Fic: Bar Harbor's Best (SGA, John/Rodney, R)
Author: wojelah
Title: Bar Harbor's Best
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Written for artword challenge 010: Reversed. For beeej's marvelous piece. AU.
Summary: "Rodney McKay had been a consternation in Bar Harbor for nearly a decade, having left a good three years before John had ever set foot in the place."
Full picture at beeej's journal here (in multiple sizes) or under cut.
George Harbeck was seventy-nine when the busboy forgot to stamp out the cigarette embers before he tossed the contents of the ashtray. Nobody got hurt, thank heaven, but George's kids lived in Miami now, and Mary'd been gone for eight years, and he'd only stayed because of the place. So when George took a look around the bar's smoke-blackened interior and announced to the general audience that well, Florida sounded better and better these days, nobody was much surprised.
When Joe Zwizyiack, who'd taken over his father's real estate office, announced not three weeks later that Rodney McKay'd bought the place and was coming home after six years doing god knows what, Bar Harbor's collective jaw hit the ground so hard that John Sheppard swore he saw the pier shudder. And if Jeannie Miller, nee McKay, was letting her husband run most of the errands, nobody commented much. At least not where Kaleb could hear.
John wasn't actually in town when the renovation crew arrived. About the time the first truck rolled in and started hauling out the old Victorian fixtures, John was out with Sam somewhere in the middle of Frenchman Bay, listening to the engine chug and pretending like hell he hadn't just found himself downwind of a puking ten year old. "Sorry," he said, his face in a towel. Sam just hummed; he gave her a pat, shrugged, and went back out to take the tiller from Elizabeth, who hadn't even paused for breath in her monologue.
By the time they got back, Teyla was standing at the edge of the pier, which was good, because that meant she and Elizabeth could handle the tourists and John could start cleaning up. The sooner he got that done, the more likely it was he could take the Jumper out and catch the edge of the evening breeze before it died completely. It didn't take him long, despite the puke, and he was grinning with anticipation as he stowed the gangplank and jumped onto the dock.
"Night, babe," he said to Sam as he checked the boat over one last time. Turning around, he found Teyla and Elizabeth watching him with near-identical smiles.
"You know," Elizabeth teased, "if you treated all the girls that way, they'd be lining up for miles."
"Hey," he protested. "Sam's a lady."
"The Miss Samantha," Teyla said precisely, "is a Coast Guard-certified lobster passenger boat, and all of the eligible women in Bar Harbor have given up hope that you will ever transfer your affections to any other object." John just laughed. Teyla turned back to Elizabeth. "We should bring something."
"Vodka," Elizabeth answered, "Vodka, and chocolate. I'd vote for wine, but she owns a vineyard. And beer probably isn't a good choice."
"Probably not." Teyla sighed. "I've talked to Kaleb - he says he'll take Madison out for the evening."
John looked at the two of them, completely lost. "Um. Is there a problem?
Elizabeth glanced at him, lips pursed. "Not for us. But Jeannie's had better days."
He liked Jeannie Miller -and Kaleb, and Madison, who had better sealegs than many adults and who, at ten, wanted to be a marine biologist and spent as much time as her parents would allow hanging around the Atlantis Whale Watch Company's office. Last year, Elizabeth had let her help give one of the lobster/seal trip lectures, and Maddie had practically levitated with glee. "Yeah?" John said, raising an eyebrow. Kaleb was a good guy. Good company. "Tell Kaleb to bring Maddie on over. I was going to take the 'Jumper out anyway - they can come along for a sail. Wind's good. And maybe he'll tell me what's going on," he finished, grinning.
Teyla smiled back warmly, then sobered. "There is not much to tell," she said quietly. "Except that Rodney McKay didn't just buy George's pub. He's moving back to run it."
Oh. John considered that news item as he watched the two women leave, heads bent towards each other as they walked along the pier. When they reached Elizabeth's car, he shrugged, ran a hand through his hair, and went to order a pizza - veggie, he thought - that way he could bring it aboard and everybody could eat.
Rodney McKay had been a consternation in Bar Harbor for nearly a decade, having left a good three years before John had ever set foot in the place. Nobody talked about him much, and when they did, it wasn't with anything like the mixture of pity and affection that usually accompanied a mention of his sister.
The little John knew had been picked up from Teyla and Elizabeth, who'd moved up to start Atlantis not long after Rodney disappeared - and who'd taken to Jeannie like ducks to water. He'd met Jeannie not long after stumbling into town, a barely honorable discharge at his heels, thankful for the sight of the water after the endless dust and desert of Afghanistan.
"Nice to meet you," had been all Jeannie had said when they first met, a three-year old Maddie screaming bloody murder in her stroller as Jeannie stood under the office awning, waiting to meet Elizabeth for a late lunch.
"Um," John had answered, hoping she hadn't noticed his rather dubious glance at the kid. He'd stuck out his hand. "You too."
She'd looked at him sharply, then laughed, not unkindly. "It's more fun when they're not yelling," she confided, and then Elizabeth showed up and they hurried off to lunch. He'd liked her laugh - had mentioned it to Teyla, after.
Teyla had known John since high school and had learned to read between the lines, thus sparing John the need to actually articulate certain questions, for which he remained intensely thankful. "She should laugh more," she had said. "But it has been a difficult few years." John had looked at her, and she'd continued. "Jeannie's parents owned McKay Vineyards; they moved here when she and her brother were young, to follow her father's dream. But her mother never was happy here, and left when Jeannie was in high school. Her father is growing old and her brother, Rodney - he ran the winery for several years before, but then - well, there was an argument. He left just after Madison was born, and Jeannie has had the running of things ever since. It has been hard work - her father had great plans, but the wrong climate, and the vines only began to succeed once they changed grapes - another argument," Teyla had added, frowning.
"Ah," John had said, knowing something about arguments.
Teyla's mouth had quirked. "Yes," she'd agreed. "But Kaleb is good for her, and she is herself very stubborn. And I think she has taken a shine to you."
At that point John had muttered something about needing to check the boat for the next tour and left. He saw Jeannie when she came to meet someone for lunch - or occasionally, just to sit and chat - and they got to know each other in bits and pieces. Later that year when both Teyla and Elizabeth had left town for Thanksgiving, he'd come home on Wednesday night to Jeannie's peremptory message on his answering machine commanding him to appear for Thursday dinner or else. He'd gone.
Seven years later, John hadn't learned much more about her brother and hadn't really felt the need to push, but he had met the elder McKay on multiple occasions. He wasn't an easy person, and John, who knew something about having difficult parents, thought maybe he could fill in a few blanks.
Mr. McKay had died the previous winter. John had gone to the service, awkward and stiff in the suit he kept around for that kind of thing. He'd taken a seat in the back of the church and paged along in the order of service, distracted by some guy he didn't know, fidgeting in the pew across the aisle. The service had ended and the pallbearers had taken the coffin out. Kaleb had been holding a front corner; he'd caught sight of the fidgety guy and started. Jeannie, close behind, had actually stopped short, eyes wide - which was when John had figured it out, because the guy across the aisle might have short, brownish hair and broad shoulders, but he also had Jeannie's eyes, huge and blue and really bad at bluffing. It had to be McKay.
John hadn't gone to the cemetary, but he couldn't shake the kind-of crumpled look on the guy's face. So when he and Elizabeth had gone out on Sam the next day, scouting new routes for the spring, he'd decided to say something.
"Yes," Elizabeth had sighed. "That was Rodney. He's left again."
And that had been that. Until now.
Contrary to his father's opinion on the subject, life as chief skipper for the Atlantis Whale Watching Company was hardly a sinecure. They had a rough couple of weeks just as the season got going - too much rain meant empty tours, and then, just as the sky cleared, an accident caused by some dumb college kids and too much booze that forced them to haul Sam out of the water for repairs and cost them a good week's income. They all took it hard - Teyla went quiet; Elizabeth upped her Diet Coke habit so much she practically vibrated in place. John went out on the Puddle Jumper, the thirty-footer he'd bought two years ago out of the hazard pay he'd refused to touch and that Teyla and Elizabeth refused to let him plow into the business because he'd already paid in to equal their share. When he'd first shown up, seven years ago, Afghanistan a far-too-recent memory, he'd tried to bully Teyla into letting him transfer that money to the business; he'd known even then it was a lost cause.
He and Teyla had met in high school; John's dad had been at Fort Meade years back, and there were jobs enough for ex-military consultants in the D.C. metro area. John's mom had loved Annapolis, and the drive wasn't out of the ordinary, so that's where they landed. Teyla's father was a prof - had just gotten a job at St. John's College - and she'd been a dyed-in-the-wool environmentalist. John had fallen in with her at first because they were both the new kids, and then because there was something about Teyla he needed, for lack of a better word. She was quiet, and self-assured, and content to just let him be - except when she had an agenda, which is how John ended up bamboozled into working for the Chesapeake Bay Foundation his freshman summer. He'd spent three weeks slogging around in the marshes when some guy co-opted him as labor on a Foundation-sponsored sail around the Bay. John, who'd been sure since he was five that all he wanted to do was fly, had been hooked. If he couldn't have an airplane, a sailboat, out on the water with the wind stinging his face, was the next best thing. As far as he was concerned, he'd never have figured that out but for Teyla. He owed her for that.
