i hope you take seriously, by SomeInstant (S, D, and R&R Challenge)
i hope you take seriously the suggestion of undressing
by SomeInstant
Summary: It had seemed like such a nice planet. Steady job, good provider, nice house-- the kind of planet your mother would like you to date, if your mother were insane and indifferent to the idea of grandchildren.
Rating: a light and pleasant R, McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Vague season two, pre-Runner
Word Count: 2296.
Disclaimer: The boys ain't mine.
Author's note: I started writing this sometime last-- oh, god, I think it was December-- and then things happened. At any rate, this fits the challenge, and is sort of the Director's Cut version of a semi-story-sketch you can find here. The title comes from a poem by Michael Teig. For those interested, Teyla was, in fact, supposed to be in this story, but all those ideas wound up on the cutting room floor. I have no idea where she is or what she's doing during most of this. Just go with it and don't think too much.
*
It had seemed like such a nice planet. Steady job, good provider, nice house-- the kind of planet your mother would like you to date, if your mother were insane and indifferent to the idea of grandchildren. Maybe it was a little overcast and damp, sure, and maybe the mud clinging to his boots was a pale, mottled green, but the villagers hadn't met them with pitchforks and torches, and that was definitely a plus. Even better, Teyla had only gotten halfway through the usual diplomatic rigmarole before the headwoman lit up like Atlantis and said something like, But of course we'll trade our delicious mint-berry-things and homebrewed gin for antibiotics! You do our people great honor, please make yourselves welcome, mi planet es su planet, here, wear these ceremonial headdresses as a token of our esteem and desire to see you look like dorks, &c.
She probably didn't put the butchered Spanish in there, but John usually zoned out during the talky bits-- once he was pretty sure no one was going to break out a machete or try and marry him off to the nearest socially-awkward maiden, anyway.
Unfortunately, he had appeared to have missed something important while trying to decide whether the olive-ish fruit from Planet Toga Party would work in the martini he was totally going to have as soon as they went back home, because all of the sudden McKay was poking him viciously in the arm and hissing, "Say yes, you idiot, say yes, she's talking to you."
John blinked. The headwoman's mouth was pursed in a way which reminded him unpleasantly of his sixth grade English teacher. "Oh-- yes, certainly," he said, smiling his No-really-I-was-listening-ma'am smile. It had got him out of diagramming sentences on the board a couple times; it damn well ought to work here. "Of course. We're at your disposal."
*
An hour later, while kneeling on a cold stone floor while a toothless mystic painted his palms with a thick yellow paste, John looked over at Rodney and said,
"So what are we doing, again?"
Rodney snorted. "You know, it should probably terrify me more than it does that you agree to participate in elaborate rituals without knowing what they are. I can only supposed that I've become so accustomed to gut-wrenching fear that it no longer registers."
John shrugged. The mystic grunted in annoyance and yanked his arm back into position, tracing dots onto his ring finger. She hadn't said a word since they started, and John was a little weirded out by the way her lips caved inwards.
"Sorry," he said, an all-purpose apology to both the woman and Rodney. "So I zoned a little," he said to McKay. "It's the repetitive, 'We come in peace, now please make us drink your spiked ceremonial punch,' stuff that gets me." Also, it was the promise of decent alcohol after god knows how many months of Halling's Athosian Rotgut ("As Good Going Down As It Is Coming Up!" was the marketing slogan the Marines had decided on), but he wasn't going to share that with the rest of the class.
He studied the swirls and symbols traced out over his palms-- they looked a little like stylized versions of the chevrons on the gate. "Besides," he added belatedly, "I figured it couldn't be too dangerous, since Teyla didn't look too stoic and you were willing to go along with it."
Rodney snorted again. John wondered if his sinuses were really that bad. "With an energy reading this strong, Colonel, I'd probably suck on a lemon if they asked me." He paused, his mouth sliding off to the side in thought. "Well, no, actually. But I'd have to think about it for a little bit before-- hey! that tickles, could you not-- no, no, I need that hand," McKay protested as the dentally-challenged woman spread his fingers wide and dabbed more of the wet cornmeal stuff between them.
"So there's a ZPM?" John prodded.
