FIC: streets in a world underneath it all
Title: Streets in a World Underneath It All
Rating: R for language
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
So, everybody remember "At Least," the melodramatic Sheppard POV I posted a few weeks ago with the misleading cut-tag about colony!Atlantis? Well, some people pointed out that I'd grossly misled them by my choice of quote. I apologize. This was meant to be the fic that fleshed out colony!Atlantis, and Elizabeth was going to be awesome. Except Sheppard decided he wasn't really in the mood for that, and so it turned into roughly 6000 words of McKay/Sheppard with colony!Atlantis in the background. There will probably be more in this universe, because I'm easy like that, and goddammit, Elizabeth will be awesome. Also, the title's from the Teddy Geiger song "Confidence," because I'm a pop music whore. (Seriously. I kind of not-so-secretly consider Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" a work of staggering genius)
John hasn't been in a Barnes and Noble for more than a decade, but the interior hasn't changed much. There's still fake wood panelling and ugly carpet, a preponderance of green and gold in the design scheme, and "featured book" displays scattered seemingly at random beside the shelves. It's just his luck that this particular store's "featured book" theme is Atlantis.
"Puddlejumper One: An Exclusive Portrait of John Sheppard on Atlantis," John reads aloud, smirking. "Funny, I'm pretty sure I've never met the author."
"That guy actually did his research, though. I remember the interview," Rodney says absently, flicking through an enormous book with what looks like a very distorted Flying Spaghetti Monster on the cover.
"He interviewed you?"
"That's the whole point - he interviewed all the senior staff of the expedition. I know he said he wanted to get Ronon - god, could this man be any more wrong? What part of 'gauge symmetry' doesn't he understand? - but I'm not sure the caveman had much to say. I think he only got Elizabeth in a conference call, but he came by the SGC to talk to me. The book's just the interview transcripts." Rodney's head shoots up, suddenly, and he demands, "Give me that."
"What? No, I want to read it, now."
"I - Sheppard, give it to me."
"No."
“Seriously - “
“What’s the matter, say something embarrassing?”
“I just - he seemed somewhat, maybe, sketchy? And I want to make sure I’m not grossly misquoted.” And there it is, the chin lift that indicates Rodney’s bordering on panic.
John sighs, deliberately exaggerating his defeated posture as he hands over the book.
Plying Rodney with coffee in the Starbucks isn’t hard (and whatever it is Rodney told the journalist better be worth letting Rodney make fun of his drink - just because he likes a little raspberry syrup in his white mocha does not mean he's "such a fag, Sheppard, Jesus." He totally saw the lustful way Rodney was eyeing the frilly pink frappuccinos), but the run to the register with his pilfered copy of Puddlejumper One while Rodney’s in the bathroom is kind of a challenge. Barnes and Noble cashiers have nothing on Genii when it comes to detaining John on a mission, though, and he's leaning casually against a Sudoku display when Rodney emerges, book stuffed into his bag (which, no matter what Rodney says, is most definitively not a purse).
John settles in on the couch later that night, after Rodney's fallen asleep, legs arranged comfortably in front of him. The index gives him exactly jack shit, just a list of eight names. Katherine Heightmeyer, Nicholas Lorne, Steven Caldwell, Radek Zelenka, Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagen, Rodney McKay, Elizabeth Weir.
He's not sure he really wants to read Caldwell or Heightmeyer's honest assessment of his command or his psyche, respectively, but he gives in to temptation and scans the first part of Chapter Four -
DOCTOR RADEK ZELENKA, HEAD OF THE ATLANTIS ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT, 2004-PRESENT
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
DR. ZELENKA: Yes, yes.
INTERVIEWER: You're close?
DR. ZELENKA: I don't know if I would say - there are not many who are very close to Sheppard, you see. I would say we are friends, yes, but close, maybe not.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
DR. ZELENKA: Colonel Sheppard is a good man. He currently holds the Atlantis Chess Championship title, which I will win back soon, and has a huge Star Trek collection he shares sometimes. Joss Whedon fan, too, the Colonel. You know Firefly, yes?
INTERVIEWER: No, I'm not familiar with it. Is it a book?
DR. ZELENKA: Television, the Colonel's favorite. Story about space cowboys.
INTERVIEWER: Space... cowboys?
DR. ZELENKA: Yes. Survivors of a future war, on frontier planets. It's very good.
INTERVIEWER: And Sheppard is a big fan?
DR. ZELENKA: Huge. He likes to quote it to the Marines and confuse them, sometimes. Rodney and I, we prefer math for soldier-baiting.
INTERVIEWER: Does Sheppard do that a lot? Bait his men?
DR. ZELENKA: No, no, you misunderstand - the Marines and scientists have a rivalry, but it's friendly. The Colonel mediates, and usually makes both sides look foolish.
INTERVIEWER: I... see.
DR. ZELENKA: No, you do not. It's too bad, because practical joke wars are very, very funny.
INTERVIEWER: So do you get a lot of free time for things like chess and science fiction and jokes on Atlantis?
DR. ZELENKA: Sometimes, yes, sometimes, no. The Marines say "hurry up and wait," because sometimes we don't sleep for weeks at a time and sometimes we play Solitaire and watch anime DVDs. It is not always a catastrophe.
INTERVIEWER: Sheppard sounds more like a scientist than a soldier.
DR. ZELENKA: [shaking head quickly] The Colonel is very much a military man. But he does okay with us. Like a pigeon.
INTERVIEWER: I'm sorry?
DR. ZELENKA: I used to raise pigeons, before Atlantis, and they would sometimes puff out their chests and parade around in front of other kinds of birds, heads very tall, just like they belonged there. The Colonel can be like that.
INTERVIEWER: I don't think I understand.
DR. ZELENKA: He acts like he fits in everywhere, but really I think it is more like nowhere.
INTERVIEWER: You see him as that isolated?
DR. ZELENKA: Not completely, no. His team - his original team, you understand - are very close to him. He is just his own breed.
- and, grinning, flips forward a dozen pages to Ronon's, because this can only be awesome. Seriously. Ronon and a journalist.
SPECIALIST RONON DEX, CONSULTANT TO THE ATLANTIS EXPEDITION AND NATIVE OF THE PLANET SATEDA
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sure.
INTERVIEWER: You're close?
SPECIALIST DEX: He's my commander. On Sateda, that was pretty much sacred.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
SPECIALIST DEX: Normal height, dark hair. Skinny. Can't you get a picture?
INTERVIEWER: Ah, I meant - describe his personality, what he's like.
SPECIALIST DEX: Oh. I don't know; he's Sheppard.
INTERVIEWER: Well, you've been under his command for over a decade.
SPECIALIST DEX: Yeah.
INTERVIEWER: Can you talk about that, a little?
SPECIALIST DEX: He's a good commanding officer, usually. Not the best fighter, but he watches out for his people.
INTERVIEWER: I understand that when you first met he saved your life?
SPECIALIST DEX: Uh. No.
INTERVIEWER: What happened, then?
SPECIALIST DEX: I took his team hostage. Held Teyla at gunpoint while their doctor took a Wraith tracker out of my back.
INTERVIEWER: Oh. The report doesn't say quite - that.
SPECIALIST DEX: It wouldn't.
INTERVIEWER: But you joined the Atlantis team anyway? They let you?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard talked Weir into it, I think.
INTERVIEWER: So he is responsible for your being in Atlantis.
SPECIALIST DEX: I guess. I decided to stay, though.
INTERVIEWER: Did you feel endebted to Sheppard?
SPECIALIST DEX: Not really. We've saved each other's lives more than once; we're mostly even.
INTERVIEWER: Mostly? Who's ahead?
