Peg^2 (1/?)
Title: Square Peg, or, Peg^2 (Pegasus Squared) [A sequel to Full Circle, set in the Epic Crossover ‘Verse]
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~2,700 words (so far)
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep (preslash)
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: graphic language, violence, un-beta’d
Beta: If you feel the urge, let me know
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: What's this, you say? Fic? Why yes, yes it is. I've got a plot outline, even, and many chapters already roughed out! No, I did not forget over the holidays (though I did try to escape to Canada at one point. They sent me back). I don't know when my update days will be yet, as my schedule is still kinda up in the air, but it'll be roughly once a week, probably on the weekends. I've been sitting on this for a few weeks because I feel like I've managed to lose my 'voice(s)'--but since staring at it hasn't made it any better, I guess that means it's time to post.
One
--ELIOT--
***
It’d been six months since the United States government had offered Eliot Spencer a job dealing with aliens and traveling to new worlds and protecting planet Earth, and given him two weeks paid leave to consider the offer.
Five and a half months ago, he’d said no.
Instead, Eliot took the full pardon and early retirement the government offered him as payment for services rendered, or, as General O’Neill had put it, because they don’t make a ‘sorry we let an evil alien snake take over your brain’ greeting card. It had been an amazing opportunity, but Eliot didn’t regret saying no. Shawn was worth it.
It had taken all of two hours of Eliot’s arrival in SoCal for a certain hacker to get wind of it, and the work found him. Nate was calling him a ‘satellite office’ and sending him local jobs. Some of those local jobs Eliot passed on to Psych, and a couple of them he worked with Shawn and Gus. Those were usually pretty… interesting. In the batshit insane sense of the word.
For all they had a murder almost every week, Santa Barbara was a pretty quiet and crime-free little city, and trolling for little fish and making them reconsider their chosen careers with a judicious application of fists just wasn’t the same as making the difference like he had with the team. Hell, his work was almost entirely above board nowadays. He’d even rescued a fucking kitten last week. There were long dry spells between the jobs Nate sent his way, but it wasn’t like he had to work, after all. He’d made it big with Nate on that first job, and everything since that had just added to the pretty sizeable nest egg that was safe in a couple different offshore accounts. And then there was the not inconsiderable chunk of change the government had given him as back pay and pension. It was just, he got antsy and bored doing nothing, and felt goddamned useless. Fishing, hiking, camping, restoring the old Indian he’d got his hands on and working on the fixer-upper in the suburbs he’d bought only took up so much time.
Shawn had asked Eliot to move in with him the very night Eliot arrived back in Santa Barbara, but Eliot had managed to decline gracefully without falling out of Shawn’s good graces. It wasn’t because it was ‘such a big step’ or ‘what other people would think’, seeing as how Eliot didn’t give a flying fuck what other people thought unless he was running a con. Frankly, Eliot had seen Shawn’s apartment/dry cleaners outlet. The place was a security nightmare. But that wasn’t the real reason. Shawn was a slob. The King of Slobs, even. And the man collected clutter like it was going out of style. Eliot didn’t spend any more time in Shawn’s apartment than he could help.
Within two weeks of his arrival, Eliot bought a drafty old Victorian (under the name of Spencer Chappell) with bad wiring and wall-to-wall green shag and a leaky roof, and was fixing it up in his copious spare time. He figured he could always rent it out for a little extra if he needed to move on, and besides, it was good detail for the Chappell alias. When he needed a change from fixing up the house and didn’t have any jobs lined up (and there usually weren’t many), there was the rusted out Indian in the garage to work on.
Eliot didn’t regret telling O‘Neill no. But he kinda missed the adrenaline rush.
Introducing himself to Detective Lassiter with his real name--while Shawn looked on with big scared eyes that reminded Eliot of those Japanese comics Hardison read-was the first real rush Eliot had had since he’d ‘settled down,’ as Sophie called it. It was a month after he’d turned the General down, and a month and a half since his criminal record had been purged so completely even Hardison hadn’t found any evidence that it’d once existed, and a sanitized (read: completely fictitious) version of his military record uploaded to the DoD servers.
