Fic: Oikos (The Optometry Remix) [Stargate: Atlantis; Sheppard/Emmagen/Dex/McKay; PG
Title: Oikos (The Optometry Remix)
Author: panisdead
Summary: The way they touch him makes Rodney nervous sometimes.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: John Sheppard/Teyla Emmagen/Ronon Dex/Rodney McKay
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: SGA does not belong to me.
Original Story: Oikos, by siriaeve
Notes: The most wonderful solvent90, kormantic, and umbo looked this over and gave helpful advice.
The leader of the Ahn Tuu is an elderly woman who reminds Rodney an awful lot of his late grandmother, right down to the smell of grain alcohol and the inability to remember his name.
"And who are they to you?" she asks Sheppard for the second time, like they hadn't done formal introductions not five minutes ago when AR-1 was first ushered into the tiny, windowless reception room. The lights are on, but everyone's down at the liquor store, Rodney thinks irritably. He leans forward, raising his voice to compensate for the Ahn Ree's probable hearing loss.
"Again, I'm Doctor Rodney McKay, and this is--"
"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard," Sheppard cuts in, hand coming down warningly on the back of Rodney's neck, "Teyla Emmagen, and this here is Ronon Dex."
"No," the Ahn Ree says again, dark eyes narrowing in agitation. She cocks her head, making her look even more like a tiny, wizened raven, "No. I say, 'who are they to you?', and you do not tell me all. How is this trust, how is this--"
There's more, but Rodney shifts his focus to his scanner, half-listening while he scrolls through data on this planet's peculiar weather patterns. They seem to be indicative of recent climatological change, but his real interest lies in the violent thunderstorm raging outside the Ahn Tuu's great hall, and the utterly fascinating non-Ancient technology keeping it at bay. He feels uncomfortably guilty for letting his attention wander--a lot is riding on striking this trade agreement with the Ahn Tuu; they can't afford to mess this up--but he's annoyed, almost angry at the pointlessness of their interview. Atlantis could do so much with the knowledge of these people, he could do so much, and the Ahn Ree wants to waste time arguing semantics. Whether or not AR-1 is some big happy family has no bearing on their ability to take this planet's technology and turn it against the Wraith.
"--trade some, work together, maybe even make some friends along the way," Sheppard's saying, but Teyla stops him with a hand on his arm. Rodney can't hear what she murmurs in Sheppard's ear, but he feels Sheppard's hand tighten and then immediately relax where he's still gripping Rodney's collar.
"Look, I--they're my team," Sheppard says, too loudly.
Rodney grimaces, embarrassed for Sheppard and for himself, in the presence of Sheppard's attempt to express emotion. It's a platitude, meaningless, the sort of thing people say when they can't come up with anything better and are hoping no one will notice. The Ahn Ree seems to like it, though, thank you, finally, so Rodney joins the others in making their bows and fingersnaps and other meaningless alien religious-slash-trade-ritual gestures, and then AR-1 gets the hell out, falling neatly into line as they file out into the high-ceilinged chamber to sign trade agreements.
It's a relief after the cramped, close reception room. Rodney rolls his shoulders gratefully, working the kinks out. He bumps into Ronon, who's doing the same over next to the window, and Rodney spares a moment to exchange pleased smirks with him, threads of pride beginning to mingle with his impatience to be let at the Ahn Tuu's tech labs. They've crafted a remarkably beneficial agreement for Atlantis here; there's time to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. Sheppard might be somewhat fatuous, after all, but he isn't wrong. They do work well together.
**********************
The way they touch him makes Rodney nervous sometimes. Ronon likes to shoulder his way into the mess line behind him at meals, wrap both arms around Rodney from behind, and squeeze, half lifting him off his feet with his neck squashed uncomfortably into the crook of Ronon's elbow.
Teyla's less violent about it, but Rodney still twitches uneasily every time she smooths a firm hand along his arm in passing, or brushes the hair at his nape when he drops into the seat next to her at briefings.
The first time Sheppard slides his hand down from Rodney's shoulder to the bare skin just above the waistband of his pants, Rodney jumps so hard he drops a pair of needle-nose pliers into his coffee mug.
"Sorry," Sheppard says, rolling his eyes while he fishes tissues out of his pockets to mop the puddle off the lab bench.