They'd gone their separate ways for college - John had been Academy-bound, and the flying made up for the lack of water; Teyla'd gone to Brown and met Elizabeth. He'd kept in touch, more or less; had met Elizabeth a rare handful of times when he was home on leave and Teyla had dragged her back to Annapolis. The two of them were a dangerous pair, two environmental studies majors on a mission; the force of their combined determination could probably move mountains. He'd liked Elizabeth immediately - it had only been natural to sweep her into the same category as Teyla, to write to both of them rather than just one, knowing the gossip would only get passed along anyway. Elizabeth wrote him to say that Teyla's brother had gotten himself in with a bad crowd; Teyla wrote him to say that Simon had left Elizabeth at the altar; he'd written back with promises of death threats and payback as appropriate.
He'd been on his way to Afghanistan when they'd decided to buy out a whale watching company in Bar Harbor. He'd written when it all fell apart, little more than the basic facts; he wasn't sure why he had, only that if he could tell anyone, it'd be them. Teyla'd written back with a pamphlet and an address and a comment that they'd just had their skipper quit. It had been an easy choice; seven years went by before he realized it.
Even after seven years of practice, though, it wasn't an easy business, though, and while John loved the boat and the water and the outdoors, Teyla and Elizabeth had their hearts tied up in the whole thing. So it was a blow, losing Sam to repairs, and when she hit the water again, he couldn't complain when they ran a hard schedule for the next month or so, cramming extra tours and charters and spending his spare time standing next to Elizabeth and charming the tour operators and travel agents that came to scout them out and compare them to their competition.
All of which meant that it was the end of May before John had a chance to wander down Main to take a look at what had become of Mr. Harbeck's old pub. As far as he knew, McKay wasn't back in town yet, but apparently someone new was in town, because John knew most of Bar Harbor's year-round population and he'd never seen anybody quite like the mammoth, dreadlocked guy wearing what looked like a scabbard and standing outside the restaurant arguing, apparently, about the timing of a delivery of a refrigerator.
John spent a minute across the street admiring what they'd done to the place - the old Victorian had a fresh coat of paint, and new windows, but from what he could see it looked like they'd kept the interior much the same - just polished up. The guy across the way ended his phone call with what sounded like a growl, and John sauntered over to meet the neighbors.
"Nice place." He extended a hand. The other guy sized him up. "I run the whale watching boat."
"Ronon Dex," said the guy after a minute, and reached out to shake. John manfully suppressed a wince. "Gonna run the kitchen."
"You're a chef?" John looked him over. "Really?"
Ronon Dex reached for the scabbard-thing at his hip, pulled out a wickedly sharp chef's knife and tested the edge. "Yup."
"Cool." John looked the restaurant over again; looked at the red and black sign outside the window. "No double billing?"
"Nah," Ronon said. "Don't really care."
"No?"
"If they don't like the food, they won't come back. Besides," Ronon shrugged and sheathed the knife, "it wasn't worth the argument."
John grinned. "Pick your battles much?"
Ronon bared his teeth, smiling. "I won on the wine bar."
"You fought about a wine bar?" John raised an eyebrow.
Ronon stopped smiling. "McKay likes beer."
"Huh." John mulled that over, tucked it away. "So. What do I get if I tell you who gets the best catch?"
"You'll get more if you show me where to get it myself."
John laughed. "Yeah," he said, "I can do that."
John liked Ronon. He was good on the 'Jumper - took direction well and learned fast. And damn, he could cook, which made definite change for the better compared to John's steady diet of things that came out of the freezer. There was an awkward encounter when he and Ronon bumped into Jeannie and introductions went around; John stopped by the vineyard later that night to - not apologize, but to say something.
He knocked on the door and jammed his hands in his pockets. Jeannie answered, hands covered in flour and eyes a little pink. John followed her back into the kitchen, stopping briefly to bribe Maddie with the promise of a day digging clams. He looked around the place, settling down in a kitchen chair, as Jeannie went back to kneading bread. They didn't say anything for a bit, not till John shifted uncomfortably and said, "Jeannie, look...."
She stopped kneading. "John," she said. "I don't hate him. Much. I don't expect you to hate him. Ronon is a little terrifying on first encounter, but I have no intention of turning this into the Sharks versus the Jets."
John paused, considering. "I was only going to say that I'd pinky-swear to hate all his friends if you wanted me to. You're the one inflicting musical theater on us all."
Jeannie laughed. "Well, that's comforting."
"Plus, and I hate to say this, but Ronon can totally take Kaleb." He stood.
"This probably makes me the world's worst wife, but you're probably right." She smiled, looked at him steadily. "John. I don't know why my brother's coming back. I don't know what's going on in that thick head of his. I know he owes me one hell of an apology. But what happens will happen."
John shrugged, stuck his hands back in his pockets. "Yeah. Well. I still promise to beat him up at recess if he makes you cry."
Jeannie laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."
John didn't ask about McKay, to the mutual exasperation of Elizabeth and Teyla. He didn't really ask about the pub at all, although Ronon wasn't deaf or stupid, and John figured he'd picked up at least some of the gossip just from living in town. Still, it was kind of a surprise when he and Ronon were out on the water one morning in early July and Ronon said, "McKay gets in tomorrow."
John blinked, and got on with tacking - the wind was fickle this morning and he was having trouble catching it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Ronon ducked as the boom swung over. "We open in a week. He's coming in to get the beer started."
"Huh." John tied off the line. "Oughta tell Jeannie, I guess."
"Yeah." Ronon leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Sheppard," he said, and John stopped watching the horizon long enough to look his way. Ronon's face was impassive. "McKay - he's not a bad guy. He's loud. And sometimes an asshole. But he's good at what he does, and he's loyal. And I think he wants to come home."
John thought about that; thought about the only time he'd ever seen Rodney McKay and the look on his face when he saw his sister. "Huh," he said again, and then the wind changed again, and he had to tack, and that was the end of the conversation.
Ronon pretty much disappeared for the rest of the week, which was hardly surprising. John passed the word along to Teyla and Elizabeth and stayed the hell out of it. At least, he did until Friday evening, at which point his business partners collected him off the dock and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was going to provide their excuse for checking out the newly-minted McKay's Public House on its opening night.
"You like Ronon," Elizabeth reasoned. "It's only logical you'd want to go to wish him well."
"I agree," Teyla chimed in. "It would be odd for you to stay away."
John had already wished Ronon luck a few days ago, and the last thing he himself would have wanted was yet another set of eyes come to stare at the returning prodigal. John also had, however, a healthy sense of self-preservation, and it was currently informing him that the repercussions of saying no in this situation would be swift, possibly painful, and likely entirely unsuccessful. He gave up when Teyla handed him a duffel with a clean shirt and khakis and shoved him into the office to change.
It was, in the end, a decent evening. The food was good, which was no surprise. The beer was good, and a welcome change from the standard draft offerings available everywhere else in town. The best part by far, from John's perspective, was watching the antics of Rodney McKay, persona non grata, keeper of the bar, and possibly the snarkiest beer aficionado on the face of the planet. John ordered a beer - and got it - without drawing fire. The table next to them ordered a bottle of red, which came delivered by McKay himself, all waving hands and derision, paired with a lecture on precisely why the house amber would have been a significantly better choice. The highlight, however, was McKay's reaction when some poor waiter delivered an order for a screwdriver; the resultant lecture on the hazards of citrus left the restaurant in an absolute hush that persisted for a good three minutes.
Teyla and Elizabeth looked a little shell-shocked by the time they walked out the door, the three of them heading their separate ways. He could hardly blame them - it wasn't exactly what he'd expected. Frankly, John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, given that all he knew about McKay was that he'd left his sister in the lurch, that he'd stayed away for ten years, that Ronon thought was kind of an asshole but really a decent guy, and that when he'd seen his sister in the church at their father's funeral, he'd looked like a person with more than a few regrets who didn't know how to fix any of them.
John understood about the regret, at least.
McKay's opened, and the season stayed busy, and life pretty much went on as normal. Ronon showed up every so often for a morning sail, and Maddie showed up so much she was practically regular crew. John stopped by the restaurant now and again for a drink after work - the beer really was good. If McKay had ever spoken to his sister, nobody in town knew about it. John drank his beer and didn't ask questions.
The morning Rodney McKay came storming up to the 'Jumper as John was coming into the dock was, as a result, kind of unexpected. It had been a good morning, just him and the water, and he'd been pleasantly mellow. "You!" McKay said, levelling a finger at him. John blinked, and went back to tying off. "You," McKay said again, and John reminded himself that he was staying well out of it.
"John Sheppard," he said calmly, and went below to grab the sail bags. "Nice to meet you."
"I know who you are," McKay blustered above-deck. "Stop giving Ronon ideas."
"What?" John stopped partway up the stairs. "What the hell are you talking about?" He started rolling the sail and cursed when he fumbled the stay.
"Oh for god's sake." McKay said, and clambered aboard. "Are you entirely stupid?"
John just stared, baffled, as McKay finished off the mainsail and reached for the cover. "McKay," he said slowly, "what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm about to stow your jib, since clearly otherwise we will be here all day before I can finally have your undivided attention, which is, frankly, time that I don't have, since my executive chef is about to mutiny if I don't go looking for local wines to add to our beverage list, which is clearly an idea that you put in his head and which you need to take -out- of his head right now, because I am not interested in succumbing to your, your machinations."
John sat. "Okay. What?"
McKay tossed the sail below. "Ronon thinks" he said slowly, over-enunciating like he was speaking to a toddler, "that I need to stock McKay Vineyards wines at the wine bar." The last two words looked like they caused him physical pain. "He is refusing to plan today's menu until I agree to that insane idea. Clearly this is because he is friends with you. The entire town knows that my sister has practically adopted you. So whatever ridiculous scheme you have cooked up to reunite our incredibly dysfunctional family unit, I want you to call it off right now, and go explain to my recalcitrant chef, who was, may I add, my friend first, that it is a terrible idea and that everyone should keep their nose out of other people's business." McKay paused for breath, finger quivering where it pointed at John's forehead.
