Second Chances by Zoë Rayne (Harlequin challenge)
Title: Second Chances
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Rising 1 & 2
Challenge: sga_flashfic - Harlequin challenge
Summary: When John Sheppard was eighteen, he fell in love.
Second Chances
by Zoë Rayne
May 1986
Nerves had had John up at 0430, which had been hours before they'd had to head out to the airport, so by the time he'd hit Washington D.C. and the two-hour layover, it had already been a pretty long day. He'd smiled at the stewardess-a middle-aged bleach-blonde with the unlikely name of Cyndi, according to her nametag-and she'd said he could stay on the plane and nap. He was still dozing, slouched in his seat with his legs stretched out in front of him, when passengers started boarding for the final leg of the flight.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, d'you mind?"
John looked up to see a guy standing in the aisle and looking impatiently down at him. He didn't look like someone who belonged in first class; he obviously hadn't shaved in a couple of days, his jeans were ragged, with the knees ripped out, and his tee-shirt had "gimme head 'til I'm dead" emblazoned across the front, next to a cartoon image of a foam-topped mug of beer. Somehow John didn't think it was really a request for a lifetime supply of draft Coors.
John shifted back in his seat, moving his feet out of the way. "Sorry," he said as the guy slid past and dropped into the window seat, then rummaged around in his backpack for a minute before pulling out a pack of Marlboros and tapping it against his palm.
"You got a light?"
John shook his head. "Sorry," he said again.
Shrugging, the guy pushed the stewardess call button. When Cyndi showed up, John wondered for a second if she'd take one look and ask to see a ticket to confirm the guy's seat assignment, but she handed over a book of matches with a smile and a reminder that the no-smoking sign was still lit.
The guy rolled both the pack and the matches up in the sleeve of his tee-shirt. "And a Molson's, if you've got it," he said, giving her a crooked grin. Apparently Cyndi was a really soft touch, because she was back a minute later with a bottle, even though John was pretty sure the guy wasn't any older than he was and therefore at least a couple of years short of being able to drink legally.
As the rest of the passengers filed past, John tried surreptitiously to check his neighbor out. The almost-beard was pure Sonny Crockett, though this guy was light years hotter than Don Johnson. His sandy brown hair was messy, but the kind of artfully messy that John knew took a lot of time and hair gel. He'd tried it once or twice himself, until his father had given him a disapproving look.
The guy took a drink of his beer and, without taking his eyes off the window, said, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
John could feel the flush creeping up his face. "Sorry."
The guy made a sound that was almost a laugh. "So," he said, turning to look at John, his eyebrows raised, "is that the entirety of your vocabulary, or do you belong to some bizarre order of monks who take a vow of semi-silence and can only speak in apologies?"
John bit back another 'sorry' and held out his hand instead. "Um, neither," he said. "I'm still half asleep, I think. I'm John."
"Rod," the guy said, leaning back in his seat and ignoring John's hand. John tried not to take it personally.
He'd pulled the little safety card out of the seat pocket in front of him and was reading all about the emergency evacuation procedures on an Airbus A300 when Rod said, "Don't worry, it's safe. You're far more likely to die horribly in a car accident a mile from home than you are to crash in an airplane," and it was John's turn to laugh.
"I've been up in an F-15," he said, grinning at Rod. "This is nothing." At Rod's raised eyebrows, he continued, "My dad's in the Air Force; he took me up with him a couple of times."
For the first time since he'd sat down, Rod looked intrigued. "What's it like?" he asked.
It was like freedom and being high and the best orgasm ever, all rolled into one, but there was no way John was telling him that. "Fast," he said. "Really, really fast."
Once they were in the air, Rod brought out the pack of Marlboros again and lit one up, watching out the window and drinking his beer.
"They never put any interesting articles in those," he said as John flipped idly through the in-flight magazine. "Obviously it's because they've got a captive audience, so they really don't have to. Still, I'd like to see a comprehensive profile of the Mile High Club."
John looked over at him, surprised, and he grinned back, then took what had to be an intentionally suggestive drink from the bottle, his gaze never leaving John's face.
John licked his lips.
Rod ground the cigarette out in the ashtray, drank the last swallow of his beer, and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Excuse me," he said, still watching John. "Lavatory."
As he slid past, John watched him, his brain buzzing along faster than his dad's F-15. He was pretty sure that was a proposition, but he was also pretty sure it'd be crazy to follow a guy he'd just met into an airplane bathroom for the express purpose of having sex. God, it was also just about the hottest thing he could think of.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and followed.
