One Simple Theme, or, The One About Pancakes: Part Two
Title: One Simple Theme, or, The One About Pancakes
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,700+
Summary: She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
This Fic Features: Momentous Pancakes, Crudely Drawn Conclusions, Possible Misuse of the Term 'Puppet Regime,' An Overabundance of Large Hairy Names, Best Friends Being Best Friends Forever, One or Two Actual Serious Parts, and - sadly - No Actual Sex.
Exactly one month and three days after the ancient device exploded and gave him rather fabulous breasts, Ronon strode into the commissary looking completely back to normal.
Just like that. Just like that. *snaps fingers* *loves* "Oh, Ronon's a man again. Pass the salt?"
“You’re a man-beast again,” Rodney pointed out, only minutely disappointed.
Ronon sat down between Sheppard and Teyla. “I’ll probably miss them.”
Sheppard’s mouth had a slightly bitter twist to it when he said, “I’m sure McKay’ll miss them, too.”
“Oh, ha ha, Colonel.” Rodney scowled. One interrupted grope did not warrant nasty teasing. All right, well, it did - god, especially since there’d been an emasculated Ronon involved - but not from Sheppard, whose taunting had always been bright-eyed and playful in the past.
When Sheppard huffed and left - which was getting to be a bad, unattractive habit for the man - Ronon bit into his sandwich and mumbled, “He’s mad at you again.”
“I know,” Rodney agreed, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to think he’s got some sort of hormonal imbalance.”
Teyla gave him a censoring look.
“What? He’s been huffy and pissy for over a month! Everything spells fourteen-year-old girl. I’m just waiting for the waterworks to start.”
Teyla’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Keep going, McKay,” Ronon said, dark eyes lit with perverse amusement, and then Rodney remembered he was scheduled to spar with the Athosian woman later that afternoon and he clamped his mouth shut, because right or wrong - Sheppard was one step away from womanly curves, damn it - there would be no mercy on the mat.
Yay Teyla.
There's an episode of VeggieTales where this character (Pa Grape, I believe) says, "I'm Melvin, the slightly odd wise man who shows up from time to time to tell you things," and Melvins are a bit of a plague in fandom, where the only time Teyla and Ronon show up in a John/Rodney story is to further the John/Rodney relationship or plot. I like this section because it's very much not Melvin--sure, it does deal with the McShep storyline, but Teyla's not really helping, and Ronon's really just having fun watching Rodney dig himself in deeper. It's clear that they have their own motivations.
*
During their next official mission, Rodney accidentally married Teyla.
What are we up to here, four? Five?
Funnily enough, it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened - although the circumstances always differed, the variables were almost impossible to predict, and this particular ceremony had begun and ended the moment Teyla and Rodney had said the word, “Interesting,” in comical union, followed almost immediately by a bewildered, tandem, “What?”
‘Sharing Words’ was apparently considered a holy melding of spirits, and a sign of two soulmates meeting as one, blah, blah, blah. There was a feast involved, though, and the natives let them divorce amicably enough the next morning with no ill affects on their willingness to trade, so the whole situation was only mildly inconvenient.
You totally know they only did it to have an excuse for a feast. Hey, you gotta make your own fun in Pegasus.
And on the hike back to the ‘gate, when Rodney said, “At least it wasn’t Ronon,” and then, with a shudder for effect, “God, I’d rather marry you, Colonel, than that man-shaped wooly mammoth,” Sheppard started slightly, cocked his head, then winked at him.
Rodney’s mouth gaped a little before he caught himself, snapped his jaw shut and tilted his chin up to a teasing-is-not-appreciated angle. But the colonel just clapped his back, arm sliding in a brief squeeze around his shoulders, and Rodney flushed to the tips of his ears.
Chin lift! Somebody catalogued the chin lifts in fic once and I always forget who. And awww, John's all "He really likes me! I must touch him, but in a way that adheres to the Man Code." I get the feeling that John has an entire repetoire of these, the sideways one-armed hug, or the clasp-hands-and-hug-so-the-hands-form-a-barrier. You know John is sitting around going, "Okay, so if we were ice skating I could totally pretend to be wobbly and grab Rodney's hand."
*
Ever since P37-55X, Rodney had a reoccurring dream about pancakes, syrup-drowned and moist and served on Colonel Sheppard’s naked man-abs.
Which really wasn’t surprising, given that apparently pancakes were what he wanted most out of life, and that his subconscious and/or drunk brain never had any shame at all where Sheppard was concerned. The man was too pretty for his own good. He was like a slightly more approachable, less moose-like version of Ronon, though they both had killer grins - Ronon just used his more judiciously.
But the dream never varied much. Just delicious, savory pancakes and hot, sticky syrup that really was just making a mess of Sheppard’s skin, dripping down into the hollow of his pelvis, and it was perfectly, wonderfully natural for Rodney to lick him clean, tongue tracing along the hipbone, the lean rope of muscle.
And damn that's a nice visual.
After he finished the pancakes, of course.
With no immediate threat of Wraith, a rich and delicious fantasy life - barring any surprise visuals of a half-naked Cadman, of course, which happened far more often than he’d like since the nomadic sand people incident - he figured things were all around better than they had been in a long while. Except they kind of weren’t.
For one, he was still really not worried at all about his red left hand.
And that was just wrong, since sometimes it even itched, and what if he was allergic to whatever paint they’d used on his skin, what if he was slowly but surely absorbing poison into his bloodstream? But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He acknowledged the stain absently with a rub here and there and an occasional thoughtful frown, but his mind absolutely refused to panic about it.
For another, Sheppard was acting odd. Or more odd.
Okay, at this point I'm wondering if the gift-thing did indeed make Sheppard fall in love with Rodney and the pancakes were just a red herring. I'm rejecting this theory because it's a little creepy and really it doesn't seem like that kind of story, but if that's the proper reading, feel free to correct me.