SPECIALIST DEX: [smiles] McKay
INTERVIEWER: Speaking of Dr. McKay, how would you describe his relationship with the Colonel?
SPECIALIST DEX: McKay and Sheppard are really weird sometimes.
INTERVIEWER: Weird how?
SPECIALIST DEX: Just weird.
INTERVIEWER: Professionally, or personally?
SPECIALIST DEX: Both.
INTERVIEWER: Can you elaborate?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard yells and McKay fixes stuff. It works.
INTERVIEWER: And personally?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard's personal life is personal.
INTERVIEWER: Well, yes, but this is an attempt to get a better idea of who he is.
SPECIALIST DEX: Which is personal.
INTERVIEWER: But -
SPECIALIST DEX: Why don't you ask him?
Sheppard has to stop reading to laugh for a minute, picturing the journalist trying to handle Ronon.
Carefully not looking at the rest of Ronon's or, God help him, Teyla's, and afraid of being distracted again, he jumps ahead. The rest can wait. If Rodney wakes up, he'll have to hide the book and come up with a reasonable explanation for his location and insomnia.
Finally, Chapter Seven.
DOCTOR RODNEY MCKAY, CHIEF SCIENTIST OF THE ATLANTIS EXPEDITION, 2004-PRESENT
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
DR. MCKAY: Yes, of course. We've been in Atlantis fifteen years; you think we don't bump into each other?
INTERVIEWER: You're close, then?
(John's noticing a pattern in the questions, here)
DR. MCKAY: [a moment's pause] Yes. We're - yes.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
DR. MCKAY: Right. [hesitation] I - well. He's - that is, Sheppard is an idiot.
INTERVIEWER: So, you don't really get along that well?
DR. MCKAY: No, of course that's not what I - as ridiculous as he is, I love him. We've been through a lot, you know - not just Sheppard and I, but the whole expedition. Some experiences just... do that.
INTERVIEWER: You characterized your feelings as "love" a moment ago. Care to elaborate?
DR. MCKAY: I - I didn't say that. Did I?
INTERVIEWER: Yes, you did.
DR. MCKAY: Oh, well. Um. The way a friend loves another friend, of course. Yes, that's - we're friends.
INTERVIEWER: That wasn't how it sounded to me.
DR. MCKAY: That's the fault of your limited perception, then, because you're - you're very wrong.
INTERVIEWER: Okay, then, since this is clearly a sensitive area, let's talk about your experiences on Atlantis. Are there any missions which, to you, are particularly representative of Sheppard and his command style?
DR. MCKAY: [snorts] Command style? Is that what you call getting your ass kicked a lot and having absolutely no sense of direction or self-preservation? No, don't answer that. Come on, Sheppard is not some, you know, galactic hero. He's been making it up as he goes along.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think he's done a bad job as military head of Atlantis, then?
DR. MCKAY: Of course not! Where would you get the idea - no, no, and no. If we'd been dependent on some other military moron, and this is not an exaggeration, we wouldn't have made it.
INTERVIEWER: But you claim he had no idea what he was doing.
DR. MCKAY: Oh, he didn't. But, well, he - look, Sheppard is loyal to the point of stupidity, and he's always assumed responsibility for all of us. He's done his best to protect everyone on the expedition.
INTERVIEWER: Can you give some examples?
John stops, hands shaking.
"I love him" stares up from the page, eight letters looming bigger than the rest, twisting before John's eyes.
Slowly, he lowers the book, breath even and smooth. It really shouldn't be a shocker. He's been sleeping with Rodney for nine years; hearing those words, secondhand even, should not be an issue. He's not going to make it weird, or make a big deal out of it. He's always been pretty sure of Rodney's affection, but seeing the words in black and white, text, permanently rendered, leaves his throat aching. Printed, published - thousands of people, more, will see this, and it's like a relationship John has always considered ephemeral, invisible, is suddenly solidified and real.
"I love him," John repeats, aloud, tasting the words.
The next morning he tries it out in person, casually. Rodney, always late when there's a morning meeting, dumps the entire pot of coffee into his absolutely ridiculous thermos and heads for the door, two laptops and a bagel bouncing between hands. When he fumbles the door handle, cursing, John decides to drop the bomb.
"Have fun, McKay. Call me later," he smirks from the kitchen doorway.
Rodney, looking aggrieved, snarls, "Yes, yes, later," and jerks the door open.
"Love you," John adds, tone absolutely normal. Rodney just waves vaguely with his bagel, a bit of cream cheese glopping to the floor.
It takes twenty minutes - John's ashamed to admit he's timing it - before the phone rings. Rodney's voice is eager, all out of proportion to the subject. "Do you want to meet me at the SGC tonight, or should I come back?"
"Pick me up," John answers, lips twisting involuntarily into a smile. "There's this restaurant I want to show you."
"Okay. Um." John can hear Rodney bracing himself. "Love you. Bye." Click.
John laughs over the dial tone and rolls onto the bed, drifting back to sleep with Rodney's voice in his head.
They've never gone to any great lengths to hide their relationship - Elizabeth couldn't care less, and when they finally re-established relations with Earth the circumstances made it politically impossible for the military to prosecute anything, going AWOL or insubordination or fraternization violations. The accidental declassification after the Wraith attacks has been Atlantis' saving grace, really - instead of being renegades and deserters, the public thinks they're heroes, and the IOA can't touch them. Things are tense at the SGC, sure, whenever the Atlantis staff are on base, but overall it's been pretty easy. Save the planet with CNN cameras rolling and you can name your price.
Still, John and Rodney have been pretty subtle. Mostly that's because (while Rodney really, really likes pointing out to colleagues and strangers alike that yes, he is the lucky bastard sleeping with John) John isn't big on parading his private life for the public eye. So far the media have largely left the issue alone, and John's pretty sure the SGC has something to do with that. The President had been quick to publicly embrace the Lanteans after the attacks, riding a surge in approval ratings, and has deflected criticism for them more than once.
John's never understood the need to invite questions, though. Better to just let people see it - or not - on their own.
That's probably why he keeps panicking in the middle of Operation Midlife Crisis, which seemed like a good idea immediately after the whole Puddlejumper One issue.
It takes him over an hour to work up the nerve to kiss Rodney in public the first time.
John picks the mess at the SGC, during the lunch rush, precisely because there will be people all over the place. Finished with his sandwich, he leans over and brushes a kiss across Rodney's temple as he leaves. He doesn't look back, but the twenty feet across the room feel like miles, and there are eyes burning into his spine like acid.
The first time someone asks him outright he nearly chokes, managing to say "Yeah" in a wrecked voice after a minute. Mitchell, the source of the question, smirks as he passes John a water bottle, but doesn't comment other than to ask whether Rodney will "let" him come to a game this weekend.
Once the whole process of gradual declassification starts, Rodney gets on board quickly. He doesn't make fun of John's nerves - much - or the admittedly weird shit John keeps thinking of as milestones - when they go grocery shopping, together, tossing condoms into the cart with milk, coffee, and toilet paper, casual as anything; the first time he writes Rodney's name as his emergency contact and, in the little space for "relationship," writes "partner." If the "rtn" is an illegible blob it's because the pen was leaking, not because John found his fingers suddenly clumsy.
He hyperventilates, a little, when the young newlyweds down the hall from Rodney's apartment ask them to dinner, on what he realizes with nausea is a couple's thing. It's worse when Lisa, smiling brightly, asks their anniversary and Rodney doesn't hesitate to cheerfully reply, "February 19th." John hadn't had a clue. He has to excuse himself and hide in the bathroom for ten minutes before he can look any of them in the eye.
