his hip, turning to face Rodney with the limp backpack in one hand and a large hardcover book that had apparently been at the bottom in the other. Rodney tilted his head and squinted nosily; apparently, John's "fleeing across the border" reading material choice was War and Peace. Rodney wondered if this was supposed to be ironic.
John eyed him, his face deceptively blank, though Rodney could tell he was being sized up. "Would you like me to cook dinner for you?" John said finally. "Or do something else?"
Rodney swallowed heavily. He was pretty sure John didn't mean it like that, but this whole conversation was making him hugely uncomfortable. Rodney was apparently going to have to start spending way more time at the university; maybe he could even move a cot into his office? He could get Teyla to pay for it, and help haul it up the stairs.
But first, to deal with the problem at hand. "No, that's fine," Rodney said firmly. (Although secretly the "someone cooking for him" part didn't sound so bad. Maybe later, after the whole situation had stopped seeming so deeply creepy.) "I actually kind of feel like pizza. You like pizza, don't you?" Everyone liked pizza. Even way-too-intense American exiles, Rodney would bet.
John seemed to consider this for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "Do you like lots of anchovies and pineapple on it?"
Rodney knew the politic thing, considering this was his future (fake) husband he was dealing with, would be to say, "I'm willing to try it," or "You can get that on your half," or "How 'bout two pizzas?" However, he'd about reached his limit of politic behavior for the day, starting when he hadn't opened the door shouting, "Breasts! Was it too much to ask that I be fake-married to an American refugee with breasts?" So he felt his face wrinkle up and he heard himself say, "About as much as I like eating week-old road kill."
To his surprise, John grinned. "Okay, good. I guess I can marry you after all, then."
They got pepperoni and sausage, which they ate while drinking a couple of beers (John nearly swooned) and watching some Canadian TV shows John had never heard of and that Rodney felt the need to educate him on. "The Vancouver film industry has practically tripled in size since, um..." Rodney broke off, suddenly embarrassed again. It surprised him, mostly because of how deeply it contrasted how much he'd actually started to relax in the last hour. But John just shrugged off the awkward silence and said, levelly, "You have no idea how nice it is to watch something that isn't produced by the Parents Television Council." And they left it at that.
After dinner, Rodney took out some work he needed to catch up on, but he left John the remote and couldn't help stealing occasional glimpses at his face as he flipped around and marveled at Canadian broadcasting's finest. "I can't believe you're watching Degrassi," Rodney said.
John looked positively rapt. "A character on this show just got an abortion. A high school girl on this show just got an abortion, and she's not being..."
Rodney sucked in a mouthful of air. He hadn't even thought about how different- "Do you want to watch something else?"
"No, no, this is great!" The tips of John's ears pinked lightly. "I mean, not that teenage pregnancy is great, but that you're...you're talking about it..."
It wasn't anything Rodney had done; it wasn't anything he'd even ever really thought or cared about. But he found himself nodding, and when he later pulled the cushions off the couch and brought John pillows and a couple blankets, John looked at him and said "Thank you" like he really meant it. Rodney went into the other room and lay on his cool, wide, prescription mattress, where he stared at the ceiling and felt guilty and proud, both warm in the center of his belly and deeply chilled-completely and utterly confused.
TBC…according to your whims! So, Birthday Girl, what would you like to have happen next? (Anyone can make suggestions, but in this land, Cate’s word is THE LAW.)
P.S. Have this birthday song of win.