I get the impression, rather, that John loved Rodney before the pancakes thing, and that that event was just a catalyst to make him realize it more fully, or decide, "Oh, woe, I am not Rodney's heart's desire, he will never love me, I shall go pine."
And not his PMS, huffy, verge-of-crying sort of odd, or even his regular, post-mission, weird mood kind of odd, where he’d act the exact opposite way of how he really should - the spider bats and the intense ball of fire had filled him with loose smiles and fond glances towards Rodney in the infirmary, although that might’ve been the cocktail of painkillers Carson had prescribed for his burns - but a staring-off-into-space, ‘I am pensively wistful, see how handsomely I brood’ sort of odd.
Rodney’d been stealing his desert rations for nearly a week before Sheppard caught on, and even then his reaction was disturbingly disappointing. Or maybe just plain disturbing.
“You’re not going stupid on me, are you Colonel?” Rodney snapped. Sheppard had been staring at him for three full minutes with a glazed, slack-jawed yokel cast to his eyes.
Sheppard shook his head, and his slow grin could only be described as dreamy. “You don’t steal Ronon’s pie,” he said finally.
“Of course I do! He just steals it back. You, on the other hand,” he narrowed his eyes, “are being scarily indulgent.”
“I’ll always let you have my pie, Rodney.”
Creepy and dreamy, Rodney amended, gaze turning speculative. “Are you high?” He jabbed a finger at him. “And I swear if you tell me you’re high on life, or that I smell good, I will hurt you.”
Sheppard chuckled.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rodney demanded, honestly alarmed.
“Nothing. You just.” He shrugged. “You like me better than Ronon.” Fiddling with his spoon, he glanced over at Rodney with half-lidded eyes, the dopey smile making his expression seem accidentally coquettish instead of a practiced flirtation. Rodney wasn’t fooled.
John actually is a fourteen-year-old girl, isn't he? He really was afraid of losing his best friend to Ronon. And of course he knows Rodney loves him before Rodney himself does.
“I like everyone better than Ronon,” he pointed out, which was a complete lie, but he had a reputation to uphold where the behemoth was concerned.
Sheppard nodded with a small hum under his breath, then said, “There were pancakes in the mess this morning.”
“There were?” Huh. He didn’t remember seeing any.
“I ate them right across from you, Rodney,” Sheppard drawled, bemused.
“Okay.” He eyed the colonel warily. He admitted that not noticing something as important as pancakes was clearly very wrong, but after eating so many in his sleep, breakfast in general had sort of become a blur lately, the only sharp points being his coffee, Sheppard, and, until recently, Ronon’s breasts. “And this is important because...?” he prompted.
“No reason.”
The happy, happy grin was really starting to freak Rodney out. “Right. Are you sure you’re not high? Wander past the botany labs perhaps?” The botany labs always smelled suspicious.
Irritation flickered across Sheppard’s face. “I’m not high, McKay. Jesus.”
“Well something’s wrong with you!”
“Pancakes, Rodney,” Sheppard stressed, exasperated. “You love pancakes, and you didn’t even see-” His comm. cut in, and his right eye twitched, and there was apparently a man-eating plant emergency in the upper level experimental greenhouse. His expression clearly stated ‘we will talk about this later, young man,’ as he cleaned up his food.
“Pancakes,” Rodney muttered to himself, watching Sheppard grab Bates on his way out of the commissary. Then he paused, straightening. “Oh,” he breathed.
Sheppard had been jealous. That was the only semi-reasonable explanation, even though it sounded completely ludicrous in his head, because jealous of a breakfast food? And, dear god, jealous of Ronon? Ronon was a lumbering man-dog that, all right, could be considered good company when he wasn’t busy looming menacingly or killing small animals or eating suspicious-looking tufts of moss, dirt, bugs, etc.
Although the most puzzling part of it all was just why Sheppard was jealous, since Ronon was hardly best friend material, and pancakes were only useful until you ate them.
And while Rodney might entertain a small, very small hopeful fantasy that the colonel wanted his undivided attention for something much more intimate than palling around Atlantis with broken halves of a bff bracelet, he honestly doubted that was the case.
"Yes, Pat, I'd like to buy a clue." Oh, Rodney.
*
There was too much blood.
An overabundance of blood, oodles of blood, and Rodney wasn’t sure how much of it was Teyla’s and how much was Sheppard’s and how much was the massive, razor-clawed, sharp-mouthed creature’s that Rodney had, amazingly, riddled with bullets.
The word "oodles" so nicely sets off the dramatic tone of the first sentence with humor. Because this is not a too-much-blood story; this is a story where we say "oodles."
He reloaded methodically and squeezed off another round, heart pounding in his ears but hand coldly steady, ‘til Sheppard coughed out, “Christ, Rodney, I think it’s dead already,” and breath flooded back into his lungs.
“Teyla?” he croaked.
“I am... fine.” Teyla clutched an arm to her chest, her lips a stoic line, pain pinching the corners of her eyes.
“What the hell was that thing?” Sheppard demanded, leaning forward onto his drawn-up knees, head hanging with exhaustion.
Rodney’s composure finally shook, and it took four stilted tries to get his spent sidearm back into its holster. “There’s more,” he said. “We’ll never make it to the ‘gate.”
In the distance, a sound like a strangled wolf-howl rolled towards them, and then in the opposite direction - much, much closer - came three simultaneous answering calls.
“God, so not going to make it,” Rodney muttered.
Ronon curled his fingers under Teyla’s arm and helped her to her feet, huge-ass gun at the ready. He maneuvered her towards Rodney, face impassive as he said, “Get to the ‘gate. Sheppard and I will distract them.”