It's all that kind of stupid, domestic stuff that he can't handle, throwing this newfound openness in his face. Periodically, he reminds himself that he started this.
It doesn't help much.
It turns out Operation Midlife Crisis was a really fucking good idea, though, because if he hadn't made such a big deal out of it, the world might have ended in late Earth November (Atlantis September), a Thursday afternoon with nothing remarkable going on except that Rodney had scheduled a free day to "get some things taken care of at home," which translated to "fuck John senseless, then eat Thai leftovers in bed."
Their second round of this cycle was interrupted by a knock at the door. After a very brief pillow fight, which he lost only because Rodney cheated by holding curry sauce over John's hair, John pulled on a pair of jeans and groaned his way to the living room.
There's a line of hickeys down his neck, but he deliberately doesn't cover them. Operation Midlife Crisis is a success, he thinks, feeling very pleased with himself.
Until he opens the door.
"John," Debbie says, standing awkwardly in Rodney's doorway. "I - they - the guy at Cheyenne Mountain said you were staying here, and I wanted to - well, it's just that you've been on the news, and I wanted - I - hi."
"Hi." John's voice is friendly, smooth. He's very proud of that, as his mental process is something like motherfucking Air Force.
"Whoever it is, get rid of them," Rodney calls, because this wasn't hellish enough. "Come back to bed."
Fuck.
"Who - " Debbie starts, and then colors abruptly, eyes wide. "Oh."
Fuck.
"Seriously, Sheppard," Rodney whines, voice coming closer. John refuses to turn around. "Who is it?"
"Hi," Debbie says again. John had forgotten this, that her self-defense mechanism is insane perkiness. "I'm Debbie Sullivan, and you're - Rodney McKay, right?"
John doesn't turn around.
"No, really, who are you?"
"Debbie Sullivan," she repeats politely, easing around John to extend one perfectly manicured hand.
"Yes, yes, I heard the name, but who are you?" John doesn't have to look to know Rodney hasn't taken the hand yet. He spends an excessive amount of time checking the door lock, eyes focused directly in front of him.
"I just came by to see John. It's been - years, really, and I wanted to -" Because of course Debbie, like all reasonable people, will assume Rodney knows who she is, recognizes the name. Will assume John has mentioned her. Fuck.
"Okay," Rodney says slowly, humoring her. "You came to see Sheppard. You know him from...?"
"Oh. We - that is, I - we - "
John breathes in once and turns around. A flush is moving up Debbie's cheeks, and Rodney's eyes are narrowing, suspicious. He is, however, wearing both jeans and a t-shirt, thank Christ.
John's not a coward. He can do this. "Rodney, this is my ex-wife, Debbie. Debbie, this is my - " he stutters over the word " - partner, Rodney."
What follows is the most hideously awful hour of John's life. Debbie's sister lives in Denver, and while she'd been visiting a news station had mentioned that John and some of the Lanteans were in Colorado Springs for a few weeks, so she'd driven up to see him. It's sweet of her, and John thinks under other circumstances this could have been fun. As it is, not so much.
The problem is, he likes Debbie. He liked her when he married her, and he liked her when she left him. He likes her now, the way she's almost obsessively applying chapstick every thirty seconds or so. He remembers that particular tic, remembers that kissing her always feels a little waxy, at first, remembers that in the rain little droplets collect against her lips, round and perfect. When he comes back from grabbing a t-shirt out of the bedroom, she's perched on the very edge of Rodney's couch, obviously too uncomfortable to sit back against the furniture, making attempts at small talk that are being pretty thoroughly rebuffed by Rodney. Desperate to change the tone of the conversation, John asks after her sister, who he'd always thought was kind of a bitch but who Debbie worships. Thankfully, that makes it easier to stumble through the next few minutes, catching up on mutual acquaintances and former in-laws.
"I heard about your dad," she says. "I tried to get in touch with you then, but no one could find you. I guess I know why, now."
"Yeah, I didn't actually find out until after - after the, uh - "
"After you saved the world from evil alien invaders?" she asks with a dry grin.
"Yeah. That's when I heard."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be; it's not like we were - well. You know."
"Yeah." Her smile twists, making the little wrinkles around her eyes stand out. "He couldn't stand me."
"Well, he thought you were - "
"A golddigging slut?" Debbie finishes for him, laughing a little.
"For the record, I was going to say 'a lovely young woman.'"
Rodney snorts, and John jumps. He'd almost forgotten Rodney's presence.
The rest of the conversation is easier, as Debbie slowly relaxes and Rodney realizes she is neither attempting to steal John or about to turn into a soul-sucking vampire. When she leaves, John walks her to her car.
She fumbles with her keys, then abandons the pretence and looks up at him. "You happy?"
"I - I think so, yeah. Are you?"
"I really am." A pause, during which John notices scattered gray at the roots of her blonde hair where it's grown past the dye, and then - "Rodney seems - nice."
"Nice try."
"Okay, he seems like an asshole, but if you really like him I've got no objections."
"I'm - almost embarrassingly in love with him, actually," John admits, not sure why he needs to say this so badly. He's also not sure when he started sounding like Rodney.
"Good. I'm glad." There's another long pause, and then Debbie says, "I got married again, you know."
"I saw the ring."
"His name's Sean," she continues, twirling her keychain around one finger over and over. Her nerves remind him, insanely, of senior prom, of the way she'd looked in her blue dress, fumbling flowers into the buttonhole of his suit. "We've got a little girl, Courtney."
"I'm glad," John echoes, and there's another weird silence.
"I thought I'd feel more, seeing you again. I kept thinking this was a bad idea, that it would make me angry or -"
"I don't regret it," he interrupts, and maybe this is the point, that thirty years later he'd like to make sure she knows. "I don't regret us, not for a second."
"Neither do I."
She steps forward, presses a chaste, chapstick kiss to his lips. "Bye, John."
"Bye." He sticks his hands deep in his pockets and watches her pull out of the parking lot, feeling weirdly at peace, even though Rodney's going to kill him.
Unsurprisingly, Rodney pitches a fit when John's back inside. "You were married? To a woman?" and "Seriously, do you have kids I don't know about, too?" and "What the fuck, Sheppard, who does that?" The whole time Rodney's hands are moving, twisting and stabbing. John can feel the frustration in the air, and kind of wishes Ronon was the type for idle gossip, wishes Rodney had found out any way but this.
"Look," he starts, still with no idea what explanation to give but knowing if he doesn't cut Rodney off now it'll go on for hours, "It just never came up. It didn't seem important."
"Didn't seem important? Jesus, Sheppard."
"Okay, I obviously fucked up. What do you expect me to do about it?" John watches Rodney's shoulders slump. He looks miserable.
"Not a damn thing." Rodney hesitates. "I'm going to get a shower and head up to the SGC. Carter sent me some suggestions for ZPM efficiency; once again I have to prove to her that she's got it exactly wrong. So, um. Well."
John doesn't stop him from ducking into the bathroom, just sits with his head in his hands. The thing is, John's kind of a giant girl when it comes to fighting with Rodney, so while Rodney's still in the shower he flips open Rodney's third-favorite laptop, the only one Rodney's let him have a password to, and opens Notepad.
I'M KIND OF A FUCKUP, he types, and the cursor blinks calmly at him, Courier New making him miss Atlantis' sharp Ancient script and ugly, block fonts. I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU ABOUT HER.
Breathing slowly, John hits Enter twice, and adds YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT HER, BUT EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT YOU.
He leaves the screen open on the bed and runs his fingers through his hair once. He touches one finger to the backspace key, but, hearing the water cut off in the bathroom, sucks in a breath and heads out of the apartment.