"That, or they've got a really big nightlight in their temple. Of course it's a ZPM." Rodney rolled his eyes in disgust. "Tell me, Colonel, what's it like to be able to get by on good looks and charm? I know you were at the briefing this morning; I've even got a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on my shin to prove it. A bruise which, by the way, I did not deserve, and which, with my luck, will fail to heal and end in a blood clot and encephalitis and nasty death, all of which will be your fault."
"Encephalitis?" John asked.
"It could happen," Rodney said.
"Actually," John said, "I don't think it could. And you did deserve it, after what you said to Elizabeth--"
"Mom hair! She has mom hair now!"
"-- after what you said to Elizabeth," John continued, "you deserved a kick. Preferably in the head, but the table was in the way."
Rodney grumped and huffed a sigh, muttering something that might have been, "Violence is not the answer," or, "Violins give kittens cancer." It could have gone either way.
"You insulted her hair," John explained slowly, shifting on his knees. The stone floor was really starting to hurt. Why did the kneeling rituals never come with fluffy cushions? "Men have been killed for lesser sins, McKay. I was saving you from yourself."
"I just happen to think that honesty among friends is important," Rodney sniffed as the mystic gathered up her little pot of paste and stood.
Sensing an opportunity to get off the damn floor, John rose with her. His knees sounded like a bowl of Rice Crispies, which was just gross. "So are we done here?" he asked, wincing.
She shook her head. "The thetting prothesth," she said, and wow-- seriously, look at those gums flap, "thakesh theveral hoursh. You mutht be carefthul not to blur the ciphersth," she lisped solemnly. John watched in horrified fascination as little bullets of spit flew out with every sth. "They mutht be legishble for one to thouch the thource without being harmed. I will rethurn to thake you bosth to the themple onsh the sthun risheth, and you sthall meeth the other member of your parthy there."
For once, Rodney kept his mouth shut.
Onsh the sthun risheth? John translated rapidly and cleared his throat. "So we just sit here with stuff on our hands until morning, then?" he asked. Boring, but definitely not the worst mission ever.
The mystic gave a non-commital hmmming noise and made a shallow bow from the waist. "I bid you pleasthanth dreamsth," she said and left, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her.
"Oh. Oh my god," McKay exploded after a moment, still staring at the door. "Wow. We're trading these people antibiotics? They need toothpaste. Toothpaste, and flouride, and toothbrushes, and-- and floss, and serious orthodontial care and probably more dentures than all of Florida and Arizona put together-- but toothpaste! Toothpaste comes first," he said, leaning back against the wall and looking shell-shocked.
John nodded his agreement. "We'll see if we can send toothbrushes and instructions and stuff along with Beckett's supplies. Unfortunately," he said, sliding slowly down the wall to sit next to McKay, "I think it's a little late for our friend, there."
Rodney shuddered. "No kidding." He looked down at his hands, which were swirled with the same intricate patterns as John's. "So. We get to sit here, not touch anything, and watch goop dry. Fascinating."
John examined the lines on his left hand. "I think it's a little like henna," he said. He'd had a girlfriend in California who would show up every few weeks with reddish-brown vines twining around her fingers and toes, flowers blossoming in the palms of her hands and on the tops of her feet. It had been pretty hot, actually.
Rodney grimaced. "Excellent. Just what I always wanted: trendy alien body art." He squirmed a little, trying to rearrange himself on the floor without using his hands. "You'd think they could at least give us something to sit on," he muttered.
John hmmed in agreement. "I was thinking that earlier," he said, leaning his head back to rest against the cool stones. "None of the kneeling rituals ever involve cushions."
"Or carpeting," Rodney added.
"Right," John assented. "I mean, most Catholic churches have padded kneelers, and you're not even down there for that long. Couple Our Fathers, couple Hail Marys and back up you go." McKay snorted, and jeez. John was going to have to bring along some of those Breathe-Rite strips for him on the next mission.
"Anyway," John continued, "I get that things are pretty tough for most of these folks, but how hard is it to fold a blanket over a couple of times if we're going to have to kneel for a couple hours? Spare us some bruises. And personally," he added with some heat, warming to his topic, "personally, I think it's a lot easier to take this crap seriously when I'm not worried about my knees going off like a frickin' gunshot when I have to get back up."
