SGA: Converging, slash fiction

[purna]

The story formerly known as the Lifeguard AU. Complete.

ETA: Now with amazing cover art, thanks to monanotlisa.



Converging by Purna
~27,000 words
John/Rodney
NC-17

Summary: (AU) John saves a man from drowning and takes the long way home.

A/N: Big thanks to lamardeuse for beta duty. I should also thank the folks at military_beta for their help and excellent ideas. Thanks also to runpunkrun for her drive-by assistance, and many, many thanks to all the folks (flist and beyond!) who audienced this thing as it was posted as a WIP; the encouraging words and thought-provoking comments were invaluable.



John was keeping one eye on the seven water-loving but swimming-impaired kids of the family that had set up their blankets and chairs just below his tower, while his other eye was on the rowdy group of college kids who'd been pounding beers all afternoon. He somehow found another eye to scan the rest of the beach as well, his tension easing as he recognized that few people were venturing into the water now.

The dense crowds from earlier in the day had eased considerably. The sun was low on the horizon, people clearing out as darkness approached.

"Some of us are getting together at the Roost after work," a voice behind him said. A woman stepped up next to where he stood at the tower railing. She was shrugging into a blue uniform jacket. "I'm off; I just came over to tell you that you're welcome to join us."

He glanced over at her. "Cahill, right?"

"Call me Vicky," she said.

"John," he said. "John Sheppard."

"I know," she said. There was amusement in her voice, and he could feel an itch starting up between his shoulder blades.

He scanned the sand below them, and forced his face to relax into a smile. The new job meant new people to get along with, to learn to work with, and John's anti-social streak had gotten him into trouble before.

The intensity of the smile she returned made him groan a little on the inside. She was attractive: warm brown eyes, smooth skin the color of coffee, fit and strong like all the lifeguards, and John felt not a flicker of interest. She'd learn. They always did.

"That's really nice of you," he said. It only made him feel worse to realize that she was being nice, and it all probably wasn't just to get into his pants. "I've got some stuff to do right after work, but if I'm done early, I'll catch up with you guys, okay?" John could lie like he breathed: not a skill he was particularly proud of, but one that got him through the day.

Her face brightened even more. "Later, then," she said, before turning to head back down to the sand.

It was almost a relief after that to scan the waves and see the telltale sign of a swimmer thrashing in the water. He was down and onto the beach in a second, grabbing his rescue can as he left the tower.

The deep sand dragged at his feet, tough to run in, triggering a flash of memory before he clamped down on it. The split-second mental blank almost made him stumble, but he was used to this shit by now. Easy, easy, and his body didn't fail him, and he was pulling the rescue can's strap over his head as he hit the water.

When he was deep enough, he dropped the can to float behind him and dove into the gentle surf. Five hard strokes, and then he came up for breath and to get a sight on the swimmer. Everything looks different once you hit the water, the instructors had drilled into them, and it was true. His stomach lurched for endless seconds before he caught sight of frantic movement.

Shit. The swimmer was really struggling now, and he ducked his head back down and swam, hard.

The flailing was much weaker by the time John was close enough to hear the ragged wet gasps of someone struggling to breathe, someone swallowing more water than taking in air. It was a man, he realized, his face pale beneath a bad sunburn and shoulders bulky enough to make John extra careful to stay out of his reach.

"Grab hold," he shouted, pushing the rescue can over. The man didn't respond until John shoved the can right into him, and then he clutched at the buoy, practically hugging it. His grip on it looked firm, and his panic visibly eased as the buoyancy of the can reassured him.

Once the man had gotten in a few good breaths, John asked, "Can you hold onto that while I tow you to shore?"

The man nodded weakly, powerful coughs still racking him as he clung to the rescue can, and John started back in, stopping several times to check on the man.

Back on dry land, the man crumpled to his hands and knees, coughing and puking his guts up. John rested a hand on the man's back, the skin chilled beneath his soaked cotton T-shirt. "You're cold."

A crowd had gathered to watch the rescue, and John gestured at one of the gawkers. "Can he borrow that towel?" he asked, and the woman draped it around the man's shoulders without a word. The man clutched at it gratefully, glancing up at her with bright blue eyes as he thanked her, his voice a croak.

John took a moment to size up the rest of him: a tilted mouth in a sunburned face and thinning hair, probably a much lighter shade of brown when it was dry. Ragged khaki cut offs, drooping and water logged, took the place of trunks, and a blue cotton T-shirt topped it off. As John had noticed in the water, he had bulk in his shoulders and chest, but his face looked a little gaunt, his eyes bruised.

The crowd around them started to disperse. Turned off by the puking or bored by the lack of serious injury, John thought cynically. He rested his hands on his hips, taking a moment's satisfaction in how well the rescue had gone off.

His good mood disappeared when the man threw a wrench in his clockwork rescue, refusing to seek medical care.

"No ambulance," the man said, shaking his head. When John protested, the man reached out to clamp a hand around John's wrist. The man then tried to stagger to his feet, but had to sink back down onto the sand. He sat on his heels, still clutching at John. "I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Ever heard of 'parking lot drowning'?" John said. "You could still have water in your lungs. We should get you to the ER."

The man's grip on John's wrist tightened to the point of pain. "No hospitals."

John's jaw clenched, and he snatched his hand free with more force than was probably necessary. "You've been drinking; I can smell it. Is it drugs, too? You don't want to get arrested?"

The man laughed, the sound cut short by another coughing jag. The spasms eased and he wiped at his mouth. "Don't be an idiot," he said sharply. "I didn't aspirate anything. I'm drunk, but not that drunk." His speech was barely slurred, backing up his claim. "And I'm certainly not a drug addict."