John, for his part, just stared as he replayed McKay's monologue. It didn't make any more sense the second time through. He shook his head and locked the hatch, then stepped onto the dock. "McKay," he managed. "You're completely insane. You know that, right?" McKay made some sort of strangled noise. John just kept going, walking back up the dock. "I like Jeannie a lot. But trust me on this one, I have no idea what you're talking about." Behind him, he heard the boat shift against the bumpers on the pylons and McKay's footsteps on the dock, hurrying up behind him.
He turned around. McKay was right behind him, unnervingly close - John took a step back. "You should know, though," he said, "Jeannie's pretty great. And she doesn't hate you. Much," he added, after a moment's consideration. "So you might consider giving it a shot. I mean," he finshed uncomfortably, watching something in McKay deflate like a leaky balloon, "not that it's my business, or anything."
McKay stood there a moment, looking almost baffled, until he jerked his chin up with a gesture that made John's chest hurt, just a little. "Well then," McKay said at last. "Just so we're clear on that point," he snapped, and marched off. John watched him go, then shook himself and headed off to work.
John stopped by the pub two nights later. He wasn't incredibly hungry, not really, but it had been a busy day, and August was coming up, which meant the tail-end of vacation season, so life was only going to get busier, which meant he could really use a beer.
McKay eyed him, his face watchful and thin-lipped. John just drummed on the bar and smiled lazily. "What do you want?" McKay eventually demanded.
"Relax, McKay." John scanned the beer list. "I'm only here for a drink." He tossed the card to the side. "What do you like?"
"Me?" McKay just stared at him, clearly nonplussed.
"You." John answered. "You make them, after all. I figure you ought to know."
"Well, yes, clearly," McKay spluttered, then rolled his eyes. "But they're all superior. I mean, really, if you don't know what your own tastes are, then asking me certainly isn't going to help. I mean, for crying out loud, what do you usually drink?"
That, John thought, was just too easy. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled, "I'm pretty much a Bud kind of guy."
"Oh my god," Rodney snapped, and in short order had a row of glasses laid out on the bar even as he paused for breath in the middle of a diatribe against American-style lagers and the homogenization of the American palate.
John just grinned and let him run with it. By the time Ronon left the sous-chefs to close up shop, he and McKay ("whatever, just call me Rodney") had sampled - and resampled - a sizeable portion of the bar. McKay, he thought, ambling home in a comforting glow, really wasn't a terrible guy. At least not when it came to beer, anyway. He loved it, that much was clear. Loved brewing like John loved flying - or sailing - he corrected muzzily. Rodney knew the hops, and the process, and the styles and brewers and everything else, most of which had been pretty far over John's head, and man, McKay had an opinion on all of it. It brought him to life - eyes bright, hands punctuating, wide mouth scowling and grinning in turns.
John was still laughing about it the next morning, even with the hangover.
August came in hot and dry and John started showing up at the bar more often; he couldn't help it, not really - McKay really was fun, in a bizarre kind of way. And he was easy to be around - easier even than Teyla, in some ways, because subtext was just a nonentity as far as Rodney was concerned. John carefully did not think about the ways in which McKay was harder to be around. He very carefully did not think about blue eyes and a solid frame and broad hands. He did not think about that at all.
Halfway through the month, John invited Rodney out on the 'Jumper. It had been a casual invitation; he'd dropped it into conversation without pause to consider. John hadn't expected the surprise on McKay's face - or the delight - and it made him wonder why he hadn't done it sooner.
McKay showed up early the next day, which was a surprise; he had his face buried in a vat of coffee, which wasn't. They opened up the 'Jumper without talking much, John out of inclination and McKay apparently out of a desire to approach complete consciousness from the tangent. Rodney clearly knew his way around; John didn't ask.
He didn't need to, as it turned out. They were out by Egg Rock Light when McKay broke the silence. "I used to love doing this as a kid." John looked at him in surprise. McKay was watching the shoreline. "Sailing, I mean. I like the precision of it, the independence." He went quiet.
Eventually John asked, "Why'd you stop?"
"I - there was too much to learn. At the vineyard. My father - he always had places they wanted me to be. I couldn't get good enough to join the competitive team, and a boat - or a club membership - wasn't an affordable investment. Not when the vines weren't doing well." McKay's mouth turned down. "I tried to go, in Oregon - in Portland - but it's not the same. It's not like here."
John watched the lighthouse. "No. Guess not. Guess you had to go, though."
Rodney looked at him. John kept his eyes on the squat cream and brown building. Rodney looked away. "I did. He was wrong, and stubborn, and there wasn't anything to be done except watch him try vines that didn't work and make wines that no one in their right mind would buy. I started to hate it. There wasn't anything to do but go."
"Tough on your sister."
McKay flinched. "That doesn't make it wrong."
"Doesn't make it all right."
"No." Rodney said quietly. "But I came back for a reason. I just didn't realize I had a reason until I came back for the funeral. And then I had to go..." he gestured vaguely "tie things up. Before I changed my mind. So I left. I mean, I was leaving anyway. This just - speeded it up."
John let himself grin, just a little. "Pissed them off out there too, huh, McKay?"
Rodney scowled. "Hardly. The brewery decided to go public, and I am not going to water down my beer just because some pain-in-the-ass board of directors thinks it's more marketable." The ensuing rant lasted them all the way back to shore.
When Rodney finally sucked it up and went to visit the Millers, it was more anticlimactic than anything else. It was for John, anyway, although he derived a fair amount of pleasure from the highly suspicious looks he got from Teyla and Elizabeth for the next week.
By the time Labor Day rolled around, John had worked up enough courage to admit to himself that he had a problem, and that the problem in question had everything to do with Rodney McKay.
Admitting it to himself wasn't really the problem at all, actually. He'd lost that fight the third time he found himself in the shower imagining a very different hand jerking him off. It was easier just to give up - and certainly more interesting, since his brain apparently had no shortage of very interesting fantasies where Rodney McKay was concerned.
More concerning was the fact that John wasn't doing a particularly good job of hiding his interest. He knew Teyla had noticed, which meant, in turn, that Elizabeth knew. He wasn't sure about Jeannie, although Maddie had commented one afternoon about the fact that her Uncle Rodney always seemed to be around and John had choked on a mouthful of soda. Jeannie hadn't said anything - hadn't even looked at him oddly, apart from one slightly wry smile that could have been sympathy as much as anything else. She and Rodney were working out their differences, and Rodney had agreed to put McKay wines in rotation and maybe, possibly, to give an interview to up publicity, but the whole reconciliation thing was still occasionally a loud process. Ronon... wouldn't have said anything anyway.
That left only Rodney to worry about, and Rodney couldn't bluff worth a damn. John had caught Rodney looking at him oddly of late, just every once in awhile, with an expression on his face that John hadn't ever seen before. He thought about staying away - he had a regular seat at the damn bar at this point - but he liked McKay, and that was pretty much what it boiled down to. So he tried not to act too strangely and tried not to notice the occasional weird look from McKay and he'd been just about to pull out his hair by the roots from pent-up sexual frustration when, two days into September, in the middle of Labor Day weekend, Hurricane Pablo took a sharp right turn just south of Baltimore and headed straight for the Maine coast, which had not been expecting the visit.
"Pablo?" Rodney expostulated, standing in Jeannie's kitchen while they made plans. "Who the hell names a New England hurricane Pablo?"
"Could be worse," John answered, distracted. "Could've been Van."
"I like Pablo," Ronon said from the sink, next to Kaleb, where they were making some sort of enormous casserole for dinner - and leftovers, if the power went out.
"Focus, please," Elizabeth snapped, phone in hand. "No one's going to be able to haul Sam in time - they've got too many vacationers calling in as it is."
Teyla - Teyla - swore. "We should have left two days ago."
"We couldn't afford to, and you know it - it's why we took the risk in the first place, betting that the damn thing wouldn't turn this way. It's okay," John said. "We've got time, we've got anchors, and we've got line. I'll take her out, and we'll either find a hole or we'll drop anchor."
"You realize that you're talking about the boat in the third person again," Jeannie said, trying to laugh, but her eyes were worried.
"Sheppard - John -" Kaleb turned around. "What about the 'Jumper?"
John sucked in a breath. He'd been trying not to think about it. "I'll put slack in the lines before I head out. She'll be fine." Kaleb looked dubious. "Really. This isn't the apocalypse. It's just a lot of wind." He wasn't exactly persuading himself, either, but Maddie was in the kitchen and he was not going to scare her. "What we don't want is anybody out on the water that doesn't have to be."
"Agreed." Elizabeth stood. "All right. Teyla and I will drop you off and grab water and batteries and bread. Anything else?"
"I'll make you a list." Jeannie grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil.
"You are completely insane," Rodney said, staring at him, blue eyes wide.
"But you love me anyway," John quipped, only it didn't come out right, and Rodney's eyes went even bigger, and John fled for the car. He saw Madison in the hallway on his way out and stopped long enough to give her a hug and tell her not to worry. She didn't look convinced.
By the time they made it to the pier and loosened up the 'Jumper and checked Sam's lines and anchors, the chop was kicking up. They'd had a fair amount of warning, and John was deeply grateful for the joys of modern weather forecasting, but they'd wasted time betting against the storm's track and looking for someone to haul the boats; by now, the harbor traffic was pretty thick, and the close-in spots were gone. On the way out, John saw three or four boats at dock or at anchor that looked less than secure. He did not think about the Puddle Jumper. He did not think about it a lot.
