FIC: Stargate Atlantis
Title: Hypothesis
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "But. We. We haven't seen each other in four years before today," John says.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you might recognize.
Warnings/Author's Notes: No real warnings. Vague spoilers for some of season five, but nothing specific. ~6,400 words.
John nearly laughs in the meeting with Woolsey, Landry and O'Neill. It's on the tip of his tongue to remind them what happened the last time they sent him to Afghanistan, but he catches the look on Sam Carter's face and bites down. He does respect her more than any other commander he's ever worked with, and knows she'll take good care of Atlantis. Her face says, Do this, and they'll let you come back. John swallows and nods briefly. Woolsey and Landry thinks it's for them, but John's pretty sure O'Neill and Carter know better.
He has twenty-four hours to be ready for reassignment. The Marines throw him a party in the mess, streamers, balloons, bad 80s music and all. Is that Depeche Mode? Seriously? There's also lots of alcohol. John makes very sure he does not get drunk. He's never been a fan of doing and/or saying something at the wrong time, and this would definitely count as the wrong time. And while it's not like he couldn't probably get a pity fuck out of at least half the expedition, that's not exactly the way he wants to go out.
While John doesn't get drunk, almost everyone else does, including Rodney. John pretends he doesn't notice when Rodney and Keller disappear from the party, or that they don't come back. John gates out at 5:00 a.m. the next morning; he really isn't one for long good-byes. The last thing he and Rodney say to each other is:
"Hey, where do you think they dug up those balloons?" Rodney had said.
"Maybe from the Christmas party," John had shrugged.
***
John realizes two things once he gets to Afghanistan. First, that the shit really has hit the fan. He had a feeling that was true since, you know, the Air Force had been crazy enough to decide to send him back there. The second is that if anyone from Atlantis had a hope to stay in touch, or if he had hoped to stay in touch with them, it is not going to happen. He can't exactly get wireless while he's sitting in some crappy "safe house" digging holes in the dirt for latrines and waiting for the Taliban to make a move. He emails with Teyla a few times on the occasions he's back on a base or otherwise able to get to email. McKay sends one email the length of a doctoral dissertation; Ronon, though no more verbose in writing than he is in person, is the most honest about what's going on in Atlantis, though John is skilled enough in Teyla-speak to be able to read between the lines of her correspondence, too. In other words: everything is going just fine. Or at least as fine as it always did. John figures he has that, at least.
He resigns after three tours of duty in a row, without a break. He's been a good boy, done all the things they've asked of him, but he finally gets it, in his head and his heart, that no matter how well he behaves himself, he's not going back to Atlantis. They're hanging on there just fine, and the ATA gene therapy has made progress thanks to the medical team's hard work, so not even his fluke of genetics makes him essential personnel anymore. No, the Air Force would rather keep him in the desert, leading special-ops teams of kids, damn 18, 19, 20-year-olds who are dying at almost as fast a rate as the military can get them over there, and John is bone-weary of sending other people's children to their deaths.
The Air Force isn't exactly thrilled that he resigns his commission, but they can't exactly stop him, either. He takes his 20-year pension and the flight back to the States, and he can't actually say he's sorry.
***
John buys the house outside of Seattle outright. Money is not a problem. Never has been, really, but this is the first time John lets himself appreciate that, just a little. Two bedrooms, two baths; he does the work on the floors himself, renovates the kitchen. He tries not to dwell too much on the fact that he chose the Pacific Northwest because it reminds him of the Pegaus Galaxy.
He needs something to do with himself. He's never been good at being idle, no matter how hard he tried to establish the image of a slacker. He gets a job at the community college teaching math. Most of his students are like his soldiers in Afghanistan, young adults looking for a better life, but this time through junior college and not the military. John's grateful he's no longer asking them to throw themselves on live grenades, but he still feels guilty when they fail, when he has to ink an F on an exam, or worse, his end of term grades that he gives to the dean. He passes everyone he possibly can, suggests remedial courses to those he can't, tells only a couple that maybe they want to try another path in life.
John's pulling on a beer, grading his calculus classes' homework, when he hears a familiar voice. That voice. He nearly freaks out, actually does look over his shoulder before he realizes that he's left CNN on with the volume low. And there he is when John looks, one Rodney McKay, and John reaches for the remote to turn the volume up. Rodney's talking with not just a little enthusiasm about Atlantis' sublight drive, which is how John comes to realize that the powers that be have declassified the Stargate program. He spares a thought to be grateful that they didn't have to do because the Wraith have landed and are starting to suck the life out of people, but after that, he turns the t.v. off.
Over the next few weeks the news is everywhere, of course. John even thinks he gets a glimpse of Ronon on Entertainment Tonight. His name isn't mentioned anywhere, though John's not surprised about that. What he is surprised about, he comes to realize, is that no one has gotten in touch with him. Not Teyla or Ronon, McKay or Zelenka, Carter or Lorne. His location isn't a secret; John knows both the SGC and the Air Force well enough to be certain that they know exactly where he is -- his address, phone number, driver's license number, probably even his weekly grocery bill are all at their disposal. They could be debating his choice of Cheerios over Cornflakes for all he knows, but he doesn't get even one phone call.
So much for family, he thinks.
***
He's sitting at the corner table in his favorite coffee shop, reading. He's in the city today; it's the break between spring term and summer classes, and he thought he'd take advantage of the quiet. A lazy day, some bike riding, maybe a visit to the beach. John had even considered his favorite bar for later tonight, finding someone to spend the night with. He does that, occasionally, when he feels the impulse, the growing need just to have some kind of contact with somebody. Most of the men there don't mind a one-night stand.