"Whatever," Rodney mutters, weirded out. It's not actionable, really, and Sheppard would have to do a lot more than touch the small of his back before Rodney would even consider filing a complaint, but it's unusual workplace behavior.
He's edgy around Sheppard after that, uncertain of the boundaries, until the next time he hurries into the ready room in time to see Sheppard growling as Ronon yanks his shirt up and slaps Sheppard on his bare, hairy belly.
"0600 on the west pier tomorrow, I'll show you who's getting old," Sheppard says, then whacks Ronon hard on the ass, which is indisputably inappropriate. Paradoxically, it makes Rodney feel more at ease; Sheppard, Ronon, and Teyla are all considerably handsier than he's come to expect from coworkers, but he isn't actually offended by their behavior as long as they keep it above his belt and out of the labs. He doesn't want Radek to get any ideas.
**********************
When he thinks about it, which isn't very often, Rodney likes living in a closed community. It cuts down on his chances for meeting suitable dates, sure, since a high percentage of the eligible women on Atlantis are under his employ, but socialization outside of work has never been terribly high on his list of priorities, and some small loss of potential romance is worth the trade-off of having fixed information regarding propriety and his status in the complicated web of professional relationships. He mostly doesn't mind his own company, the intellectual opportunities in Pegasus are amazing, if frequently life-threatening, and he's surrounded by motivated people who can't help but appreciate his prodigious abilities. It's the best job he's ever had.
It doesn't usually occur to Rodney to feel lonely.
**********************
It's two o'clock on a Wednesday--five minutes after Rodney's bi-weekly research proposal discussion had come to a screeching halt when Zelenka slapped his hands down on the table, shouted, "Why do I bother," and stormed out of the room--when Rodney's headset chirps.
"Rodney, we are expecting you," Teyla's voice says in his ear.
"What? Am I supposed to be somewhere?" Rodney asks distractedly. His laptop bleeps insistently as email pops into his inbox; he doesn't even need to click to know it's from Zelenka, since the subject line is YOU ARE A POMPOUS ASS.
"Second floor balcony, south side of Pier C, bring the Doritos," Ronon breaks in, startling Rodney into the present. Ronon dislikes the headsets--he doesn't like to be easily located--and avoids using them whenever possible; it must be a junk food emergency.
Rodney stares blankly at his computer screen for another moment, debating internally as a faint memory of Sheppard lacing his fingers together and saying, "There's no I in 'team,' but there's a couple of O's in 'cookies,'" surfaces. The thought of cutting out of work in the middle of the day to laze around in the sun eating refined sugar makes him uncomfortable. In truth, nothing he has planned for this afternoon is especially pressing, but he doesn't care for Sheppard and the others to know that.
Sheppard's voice comes over the headset after a moment of awkward silence. "I can make it an order, McKay." He sounds tired, and Rodney feels weirdly guilty all of a sudden.
"Well, I. I suppose I can rearrange my schedule for the afternoon," he says almost diffidently, closing his laptop and heading for the door. "I'll just run through the priorities for the rest of the day with Zelenka and meet you in five minutes, then?"
"Five minutes," Teyla agrees.
"Doritos," Ronon says insistently in his ear. Rodney flips his headset off and heads for his room. He has no intention of speaking with Zelenka, but he knows better than to show up without the chips.
When Rodney steps through the frosted glass doors onto the balcony, though, he finds Ronon asleep, head pillowed on Teyla's thigh, sunlight striping the long, smooth lines of his bare torso. Teyla looks drowsy herself, eyes half-closed as she leans into Sheppard, copper and bronze hair brushing his shoulder. Sheppard--Sheppard just looks content.
It's a startlingly cozy scene, and stepping into it unawares makes Rodney feel like an intruder, crass and desperately uncomfortable. He can't possibly plop down in the middle of Sheppard's little half-naked alien puppy pile, just snuggle in and rub Ronon's belly like it's normal. He takes a step backward, intending to flee to the labs, Zelenka be damned, when Sheppard looks up, alerted by the sudden crinkling of plastic as Rodney's hands clench nervously around the bag of chips.
"It's about time," Sheppard says, tipping his head back against the wall and eying Rodney as he fidgets.
"Yes, sorry," Rodney blurts, shifting from foot to foot. "Not that I don't enjoy our little get-togethers, but I was thinking it might be better if--that is, I was looking over the most recent power distribution readings and some of the findings are really quite pressing, and I--"
"Siddown," Sheppard says, hooking a hand around Rodney's ankle. He tugs sharply and Rodney drops to the ground with an oof as his foot slides abruptly out from under him.