Rodney snorted. “Oh, good plan. I can see why you’re not in charge.”
“He’s right, Rodney,” John said, rubbing a hand over his face, dark red with splotches of half-dried blood.
“You can’t be serious? You want us to just leave you?” Rodney asked incredulously, panic edging his voice.
Teyla swallowed thickly, paling, but she nodded her head. “I agree with Dr. McKay. Splitting up at this juncture does not seem wise.”
“Getting us all killed doesn’t seem wise, either,” Sheppard said calmly, “and we’ll never make it to the stargate without a diversion. Go through, get help, come back for us. All right?” He didn’t give them time to make another argument, just jerked his head sideways with a glance at Ronon, and the two of them were loping off, howls chasing them across the valley.
John, you have the stupidest plans.
*
Carson discharged Teyla from the infirmary with three tight rows of stitches curving over the skin of her left bicep, additional dissolving ones knit into the muscle underneath, and with a measure of painkillers sure to knock her out for hours.
Rodney, relatively uninjured, paced the control room until the normally affable Chuck had two marines strong-arm him out the door. Elizabeth watched grimly with hands hooked behind her back, and promised to radio him the minute she heard anything at all.
He stalked automatically to the labs, and Radek wrinkled his nose.
“You have decided bathing is waste of time now?”
Rodney glared at him.
“You have gore on your hands,” he poked. “And smell like carp.”
Rodney glared at him harder.
Finally, Radek sighed, took off his glasses, rubbed between his eyes, then slipped the glasses back up his nose. “All right. What has happened?”
Rodney’s bottom lip quivered dangerously. “I lost Colonel Sheppard. Er. I mean.” Damn it, that came out all wrong.
Radek’s eyes rounded. “You lost him?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I didn’t exactly lose him.” He really didn’t lose him at all. He’d left him, which was ten times worse, actually, and maybe if he hadn’t been coming down off the adrenaline high of aerating a wolf-beast for nearly eating his best friend, he wouldn’t have been blinking back seriously embarrassing tears that Radek had better not mention to anyone ever.
“Sit, sit,” Radek said hastily, tugging him towards a stool, shoving a halved metal orb into his hands. “Here, work on this. I am ninety percent sure it will not blow up.”
Aww. Radek knows just what to do. *pats Rodney* You'll get him back, Rodney, don't worry. In the meantime, play with something shiny. Radek is good here--it's good to know that Rodney has friends other than the team.
*
Four hours later, Lorne’s team and SGA-12 came stumbling back onto Atlantis with Corporal Lee a barely breathing mangled mess.
A thick knot of bile lodged in Rodney’s throat as he watched the stargate deactivate behind Cadman. Sheppard and Ronon weren’t with them.
“Got dark too quickly,” Lorne explained, shaking his head. His eyes were hard as they followed the gurney carrying Lee out of the room. “The damn things multiplied as soon as the moon appeared, and we had to get Lee out of there before he bled to death.”
Sergeant Myer cleared his throat. “Sir, I suggest we take a puddlejumper back through.”
“Do you think it would do any good at this point?” Elizabeth asked, her tone implying that she really, really hoped so.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There seems to be large bird-like animals on the planet, and while I can’t say they considered the,” he hesitated over his words, then seemed to settle on, “wolves prey, I noted a distinctly nervous reaction when they flew above them.”
“Nervous? Nervous how?” Rodney asked, stepping forward. He forced himself to stop wringing his hands, pressing his palms together.
“They scattered,” Major Lorne elaborated. “There wasn’t nearly enough of the birds to make a difference, but Myer is right, Dr. Weir. A ‘jumper might be the best place to search from. I think it’s Colonel Sheppard’s safest bet, too.”
“All right.” Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “You have permission to take a puddlejumper through. Is there any reason this can’t wait until daylight?”
OMG, Elizabeth! Just get them back!
“I’d like to return as soon as possible, ma’am,” Lorne said, grip white-knuckled on his P-90.
“Corporal Lee-”
“All the more reason,” Lorne cut in, and his stance was suddenly rigid, jaw clenched.
“Fine. Volunteers only,” she added, brows arched. “I want the colonel and Ronon back as much as you do, Major, but let’s not act recklessly.”
“Understood, Dr. Weir.”
Rodney watched Cadman, Myer, and Lieutenant Miller follow Major Lorne out of the ‘gate room, down the hallway towards the ‘jumper bay, and he hurried to catch up. “Give me five minutes,” he said when he broke even with Myer.
Lorne glanced over his shoulder. “Dr. McKay, it’s probably not a good idea-”
“Of course it isn’t a good idea,” Rodney broke in, rolling his eyes. “It’s a horrible idea, since I very well may be maimed irreparably in the near future, but apparently my predilection towards occasional heroics has honed itself into a Sheppard-esque death wish, so unless you want to argue poorly about it for the next twenty minutes before giving in, you’re better off just capitulating now, while you still have your dignity intact.”
Hee. Not "argue," but "argue poorly." I love that. Rodney's going; there's nothing on Earth Atlantis that would keep him away.
Frowning, Lorne said, “Five minutes. If you’re not there, we’ll leave without you.”
*
Their life-signs detector proved futile in finding Sheppard and Ronon, since it seemed to pick up the wolf-creatures, too. It was excellent for spotting nests of the things, though, and the sheer amount of them was beyond depressing. They dotted the landscape, hulking shapes in the dark, moving shadows under the large, yellow-red moon. Their haunting bays echoed over the surface of the planet and rose up through the clear, windless air; muffled by the thick metal of the puddlejumper, but no less eerie.
The ‘jumper proved useful, though, in that it did seem to scare them off. If they could find the colonel, they had a good chance of getting him and Ronon aboard without the beasts even noticing.