Part of the reason he’d walked up to Head Detective Lassiter and introduced himself with a firm handshake was because he wanted to check to see if the General had come through for him. Most of the reason was that he was looking for a rush, and the extremely slim chance that he’d have to fight his way out of the cop shop was a big selling point. But a big part of it was because the man irritated the crap out of him. It was obvious how much the Lassiter owed Shawn in regards to solve rate and Santa Barbara’s plummeting crime stats, but Lassiter treated Shawn like he was worth less than the gum stuck to the bottom of Lassiter’s shoe. To add insult to injury, Eliot still caught Shawn giving the bastard puppy-dog eyes every once in a while, even though Shawn always denied it and assured him that his ‘thing for Lassyface’ was long over.
So, today Eliot joined Shawn in his daily visit to the station. First, he followed Shawn until Shawn found O’Hara, because he hadn’t liked the way she’d looked at Shawn the last time they’d worked a case together--like he was the candy she desperately wanted but couldn’t have because it wasn’t on her diet plan, but she was beginning to seriously consider cheating on her diet to have just a little bit of it. He pulled Shawn close for a lingering kiss full of soft lips and sharp teeth that left Shawn hard and Juliet bright red and trying not to stare. Eliot gave Shawn one last chaste peck before turning to stride across the stunned silent bullpen to Detective Lassiter’s desk, where the man was turning purple with suppressed--something. Eliot spared a distant thought for how Shawn’s father was taking it, but decided in a split second that no matter Henry’s reaction, Shawn would probably get a kick out of it, so he didn’t dwell on it. Lassiter, however…
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Eliot greeted the man with a wolfish smile, holding his hand out to shake. Surprised into courtesy, Lassiter stood up and took his hand, adding mildly perplexed to the storm of apoplectic emotions warring for dominance on his face. “Corporal Eliot Spencer, Retired.” He shook Lassiter’s hand once, firmly, and let his grin turn wicked. “I’ve heard that you’ve been looking for me.”
Eliot didn’t resist as Lassiter shoved him flat across the top of his desk and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him-almost as quickly as Eliot could have done--and bellowed for an officer to book him before telling Eliot he was under arrest and starting in on his Miranda rights. “Excuse me,” Eliot interrupted politely with a grin as Lassiter paused for breath. It’d probably be quicker another way, but God, was being polite going to be so much more entertaining. “Can you tell me what, exactly, I’m under arrest for?”
Shawn made a strangled sound Eliot could clearly hear from across the bullpen, but Eliot didn’t turn to look at him. If Shawn was laughing, he’d set Eliot off. And if he wasn’t (though it wasn’t very likely), Eliot would rather pretend that he was, and save the explosion for later, when there wasn’t a room full of cops looking on. Lassiter glowered at Eliot, clearly choosing to ignore Shawn’s very existence. “For multiple outstanding warrants, the details of which I’ll have Officer McNab read to you after I finish Mirandizing you,” Lassiter answered slowly, like he maybe thought Eliot had lost it, or had been stupid to begin with.
“Oh, I’d rather you be sure I’ve got multiple outstanding warrants for my arrest before you finish arresting me, if ya don’t mind,” Eliot replied slowly and politely in his best Texan drawl, smiling brightly. Eliot heard Shawn make another strangled sound and turned up the wattage on the smile he was aiming at Lassiter.
Lassiter’s sputtered-and loud-explanation to the Chief while she apologized to Eliot for the misunderstanding filled him with a vindictive glee until he was practically vibrating with it, even though he didn’t let any of it slip out. For just a second, it was like he was still with the team and they were in the middle of a big takedown and some ridiculously complicated plan had gone just how it was supposed to. Just for a second, he was back. And then reality crashed down on him, and he was gone again, and Almost-Respectable Eliot was back.
Eliot didn’t really regret telling O’Neill no. But sometimes he dreamed that he’d said yes.