He found decent anchorage and started making Sam secure as he listened to the weather reports. By the time he was satisfied, the clouds overhead were dark and the rain had started to kick in. When the call came in over the radio, the chop was high enough that he'd already loosened one of the anchor lines and was considering adding more slack to the second. "Sheppard, come in," Rodney said, and John knew enough about fear to be able to identify it in the tone of his voice.
He scrambled for the handset. "McKay, this is Sheppard."
"Oh thank god," Rodney breathed, and John heard something rustle. "Sheppard, we - I - Maddie's gone missing." It was like a punch in the gut. He stared at the radio, hands tight on the counter, and listened to the wind howling through the glass. "Sheppard?" Rodney said, voice tight.
He managed to breathe again. "Tell me you didn't just say that, McKay."
"Trust me, I wish I hadn't."
John had never heard McKay sound so miserable. "When the hell did you see her last?" he snarled.
"Funny," Rodney bit back, "I was about to ask you the same question."
"Okay," John said, breathing hard, running a hand through his hair. "I saw her - she was in the kitchen, when we were planning, and then I saw her in the hallway on my way out," and then John's very slow brain finally got two plus two to equal four. "Fuck."
"You know where she is?" Rodney demanded.
"She's on the fucking 'Jumper," John snarled. It started to rain. "She was in the kitchen when we were talking about the 'Jumper and that kid loves that damn boat almost as much as I do. God damn it. If her parents don't kill her first, I will be waiting in line."
"Yes, well, take a number," Rodney snapped, "I'm going out to get her."
"There's a key under the rock outside the Atlantis office," John answered. "Get her off the boat and get the hell back to Jeannie's."
"Unlike some individuals of my acquaintance, I am not so insane as to want to ride out a hurricane on a boat," Rodney replied. "McKay out." The line went dead.
John moved, eventually - went to check the lines and put up the storm covers on the windows. When he came back inside, soaked to the bone, he sat down and stared at the floor, listening to wind and the rain and the weather reports until he got fed up and switched off the latter. Outside, Pablo howled.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the next call came in. "John?" came Maddie's voice. "John? Are you there, please?" He lunged for the handset.
"Maddie?" he demanded, running a hand through his hair. "Maddie, is that you?"
"It's me," she quavered,.
He took a deep breath. "Madison Avenue, am I glad to hear from you. Are you home and safe?"
"Noooo," she sobbed.
John tried really, really hard not to panic. "Hey, hey, squirt. It's okay. Tell me where you are. Deep breaths, okay?"
"I'm on the 'Jumper." The radio crackled and John heard Rodney's voice in the background.
"Maddie, let me talk to your uncle, okay?" He heard a sniffle. "Let me talk to Rodney, Maddie. It's going to be okay, I promise." Right after I throttle another McKay, he thought, and swore as Sam gave a particularly sickening heave.
"Sheppard, are you there?" Rodney said.
"McKay," John attempted not to growl, "Why the he - why the heck are you out in the 'Jumper?"
"Trust me, Sheppard," Rodney answered, "it wasn't my first choice. But there's a little thing called storm surge that's presently flooding your office and the downtown roads, so believe it or not, this was, in fact, our best option."
John hauled in another breath and discarded the first two answers that popped into his head. "Where, exactly, are you?"
"We're out in the harbor, as far away from anyone else as I can manage. We'll be fine, John. I think," he added, and that little note of panic was not at all reassuring.
"McKay," he snapped. "You're going to be fine, do you understand me? You're in the harbor. You're anchored down. You're wearing life vests. Right?"
"Oh my god," Rodney retorted and at least the panic was gone. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"
"The kind that I will meet, on the dock, with Maddie, after this goddamn hurricane gets the hell out of here. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," came the answer. "McKay out."
John sat back down and listened to the wind.
"Sheppard?" said the radio in McKay's voice, several hours later. He stared at it, confused. The wind was still howling. "Sheppard, come in."
"McKay," he responded, "You okay? Where's Maddie? Why are you whispering?"
"She's asleep," Rodney answered, sounding distracted. "I don't want to wake her. Sheppard -" Rodney tried again, voice thready. "Sheppard, this is really a very small boat."
"Hey," John said, aiming for reassuring. "Don't knock the 'Jumper." Rodney said nothing. "Rodney?" he asked. "Hey, buddy, you there? Look, McKay - it won't be that much longer. Really. Listen - the wind's starting to die down." Maybe. John hoped.
"Yeah," Rodney said at last. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry about that. Look, Sheppard, I -" He paused. "John. Did you mean it?"
John Sheppard had spent a vast part of his day worrying about multiple boats and ten-year-old wannabe marine biologists and stupidly heroic brewers and so, he figured, he was allowed to have one moment of unvarnished honesty. "Yeah, McKay. I did." And then, because John Sheppard was cold and wet and partly seasick and also just possibly a little bit terrified, he said, "I'll see you on the dock. Sheppard out," and stared at the radio.
The end, in the end, was kind of anticlimactic. It took Sheppard something that felt like forever to get Sam back to the dock and by the time he'd closed her back up and stumbled up to where Rodney and a very much subdued Maddie were waiting, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. When Jeannie and Kaleb pulled up and bundled them all into another car - Rodney's having been flooded out - he and McKay woke at the vineyard moments later with their heads slumped together. John didn't mind. In fact, he would've much preferred it if he could've stayed that way.
Maddie's parents bundled her off to bed and John and Rodney presented themselves to Teyla and Elizabeth and Ronon before stumbling up the stairs in the candlelight, since the power was out and likely to remain so for some time, according to Teyla. With seven people in a house that normally slept three, Jeannie announced, meeting them at the top of the steps, they were just going to have to share. John was too damn tired to do more than suspect her of mischief.
When he woke up, finally, the sun was high and Rodney was shoving his feet into sneakers. "Morning," John managed, running a hand over his chin and wincing at the stubble.
Rodney's head jerked up so fast John worried briefly about whiplash. "Oh. Yes. Good morning. Afternoon, actually, but then who's counting." He stopped for breath. "Everyone else is out checking up on things," he said, standing. "I told Ronon I'd check in on the pub. We - they - they left a car," he added. "If you'd like to come."
John looked at Rodney carefully before he answered, feeling like a man betting double or nothing. "What the hell," he said slowly. "I could go for a beer."
McKay grinned and stood. "Come on then. Let's get a move on."
The pub was dark when they fumbled their way inside; the emergency lights were dim and the storm covers blocked the sunlight. John headed up to the attic, which looked intact to his inexpert eye; he met Rodney on the stairs on the way down, opening the door to the suite he lived in. "Come on," McKay said, calling John's attention to the two bottles of Magic Hat in his other hand.
John followed him to the kitchen and caught the church key McKay tossed his direction. He popped the cap and drank, closing his eyes to enjoy the hoppy, sharp taste and the silence and the lack of motion under his feet. When he opened them, McKay was standing across the counter from him, just staring.
John put the bottle down and tried not to fidget. "Good beer," he said eventually.
Rodney waved it off. "It's a reasonable brew. I don't mind keeping it around. Mine's better, but then the draft system's offline because of the power." He went back to watching John.
"McKay," John said, feeling awkward.
"Shut up." Rodney glared at him. "Just shut up."
"What the hell are you doing, McKay?" John demanded.
Rodney frowned. "I am trying to figure out exactly how dumb you really are." John flushed; he tried to speak, but Rodney cut him off. "No, really," he said. "Can I suggest that the next time you attempt to declare your undying affection, you don't do it in the middle of the first hurricane to hit Maine in over two decades?"
John stared. "Right, McKay. I'll try and time my inadvertent personal revelations to your personal schedule next time, okay?"
"Go ahead, get snippy," Rodney retorted, and John almost swallowed his tongue at the word "snippy". "But if you understood how to communicate like a normal person, you might find that there are ways of confirming the other person's interest that don't involve whispered phone conversations over the radio in the middle of a major weather event. And another thing," Rodney said, only John had sort of tuned out at that point because his overly tired brain had finally parsed out the first part of that sentence and he was walking around the counter to corner McKay in the kitchen.
"McKay," John said, and Rodney paused mid-syllable.
"What now, Sheppard?" Rodney demanded.
"You never said anything," John answered.
Rodney goggled at him. "I never said anything? I'm sorry, you're the one who kept acting all weird, and while I am very talented with alcohol I am not exactly known for my interpersonal skills, if you haven't noticed, so it's not like I had any clue what you were thinking, although I sort of hoped that maybe - but even if I did know, what exactly did you want me to say -"
"McKay," John said again, close enough to feel the heat of Rodney's body.
"What?" Rodney asked, eyes wide.
"Shut up," John said, and kissed him. Rodney tasted like beer and saltwater and sweat and something John couldn't put a name to, and he kissed back like he was afraid John was going to slip out of his grasp. He could've stayed there for hours, pouring himself out in an attempt to prove Rodney wrong, only then somebody shifted, and their bodies aligned just so, and suddenly they were both frantic, tugging and pulling and twisting their way out of their clothing and over to the bed. It was reaction, he thought, stress and tension and fear and then Rodney did something particularly intelligent with his thumb and John decided to stop thinking for awhile and said as much to McKay.
"Good plan," Rodney gasped against his shoulder. "Overrated. Mostly. For now, anyway," at which point John devoted himself to distracting Rodney from the point entirely - which turned out to be an excellent plan for all concerned.
Much, much later, feeling like he never needed to move again, John said, muttering the words against Rodney's forehead, "Acting weird, huh?"
"To say the least," Rodney mumbled.
"Says the man not known for interpersonal skills." John grinned.
"If you ever repeat that, I will put cyanide in your stout," Rodney promised, slurring his words.
John just laughed, and let himself fall down into sleep after McKay, and dreamed of the wind on his face.