“Lower, fly lower here,” Cadman said suddenly. “Do you see that?”
“It’s.” Myer cocked his head. “It’s a Canadian flag.”
“Ha! I knew that’d come in handy again,” Rodney crowed. It was yet another testament to his incredible foresight and genius that he’d foisted his certainly-not-a-good-luck-charm - because he didn’t believe in voodoo like good luck charms now, did he? - on Sheppard three missions ago, after a village elder had mistaken the colonel for a pretty-eyed slave, and he’d ended up pants-less in the main square with Rodney’s beloved country’s flag as the only vaguely clothing related option.
I do not even want to know why Rodney habitually carries around a sizeable Canadian flag on missions or where he keeps it. I have a pretty good idea why John continued to do so, but still. That's so random, and yet so perfect.
Also: Sheppard mistaken for a slave. Snuck that one right in there.
Both Ronon and Colonel Sheppard were abnormally attached to earth tones and dark colors. He didn’t see how they’d have noticed their position otherwise.
“Hold on,” Lorne said, then urged the craft around again, sweeping even lower. “Definitely a Canadian flag. Good one, Dr. McKay.”
“Yes, yes,” Rodney murmured smugly, craning his neck to see, “always thinking ahead. Can we land?”
“Working on it,” the major rejoined. Then said, “Let’s see if we can take a couple of these fuckers out while we’re at it.”
Do you laugh every time John Sheppard, career pilot, hardened military leader of Atlantis, says "crap?" Because I do. I realize that they're not going to have him swearing a blue streak on the SciFi Channel, but it's still funny.
Which was how they ended up landing on one, another plastered gruesomely across the windshield, drool-flecked gaping maw snapping half-heartedly at them as its yellow eyes grew dimmer and dimmer, and when Sheppard staggered up the gangway, he grinned, said, “That’s gonna be a bitch to clean,” and then promptly passed out.
*
For the first time since P37-55X, Rodney didn’t dream of eating pancakes:
His hand on Sheppard’s belly left a messy red print, and he slowly painted the curve of each rib, smoothed up over a nipple, over the bump of his collarbone, curled fingers around his neck, thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat. He watched almost absently as Sheppard arched into his touch, unfurling with a cat-stretch, a purr just under the surface of his skin.
He said, “Protection,” and Sheppard laughed, murmured, “No,” and trapped his wandering hand before it could sweep over his sternum.
“The red’s fading,” Rodney protested, blood thrumming almost audibly through his thick wrist, heartbeat in time with the thumb Sheppard pressed against the bone.
“It’s called sharing, Rodney,” Sheppard drawled, amused. “You can’t keep it forever.”
Okay, so if stained hand = protection, he's . . .
Help me out here: Rodney's sharing the protection with Sheppard, yes?
Rodney rolled over into consciousness, his comm. radio on the bedside table a crackle of, “McKay? You awake yet?”
“Awake,” he said to the ceiling. And turned on. And contemplating jerking off to Sheppard’s inane morning chatter. He didn’t, but it was a close call.
The colonel wrapped up with a, “Carson’ll let me out with an escort. Breakfast?” and Rodney finally pulled himself out of bed.
*
“I’m all right.”
Rodney harrumphed. “You don’t look all right. You look like you’ve been mauled by a bear.”
“No bears, Rodney,” Sheppard chuckled dully, “just big-ass wolves.”
He looked dead on his feet, skin pasty gray against the shocking white bandages covering the right side of his neck, peaking out from under his dark t-shirt, wrapped half-way down his arm. His eyes were bloodshot and hazy green with deep thumbprint bruises of exhaustion pressed underneath them, and he staggered once, then leaned heavily into Rodney.
Rodney automatically snaked an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “You don’t really want breakfast, do you?” he asked resignedly.
“My kingdom for a bed,” Sheppard muttered, letting his head fall sideways onto Rodney’s shoulder. “Carson hooked me up, buddy.”
“The good stuff, I hope,” Rodney said, rolling his eyes. “Come on. I’ll take your kingdom and set up a puppet régime.”
They're just . . . they're adorable, aren't they? And the best part is that we totally get this kind of thing in canon. They're so BFF.
Sheppard snorted.
“You’ve been far too lax with your subjects.” Rodney maneuvered him around, tugging him towards a transport. “Unruly, the bulk of them. Nearing anarchy. The key,” he added, “will be the element of surprise.”
“Mmm?”
The transport doors closed and he propped Sheppard up against the wall. “Stay,” he said, then pressed the area of the map that housed the colonel’s quarters. He eyed Sheppard critically. “Do you even own a brush?”
Sheppard’s gaze sharpened for a split-second. “Yes.”
“Huh.” He tapped a finger to his chin, head cocked. “I figured just the sight of a comb would shock your hair into submission. I may have to reevaluate my takeover plans.”
“Funny, McKay,” Sheppard drawled.
Rodney flashed a weak half-smile as the doors slid open, and they were both quiet as they made their way down the hallway. “So,” Rodney said when they reached his room.
Sheppard slipped inside and Rodney absently followed, rubbing the back of his neck and dipping his head, watching peripherally from the center of the room as the colonel slumped down onto his bed, a fleeting wince flashing across his face as he jarred his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Sheppard frowned. “What for?”
“For,” Rodney waved a hand, “you know.”
“Not really, no.” He patted the mattress next to him in invitation, but Rodney just rocked back on his heels.
Rodney, the man is patting the mattress next to him in invitation. Please get with the program.
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he spat out.
Sheppard looked bemused. “It was an order, Rodney.”
“Please.” Rodney made a face. “Like that means anything.”
Sheppard blinked. “I like to think so. Makes my job easier.”
“Just. Don’t do it again.” He cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t meant to say that, actually, and he really hadn’t meant to use that desperate a tone.