He figured it was a bad sign when his first thought on seeing John’s email in his secure inbox was a hopeful maybe he needs some Earth-based backup.
--JOHN--
***
John Sheppard eyed the ground from the top of the stack of bales on the loader. They could probably lay up another row and still be safe to drive with tie-downs, if the boys on the ground were careful buckin’. He caught sight of one of his conscripts out of the corner of his eye and rolled his eyes. No one else had ignored his warning about the sun, the hay, and how torn up you’d be after. Eliot had more sense and was wearing flannel, work gloves, old jeans and a beat-up cowboy hat, just like the rest of them--and McKay in a cowboy hat was something else. Shawn, however, was probably already out at least a couple hundred for the jeans alone, judging by that giant rip in the knee that hadn’t been there this morning, never mind the expensive manicure he’d been sporting the last time John had seen him. But at least he was working, and without too many complaints, even though his hands had to be blistering like nobody’s business without work gloves to cushion the rasp and tear of the cheap twine on city-soft skin.
Because John was looking right at him, he saw the exact moment when the shit hit the fan. Shawn let go of the bale he was swinging up at just exactly the wrong time--probably a burst blister, John knew that expression--and John watched it head for the middle of the tower of bales he was standing atop, almost like it was in slow motion. There was nothing he could do to stop what was coming next. Sure enough, the bale smacked into the side of the piled hay on the loader and sent the top three rows--and the two people standing on top of it all--tumbling off the other side of the truck to the not so soft ground 20 feet below.
John’s stomach muscles spasmed and he gasped uselessly for air when McKay rolled off him. With a struggle, he fought down the panic that still filled him every time the air was knocked out of him. “Jesus, McKay,” John groused after finally regaining control of his diaphragm. His best friend wasn’t exactly a light load, and McKay had landed right on top of him. McKay gave him a dark, shuttered look and muttered something John didn’t catch. “What?”
“I said, I used to be Rodney. What’s with all this McKay shit again? Are you going to make me relive that whole first year before we’re good again?” he snapped at John without looking at him, instead straining around to try and see the back of his own shirt, pulling stray pieces of hay from the back of his collar.
“Whoa, buddy! Calm down. What are you talking about?” John rarely pretended to understand how McKay’s brain worked, but he was even more lost than usual this time.
McKay was silent long enough that John started to look around for where his hat had gotten to, thinking McKay was just going to drop the subject, and was surprised by McKay’s quiet question. “Are we even friends anymore? I mean, really? Because, well, you’ve been back almost a year, but you’re not the same. You were gone for five years--and it’s not like we kept in touch. We wouldn’t be here--you wouldn’t be back and hanging out with me- us again--if O’Neill hadn’t pulled you out of early retirement last year to sit your ass in the chair.”
John voiced a wordless protest, but McKay waved him quiet and kept talking, emphasizing his points with his hands in a way John knew by heart. What did McKay mean, they weren’t really friends? Sure, John wasn’t really the letter-writing type, but that didn’t mean- He tuned back in to hear McKay say, “We didn’t talk for five years, John. Let’s just stop pretending we were ever more than just work buddies, ok?” McKay continued quietly, enough so John was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to even hear it, “Stop trying to fit the fucking square peg in the round goddamn hole.” John froze at the hopelessness filling McKay’s voice, a sharp pang of something in his chest forcing him to acknowledge he was the root cause of that tone of voice. Five years hadn’t seemed as long on his side of the equation as they must have been to McKay. But then again, Pegasus was like that.
“Ya done?” John asked after the tense silence had stretched out awkwardly, pushing down his irritation. McKay wouldn’t look at him, but he didn’t say anything either. “Jesus, Rodney,” he whined, stretching McKay’s name into almost three syllables, the way he knew McKay hated best. He replaced the whine with a little good natured sarcasm, still the tone McKay responded best to. “You’re my best friend. Do we have to have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair before you’ll believe it? ‘Cause there’s no way in hell I’m gonna start writing you letters about my feelings.”
