Badfic Summary Ficathon Entry: Mixing Memory and Desire
Dude. Dude. Paper on Daniel O'Connell, due Monday: zero words. svmadelyn's Badfic Summary Mini-Ficathon: THREE THOUSAND WORDS. I really hate myself.
But hey, y'all get crack!fic. That's something, right?
Title: Mixing Memory and Desire
Summary: When an AMNESIC Raawdney is sold to Jon as a slave(!1!), he is TERRIFED of Being RAPED(!) by this MysteriouS, DangerouS, DarK stranger!!!1! Will there be a happy ending for my OTP??? Will John earn Rodeney's trust? Will Rawdeney regain his memories?
Summary written by: neery
Rating/Warnings: R for sexual content, pretentious titling, references and in-jokes no one but the author will get, bad physics, looooooong paragraphs of run-on Rodney dialogue, and insidious implications about puppies. So pretty much on par with every fic I’ve ever written.
Mixing Memory and Desire
“Oh, and some string.” John finished emptying his pockets and dumped the rest of the contents out onto the trading mat: a couple of powerbars, a couple powerbar wrappers, that cool-looking pebble he had picked up on the beach on M3J-784, a guitar pick, a nickel, a thin piece of metal and crystal that he thought might be an Ancient toothpick, and the aforementioned piece of string. He looked over his shoulder at Teyla and Ronon. “Got anything else, guys?”
Teyla, unfortunately, traveled light: she had already divested herself of a pair of hair ties and a pale, cottony object that looked, to John, distressingly like the Athosian version of a tampon. As for Ronon, John had cautioned him, sotto voce, to keep his knives to himself, but now the Satedan patted down his coat one more time before producing a small vial of amber liquid. He passed it to John, who, unable to help himself, took a hesitant sniff. He wrinkled his nose. “Is that cologne?” It smelled suspiciously like Chanel No. 5.
Ronon shrugged. “Never hurts to be prepared.”
“Okay, then,” John said. He set the cologne down on the trading mat next to their other offerings, then turned a careful gaze on the Neerian trader. A gaze that said, “Cooperate, and you’ll have a lovely day full of sunshine and puppies and good sex. Mess with me, and you’ll never be able to enjoy any of those things again. Except maybe the puppies, if they’re really scrawny and desperate and hungry and there’s no one around to clean up the body.” John had put considerable practice into the look to get the nuance exactly right.
“So,” he said. “Does that satisfy you?” Death by puppies, reminded his eyes.
The Neerian smiled, but he shook his head. He began to gesture wildly; Teyla said he and his people communicated by sign language, but John was becoming increasingly convinced that the whole civilization was having them on, and that this little display was actually their version of the Macarena.
Undeterred, Teyla leaned forward, her eyes moving rapidly. “He says that the bargain is almost satisfactory to him--that it will be satisfactory to him, if--”
“If?” John said sharply.
“If you throw in the small black stick?” Teyla finished.
“What?” said John. “Oh, do you mean my pen?” The pen had been part of the failed attempt to sneak a note in to Rodney; it could also write in zero-g and underwater. John was rather proud of it. “What do you want with my pen?”
It was a stupid question; what did the Neerian want with any of this stuff? But, “Fine,” John said, tossing it over with only the slightest hint of reluctance. The trader’s eyes lit up as he caught it; he stuck the pen between his teeth and began chewing on it like a fine Cuban cigar. His hands flew threw the air, almost as quickly as Rodney’s did when the ideas were really coming, fast and brilliant.
“He thanks you for your generosity,” Teyla translated. “He says that he too is generous, and thus you may keep your tether so as to better restrain your slave.”
John’s eyes darkened at the word “slave.” He looked over at Rodney, who had been forced to kneel on the far side of the mat, his hands chained behind his back, a gag shoved in his mouth and his eyes wide and blue and angry. John snatched back his bit of string. “Fine, I will. Now let’s get on with the exchange already.”
The Neerian went and undid Rodney’s restraints, dragging him up to his feet in the process. Then, with an unnecessarily theatrical flourish, he removed the gag.