Mark and Lisa's is only four doors down, and John knocks, feeling kind of stupid since he has no real reason to be here. But he doesn't want to leave the building; the plan is only to be gone for a few minutes. Thankfully, Lisa's home, sniffling pathetically and clutching a blanket around her shoulders, which makes it simpler to explain his presence. "Mark said you were sick; I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he lies easily, charming smile firmly in place. "See if you needed anything."
His vocal tone is off just a little, sounding more used and grating than he'd like, but Lisa, feverish, doesn't notice a thing. "Oh, thanks, honey," she says, leaning a little against the doorframe. "But I'm doing okay."
"Mark make you chicken soup?"
"Please. I don't need food poisoning on top of this."
"I'd offer to make you some, but mine's probably not much safer than his. You sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm good, but thanks for stopping by, what with the long trip and all," she answers, glancing sardonically towards the end of the hall. Okay, maybe not so feverish.
"Yeah, well, you know me, always looking for ways to help out." John winces. God, he used to be good at faking it.
"Uh-huh. Bye, John."
The door shuts in his face, and when he turns back towards Rodney's, dread heavy in his stomach, Rodney's standing there, hair dripping down his neck and feet bare. "It - it turns out Carter doesn't need me after all," he says, face a little flushed. "So we can finish the curry, if you want."
"Yeah," John says, voice tight. "That'd be okay."
There are other advantages to Operation Midlife Crisis. Namely, John can cockblock without having to be sneaky about it.
He discovers how much fun that can be in Stockholm. By the time they get to the university for Rodney's lecture he's already annoyed as hell - he hasn't gotten to see any of the city, really, because they have a driver and a schedule and the airline lost their luggage, which Rodney won't quit bitching about, hands fluttering all over the place. It's nerves, of course, and overwhelming excitement, and John gets that, he really does, but Christ the last twelve hours have been hell. Also, he's freezing his balls off.
It's not that John objects to some Swedish guys giving Rodney something like half a million dollars, a pretty certificate, and a medal. He thinks, in principle, that more people should give Rodney medals.
But seriously, who wants to be in this part of the world in Earth December?
Rodney's lecture is great - at least John thinks so. At the beginning, he even knows what Rodney is talking about. ZPMs draw energy from subspace, and Rodney knows how to do it. This is good. It's when Rodney starts getting more technical, throwing around words like "quantum harmonic oscillator" and "expectation Hamiltonian," that John lets himself drift, watching the scientists around him have orgasms over Rodney's powerpoint.
John picked out the font and color scheme. He thinks maybe they should have gone with a lighter shade of red.
Jeannie, beside him, keeps passing notes that consist, mainly, of her own panicking. Don't tell Mer, but he's doing a better job than I will. and I don't even have a powerpoint!
You'll be fine, he scribbles back, holding his pen low so Rodney won't see. He's about three seconds away from fainting, look. Which is just patently untrue; Rodney's glowing. Still, if Jeannie freaks out mid-lecture they may revoke her share of the prize, or something. Zelenka keeps glancing down at their notes, shaking his head, and then returning to watching Rodney with something like indulgence.
They break for lunch before Radek's lecture, and that's when John realizes that the world of theoretical physics is not that much different than any other social clique - there are leaders, followers, and groupies. John just hadn't anticipated that a third of the Nobel would make Rodney the Brad Pitt of astrophysicists. There are people coming out of the woodwork to hit on him, and at first John grits his teeth and loads up at the buffet, but during dessert, after the third not-so-subtle hint about "cooperative research," he decides he's had enough.
Leaning over, he murmurs in Rodney's ear. "You want to give them a little scandal?"
Rodney gives him the fish-eye. "This is my Nobel lecture, you idiot."
"I know. Which is why I, like half the people in this room, want to throw you against a wall and have my wicked way with you right here."
"Um." Rodney's holding a strawberry about three inches from his mouth, but his hand's not moving, to eat it or put it down. John may have spoken that last a little more loudly than strictly necessary, but at least the woman with the curls and pouty, shiny lips on the other side of Rodney isn't leaning over quite so far anymore.
Just in case someone missed that signal, John plucks the strawberry from Rodney's nerveless fingers and places it gently against his lips, which part automatically.
From the next table over, John hears the phrase "trophy wife" and very deliberately does not commit homicide. This was the point, after all. Rodney takes the strawberry between lips already stained pink, swallowing almost obscenely fast. John rests his index finger lightly on Rodney's lower lip, waiting, and Rodney obediently lets John press his finger inside, running his tongue lightly around the tip and scraping his teeth along the length of it. John pretends very hard not to be turned on by this, and slips his hand free with a smile he hopes is sultry and not dorky or desperate. Rodney smirks and turns back to the conversation he'd been having before John's little display. Everyone politely pretends it didn't happen.
But none of the physics groupies hit on Rodney during Radek and Jeannie's follow-up lectures. (Radek explains the mechanical processes of the new pseudo-ZPMs he and Rodney have constructed, all crystalline perfection internally and masking tape externally. The first prototype had been built on Atlantis before the resumption of relations with Earth, after all, and a lot of the engineering from those years looks as sketchy as though it were Genii-built. Jeannie starts off jittery and stuttering, but gets the flow pretty quickly and writes a series of equations on the huge whiteboard behind her. Her stuff - the theoretical math behind Rodney's work and Radek's design - is a lot easier to understand, for John at least, but it's still impressive enough for him to see why the committee opted to split the prize three ways.)
Dinner is interminable, full of shop talk, gossip about geeks not lucky enough to make it to the festivities this week, and speculation about next year's prize.
The whole time, John keeps a sharp eye out for the professors and researchers who wander a little too close to Rodney, and periodically stages a little PDA to make his point.
He can fake being a trophy wife for a good cause. Honest.
Two months away from Atlantis is too long, but it's not like Rodney could rearrange the date of the Nobel ceremony, or the convention/lecture/press conference schedule that preceded it. And frankly John wouldn't have felt right, pulling either Rodney or Radek away from their brief tour as astrophysics rock stars. Still, it's good to be home, finally, when the Stargate closes behind them in early Earth January, Atlantis November.
Here, the novelty of openly being with Rodney has long worn off; while they've never made out in the gate room, they also haven't pretended to have separate quarters in at least six years. John deliberately keeps up the pattern of small, obvious things, though, wanting Rodney to understand that Operation Midlife Crisis wasn't just a "fuck you" to the SGC.
("Love you," he'll say idly, signing off over the comms, and Rodney will repeat the words almost unbearably gently. Ronon snickers and Teyla shakes her head, but neither of them says a word.)
"You realize this is utterly ridiculous, right?" Rodney asks one night, half-asleep.
John crooks an arm over his face - not hiding - and mutters, "Yeah."
"I mean, we've been fucking for a decade, Sheppard. Why now?"
Deflect, he thinks desperately, deflect and deny. "Why do you still call me Sheppard?" he asks instead.
"Because it's your name."
"So is John."
"Because when I call you John you go all - soft. I don't like seeing it in public," Rodney admits, sounding more awake now. "It's - it's mine."
John has to hold his breath for a moment, waiting out the racing of his heart. "So'm I, Rodney. That's kind of the point."
"Oh," Rodney breathes, and then John's being pinned down by his familiar weight. He moves his arm, and looks up at Rodney's bright eyes. "John."
Rodney's petty, arrogant, and bad with people. Rodney has a Nobel prize, absurd amounts of money and a shitty apartment he doesn't need. Rodney likes junk food, cats, and subspace harmonics. Rodney thinks John's name is too precious to say aloud, but Rodney also once told a reporter that he loved John.
John meets Rodney's gaze, completely unafraid of what he'll see, of what Rodney will see.