Title: Bar Harbor's Best
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Written for artword challenge 010: Reversed. For beeej's marvelous piece. AU.
Summary: "Rodney McKay had been a consternation in Bar Harbor for nearly a decade, having left a good three years before John had ever set foot in the place."
Full picture at beeej's journal here (in multiple sizes) or under cut.
George Harbeck was seventy-nine when the busboy forgot to stamp out the cigarette embers before he tossed the contents of the ashtray. Nobody got hurt, thank heaven, but George's kids lived in Miami now, and Mary'd been gone for eight years, and he'd only stayed because of the place. So when George took a look around the bar's smoke-blackened interior and announced to the general audience that well, Florida sounded better and better these days, nobody was much surprised.
When Joe Zwizyiack, who'd taken over his father's real estate office, announced not three weeks later that Rodney McKay'd bought the place and was coming home after six years doing god knows what, Bar Harbor's collective jaw hit the ground so hard that John Sheppard swore he saw the pier shudder. And if Jeannie Miller, nee McKay, was letting her husband run most of the errands, nobody commented much. At least not where Kaleb could hear.
John wasn't actually in town when the renovation crew arrived. About the time the first truck rolled in and started hauling out the old Victorian fixtures, John was out with Sam somewhere in the middle of Frenchman Bay, listening to the engine chug and pretending like hell he hadn't just found himself downwind of a puking ten year old. "Sorry," he said, his face in a towel. Sam just hummed; he gave her a pat, shrugged, and went back out to take the tiller from Elizabeth, who hadn't even paused for breath in her monologue.
By the time they got back, Teyla was standing at the edge of the pier, which was good, because that meant she and Elizabeth could handle the tourists and John could start cleaning up. The sooner he got that done, the more likely it was he could take the Jumper out and catch the edge of the evening breeze before it died completely. It didn't take him long, despite the puke, and he was grinning with anticipation as he stowed the gangplank and jumped onto the dock.
"Night, babe," he said to Sam as he checked the boat over one last time. Turning around, he found Teyla and Elizabeth watching him with near-identical smiles.
"You know," Elizabeth teased, "if you treated all the girls that way, they'd be lining up for miles."
"Hey," he protested. "Sam's a lady."
"The Miss Samantha," Teyla said precisely, "is a Coast Guard-certified lobster passenger boat, and all of the eligible women in Bar Harbor have given up hope that you will ever transfer your affections to any other object." John just laughed. Teyla turned back to Elizabeth. "We should bring something."
"Vodka," Elizabeth answered, "Vodka, and chocolate. I'd vote for wine, but she owns a vineyard. And beer probably isn't a good choice."
"Probably not." Teyla sighed. "I've talked to Kaleb - he says he'll take Madison out for the evening."
John looked at the two of them, completely lost. "Um. Is there a problem?
Elizabeth glanced at him, lips pursed. "Not for us. But Jeannie's had better days."
He liked Jeannie Miller -and Kaleb, and Madison, who had better sealegs than many adults and who, at ten, wanted to be a marine biologist and spent as much time as her parents would allow hanging around the Atlantis Whale Watch Company's office. Last year, Elizabeth had let her help give one of the lobster/seal trip lectures, and Maddie had practically levitated with glee. "Yeah?" John said, raising an eyebrow. Kaleb was a good guy. Good company. "Tell Kaleb to bring Maddie on over. I was going to take the 'Jumper out anyway - they can come along for a sail. Wind's good. And maybe he'll tell me what's going on," he finished, grinning.
Teyla smiled back warmly, then sobered. "There is not much to tell," she said quietly. "Except that Rodney McKay didn't just buy George's pub. He's moving back to run it."
Oh. John considered that news item as he watched the two women leave, heads bent towards each other as they walked along the pier. When they reached Elizabeth's car, he shrugged, ran a hand through his hair, and went to order a pizza - veggie, he thought - that way he could bring it aboard and everybody could eat.
Rodney McKay had been a consternation in Bar Harbor for nearly a decade, having left a good three years before John had ever set foot in the place. Nobody talked about him much, and when they did, it wasn't with anything like the mixture of pity and affection that usually accompanied a mention of his sister.
The little John knew had been picked up from Teyla and Elizabeth, who'd moved up to start Atlantis not long after Rodney disappeared - and who'd taken to Jeannie like ducks to water. He'd met Jeannie not long after stumbling into town, a barely honorable discharge at his heels, thankful for the sight of the water after the endless dust and desert of Afghanistan.
"Nice to meet you," had been all Jeannie had said when they first met, a three-year old Maddie screaming bloody murder in her stroller as Jeannie stood under the office awning, waiting to meet Elizabeth for a late lunch.
"Um," John had answered, hoping she hadn't noticed his rather dubious glance at the kid. He'd stuck out his hand. "You too."
She'd looked at him sharply, then laughed, not unkindly. "It's more fun when they're not yelling," she confided, and then Elizabeth showed up and they hurried off to lunch. He'd liked her laugh - had mentioned it to Teyla, after.
Teyla had known John since high school and had learned to read between the lines, thus sparing John the need to actually articulate certain questions, for which he remained intensely thankful. "She should laugh more," she had said. "But it has been a difficult few years." John had looked at her, and she'd continued. "Jeannie's parents owned McKay Vineyards; they moved here when she and her brother were young, to follow her father's dream. But her mother never was happy here, and left when Jeannie was in high school. Her father is growing old and her brother, Rodney - he ran the winery for several years before, but then - well, there was an argument. He left just after Madison was born, and Jeannie has had the running of things ever since. It has been hard work - her father had great plans, but the wrong climate, and the vines only began to succeed once they changed grapes - another argument," Teyla had added, frowning.
"Ah," John had said, knowing something about arguments.
Teyla's mouth had quirked. "Yes," she'd agreed. "But Kaleb is good for her, and she is herself very stubborn. And I think she has taken a shine to you."
At that point John had muttered something about needing to check the boat for the next tour and left. He saw Jeannie when she came to meet someone for lunch - or occasionally, just to sit and chat - and they got to know each other in bits and pieces. Later that year when both Teyla and Elizabeth had left town for Thanksgiving, he'd come home on Wednesday night to Jeannie's peremptory message on his answering machine commanding him to appear for Thursday dinner or else. He'd gone.
Seven years later, John hadn't learned much more about her brother and hadn't really felt the need to push, but he had met the elder McKay on multiple occasions. He wasn't an easy person, and John, who knew something about having difficult parents, thought maybe he could fill in a few blanks.
Mr. McKay had died the previous winter. John had gone to the service, awkward and stiff in the suit he kept around for that kind of thing. He'd taken a seat in the back of the church and paged along in the order of service, distracted by some guy he didn't know, fidgeting in the pew across the aisle. The service had ended and the pallbearers had taken the coffin out. Kaleb had been holding a front corner; he'd caught sight of the fidgety guy and started. Jeannie, close behind, had actually stopped short, eyes wide - which was when John had figured it out, because the guy across the aisle might have short, brownish hair and broad shoulders, but he also had Jeannie's eyes, huge and blue and really bad at bluffing. It had to be McKay.
John hadn't gone to the cemetary, but he couldn't shake the kind-of crumpled look on the guy's face. So when he and Elizabeth had gone out on Sam the next day, scouting new routes for the spring, he'd decided to say something.
"Yes," Elizabeth had sighed. "That was Rodney. He's left again."
And that had been that. Until now.
Contrary to his father's opinion on the subject, life as chief skipper for the Atlantis Whale Watching Company was hardly a sinecure. They had a rough couple of weeks just as the season got going - too much rain meant empty tours, and then, just as the sky cleared, an accident caused by some dumb college kids and too much booze that forced them to haul Sam out of the water for repairs and cost them a good week's income. They all took it hard - Teyla went quiet; Elizabeth upped her Diet Coke habit so much she practically vibrated in place. John went out on the Puddle Jumper, the thirty-footer he'd bought two years ago out of the hazard pay he'd refused to touch and that Teyla and Elizabeth refused to let him plow into the business because he'd already paid in to equal their share. When he'd first shown up, seven years ago, Afghanistan a far-too-recent memory, he'd tried to bully Teyla into letting him transfer that money to the business; he'd known even then it was a lost cause.
He and Teyla had met in high school; John's dad had been at Fort Meade years back, and there were jobs enough for ex-military consultants in the D.C. metro area. John's mom had loved Annapolis, and the drive wasn't out of the ordinary, so that's where they landed. Teyla's father was a prof - had just gotten a job at St. John's College - and she'd been a dyed-in-the-wool environmentalist. John had fallen in with her at first because they were both the new kids, and then because there was something about Teyla he needed, for lack of a better word. She was quiet, and self-assured, and content to just let him be - except when she had an agenda, which is how John ended up bamboozled into working for the Chesapeake Bay Foundation his freshman summer. He'd spent three weeks slogging around in the marshes when some guy co-opted him as labor on a Foundation-sponsored sail around the Bay. John, who'd been sure since he was five that all he wanted to do was fly, had been hooked. If he couldn't have an airplane, a sailboat, out on the water with the wind stinging his face, was the next best thing. As far as he was concerned, he'd never have figured that out but for Teyla. He owed her for that.
They'd gone their separate ways for college - John had been Academy-bound, and the flying made up for the lack of water; Teyla'd gone to Brown and met Elizabeth. He'd kept in touch, more or less; had met Elizabeth a rare handful of times when he was home on leave and Teyla had dragged her back to Annapolis. The two of them were a dangerous pair, two environmental studies majors on a mission; the force of their combined determination could probably move mountains. He'd liked Elizabeth immediately - it had only been natural to sweep her into the same category as Teyla, to write to both of them rather than just one, knowing the gossip would only get passed along anyway. Elizabeth wrote him to say that Teyla's brother had gotten himself in with a bad crowd; Teyla wrote him to say that Simon had left Elizabeth at the altar; he'd written back with promises of death threats and payback as appropriate.