“Oh my God, what is the matter with you people?” Rodney shouted. John smiled, calmed somewhat by the predictability of McKay’s response. Then he realized that Rodney wasn’t talking to the Neerian: he was addressing Teyla and Ronon and John himself.
“A pen?” Rodney continued. “Loose change? Scrunchies? That’s the best you could offer for me? I’m sure I’m worth much more than that on a competitive market, not to mention the fact that--ooh! Are those, what’s the word, powerbars? Is that the peanut butter flavor?”
John frowned. “Rodney, are you all right?” he started, but just then Rodney made a move for the shiny foil wrapper and John had to focus all his attention on placating the outraged Neerian, who refused to calm down and stop making explosive and most likely rude gestures until John proved that he had sufficient control over his slave by tying the piece of string around Rodney’s wrist. “You really do bring these things on yourself,” John said, as he led Rodney away.
“Do I?” Rodney asked. His eyes were contemplative, bright. “Funny, I really didn’t think I seemed the type.”
“What?” said John. He pushed his rescued teammate toward the puddlejumper. “Rodney, are you sure you’re--”
“Wow!” Rodney said. “Is this a spaceship? That is so cool! How does it work?”
“Guess not,” Ronon said. John just blinked a lot.
After a moment, he pushed Rodney at Teyla and slipped into the pilot’s seat. He lifted off, watching out of the corner of his eye as Teyla pressed a calming hand to Rodney’s arm, reassurance radiating from her eyes, her touch, her voice.
“Doctor McKay,” she said, “what do you remember?”
Rodney’s answering gaze was utterly guileless. “Is that me?” he asked. “Am I a doctor? That sounds right; I’m not surprised that I’ve achieved a position of distinction and authority. What kind of--wow! What’s that?”
John swallowed and managed to find his voice. “That’s a wormhole,” he said. “That’s how we’re getting you home.”
“A wormhole?” Rodney echoed, his voice full of wonder, and John opened his mouth, prepared to offer the best explanation he could give. But Rodney, as usual, spoke faster. “You mean a theoretical distortion of space-time forming what is essentially a short cut between two greatly distant points? Is it Lorentzian or Euclidean? Well, I guess it has to be Lorentzian if we’re going to traverse it, huh?” He laughed. “Not so theoretical after all!”
“No,” said John, slowly; thinking, what do you remember?
“Um,” Rodney said, as John took them in for their final approach, “it doesn’t...sting or anything, does it?”
“No,” John said. Then he said, “Atlantis, this is Jumper One. We have McKay.” And, less subtly than he would have liked, “I need a med team to the gateroom. Sheppard out.”
A pinch: Rodney gripping his arm as they went through.
*
“Amnesia, eh?” Carson said. “My, that was a fun planet.”
John let out a heavy sigh. “Yes: kidnapping, slavery, and amnesia, oh my. Just fix him, would you?”
It was Beckett’s turn to sigh. “I’ll do my best,” he said, “but since there doesn’t appear to be any physical cause...”
“Perhaps Doctor Heightmeyer might be of help?” Elizabeth asked. She looked distracted; she couldn’t stop staring at Rodney, and not without reason: John didn’t think McKay had ever spent time inside the infirmary looking this relaxed. In fact, outside of a very specific set of circumstances that John wasn’t going to be sharing with anyone present, he had never seen Rodney look so relaxed, period.
Carson nodded. “At least he doesn’t seem too traumatized,” he said. As if to prove his point, Rodney tugged on the nearest nurse’s sleeve. Pointing at an Ancient scanning device, he chirruped, “And what’s that one do?”
“Is he on drugs?” Elizabeth suggested quietly.
Carson shook his head. “His system’s clean.”
“On the planet he showed anger and fear as well as, um.” John inclined his head in Rodney’s direction. It did make an odd sort of sense, really. “I think this is just his natural exuberance showing through.”
Now Carson and Elizabeth were looking at him like he was on drugs. “His what?” Carson said.
“You know,” John said. “He...” He waved a hand, vaguely. “...Gets excited about stuff. When there isn’t an imminent threat of death, and the people around him aren’t being offensively stupid.” John frowned a little as the last words tumbled out. He had to be careful; just because Rodney wasn’t acting like himself didn’t mean John needed to pick up the slack.