Rod was waiting for him when he slipped through the door, pinning him back against it and kissing him, wet and sloppy and sexy, and John hadn't expected that. Then again, everything about Rod was unexpected, from the way his mouth tasted like mint instead of cigarettes and beer to the way he dropped to his knees and started working urgently at John's zipper.
John leaned back and braced his legs, his dick achingly hard already, and then Rod managed to get his fly open and it was way, way better than Mach 2.
When it was his turn to reciprocate, shoving Rod back against the door and unbuttoning his jeans, John was so high on endorphins that he didn't really think about it; he'd sucked cock a couple of times before, and while he was sure he wasn't anywhere near as good at it as Rod was, he was good enough.
And after they'd both pulled themselves together again, zippers zipped and buttons buttoned, Rod leaned forward and kissed John again, this time slow and sweet, then turned and slipped out into the main cabin of the plane.
John closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool, textured plastic; he counted to a hundred, letting his pulse slow down again.
Maybe it should have been awkward, going back to his seat and sitting down next to the guy he'd just blown in a public lavatory, but Rod had grinned crookedly at him when he sat down, had waved Cyndi over and ordered a Molson's for each of them, and they'd spent the rest of the flight talking about John's plans to attend the Air Force Academy in the fall and Rod's choices between a Ph.D. program and a job with the US government, and it wasn't awkward at all.
May 2004
Things had finally settled down-at least as settled as they were going to get in the Pegasus Galaxy, John was guessing-and he'd collapsed onto the narrow bed in his assigned quarters, not even bothering to do more than take off his vest and jacket and kick his boots into the corner.
The knock on his door was unexpected; he'd thought everyone else would be equally exhausted and busily collapsing in their own quarters, but apparently not. Without opening his eyes, he called out, "Come in," and heard the doors slide open with a quiet hydraulic hiss.
"Major." It was McKay. Why was John not surprised that McKay was still up and roaming the city.
John opened his eyes. McKay was standing just inside the doorway, his back to the closed doors and as far away from John as he could get without actually being outside the room, and that made John frown. There was obviously something wrong, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. It wasn't something he wanted to deal with, not from the science team, but he took a deep breath and said, "Pull up a piece of mattress and have a seat, Dr. McKay. What can I do for you?"
McKay shook his head and didn't move any closer. "I'm.... This is really not something I'm good at, Major," he said quickly, "but I think it's got to be done if we're going to work together." He stopped then, like he wasn't quite sure what to say next, and now John was completely confused, because unless McKay thought John was likely to shoot him for his job-and that was just stupid, so definitely not a thought McKay would ever entertain-something wasn't adding up here.
"Spit it out," he prompted. "Whatever it is, it can't be any worse than what I've heard whispered by every marine in the city in the last few hours."
That left McKay looking a little shocked, and John wondered if he really hadn't thought about the military contingent's reaction to John's mercy killing of Sumner. Well, if this wasn't about that, then John was at a loss.
"You really don't remember, do you?" McKay said, and John couldn't be sure whether that was disbelief or disappointment in McKay's voice. "Well, I suppose it probably wasn't particularly memorable, not for someone like you. I mean, just one of dozens...not to imply, of course, that you're...." He trailed off, shifting awkwardly.
John sighed. "I'm really tired. Any chance of you starting to make sense in the near future? If not, I'd really like some sleep now. You're welcome to come back and be confusing at me again in the morning, though."
He'd started to close his eyes when McKay blurted out, "The Mile High Club?"
The words made him freeze, because yeah, he remembered that. He was pretty sure it wasn't actually possible to forget a blowjob that good, and wait, that had been McKay? And now he was totally awake, every sense sharpened by the adrenaline spike. "That was.... Rod?"
McKay winced. "Please," he said. "Rodney. I was- Well, I was going through an unfortunate rebellious stage at the time." When it became clear that John wasn't going to say anything, he continued, "I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have brought it up, but I just thought that if we were going to be working together.... Obviously, it was a bad idea."
He'd turned back to the door before John managed to pull his thoughts together enough to say, "No, wait. I'm sorry. Give me a second to wrap my brain around this, okay?"
McKay stopped, but didn't turn around.
John took a deep breath. "McKay...." He paused, then tried again, "Rodney."