Rodney hmnphed something like a laugh. "No, no, Colonel-- please, tell us how you really feel." McKay's eyes were closed, but his mouth kept twitching up at the edges as a grin tried to work its way out.
"That is how I really feel," John said, unaccountably hurt. Here he was being honest and sharing-- oh. Oh, crap. The words caught back up to his brain, and McKay's eyes suddenly sprang open with something like horror, and John said, "Shit."
*
"So," McKay said from his sprawled position on the floor, "when was the last time you did this?" He'd gone from anxious babbling ("Anaphylaxis!") to angry ranting ("Betrayed by body art!") to relaxed mumblings ("You know-- mm. Floaty.") all in the course of twenty minutes, and John was just happy he was finally staying still. All those waving hands and personality overhauls were really distracting.
"Did what?" John directed his question to Rodney's knee, which was in danger of knocking him in the face if either of them moved too much.
Rodney's hands fluttered lazily in the air. "This," he said. "You know, recreational pharmaceuticals," he enunciated carefully.
"This isn't recreation, Rodney," John said seriously. "This is diplomacy."
"Right," said McKay. "I forgot."
*
Some time later, John stopped mouthing Rodney's kneecap through his BDUs and said, "This is really weird," meaning a universal sort of This, which included his heavy cipher-covered hands (they were sort of warm and fizzy under the drying paste), and Rodney's knee, and the rest of Rodney, and large portions of the Pegasus galaxy.
"I know." Rodney nodded his complete agreement. "There are fifty-two square tiles in the ceiling, and the room is square, and there are only seven tiles in each row. How did they do that?"
John wondered about that for a little bit. "Maybe you miscounted?" he suggested, and tugged some of the spit-soaked fabric back between his teeth.
"Mm, yes," McKay said. His hips shifted restlessly. "I suppose that's possible."
*
"This one time," John said slowly, rubbing his nose against Rodney's thigh, "I turned into a lizard."
McKay's forehead wrinkled. "I thought you were a bug," he said. "A blue, scaly, creepy bug."
John frowned and rested his chin on Rodney's leg. It was a good leg. Nice and solid and an excellent chin rest. "That wasn't my fault," he whined. "And why'd you bring that up? I wasn't talking about that."
"You weren't?" McKay's hands were fluttering again, pausing over John's head, but never touching.
"This is about me being a lizard," John explained patiently. "But not really a lizard. That was the acid," he said. "I didn't actually turn into a lizard, Rodney. Not for real, like with the bug thing."
McKay huffed. "You dropped acid?"
"Once," John said, wrinkling his nose. "I kept trying to lick my eyeball."
"Could you?"
"Nope." John thought about it for a moment, and. Hmm.
"John," Rodney said, his voice like a smile, "stop licking your eyeball;" and so John licked something else.
*
There was pale grey light sliding under the door, and Rodney sliding on top of him, braced on his forearms, and oh fuck, it was unfair, it was so unfair; he could open zippers with his teeth, but buttons were fucking impossible without hands, and his were burning, buzzing and incandescent and completely useless. Rodney didn't seem to mind, though: his hips snapping hard against John's through their clothing, making desperate ngh ngh hngh noises against the cords of John's throat.
"Next time," John said, thick-voiced and dazzled, "oh. Jesus. God, Rodney, next time--"
*
They went home the next afternoon with five casks of gin, seven bushels of mint-berries, a quarter-full ZPM, a solid trade agreement with a friendly settlement, a firm intention to send over a couple cases of toothbrushes, gratis, four hands covered in deep indigo ciphers, one serenely bemused Athosian, a desperate need to do laundry, and two hangovers from hell.
"Urk,"said McKay, settling gingerly into the seat of the jumper. "That was--." He waved his hand tiredly.
John thought about nodding, and then thought about motion, and then said a special little silent thank-you for the jumper's inertial dampeners, because that was all that was keeping him from tossing his power bars all over the console. "Yeah," he said. "It was."
"Still." McKay glanced over at him, still pale and greenish, saying, "You said next time...?"