Luckily, his colleagues were still distracted.
“So,” Elizabeth said finally, her eyebrow quirking. “Ignorance really is bliss?”
John shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, “I really wouldn’t let him hear you say that, if I were you.”
*
John hung out in the infirmary for as long as it seemed appropriate, which ended up being until Heightmeyer arrived. He got up to leave as soon as she entered. “You sure you’re all right with all of this?” he asked, his hand lingering on the edge of the cot.
“Hey,” Rodney said, “I’m just glad that you seem to know me and that you’re not having me work out on a dusty highway, smashing rocks.” His brow furrowed for a moment; then his face relaxed, his eyes wide and shining again. “I just remembered! You know what’s a great movie? Cool Hand Luke!”
John grinned, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. Heightmeyer was waiting patiently in the doorway. He turned back to the bed.
“Well, I don’t have that,” he said, “but I do have some other pretty good DVDs. I could bring some by later. Or you could come watch in my room; it might be more comfortable.”
John wanted to smack himself almost as soon as he’d spoken: such an offer was far too easily mistaken for something else; in other circumstances, it would have been something else. But Rodney just nodded eagerly. “What movies?” he asked.
“Um.” Recovered, John pasted on his best innocent face. “Back to the Future?”
A brief frown passed over Rodney’s features, but he said, “Okay. I don’t think I--I don’t quite remember that one. But it sounds good.”
“Excellent,” John said. He smiled, imagining Rodney’s face when--when all this was over. He patted Rodney briefly on the shoulder, then turned to leave, offering Heightmeyer his usual bland grin as he passed. “See you later,” he called, and allowed himself one last reassuring gaze before slipping off down the hall.
*
John was trying without success to write a workable mission report--“And then I traded my pen for Doctor McKay” did not stop sounding stupid, even upon the removal of the adjectives “favorite” and “lucky”--when his door slid open and Rodney stomped in. His brow was slick with sweat, his mouth was twisted into a grimace, and his eyes were narrowed in fury. “You’re cured!” John said, delighted.
“What?” said Rodney. “No, I am not ‘cured’; and my God, seriously, what is wrong with you people? What are you even doing in this galaxy? I thought you were part of some cool, advanced civilization, but you have no idea what you’re doing, you’re appropriating technology way beyond your level of comprehension, and oh, apparently, you’re at war with a bunch of life-sucking space vampires! I can’t believe you dragged me into this madness on the merit of a bunch of pocket lint! Oh wait, I can, because that’s probably all that my life is worth now!”
He stood there, chest heaving. “So I take it the session with Heightmeyer went well, then?” John said.
“No,” Rodney said, “no! And just where did that woman get her license? Do you know what happened? She asked me if I had any lingering trauma, and I said--quite rightly, I might add--that the gag they shoved in my mouth no doubt had all sorts of germs and toxins on it, and she said no, mental trauma: fears, worries, anxieties; and she kept pressing me, so finally I said I guess I was afraid of getting violated like that again, meaning the gag and I suppose the slavery and the insulting selling price, and then all at once she started nodding sympathetically and saying, ‘It’s all right, Rodney, you’re safe now’; and I said, ‘Hello, space vampires?’ But then she started gently touching my wrist and at first I thought she was hitting on me, which would have been cool--because blondes, wow, yes please--but then I realized, no, she was trying to comfort me and she said she was thinking of starting a support group and maybe I should attend, because apparently she thinks--”
He sank suddenly onto the bed, his legs giving out (possibly due to lack of oxygen, John thought). “Fuck,” he said. “This is--all of this--it’s too embarrassing. I’m not just some victim, you know. I can take care of myself. I mean, on the days I’m not getting kidnapped and sold into slavery with my memory wiped.” He coughed. “Hypothetically speaking.”
John regarded him for a long moment. Then, “You can, you know,” he said. “Take care of yourself. Most of the city, too. On a good day.”
“This,” Rodney said seriously, “has not been a good day.”