He'd been on his way to Afghanistan when they'd decided to buy out a whale watching company in Bar Harbor. He'd written when it all fell apart, little more than the basic facts; he wasn't sure why he had, only that if he could tell anyone, it'd be them. Teyla'd written back with a pamphlet and an address and a comment that they'd just had their skipper quit. It had been an easy choice; seven years went by before he realized it.
Even after seven years of practice, though, it wasn't an easy business, though, and while John loved the boat and the water and the outdoors, Teyla and Elizabeth had their hearts tied up in the whole thing. So it was a blow, losing Sam to repairs, and when she hit the water again, he couldn't complain when they ran a hard schedule for the next month or so, cramming extra tours and charters and spending his spare time standing next to Elizabeth and charming the tour operators and travel agents that came to scout them out and compare them to their competition.
All of which meant that it was the end of May before John had a chance to wander down Main to take a look at what had become of Mr. Harbeck's old pub. As far as he knew, McKay wasn't back in town yet, but apparently someone new was in town, because John knew most of Bar Harbor's year-round population and he'd never seen anybody quite like the mammoth, dreadlocked guy wearing what looked like a scabbard and standing outside the restaurant arguing, apparently, about the timing of a delivery of a refrigerator.
John spent a minute across the street admiring what they'd done to the place - the old Victorian had a fresh coat of paint, and new windows, but from what he could see it looked like they'd kept the interior much the same - just polished up. The guy across the way ended his phone call with what sounded like a growl, and John sauntered over to meet the neighbors.
"Nice place." He extended a hand. The other guy sized him up. "I run the whale watching boat."
"Ronon Dex," said the guy after a minute, and reached out to shake. John manfully suppressed a wince. "Gonna run the kitchen."
"You're a chef?" John looked him over. "Really?"
Ronon Dex reached for the scabbard-thing at his hip, pulled out a wickedly sharp chef's knife and tested the edge. "Yup."
"Cool." John looked the restaurant over again; looked at the red and black sign outside the window. "No double billing?"
"Nah," Ronon said. "Don't really care."
"No?"
"If they don't like the food, they won't come back. Besides," Ronon shrugged and sheathed the knife, "it wasn't worth the argument."
John grinned. "Pick your battles much?"
Ronon bared his teeth, smiling. "I won on the wine bar."
"You fought about a wine bar?" John raised an eyebrow.
Ronon stopped smiling. "McKay likes beer."
"Huh." John mulled that over, tucked it away. "So. What do I get if I tell you who gets the best catch?"
"You'll get more if you show me where to get it myself."
John laughed. "Yeah," he said, "I can do that."
John liked Ronon. He was good on the 'Jumper - took direction well and learned fast. And damn, he could cook, which made definite change for the better compared to John's steady diet of things that came out of the freezer. There was an awkward encounter when he and Ronon bumped into Jeannie and introductions went around; John stopped by the vineyard later that night to - not apologize, but to say something.
He knocked on the door and jammed his hands in his pockets. Jeannie answered, hands covered in flour and eyes a little pink. John followed her back into the kitchen, stopping briefly to bribe Maddie with the promise of a day digging clams. He looked around the place, settling down in a kitchen chair, as Jeannie went back to kneading bread. They didn't say anything for a bit, not till John shifted uncomfortably and said, "Jeannie, look...."
She stopped kneading. "John," she said. "I don't hate him. Much. I don't expect you to hate him. Ronon is a little terrifying on first encounter, but I have no intention of turning this into the Sharks versus the Jets."
John paused, considering. "I was only going to say that I'd pinky-swear to hate all his friends if you wanted me to. You're the one inflicting musical theater on us all."
Jeannie laughed. "Well, that's comforting."
"Plus, and I hate to say this, but Ronon can totally take Kaleb." He stood.
"This probably makes me the world's worst wife, but you're probably right." She smiled, looked at him steadily. "John. I don't know why my brother's coming back. I don't know what's going on in that thick head of his. I know he owes me one hell of an apology. But what happens will happen."
John shrugged, stuck his hands back in his pockets. "Yeah. Well. I still promise to beat him up at recess if he makes you cry."
Jeannie laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."
John didn't ask about McKay, to the mutual exasperation of Elizabeth and Teyla. He didn't really ask about the pub at all, although Ronon wasn't deaf or stupid, and John figured he'd picked up at least some of the gossip just from living in town. Still, it was kind of a surprise when he and Ronon were out on the water one morning in early July and Ronon said, "McKay gets in tomorrow."
John blinked, and got on with tacking - the wind was fickle this morning and he was having trouble catching it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Ronon ducked as the boom swung over. "We open in a week. He's coming in to get the beer started."
"Huh." John tied off the line. "Oughta tell Jeannie, I guess."
"Yeah." Ronon leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Sheppard," he said, and John stopped watching the horizon long enough to look his way. Ronon's face was impassive. "McKay - he's not a bad guy. He's loud. And sometimes an asshole. But he's good at what he does, and he's loyal. And I think he wants to come home."
John thought about that; thought about the only time he'd ever seen Rodney McKay and the look on his face when he saw his sister. "Huh," he said again, and then the wind changed again, and he had to tack, and that was the end of the conversation.
Ronon pretty much disappeared for the rest of the week, which was hardly surprising. John passed the word along to Teyla and Elizabeth and stayed the hell out of it. At least, he did until Friday evening, at which point his business partners collected him off the dock and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was going to provide their excuse for checking out the newly-minted McKay's Public House on its opening night.
"You like Ronon," Elizabeth reasoned. "It's only logical you'd want to go to wish him well."
"I agree," Teyla chimed in. "It would be odd for you to stay away."
John had already wished Ronon luck a few days ago, and the last thing he himself would have wanted was yet another set of eyes come to stare at the returning prodigal. John also had, however, a healthy sense of self-preservation, and it was currently informing him that the repercussions of saying no in this situation would be swift, possibly painful, and likely entirely unsuccessful. He gave up when Teyla handed him a duffel with a clean shirt and khakis and shoved him into the office to change.
It was, in the end, a decent evening. The food was good, which was no surprise. The beer was good, and a welcome change from the standard draft offerings available everywhere else in town. The best part by far, from John's perspective, was watching the antics of Rodney McKay, persona non grata, keeper of the bar, and possibly the snarkiest beer aficionado on the face of the planet. John ordered a beer - and got it - without drawing fire. The table next to them ordered a bottle of red, which came delivered by McKay himself, all waving hands and derision, paired with a lecture on precisely why the house amber would have been a significantly better choice. The highlight, however, was McKay's reaction when some poor waiter delivered an order for a screwdriver; the resultant lecture on the hazards of citrus left the restaurant in an absolute hush that persisted for a good three minutes.
Teyla and Elizabeth looked a little shell-shocked by the time they walked out the door, the three of them heading their separate ways. He could hardly blame them - it wasn't exactly what he'd expected. Frankly, John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, given that all he knew about McKay was that he'd left his sister in the lurch, that he'd stayed away for ten years, that Ronon thought was kind of an asshole but really a decent guy, and that when he'd seen his sister in the church at their father's funeral, he'd looked like a person with more than a few regrets who didn't know how to fix any of them.
John understood about the regret, at least.
McKay's opened, and the season stayed busy, and life pretty much went on as normal. Ronon showed up every so often for a morning sail, and Maddie showed up so much she was practically regular crew. John stopped by the restaurant now and again for a drink after work - the beer really was good. If McKay had ever spoken to his sister, nobody in town knew about it. John drank his beer and didn't ask questions.
The morning Rodney McKay came storming up to the 'Jumper as John was coming into the dock was, as a result, kind of unexpected. It had been a good morning, just him and the water, and he'd been pleasantly mellow. "You!" McKay said, levelling a finger at him. John blinked, and went back to tying off. "You," McKay said again, and John reminded himself that he was staying well out of it.
"John Sheppard," he said calmly, and went below to grab the sail bags. "Nice to meet you."
"I know who you are," McKay blustered above-deck. "Stop giving Ronon ideas."
"What?" John stopped partway up the stairs. "What the hell are you talking about?" He started rolling the sail and cursed when he fumbled the stay.
"Oh for god's sake." McKay said, and clambered aboard. "Are you entirely stupid?"
John just stared, baffled, as McKay finished off the mainsail and reached for the cover. "McKay," he said slowly, "what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm about to stow your jib, since clearly otherwise we will be here all day before I can finally have your undivided attention, which is, frankly, time that I don't have, since my executive chef is about to mutiny if I don't go looking for local wines to add to our beverage list, which is clearly an idea that you put in his head and which you need to take -out- of his head right now, because I am not interested in succumbing to your, your machinations."
John sat. "Okay. What?"
McKay tossed the sail below. "Ronon thinks" he said slowly, over-enunciating like he was speaking to a toddler, "that I need to stock McKay Vineyards wines at the wine bar." The last two words looked like they caused him physical pain. "He is refusing to plan today's menu until I agree to that insane idea. Clearly this is because he is friends with you. The entire town knows that my sister has practically adopted you. So whatever ridiculous scheme you have cooked up to reunite our incredibly dysfunctional family unit, I want you to call it off right now, and go explain to my recalcitrant chef, who was, may I add, my friend first, that it is a terrible idea and that everyone should keep their nose out of other people's business." McKay paused for breath, finger quivering where it pointed at John's forehead.