Rating: R for language
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
So, everybody remember "At Least," the melodramatic Sheppard POV I posted a few weeks ago with the misleading cut-tag about colony!Atlantis? Well, some people pointed out that I'd grossly misled them by my choice of quote. I apologize. This was meant to be the fic that fleshed out colony!Atlantis, and Elizabeth was going to be awesome. Except Sheppard decided he wasn't really in the mood for that, and so it turned into roughly 6000 words of McKay/Sheppard with colony!Atlantis in the background. There will probably be more in this universe, because I'm easy like that, and goddammit, Elizabeth will be awesome. Also, the title's from the Teddy Geiger song "Confidence," because I'm a pop music whore. (Seriously. I kind of not-so-secretly consider Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" a work of staggering genius)
John hasn't been in a Barnes and Noble for more than a decade, but the interior hasn't changed much. There's still fake wood panelling and ugly carpet, a preponderance of green and gold in the design scheme, and "featured book" displays scattered seemingly at random beside the shelves. It's just his luck that this particular store's "featured book" theme is Atlantis.
"Puddlejumper One: An Exclusive Portrait of John Sheppard on Atlantis," John reads aloud, smirking. "Funny, I'm pretty sure I've never met the author."
"That guy actually did his research, though. I remember the interview," Rodney says absently, flicking through an enormous book with what looks like a very distorted Flying Spaghetti Monster on the cover.
"He interviewed you?"
"That's the whole point - he interviewed all the senior staff of the expedition. I know he said he wanted to get Ronon - god, could this man be any more wrong? What part of 'gauge symmetry' doesn't he understand? - but I'm not sure the caveman had much to say. I think he only got Elizabeth in a conference call, but he came by the SGC to talk to me. The book's just the interview transcripts." Rodney's head shoots up, suddenly, and he demands, "Give me that."
"What? No, I want to read it, now."
"I - Sheppard, give it to me."
"No."
“Seriously - “
“What’s the matter, say something embarrassing?”
“I just - he seemed somewhat, maybe, sketchy? And I want to make sure I’m not grossly misquoted.” And there it is, the chin lift that indicates Rodney’s bordering on panic.
John sighs, deliberately exaggerating his defeated posture as he hands over the book.
Plying Rodney with coffee in the Starbucks isn’t hard (and whatever it is Rodney told the journalist better be worth letting Rodney make fun of his drink - just because he likes a little raspberry syrup in his white mocha does not mean he's "such a fag, Sheppard, Jesus." He totally saw the lustful way Rodney was eyeing the frilly pink frappuccinos), but the run to the register with his pilfered copy of Puddlejumper One while Rodney’s in the bathroom is kind of a challenge. Barnes and Noble cashiers have nothing on Genii when it comes to detaining John on a mission, though, and he's leaning casually against a Sudoku display when Rodney emerges, book stuffed into his bag (which, no matter what Rodney says, is most definitively not a purse).
John settles in on the couch later that night, after Rodney's fallen asleep, legs arranged comfortably in front of him. The index gives him exactly jack shit, just a list of eight names. Katherine Heightmeyer, Nicholas Lorne, Steven Caldwell, Radek Zelenka, Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagen, Rodney McKay, Elizabeth Weir.
He's not sure he really wants to read Caldwell or Heightmeyer's honest assessment of his command or his psyche, respectively, but he gives in to temptation and scans the first part of Chapter Four -
DOCTOR RADEK ZELENKA, HEAD OF THE ATLANTIS ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT, 2004-PRESENT
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
DR. ZELENKA: Yes, yes.
INTERVIEWER: You're close?
DR. ZELENKA: I don't know if I would say - there are not many who are very close to Sheppard, you see. I would say we are friends, yes, but close, maybe not.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
DR. ZELENKA: Colonel Sheppard is a good man. He currently holds the Atlantis Chess Championship title, which I will win back soon, and has a huge Star Trek collection he shares sometimes. Joss Whedon fan, too, the Colonel. You know Firefly, yes?
INTERVIEWER: No, I'm not familiar with it. Is it a book?
DR. ZELENKA: Television, the Colonel's favorite. Story about space cowboys.
INTERVIEWER: Space... cowboys?
DR. ZELENKA: Yes. Survivors of a future war, on frontier planets. It's very good.
INTERVIEWER: And Sheppard is a big fan?
DR. ZELENKA: Huge. He likes to quote it to the Marines and confuse them, sometimes. Rodney and I, we prefer math for soldier-baiting.
INTERVIEWER: Does Sheppard do that a lot? Bait his men?
DR. ZELENKA: No, no, you misunderstand - the Marines and scientists have a rivalry, but it's friendly. The Colonel mediates, and usually makes both sides look foolish.
INTERVIEWER: I... see.
DR. ZELENKA: No, you do not. It's too bad, because practical joke wars are very, very funny.
INTERVIEWER: So do you get a lot of free time for things like chess and science fiction and jokes on Atlantis?
DR. ZELENKA: Sometimes, yes, sometimes, no. The Marines say "hurry up and wait," because sometimes we don't sleep for weeks at a time and sometimes we play Solitaire and watch anime DVDs. It is not always a catastrophe.
INTERVIEWER: Sheppard sounds more like a scientist than a soldier.
DR. ZELENKA: [shaking head quickly] The Colonel is very much a military man. But he does okay with us. Like a pigeon.
INTERVIEWER: I'm sorry?
DR. ZELENKA: I used to raise pigeons, before Atlantis, and they would sometimes puff out their chests and parade around in front of other kinds of birds, heads very tall, just like they belonged there. The Colonel can be like that.
INTERVIEWER: I don't think I understand.
DR. ZELENKA: He acts like he fits in everywhere, but really I think it is more like nowhere.
INTERVIEWER: You see him as that isolated?
DR. ZELENKA: Not completely, no. His team - his original team, you understand - are very close to him. He is just his own breed.
- and, grinning, flips forward a dozen pages to Ronon's, because this can only be awesome. Seriously. Ronon and a journalist.
SPECIALIST RONON DEX, CONSULTANT TO THE ATLANTIS EXPEDITION AND NATIVE OF THE PLANET SATEDA
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sure.
INTERVIEWER: You're close?
SPECIALIST DEX: He's my commander. On Sateda, that was pretty much sacred.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
SPECIALIST DEX: Normal height, dark hair. Skinny. Can't you get a picture?
INTERVIEWER: Ah, I meant - describe his personality, what he's like.
SPECIALIST DEX: Oh. I don't know; he's Sheppard.
INTERVIEWER: Well, you've been under his command for over a decade.
SPECIALIST DEX: Yeah.
INTERVIEWER: Can you talk about that, a little?
SPECIALIST DEX: He's a good commanding officer, usually. Not the best fighter, but he watches out for his people.
INTERVIEWER: I understand that when you first met he saved your life?
SPECIALIST DEX: Uh. No.
INTERVIEWER: What happened, then?
SPECIALIST DEX: I took his team hostage. Held Teyla at gunpoint while their doctor took a Wraith tracker out of my back.
INTERVIEWER: Oh. The report doesn't say quite - that.
SPECIALIST DEX: It wouldn't.
INTERVIEWER: But you joined the Atlantis team anyway? They let you?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard talked Weir into it, I think.
INTERVIEWER: So he is responsible for your being in Atlantis.
SPECIALIST DEX: I guess. I decided to stay, though.
INTERVIEWER: Did you feel endebted to Sheppard?
SPECIALIST DEX: Not really. We've saved each other's lives more than once; we're mostly even.
INTERVIEWER: Mostly? Who's ahead?
SPECIALIST DEX: [smiles] McKay
INTERVIEWER: Speaking of Dr. McKay, how would you describe his relationship with the Colonel?