McKay spluttered wordlessly and John smirked. Hopefully things would go back to normal now. Because if McKay did want him to start talking about his ‘feelings,’ there was gonna be hitting. And not just because John couldn’t even articulate them to himself.
--ELIOT--
***
When there weren’t any cries of pain from the other side of the loader where John and McKay had landed, Eliot gave up and laughed. Shawn looked horrified at the destruction he’d managed to wreak, and even though Eliot knew he’d just added another three hours to their workday, he couldn’t help cuffing the back of Shawn’s head and pulling him in tight against his side in a one-armed hug. “It’s just hay, Shawn. I don’t think you broke it,” Eliot grinned at him. It was always hard to remember until they were right next to each other that Shawn was actually an inch or two taller than him. But then, that was Shawn. He always managed to somehow make himself seem insignificant until he wanted everyone to look at him--it was like his charisma had an on/off switch. And that skill was probably the reason Shawn’s arrest record didn’t take up a full police server all by itself.
Shawn groaned tiredly and slipped out of Eliot’s arm, trudging over to kick one of the toppled bales of hay spitefully before shoving it aside and trying to salvage as much of the unsteady tower on the loader as he could. “You gonna help or just watch?” He tossed over his shoulder at Eliot as he wrestled a bale that was trying its damndest to overbalance and take half the load with it despite Shawn’s best efforts. Shawn could be the laziest person Eliot knew at times, but other times, like now for example, he’d keep working till the job was done or someone dragged him away.
“Just watch,” Eliot laughed back as he admired the view. Sure, Shawn’s clothes were ridiculously impractical for the work they were doing today, but damn if he didn’t make them look good. After a minute or so, though, he stepped in and helped Shawn straighten out the mess, seeing as how everybody else had taken the tumble as a sign from above that it was break time. John was hiking up the hill to the house to greet the newcomer who’d made himself at home on the porch with a beer and a lawn chair, and McKay had been towed off by the hand over to the far side of the barn by an insistent five year old who wanted input on his latest construction project.
***
Two -->
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~2,700 words (so far)
Pairing(s): Eliot/Shawn, McShep (preslash)
Rating: PG-13
General Warnings: graphic language, violence, un-beta’d
Beta: If you feel the urge, let me know
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: What's this, you say? Fic? Why yes, yes it is. I've got a plot outline, even, and many chapters already roughed out! No, I did not forget over the holidays (though I did try to escape to Canada at one point. They sent me back). I don't know when my update days will be yet, as my schedule is still kinda up in the air, but it'll be roughly once a week, probably on the weekends. I've been sitting on this for a few weeks because I feel like I've managed to lose my 'voice(s)'--but since staring at it hasn't made it any better, I guess that means it's time to post.
One
--ELIOT--
***
It’d been six months since the United States government had offered Eliot Spencer a job dealing with aliens and traveling to new worlds and protecting planet Earth, and given him two weeks paid leave to consider the offer.
Five and a half months ago, he’d said no.
Instead, Eliot took the full pardon and early retirement the government offered him as payment for services rendered, or, as General O’Neill had put it, because they don’t make a ‘sorry we let an evil alien snake take over your brain’ greeting card. It had been an amazing opportunity, but Eliot didn’t regret saying no. Shawn was worth it.
It had taken all of two hours of Eliot’s arrival in SoCal for a certain hacker to get wind of it, and the work found him. Nate was calling him a ‘satellite office’ and sending him local jobs. Some of those local jobs Eliot passed on to Psych, and a couple of them he worked with Shawn and Gus. Those were usually pretty… interesting. In the batshit insane sense of the word.