He seemed to run out of steam then, closing his eyes. "I'm just," he said, waving a vague hand at John, "sick of hospitals."

A shadow passed over the man's face as he sat there, rubbing at his chest, lost in thought for a long moment. Then he seemed to shake it off, slanting a look up at John with a lopsided smile on his face.

"Rodney McKay," he said, holding out a hand. "Thanks. Sorry for the bother." He jerked his head out to sea, and John blinked. Maybe it was the booze, but McKay's reaction to near-drowning seemed a little off, more casual than John was expecting.

John frowned, then shrugged. "John Sheppard." He shook McKay's hand, then gripped it harder, hauling him up to his feet. "There you go. Up and at 'em." When McKay seemed steady on his feet, John let go. "And it's no bother; it's my job. Comes with the uniform."

McKay shivered and pulled the towel tighter around him, his blue eyes wandering down John's body. John was used to people looking at him and generally liking what they saw. It wasn't something that he enjoyed, even as he'd used it to his advantage more than once in his life.

McKay's gaze was different, idle, almost clinical, even when it settled below John's waistline. "They're very fetching, by the way," he said dryly, nodding at the red shorts.

John couldn't quite stifle his laugh. "So I've been told," he said. When he wasn't losing his lunch or being stubborn about seeing a doctor, McKay wasn't half bad. "Look," he said abruptly. "If you don't want to see a doctor, at least come up to the tower, let me keep an eye on you until I'm off duty." He glanced at his watch. "Which is in less than ten minutes, by the way. Maybe get you something warmer to wear than that towel, too."

McKay was staring at him, an odd look crossing his face. John took in McKay's bloodshot eyes and air of suppressed misery. "I'll even drive you home," he surprised himself by offering. "Your blood alcohol can't be legal," he added, talking more to himself than to McKay.

"You're kind of a mother hen, you know that?" McKay said, sounding halfway between exasperated and amused. Before John could say anything, McKay continued, "Anyway, there's no need to drive me anywhere. I walked. I live right down there." He nodded at a cluster of lights that belonged to the houses perched up on the cliff.

John tried not to let his surprise show. McKay was either way richer than his clothes suggested, or he was splurging on a pricey vacation rental. Either way, it was none of his business, he reminded himself.

"Those cliff paths are tricky, especially when it's dark," he said. "You're tired and not entirely sober. I'll drive you, make sure we don't get called in later for a cliff rescue when you fall ass over tea kettle."

McKay let out a snort, but gave in with a shrug.

They swung by the tower, where John tossed McKay his ancient black sweatshirt and then pulled on his own uniform jacket over a spare T-shirt.

"Go ahead and strip off the wet one first," he said when McKay started to pull the sweatshirt on over his T-shirt. "You'll be a lot warmer."

McKay hesitated, his fingers twisting in the sweatshirt fabric.

"I promise, you'll feel warmer," John repeated, rather patiently, he thought. "You're getting chilled as the water evaporates."

"I'm quite familiar with the process, thank you," McKay snapped. His mouth was pulling down on one side as he stared at the floor.

John felt his eyebrows go up. McKay hadn't seemed like he'd be the shy type. Then McKay's chin came up, and he swung around so that he could strip off the wet shirt with his back to John.

"Jesus," John breathed when he glanced over and caught a glimpse of McKay's bare back. He looked away quickly, biting back the obvious question, What the hell happened to you?

Scars criss-crossed McKay's back. A few looked precise and surgical, but most of them were not so neat.

"Car accident," McKay said, in a quiet voice. He gestured towards his shoulder, a vague fluttery movement with the fingers of one hand, and avoided John's eyes

McKay couldn't lie for shit, and he seemed to know it, tensing up like he was expecting an interrogation. John said nothing, though, just wordlessly closed up the tower. "Let's get you home," he said finally.

The sound of the waves accompanied them as they headed for John's car. McKay was quiet as they walked, shoulders hunched. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the salt breeze fill his lungs. It tasted clean somehow, like memories of summer vacation and possibilities.

The parking lot was deserted except for his Toyota. "You surf?" McKay asked, eyeing the surfboard strapped to the Toyota's roof.

"Nah, that's just a really fucked-up hood ornament," John said, surprising a sharp bark of laughter out of McKay.

"And did you surf this morning, or do you just like driving around with that on your roof?" Like a poseur, McKay's raised eyebrow seemed to add.

"You're pretty feisty for a guy who needs a ride," John said mildly, covering his internal wince. No, he hadn't used the board that morning, and it wasn't good to keep it on his car roof, but it wasn't like he had much choice in the matter.

He went around to unlock the passenger door. "Just a second," he said. He hurriedly wadded up the sleeping bag that he'd draped over the seatback and tossed it into the rear of the SUV.

"Been camping?" McKay asked, as he eased himself into the seat carefully, looking cold and stiff.

"Something like that," John said. He shrugged a little, hoping the darkness was hiding the flush he could feel heating his face. When he started up the car, he flipped on the heater, and McKay shot him a grateful look.

He figured it took them three times as long to drive to McKay's house as it would have taken them to walk it, even with the heavy beach traffic easing up. McKay didn't seem interested in conversation and spent the trip huddled up to the warm air pouring out of the heater. The quiet felt comfortable and oddly intimate, McKay's breathing going slow and deep as he started to nod off with his head settled against the window.

A sharp braking brought McKay's head up with a start and a groggy, "Wha--?" He tensed, blinking at the bright headlights of oncoming traffic, but then appeared to remember where he was.

The bobbing of John's dashboard hula girl caught McKay's attention; he reached over to poke at her, setting her in motion. The plastic swaying hips seemed to mesmerize him, his concentration strangely intense. "How did I know you'd have one of these?" he asked quietly. The question sounded rhetorical, so John just laughed.