There's noise at the register but he barely notices at first, not until the ranting starts to invade his carefully formulated bubble.
"Are you kidding me? This is Seattle, the coffee capital of the entire damn world, and you've managed to burn the espresso? This is the fourth place I've been, and you all are the only people who have the Italian beans, and you don't even know how to brew them? What the hell is wrong with you people?"
John doesn't even have to look up to know who it is as the manager comes to the counter and other customers turn to stare. Rodney's really worked himself up, John thinks, glancing up to see the dance of McKay's hand gestures, the ones that say you idiots; why doesn't the universe cooperate with me; and if I were an evil genius, and I'm not, but you all are very lucky about that, because if I was, I'd kill you all just with my brain. The manager is doing his best to try to placate Rodney, poor guy, and Rodney is only allowing himself to be mollified a little. He must be tired, John thinks, recognizing the slump to Rodney's shoulders and downward line around his mouth.
John has thought of himself as a lot of things, but not a coward. He fights the instinct to get up and leave; he figures that will just draw attention to himself, even if Rodney is still plenty occupied berating people who get paid by the hour. He does put his head down, however, trying to make himself invisible. He's not proud of it, but he does it. He's done plenty of things in his life he's not very proud of, anyway.
He does not, however, miss the footsteps when they finally approach. For all of McKay's training, he seems not to have ever made progress in stealth.
"I'd know that hair anywhere," he says, and he sounds amused.
John looks up. "Well, hello to you, too, McKay," he drawls.
Rodney pulls out the other chair at John's table and sits down -- without an invitation, which doesn't shock John. "Sheppard."
John notices Rodney's fidgeting, tapping his fingers slightly against the table while the other hand grips the bag holding whatever free pastry the manager used to help placate him. Rodney's leg is jumping up and down beneath the table; there's no wedding ring on his finger, not that John looks intentionally, but Rodney is holding on to that bag pretty tightly. Not that that means anything -- he certainly dated Katie long enough before even asked her to get married. Or tried to ask her, at any rate.
"So . . . what brings you to Seattle?" John asks. He grimaces inside, because that's the kind of small talk question that he hates, but what else is there to discuss with Rodney except for small talk?
"I -- that is, we . . . we're holding a series of lectures at the University of Washington. Zelenka and I are covering some science; Teyla's presenting on Pegasus cultures; Carter and Jackson are talking about some SGC-1 stuff. You know, part of the SGC roll out."
"Oh. That's great." John tries a smile, but he doesn't get the impression it actually came out very well.
"Yeah, it's. Well, we all miss Atlantis right now, but it's nice to have some Earth time." Rodney nods enthusiastically -- maybe too enthusiastically.
As if they know anything about missing Atlantis. "I'm sure," John says, and scratches his cheek which is covered in three day old stubble.
"You should -- you should join us. For dinner, I mean."
"I -- I don't know. That's probably not a good idea."
"Oh, come on. People would . . . love to see you." It comes out of Rodney's mouth almost like a question, which does nothing to bolster John's confidence. John frowns, but Rodney suddenly snaps his fingers. "Oh, oh! And Jeannie and her family came down from Vancouver -- did you know she had another kid? A boy?"
"Congratulations," John says.
"Ronon's here, too, though he's not . . . presenting. And Jennifer. It'll be just like old times," Rodney finishes, his eyes lit up.
Great. A McKay family reunion. "Uh, no thanks," John says, trying to sound honestly regretful. It's not hard, since he kind of is.
"Sheppard --" Rodney starts.
"Listen. I appreciate the offer. But I have plans."
Rodney's chin goes up. "Oh, yeah? What plans?"
"I'm meeting a friend," John says smoothly. "For drinks."
"Well, bring your friend along," Rodney says.
"I don't think so," John says.
"But --"
"I don't think so," John says, more firmly this time. Before Rodney can say something else, he continues. "Look. I can't come, sorry. But you all enjoy yourselves," he says, going to stand up.
"Sheppard --"
"Yeah. It was good to see you, McKay," John says before he closes the distance to the door and exits the coffee shop.
***
John does go to the beach. He rolls up his jeans and stands ankle deep in the cold water of the Pacific until long after he can't feel his feet at all.
***
John startles awake in the dark and squints at his clock: 2:37 a.m. Great. It takes him another minute to figure out why he's awake in the first place: someone is banging at his door. John sighs, rolls out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt, padding to the front door. He looks through the peephole and groans before turning on one of the living room lights and opening the door.
"Oh my God, you've become the Unabomber," Rodney says, gaping slightly.
John rolls his eyes. "Wrong state, Rodney."
"I see you don't deny it," Rodney raises a finger.
"I'm not the fucking Unabomber, McKay," John growls. "Are we finished here?"
"No!" Rodney all but shouts. "No, we are not finished here, Sheppard. You can't just, just -- " Rodney waves his arms. "You can't just be there and then disappear again. You can't. It's not fair."
John leans against the door frame. "For fuck's sake, McKay, it's three in the morning. Go back to your hotel and go to sleep." He starts to shut the door.
"Hey," Rodney says, shouldering the door to keep it open before John can close it. He manhandles John aside and pushes into the room. John absently thinks that Ronon must have been teaching Rodney some moves as he closes the door.
Rodney points a finger at John. "You suck," he says.
"Are you drunk?" John asks.
"No!"
John raises an eyebrow.
"Just a little!"
John crosses his arms against his chest and glares.
"Anyway, I'm merely stating a fact: you suck," Rodney says with not a little bit of triumph.
"Great. I suck. Now are we done here?"
"Jesus. No. You don't get to decide when this conversation is over."