SPECIALIST DEX: McKay and Sheppard are really weird sometimes.
INTERVIEWER: Weird how?
SPECIALIST DEX: Just weird.
INTERVIEWER: Professionally, or personally?
SPECIALIST DEX: Both.
INTERVIEWER: Can you elaborate?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard yells and McKay fixes stuff. It works.
INTERVIEWER: And personally?
SPECIALIST DEX: Sheppard's personal life is personal.
INTERVIEWER: Well, yes, but this is an attempt to get a better idea of who he is.
SPECIALIST DEX: Which is personal.
INTERVIEWER: But -
SPECIALIST DEX: Why don't you ask him?
Sheppard has to stop reading to laugh for a minute, picturing the journalist trying to handle Ronon.
Carefully not looking at the rest of Ronon's or, God help him, Teyla's, and afraid of being distracted again, he jumps ahead. The rest can wait. If Rodney wakes up, he'll have to hide the book and come up with a reasonable explanation for his location and insomnia.
Finally, Chapter Seven.
DOCTOR RODNEY MCKAY, CHIEF SCIENTIST OF THE ATLANTIS EXPEDITION, 2004-PRESENT
INTERVIEWER: Would you say you and Sheppard are friends?
DR. MCKAY: Yes, of course. We've been in Atlantis fifteen years; you think we don't bump into each other?
INTERVIEWER: You're close, then?
(John's noticing a pattern in the questions, here)
DR. MCKAY: [a moment's pause] Yes. We're - yes.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe him? Remember, we're looking for honesty.
DR. MCKAY: Right. [hesitation] I - well. He's - that is, Sheppard is an idiot.
INTERVIEWER: So, you don't really get along that well?
DR. MCKAY: No, of course that's not what I - as ridiculous as he is, I love him. We've been through a lot, you know - not just Sheppard and I, but the whole expedition. Some experiences just... do that.
INTERVIEWER: You characterized your feelings as "love" a moment ago. Care to elaborate?
DR. MCKAY: I - I didn't say that. Did I?
INTERVIEWER: Yes, you did.
DR. MCKAY: Oh, well. Um. The way a friend loves another friend, of course. Yes, that's - we're friends.
INTERVIEWER: That wasn't how it sounded to me.
DR. MCKAY: That's the fault of your limited perception, then, because you're - you're very wrong.
INTERVIEWER: Okay, then, since this is clearly a sensitive area, let's talk about your experiences on Atlantis. Are there any missions which, to you, are particularly representative of Sheppard and his command style?
DR. MCKAY: [snorts] Command style? Is that what you call getting your ass kicked a lot and having absolutely no sense of direction or self-preservation? No, don't answer that. Come on, Sheppard is not some, you know, galactic hero. He's been making it up as he goes along.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think he's done a bad job as military head of Atlantis, then?
DR. MCKAY: Of course not! Where would you get the idea - no, no, and no. If we'd been dependent on some other military moron, and this is not an exaggeration, we wouldn't have made it.
INTERVIEWER: But you claim he had no idea what he was doing.
DR. MCKAY: Oh, he didn't. But, well, he - look, Sheppard is loyal to the point of stupidity, and he's always assumed responsibility for all of us. He's done his best to protect everyone on the expedition.
INTERVIEWER: Can you give some examples?
John stops, hands shaking.
"I love him" stares up from the page, eight letters looming bigger than the rest, twisting before John's eyes.
Slowly, he lowers the book, breath even and smooth. It really shouldn't be a shocker. He's been sleeping with Rodney for nine years; hearing those words, secondhand even, should not be an issue. He's not going to make it weird, or make a big deal out of it. He's always been pretty sure of Rodney's affection, but seeing the words in black and white, text, permanently rendered, leaves his throat aching. Printed, published - thousands of people, more, will see this, and it's like a relationship John has always considered ephemeral, invisible, is suddenly solidified and real.
"I love him," John repeats, aloud, tasting the words.
The next morning he tries it out in person, casually. Rodney, always late when there's a morning meeting, dumps the entire pot of coffee into his absolutely ridiculous thermos and heads for the door, two laptops and a bagel bouncing between hands. When he fumbles the door handle, cursing, John decides to drop the bomb.
"Have fun, McKay. Call me later," he smirks from the kitchen doorway.
Rodney, looking aggrieved, snarls, "Yes, yes, later," and jerks the door open.
"Love you," John adds, tone absolutely normal. Rodney just waves vaguely with his bagel, a bit of cream cheese glopping to the floor.
It takes twenty minutes - John's ashamed to admit he's timing it - before the phone rings. Rodney's voice is eager, all out of proportion to the subject. "Do you want to meet me at the SGC tonight, or should I come back?"
"Pick me up," John answers, lips twisting involuntarily into a smile. "There's this restaurant I want to show you."
"Okay. Um." John can hear Rodney bracing himself. "Love you. Bye." Click.
John laughs over the dial tone and rolls onto the bed, drifting back to sleep with Rodney's voice in his head.
They've never gone to any great lengths to hide their relationship - Elizabeth couldn't care less, and when they finally re-established relations with Earth the circumstances made it politically impossible for the military to prosecute anything, going AWOL or insubordination or fraternization violations. The accidental declassification after the Wraith attacks has been Atlantis' saving grace, really - instead of being renegades and deserters, the public thinks they're heroes, and the IOA can't touch them. Things are tense at the SGC, sure, whenever the Atlantis staff are on base, but overall it's been pretty easy. Save the planet with CNN cameras rolling and you can name your price.
Still, John and Rodney have been pretty subtle. Mostly that's because (while Rodney really, really likes pointing out to colleagues and strangers alike that yes, he is the lucky bastard sleeping with John) John isn't big on parading his private life for the public eye. So far the media have largely left the issue alone, and John's pretty sure the SGC has something to do with that. The President had been quick to publicly embrace the Lanteans after the attacks, riding a surge in approval ratings, and has deflected criticism for them more than once.
John's never understood the need to invite questions, though. Better to just let people see it - or not - on their own.
That's probably why he keeps panicking in the middle of Operation Midlife Crisis, which seemed like a good idea immediately after the whole Puddlejumper One issue.
It takes him over an hour to work up the nerve to kiss Rodney in public the first time.
John picks the mess at the SGC, during the lunch rush, precisely because there will be people all over the place. Finished with his sandwich, he leans over and brushes a kiss across Rodney's temple as he leaves. He doesn't look back, but the twenty feet across the room feel like miles, and there are eyes burning into his spine like acid.
The first time someone asks him outright he nearly chokes, managing to say "Yeah" in a wrecked voice after a minute. Mitchell, the source of the question, smirks as he passes John a water bottle, but doesn't comment other than to ask whether Rodney will "let" him come to a game this weekend.
Once the whole process of gradual declassification starts, Rodney gets on board quickly. He doesn't make fun of John's nerves - much - or the admittedly weird shit John keeps thinking of as milestones - when they go grocery shopping, together, tossing condoms into the cart with milk, coffee, and toilet paper, casual as anything; the first time he writes Rodney's name as his emergency contact and, in the little space for "relationship," writes "partner." If the "rtn" is an illegible blob it's because the pen was leaking, not because John found his fingers suddenly clumsy.
He hyperventilates, a little, when the young newlyweds down the hall from Rodney's apartment ask them to dinner, on what he realizes with nausea is a couple's thing. It's worse when Lisa, smiling brightly, asks their anniversary and Rodney doesn't hesitate to cheerfully reply, "February 19th." John hadn't had a clue. He has to excuse himself and hide in the bathroom for ten minutes before he can look any of them in the eye.