After that, McKay didn't say much except to give directions.

"This one." McKay was pointing at one in an endless line of anonymous garage doors that lined the street.

"You got your keys?" John asked, pulling over to the curb.

"Don't need keys. There's a code," McKay said as he got out. He leaned back inside the car. "Sorry, I think I got your seat wet."

"Happens all the time. You take care of yourself," John said, and was startled to realize he really meant it. There was something about McKay that triggered John's instincts. Maybe he was imagining it, or reading more into those scars than he needed to, but something about the man intrigued him.

McKay was staring at him warily. There was a strange expression on his face that was broken with a nervous laugh. "Well. Thanks again, John Sheppard. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Just not in the water, okay? One rescue's enough. And no more swimming when you've been drinking." He rolled his eyes at himself.

"I didn't--" McKay started to say, but stopped himself, his mouth quirking a little. "Yes, mother," he said and slammed the car door shut.

John watched until McKay was inside his garage, and then pulled away from the curb, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

*

The next day John was up at dawn. He was always up early these days, by necessity if not by choice. It wasn't hard to fill the hours: beach runs, surfing, or swimming in the early morning, and the VA hospital when the sun got higher in the sky.

A swim this time, he decided, the water cold enough to take his breath away at first, and the taste of salt and iodine almost like coming home. His body bobbed with each wave, and the catch and pull of his strokes was regular, soothing as a heartbeat. At the turnaround point, he always paused, jackknifing his body to pierce the water's surface.

Deeper and deeper he dove, the pressure building in his ears. Gravity-free, he floated and glided through the dark water until his lungs burned. When he couldn't hold his breath a second longer, he headed back up. He broke the surface with as much reluctance as relief, gulping air desperately.

Half an hour later, he was staggering back onto shore, stiff from the chill, his skin goose pimpled. He snatched up his hooded sweatshirt, pulling it on before the wind could start him shivering in earnest. His stomach rumbled as he headed for his car, the towel wrapped around his waist.

A drive-through artery-clogging breakfast burrito took care of the hunger pangs. The salt dried itchy on his skin as he drove to the gym for a shower.

Clean and dry again, he headed up to the VA hospital.

It wasn't one of Holland's better days when John got there. He was sitting up at least, but his stare was vacant, mouth hanging open a little. Sometimes Holland seemed to have some awareness of John's presence and his eyes would follow John around the room, but not today.

"How you doing, Holland?" he asked. There was no response. There never was. The injuries from the helicopter crash had been just the start. Taliban bullets during their escape had finished it, had killed the Holland that John had known and left this ghost in his place.

This was all that was left of his friend. John stood at the foot of Holland's bed, his eyes closed, waiting out the anger that tried to drown him every time, the self-disgust in its wake. He took a deep breath finally and moved to the window. Propping himself against the wall, he ran a finger over the glass.

"Had an interesting day yesterday, Hol." John stared out the window as he spoke, at the cloudless sky of what was shaping up to be another beautiful day. "I met the strangest guy at the beach. In fact, I saved him from drowning."

John stopped, looking over at Holland's vacant face. John had thought he'd saved Holland, too, way back when.

He cleared his throat and went to get the thick paperback from Holland's dresser. "How about I read some more of this?" he asked, sitting in the chair by the bed.

They were in the middle of Nicholas Rostov's first battle on the Danube when someone interrupted.

"Keeping up with your schedule?"

"Annie," he said. He stood up to greet her and tried not to stiffen when she hugged him. She smelled like coffee and baby powder, and her eyes--clear gray, Hol's eyes--were tired and red-rimmed when she stepped back to smile at him.

"I don't know how you do it, reading that thing aloud. All those names." She had Hol's smile, too, teasing, almost sly, as if they shared some big secret.

He dog-eared the page where they'd left off. "I sound out the first few letters and then kind of fake the rest." He dropped the book onto Hol's bedside table. "How're you doing?" he asked. "How's the new baby?"

"Great, John. She's great. Peter's watching her right now. She's keeping us so busy," she said, her mouth turning down in a rueful almost-frown. "I haven't been making it over here as much as I'd hoped. What's the point of moving closer to the hospital if you still don't visit?"

He snorted. "Cut yourself some slack. You did just give birth."

"Oh, she doesn't let me forget about that little fact," she said. "Kate's got big lungs on her." She moved to the bedside. "Jason, it's Annie," she said to Holland, taking his hand in hers. "It's your sister." Holland didn't react, and Annie sighed. "I keep hoping one day he'll squeeze my hand or something. That the doctors were wrong."

John shrugged. "Doctors have been wrong before."

"I hope. I hope so," she said. She made a sound that was more of a hiccup than a laugh. John looked over and realized that her eyes were wet.

Oh, crap. "Annie, what's wrong?" He moved over to pat her shoulder awkwardly, grimacing. He so sucked at this.

She scrubbed at her eyes. "It's nothing, John."

Under his skeptical gaze, she crumpled a little. "I was on the phone on the way over here, trying to work something out with the mortgage company. And they weren't nice about it, and it's all my fault, and now I just feel awful."

"Work what out?" John asked.

"It doesn't matter. I'm fine. Really." Her smile was way too watery to be convincing.

John narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you guys short on money?" he asked gently.

She flushed, leaning over to push Holland's hair away from his face. "The bank isn't happy with us. The offer for the old house fell through, and we're already a month late on the new house note. We're bouncing checks all over the place. It's so much more expensive here than we're used to, and with the baby and all--"

She stopped and took a deep breath. "Just tell me to shut up, John. We'll figure something out. I shouldn't be dumping this on you. We still owe you from when you chipped in to fly our grandparents out here to see Jason."