"It's my damn house!"
"Exactly!" Rodney shouts, but then looks like he's trying to sort out why that's important. "Exactly! This is where you live."
"Are you sure you're not more than a little drunk?"
Rodney's cheeks flush, but he doesn't give up any ground. "You live here, not on Atlantis."
"Way to state the obvious, McKay," John says sarcastically.
"You never came back to Atlantis," Rodney says. "You just . . . you just left, and you never came back."
John sighs. "That's called the Air Force, Rodney. I got fucking reassigned."
"You could have fought it!"
"No, I couldn't. It doesn't work like that," John says, exasperated. "Look. They reassigned me, I did my job, I went. End of story."
"But you never came back."
"No. No, I didn't."
"You didn't even try," Rodney says.
That does it. "Fuck you," John points his finger at Rodney, stabs a little bit. "I spent two years spitting out the sand that was between my teeth, in the shittiest places on Earth you can imagine. Places that make some of those worlds in Pegasus look like paradise. And you know where it got me? Watching kids getting their arms blown off, civilians killed."
"So you quit," Rodney says, and the sarcastic emphasis on quit makes John's hands shake.
"Yeah, I did."
"You could have come back to Atlantis. Talked to Landry, O'Neill --"
"No, I couldn't, Rodney. Don't you get it? They were never going to let me come back to Atlantis! I thought that was the deal, but no. I did every fucking thing they said, followed every goddamn stupid order they issued, and it was never going to stop. They would have had me die in combat first."
"Why? You . . . you're John Sheppard. You kept Atlantis -- it ran for years because of you. Well. Me, yes. But you, too."
"Not anymore! The military didn't need me in Atlantis anymore. The gene therapy was working, made more people ATA compliant and stronger gene carriers. Carter runs a good command. I was never coming back," John says, slowly. "I was more useful to them supervising the cattle at the slaughter."
"I --"
"You all even beat the Wraith, McKay. Were successful enough to be declassified." John stopped. "Atlantis didn't need me."
"What if we needed you? Your friends --"
"You didn't need me, either," John said, low and quiet.
"That's not true."
John barks out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, okay."
"It's not!"
"Which is why I always had hundreds of emails waiting for me whenever I was able to get back to something approaching civilization."
"That's -- you were busy. We were busy."
"Yeah," John says. "Your lives went on as business as usual. That's fine. You guys had your work, you had Atlantis, your -- personal lives. That's what happens, McKay -- people come, people go." John shrugs. "That's life."
"You don't really believe that, do you?" Rodney asks. His eyes have grown wide.
John shrugs again.
"God, you are an idiot," Rodney says. "What is this, some kind of 'everyone I love leaves me in the end' complex?"
John's mouth tightens.
"Christ, it is," Rodney announces.
"You can leave my house any time now, McKay," John says, suddenly weary. He's way too fucking old for this.
"You bring that on yourself, you know," Rodney continues, ignoring him. "First, you have all those stupid defenses you put up, and then, even if people do get close, you cut them off the first chance you get. So you can be the one who does the leaving first."
"Have you been watching too much Oprah?" John asks.
"God, it all makes sense now," Rodney says. "It's not like you ever even had a girlfriend while you were on Atlantis --"
"What? No Kirk jokes?"
"I thought I was socially inept and unable to maintain relationships, but you --"
"I've already asked you politely to leave my house --"
"I can't believe I didn't see it before."
John rubs his hand over his eyes. "Listen, McKay. You want to know why I never had a girlfriend or relationship while I was on Atlantis? Let's take a moment and let your famous genius kick in."
Rodney blinks at him. He looks blank.
"For fuck's sake," John says. "The buddy, the one I tried to save in Afghanistan in the first time? Let's just say he wasn't. He wasn't just a -- friend."
Rodney blinks again, and it makes John's teeth grind. "Oh," Rodney says. "So wha -- oh."
John spreads his hands. "Yeah."
"Oh", Rodney repeats.
"So now that that's cleared up --" John starts, but he's cut off suddenly by Rodney rushing him, right in John's personal space, forcing John back until his back slams up against the door. "What the --" he says, but this time it's Rodney's mouth that stops him, surprisingly soft and a little wet.
Rodney pulls back, lifts up a finger when John starts to speak. "Wait," Rodney says, before diving back in, sweeping at John's mouth with his tongue until John finally opens up, allows Rodney in, his own tongue curling slightly around Rodney's in response. Rodney pulls away again, panting slightly this time. "Okay," he says.
"Okay what?" John asks, slightly dazed.
Rodney shakes his head. "Just -- testing an hypothesis."
"Like an experiment?"
"Not exactly," Rodney says, leaning toward John again.
"How long have you had this theory?" John asks just before Rodney swoops in again with a kiss so hard and sweet that John has to lean against the door for support.
"Years," Rodney answers bluntly, and John knows it's the truth.
"Wait. Wait. We can't --" John says.
"Why not?" Rodney asks, looking truly baffled.
"Well, for one thing, you're . . . involved."
"With what?" Now Rodney sounds a little exasperated.
"With whom. Like Jennifer Keller."
"Divorced," Rodney says, leans again. John backs his head up as far as he can, banging it against the door.
"Divorced?" John asks. His voice sounds a little high, even to his own ears.
Rodney moves back a little and sighs. "I know you know what that word means. We got married . . . it didn't last long. We've been divorced almost a year. Still friends."
John frowns. "What happened?"
"I can't believe you want to rehash my past relationships right now!" Rodney says.
John just looks at him.
"I. Fine. I wanted children; she didn't. At least not right away. We -- eventually we figured out that we were better friends than we were partners. There. You satisfied?"