It's all that kind of stupid, domestic stuff that he can't handle, throwing this newfound openness in his face. Periodically, he reminds himself that he started this.
It doesn't help much.
It turns out Operation Midlife Crisis was a really fucking good idea, though, because if he hadn't made such a big deal out of it, the world might have ended in late Earth November (Atlantis September), a Thursday afternoon with nothing remarkable going on except that Rodney had scheduled a free day to "get some things taken care of at home," which translated to "fuck John senseless, then eat Thai leftovers in bed."
Their second round of this cycle was interrupted by a knock at the door. After a very brief pillow fight, which he lost only because Rodney cheated by holding curry sauce over John's hair, John pulled on a pair of jeans and groaned his way to the living room.
There's a line of hickeys down his neck, but he deliberately doesn't cover them. Operation Midlife Crisis is a success, he thinks, feeling very pleased with himself.
Until he opens the door.
"John," Debbie says, standing awkwardly in Rodney's doorway. "I - they - the guy at Cheyenne Mountain said you were staying here, and I wanted to - well, it's just that you've been on the news, and I wanted - I - hi."
"Hi." John's voice is friendly, smooth. He's very proud of that, as his mental process is something like motherfucking Air Force.
"Whoever it is, get rid of them," Rodney calls, because this wasn't hellish enough. "Come back to bed."
Fuck.
"Who - " Debbie starts, and then colors abruptly, eyes wide. "Oh."
Fuck.
"Seriously, Sheppard," Rodney whines, voice coming closer. John refuses to turn around. "Who is it?"
"Hi," Debbie says again. John had forgotten this, that her self-defense mechanism is insane perkiness. "I'm Debbie Sullivan, and you're - Rodney McKay, right?"
John doesn't turn around.
"No, really, who are you?"
"Debbie Sullivan," she repeats politely, easing around John to extend one perfectly manicured hand.
"Yes, yes, I heard the name, but who are you?" John doesn't have to look to know Rodney hasn't taken the hand yet. He spends an excessive amount of time checking the door lock, eyes focused directly in front of him.
"I just came by to see John. It's been - years, really, and I wanted to -" Because of course Debbie, like all reasonable people, will assume Rodney knows who she is, recognizes the name. Will assume John has mentioned her. Fuck.
"Okay," Rodney says slowly, humoring her. "You came to see Sheppard. You know him from...?"
"Oh. We - that is, I - we - "
John breathes in once and turns around. A flush is moving up Debbie's cheeks, and Rodney's eyes are narrowing, suspicious. He is, however, wearing both jeans and a t-shirt, thank Christ.
John's not a coward. He can do this. "Rodney, this is my ex-wife, Debbie. Debbie, this is my - " he stutters over the word " - partner, Rodney."
What follows is the most hideously awful hour of John's life. Debbie's sister lives in Denver, and while she'd been visiting a news station had mentioned that John and some of the Lanteans were in Colorado Springs for a few weeks, so she'd driven up to see him. It's sweet of her, and John thinks under other circumstances this could have been fun. As it is, not so much.
The problem is, he likes Debbie. He liked her when he married her, and he liked her when she left him. He likes her now, the way she's almost obsessively applying chapstick every thirty seconds or so. He remembers that particular tic, remembers that kissing her always feels a little waxy, at first, remembers that in the rain little droplets collect against her lips, round and perfect. When he comes back from grabbing a t-shirt out of the bedroom, she's perched on the very edge of Rodney's couch, obviously too uncomfortable to sit back against the furniture, making attempts at small talk that are being pretty thoroughly rebuffed by Rodney. Desperate to change the tone of the conversation, John asks after her sister, who he'd always thought was kind of a bitch but who Debbie worships. Thankfully, that makes it easier to stumble through the next few minutes, catching up on mutual acquaintances and former in-laws.
"I heard about your dad," she says. "I tried to get in touch with you then, but no one could find you. I guess I know why, now."
"Yeah, I didn't actually find out until after - after the, uh - "
"After you saved the world from evil alien invaders?" she asks with a dry grin.
"Yeah. That's when I heard."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be; it's not like we were - well. You know."
"Yeah." Her smile twists, making the little wrinkles around her eyes stand out. "He couldn't stand me."
"Well, he thought you were - "
"A golddigging slut?" Debbie finishes for him, laughing a little.
"For the record, I was going to say 'a lovely young woman.'"
Rodney snorts, and John jumps. He'd almost forgotten Rodney's presence.
The rest of the conversation is easier, as Debbie slowly relaxes and Rodney realizes she is neither attempting to steal John or about to turn into a soul-sucking vampire. When she leaves, John walks her to her car.
She fumbles with her keys, then abandons the pretence and looks up at him. "You happy?"
"I - I think so, yeah. Are you?"
"I really am." A pause, during which John notices scattered gray at the roots of her blonde hair where it's grown past the dye, and then - "Rodney seems - nice."
"Nice try."
"Okay, he seems like an asshole, but if you really like him I've got no objections."
"I'm - almost embarrassingly in love with him, actually," John admits, not sure why he needs to say this so badly. He's also not sure when he started sounding like Rodney.
"Good. I'm glad." There's another long pause, and then Debbie says, "I got married again, you know."
"I saw the ring."
"His name's Sean," she continues, twirling her keychain around one finger over and over. Her nerves remind him, insanely, of senior prom, of the way she'd looked in her blue dress, fumbling flowers into the buttonhole of his suit. "We've got a little girl, Courtney."
"I'm glad," John echoes, and there's another weird silence.
"I thought I'd feel more, seeing you again. I kept thinking this was a bad idea, that it would make me angry or -"
"I don't regret it," he interrupts, and maybe this is the point, that thirty years later he'd like to make sure she knows. "I don't regret us, not for a second."
"Neither do I."
She steps forward, presses a chaste, chapstick kiss to his lips. "Bye, John."
"Bye." He sticks his hands deep in his pockets and watches her pull out of the parking lot, feeling weirdly at peace, even though Rodney's going to kill him.
Unsurprisingly, Rodney pitches a fit when John's back inside. "You were married? To a woman?" and "Seriously, do you have kids I don't know about, too?" and "What the fuck, Sheppard, who does that?" The whole time Rodney's hands are moving, twisting and stabbing. John can feel the frustration in the air, and kind of wishes Ronon was the type for idle gossip, wishes Rodney had found out any way but this.
"Look," he starts, still with no idea what explanation to give but knowing if he doesn't cut Rodney off now it'll go on for hours, "It just never came up. It didn't seem important."
"Didn't seem important? Jesus, Sheppard."
"Okay, I obviously fucked up. What do you expect me to do about it?" John watches Rodney's shoulders slump. He looks miserable.
"Not a damn thing." Rodney hesitates. "I'm going to get a shower and head up to the SGC. Carter sent me some suggestions for ZPM efficiency; once again I have to prove to her that she's got it exactly wrong. So, um. Well."
John doesn't stop him from ducking into the bathroom, just sits with his head in his hands. The thing is, John's kind of a giant girl when it comes to fighting with Rodney, so while Rodney's still in the shower he flips open Rodney's third-favorite laptop, the only one Rodney's let him have a password to, and opens Notepad.
I'M KIND OF A FUCKUP, he types, and the cursor blinks calmly at him, Courier New making him miss Atlantis' sharp Ancient script and ugly, block fonts. I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU ABOUT HER.
Breathing slowly, John hits Enter twice, and adds YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT HER, BUT EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT YOU.
He leaves the screen open on the bed and runs his fingers through his hair once. He touches one finger to the backspace key, but, hearing the water cut off in the bathroom, sucks in a breath and heads out of the apartment.