This time McKay turned, his expression impossible to read. "Really, Major, it's okay. I just thought we should clear the air." He laughed mirthlessly. "I didn't want things to get weird."
From John's very first days at the Academy, it had been the easiest thing ever to play it straight, to not even look twice at the guys around him. It had been easy because he'd already been in love with someone, in love with a guy he'd spent just two hours with while on a flight from D.C. to Toronto. A guy whose last name he hadn't even known.
"No, it's cool," John said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He had to work hard to resist the urge to grin. "More than cool. Sit down, will you? You're making me nervous, hovering like that."
McKay looked like he wasn't entirely sure whether to trust John's sudden about-face from I'm tired, go away to pull up a chair and stay a while, but he sat down anyway, leaving a good foot of space between John and himself.
John's brain was going Mach 10. He'd spent enough time with McKay to know that he was going to have to tread carefully. He figured he'd start slowly, test the waters a little. After all, nothing McKay said had suggested that he was interested in continuing what they'd started eighteen years ago. Hell, for all John knew, McKay hadn't even thought twice about him in the intervening years.
"So," he said, trying to keep his tone casual, "you didn't manage to resist the lure of the Ph.D., huh?"
"No, no, not exactly. I, uh, I actually failed to resist a couple of times." McKay was looking at him like he was insane. He probably was. After all, what kind of nutjob thought they could pick up where they left off after what was essentially a one-night-stand from nearly two decades ago?
The John Sheppard kind of nutjob, apparently. "Northwestern? Or did you change your mind?"
McKay blinked at him. "I can't believe you remember that," he said, and John could see him starting to relax. "Yeah, Ph.D. in Astrophysics from Northwestern. The professors were marginally less stupid there than elsewhere. And what about you? Major John Sheppard, US Air Force. You obviously didn't wash out of flight school."
Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "No, I did okay." It was mostly true. He had done okay, for a while at least, until his friends were dying and it had all gone to hell.
And you know what? Fuck it. He couldn't even count the number of times their lives had been in danger since they stepped through the wormhole into the Pegasus Galaxy, and he didn't see the situation getting better anytime soon. Starting slowly and testing the waters would be great, if he had a life expectancy greater than that of your average housefly, but he didn't.
"Rodney, would you think I was crazy if I said that right now I really want to kiss you?"
McKay's eyes widened. "Probably," he said slowly, "but crazy's not really a problem for me, under these particular circumstances."
He still tasted like mint, still kissed wet and sloppy and sexy, and still made John's dick achingly hard.
"Fair warning," John said against his mouth as he traced the outline of McKay's erection with eager fingertips, "I'm probably not any better than I was the last time. I haven't had a lot of practice since then."
"In other words, you're planning to make me come so hard that I can't think straight for weeks?" McKay said breathlessly, arching up against John's hand. "I think I can live with that."
John took it slow, because for the moment they had the luxury of time and he had enough regrets in life without adding this to the list. He mapped McKay's body with his hands and his mouth, touching and tasting until there wasn't a square inch of skin he didn't know intimately, supplementing his memories with the sight and sound of McKay's pleasure.
And when McKay rolled them over and pinned John to the bed in return, his mouth was as good as John remembered, all slow, wet heat and teasing touches that left John begging. But McKay kept him there, on the brink of completion, until John thought that he couldn't possibly stand one more feather-light touch or whisper of breath on his skin, until all it took was one firm stroke and John was shattering.
"So," John said eventually, his head resting on McKay's shoulder. "'Gimme head 'til I'm dead'?"
McKay groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I? I was eighteen; I'm sure not all of the life choices you made at eighteen were brilliant, either."
"Let's see," John said thoughtfully. "When I was eighteen, I fell in love at thirty thousand feet and didn't even think to ask his last name." He wrapped his arm tighter around McKay's waist. "It's always been my biggest regret."
"I had something like that happen to me once," McKay said, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on John's back. "But I got a second chance."
fait accompli
Young Rodney and John:
A/N: I started this on the plane on the way home from VividCon, then realized (on Friday *koff*) that it would fit the Harlequin challenge, so there was much panicking and staying up late to get it finished in time. Many, many thanks to libitina, who is my research goddess, and to casspeach for poking me to get in done. Rod's tee-shirt is one I remember seeing worn by a guy at Disneyland when I was 11-ish; it took me about fifteen minutes to figure it out, and I've never forgotten it. *g*
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were...well, let's just say they wouldn't have much time for missions.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Rising 1 & 2
Challenge: sga_flashfic - Harlequin challenge
Summary: When John Sheppard was eighteen, he fell in love.