"But. We. We haven't seen each other in four years before today," John says.
"What? Are you gay or are you a girl?"
"McKay --"
Rodney moves even closer to John, fits their bodies together. He moves his head to the side, until his and John's cheeks are touching. "John. I have a spectacular hard-on. I think you should let me use it," he whispers into John's ear.
John can't help it, shivers.
"That's right," Rodney whispers before licking the shell of John's ear. "Can we move this into the bedroom, maybe? I would love to blow you, but my knees aren't going to be able to take the floor for very long."
At that, John's the one who starts to touch with intent, his fingers starting to tease the hem of Rodney's shirt, and the skin underneath it, as he walks Rodney backwards, to the right and down the hall to his bedroom. The bedroom is dark since John left to answer the door with out turning on a light, but that doesn't seem to bother Rodney, who captures John's mouth in a kiss. They have to break apart for John to peel Rodney's shirt off, and Rodney's the first one to hit the bed. He bumps it with his knees and then sits down heavily, nosing John's stomach through his shirt, his hands firm on John's hips. John stands there for a minute, head bowed, just to feel the pressure of Rodney's fingers, the warmth of his breath.
Soon, though, too soon, it's not enough, and John reaches down and takes his shirt off, gently urging Rodney up and onto the bed. The bed dips under John's knee as he climbs up next to Rodney. They meet in the middle with a kiss, hot and long, until Rodney moves to the side, kisses John's jaw; he licks where he's kissed John's jaw, goes a little further down and mouths at John's Adam's apple, biting down a little and then soothing it again with his tongue. John lets his head hit the pillow as Rodney tongues the dip between his collarbone, blowing it dry when he's done while running a blunt nail over John's nipple.
"Rodney," John says, trying hard not to sound like he's whining or begging, though it's hard, and Rodney's smile against John's breastbone is proof enough that John was probably not successful.
"Well," Rodney says, as if he's really thinking about it, as if John can't feel Rodney's erection against his leg, as if it's a suggestion to go to lunch. "I could to this the right way, or I could do it the fast way."
John lifts his head off the pillow and grins. "I do love things that go more than 200 miles per hour."
Rodney grins back, leans down to bite the skin right above John's hip bone, and then goes to work stripping off John's sleep pants and boxers. John sucks in a breath when his cock hits the cool night air, and quickly sucks in another as Rodney's mouth descends, all tight heat and wetness and tongue, God. He wraps his hands around John's hips, holding John in place, allowing him just the tiniest bit of room to thrust, but otherwise pins John to the bed. Rodney is tuned into his task, seemingly oblivious to anything else in the room; the only sounds in the room are John's breathing, harsh through his nose, and the slow, wet slide of Rodney's mouth. Rodney pulls off almost all the way until just the tip of John's cock is in his mouth, and then he swirls his tongue and sucks until John comes, panting and fisting the bedsheets.
John tugs gently on Rodney's hair, trying to get him to come back up the bed. He finally succeeds and Rodney crawls back up the bed, his cock prominent even his jeans, a small wet spot forming on the front. John puts one hand on the back of Rodney's head and pulls him down for a kiss. John puts own tongue put to good use, sliding it slowly in and around Rodney's mouth. He keeps Rodney there so long they are both on the edge of desperately needing air. At the same time, John snakes his other hand between them and unbuttons Rodney's jeans. John breaks the kiss and unzips Rodney's jeans, pushing them just far enough down on Rodney's hips to free his cock. Rodney drops his head to John's shoulder, breathing wetly on John's collarbone, occasionally pressing a kiss to John's neck as John smears Rodney's pre-come on his palm, wraps his hand around Rodney's cock and sets a rhythm. There's nothing slow or gentle about it, and Rodney is close anyway, spurting over John's fist and then going limp half on top of John in a couple of minutes.
John breaks the silence, turning his head to nose at Rodney's hair. "I thought you'd be a talker in bed."
Rodney lifts his head slightly to smirk at John, but then rests it back down on John's shoulder. "I'm occupied with other things, Sheppard. I need my concentration."
John thinks about this -- if he gets to be the focus of Rodney's attention like this more often, he wouldn't really mind.
Eventually, Rodney squirms the rest of his clothes off and starts to settle underneath the covers, more or less forcing John with him. They settle in pretty much the same position they were before, only now John feels toasty under the comforter, Rodney's heat spread against his side; Rodney's breath a bit damp against his neck.
"Was I -- am I --" Rodney stutters to a halt, just as John thinks Rodney's drifted off.
John waits, knowing it'll come eventually.
"Was I the reason you didn't come back to Atlantis?"
John sighs. "Air Force, Rodney."
"Well, yes, yes, of course, but."
"But. I. You had other . . . things going on. All of you."
Rodney stays uncharacteristically silent; John can almost hear how hard Rodney is listening, and Rodney really listening is a pretty stunning spectacle.
"You really don't talk, do you?" Rodney asks.
"This is news to you?"
Rodney shakes his head on John's shoulder, wraps his arm around John's waist.
"I. I didn't think I belonged anymore," John finally manages; his chest is tight, as if the pressure is going to overwhelm him. "Everyone had other people they wanted. That they . . . that were better."
Rodney's hold gets a little tighter. "You're an idiot," he says. "Come with me tomorrow?"
John snickers.
Rodney smacks him softly in the side. "To breakfast, to the University."
John is silent.
Rodney whispers, "Come see everybody. They miss you."
"I don't need --" John stops.
Rodney kisses him on the neck. "Yeah, you do," he says, as if that settles the matter.