“Give you an order?”
“Yes! I mean,” he spluttered, “I mean.” He jabbed an accusing finger at him. “You could have been eaten. And, true, if we’d stayed together we all could’ve been eaten, but at least we would’ve gone down as a team and you’re the one always harping on about having each other’s backs and blathering about no one getting left behind.”
This is what I hope for them. (I mean, if they're not allowed a Happily Ever After and die of old age in bed.) They deserve to all go out together.
Crinkling his brow, Sheppard scratched at a shallow cut above his right eye. “Okay,” he said placatingly. Then completely ruined the soothing gesture by adding, “Do you have a point, Rodney?”
Rodney wasn’t sure he actually did, and that was honestly worrying. Instead of answering him, though, he hustled forward and bullied Sheppard under his covers with a, “Lie down, lie down,” and a, “Stop talking now,” and then, when Sheppard cut in with a, “You’re the one talking, McKay,” he growled, “Do you want to go back to the infirmary?” which earned him a half-hearted glower and a petulant huff.
Rodney sighed deeply, planting his hands on either side of Sheppard’s hips. “If I pinky swear that we’ll be best friends forever, will you stop your womanly posturing?”
Sheppard’s eyes went wide. “My...” He trailed off, mouth gaping.
“Seriously, it’s getting old. All the huffing and flouncing and pouting.”
“Flouncing?” Sheppard echoed faintly.
“Here.” He grabbed the colonel’s hand, hooking their pinkies together. “I solemnly swear that Ronon Dex will never ever take your place in my life, no matter how many puddings he deigns to share with me, and if given a choice between a stack of pancakes and your company, provided the two are mutually exclusive, I will always choose you. Good enough?”
I really feel as though we should lobby for a canon pinky-swear. Because I can so see this.
“Rodney,” Sheppard drew out indulgently, wriggling his fingers around to grasp Rodney’s full hand, pressing their palms together, hazel eyes shiny with what was probably one of the effects of Carson’s happy drugs, because Sheppard really wasn’t the shiny-eyed type. His smile was soft, though, completely unguarded, and Rodney’s heart clenched, sending a skein of pure pleasure down his arm.
Then. “Oh my god, you’re in love with me, aren’t you?” Rodney nearly shouted, eyes flying wide.
There you go, Rodney. Not drugged. Poleaxed.
Sheppard flinched back, clocking his head on the wall. His face flushed red. “Um... Sorry?”
Such a typically Sheppard response. This is like the standard Declarations of Love scene, only turned inside out. So great.
“Sorry? Sorry?” Rodney tightened his grip on Sheppard’s hand. He leaned forward, pushing close to his nose. “Colonel - John. I’m.” He paused, suddenly at a complete loss for words.
And the Monumental Calling Him John Moment, with not one extra word devoted to calling attention to it. Again, thank you.
“Yeah?” Sheppard prompted warily.
“God. This is just. The best moment of my life,” he finally bit out, and wow did that sound cheesy when pancakes weren’t involved, but who the hell cared?
“That’s what you said about your pancakes,” Sheppard pointed out unhelpfully, a girlish moue curving his mouth down, but with something like amused affection shining in his eyes, and perhaps he was the shiny-eyed type when properly provoked.
“The pancakes were a fucking prelude, John,” he growled, and uncurled his free hand against John’s neck, kissing him like he’d honestly wanted to for months, wet and open-mouthed and maybe not as sweet as he’d imagined, since most of his fantasies included an ungodly amount of maple syrup, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the fact that fate was a cruel, cruel bitch and nearly half John’s body was in angry shreds, so even though he really, really wanted to lick all of John’s edges and live inside him for a while, he’d have to content himself with gingerly snuggling.
I heart Rodney's run-on sentences. That line about the maple syrup kills me. You so know that some part of Rodney's brain would be employed in comparing reality to fantasy, and thinking, "Yes, that's due to less maple syrup."
John lazily brushed his thumb over Rodney’s stained palm, frowning. “I think I can get this off for you,” he said.
Curled up loosely at John’s side, Rodney flexed his fingers. “Hmm? Really?”
“Paint thinner. Should be some in the supplies.”
“Isn’t that corrosive to human skin?” Rodney snapped, trying unsuccessfully to squirm out of his grasp.
“We’ll have water handy.”
“John...” He narrowed his eyes at John’s profile, noting the twitch of a smile at the corner of the man’s mouth.
Then his head fell to the side, smile morphing into his patented trust-me grin. There was blatant wickedness couched in the slightly parted lips, but Rodney always, always fell for it anyway.
“It won’t even sting, Rodney,” John drawled. “I promise.”
Oh, what a beautiful ending. They're best friends forever and there will be sex in the near future, as soon as John is better, and John noting Rodney's stained palm brings it full circle (as does the mention of maple syrup).
I still--okay, I still don't quite get what the stained palm represents other than protection; I know it must be something else. I don't, and it's not the story, it's that I'm obtuse. But it doesn't diminish my great and pure love for this story: such a wonderful story. I reread this over and over while I was writing this commentary, because there are so many layers (like a stack. Of pancakes) to muse over and enjoy, and the story's told with humor and love and action and all of the things that make life great. skoosiepants, thank you.
And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make some pancakes.
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,700+
Summary: She said, “The journey will cost you nothing that you are not ready to give,” and blah blah blah, Rodney knew the spiel. Walk through, try not to insult anyone, indulge in a feast of mammoth proportions, try not to get drunk, make nice with the locals, try not to molest Colonel Sheppard. It was all pretty much standard.
This Fic Features: Momentous Pancakes, Crudely Drawn Conclusions, Possible Misuse of the Term 'Puppet Regime,' An Overabundance of Large Hairy Names, Best Friends Being Best Friends Forever, One or Two Actual Serious Parts, and - sadly - No Actual Sex.