“We’ve had worse,” John murmured. Louder, he said, “Would it make you feel better if...I mean, would you like to watch that movie now?”
“Yes,” Rodney said, rather breathily. John bit his lip; well that was a tone he’d never expected to hear in this context.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said, as he popped the disc into the computer. “There is ‘80s music and ‘80s fashion, and they are a terrifying sight to behold.”
“Ugh, the ‘80s,” Rodney said, scooting back against the headboard. John tried not to read anything into the fact that Rodney seemed perfectly comfortable sharing a bed with him. “Why do I feel a shiver of fear when you say that?”
The movie started. Rodney seemed excited and into it for the first fifteen minutes or so, but when Doc Brown started explaining how his time machine worked, Rodney’s mouth began to twitch. “What’s wrong?” John asked, lightly poking his arm. “Look, the time machine’s a DeLorean. Isn’t that cool?”
“No, no,” Rodney said. “This isn’t right. This is all wrong.”
He was actually shaking. John paused the film and put the laptop aside; his little joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore. “It’s only a movie, Rodney,” John said. “You can’t expect everyone in Hollywood to understand--”
Rodney gripped his arm, fingers iron tight. “Oh!” he said, anger giving way to an odd sort of ecstasy. “Oh, but I understand! I...wow.” He slumped back against the headboard, flushed. “Physics,” he said.
“You remember?” John asked, rolling over, propping himself up so that he could see Rodney’s face. “Like with the wormholes, in the puddlejumper?”
“So much more than in the puddlejumper,” Rodney grinned, an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and innocent. “I really am a genius.”
Then he blinked, staring up into John’s face. John felt his breath catch, watching as Rodney’s hand made a tentative movement, drifting up until the tips of his fingers were ghosting across John’s cheek. “Also,” Rodney said, curious, pleased, “I think I’m kinda gay.”
Before John had a chance to respond, Rodney’s gentle touch turned aggressive. He jerked John’s mouth down to his, kissing him fiercely--sloppily--hungrily. John couldn’t help responding--one second, two--but then he checked himself, drawing back. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he said. “You don’t remember--”
“Oh, but I’m right about this. About us,” Rodney said. “I am a genius, and I am so, so right.”
Still, John hesitated.
“Also,” Rodney added, “it might help me to experience some familiar physical sensations.” He tried for a clinical expression and didn’t quite get there. “Help prompt my memory, I mean.”
“Excellent point,” John conceded. He pushed the laptop off the bed and stripped off his shirt.
Rodney’s eyes swept over him, slow, reverent. “Okay, no ‘kinda’ about it,” he said, running his hands up John’s chest, then looping his fingers around the dangling dog tags and jerking him down. They kissed, John bracing himself above Rodney’s body. It was good--it was so, so good--but it was also not the world’s most comfortable or sustainable position. John nudged at Rodney with his knee, trying to get him to spread his legs so that John could slide into that familiar spot, level their bodies until they were truly together: flush, as one. A gentle nudge; then, as Rodney failed to respond, a second, this one slightly more forceful.
Rodney froze, shoulders stiffening.
“What?” John said, worried, angry with himself: this was a volatile situation--he should have known better. “Rodney, are you okay?”
Rodney blinked, shook himself. “Yes, I...I just...” Suddenly, his mouth twisted, a fury of emotions passing through his eyes. “Oh, I cannot believe that woman! One session, and she’s given me some sort of complex!”
John swallowed, having sudden difficulty containing the air in his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or pound his head against the wall. “You’re afraid I’m going to...violate you?”
Rodney opened his mouth, something really cutting clearly ready to slide razor-sharp off his tongue. But instead his jaw snapped shut again, his lips sliding into a smile. “Well, you are my master,” he said, raising his left wrist; John saw that his piece of string was still attached, the knots tight and strong and lasting. “You could take advantage,” Rodney continued, “and then what would I do?”
“You know,” said John, who was never going to be able to look at string or twine or even fuzzy pink yarn the same way again, “you are a whole lot kinkier when your memory is impaired.”