As they drift off into sleep, John thinks that maybe Rodney's right, maybe he does.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "But. We. We haven't seen each other in four years before today," John says.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you might recognize.
Warnings/Author's Notes: No real warnings. Vague spoilers for some of season five, but nothing specific. ~6,400 words.
John nearly laughs in the meeting with Woolsey, Landry and O'Neill. It's on the tip of his tongue to remind them what happened the last time they sent him to Afghanistan, but he catches the look on Sam Carter's face and bites down. He does respect her more than any other commander he's ever worked with, and knows she'll take good care of Atlantis. Her face says, Do this, and they'll let you come back. John swallows and nods briefly. Woolsey and Landry thinks it's for them, but John's pretty sure O'Neill and Carter know better.
He has twenty-four hours to be ready for reassignment. The Marines throw him a party in the mess, streamers, balloons, bad 80s music and all. Is that Depeche Mode? Seriously? There's also lots of alcohol. John makes very sure he does not get drunk. He's never been a fan of doing and/or saying something at the wrong time, and this would definitely count as the wrong time. And while it's not like he couldn't probably get a pity fuck out of at least half the expedition, that's not exactly the way he wants to go out.
While John doesn't get drunk, almost everyone else does, including Rodney. John pretends he doesn't notice when Rodney and Keller disappear from the party, or that they don't come back. John gates out at 5:00 a.m. the next morning; he really isn't one for long good-byes. The last thing he and Rodney say to each other is:
"Hey, where do you think they dug up those balloons?" Rodney had said.
"Maybe from the Christmas party," John had shrugged.
***
John realizes two things once he gets to Afghanistan. First, that the shit really has hit the fan. He had a feeling that was true since, you know, the Air Force had been crazy enough to decide to send him back there. The second is that if anyone from Atlantis had a hope to stay in touch, or if he had hoped to stay in touch with them, it is not going to happen. He can't exactly get wireless while he's sitting in some crappy "safe house" digging holes in the dirt for latrines and waiting for the Taliban to make a move. He emails with Teyla a few times on the occasions he's back on a base or otherwise able to get to email. McKay sends one email the length of a doctoral dissertation; Ronon, though no more verbose in writing than he is in person, is the most honest about what's going on in Atlantis, though John is skilled enough in Teyla-speak to be able to read between the lines of her correspondence, too. In other words: everything is going just fine. Or at least as fine as it always did. John figures he has that, at least.
He resigns after three tours of duty in a row, without a break. He's been a good boy, done all the things they've asked of him, but he finally gets it, in his head and his heart, that no matter how well he behaves himself, he's not going back to Atlantis. They're hanging on there just fine, and the ATA gene therapy has made progress thanks to the medical team's hard work, so not even his fluke of genetics makes him essential personnel anymore. No, the Air Force would rather keep him in the desert, leading special-ops teams of kids, damn 18, 19, 20-year-olds who are dying at almost as fast a rate as the military can get them over there, and John is bone-weary of sending other people's children to their deaths.
The Air Force isn't exactly thrilled that he resigns his commission, but they can't exactly stop him, either. He takes his 20-year pension and the flight back to the States, and he can't actually say he's sorry.
***
John buys the house outside of Seattle outright. Money is not a problem. Never has been, really, but this is the first time John lets himself appreciate that, just a little. Two bedrooms, two baths; he does the work on the floors himself, renovates the kitchen. He tries not to dwell too much on the fact that he chose the Pacific Northwest because it reminds him of the Pegaus Galaxy.
He needs something to do with himself. He's never been good at being idle, no matter how hard he tried to establish the image of a slacker. He gets a job at the community college teaching math. Most of his students are like his soldiers in Afghanistan, young adults looking for a better life, but this time through junior college and not the military. John's grateful he's no longer asking them to throw themselves on live grenades, but he still feels guilty when they fail, when he has to ink an F on an exam, or worse, his end of term grades that he gives to the dean. He passes everyone he possibly can, suggests remedial courses to those he can't, tells only a couple that maybe they want to try another path in life.
John's pulling on a beer, grading his calculus classes' homework, when he hears a familiar voice. That voice. He nearly freaks out, actually does look over his shoulder before he realizes that he's left CNN on with the volume low. And there he is when John looks, one Rodney McKay, and John reaches for the remote to turn the volume up. Rodney's talking with not just a little enthusiasm about Atlantis' sublight drive, which is how John comes to realize that the powers that be have declassified the Stargate program. He spares a thought to be grateful that they didn't have to do because the Wraith have landed and are starting to suck the life out of people, but after that, he turns the t.v. off.
Over the next few weeks the news is everywhere, of course. John even thinks he gets a glimpse of Ronon on Entertainment Tonight. His name isn't mentioned anywhere, though John's not surprised about that. What he is surprised about, he comes to realize, is that no one has gotten in touch with him. Not Teyla or Ronon, McKay or Zelenka, Carter or Lorne. His location isn't a secret; John knows both the SGC and the Air Force well enough to be certain that they know exactly where he is -- his address, phone number, driver's license number, probably even his weekly grocery bill are all at their disposal. They could be debating his choice of Cheerios over Cornflakes for all he knows, but he doesn't get even one phone call.
So much for family, he thinks.
***
He's sitting at the corner table in his favorite coffee shop, reading. He's in the city today; it's the break between spring term and summer classes, and he thought he'd take advantage of the quiet. A lazy day, some bike riding, maybe a visit to the beach. John had even considered his favorite bar for later tonight, finding someone to spend the night with. He does that, occasionally, when he feels the impulse, the growing need just to have some kind of contact with somebody. Most of the men there don't mind a one-night stand.