"Ow," he says, glaring at Sheppard, who stares back at him with an unreadable expression. Out of the corner of his eye Rodney sees Ronon's eyelids flicker briefly, sees him sink back into sleep as Teyla strokes his hair. Sheppard just stares at him, eyes clear, a little furrow between his unruly brows.
Sweat prickles on Rodney's upper lip and along the back of his neck despite the soft ocean breeze. The moment stretches uncomfortably. Sheppard breaks it, suddenly twisting and reaching to produce a cold, dripping bottle out of nowhere.
"Teyla saved you a beer," he says, and just like that the odd tension is gone.
"Oh, well, thank you," Rodney says, pleased, even though it's Molson's. He uncaps it and takes a swig, managing to hide most of his grimace. He still feels awkward, out of place and unmoored among what should be the most familiar of landmarks, but it's gorgeous out and the bottle's pleasantly chilly in his hand, the sun warm on his face, so he eases himself back against the wall and manages to only jump a little when Sheppard runs his cold hand down Rodney's thigh in some bizarre gesture of approval.
Handsy, Rodney reminds himself when Sheppard's palm curves over his kneecap and stays there, fingertips just barely brushing his shin. Unusual, but not unpleasant. They're in the goddamn Pegasus galaxy facing death at every turn; it's entirely possible the employee code of conduct needs a few modifications. If the others want to put their hands on him once in a while for the sake of improved team integration and function, he can adapt. He's an adaptable guy.
Cautious yet determined, Rodney shifts carefully sideways until his upper arm nudges against the warmth of Sheppard's. When nothing happens other than a faint scritch of Sheppard's fingers on his knee, he leans in a little more and resolutely closes his eyes.
**********************
It's not until AR-1's actually standing in one of the suites on the lower west side of Pier B that the penny drops for Rodney. The late afternoon sunlight streams in through the high, arched windows, warming the walls and the floor and the strange little diamond-shaped alcoves that one of the anthropologists is convinced were designed for terrariums. There'd been Salisbury steak at lunch, and Rodney's full and oddly relaxed for four o'clock on a Thursday, which might have something to do with why he spreads his arms out and spins slowly in a circle, smiling up at the gently curving ceiling.
"I have to say, I wouldn't mind living here," he says to nobody in particular.
The silence that greets his remark is unusual enough to catch his attention. Rodney straightens up to find Teyla and Ronon unusually tense and Sheppard unusually aggressively relaxed. Their gazes flick back and forth between him and each other with considerably more weight than seems warranted by a simple comment on the real estate.
"What?" he demands.
Sheppard slouches even further down the wall he's leaning against and cocks his head. "So, you like it?"
Rodney stares at him. "Didn't I just say that?"
"Nice and roomy, isn't it. Lots of--" Sheppard gestures aimlessly, "--space."
"Yes," Rodney says, feeling increasingly annoyed and off-kilter; he's missing something, something big, and he hates that. "Enough room for an army, never lack for closet space again, what are you getting at?"
"We were kinda thinking...." Even more agitating, Sheppard trails off, eyes cast down, and scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably.
Rodney's drawing breath to throw a fit, the likes of which these poor wretches have never even imagined, when Ronon drapes an arm around Teyla and raises an eyebrow at him. "So, you wanna?"
"Do I wanna what?" Rodney grits out. Ten more seconds of this and he's going to kill someone.
Teyla smirks at him, bright and mocking, nothing like the way she smiles at people outside the team. "Live here, Rodney. With us."
It isn't so much like having the scales fall from his eyes as like a visit to the optometrist, Rodney thinks, feeling his breath catch in his chest. His knees are surprisingly unsteady as he takes in Ronon's hopeful expression and the flush spreading gently down Sheppard's throat. Rodney's mind shows him a rapid-fire slide show of memories from the past four years, carefully preserved snapshots of Ronon's smiles, Teyla's careful touches, John's clear eyes and wandering hands. He'd thought he was simply expanding his definitions, letting his boundaries slip wider to accommodate his circumstances, but the slow, sweet rush of warmth in his belly tells him that all along he'd been missing the point. Slot a different lens into place, and suddenly the whole picture comes clear.