“Well, then I guess you better hurry,” Rodney said, reaching down, expertly undoing John’s fly. “Just look at me,” he said, as John arched, as John gasped: “I’m remembering all sorts of things.”
************
But hey, y'all get crack!fic. That's something, right?
Title: Mixing Memory and Desire
Summary: When an AMNESIC Raawdney is sold to Jon as a slave(!1!), he is TERRIFED of Being RAPED(!) by this MysteriouS, DangerouS, DarK stranger!!!1! Will there be a happy ending for my OTP??? Will John earn Rodeney's trust? Will Rawdeney regain his memories?
Summary written by: neery
Rating/Warnings: R for sexual content, pretentious titling, references and in-jokes no one but the author will get, bad physics, looooooong paragraphs of run-on Rodney dialogue, and insidious implications about puppies. So pretty much on par with every fic I’ve ever written.
Mixing Memory and Desire
“Oh, and some string.” John finished emptying his pockets and dumped the rest of the contents out onto the trading mat: a couple of powerbars, a couple powerbar wrappers, that cool-looking pebble he had picked up on the beach on M3J-784, a guitar pick, a nickel, a thin piece of metal and crystal that he thought might be an Ancient toothpick, and the aforementioned piece of string. He looked over his shoulder at Teyla and Ronon. “Got anything else, guys?”
Teyla, unfortunately, traveled light: she had already divested herself of a pair of hair ties and a pale, cottony object that looked, to John, distressingly like the Athosian version of a tampon. As for Ronon, John had cautioned him, sotto voce, to keep his knives to himself, but now the Satedan patted down his coat one more time before producing a small vial of amber liquid. He passed it to John, who, unable to help himself, took a hesitant sniff. He wrinkled his nose. “Is that cologne?” It smelled suspiciously like Chanel No. 5.
Ronon shrugged. “Never hurts to be prepared.”
“Okay, then,” John said. He set the cologne down on the trading mat next to their other offerings, then turned a careful gaze on the Neerian trader. A gaze that said, “Cooperate, and you’ll have a lovely day full of sunshine and puppies and good sex. Mess with me, and you’ll never be able to enjoy any of those things again. Except maybe the puppies, if they’re really scrawny and desperate and hungry and there’s no one around to clean up the body.” John had put considerable practice into the look to get the nuance exactly right.
“So,” he said. “Does that satisfy you?” Death by puppies, reminded his eyes.
The Neerian smiled, but he shook his head. He began to gesture wildly; Teyla said he and his people communicated by sign language, but John was becoming increasingly convinced that the whole civilization was having them on, and that this little display was actually their version of the Macarena.
Undeterred, Teyla leaned forward, her eyes moving rapidly. “He says that the bargain is almost satisfactory to him--that it will be satisfactory to him, if--”
“If?” John said sharply.
“If you throw in the small black stick?” Teyla finished.
“What?” said John. “Oh, do you mean my pen?” The pen had been part of the failed attempt to sneak a note in to Rodney; it could also write in zero-g and underwater. John was rather proud of it. “What do you want with my pen?”
It was a stupid question; what did the Neerian want with any of this stuff? But, “Fine,” John said, tossing it over with only the slightest hint of reluctance. The trader’s eyes lit up as he caught it; he stuck the pen between his teeth and began chewing on it like a fine Cuban cigar. His hands flew threw the air, almost as quickly as Rodney’s did when the ideas were really coming, fast and brilliant.
“He thanks you for your generosity,” Teyla translated. “He says that he too is generous, and thus you may keep your tether so as to better restrain your slave.”
John’s eyes darkened at the word “slave.” He looked over at Rodney, who had been forced to kneel on the far side of the mat, his hands chained behind his back, a gag shoved in his mouth and his eyes wide and blue and angry. John snatched back his bit of string. “Fine, I will. Now let’s get on with the exchange already.”
The Neerian went and undid Rodney’s restraints, dragging him up to his feet in the process. Then, with an unnecessarily theatrical flourish, he removed the gag.
“Oh my God, what is the matter with you people?” Rodney shouted. John smiled, calmed somewhat by the predictability of McKay’s response. Then he realized that Rodney wasn’t talking to the Neerian: he was addressing Teyla and Ronon and John himself.