There's noise at the register but he barely notices at first, not until the ranting starts to invade his carefully formulated bubble.
"Are you kidding me? This is Seattle, the coffee capital of the entire damn world, and you've managed to burn the espresso? This is the fourth place I've been, and you all are the only people who have the Italian beans, and you don't even know how to brew them? What the hell is wrong with you people?"
John doesn't even have to look up to know who it is as the manager comes to the counter and other customers turn to stare. Rodney's really worked himself up, John thinks, glancing up to see the dance of McKay's hand gestures, the ones that say you idiots; why doesn't the universe cooperate with me; and if I were an evil genius, and I'm not, but you all are very lucky about that, because if I was, I'd kill you all just with my brain. The manager is doing his best to try to placate Rodney, poor guy, and Rodney is only allowing himself to be mollified a little. He must be tired, John thinks, recognizing the slump to Rodney's shoulders and downward line around his mouth.
John has thought of himself as a lot of things, but not a coward. He fights the instinct to get up and leave; he figures that will just draw attention to himself, even if Rodney is still plenty occupied berating people who get paid by the hour. He does put his head down, however, trying to make himself invisible. He's not proud of it, but he does it. He's done plenty of things in his life he's not very proud of, anyway.
He does not, however, miss the footsteps when they finally approach. For all of McKay's training, he seems not to have ever made progress in stealth.
"I'd know that hair anywhere," he says, and he sounds amused.
John looks up. "Well, hello to you, too, McKay," he drawls.
Rodney pulls out the other chair at John's table and sits down -- without an invitation, which doesn't shock John. "Sheppard."
John notices Rodney's fidgeting, tapping his fingers slightly against the table while the other hand grips the bag holding whatever free pastry the manager used to help placate him. Rodney's leg is jumping up and down beneath the table; there's no wedding ring on his finger, not that John looks intentionally, but Rodney is holding on to that bag pretty tightly. Not that that means anything -- he certainly dated Katie long enough before even asked her to get married. Or tried to ask her, at any rate.
"So . . . what brings you to Seattle?" John asks. He grimaces inside, because that's the kind of small talk question that he hates, but what else is there to discuss with Rodney except for small talk?
"I -- that is, we . . . we're holding a series of lectures at the University of Washington. Zelenka and I are covering some science; Teyla's presenting on Pegasus cultures; Carter and Jackson are talking about some SGC-1 stuff. You know, part of the SGC roll out."
"Oh. That's great." John tries a smile, but he doesn't get the impression it actually came out very well.
"Yeah, it's. Well, we all miss Atlantis right now, but it's nice to have some Earth time." Rodney nods enthusiastically -- maybe too enthusiastically.
As if they know anything about missing Atlantis. "I'm sure," John says, and scratches his cheek which is covered in three day old stubble.
"You should -- you should join us. For dinner, I mean."
"I -- I don't know. That's probably not a good idea."
"Oh, come on. People would . . . love to see you." It comes out of Rodney's mouth almost like a question, which does nothing to bolster John's confidence. John frowns, but Rodney suddenly snaps his fingers. "Oh, oh! And Jeannie and her family came down from Vancouver -- did you know she had another kid? A boy?"
"Congratulations," John says.
"Ronon's here, too, though he's not . . . presenting. And Jennifer. It'll be just like old times," Rodney finishes, his eyes lit up.
Great. A McKay family reunion. "Uh, no thanks," John says, trying to sound honestly regretful. It's not hard, since he kind of is.
"Sheppard --" Rodney starts.
"Listen. I appreciate the offer. But I have plans."
Rodney's chin goes up. "Oh, yeah? What plans?"
"I'm meeting a friend," John says smoothly. "For drinks."
"Well, bring your friend along," Rodney says.
"I don't think so," John says.
"But --"
"I don't think so," John says, more firmly this time. Before Rodney can say something else, he continues. "Look. I can't come, sorry. But you all enjoy yourselves," he says, going to stand up.
"Sheppard --"
"Yeah. It was good to see you, McKay," John says before he closes the distance to the door and exits the coffee shop.
***
John does go to the beach. He rolls up his jeans and stands ankle deep in the cold water of the Pacific until long after he can't feel his feet at all.
***
John startles awake in the dark and squints at his clock: 2:37 a.m. Great. It takes him another minute to figure out why he's awake in the first place: someone is banging at his door. John sighs, rolls out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt, padding to the front door. He looks through the peephole and groans before turning on one of the living room lights and opening the door.
"Oh my God, you've become the Unabomber," Rodney says, gaping slightly.
John rolls his eyes. "Wrong state, Rodney."
"I see you don't deny it," Rodney raises a finger.
"I'm not the fucking Unabomber, McKay," John growls. "Are we finished here?"
"No!" Rodney all but shouts. "No, we are not finished here, Sheppard. You can't just, just -- " Rodney waves his arms. "You can't just be there and then disappear again. You can't. It's not fair."
John leans against the door frame. "For fuck's sake, McKay, it's three in the morning. Go back to your hotel and go to sleep." He starts to shut the door.
"Hey," Rodney says, shouldering the door to keep it open before John can close it. He manhandles John aside and pushes into the room. John absently thinks that Ronon must have been teaching Rodney some moves as he closes the door.
Rodney points a finger at John. "You suck," he says.
"Are you drunk?" John asks.
"No!"
John raises an eyebrow.
"Just a little!"
John crosses his arms against his chest and glares.
"Anyway, I'm merely stating a fact: you suck," Rodney says with not a little bit of triumph.
"Great. I suck. Now are we done here?"
"Jesus. No. You don't get to decide when this conversation is over."
"It's my damn house!"