John gulped, and had to correct the jumper's trajectory. Next time. "Well, I mean. If-- yes," he said, and watched as Rodney lit up beside him. "But this time," he grinned, setting them towards Atlantis, "clothes come off."
by SomeInstant
Summary: It had seemed like such a nice planet. Steady job, good provider, nice house-- the kind of planet your mother would like you to date, if your mother were insane and indifferent to the idea of grandchildren.
Rating: a light and pleasant R, McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Vague season two, pre-Runner
Word Count: 2296.
Disclaimer: The boys ain't mine.
Author's note: I started writing this sometime last-- oh, god, I think it was December-- and then things happened. At any rate, this fits the challenge, and is sort of the Director's Cut version of a semi-story-sketch you can find here. The title comes from a poem by Michael Teig. For those interested, Teyla was, in fact, supposed to be in this story, but all those ideas wound up on the cutting room floor. I have no idea where she is or what she's doing during most of this. Just go with it and don't think too much.
*
It had seemed like such a nice planet. Steady job, good provider, nice house-- the kind of planet your mother would like you to date, if your mother were insane and indifferent to the idea of grandchildren. Maybe it was a little overcast and damp, sure, and maybe the mud clinging to his boots was a pale, mottled green, but the villagers hadn't met them with pitchforks and torches, and that was definitely a plus. Even better, Teyla had only gotten halfway through the usual diplomatic rigmarole before the headwoman lit up like Atlantis and said something like, But of course we'll trade our delicious mint-berry-things and homebrewed gin for antibiotics! You do our people great honor, please make yourselves welcome, mi planet es su planet, here, wear these ceremonial headdresses as a token of our esteem and desire to see you look like dorks, &c.
She probably didn't put the butchered Spanish in there, but John usually zoned out during the talky bits-- once he was pretty sure no one was going to break out a machete or try and marry him off to the nearest socially-awkward maiden, anyway.
Unfortunately, he had appeared to have missed something important while trying to decide whether the olive-ish fruit from Planet Toga Party would work in the martini he was totally going to have as soon as they went back home, because all of the sudden McKay was poking him viciously in the arm and hissing, "Say yes, you idiot, say yes, she's talking to you."
John blinked. The headwoman's mouth was pursed in a way which reminded him unpleasantly of his sixth grade English teacher. "Oh-- yes, certainly," he said, smiling his No-really-I-was-listening-ma'am smile. It had got him out of diagramming sentences on the board a couple times; it damn well ought to work here. "Of course. We're at your disposal."
*
An hour later, while kneeling on a cold stone floor while a toothless mystic painted his palms with a thick yellow paste, John looked over at Rodney and said,
"So what are we doing, again?"
Rodney snorted. "You know, it should probably terrify me more than it does that you agree to participate in elaborate rituals without knowing what they are. I can only supposed that I've become so accustomed to gut-wrenching fear that it no longer registers."
John shrugged. The mystic grunted in annoyance and yanked his arm back into position, tracing dots onto his ring finger. She hadn't said a word since they started, and John was a little weirded out by the way her lips caved inwards.
"Sorry," he said, an all-purpose apology to both the woman and Rodney. "So I zoned a little," he said to McKay. "It's the repetitive, 'We come in peace, now please make us drink your spiked ceremonial punch,' stuff that gets me." Also, it was the promise of decent alcohol after god knows how many months of Halling's Athosian Rotgut ("As Good Going Down As It Is Coming Up!" was the marketing slogan the Marines had decided on), but he wasn't going to share that with the rest of the class.
He studied the swirls and symbols traced out over his palms-- they looked a little like stylized versions of the chevrons on the gate. "Besides," he added belatedly, "I figured it couldn't be too dangerous, since Teyla didn't look too stoic and you were willing to go along with it."
Rodney snorted again. John wondered if his sinuses were really that bad. "With an energy reading this strong, Colonel, I'd probably suck on a lemon if they asked me." He paused, his mouth sliding off to the side in thought. "Well, no, actually. But I'd have to think about it for a little bit before-- hey! that tickles, could you not-- no, no, I need that hand," McKay protested as the dentally-challenged woman spread his fingers wide and dabbed more of the wet cornmeal stuff between them.
"So there's a ZPM?" John prodded.