"You don't owe me for that. It was for Holland," he said, cutting her off. "I can't even tell you how much--" He stopped and took a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders. "Look, you guys have enough on your minds without money adding to it. I can help with that. My checkbook's in the car."

He'd have to hold off on regularizing his living arrangements a while longer, but he'd bunked down in worse places than his car.

"No." She closed her eyes. "I can't let you do this."

"Annie, let me help. I'm doing pretty well, what with the new job." A new job that didn't pay for shit, but Annie didn't need to know that. She could probably teach him a thing or two about shit-paying jobs, with her teaching high school chemistry and Peter giving piano lessons.

John continued, "And I don't have a kid to spend money on. Holland asked me to look out for his little sister."

Another lie, but it was easier to explain it that way. "He asked me to look out for you, and that's what I'm doing."

She didn't say anything, looking him right in the eye, and John did his best to project an air of financial wealth. He probably ended up looking more constipated than anything, but often the two weren't far off, in John's experience.

He must have pulled it off, because she sighed. "Thank you, then. Thank you so much, John," she said. Her entire posture relaxed, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. He looked down at where she still had her brother's hand clasped in hers and sighed.

*

John found someone waiting for him when he opened up his tower a few days later. It was McKay, shifting from foot to foot, his sunburn now at the itchy-looking, peeling stage. He looked a lot drier than when he'd been puking his guts out, but his face still looked pinched. His clothes were from the same thrift-store as before, baggy brown cargo shorts and another cotton T-shirt, green this time.

"Hi," McKay said, his gaze flickering away from John's face out to the water and back again. He seemed nervous.

"Hi, yourself," John said. He lifted his coffee cup. "If you're planning on swimming today, could you wait 'til I finish this first?"

McKay rolled his eyes. "Oh, hah, very hah. A lifeguard and a comedian."

"I'm just talented that way." His shrug was the one that used to annoy commanding officers. It didn't fail him this time, either, and McKay narrowed his eyes at him. John smiled. It was kind of fun getting a rise out of the man.

"Well. I stopped by to give you this back," McKay said, shoving a cloth bundle at John.

His black sweatshirt, John discovered, unfolding it with a shake. Something in his expression must have struck McKay as dubious, because he said defensively, "Don't worry; it's been washed."

John couldn't help laughing, and McKay's face went red. John made a calming gesture. "No, no, I'm sure it is. I just wasn't expecting to see it again."

"I actually tried to return it a few days ago, but there was another lifeguard on duty."

Raising an eyebrow at him, John said, "You could have just left it here."

"I wanted to see you--I mean, thank you." McKay crossed his arms across his chest and said more firmly, "I wanted to thank you. Again, I mean."

John didn't say anything. He was distracted by the short sleeves of McKay's T-shirt, which had pulled up high on McKay's arms to reveal firm, solid biceps.

"What, what is it?" McKay's eyes followed John's gaze. When he looked back up his expression had turned knowing.

John rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. "It's really not necessary to thank me again, but you're welcome. "

"Anyway, I've got people coming over for steaks this weekend," McKay said in a rush. "You're invited."

"I am, am I?" John drawled, which made McKay blink rapidly at him. His expression was flustered, his lopsided mouth like an emotional barometer. It felt a little unfair and made John feel jaded, dealing with someone who left himself so vulnerable.

McKay tilted his head to the side. His eyes dropped down briefly to John's chest, the movement highlighting McKay's long lashes.

"Yes, you're invited," McKay was saying. "You saved my life, after all. That's worth a slab of beef, don't you think?" He had a half-smile on his face as he stared over at John. He seemed more at ease now, his arms dropping to his sides.

The relaxed state was broken when McKay's eyes went wide and his hands flew up into the air. "Oh, god, you're not a vegetarian, are you?" His tone seemed to classify vegetarianism as a serious moral flaw.

His eyes are really blue, John thought. He started, realizing he'd been silent again for a little too long, and shook his head. "No, I'm not a vegetarian. And your life's gotta be worth a steak at the very least," John said. "Maybe even a party platter, you know with those little baby carrots?"

"Baby carrots," McKay repeated cautiously, as if he thought John was joking.

"I like baby carrots. Crunchy," John said.

"Yes, I guess they are." McKay sounded as though he was trying not to laugh. "We can do that."

"Then you've got a deal," John said, raising his coffee cup to seal the bargain.

If McKay's party sucked, he could always bug out after the free food. There was something about McKay, though, his secrets, his mobile, revealing mouth, his blue eyes weirdly pale against his developing tan, that made John think he might be sticking around awhile.

*

"I'm bearing gifts," John said, lifting the six-pack when McKay opened his door.

"You came," McKay said, looking pleased and maybe a little surprised.

John shrugged. "'Never turn down free steak,' that's my motto."

After a flurry of settling the beer in the fridge, grabbing a few carrots from the promised party platter, and getting introduced to four or five people whose names John immediately forgot, they made their way out onto McKay's deck.

The view was incredible, bright blue sky and endless ocean, and John might have felt a pang of envy for someone who could afford a place like this. A scruffy, fluffy-haired guy was drinking a beer as he fiddled with McKay's grill. He glanced up at them, peering over his glasses.

"John Sheppard, Radek Zelenka," McKay said, gesturing with his beer bottle. "Where's Carol?" he asked Zelenka. To John, he explained, "Carol Freeman. Radek's lady friend."

"She's inside," Zelenka said, rolling his eyes at McKay, then turning to John. "Call me Radek. You are the lifeguard who saved Rodney's life," he said, putting down his beer to shake John's hand. He had an accent, Russian or something, and was a little shorter than McKay.

"Guilty as charged."