John, for his part, just stared as he replayed McKay's monologue. It didn't make any more sense the second time through. He shook his head and locked the hatch, then stepped onto the dock. "McKay," he managed. "You're completely insane. You know that, right?" McKay made some sort of strangled noise. John just kept going, walking back up the dock. "I like Jeannie a lot. But trust me on this one, I have no idea what you're talking about." Behind him, he heard the boat shift against the bumpers on the pylons and McKay's footsteps on the dock, hurrying up behind him.
He turned around. McKay was right behind him, unnervingly close - John took a step back. "You should know, though," he said, "Jeannie's pretty great. And she doesn't hate you. Much," he added, after a moment's consideration. "So you might consider giving it a shot. I mean," he finshed uncomfortably, watching something in McKay deflate like a leaky balloon, "not that it's my business, or anything."
McKay stood there a moment, looking almost baffled, until he jerked his chin up with a gesture that made John's chest hurt, just a little. "Well then," McKay said at last. "Just so we're clear on that point," he snapped, and marched off. John watched him go, then shook himself and headed off to work.
John stopped by the pub two nights later. He wasn't incredibly hungry, not really, but it had been a busy day, and August was coming up, which meant the tail-end of vacation season, so life was only going to get busier, which meant he could really use a beer.
McKay eyed him, his face watchful and thin-lipped. John just drummed on the bar and smiled lazily. "What do you want?" McKay eventually demanded.
"Relax, McKay." John scanned the beer list. "I'm only here for a drink." He tossed the card to the side. "What do you like?"
"Me?" McKay just stared at him, clearly nonplussed.
"You." John answered. "You make them, after all. I figure you ought to know."
"Well, yes, clearly," McKay spluttered, then rolled his eyes. "But they're all superior. I mean, really, if you don't know what your own tastes are, then asking me certainly isn't going to help. I mean, for crying out loud, what do you usually drink?"
That, John thought, was just too easy. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled, "I'm pretty much a Bud kind of guy."
"Oh my god," Rodney snapped, and in short order had a row of glasses laid out on the bar even as he paused for breath in the middle of a diatribe against American-style lagers and the homogenization of the American palate.
John just grinned and let him run with it. By the time Ronon left the sous-chefs to close up shop, he and McKay ("whatever, just call me Rodney") had sampled - and resampled - a sizeable portion of the bar. McKay, he thought, ambling home in a comforting glow, really wasn't a terrible guy. At least not when it came to beer, anyway. He loved it, that much was clear. Loved brewing like John loved flying - or sailing - he corrected muzzily. Rodney knew the hops, and the process, and the styles and brewers and everything else, most of which had been pretty far over John's head, and man, McKay had an opinion on all of it. It brought him to life - eyes bright, hands punctuating, wide mouth scowling and grinning in turns.
John was still laughing about it the next morning, even with the hangover.
August came in hot and dry and John started showing up at the bar more often; he couldn't help it, not really - McKay really was fun, in a bizarre kind of way. And he was easy to be around - easier even than Teyla, in some ways, because subtext was just a nonentity as far as Rodney was concerned. John carefully did not think about the ways in which McKay was harder to be around. He very carefully did not think about blue eyes and a solid frame and broad hands. He did not think about that at all.
Halfway through the month, John invited Rodney out on the 'Jumper. It had been a casual invitation; he'd dropped it into conversation without pause to consider. John hadn't expected the surprise on McKay's face - or the delight - and it made him wonder why he hadn't done it sooner.
McKay showed up early the next day, which was a surprise; he had his face buried in a vat of coffee, which wasn't. They opened up the 'Jumper without talking much, John out of inclination and McKay apparently out of a desire to approach complete consciousness from the tangent. Rodney clearly knew his way around; John didn't ask.
He didn't need to, as it turned out. They were out by Egg Rock Light when McKay broke the silence. "I used to love doing this as a kid." John looked at him in surprise. McKay was watching the shoreline. "Sailing, I mean. I like the precision of it, the independence." He went quiet.
Eventually John asked, "Why'd you stop?"
"I - there was too much to learn. At the vineyard. My father - he always had places they wanted me to be. I couldn't get good enough to join the competitive team, and a boat - or a club membership - wasn't an affordable investment. Not when the vines weren't doing well." McKay's mouth turned down. "I tried to go, in Oregon - in Portland - but it's not the same. It's not like here."
John watched the lighthouse. "No. Guess not. Guess you had to go, though."
Rodney looked at him. John kept his eyes on the squat cream and brown building. Rodney looked away. "I did. He was wrong, and stubborn, and there wasn't anything to be done except watch him try vines that didn't work and make wines that no one in their right mind would buy. I started to hate it. There wasn't anything to do but go."
"Tough on your sister."
McKay flinched. "That doesn't make it wrong."
"Doesn't make it all right."
"No." Rodney said quietly. "But I came back for a reason. I just didn't realize I had a reason until I came back for the funeral. And then I had to go..." he gestured vaguely "tie things up. Before I changed my mind. So I left. I mean, I was leaving anyway. This just - speeded it up."
John let himself grin, just a little. "Pissed them off out there too, huh, McKay?"
Rodney scowled. "Hardly. The brewery decided to go public, and I am not going to water down my beer just because some pain-in-the-ass board of directors thinks it's more marketable." The ensuing rant lasted them all the way back to shore.
When Rodney finally sucked it up and went to visit the Millers, it was more anticlimactic than anything else. It was for John, anyway, although he derived a fair amount of pleasure from the highly suspicious looks he got from Teyla and Elizabeth for the next week.
By the time Labor Day rolled around, John had worked up enough courage to admit to himself that he had a problem, and that the problem in question had everything to do with Rodney McKay.
Admitting it to himself wasn't really the problem at all, actually. He'd lost that fight the third time he found himself in the shower imagining a very different hand jerking him off. It was easier just to give up - and certainly more interesting, since his brain apparently had no shortage of very interesting fantasies where Rodney McKay was concerned.
More concerning was the fact that John wasn't doing a particularly good job of hiding his interest. He knew Teyla had noticed, which meant, in turn, that Elizabeth knew. He wasn't sure about Jeannie, although Maddie had commented one afternoon about the fact that her Uncle Rodney always seemed to be around and John had choked on a mouthful of soda. Jeannie hadn't said anything - hadn't even looked at him oddly, apart from one slightly wry smile that could have been sympathy as much as anything else. She and Rodney were working out their differences, and Rodney had agreed to put McKay wines in rotation and maybe, possibly, to give an interview to up publicity, but the whole reconciliation thing was still occasionally a loud process. Ronon... wouldn't have said anything anyway.
That left only Rodney to worry about, and Rodney couldn't bluff worth a damn. John had caught Rodney looking at him oddly of late, just every once in awhile, with an expression on his face that John hadn't ever seen before. He thought about staying away - he had a regular seat at the damn bar at this point - but he liked McKay, and that was pretty much what it boiled down to. So he tried not to act too strangely and tried not to notice the occasional weird look from McKay and he'd been just about to pull out his hair by the roots from pent-up sexual frustration when, two days into September, in the middle of Labor Day weekend, Hurricane Pablo took a sharp right turn just south of Baltimore and headed straight for the Maine coast, which had not been expecting the visit.
"Pablo?" Rodney expostulated, standing in Jeannie's kitchen while they made plans. "Who the hell names a New England hurricane Pablo?"
"Could be worse," John answered, distracted. "Could've been Van."
"I like Pablo," Ronon said from the sink, next to Kaleb, where they were making some sort of enormous casserole for dinner - and leftovers, if the power went out.
"Focus, please," Elizabeth snapped, phone in hand. "No one's going to be able to haul Sam in time - they've got too many vacationers calling in as it is."
Teyla - Teyla - swore. "We should have left two days ago."
"We couldn't afford to, and you know it - it's why we took the risk in the first place, betting that the damn thing wouldn't turn this way. It's okay," John said. "We've got time, we've got anchors, and we've got line. I'll take her out, and we'll either find a hole or we'll drop anchor."
"You realize that you're talking about the boat in the third person again," Jeannie said, trying to laugh, but her eyes were worried.
"Sheppard - John -" Kaleb turned around. "What about the 'Jumper?"
John sucked in a breath. He'd been trying not to think about it. "I'll put slack in the lines before I head out. She'll be fine." Kaleb looked dubious. "Really. This isn't the apocalypse. It's just a lot of wind." He wasn't exactly persuading himself, either, but Maddie was in the kitchen and he was not going to scare her. "What we don't want is anybody out on the water that doesn't have to be."
"Agreed." Elizabeth stood. "All right. Teyla and I will drop you off and grab water and batteries and bread. Anything else?"
"I'll make you a list." Jeannie grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil.
"You are completely insane," Rodney said, staring at him, blue eyes wide.
"But you love me anyway," John quipped, only it didn't come out right, and Rodney's eyes went even bigger, and John fled for the car. He saw Madison in the hallway on his way out and stopped long enough to give her a hug and tell her not to worry. She didn't look convinced.
By the time they made it to the pier and loosened up the 'Jumper and checked Sam's lines and anchors, the chop was kicking up. They'd had a fair amount of warning, and John was deeply grateful for the joys of modern weather forecasting, but they'd wasted time betting against the storm's track and looking for someone to haul the boats; by now, the harbor traffic was pretty thick, and the close-in spots were gone. On the way out, John saw three or four boats at dock or at anchor that looked less than secure. He did not think about the Puddle Jumper. He did not think about it a lot.