Mark and Lisa's is only four doors down, and John knocks, feeling kind of stupid since he has no real reason to be here. But he doesn't want to leave the building; the plan is only to be gone for a few minutes. Thankfully, Lisa's home, sniffling pathetically and clutching a blanket around her shoulders, which makes it simpler to explain his presence. "Mark said you were sick; I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he lies easily, charming smile firmly in place. "See if you needed anything."
His vocal tone is off just a little, sounding more used and grating than he'd like, but Lisa, feverish, doesn't notice a thing. "Oh, thanks, honey," she says, leaning a little against the doorframe. "But I'm doing okay."
"Mark make you chicken soup?"
"Please. I don't need food poisoning on top of this."
"I'd offer to make you some, but mine's probably not much safer than his. You sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm good, but thanks for stopping by, what with the long trip and all," she answers, glancing sardonically towards the end of the hall. Okay, maybe not so feverish.
"Yeah, well, you know me, always looking for ways to help out." John winces. God, he used to be good at faking it.
"Uh-huh. Bye, John."
The door shuts in his face, and when he turns back towards Rodney's, dread heavy in his stomach, Rodney's standing there, hair dripping down his neck and feet bare. "It - it turns out Carter doesn't need me after all," he says, face a little flushed. "So we can finish the curry, if you want."
"Yeah," John says, voice tight. "That'd be okay."
There are other advantages to Operation Midlife Crisis. Namely, John can cockblock without having to be sneaky about it.
He discovers how much fun that can be in Stockholm. By the time they get to the university for Rodney's lecture he's already annoyed as hell - he hasn't gotten to see any of the city, really, because they have a driver and a schedule and the airline lost their luggage, which Rodney won't quit bitching about, hands fluttering all over the place. It's nerves, of course, and overwhelming excitement, and John gets that, he really does, but Christ the last twelve hours have been hell. Also, he's freezing his balls off.
It's not that John objects to some Swedish guys giving Rodney something like half a million dollars, a pretty certificate, and a medal. He thinks, in principle, that more people should give Rodney medals.
But seriously, who wants to be in this part of the world in Earth December?
Rodney's lecture is great - at least John thinks so. At the beginning, he even knows what Rodney is talking about. ZPMs draw energy from subspace, and Rodney knows how to do it. This is good. It's when Rodney starts getting more technical, throwing around words like "quantum harmonic oscillator" and "expectation Hamiltonian," that John lets himself drift, watching the scientists around him have orgasms over Rodney's powerpoint.
John picked out the font and color scheme. He thinks maybe they should have gone with a lighter shade of red.
Jeannie, beside him, keeps passing notes that consist, mainly, of her own panicking. Don't tell Mer, but he's doing a better job than I will. and I don't even have a powerpoint!
You'll be fine, he scribbles back, holding his pen low so Rodney won't see. He's about three seconds away from fainting, look. Which is just patently untrue; Rodney's glowing. Still, if Jeannie freaks out mid-lecture they may revoke her share of the prize, or something. Zelenka keeps glancing down at their notes, shaking his head, and then returning to watching Rodney with something like indulgence.
They break for lunch before Radek's lecture, and that's when John realizes that the world of theoretical physics is not that much different than any other social clique - there are leaders, followers, and groupies. John just hadn't anticipated that a third of the Nobel would make Rodney the Brad Pitt of astrophysicists. There are people coming out of the woodwork to hit on him, and at first John grits his teeth and loads up at the buffet, but during dessert, after the third not-so-subtle hint about "cooperative research," he decides he's had enough.
Leaning over, he murmurs in Rodney's ear. "You want to give them a little scandal?"
Rodney gives him the fish-eye. "This is my Nobel lecture, you idiot."
"I know. Which is why I, like half the people in this room, want to throw you against a wall and have my wicked way with you right here."
"Um." Rodney's holding a strawberry about three inches from his mouth, but his hand's not moving, to eat it or put it down. John may have spoken that last a little more loudly than strictly necessary, but at least the woman with the curls and pouty, shiny lips on the other side of Rodney isn't leaning over quite so far anymore.
Just in case someone missed that signal, John plucks the strawberry from Rodney's nerveless fingers and places it gently against his lips, which part automatically.
From the next table over, John hears the phrase "trophy wife" and very deliberately does not commit homicide. This was the point, after all. Rodney takes the strawberry between lips already stained pink, swallowing almost obscenely fast. John rests his index finger lightly on Rodney's lower lip, waiting, and Rodney obediently lets John press his finger inside, running his tongue lightly around the tip and scraping his teeth along the length of it. John pretends very hard not to be turned on by this, and slips his hand free with a smile he hopes is sultry and not dorky or desperate. Rodney smirks and turns back to the conversation he'd been having before John's little display. Everyone politely pretends it didn't happen.
But none of the physics groupies hit on Rodney during Radek and Jeannie's follow-up lectures. (Radek explains the mechanical processes of the new pseudo-ZPMs he and Rodney have constructed, all crystalline perfection internally and masking tape externally. The first prototype had been built on Atlantis before the resumption of relations with Earth, after all, and a lot of the engineering from those years looks as sketchy as though it were Genii-built. Jeannie starts off jittery and stuttering, but gets the flow pretty quickly and writes a series of equations on the huge whiteboard behind her. Her stuff - the theoretical math behind Rodney's work and Radek's design - is a lot easier to understand, for John at least, but it's still impressive enough for him to see why the committee opted to split the prize three ways.)
Dinner is interminable, full of shop talk, gossip about geeks not lucky enough to make it to the festivities this week, and speculation about next year's prize.
The whole time, John keeps a sharp eye out for the professors and researchers who wander a little too close to Rodney, and periodically stages a little PDA to make his point.
He can fake being a trophy wife for a good cause. Honest.
Two months away from Atlantis is too long, but it's not like Rodney could rearrange the date of the Nobel ceremony, or the convention/lecture/press conference schedule that preceded it. And frankly John wouldn't have felt right, pulling either Rodney or Radek away from their brief tour as astrophysics rock stars. Still, it's good to be home, finally, when the Stargate closes behind them in early Earth January, Atlantis November.
Here, the novelty of openly being with Rodney has long worn off; while they've never made out in the gate room, they also haven't pretended to have separate quarters in at least six years. John deliberately keeps up the pattern of small, obvious things, though, wanting Rodney to understand that Operation Midlife Crisis wasn't just a "fuck you" to the SGC.
("Love you," he'll say idly, signing off over the comms, and Rodney will repeat the words almost unbearably gently. Ronon snickers and Teyla shakes her head, but neither of them says a word.)
"You realize this is utterly ridiculous, right?" Rodney asks one night, half-asleep.
John crooks an arm over his face - not hiding - and mutters, "Yeah."
"I mean, we've been fucking for a decade, Sheppard. Why now?"
Deflect, he thinks desperately, deflect and deny. "Why do you still call me Sheppard?" he asks instead.
"Because it's your name."
"So is John."
"Because when I call you John you go all - soft. I don't like seeing it in public," Rodney admits, sounding more awake now. "It's - it's mine."
John has to hold his breath for a moment, waiting out the racing of his heart. "So'm I, Rodney. That's kind of the point."
"Oh," Rodney breathes, and then John's being pinned down by his familiar weight. He moves his arm, and looks up at Rodney's bright eyes. "John."
Rodney's petty, arrogant, and bad with people. Rodney has a Nobel prize, absurd amounts of money and a shitty apartment he doesn't need. Rodney likes junk food, cats, and subspace harmonics. Rodney thinks John's name is too precious to say aloud, but Rodney also once told a reporter that he loved John.
John meets Rodney's gaze, completely unafraid of what he'll see, of what Rodney will see.