"Oh," Rodney says wonderingly, joyfully. "Oh."
END
Author: panisdead
Summary: The way they touch him makes Rodney nervous sometimes.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: John Sheppard/Teyla Emmagen/Ronon Dex/Rodney McKay
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: SGA does not belong to me.
Original Story: Oikos, by siriaeve
Notes: The most wonderful solvent90, kormantic, and umbo looked this over and gave helpful advice.
The leader of the Ahn Tuu is an elderly woman who reminds Rodney an awful lot of his late grandmother, right down to the smell of grain alcohol and the inability to remember his name.
"And who are they to you?" she asks Sheppard for the second time, like they hadn't done formal introductions not five minutes ago when AR-1 was first ushered into the tiny, windowless reception room. The lights are on, but everyone's down at the liquor store, Rodney thinks irritably. He leans forward, raising his voice to compensate for the Ahn Ree's probable hearing loss.
"Again, I'm Doctor Rodney McKay, and this is--"
"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard," Sheppard cuts in, hand coming down warningly on the back of Rodney's neck, "Teyla Emmagen, and this here is Ronon Dex."
"No," the Ahn Ree says again, dark eyes narrowing in agitation. She cocks her head, making her look even more like a tiny, wizened raven, "No. I say, 'who are they to you?', and you do not tell me all. How is this trust, how is this--"
There's more, but Rodney shifts his focus to his scanner, half-listening while he scrolls through data on this planet's peculiar weather patterns. They seem to be indicative of recent climatological change, but his real interest lies in the violent thunderstorm raging outside the Ahn Tuu's great hall, and the utterly fascinating non-Ancient technology keeping it at bay. He feels uncomfortably guilty for letting his attention wander--a lot is riding on striking this trade agreement with the Ahn Tuu; they can't afford to mess this up--but he's annoyed, almost angry at the pointlessness of their interview. Atlantis could do so much with the knowledge of these people, he could do so much, and the Ahn Ree wants to waste time arguing semantics. Whether or not AR-1 is some big happy family has no bearing on their ability to take this planet's technology and turn it against the Wraith.
"--trade some, work together, maybe even make some friends along the way," Sheppard's saying, but Teyla stops him with a hand on his arm. Rodney can't hear what she murmurs in Sheppard's ear, but he feels Sheppard's hand tighten and then immediately relax where he's still gripping Rodney's collar.
"Look, I--they're my team," Sheppard says, too loudly.
Rodney grimaces, embarrassed for Sheppard and for himself, in the presence of Sheppard's attempt to express emotion. It's a platitude, meaningless, the sort of thing people say when they can't come up with anything better and are hoping no one will notice. The Ahn Ree seems to like it, though, thank you, finally, so Rodney joins the others in making their bows and fingersnaps and other meaningless alien religious-slash-trade-ritual gestures, and then AR-1 gets the hell out, falling neatly into line as they file out into the high-ceilinged chamber to sign trade agreements.
It's a relief after the cramped, close reception room. Rodney rolls his shoulders gratefully, working the kinks out. He bumps into Ronon, who's doing the same over next to the window, and Rodney spares a moment to exchange pleased smirks with him, threads of pride beginning to mingle with his impatience to be let at the Ahn Tuu's tech labs. They've crafted a remarkably beneficial agreement for Atlantis here; there's time to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. Sheppard might be somewhat fatuous, after all, but he isn't wrong. They do work well together.
**********************
The way they touch him makes Rodney nervous sometimes. Ronon likes to shoulder his way into the mess line behind him at meals, wrap both arms around Rodney from behind, and squeeze, half lifting him off his feet with his neck squashed uncomfortably into the crook of Ronon's elbow.
Teyla's less violent about it, but Rodney still twitches uneasily every time she smooths a firm hand along his arm in passing, or brushes the hair at his nape when he drops into the seat next to her at briefings.
The first time Sheppard slides his hand down from Rodney's shoulder to the bare skin just above the waistband of his pants, Rodney jumps so hard he drops a pair of needle-nose pliers into his coffee mug.
"Sorry," Sheppard says, rolling his eyes while he fishes tissues out of his pockets to mop the puddle off the lab bench.
"Whatever," Rodney mutters, weirded out. It's not actionable, really, and Sheppard would have to do a lot more than touch the small of his back before Rodney would even consider filing a complaint, but it's unusual workplace behavior.