Exactly one month and three days after the ancient device exploded and gave him rather fabulous breasts, Ronon strode into the commissary looking completely back to normal.
Just like that. Just like that. *snaps fingers* *loves* "Oh, Ronon's a man again. Pass the salt?"
“You’re a man-beast again,” Rodney pointed out, only minutely disappointed.
Ronon sat down between Sheppard and Teyla. “I’ll probably miss them.”
Sheppard’s mouth had a slightly bitter twist to it when he said, “I’m sure McKay’ll miss them, too.”
“Oh, ha ha, Colonel.” Rodney scowled. One interrupted grope did not warrant nasty teasing. All right, well, it did - god, especially since there’d been an emasculated Ronon involved - but not from Sheppard, whose taunting had always been bright-eyed and playful in the past.
When Sheppard huffed and left - which was getting to be a bad, unattractive habit for the man - Ronon bit into his sandwich and mumbled, “He’s mad at you again.”
“I know,” Rodney agreed, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to think he’s got some sort of hormonal imbalance.”
Teyla gave him a censoring look.
“What? He’s been huffy and pissy for over a month! Everything spells fourteen-year-old girl. I’m just waiting for the waterworks to start.”
Teyla’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Keep going, McKay,” Ronon said, dark eyes lit with perverse amusement, and then Rodney remembered he was scheduled to spar with the Athosian woman later that afternoon and he clamped his mouth shut, because right or wrong - Sheppard was one step away from womanly curves, damn it - there would be no mercy on the mat.
Yay Teyla.
There's an episode of VeggieTales where this character (Pa Grape, I believe) says, "I'm Melvin, the slightly odd wise man who shows up from time to time to tell you things," and Melvins are a bit of a plague in fandom, where the only time Teyla and Ronon show up in a John/Rodney story is to further the John/Rodney relationship or plot. I like this section because it's very much not Melvin--sure, it does deal with the McShep storyline, but Teyla's not really helping, and Ronon's really just having fun watching Rodney dig himself in deeper. It's clear that they have their own motivations.
*
During their next official mission, Rodney accidentally married Teyla.
What are we up to here, four? Five?
Funnily enough, it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened - although the circumstances always differed, the variables were almost impossible to predict, and this particular ceremony had begun and ended the moment Teyla and Rodney had said the word, “Interesting,” in comical union, followed almost immediately by a bewildered, tandem, “What?”
‘Sharing Words’ was apparently considered a holy melding of spirits, and a sign of two soulmates meeting as one, blah, blah, blah. There was a feast involved, though, and the natives let them divorce amicably enough the next morning with no ill affects on their willingness to trade, so the whole situation was only mildly inconvenient.
You totally know they only did it to have an excuse for a feast. Hey, you gotta make your own fun in Pegasus.
And on the hike back to the ‘gate, when Rodney said, “At least it wasn’t Ronon,” and then, with a shudder for effect, “God, I’d rather marry you, Colonel, than that man-shaped wooly mammoth,” Sheppard started slightly, cocked his head, then winked at him.
Rodney’s mouth gaped a little before he caught himself, snapped his jaw shut and tilted his chin up to a teasing-is-not-appreciated angle. But the colonel just clapped his back, arm sliding in a brief squeeze around his shoulders, and Rodney flushed to the tips of his ears.
Chin lift! Somebody catalogued the chin lifts in fic once and I always forget who. And awww, John's all "He really likes me! I must touch him, but in a way that adheres to the Man Code." I get the feeling that John has an entire repetoire of these, the sideways one-armed hug, or the clasp-hands-and-hug-so-the-hands-form-a-barrier. You know John is sitting around going, "Okay, so if we were ice skating I could totally pretend to be wobbly and grab Rodney's hand."
*
Ever since P37-55X, Rodney had a reoccurring dream about pancakes, syrup-drowned and moist and served on Colonel Sheppard’s naked man-abs.
Which really wasn’t surprising, given that apparently pancakes were what he wanted most out of life, and that his subconscious and/or drunk brain never had any shame at all where Sheppard was concerned. The man was too pretty for his own good. He was like a slightly more approachable, less moose-like version of Ronon, though they both had killer grins - Ronon just used his more judiciously.
But the dream never varied much. Just delicious, savory pancakes and hot, sticky syrup that really was just making a mess of Sheppard’s skin, dripping down into the hollow of his pelvis, and it was perfectly, wonderfully natural for Rodney to lick him clean, tongue tracing along the hipbone, the lean rope of muscle.
And damn that's a nice visual.
After he finished the pancakes, of course.
With no immediate threat of Wraith, a rich and delicious fantasy life - barring any surprise visuals of a half-naked Cadman, of course, which happened far more often than he’d like since the nomadic sand people incident - he figured things were all around better than they had been in a long while. Except they kind of weren’t.
For one, he was still really not worried at all about his red left hand.
And that was just wrong, since sometimes it even itched, and what if he was allergic to whatever paint they’d used on his skin, what if he was slowly but surely absorbing poison into his bloodstream? But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He acknowledged the stain absently with a rub here and there and an occasional thoughtful frown, but his mind absolutely refused to panic about it.
For another, Sheppard was acting odd. Or more odd.
Okay, at this point I'm wondering if the gift-thing did indeed make Sheppard fall in love with Rodney and the pancakes were just a red herring. I'm rejecting this theory because it's a little creepy and really it doesn't seem like that kind of story, but if that's the proper reading, feel free to correct me.
I get the impression, rather, that John loved Rodney before the pancakes thing, and that that event was just a catalyst to make him realize it more fully, or decide, "Oh, woe, I am not Rodney's heart's desire, he will never love me, I shall go pine."