"Exactly!" Rodney shouts, but then looks like he's trying to sort out why that's important. "Exactly! This is where you live."
"Are you sure you're not more than a little drunk?"
Rodney's cheeks flush, but he doesn't give up any ground. "You live here, not on Atlantis."
"Way to state the obvious, McKay," John says sarcastically.
"You never came back to Atlantis," Rodney says. "You just . . . you just left, and you never came back."
John sighs. "That's called the Air Force, Rodney. I got fucking reassigned."
"You could have fought it!"
"No, I couldn't. It doesn't work like that," John says, exasperated. "Look. They reassigned me, I did my job, I went. End of story."
"But you never came back."
"No. No, I didn't."
"You didn't even try," Rodney says.
That does it. "Fuck you," John points his finger at Rodney, stabs a little bit. "I spent two years spitting out the sand that was between my teeth, in the shittiest places on Earth you can imagine. Places that make some of those worlds in Pegasus look like paradise. And you know where it got me? Watching kids getting their arms blown off, civilians killed."
"So you quit," Rodney says, and the sarcastic emphasis on quit makes John's hands shake.
"Yeah, I did."
"You could have come back to Atlantis. Talked to Landry, O'Neill --"
"No, I couldn't, Rodney. Don't you get it? They were never going to let me come back to Atlantis! I thought that was the deal, but no. I did every fucking thing they said, followed every goddamn stupid order they issued, and it was never going to stop. They would have had me die in combat first."
"Why? You . . . you're John Sheppard. You kept Atlantis -- it ran for years because of you. Well. Me, yes. But you, too."
"Not anymore! The military didn't need me in Atlantis anymore. The gene therapy was working, made more people ATA compliant and stronger gene carriers. Carter runs a good command. I was never coming back," John says, slowly. "I was more useful to them supervising the cattle at the slaughter."
"I --"
"You all even beat the Wraith, McKay. Were successful enough to be declassified." John stopped. "Atlantis didn't need me."
"What if we needed you? Your friends --"
"You didn't need me, either," John said, low and quiet.
"That's not true."
John barks out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, okay."
"It's not!"
"Which is why I always had hundreds of emails waiting for me whenever I was able to get back to something approaching civilization."
"That's -- you were busy. We were busy."
"Yeah," John says. "Your lives went on as business as usual. That's fine. You guys had your work, you had Atlantis, your -- personal lives. That's what happens, McKay -- people come, people go." John shrugs. "That's life."
"You don't really believe that, do you?" Rodney asks. His eyes have grown wide.
John shrugs again.
"God, you are an idiot," Rodney says. "What is this, some kind of 'everyone I love leaves me in the end' complex?"
John's mouth tightens.
"Christ, it is," Rodney announces.
"You can leave my house any time now, McKay," John says, suddenly weary. He's way too fucking old for this.
"You bring that on yourself, you know," Rodney continues, ignoring him. "First, you have all those stupid defenses you put up, and then, even if people do get close, you cut them off the first chance you get. So you can be the one who does the leaving first."
"Have you been watching too much Oprah?" John asks.
"God, it all makes sense now," Rodney says. "It's not like you ever even had a girlfriend while you were on Atlantis --"
"What? No Kirk jokes?"
"I thought I was socially inept and unable to maintain relationships, but you --"
"I've already asked you politely to leave my house --"
"I can't believe I didn't see it before."
John rubs his hand over his eyes. "Listen, McKay. You want to know why I never had a girlfriend or relationship while I was on Atlantis? Let's take a moment and let your famous genius kick in."
Rodney blinks at him. He looks blank.
"For fuck's sake," John says. "The buddy, the one I tried to save in Afghanistan in the first time? Let's just say he wasn't. He wasn't just a -- friend."
Rodney blinks again, and it makes John's teeth grind. "Oh," Rodney says. "So wha -- oh."
John spreads his hands. "Yeah."
"Oh", Rodney repeats.
"So now that that's cleared up --" John starts, but he's cut off suddenly by Rodney rushing him, right in John's personal space, forcing John back until his back slams up against the door. "What the --" he says, but this time it's Rodney's mouth that stops him, surprisingly soft and a little wet.
Rodney pulls back, lifts up a finger when John starts to speak. "Wait," Rodney says, before diving back in, sweeping at John's mouth with his tongue until John finally opens up, allows Rodney in, his own tongue curling slightly around Rodney's in response. Rodney pulls away again, panting slightly this time. "Okay," he says.
"Okay what?" John asks, slightly dazed.
Rodney shakes his head. "Just -- testing an hypothesis."
"Like an experiment?"
"Not exactly," Rodney says, leaning toward John again.
"How long have you had this theory?" John asks just before Rodney swoops in again with a kiss so hard and sweet that John has to lean against the door for support.
"Years," Rodney answers bluntly, and John knows it's the truth.
"Wait. Wait. We can't --" John says.
"Why not?" Rodney asks, looking truly baffled.
"Well, for one thing, you're . . . involved."
"With what?" Now Rodney sounds a little exasperated.
"With whom. Like Jennifer Keller."
"Divorced," Rodney says, leans again. John backs his head up as far as he can, banging it against the door.
"Divorced?" John asks. His voice sounds a little high, even to his own ears.
Rodney moves back a little and sighs. "I know you know what that word means. We got married . . . it didn't last long. We've been divorced almost a year. Still friends."
John frowns. "What happened?"
"I can't believe you want to rehash my past relationships right now!" Rodney says.
John just looks at him.
"I. Fine. I wanted children; she didn't. At least not right away. We -- eventually we figured out that we were better friends than we were partners. There. You satisfied?"