Radek glanced over at McKay. "Only you could almost get yourself killed here of all places." He stopped short at a quelling glance from McKay.

John frowned at the interchange. "You mean the beach? You'd be amazed how many people get themselves in trouble at the beach."

"Ah, yes, the beach, that is what I meant," Radek said, nodding. "I'm going inside to get another beer, I think. Either of you need anything?"

Radek scurried to the kitchen when they shook their heads, John watching him with narrowed eyes until he disappeared inside. Then he shrugged and turned back to the ocean. He settled his aviator shades in place, sliding them down from their perch up on his head.

McKay stood with his back to the view. His eyes flickered over at John several times: the shades seemed to bother him.

"You guys work together or something?" John asked, jerking a nod inside the house.

"Not...anymore," McKay said, his expression freezing for a split-second.

Huh, John thought, touchy topic. "So what do you do?"

"Nothing." McKay shrugged. "I guess I'm retired. I still consult every now and then." At John's questioning look, he added, "Physics. I'm a physicist. So is Radek. Actually, we both have multiple doctorates, so calling ourselves physicists is a bit limiting, but it'll do as a descriptive label. Not that I have some obsessive need to label things."

McKay babbled when he got nervous. It was...kind of endearing, John was startled to realize.

"I'm having steak with the brain trust, looks like," John drawled. "Is everybody here a Ph.D.?"

"No, no," McKay said, "just Radek, Carol, and myself. The rest are graduate students. Radek and Carol both brought their graduate students."

As if McKay had called them, two of the students rushed out onto the deck just then, talking a mile a minute: N-dualities and strings, all in a language that sounded not entirely dissimilar to English. At McKay's glare, they moved to the far end of the deck and quieted down.

McKay rolled his eyes at John. "Those are two of hers. Their names escape me," he said airily. "Carol's a mathematician."

"Topology, right?"

McKay did a huge double take, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline, and John laughed.

"Oh, my god, you've got a brain," McKay blurted. His surprise might have been insulting if John hadn't been distracted by the sudden laser focus of McKay's eyes. "I just didn't expect--"

"No, it's okay. Why should you?" John said blandly. He used to get angry about stuff like that. Now it was just kind of fun, confounding people's expectations. "What does a lifeguard need with a master's degree anyway?"

"In what?" McKay asked, looking at John with a gleam in his eyes that John usually reserved for 42" HD plasma TVs.

"Aerospace engineering. Not that I ever got to use it." Before McKay could ask anything that would involve John having to get into his military background, he said casually, "Even passed the Mensa test." The distraction worked perfectly, and seeing McKay's eyes bug out was pure gravy.

"You're a member of Mensa?" McKay asked, his eyes moving over John's face and body in a way that was anything but clinical. Check, John thought. McKay's turn-on: brains.

John shook his head, suppressing a smile. "I never actually joined."

McKay's mouth dropped open until John reached over to tap on his chin. "Catching flies there, buddy."

McKay blinked at him, a flush rising on his cheeks. John returned the gaze, staring at McKay's mouth, the way he licked his lips. John held his breath just a little as he waited for what McKay would do or say next.

"I have the steaks." They both jumped as Radek wandered back out onto the deck.

"Ah. Well, it's about time," McKay said. He sounded a little shaky as he turned to Radek, who was cradling a tray of steaks and burgers. "What took you so long, you had to go all the way to Milliways for the Dish of the Day?"

"Rodney, you promised not to make Hitchhiker's references," said the tall thin brunette who was right behind Radek. The Carol that McKay had talked about, John thought. "It gets the students all stirred up and rowdy."

She ignored McKay's muttered, "Like they're not, already," and said something into Radek's ear, her head bent down close to his. The smile and open affection on her face lit up her plain features.

McKay made a vague gesture. "Fine, fine." He snapped his fingers. "Radek, meat."

Radek and McKay loaded the grill, bickering amicably about the flame height and the dry rub Radek had used and the burgers Carol had brought. "Veggie burgers?" McKay said, his tone horrified. "Et tu, Radek?"

The afternoon slipped away as they ate and talked, and considering how hermit-like he'd been lately, John surprised himself by having a great time. McKay was goofy and interesting, prickly, but funny as hell, and John liked him more and more.

More than that, he found himself liking McKay's friends, too. He talked surfing with one of Radek's students, a wiry, tattooed woman with a punkish hairdo. McKay and one of Carol's students got into a huge hockey debate comprehensible only to those hailing from north of the 49th parallel.

"I've heard of that Gretzky guy," John said to McKay during the thick of it, just to stir things up a little.

Carol grilled him on his knowledge of Italian motorcycles, and then there was movie talk with Radek and McKay, about geeky movies John usually never admitted having watched.

The graduate students cleared out after the steaks and burgers were gone, making noises about grading papers.

At one point, he found himself in the kitchen, grazing on leftover snacks and sipping at his beer. Carol was there, standing at the sink. A frown marred her face as she stared out the window. John glanced at what she was looking at: McKay and Radek, sitting at the patio table, deep in conversation.

"Everything okay?" he asked, soft-voiced, but she jumped anyway.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I'm fine." Her expression didn't lighten.

He looked out at the two men, who sat with their backs to the ocean view. McKay's mouth had an unhappy tilt, while Radek talked, looking earnest and serious. "Did McKay used to work at the university with you and Dr. Zelenka?"

She shook her head, idly running water over the dishes in the sink. "Radek's been teaching less than a year. It's where we met," she said, a trace of a smile easing the lines of her face. "He and Rodney worked together on some government project before that."

"Government project?"

She looked over at him, her gaze sharply assessing. John smiled and tried to look harmless.