Second Chances
by Zoë Rayne
May 1986
Nerves had had John up at 0430, which had been hours before they'd had to head out to the airport, so by the time he'd hit Washington D.C. and the two-hour layover, it had already been a pretty long day. He'd smiled at the stewardess-a middle-aged bleach-blonde with the unlikely name of Cyndi, according to her nametag-and she'd said he could stay on the plane and nap. He was still dozing, slouched in his seat with his legs stretched out in front of him, when passengers started boarding for the final leg of the flight.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, d'you mind?"
John looked up to see a guy standing in the aisle and looking impatiently down at him. He didn't look like someone who belonged in first class; he obviously hadn't shaved in a couple of days, his jeans were ragged, with the knees ripped out, and his tee-shirt had "gimme head 'til I'm dead" emblazoned across the front, next to a cartoon image of a foam-topped mug of beer. Somehow John didn't think it was really a request for a lifetime supply of draft Coors.
John shifted back in his seat, moving his feet out of the way. "Sorry," he said as the guy slid past and dropped into the window seat, then rummaged around in his backpack for a minute before pulling out a pack of Marlboros and tapping it against his palm.
"You got a light?"
John shook his head. "Sorry," he said again.
Shrugging, the guy pushed the stewardess call button. When Cyndi showed up, John wondered for a second if she'd take one look and ask to see a ticket to confirm the guy's seat assignment, but she handed over a book of matches with a smile and a reminder that the no-smoking sign was still lit.
The guy rolled both the pack and the matches up in the sleeve of his tee-shirt. "And a Molson's, if you've got it," he said, giving her a crooked grin. Apparently Cyndi was a really soft touch, because she was back a minute later with a bottle, even though John was pretty sure the guy wasn't any older than he was and therefore at least a couple of years short of being able to drink legally.
As the rest of the passengers filed past, John tried surreptitiously to check his neighbor out. The almost-beard was pure Sonny Crockett, though this guy was light years hotter than Don Johnson. His sandy brown hair was messy, but the kind of artfully messy that John knew took a lot of time and hair gel. He'd tried it once or twice himself, until his father had given him a disapproving look.
The guy took a drink of his beer and, without taking his eyes off the window, said, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
John could feel the flush creeping up his face. "Sorry."
The guy made a sound that was almost a laugh. "So," he said, turning to look at John, his eyebrows raised, "is that the entirety of your vocabulary, or do you belong to some bizarre order of monks who take a vow of semi-silence and can only speak in apologies?"
John bit back another 'sorry' and held out his hand instead. "Um, neither," he said. "I'm still half asleep, I think. I'm John."
"Rod," the guy said, leaning back in his seat and ignoring John's hand. John tried not to take it personally.
He'd pulled the little safety card out of the seat pocket in front of him and was reading all about the emergency evacuation procedures on an Airbus A300 when Rod said, "Don't worry, it's safe. You're far more likely to die horribly in a car accident a mile from home than you are to crash in an airplane," and it was John's turn to laugh.
"I've been up in an F-15," he said, grinning at Rod. "This is nothing." At Rod's raised eyebrows, he continued, "My dad's in the Air Force; he took me up with him a couple of times."
For the first time since he'd sat down, Rod looked intrigued. "What's it like?" he asked.
It was like freedom and being high and the best orgasm ever, all rolled into one, but there was no way John was telling him that. "Fast," he said. "Really, really fast."
Once they were in the air, Rod brought out the pack of Marlboros again and lit one up, watching out the window and drinking his beer.
"They never put any interesting articles in those," he said as John flipped idly through the in-flight magazine. "Obviously it's because they've got a captive audience, so they really don't have to. Still, I'd like to see a comprehensive profile of the Mile High Club."
John looked over at him, surprised, and he grinned back, then took what had to be an intentionally suggestive drink from the bottle, his gaze never leaving John's face.
John licked his lips.
Rod ground the cigarette out in the ashtray, drank the last swallow of his beer, and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Excuse me," he said, still watching John. "Lavatory."
As he slid past, John watched him, his brain buzzing along faster than his dad's F-15. He was pretty sure that was a proposition, but he was also pretty sure it'd be crazy to follow a guy he'd just met into an airplane bathroom for the express purpose of having sex. God, it was also just about the hottest thing he could think of.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and followed.