For all they had a murder almost every week, Santa Barbara was a pretty quiet and crime-free little city, and trolling for little fish and making them reconsider their chosen careers with a judicious application of fists just wasn’t the same as making the difference like he had with the team. Hell, his work was almost entirely above board nowadays. He’d even rescued a fucking kitten last week. There were long dry spells between the jobs Nate sent his way, but it wasn’t like he had to work, after all. He’d made it big with Nate on that first job, and everything since that had just added to the pretty sizeable nest egg that was safe in a couple different offshore accounts. And then there was the not inconsiderable chunk of change the government had given him as back pay and pension. It was just, he got antsy and bored doing nothing, and felt goddamned useless. Fishing, hiking, camping, restoring the old Indian he’d got his hands on and working on the fixer-upper in the suburbs he’d bought only took up so much time.
Shawn had asked Eliot to move in with him the very night Eliot arrived back in Santa Barbara, but Eliot had managed to decline gracefully without falling out of Shawn’s good graces. It wasn’t because it was ‘such a big step’ or ‘what other people would think’, seeing as how Eliot didn’t give a flying fuck what other people thought unless he was running a con. Frankly, Eliot had seen Shawn’s apartment/dry cleaners outlet. The place was a security nightmare. But that wasn’t the real reason. Shawn was a slob. The King of Slobs, even. And the man collected clutter like it was going out of style. Eliot didn’t spend any more time in Shawn’s apartment than he could help.
Within two weeks of his arrival, Eliot bought a drafty old Victorian (under the name of Spencer Chappell) with bad wiring and wall-to-wall green shag and a leaky roof, and was fixing it up in his copious spare time. He figured he could always rent it out for a little extra if he needed to move on, and besides, it was good detail for the Chappell alias. When he needed a change from fixing up the house and didn’t have any jobs lined up (and there usually weren’t many), there was the rusted out Indian in the garage to work on.
Eliot didn’t regret telling O‘Neill no. But he kinda missed the adrenaline rush.
Introducing himself to Detective Lassiter with his real name--while Shawn looked on with big scared eyes that reminded Eliot of those Japanese comics Hardison read-was the first real rush Eliot had had since he’d ‘settled down,’ as Sophie called it. It was a month after he’d turned the General down, and a month and a half since his criminal record had been purged so completely even Hardison hadn’t found any evidence that it’d once existed, and a sanitized (read: completely fictitious) version of his military record uploaded to the DoD servers.
Part of the reason he’d walked up to Head Detective Lassiter and introduced himself with a firm handshake was because he wanted to check to see if the General had come through for him. Most of the reason was that he was looking for a rush, and the extremely slim chance that he’d have to fight his way out of the cop shop was a big selling point. But a big part of it was because the man irritated the crap out of him. It was obvious how much the Lassiter owed Shawn in regards to solve rate and Santa Barbara’s plummeting crime stats, but Lassiter treated Shawn like he was worth less than the gum stuck to the bottom of Lassiter’s shoe. To add insult to injury, Eliot still caught Shawn giving the bastard puppy-dog eyes every once in a while, even though Shawn always denied it and assured him that his ‘thing for Lassyface’ was long over.
So, today Eliot joined Shawn in his daily visit to the station. First, he followed Shawn until Shawn found O’Hara, because he hadn’t liked the way she’d looked at Shawn the last time they’d worked a case together--like he was the candy she desperately wanted but couldn’t have because it wasn’t on her diet plan, but she was beginning to seriously consider cheating on her diet to have just a little bit of it. He pulled Shawn close for a lingering kiss full of soft lips and sharp teeth that left Shawn hard and Juliet bright red and trying not to stare. Eliot gave Shawn one last chaste peck before turning to stride across the stunned silent bullpen to Detective Lassiter’s desk, where the man was turning purple with suppressed--something. Eliot spared a distant thought for how Shawn’s father was taking it, but decided in a split second that no matter Henry’s reaction, Shawn would probably get a kick out of it, so he didn’t dwell on it. Lassiter, however…
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Eliot greeted the man with a wolfish smile, holding his hand out to shake. Surprised into courtesy, Lassiter stood up and took his hand, adding mildly perplexed to the storm of apoplectic emotions warring for dominance on his face. “Corporal Eliot Spencer, Retired.” He shook Lassiter’s hand once, firmly, and let his grin turn wicked. “I’ve heard that you’ve been looking for me.”