"I'm not sure what it involved," she said finally. "All very hush-hush. Radek won't talk about it."

John took a guess. "Is this project the reason McKay's sick of hospitals?"

She shut the water off and wiped her hands off on a towel. "Probably," she said with a sigh. "Whatever it was, it still gives Radek nightmares. He wakes up sometimes covered in sweat, shouting. And no, I never know what he's saying; it's all in Czech."

Outside on the deck, McKay was holding his hands up defensively, shaking his head. John took a deep breath, snagged a bowl of chips and dip and headed outside. He made sure to make lots of noise as he headed over to them.

McKay sent him a barely suppressed look of relief when he thumped the bowl down on the table. "More chips," John said brightly.

Radek shot John an odd look over his glasses, then slid his chair back. "Carol and I should be going anyway, Rodney. I'll leave you to your peace and quiet. And ocean view." He gave the last two words a strange pointed twist that sent McKay's chin up.

McKay said nothing in response, and Radek let out a worried, resigned sigh.

When Radek and Carol had left, John stood with his hands in his pockets of his jeans as McKay slumped on the couch in his living room.

"Want another beer?" John asked, figuring he could do that much for McKay before he cleared out and left the man in peace. McKay didn't answer, but John pulled a bottle out from the fridge anyway and brought it out to the living room where McKay sat with his head in his hands.

"Here." He stood over McKay, dangling the cold beer in front of him like a carrot.

The bottle almost went right to the floor when McKay's arms suddenly shot out and wound around John's midsection, gripping him so tightly he could barely breathe.

John stiffened, his mouth open to protest, when McKay spoke. "You want this, right? You want me? Please, tell me I didn't get the wrong idea," McKay said, his voice muffled against John's stomach.

McKay was strong, solid arms and need, his breath hot even through John's shirt, and he just sounded so fucking desperate. It hit something inside him, a moment of arousal or recognition or the need to have bare skin against his, after so long without. Too long with too much space around him, and wariness got old sometimes.

Whatever the hell it was, he found himself saying, "You didn't get the wrong idea," and reaching down and grabbing onto McKay. The beer bottle fell carelessly to the floor and landed unbroken. Unbroken and unnoticed, it rolled under the couch beneath them, beneath where John tasted salty skin and orgasm for the first time in what felt like fucking forever.

*

They lay tangled together afterwards, the smell of sex in the air. Their pants were hanging open, and John's shirt was pushed up and out of the way, but they were otherwise still clothed. And that right there was probably three-quarters of John's sexual experiences, which maybe skewed his basis for comparison, because it had felt damn good, quick and clumsy as it had been.

The couch wasn't large, and the tight space was arousing and awkward at the same time, filled with elbows and knees, their awareness of each other almost too intense.

"Come to bed," McKay said, when John put himself together and sat up, his eyes and thoughts already focused on the front door.

"I should go," John said, because the offer was tempting. Too tempting. He had pared down his needs ruthlessly, and the things he wanted weren't ever the things he could have. He'd accepted that, or thought he had, had gotten used to it, even the taste of second thoughts and regret.

"Stay," McKay said. His hands moved up under John's shirt, warm against the bare skin of John's waist. One hand moved to cup the nape of John's neck, pulling him down to press their lips together. It wasn't a perfect kiss; they were clumsy, their skills rusty, and something about that made John's chest hurt.

"Stay," McKay repeated. "Please." When he rose and moved toward the bedroom, John followed.

It was quiet and dark in McKay's bedroom, and John didn't say anything when McKay left the lights off. They stripped without a word, and the domesticity of sliding under the covers together felt deeply weird.

McKay seemed to sense it too, laughing nervously as they tried to fit their bodies together again. "This is ridiculous," he said when he made John yelp with a knee to a sensitive place.

"Hold still a second," John said. "Let me just--"

He tilted McKay's head to just the right angle and sealed their mouths together. It was better this time, and McKay kissed with an almost scary focus. They'd skipped over this part entirely in their rush to orgasm on the couch, and McKay seemed determined to make up for it.

In the darkness and between the sheets, they took their time with each other. The first round had taken the edge off, and now it was an easy heat that rose between them. The arousal was unhurried, spreading over John's skin.

When John's hands moved down below McKay's face and shoulders to his chest, though, the ease between them faltered. McKay was scarred there, too; John could feel it in the raised skin under his fingers and the way McKay tensed up, his hands going clumsy on John's body.

"Relax," John said, running his hands over McKay's ribs. "You're tying yourself into knots."

McKay lay still beneath the caresses for a while, passive, but then he let out a harsh sound, his muscles clenching even tighter. He was muttering under his breath, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," in a stretched-thin voice that made John think of missions gone to shit and friends lost and the times he'd needed to scream or puke or disobey orders, and--

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" John said, nowhere near casual, and hell, he thought he'd gotten over the shakes by now.

McKay shoved his face into the hollow of John's shoulder, his breathing ragged, almost gasping. John grimaced, and almost before he'd realized it, he was pulling McKay closer, his arms wrapped around McKay's back. "Easy, McKay."

John was about to say more, but McKay spoke then, in a strangled voice. "I can't. Oh, god, I'm sorry."

"It's been a while for me, too, you know," John said, deliberately misinterpreting, because one freak-out in the bed was more than enough, thank you very much. He ran a hand through McKay's hair. "You're doing just fine."

"No, I'm not. I can't," McKay said. McKay's grip on him was tight enough to hurt, but John didn't say anything. "I haven't. Ever since the, the car accident," and John could hear him stumble over the words, "I haven't..."

Been the same, John thought, but that wasn't something he'd ever say out loud.

"Haven't what? Had sex?" he asked instead, trying to make his voice sound light. "I beg to differ, my friend. I think that's what we just did. Or doesn't couch sex count?"