Rod was waiting for him when he slipped through the door, pinning him back against it and kissing him, wet and sloppy and sexy, and John hadn't expected that. Then again, everything about Rod was unexpected, from the way his mouth tasted like mint instead of cigarettes and beer to the way he dropped to his knees and started working urgently at John's zipper.
John leaned back and braced his legs, his dick achingly hard already, and then Rod managed to get his fly open and it was way, way better than Mach 2.
When it was his turn to reciprocate, shoving Rod back against the door and unbuttoning his jeans, John was so high on endorphins that he didn't really think about it; he'd sucked cock a couple of times before, and while he was sure he wasn't anywhere near as good at it as Rod was, he was good enough.
And after they'd both pulled themselves together again, zippers zipped and buttons buttoned, Rod leaned forward and kissed John again, this time slow and sweet, then turned and slipped out into the main cabin of the plane.
John closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool, textured plastic; he counted to a hundred, letting his pulse slow down again.
Maybe it should have been awkward, going back to his seat and sitting down next to the guy he'd just blown in a public lavatory, but Rod had grinned crookedly at him when he sat down, had waved Cyndi over and ordered a Molson's for each of them, and they'd spent the rest of the flight talking about John's plans to attend the Air Force Academy in the fall and Rod's choices between a Ph.D. program and a job with the US government, and it wasn't awkward at all.
May 2004
Things had finally settled down-at least as settled as they were going to get in the Pegasus Galaxy, John was guessing-and he'd collapsed onto the narrow bed in his assigned quarters, not even bothering to do more than take off his vest and jacket and kick his boots into the corner.
The knock on his door was unexpected; he'd thought everyone else would be equally exhausted and busily collapsing in their own quarters, but apparently not. Without opening his eyes, he called out, "Come in," and heard the doors slide open with a quiet hydraulic hiss.
"Major." It was McKay. Why was John not surprised that McKay was still up and roaming the city.
John opened his eyes. McKay was standing just inside the doorway, his back to the closed doors and as far away from John as he could get without actually being outside the room, and that made John frown. There was obviously something wrong, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. It wasn't something he wanted to deal with, not from the science team, but he took a deep breath and said, "Pull up a piece of mattress and have a seat, Dr. McKay. What can I do for you?"
McKay shook his head and didn't move any closer. "I'm.... This is really not something I'm good at, Major," he said quickly, "but I think it's got to be done if we're going to work together." He stopped then, like he wasn't quite sure what to say next, and now John was completely confused, because unless McKay thought John was likely to shoot him for his job-and that was just stupid, so definitely not a thought McKay would ever entertain-something wasn't adding up here.
"Spit it out," he prompted. "Whatever it is, it can't be any worse than what I've heard whispered by every marine in the city in the last few hours."
That left McKay looking a little shocked, and John wondered if he really hadn't thought about the military contingent's reaction to John's mercy killing of Sumner. Well, if this wasn't about that, then John was at a loss.
"You really don't remember, do you?" McKay said, and John couldn't be sure whether that was disbelief or disappointment in McKay's voice. "Well, I suppose it probably wasn't particularly memorable, not for someone like you. I mean, just one of dozens...not to imply, of course, that you're...." He trailed off, shifting awkwardly.
John sighed. "I'm really tired. Any chance of you starting to make sense in the near future? If not, I'd really like some sleep now. You're welcome to come back and be confusing at me again in the morning, though."
He'd started to close his eyes when McKay blurted out, "The Mile High Club?"
The words made him freeze, because yeah, he remembered that. He was pretty sure it wasn't actually possible to forget a blowjob that good, and wait, that had been McKay? And now he was totally awake, every sense sharpened by the adrenaline spike. "That was.... Rod?"
McKay winced. "Please," he said. "Rodney. I was- Well, I was going through an unfortunate rebellious stage at the time." When it became clear that John wasn't going to say anything, he continued, "I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have brought it up, but I just thought that if we were going to be working together.... Obviously, it was a bad idea."
He'd turned back to the door before John managed to pull his thoughts together enough to say, "No, wait. I'm sorry. Give me a second to wrap my brain around this, okay?"
McKay stopped, but didn't turn around.
John took a deep breath. "McKay...." He paused, then tried again, "Rodney."