Eliot didn’t resist as Lassiter shoved him flat across the top of his desk and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him-almost as quickly as Eliot could have done--and bellowed for an officer to book him before telling Eliot he was under arrest and starting in on his Miranda rights. “Excuse me,” Eliot interrupted politely with a grin as Lassiter paused for breath. It’d probably be quicker another way, but God, was being polite going to be so much more entertaining. “Can you tell me what, exactly, I’m under arrest for?”
Shawn made a strangled sound Eliot could clearly hear from across the bullpen, but Eliot didn’t turn to look at him. If Shawn was laughing, he’d set Eliot off. And if he wasn’t (though it wasn’t very likely), Eliot would rather pretend that he was, and save the explosion for later, when there wasn’t a room full of cops looking on. Lassiter glowered at Eliot, clearly choosing to ignore Shawn’s very existence. “For multiple outstanding warrants, the details of which I’ll have Officer McNab read to you after I finish Mirandizing you,” Lassiter answered slowly, like he maybe thought Eliot had lost it, or had been stupid to begin with.
“Oh, I’d rather you be sure I’ve got multiple outstanding warrants for my arrest before you finish arresting me, if ya don’t mind,” Eliot replied slowly and politely in his best Texan drawl, smiling brightly. Eliot heard Shawn make another strangled sound and turned up the wattage on the smile he was aiming at Lassiter.
Lassiter’s sputtered-and loud-explanation to the Chief while she apologized to Eliot for the misunderstanding filled him with a vindictive glee until he was practically vibrating with it, even though he didn’t let any of it slip out. For just a second, it was like he was still with the team and they were in the middle of a big takedown and some ridiculously complicated plan had gone just how it was supposed to. Just for a second, he was back. And then reality crashed down on him, and he was gone again, and Almost-Respectable Eliot was back.
Eliot didn’t really regret telling O’Neill no. But sometimes he dreamed that he’d said yes.
He figured it was a bad sign when his first thought on seeing John’s email in his secure inbox was a hopeful maybe he needs some Earth-based backup.
--JOHN--
***
John Sheppard eyed the ground from the top of the stack of bales on the loader. They could probably lay up another row and still be safe to drive with tie-downs, if the boys on the ground were careful buckin’. He caught sight of one of his conscripts out of the corner of his eye and rolled his eyes. No one else had ignored his warning about the sun, the hay, and how torn up you’d be after. Eliot had more sense and was wearing flannel, work gloves, old jeans and a beat-up cowboy hat, just like the rest of them--and McKay in a cowboy hat was something else. Shawn, however, was probably already out at least a couple hundred for the jeans alone, judging by that giant rip in the knee that hadn’t been there this morning, never mind the expensive manicure he’d been sporting the last time John had seen him. But at least he was working, and without too many complaints, even though his hands had to be blistering like nobody’s business without work gloves to cushion the rasp and tear of the cheap twine on city-soft skin.
Because John was looking right at him, he saw the exact moment when the shit hit the fan. Shawn let go of the bale he was swinging up at just exactly the wrong time--probably a burst blister, John knew that expression--and John watched it head for the middle of the tower of bales he was standing atop, almost like it was in slow motion. There was nothing he could do to stop what was coming next. Sure enough, the bale smacked into the side of the piled hay on the loader and sent the top three rows--and the two people standing on top of it all--tumbling off the other side of the truck to the not so soft ground 20 feet below.
John’s stomach muscles spasmed and he gasped uselessly for air when McKay rolled off him. With a struggle, he fought down the panic that still filled him every time the air was knocked out of him. “Jesus, McKay,” John groused after finally regaining control of his diaphragm. His best friend wasn’t exactly a light load, and McKay had landed right on top of him. McKay gave him a dark, shuttered look and muttered something John didn’t catch. “What?”
“I said, I used to be Rodney. What’s with all this McKay shit again? Are you going to make me relive that whole first year before we’re good again?” he snapped at John without looking at him, instead straining around to try and see the back of his own shirt, pulling stray pieces of hay from the back of his collar.