“A pen?” Rodney continued. “Loose change? Scrunchies? That’s the best you could offer for me? I’m sure I’m worth much more than that on a competitive market, not to mention the fact that--ooh! Are those, what’s the word, powerbars? Is that the peanut butter flavor?”
John frowned. “Rodney, are you all right?” he started, but just then Rodney made a move for the shiny foil wrapper and John had to focus all his attention on placating the outraged Neerian, who refused to calm down and stop making explosive and most likely rude gestures until John proved that he had sufficient control over his slave by tying the piece of string around Rodney’s wrist. “You really do bring these things on yourself,” John said, as he led Rodney away.
“Do I?” Rodney asked. His eyes were contemplative, bright. “Funny, I really didn’t think I seemed the type.”
“What?” said John. He pushed his rescued teammate toward the puddlejumper. “Rodney, are you sure you’re--”
“Wow!” Rodney said. “Is this a spaceship? That is so cool! How does it work?”
“Guess not,” Ronon said. John just blinked a lot.
After a moment, he pushed Rodney at Teyla and slipped into the pilot’s seat. He lifted off, watching out of the corner of his eye as Teyla pressed a calming hand to Rodney’s arm, reassurance radiating from her eyes, her touch, her voice.
“Doctor McKay,” she said, “what do you remember?”
Rodney’s answering gaze was utterly guileless. “Is that me?” he asked. “Am I a doctor? That sounds right; I’m not surprised that I’ve achieved a position of distinction and authority. What kind of--wow! What’s that?”
John swallowed and managed to find his voice. “That’s a wormhole,” he said. “That’s how we’re getting you home.”
“A wormhole?” Rodney echoed, his voice full of wonder, and John opened his mouth, prepared to offer the best explanation he could give. But Rodney, as usual, spoke faster. “You mean a theoretical distortion of space-time forming what is essentially a short cut between two greatly distant points? Is it Lorentzian or Euclidean? Well, I guess it has to be Lorentzian if we’re going to traverse it, huh?” He laughed. “Not so theoretical after all!”
“No,” said John, slowly; thinking, what do you remember?
“Um,” Rodney said, as John took them in for their final approach, “it doesn’t...sting or anything, does it?”
“No,” John said. Then he said, “Atlantis, this is Jumper One. We have McKay.” And, less subtly than he would have liked, “I need a med team to the gateroom. Sheppard out.”
A pinch: Rodney gripping his arm as they went through.
*
“Amnesia, eh?” Carson said. “My, that was a fun planet.”
John let out a heavy sigh. “Yes: kidnapping, slavery, and amnesia, oh my. Just fix him, would you?”
It was Beckett’s turn to sigh. “I’ll do my best,” he said, “but since there doesn’t appear to be any physical cause...”
“Perhaps Doctor Heightmeyer might be of help?” Elizabeth asked. She looked distracted; she couldn’t stop staring at Rodney, and not without reason: John didn’t think McKay had ever spent time inside the infirmary looking this relaxed. In fact, outside of a very specific set of circumstances that John wasn’t going to be sharing with anyone present, he had never seen Rodney look so relaxed, period.
Carson nodded. “At least he doesn’t seem too traumatized,” he said. As if to prove his point, Rodney tugged on the nearest nurse’s sleeve. Pointing at an Ancient scanning device, he chirruped, “And what’s that one do?”
“Is he on drugs?” Elizabeth suggested quietly.
Carson shook his head. “His system’s clean.”
“On the planet he showed anger and fear as well as, um.” John inclined his head in Rodney’s direction. It did make an odd sort of sense, really. “I think this is just his natural exuberance showing through.”
Now Carson and Elizabeth were looking at him like he was on drugs. “His what?” Carson said.
“You know,” John said. “He...” He waved a hand, vaguely. “...Gets excited about stuff. When there isn’t an imminent threat of death, and the people around him aren’t being offensively stupid.” John frowned a little as the last words tumbled out. He had to be careful; just because Rodney wasn’t acting like himself didn’t mean John needed to pick up the slack.