And not his PMS, huffy, verge-of-crying sort of odd, or even his regular, post-mission, weird mood kind of odd, where he’d act the exact opposite way of how he really should - the spider bats and the intense ball of fire had filled him with loose smiles and fond glances towards Rodney in the infirmary, although that might’ve been the cocktail of painkillers Carson had prescribed for his burns - but a staring-off-into-space, ‘I am pensively wistful, see how handsomely I brood’ sort of odd.
Rodney’d been stealing his desert rations for nearly a week before Sheppard caught on, and even then his reaction was disturbingly disappointing. Or maybe just plain disturbing.
“You’re not going stupid on me, are you Colonel?” Rodney snapped. Sheppard had been staring at him for three full minutes with a glazed, slack-jawed yokel cast to his eyes.
Sheppard shook his head, and his slow grin could only be described as dreamy. “You don’t steal Ronon’s pie,” he said finally.
“Of course I do! He just steals it back. You, on the other hand,” he narrowed his eyes, “are being scarily indulgent.”
“I’ll always let you have my pie, Rodney.”
Creepy and dreamy, Rodney amended, gaze turning speculative. “Are you high?” He jabbed a finger at him. “And I swear if you tell me you’re high on life, or that I smell good, I will hurt you.”
Sheppard chuckled.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rodney demanded, honestly alarmed.
“Nothing. You just.” He shrugged. “You like me better than Ronon.” Fiddling with his spoon, he glanced over at Rodney with half-lidded eyes, the dopey smile making his expression seem accidentally coquettish instead of a practiced flirtation. Rodney wasn’t fooled.
John actually is a fourteen-year-old girl, isn't he? He really was afraid of losing his best friend to Ronon. And of course he knows Rodney loves him before Rodney himself does.
“I like everyone better than Ronon,” he pointed out, which was a complete lie, but he had a reputation to uphold where the behemoth was concerned.
Sheppard nodded with a small hum under his breath, then said, “There were pancakes in the mess this morning.”
“There were?” Huh. He didn’t remember seeing any.
“I ate them right across from you, Rodney,” Sheppard drawled, bemused.
“Okay.” He eyed the colonel warily. He admitted that not noticing something as important as pancakes was clearly very wrong, but after eating so many in his sleep, breakfast in general had sort of become a blur lately, the only sharp points being his coffee, Sheppard, and, until recently, Ronon’s breasts. “And this is important because...?” he prompted.
“No reason.”
The happy, happy grin was really starting to freak Rodney out. “Right. Are you sure you’re not high? Wander past the botany labs perhaps?” The botany labs always smelled suspicious.
Irritation flickered across Sheppard’s face. “I’m not high, McKay. Jesus.”
“Well something’s wrong with you!”
“Pancakes, Rodney,” Sheppard stressed, exasperated. “You love pancakes, and you didn’t even see-” His comm. cut in, and his right eye twitched, and there was apparently a man-eating plant emergency in the upper level experimental greenhouse. His expression clearly stated ‘we will talk about this later, young man,’ as he cleaned up his food.
“Pancakes,” Rodney muttered to himself, watching Sheppard grab Bates on his way out of the commissary. Then he paused, straightening. “Oh,” he breathed.
Sheppard had been jealous. That was the only semi-reasonable explanation, even though it sounded completely ludicrous in his head, because jealous of a breakfast food? And, dear god, jealous of Ronon? Ronon was a lumbering man-dog that, all right, could be considered good company when he wasn’t busy looming menacingly or killing small animals or eating suspicious-looking tufts of moss, dirt, bugs, etc.
Although the most puzzling part of it all was just why Sheppard was jealous, since Ronon was hardly best friend material, and pancakes were only useful until you ate them.
And while Rodney might entertain a small, very small hopeful fantasy that the colonel wanted his undivided attention for something much more intimate than palling around Atlantis with broken halves of a bff bracelet, he honestly doubted that was the case.
"Yes, Pat, I'd like to buy a clue." Oh, Rodney.
*
There was too much blood.
An overabundance of blood, oodles of blood, and Rodney wasn’t sure how much of it was Teyla’s and how much was Sheppard’s and how much was the massive, razor-clawed, sharp-mouthed creature’s that Rodney had, amazingly, riddled with bullets.
The word "oodles" so nicely sets off the dramatic tone of the first sentence with humor. Because this is not a too-much-blood story; this is a story where we say "oodles."
He reloaded methodically and squeezed off another round, heart pounding in his ears but hand coldly steady, ‘til Sheppard coughed out, “Christ, Rodney, I think it’s dead already,” and breath flooded back into his lungs.
“Teyla?” he croaked.
“I am... fine.” Teyla clutched an arm to her chest, her lips a stoic line, pain pinching the corners of her eyes.
“What the hell was that thing?” Sheppard demanded, leaning forward onto his drawn-up knees, head hanging with exhaustion.
Rodney’s composure finally shook, and it took four stilted tries to get his spent sidearm back into its holster. “There’s more,” he said. “We’ll never make it to the ‘gate.”
In the distance, a sound like a strangled wolf-howl rolled towards them, and then in the opposite direction - much, much closer - came three simultaneous answering calls.
“God, so not going to make it,” Rodney muttered.
Ronon curled his fingers under Teyla’s arm and helped her to her feet, huge-ass gun at the ready. He maneuvered her towards Rodney, face impassive as he said, “Get to the ‘gate. Sheppard and I will distract them.”
Rodney snorted. “Oh, good plan. I can see why you’re not in charge.”
“He’s right, Rodney,” John said, rubbing a hand over his face, dark red with splotches of half-dried blood.
“You can’t be serious? You want us to just leave you?” Rodney asked incredulously, panic edging his voice.
Teyla swallowed thickly, paling, but she nodded her head. “I agree with Dr. McKay. Splitting up at this juncture does not seem wise.”