"That, or they've got a really big nightlight in their temple. Of course it's a ZPM." Rodney rolled his eyes in disgust. "Tell me, Colonel, what's it like to be able to get by on good looks and charm? I know you were at the briefing this morning; I've even got a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on my shin to prove it. A bruise which, by the way, I did not deserve, and which, with my luck, will fail to heal and end in a blood clot and encephalitis and nasty death, all of which will be your fault."
"Encephalitis?" John asked.
"It could happen," Rodney said.
"Actually," John said, "I don't think it could. And you did deserve it, after what you said to Elizabeth--"
"Mom hair! She has mom hair now!"
"-- after what you said to Elizabeth," John continued, "you deserved a kick. Preferably in the head, but the table was in the way."
Rodney grumped and huffed a sigh, muttering something that might have been, "Violence is not the answer," or, "Violins give kittens cancer." It could have gone either way.
"You insulted her hair," John explained slowly, shifting on his knees. The stone floor was really starting to hurt. Why did the kneeling rituals never come with fluffy cushions? "Men have been killed for lesser sins, McKay. I was saving you from yourself."
"I just happen to think that honesty among friends is important," Rodney sniffed as the mystic gathered up her little pot of paste and stood.
Sensing an opportunity to get off the damn floor, John rose with her. His knees sounded like a bowl of Rice Crispies, which was just gross. "So are we done here?" he asked, wincing.
She shook her head. "The thetting prothesth," she said, and wow-- seriously, look at those gums flap, "thakesh theveral hoursh. You mutht be carefthul not to blur the ciphersth," she lisped solemnly. John watched in horrified fascination as little bullets of spit flew out with every sth. "They mutht be legishble for one to thouch the thource without being harmed. I will rethurn to thake you bosth to the themple onsh the sthun risheth, and you sthall meeth the other member of your parthy there."
For once, Rodney kept his mouth shut.
Onsh the sthun risheth? John translated rapidly and cleared his throat. "So we just sit here with stuff on our hands until morning, then?" he asked. Boring, but definitely not the worst mission ever.
The mystic gave a non-commital hmmming noise and made a shallow bow from the waist. "I bid you pleasthanth dreamsth," she said and left, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her.
"Oh. Oh my god," McKay exploded after a moment, still staring at the door. "Wow. We're trading these people antibiotics? They need toothpaste. Toothpaste, and flouride, and toothbrushes, and-- and floss, and serious orthodontial care and probably more dentures than all of Florida and Arizona put together-- but toothpaste! Toothpaste comes first," he said, leaning back against the wall and looking shell-shocked.
John nodded his agreement. "We'll see if we can send toothbrushes and instructions and stuff along with Beckett's supplies. Unfortunately," he said, sliding slowly down the wall to sit next to McKay, "I think it's a little late for our friend, there."
Rodney shuddered. "No kidding." He looked down at his hands, which were swirled with the same intricate patterns as John's. "So. We get to sit here, not touch anything, and watch goop dry. Fascinating."
John examined the lines on his left hand. "I think it's a little like henna," he said. He'd had a girlfriend in California who would show up every few weeks with reddish-brown vines twining around her fingers and toes, flowers blossoming in the palms of her hands and on the tops of her feet. It had been pretty hot, actually.
Rodney grimaced. "Excellent. Just what I always wanted: trendy alien body art." He squirmed a little, trying to rearrange himself on the floor without using his hands. "You'd think they could at least give us something to sit on," he muttered.
John hmmed in agreement. "I was thinking that earlier," he said, leaning his head back to rest against the cool stones. "None of the kneeling rituals ever involve cushions."
"Or carpeting," Rodney added.
"Right," John assented. "I mean, most Catholic churches have padded kneelers, and you're not even down there for that long. Couple Our Fathers, couple Hail Marys and back up you go." McKay snorted, and jeez. John was going to have to bring along some of those Breathe-Rite strips for him on the next mission.
"Anyway," John continued, "I get that things are pretty tough for most of these folks, but how hard is it to fold a blanket over a couple of times if we're going to have to kneel for a couple hours? Spare us some bruises. And personally," he added with some heat, warming to his topic, "personally, I think it's a lot easier to take this crap seriously when I'm not worried about my knees going off like a frickin' gunshot when I have to get back up."