He's edgy around Sheppard after that, uncertain of the boundaries, until the next time he hurries into the ready room in time to see Sheppard growling as Ronon yanks his shirt up and slaps Sheppard on his bare, hairy belly.
"0600 on the west pier tomorrow, I'll show you who's getting old," Sheppard says, then whacks Ronon hard on the ass, which is indisputably inappropriate. Paradoxically, it makes Rodney feel more at ease; Sheppard, Ronon, and Teyla are all considerably handsier than he's come to expect from coworkers, but he isn't actually offended by their behavior as long as they keep it above his belt and out of the labs. He doesn't want Radek to get any ideas.
**********************
When he thinks about it, which isn't very often, Rodney likes living in a closed community. It cuts down on his chances for meeting suitable dates, sure, since a high percentage of the eligible women on Atlantis are under his employ, but socialization outside of work has never been terribly high on his list of priorities, and some small loss of potential romance is worth the trade-off of having fixed information regarding propriety and his status in the complicated web of professional relationships. He mostly doesn't mind his own company, the intellectual opportunities in Pegasus are amazing, if frequently life-threatening, and he's surrounded by motivated people who can't help but appreciate his prodigious abilities. It's the best job he's ever had.
It doesn't usually occur to Rodney to feel lonely.
**********************
It's two o'clock on a Wednesday--five minutes after Rodney's bi-weekly research proposal discussion had come to a screeching halt when Zelenka slapped his hands down on the table, shouted, "Why do I bother," and stormed out of the room--when Rodney's headset chirps.
"Rodney, we are expecting you," Teyla's voice says in his ear.
"What? Am I supposed to be somewhere?" Rodney asks distractedly. His laptop bleeps insistently as email pops into his inbox; he doesn't even need to click to know it's from Zelenka, since the subject line is YOU ARE A POMPOUS ASS.
"Second floor balcony, south side of Pier C, bring the Doritos," Ronon breaks in, startling Rodney into the present. Ronon dislikes the headsets--he doesn't like to be easily located--and avoids using them whenever possible; it must be a junk food emergency.
Rodney stares blankly at his computer screen for another moment, debating internally as a faint memory of Sheppard lacing his fingers together and saying, "There's no I in 'team,' but there's a couple of O's in 'cookies,'" surfaces. The thought of cutting out of work in the middle of the day to laze around in the sun eating refined sugar makes him uncomfortable. In truth, nothing he has planned for this afternoon is especially pressing, but he doesn't care for Sheppard and the others to know that.
Sheppard's voice comes over the headset after a moment of awkward silence. "I can make it an order, McKay." He sounds tired, and Rodney feels weirdly guilty all of a sudden.
"Well, I. I suppose I can rearrange my schedule for the afternoon," he says almost diffidently, closing his laptop and heading for the door. "I'll just run through the priorities for the rest of the day with Zelenka and meet you in five minutes, then?"
"Five minutes," Teyla agrees.
"Doritos," Ronon says insistently in his ear. Rodney flips his headset off and heads for his room. He has no intention of speaking with Zelenka, but he knows better than to show up without the chips.
When Rodney steps through the frosted glass doors onto the balcony, though, he finds Ronon asleep, head pillowed on Teyla's thigh, sunlight striping the long, smooth lines of his bare torso. Teyla looks drowsy herself, eyes half-closed as she leans into Sheppard, copper and bronze hair brushing his shoulder. Sheppard--Sheppard just looks content.
It's a startlingly cozy scene, and stepping into it unawares makes Rodney feel like an intruder, crass and desperately uncomfortable. He can't possibly plop down in the middle of Sheppard's little half-naked alien puppy pile, just snuggle in and rub Ronon's belly like it's normal. He takes a step backward, intending to flee to the labs, Zelenka be damned, when Sheppard looks up, alerted by the sudden crinkling of plastic as Rodney's hands clench nervously around the bag of chips.
"It's about time," Sheppard says, tipping his head back against the wall and eying Rodney as he fidgets.
"Yes, sorry," Rodney blurts, shifting from foot to foot. "Not that I don't enjoy our little get-togethers, but I was thinking it might be better if--that is, I was looking over the most recent power distribution readings and some of the findings are really quite pressing, and I--"
"Siddown," Sheppard says, hooking a hand around Rodney's ankle. He tugs sharply and Rodney drops to the ground with an oof as his foot slides abruptly out from under him.