Luckily, his colleagues were still distracted.
“So,” Elizabeth said finally, her eyebrow quirking. “Ignorance really is bliss?”
John shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, “I really wouldn’t let him hear you say that, if I were you.”
*
John hung out in the infirmary for as long as it seemed appropriate, which ended up being until Heightmeyer arrived. He got up to leave as soon as she entered. “You sure you’re all right with all of this?” he asked, his hand lingering on the edge of the cot.
“Hey,” Rodney said, “I’m just glad that you seem to know me and that you’re not having me work out on a dusty highway, smashing rocks.” His brow furrowed for a moment; then his face relaxed, his eyes wide and shining again. “I just remembered! You know what’s a great movie? Cool Hand Luke!”
John grinned, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. Heightmeyer was waiting patiently in the doorway. He turned back to the bed.
“Well, I don’t have that,” he said, “but I do have some other pretty good DVDs. I could bring some by later. Or you could come watch in my room; it might be more comfortable.”
John wanted to smack himself almost as soon as he’d spoken: such an offer was far too easily mistaken for something else; in other circumstances, it would have been something else. But Rodney just nodded eagerly. “What movies?” he asked.
“Um.” Recovered, John pasted on his best innocent face. “Back to the Future?”
A brief frown passed over Rodney’s features, but he said, “Okay. I don’t think I--I don’t quite remember that one. But it sounds good.”
“Excellent,” John said. He smiled, imagining Rodney’s face when--when all this was over. He patted Rodney briefly on the shoulder, then turned to leave, offering Heightmeyer his usual bland grin as he passed. “See you later,” he called, and allowed himself one last reassuring gaze before slipping off down the hall.
*
John was trying without success to write a workable mission report--“And then I traded my pen for Doctor McKay” did not stop sounding stupid, even upon the removal of the adjectives “favorite” and “lucky”--when his door slid open and Rodney stomped in. His brow was slick with sweat, his mouth was twisted into a grimace, and his eyes were narrowed in fury. “You’re cured!” John said, delighted.
“What?” said Rodney. “No, I am not ‘cured’; and my God, seriously, what is wrong with you people? What are you even doing in this galaxy? I thought you were part of some cool, advanced civilization, but you have no idea what you’re doing, you’re appropriating technology way beyond your level of comprehension, and oh, apparently, you’re at war with a bunch of life-sucking space vampires! I can’t believe you dragged me into this madness on the merit of a bunch of pocket lint! Oh wait, I can, because that’s probably all that my life is worth now!”
He stood there, chest heaving. “So I take it the session with Heightmeyer went well, then?” John said.
“No,” Rodney said, “no! And just where did that woman get her license? Do you know what happened? She asked me if I had any lingering trauma, and I said--quite rightly, I might add--that the gag they shoved in my mouth no doubt had all sorts of germs and toxins on it, and she said no, mental trauma: fears, worries, anxieties; and she kept pressing me, so finally I said I guess I was afraid of getting violated like that again, meaning the gag and I suppose the slavery and the insulting selling price, and then all at once she started nodding sympathetically and saying, ‘It’s all right, Rodney, you’re safe now’; and I said, ‘Hello, space vampires?’ But then she started gently touching my wrist and at first I thought she was hitting on me, which would have been cool--because blondes, wow, yes please--but then I realized, no, she was trying to comfort me and she said she was thinking of starting a support group and maybe I should attend, because apparently she thinks--”
He sank suddenly onto the bed, his legs giving out (possibly due to lack of oxygen, John thought). “Fuck,” he said. “This is--all of this--it’s too embarrassing. I’m not just some victim, you know. I can take care of myself. I mean, on the days I’m not getting kidnapped and sold into slavery with my memory wiped.” He coughed. “Hypothetically speaking.”
John regarded him for a long moment. Then, “You can, you know,” he said. “Take care of yourself. Most of the city, too. On a good day.”
“This,” Rodney said seriously, “has not been a good day.”
“We’ve had worse,” John murmured. Louder, he said, “Would it make you feel better if...I mean, would you like to watch that movie now?”