He found decent anchorage and started making Sam secure as he listened to the weather reports. By the time he was satisfied, the clouds overhead were dark and the rain had started to kick in. When the call came in over the radio, the chop was high enough that he'd already loosened one of the anchor lines and was considering adding more slack to the second. "Sheppard, come in," Rodney said, and John knew enough about fear to be able to identify it in the tone of his voice.
He scrambled for the handset. "McKay, this is Sheppard."
"Oh thank god," Rodney breathed, and John heard something rustle. "Sheppard, we - I - Maddie's gone missing." It was like a punch in the gut. He stared at the radio, hands tight on the counter, and listened to the wind howling through the glass. "Sheppard?" Rodney said, voice tight.
He managed to breathe again. "Tell me you didn't just say that, McKay."
"Trust me, I wish I hadn't."
John had never heard McKay sound so miserable. "When the hell did you see her last?" he snarled.
"Funny," Rodney bit back, "I was about to ask you the same question."
"Okay," John said, breathing hard, running a hand through his hair. "I saw her - she was in the kitchen, when we were planning, and then I saw her in the hallway on my way out," and then John's very slow brain finally got two plus two to equal four. "Fuck."
"You know where she is?" Rodney demanded.
"She's on the fucking 'Jumper," John snarled. It started to rain. "She was in the kitchen when we were talking about the 'Jumper and that kid loves that damn boat almost as much as I do. God damn it. If her parents don't kill her first, I will be waiting in line."
"Yes, well, take a number," Rodney snapped, "I'm going out to get her."
"There's a key under the rock outside the Atlantis office," John answered. "Get her off the boat and get the hell back to Jeannie's."
"Unlike some individuals of my acquaintance, I am not so insane as to want to ride out a hurricane on a boat," Rodney replied. "McKay out." The line went dead.
John moved, eventually - went to check the lines and put up the storm covers on the windows. When he came back inside, soaked to the bone, he sat down and stared at the floor, listening to wind and the rain and the weather reports until he got fed up and switched off the latter. Outside, Pablo howled.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the next call came in. "John?" came Maddie's voice. "John? Are you there, please?" He lunged for the handset.
"Maddie?" he demanded, running a hand through his hair. "Maddie, is that you?"
"It's me," she quavered,.
He took a deep breath. "Madison Avenue, am I glad to hear from you. Are you home and safe?"
"Noooo," she sobbed.
John tried really, really hard not to panic. "Hey, hey, squirt. It's okay. Tell me where you are. Deep breaths, okay?"
"I'm on the 'Jumper." The radio crackled and John heard Rodney's voice in the background.
"Maddie, let me talk to your uncle, okay?" He heard a sniffle. "Let me talk to Rodney, Maddie. It's going to be okay, I promise." Right after I throttle another McKay, he thought, and swore as Sam gave a particularly sickening heave.
"Sheppard, are you there?" Rodney said.
"McKay," John attempted not to growl, "Why the he - why the heck are you out in the 'Jumper?"
"Trust me, Sheppard," Rodney answered, "it wasn't my first choice. But there's a little thing called storm surge that's presently flooding your office and the downtown roads, so believe it or not, this was, in fact, our best option."
John hauled in another breath and discarded the first two answers that popped into his head. "Where, exactly, are you?"
"We're out in the harbor, as far away from anyone else as I can manage. We'll be fine, John. I think," he added, and that little note of panic was not at all reassuring.
"McKay," he snapped. "You're going to be fine, do you understand me? You're in the harbor. You're anchored down. You're wearing life vests. Right?"
"Oh my god," Rodney retorted and at least the panic was gone. "What kind of idiot do you think I am?"
"The kind that I will meet, on the dock, with Maddie, after this goddamn hurricane gets the hell out of here. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," came the answer. "McKay out."
John sat back down and listened to the wind.
"Sheppard?" said the radio in McKay's voice, several hours later. He stared at it, confused. The wind was still howling. "Sheppard, come in."
"McKay," he responded, "You okay? Where's Maddie? Why are you whispering?"
"She's asleep," Rodney answered, sounding distracted. "I don't want to wake her. Sheppard -" Rodney tried again, voice thready. "Sheppard, this is really a very small boat."
"Hey," John said, aiming for reassuring. "Don't knock the 'Jumper." Rodney said nothing. "Rodney?" he asked. "Hey, buddy, you there? Look, McKay - it won't be that much longer. Really. Listen - the wind's starting to die down." Maybe. John hoped.
"Yeah," Rodney said at last. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry about that. Look, Sheppard, I -" He paused. "John. Did you mean it?"
John Sheppard had spent a vast part of his day worrying about multiple boats and ten-year-old wannabe marine biologists and stupidly heroic brewers and so, he figured, he was allowed to have one moment of unvarnished honesty. "Yeah, McKay. I did." And then, because John Sheppard was cold and wet and partly seasick and also just possibly a little bit terrified, he said, "I'll see you on the dock. Sheppard out," and stared at the radio.
The end, in the end, was kind of anticlimactic. It took Sheppard something that felt like forever to get Sam back to the dock and by the time he'd closed her back up and stumbled up to where Rodney and a very much subdued Maddie were waiting, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. When Jeannie and Kaleb pulled up and bundled them all into another car - Rodney's having been flooded out - he and McKay woke at the vineyard moments later with their heads slumped together. John didn't mind. In fact, he would've much preferred it if he could've stayed that way.
Maddie's parents bundled her off to bed and John and Rodney presented themselves to Teyla and Elizabeth and Ronon before stumbling up the stairs in the candlelight, since the power was out and likely to remain so for some time, according to Teyla. With seven people in a house that normally slept three, Jeannie announced, meeting them at the top of the steps, they were just going to have to share. John was too damn tired to do more than suspect her of mischief.
When he woke up, finally, the sun was high and Rodney was shoving his feet into sneakers. "Morning," John managed, running a hand over his chin and wincing at the stubble.
Rodney's head jerked up so fast John worried briefly about whiplash. "Oh. Yes. Good morning. Afternoon, actually, but then who's counting." He stopped for breath. "Everyone else is out checking up on things," he said, standing. "I told Ronon I'd check in on the pub. We - they - they left a car," he added. "If you'd like to come."
John looked at Rodney carefully before he answered, feeling like a man betting double or nothing. "What the hell," he said slowly. "I could go for a beer."
McKay grinned and stood. "Come on then. Let's get a move on."
The pub was dark when they fumbled their way inside; the emergency lights were dim and the storm covers blocked the sunlight. John headed up to the attic, which looked intact to his inexpert eye; he met Rodney on the stairs on the way down, opening the door to the suite he lived in. "Come on," McKay said, calling John's attention to the two bottles of Magic Hat in his other hand.
John followed him to the kitchen and caught the church key McKay tossed his direction. He popped the cap and drank, closing his eyes to enjoy the hoppy, sharp taste and the silence and the lack of motion under his feet. When he opened them, McKay was standing across the counter from him, just staring.
John put the bottle down and tried not to fidget. "Good beer," he said eventually.
Rodney waved it off. "It's a reasonable brew. I don't mind keeping it around. Mine's better, but then the draft system's offline because of the power." He went back to watching John.
"McKay," John said, feeling awkward.
"Shut up." Rodney glared at him. "Just shut up."
"What the hell are you doing, McKay?" John demanded.
Rodney frowned. "I am trying to figure out exactly how dumb you really are." John flushed; he tried to speak, but Rodney cut him off. "No, really," he said. "Can I suggest that the next time you attempt to declare your undying affection, you don't do it in the middle of the first hurricane to hit Maine in over two decades?"
John stared. "Right, McKay. I'll try and time my inadvertent personal revelations to your personal schedule next time, okay?"
"Go ahead, get snippy," Rodney retorted, and John almost swallowed his tongue at the word "snippy". "But if you understood how to communicate like a normal person, you might find that there are ways of confirming the other person's interest that don't involve whispered phone conversations over the radio in the middle of a major weather event. And another thing," Rodney said, only John had sort of tuned out at that point because his overly tired brain had finally parsed out the first part of that sentence and he was walking around the counter to corner McKay in the kitchen.
"McKay," John said, and Rodney paused mid-syllable.
"What now, Sheppard?" Rodney demanded.
"You never said anything," John answered.
Rodney goggled at him. "I never said anything? I'm sorry, you're the one who kept acting all weird, and while I am very talented with alcohol I am not exactly known for my interpersonal skills, if you haven't noticed, so it's not like I had any clue what you were thinking, although I sort of hoped that maybe - but even if I did know, what exactly did you want me to say -"
"McKay," John said again, close enough to feel the heat of Rodney's body.
"What?" Rodney asked, eyes wide.
"Shut up," John said, and kissed him. Rodney tasted like beer and saltwater and sweat and something John couldn't put a name to, and he kissed back like he was afraid John was going to slip out of his grasp. He could've stayed there for hours, pouring himself out in an attempt to prove Rodney wrong, only then somebody shifted, and their bodies aligned just so, and suddenly they were both frantic, tugging and pulling and twisting their way out of their clothing and over to the bed. It was reaction, he thought, stress and tension and fear and then Rodney did something particularly intelligent with his thumb and John decided to stop thinking for awhile and said as much to McKay.
"Good plan," Rodney gasped against his shoulder. "Overrated. Mostly. For now, anyway," at which point John devoted himself to distracting Rodney from the point entirely - which turned out to be an excellent plan for all concerned.
Much, much later, feeling like he never needed to move again, John said, muttering the words against Rodney's forehead, "Acting weird, huh?"
"To say the least," Rodney mumbled.
"Says the man not known for interpersonal skills." John grinned.
"If you ever repeat that, I will put cyanide in your stout," Rodney promised, slurring his words.
John just laughed, and let himself fall down into sleep after McKay, and dreamed of the wind on his face.