"Ow," he says, glaring at Sheppard, who stares back at him with an unreadable expression. Out of the corner of his eye Rodney sees Ronon's eyelids flicker briefly, sees him sink back into sleep as Teyla strokes his hair. Sheppard just stares at him, eyes clear, a little furrow between his unruly brows.
Sweat prickles on Rodney's upper lip and along the back of his neck despite the soft ocean breeze. The moment stretches uncomfortably. Sheppard breaks it, suddenly twisting and reaching to produce a cold, dripping bottle out of nowhere.
"Teyla saved you a beer," he says, and just like that the odd tension is gone.
"Oh, well, thank you," Rodney says, pleased, even though it's Molson's. He uncaps it and takes a swig, managing to hide most of his grimace. He still feels awkward, out of place and unmoored among what should be the most familiar of landmarks, but it's gorgeous out and the bottle's pleasantly chilly in his hand, the sun warm on his face, so he eases himself back against the wall and manages to only jump a little when Sheppard runs his cold hand down Rodney's thigh in some bizarre gesture of approval.
Handsy, Rodney reminds himself when Sheppard's palm curves over his kneecap and stays there, fingertips just barely brushing his shin. Unusual, but not unpleasant. They're in the goddamn Pegasus galaxy facing death at every turn; it's entirely possible the employee code of conduct needs a few modifications. If the others want to put their hands on him once in a while for the sake of improved team integration and function, he can adapt. He's an adaptable guy.
Cautious yet determined, Rodney shifts carefully sideways until his upper arm nudges against the warmth of Sheppard's. When nothing happens other than a faint scritch of Sheppard's fingers on his knee, he leans in a little more and resolutely closes his eyes.
**********************
It's not until AR-1's actually standing in one of the suites on the lower west side of Pier B that the penny drops for Rodney. The late afternoon sunlight streams in through the high, arched windows, warming the walls and the floor and the strange little diamond-shaped alcoves that one of the anthropologists is convinced were designed for terrariums. There'd been Salisbury steak at lunch, and Rodney's full and oddly relaxed for four o'clock on a Thursday, which might have something to do with why he spreads his arms out and spins slowly in a circle, smiling up at the gently curving ceiling.
"I have to say, I wouldn't mind living here," he says to nobody in particular.
The silence that greets his remark is unusual enough to catch his attention. Rodney straightens up to find Teyla and Ronon unusually tense and Sheppard unusually aggressively relaxed. Their gazes flick back and forth between him and each other with considerably more weight than seems warranted by a simple comment on the real estate.
"What?" he demands.
Sheppard slouches even further down the wall he's leaning against and cocks his head. "So, you like it?"
Rodney stares at him. "Didn't I just say that?"
"Nice and roomy, isn't it. Lots of--" Sheppard gestures aimlessly, "--space."
"Yes," Rodney says, feeling increasingly annoyed and off-kilter; he's missing something, something big, and he hates that. "Enough room for an army, never lack for closet space again, what are you getting at?"
"We were kinda thinking...." Even more agitating, Sheppard trails off, eyes cast down, and scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably.
Rodney's drawing breath to throw a fit, the likes of which these poor wretches have never even imagined, when Ronon drapes an arm around Teyla and raises an eyebrow at him. "So, you wanna?"
"Do I wanna what?" Rodney grits out. Ten more seconds of this and he's going to kill someone.
Teyla smirks at him, bright and mocking, nothing like the way she smiles at people outside the team. "Live here, Rodney. With us."
It isn't so much like having the scales fall from his eyes as like a visit to the optometrist, Rodney thinks, feeling his breath catch in his chest. His knees are surprisingly unsteady as he takes in Ronon's hopeful expression and the flush spreading gently down Sheppard's throat. Rodney's mind shows him a rapid-fire slide show of memories from the past four years, carefully preserved snapshots of Ronon's smiles, Teyla's careful touches, John's clear eyes and wandering hands. He'd thought he was simply expanding his definitions, letting his boundaries slip wider to accommodate his circumstances, but the slow, sweet rush of warmth in his belly tells him that all along he'd been missing the point. Slot a different lens into place, and suddenly the whole picture comes clear.
"Oh," Rodney says wonderingly, joyfully. "Oh."
END