Rodney hmnphed something like a laugh. "No, no, Colonel-- please, tell us how you really feel." McKay's eyes were closed, but his mouth kept twitching up at the edges as a grin tried to work its way out.
"That is how I really feel," John said, unaccountably hurt. Here he was being honest and sharing-- oh. Oh, crap. The words caught back up to his brain, and McKay's eyes suddenly sprang open with something like horror, and John said, "Shit."
*
"So," McKay said from his sprawled position on the floor, "when was the last time you did this?" He'd gone from anxious babbling ("Anaphylaxis!") to angry ranting ("Betrayed by body art!") to relaxed mumblings ("You know-- mm. Floaty.") all in the course of twenty minutes, and John was just happy he was finally staying still. All those waving hands and personality overhauls were really distracting.
"Did what?" John directed his question to Rodney's knee, which was in danger of knocking him in the face if either of them moved too much.
Rodney's hands fluttered lazily in the air. "This," he said. "You know, recreational pharmaceuticals," he enunciated carefully.
"This isn't recreation, Rodney," John said seriously. "This is diplomacy."
"Right," said McKay. "I forgot."
*
Some time later, John stopped mouthing Rodney's kneecap through his BDUs and said, "This is really weird," meaning a universal sort of This, which included his heavy cipher-covered hands (they were sort of warm and fizzy under the drying paste), and Rodney's knee, and the rest of Rodney, and large portions of the Pegasus galaxy.
"I know." Rodney nodded his complete agreement. "There are fifty-two square tiles in the ceiling, and the room is square, and there are only seven tiles in each row. How did they do that?"
John wondered about that for a little bit. "Maybe you miscounted?" he suggested, and tugged some of the spit-soaked fabric back between his teeth.
"Mm, yes," McKay said. His hips shifted restlessly. "I suppose that's possible."
*
"This one time," John said slowly, rubbing his nose against Rodney's thigh, "I turned into a lizard."
McKay's forehead wrinkled. "I thought you were a bug," he said. "A blue, scaly, creepy bug."
John frowned and rested his chin on Rodney's leg. It was a good leg. Nice and solid and an excellent chin rest. "That wasn't my fault," he whined. "And why'd you bring that up? I wasn't talking about that."
"You weren't?" McKay's hands were fluttering again, pausing over John's head, but never touching.
"This is about me being a lizard," John explained patiently. "But not really a lizard. That was the acid," he said. "I didn't actually turn into a lizard, Rodney. Not for real, like with the bug thing."
McKay huffed. "You dropped acid?"
"Once," John said, wrinkling his nose. "I kept trying to lick my eyeball."
"Could you?"
"Nope." John thought about it for a moment, and. Hmm.
"John," Rodney said, his voice like a smile, "stop licking your eyeball;" and so John licked something else.
*
There was pale grey light sliding under the door, and Rodney sliding on top of him, braced on his forearms, and oh fuck, it was unfair, it was so unfair; he could open zippers with his teeth, but buttons were fucking impossible without hands, and his were burning, buzzing and incandescent and completely useless. Rodney didn't seem to mind, though: his hips snapping hard against John's through their clothing, making desperate ngh ngh hngh noises against the cords of John's throat.
"Next time," John said, thick-voiced and dazzled, "oh. Jesus. God, Rodney, next time--"
*
They went home the next afternoon with five casks of gin, seven bushels of mint-berries, a quarter-full ZPM, a solid trade agreement with a friendly settlement, a firm intention to send over a couple cases of toothbrushes, gratis, four hands covered in deep indigo ciphers, one serenely bemused Athosian, a desperate need to do laundry, and two hangovers from hell.
"Urk,"said McKay, settling gingerly into the seat of the jumper. "That was--." He waved his hand tiredly.
John thought about nodding, and then thought about motion, and then said a special little silent thank-you for the jumper's inertial dampeners, because that was all that was keeping him from tossing his power bars all over the console. "Yeah," he said. "It was."
"Still." McKay glanced over at him, still pale and greenish, saying, "You said next time...?"
John gulped, and had to correct the jumper's trajectory. Next time. "Well, I mean. If-- yes," he said, and watched as Rodney lit up beside him. "But this time," he grinned, setting them towards Atlantis, "clothes come off."