McKay actually laughed, and John could breathe again.

"You are so weird," McKay said with a snort, rolling off to lie on his side beside John. He left one hand on John's chest, moving his fingers through the chest hair, and the tension eased slowly from John's muscles.

"Gee, thanks," John said, a little breathless with relief.

"That's a compliment, you know," McKay said. "I like weird."

"Same here," John said, stretching lazily. "Here's a wild idea. How about we just sleep," he offered. "I'm pretty tired, myself."

The mattress was ridiculously comfortable, and John was still feeling good from his earlier orgasm. As McKay's fingers traced soothing designs on his chest, the food and beer and John's habitual early rising all caught up with him. John had started to drift off when McKay spoke.

"The scars," McKay whispered into the darkness. "I lied. They're not from a car accident."

He didn't reply for a moment, finding that still place behind his eyes by pulling air into his lungs and then letting it out. "I know," he said finally. "Go to sleep."

*

John woke groggy and confused, scrambling for his clothes as usual. He relaxed as he realized he wasn't in the cramped back of his Toyota, the air clammy and heavy with his breath, in a rush to clear out of the previous night's parking spot.

Stay too long in one spot and the cops tended to come visit, and it was kind of sad that John had already been living in his car long enough to know that in more than theory. He'd managed to talk his way out of it that time. The cop hadn't believed a word of his I'm just taking a nap story, but she'd let him go anyway.

I have a car; I have a job, damn it, he hadn't said. I don't need your fucking pity. The look in her eyes had made him want to punch something, but he'd learned that lesson only too well less than a week back from Afghanistan.

No danger of that this morning, though. He was in a real house, a real bed. McKay's bed. McKay was still asleep, sprawled on his back next to John. The sheets were pulled down to his waist, and the sunlight through the blinds painted bars of illumination on his chest. On his scars, which were bad enough to trump the ones on his back.

John looked away. He closed his eyes and pulled the covers up to his chin. McKay's sheets were thick cotton, soft under his fingers, and they felt like heaven after the slippery nylon confines of his sleeping bag. Being able to relax, to just burrow his way back down into the covers and doze, felt like some exotic luxury.

He meant to get up after a few minutes, maybe beg a quick shower, and then clear out of McKay's hair, but his doze went deeper, turning into true sleep.

The next time he woke was to arousal and warm lips low on his belly. "Yeah," he mumbled, stretching luxuriously. "Feels good."

He looked down. McKay had a serious case of bed head, his thinning hair sticking up every which way. It made John smile for no good reason, and he gave into the urge to run his fingers through it.

He raised an eyebrow when he realized that McKay had gotten dressed at some point, in a T-shirt and boxers. But he still looked like sex when he poked his head up, wet and shiny lips and flushed cheeks, no longer tensed up into knots. "Just wait," McKay said, his voice morning rough. "Not to brag, but I'm really good at this."

"You can talk the talk, McKay, but can you--oh. Oh, god, yeah, that's good." His voice went breathless and high on the last two syllables. "Fuck," he said when McKay swallowed him down.

Something slid into McKay's mouth alongside John's cock. Fingers, John realized when they wandered behind his balls, wet with saliva. "Oh, yeah," John said, giving in to the urge to spread his legs wider.

"You like 'at," McKay said, and if his words hadn't been garbled by John's cock in his mouth, he'd probably sound smug. And, yeah, the first time someone had done that to him, John had surprised himself with how much he got into it.

"Hmmm," John agreed, stifling a groan when McKay slowly pushed one finger inside him.

McKay hadn't lied: he was good at this, sliding his mouth down so far that John really hoped he wouldn't choke, pulling back to swirl his tongue over the glans.

McKay crooked the finger inside John, pulling a raw sound out of him. It had been forever since someone had played with his ass, and McKay seemed to sense it, not moving beyond the single finger and keeping his movements slow and steady.

It didn't take much of that almost painfully good feeling, suspended between McKay's finger and his hot, wet mouth, and John soon felt the shivers start in his scalp and toes. He tried to make a warning noise before he let loose in McKay's mouth, but McKay didn't let up, sucking greedily when John came with a shout.

John lay there for a few minutes, just enjoying the floaty-headed feeling of a really good orgasm. He was proud of how quickly he turned his attention to McKay, and there maybe was a part of him hoping to get McKay's clothes back off to have a little meet and greet with McKay's cock.

Except that McKay was sprawled between John's legs, his head resting on John's thigh. He looked loose-limbed and sleepy-eyed, a hand shoved down the front of his boxers, not at all flustered that he must have come in his pants.

Just then, McKay sat up, his eyes scarily bright. "So. Breakfast?"

*

John left McKay's house buzzing on afterglow and a morning-after that was only slightly awkward. McKay's blowjob was followed by a hot shower and breakfast, and John couldn't even remember the last time someone other than a short order cook had scrambled eggs for him.

Sitting in McKay's kitchen in last night's clothes, John felt almost comfortable, drinking McKay's really good coffee and watching the man himself move sleepily between the fridge and the stove and the breakfast bar where John sat.

"Do you think we could do this again?" McKay asked, not looking up from the frying pan.

The tight line of McKay's back didn't match his painfully casual tone. John put down his coffee cup and took a breath. "Sure," he said, matching McKay's tone. "You've got my cell."

When John was leaving, there was a weird moment when they couldn't seem to decide on an appropriate good-bye. McKay suddenly got all formal, reaching out for a handshake just as John was leaning in with his head tilted. They both froze for a second, and John couldn't help laughing at the stark panic that flickered over McKay's face.