“Yes,” Rodney said, rather breathily. John bit his lip; well that was a tone he’d never expected to hear in this context.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said, as he popped the disc into the computer. “There is ‘80s music and ‘80s fashion, and they are a terrifying sight to behold.”
“Ugh, the ‘80s,” Rodney said, scooting back against the headboard. John tried not to read anything into the fact that Rodney seemed perfectly comfortable sharing a bed with him. “Why do I feel a shiver of fear when you say that?”
The movie started. Rodney seemed excited and into it for the first fifteen minutes or so, but when Doc Brown started explaining how his time machine worked, Rodney’s mouth began to twitch. “What’s wrong?” John asked, lightly poking his arm. “Look, the time machine’s a DeLorean. Isn’t that cool?”
“No, no,” Rodney said. “This isn’t right. This is all wrong.”
He was actually shaking. John paused the film and put the laptop aside; his little joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore. “It’s only a movie, Rodney,” John said. “You can’t expect everyone in Hollywood to understand--”
Rodney gripped his arm, fingers iron tight. “Oh!” he said, anger giving way to an odd sort of ecstasy. “Oh, but I understand! I...wow.” He slumped back against the headboard, flushed. “Physics,” he said.
“You remember?” John asked, rolling over, propping himself up so that he could see Rodney’s face. “Like with the wormholes, in the puddlejumper?”
“So much more than in the puddlejumper,” Rodney grinned, an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and innocent. “I really am a genius.”
Then he blinked, staring up into John’s face. John felt his breath catch, watching as Rodney’s hand made a tentative movement, drifting up until the tips of his fingers were ghosting across John’s cheek. “Also,” Rodney said, curious, pleased, “I think I’m kinda gay.”
Before John had a chance to respond, Rodney’s gentle touch turned aggressive. He jerked John’s mouth down to his, kissing him fiercely--sloppily--hungrily. John couldn’t help responding--one second, two--but then he checked himself, drawing back. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he said. “You don’t remember--”
“Oh, but I’m right about this. About us,” Rodney said. “I am a genius, and I am so, so right.”
Still, John hesitated.
“Also,” Rodney added, “it might help me to experience some familiar physical sensations.” He tried for a clinical expression and didn’t quite get there. “Help prompt my memory, I mean.”
“Excellent point,” John conceded. He pushed the laptop off the bed and stripped off his shirt.
Rodney’s eyes swept over him, slow, reverent. “Okay, no ‘kinda’ about it,” he said, running his hands up John’s chest, then looping his fingers around the dangling dog tags and jerking him down. They kissed, John bracing himself above Rodney’s body. It was good--it was so, so good--but it was also not the world’s most comfortable or sustainable position. John nudged at Rodney with his knee, trying to get him to spread his legs so that John could slide into that familiar spot, level their bodies until they were truly together: flush, as one. A gentle nudge; then, as Rodney failed to respond, a second, this one slightly more forceful.
Rodney froze, shoulders stiffening.
“What?” John said, worried, angry with himself: this was a volatile situation--he should have known better. “Rodney, are you okay?”
Rodney blinked, shook himself. “Yes, I...I just...” Suddenly, his mouth twisted, a fury of emotions passing through his eyes. “Oh, I cannot believe that woman! One session, and she’s given me some sort of complex!”
John swallowed, having sudden difficulty containing the air in his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or pound his head against the wall. “You’re afraid I’m going to...violate you?”
Rodney opened his mouth, something really cutting clearly ready to slide razor-sharp off his tongue. But instead his jaw snapped shut again, his lips sliding into a smile. “Well, you are my master,” he said, raising his left wrist; John saw that his piece of string was still attached, the knots tight and strong and lasting. “You could take advantage,” Rodney continued, “and then what would I do?”
“You know,” said John, who was never going to be able to look at string or twine or even fuzzy pink yarn the same way again, “you are a whole lot kinkier when your memory is impaired.”
“Well, then I guess you better hurry,” Rodney said, reaching down, expertly undoing John’s fly. “Just look at me,” he said, as John arched, as John gasped: “I’m remembering all sorts of things.”
************