"But. We. We haven't seen each other in four years before today," John says.
"What? Are you gay or are you a girl?"
"McKay --"
Rodney moves even closer to John, fits their bodies together. He moves his head to the side, until his and John's cheeks are touching. "John. I have a spectacular hard-on. I think you should let me use it," he whispers into John's ear.
John can't help it, shivers.
"That's right," Rodney whispers before licking the shell of John's ear. "Can we move this into the bedroom, maybe? I would love to blow you, but my knees aren't going to be able to take the floor for very long."
At that, John's the one who starts to touch with intent, his fingers starting to tease the hem of Rodney's shirt, and the skin underneath it, as he walks Rodney backwards, to the right and down the hall to his bedroom. The bedroom is dark since John left to answer the door with out turning on a light, but that doesn't seem to bother Rodney, who captures John's mouth in a kiss. They have to break apart for John to peel Rodney's shirt off, and Rodney's the first one to hit the bed. He bumps it with his knees and then sits down heavily, nosing John's stomach through his shirt, his hands firm on John's hips. John stands there for a minute, head bowed, just to feel the pressure of Rodney's fingers, the warmth of his breath.
Soon, though, too soon, it's not enough, and John reaches down and takes his shirt off, gently urging Rodney up and onto the bed. The bed dips under John's knee as he climbs up next to Rodney. They meet in the middle with a kiss, hot and long, until Rodney moves to the side, kisses John's jaw; he licks where he's kissed John's jaw, goes a little further down and mouths at John's Adam's apple, biting down a little and then soothing it again with his tongue. John lets his head hit the pillow as Rodney tongues the dip between his collarbone, blowing it dry when he's done while running a blunt nail over John's nipple.
"Rodney," John says, trying hard not to sound like he's whining or begging, though it's hard, and Rodney's smile against John's breastbone is proof enough that John was probably not successful.
"Well," Rodney says, as if he's really thinking about it, as if John can't feel Rodney's erection against his leg, as if it's a suggestion to go to lunch. "I could to this the right way, or I could do it the fast way."
John lifts his head off the pillow and grins. "I do love things that go more than 200 miles per hour."
Rodney grins back, leans down to bite the skin right above John's hip bone, and then goes to work stripping off John's sleep pants and boxers. John sucks in a breath when his cock hits the cool night air, and quickly sucks in another as Rodney's mouth descends, all tight heat and wetness and tongue, God. He wraps his hands around John's hips, holding John in place, allowing him just the tiniest bit of room to thrust, but otherwise pins John to the bed. Rodney is tuned into his task, seemingly oblivious to anything else in the room; the only sounds in the room are John's breathing, harsh through his nose, and the slow, wet slide of Rodney's mouth. Rodney pulls off almost all the way until just the tip of John's cock is in his mouth, and then he swirls his tongue and sucks until John comes, panting and fisting the bedsheets.
John tugs gently on Rodney's hair, trying to get him to come back up the bed. He finally succeeds and Rodney crawls back up the bed, his cock prominent even his jeans, a small wet spot forming on the front. John puts one hand on the back of Rodney's head and pulls him down for a kiss. John puts own tongue put to good use, sliding it slowly in and around Rodney's mouth. He keeps Rodney there so long they are both on the edge of desperately needing air. At the same time, John snakes his other hand between them and unbuttons Rodney's jeans. John breaks the kiss and unzips Rodney's jeans, pushing them just far enough down on Rodney's hips to free his cock. Rodney drops his head to John's shoulder, breathing wetly on John's collarbone, occasionally pressing a kiss to John's neck as John smears Rodney's pre-come on his palm, wraps his hand around Rodney's cock and sets a rhythm. There's nothing slow or gentle about it, and Rodney is close anyway, spurting over John's fist and then going limp half on top of John in a couple of minutes.
John breaks the silence, turning his head to nose at Rodney's hair. "I thought you'd be a talker in bed."
Rodney lifts his head slightly to smirk at John, but then rests it back down on John's shoulder. "I'm occupied with other things, Sheppard. I need my concentration."
John thinks about this -- if he gets to be the focus of Rodney's attention like this more often, he wouldn't really mind.
Eventually, Rodney squirms the rest of his clothes off and starts to settle underneath the covers, more or less forcing John with him. They settle in pretty much the same position they were before, only now John feels toasty under the comforter, Rodney's heat spread against his side; Rodney's breath a bit damp against his neck.
"Was I -- am I --" Rodney stutters to a halt, just as John thinks Rodney's drifted off.
John waits, knowing it'll come eventually.
"Was I the reason you didn't come back to Atlantis?"
John sighs. "Air Force, Rodney."
"Well, yes, yes, of course, but."
"But. I. You had other . . . things going on. All of you."
Rodney stays uncharacteristically silent; John can almost hear how hard Rodney is listening, and Rodney really listening is a pretty stunning spectacle.
"You really don't talk, do you?" Rodney asks.
"This is news to you?"
Rodney shakes his head on John's shoulder, wraps his arm around John's waist.
"I. I didn't think I belonged anymore," John finally manages; his chest is tight, as if the pressure is going to overwhelm him. "Everyone had other people they wanted. That they . . . that were better."
Rodney's hold gets a little tighter. "You're an idiot," he says. "Come with me tomorrow?"
John snickers.
Rodney smacks him softly in the side. "To breakfast, to the University."
John is silent.
Rodney whispers, "Come see everybody. They miss you."
"I don't need --" John stops.
Rodney kisses him on the neck. "Yeah, you do," he says, as if that settles the matter.
As they drift off into sleep, John thinks that maybe Rodney's right, maybe he does.