This time McKay turned, his expression impossible to read. "Really, Major, it's okay. I just thought we should clear the air." He laughed mirthlessly. "I didn't want things to get weird."
From John's very first days at the Academy, it had been the easiest thing ever to play it straight, to not even look twice at the guys around him. It had been easy because he'd already been in love with someone, in love with a guy he'd spent just two hours with while on a flight from D.C. to Toronto. A guy whose last name he hadn't even known.
"No, it's cool," John said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He had to work hard to resist the urge to grin. "More than cool. Sit down, will you? You're making me nervous, hovering like that."
McKay looked like he wasn't entirely sure whether to trust John's sudden about-face from I'm tired, go away to pull up a chair and stay a while, but he sat down anyway, leaving a good foot of space between John and himself.
John's brain was going Mach 10. He'd spent enough time with McKay to know that he was going to have to tread carefully. He figured he'd start slowly, test the waters a little. After all, nothing McKay said had suggested that he was interested in continuing what they'd started eighteen years ago. Hell, for all John knew, McKay hadn't even thought twice about him in the intervening years.
"So," he said, trying to keep his tone casual, "you didn't manage to resist the lure of the Ph.D., huh?"
"No, no, not exactly. I, uh, I actually failed to resist a couple of times." McKay was looking at him like he was insane. He probably was. After all, what kind of nutjob thought they could pick up where they left off after what was essentially a one-night-stand from nearly two decades ago?
The John Sheppard kind of nutjob, apparently. "Northwestern? Or did you change your mind?"
McKay blinked at him. "I can't believe you remember that," he said, and John could see him starting to relax. "Yeah, Ph.D. in Astrophysics from Northwestern. The professors were marginally less stupid there than elsewhere. And what about you? Major John Sheppard, US Air Force. You obviously didn't wash out of flight school."
Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "No, I did okay." It was mostly true. He had done okay, for a while at least, until his friends were dying and it had all gone to hell.
And you know what? Fuck it. He couldn't even count the number of times their lives had been in danger since they stepped through the wormhole into the Pegasus Galaxy, and he didn't see the situation getting better anytime soon. Starting slowly and testing the waters would be great, if he had a life expectancy greater than that of your average housefly, but he didn't.
"Rodney, would you think I was crazy if I said that right now I really want to kiss you?"
McKay's eyes widened. "Probably," he said slowly, "but crazy's not really a problem for me, under these particular circumstances."
He still tasted like mint, still kissed wet and sloppy and sexy, and still made John's dick achingly hard.
"Fair warning," John said against his mouth as he traced the outline of McKay's erection with eager fingertips, "I'm probably not any better than I was the last time. I haven't had a lot of practice since then."
"In other words, you're planning to make me come so hard that I can't think straight for weeks?" McKay said breathlessly, arching up against John's hand. "I think I can live with that."
John took it slow, because for the moment they had the luxury of time and he had enough regrets in life without adding this to the list. He mapped McKay's body with his hands and his mouth, touching and tasting until there wasn't a square inch of skin he didn't know intimately, supplementing his memories with the sight and sound of McKay's pleasure.
And when McKay rolled them over and pinned John to the bed in return, his mouth was as good as John remembered, all slow, wet heat and teasing touches that left John begging. But McKay kept him there, on the brink of completion, until John thought that he couldn't possibly stand one more feather-light touch or whisper of breath on his skin, until all it took was one firm stroke and John was shattering.
"So," John said eventually, his head resting on McKay's shoulder. "'Gimme head 'til I'm dead'?"
McKay groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I? I was eighteen; I'm sure not all of the life choices you made at eighteen were brilliant, either."
"Let's see," John said thoughtfully. "When I was eighteen, I fell in love at thirty thousand feet and didn't even think to ask his last name." He wrapped his arm tighter around McKay's waist. "It's always been my biggest regret."
"I had something like that happen to me once," McKay said, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on John's back. "But I got a second chance."
fait accompli
Young Rodney and John:
A/N: I started this on the plane on the way home from VividCon, then realized (on Friday *koff*) that it would fit the Harlequin challenge, so there was much panicking and staying up late to get it finished in time. Many, many thanks to libitina, who is my research goddess, and to casspeach for poking me to get in done. Rod's tee-shirt is one I remember seeing worn by a guy at Disneyland when I was 11-ish; it took me about fifteen minutes to figure it out, and I've never forgotten it. *g*
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were...well, let's just say they wouldn't have much time for missions.