"Quit laughing, you jerk," McKay said mildly, his mouth twitching, and his hand moved over to clutch at the fabric of John's shirt. "So I suck at this part." And with that, he pulled John forward and pressed their lips together.

John's good mood lasted through his visit to see Holland, where he read another few pages of War and Peace and kept thinking about McKay until he started to annoy himself. His post-orgasmic sense of well being lasted throughout his work shift, in fact. It buoyed him up through finding a good spot for the night in the parking lot of a busy all-night gym and his return to the confines of a sleeping bag.

His buzz started to fade during next morning's staff meeting, where John doodled through an excruciatingly detailed discussion of the new radio dispatch system. Two pages of doodling and an hour later and they were nowhere near done, but John was ready to exchange a kidney for some caffeine. He ended up in the break room with Vicky Cahill, awkwardly hovering over the coffee maker as they waited for a fresh pot.

"John," she said. She looked nervous, playing with her silver thumb ring.

"Yeah, what's up?" he said, watching the carafe fill. He made himself look over at her, sliding his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. "Sorry I couldn't make it to the Roost the other night," he added, going in for an easy smile.

She shot him a look that he couldn't quite decipher. "That's okay," she said, biting her lip. "John," she said again. She stopped after his name and took a deep breath.

"Vicky," he said evenly, raising an eyebrow at her.

"John, are you okay?" she asked, a tense expression on her face..

He could feel his smile going brittle. "What do you mean? Of course I'm okay," he said.

She wasn't budging, half-shaking her head. "I'm sorry to be pushy. You're kind of a loner; I get that. But I have to ask...honestly, are you okay?"

"What makes you think I'm not okay?" His tone was mild, if a little too flat.

"I go visit my uncle sometimes, up at the VA hospital," she said, holding his gaze with hers. "I saw you there once. The nurses said you're a regular. And sometimes you just get this look, like you're a thousand miles away, and it's not someplace happy, either."

He couldn't even speak and was turning towards the door, when her hand reached over, grabbing his wrist to hold him in place. His other hand shot out, but he stopped himself before he broke her hold. Something in his expression made her eyes widen, but she didn't let go.

"I've seen kinky movies that start like this," John drawled. He pointedly stared at her grip on his wrist until she released him with a flustered apology.

"I'm serious, John. You worry me."

"What business is it of yours?" he snapped, and then had to take a deep breath. "Look--"

"No, you look," she interrupted, and she looked more tired than pretty now, her face wind-burned. "I'm sorry. I'm probably messing this up; I know that. But I just wanted you to know that you're not alone. The lifeguards, we're kind of a big family here. We take care of each other. If you need anything: someone to talk to, a place to crash, hell, a ride if your car breaks down, just ask. Okay? That's all I wanted to say."

John's mouth was hanging open, until he shut it with a snap. "I can't do this," he said finally. "I'm not doing this."

Not waiting for her response, he turned and fled the room.

*

John felt off kilter all shift after that, so it was good that all he had to deal with was a case of heat exhaustion and a few jellyfish stings.

"This'll make it stop hurting," he said, holding up the spray bottle for the latest sting victim. The stricken little boy was white as a sheet but holding back his tears, almost solemn. The boy's dad wasn't nearly as calm, looking an inch away from a sobbing breakdown.

It was like that more often than not, the parents looking way worse than the kid John had just rescued. Just part of the whole parental package deal, he supposed and was kind of relieved that his own chances of reproducing were slim to none.

John sprayed the vinegar mixture onto the reddened skin of the boy's legs and tried to soothe father and son with a smile that felt distracted. "Better?"

The boy nodded. "Thanks," he said in a tiny voice, and for some reason that was when he let loose with the waterworks. The dad lifted the crying boy into a bear hug, and they wandered off on promises of ice cream and Nintendo, leaving John scratching the back of his neck.

"The wonders of chemistry." It was the sarcastic voice of McKay, turning up at John's tower again like he just couldn't stay away. That sort of thing usually made John want to change zip codes fast, but with McKay, it felt...strangely gratifying.

"It's mostly placebo effect," John said, trying not to smirk as he turned around. McKay's mouth had a self-deprecating slant, and John was trying not to think about how good he looked in his wrinkled linen shirt.

McKay met John's eyes, the tension around his mouth belying his air of bravado. "I was going to wait a few days to call. Play hard to get or something," he said. "Then I remembered that I screwed that up first thing and said to hell with it."

John laughed. "You're just the epitome of smooth, McKay." Not that John was much better; it wasn't like he'd gotten much practice actually dating guys during his Air Force days. Furtive fucks and quickie handjobs, yeah, but not so much on the dinner and a movie thing.

McKay shot him a well, duh look, shaking his head impatiently. "I know you're on the clock here, so I won't take up too much of your time. You, uh, busy this weekend?"

"I dunno, McKay," John said. "Maybe I should play hard to get."

"Absolutely not. Three words, my friend: Star Trek marathon. You were doing your Spock impression at the party, so don't tell that's not tempting."

John raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating, Dr. McKay."

"Geek, I tell you," McKay crowed, his eyes lighting up. "You're a geek in surfer's clothing."

"And Ray-Bans," John agreed, and he could feel how goofy his smile was. He couldn't help it; it'd been so long since he'd felt like playing, so long since there'd been someone he felt like playing with. "You going to have popcorn at this geek fest of yours, McKay?" he asked.

McKay rolled his eyes. "Do I need to dignify that with a response?" He looked down at the ground suddenly. "You could even, you know. Stay over. Bring a bag." When John didn't say anything, he glanced up, his eyes not quite meeting John's. "If you want."

"Hmm," John said. His Vulcan deadpan was tough to maintain without cracking up, but John managed it. "I believe your suggestion warrants further study."

Part Two