“Whoa, buddy! Calm down. What are you talking about?” John rarely pretended to understand how McKay’s brain worked, but he was even more lost than usual this time.
McKay was silent long enough that John started to look around for where his hat had gotten to, thinking McKay was just going to drop the subject, and was surprised by McKay’s quiet question. “Are we even friends anymore? I mean, really? Because, well, you’ve been back almost a year, but you’re not the same. You were gone for five years--and it’s not like we kept in touch. We wouldn’t be here--you wouldn’t be back and hanging out with me- us again--if O’Neill hadn’t pulled you out of early retirement last year to sit your ass in the chair.”
John voiced a wordless protest, but McKay waved him quiet and kept talking, emphasizing his points with his hands in a way John knew by heart. What did McKay mean, they weren’t really friends? Sure, John wasn’t really the letter-writing type, but that didn’t mean- He tuned back in to hear McKay say, “We didn’t talk for five years, John. Let’s just stop pretending we were ever more than just work buddies, ok?” McKay continued quietly, enough so John was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to even hear it, “Stop trying to fit the fucking square peg in the round goddamn hole.” John froze at the hopelessness filling McKay’s voice, a sharp pang of something in his chest forcing him to acknowledge he was the root cause of that tone of voice. Five years hadn’t seemed as long on his side of the equation as they must have been to McKay. But then again, Pegasus was like that.
“Ya done?” John asked after the tense silence had stretched out awkwardly, pushing down his irritation. McKay wouldn’t look at him, but he didn’t say anything either. “Jesus, Rodney,” he whined, stretching McKay’s name into almost three syllables, the way he knew McKay hated best. He replaced the whine with a little good natured sarcasm, still the tone McKay responded best to. “You’re my best friend. Do we have to have a sleepover and braid each other’s hair before you’ll believe it? ‘Cause there’s no way in hell I’m gonna start writing you letters about my feelings.”
McKay spluttered wordlessly and John smirked. Hopefully things would go back to normal now. Because if McKay did want him to start talking about his ‘feelings,’ there was gonna be hitting. And not just because John couldn’t even articulate them to himself.
--ELIOT--
***
When there weren’t any cries of pain from the other side of the loader where John and McKay had landed, Eliot gave up and laughed. Shawn looked horrified at the destruction he’d managed to wreak, and even though Eliot knew he’d just added another three hours to their workday, he couldn’t help cuffing the back of Shawn’s head and pulling him in tight against his side in a one-armed hug. “It’s just hay, Shawn. I don’t think you broke it,” Eliot grinned at him. It was always hard to remember until they were right next to each other that Shawn was actually an inch or two taller than him. But then, that was Shawn. He always managed to somehow make himself seem insignificant until he wanted everyone to look at him--it was like his charisma had an on/off switch. And that skill was probably the reason Shawn’s arrest record didn’t take up a full police server all by itself.
Shawn groaned tiredly and slipped out of Eliot’s arm, trudging over to kick one of the toppled bales of hay spitefully before shoving it aside and trying to salvage as much of the unsteady tower on the loader as he could. “You gonna help or just watch?” He tossed over his shoulder at Eliot as he wrestled a bale that was trying its damndest to overbalance and take half the load with it despite Shawn’s best efforts. Shawn could be the laziest person Eliot knew at times, but other times, like now for example, he’d keep working till the job was done or someone dragged him away.
“Just watch,” Eliot laughed back as he admired the view. Sure, Shawn’s clothes were ridiculously impractical for the work they were doing today, but damn if he didn’t make them look good. After a minute or so, though, he stepped in and helped Shawn straighten out the mess, seeing as how everybody else had taken the tumble as a sign from above that it was break time. John was hiking up the hill to the house to greet the newcomer who’d made himself at home on the porch with a beer and a lawn chair, and McKay had been towed off by the hand over to the far side of the barn by an insistent five year old who wanted input on his latest construction project.
***
Two -->