“Getting us all killed doesn’t seem wise, either,” Sheppard said calmly, “and we’ll never make it to the stargate without a diversion. Go through, get help, come back for us. All right?” He didn’t give them time to make another argument, just jerked his head sideways with a glance at Ronon, and the two of them were loping off, howls chasing them across the valley.
John, you have the stupidest plans.
*
Carson discharged Teyla from the infirmary with three tight rows of stitches curving over the skin of her left bicep, additional dissolving ones knit into the muscle underneath, and with a measure of painkillers sure to knock her out for hours.
Rodney, relatively uninjured, paced the control room until the normally affable Chuck had two marines strong-arm him out the door. Elizabeth watched grimly with hands hooked behind her back, and promised to radio him the minute she heard anything at all.
He stalked automatically to the labs, and Radek wrinkled his nose.
“You have decided bathing is waste of time now?”
Rodney glared at him.
“You have gore on your hands,” he poked. “And smell like carp.”
Rodney glared at him harder.
Finally, Radek sighed, took off his glasses, rubbed between his eyes, then slipped the glasses back up his nose. “All right. What has happened?”
Rodney’s bottom lip quivered dangerously. “I lost Colonel Sheppard. Er. I mean.” Damn it, that came out all wrong.
Radek’s eyes rounded. “You lost him?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I didn’t exactly lose him.” He really didn’t lose him at all. He’d left him, which was ten times worse, actually, and maybe if he hadn’t been coming down off the adrenaline high of aerating a wolf-beast for nearly eating his best friend, he wouldn’t have been blinking back seriously embarrassing tears that Radek had better not mention to anyone ever.
“Sit, sit,” Radek said hastily, tugging him towards a stool, shoving a halved metal orb into his hands. “Here, work on this. I am ninety percent sure it will not blow up.”
Aww. Radek knows just what to do. *pats Rodney* You'll get him back, Rodney, don't worry. In the meantime, play with something shiny. Radek is good here--it's good to know that Rodney has friends other than the team.
*
Four hours later, Lorne’s team and SGA-12 came stumbling back onto Atlantis with Corporal Lee a barely breathing mangled mess.
A thick knot of bile lodged in Rodney’s throat as he watched the stargate deactivate behind Cadman. Sheppard and Ronon weren’t with them.
“Got dark too quickly,” Lorne explained, shaking his head. His eyes were hard as they followed the gurney carrying Lee out of the room. “The damn things multiplied as soon as the moon appeared, and we had to get Lee out of there before he bled to death.”
Sergeant Myer cleared his throat. “Sir, I suggest we take a puddlejumper back through.”
“Do you think it would do any good at this point?” Elizabeth asked, her tone implying that she really, really hoped so.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There seems to be large bird-like animals on the planet, and while I can’t say they considered the,” he hesitated over his words, then seemed to settle on, “wolves prey, I noted a distinctly nervous reaction when they flew above them.”
“Nervous? Nervous how?” Rodney asked, stepping forward. He forced himself to stop wringing his hands, pressing his palms together.
“They scattered,” Major Lorne elaborated. “There wasn’t nearly enough of the birds to make a difference, but Myer is right, Dr. Weir. A ‘jumper might be the best place to search from. I think it’s Colonel Sheppard’s safest bet, too.”
“All right.” Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “You have permission to take a puddlejumper through. Is there any reason this can’t wait until daylight?”
OMG, Elizabeth! Just get them back!
“I’d like to return as soon as possible, ma’am,” Lorne said, grip white-knuckled on his P-90.
“Corporal Lee-”
“All the more reason,” Lorne cut in, and his stance was suddenly rigid, jaw clenched.
“Fine. Volunteers only,” she added, brows arched. “I want the colonel and Ronon back as much as you do, Major, but let’s not act recklessly.”
“Understood, Dr. Weir.”
Rodney watched Cadman, Myer, and Lieutenant Miller follow Major Lorne out of the ‘gate room, down the hallway towards the ‘jumper bay, and he hurried to catch up. “Give me five minutes,” he said when he broke even with Myer.
Lorne glanced over his shoulder. “Dr. McKay, it’s probably not a good idea-”
“Of course it isn’t a good idea,” Rodney broke in, rolling his eyes. “It’s a horrible idea, since I very well may be maimed irreparably in the near future, but apparently my predilection towards occasional heroics has honed itself into a Sheppard-esque death wish, so unless you want to argue poorly about it for the next twenty minutes before giving in, you’re better off just capitulating now, while you still have your dignity intact.”
Hee. Not "argue," but "argue poorly." I love that. Rodney's going; there's nothing on Earth Atlantis that would keep him away.
Frowning, Lorne said, “Five minutes. If you’re not there, we’ll leave without you.”
*
Their life-signs detector proved futile in finding Sheppard and Ronon, since it seemed to pick up the wolf-creatures, too. It was excellent for spotting nests of the things, though, and the sheer amount of them was beyond depressing. They dotted the landscape, hulking shapes in the dark, moving shadows under the large, yellow-red moon. Their haunting bays echoed over the surface of the planet and rose up through the clear, windless air; muffled by the thick metal of the puddlejumper, but no less eerie.
The ‘jumper proved useful, though, in that it did seem to scare them off. If they could find the colonel, they had a good chance of getting him and Ronon aboard without the beasts even noticing.
“Lower, fly lower here,” Cadman said suddenly. “Do you see that?”
“It’s.” Myer cocked his head. “It’s a Canadian flag.”
“Ha! I knew that’d come in handy again,” Rodney crowed. It was yet another testament to his incredible foresight and genius that he’d foisted his certainly-not-a-good-luck-charm - because he didn’t believe in voodoo like good luck charms now, did he? - on Sheppard three missions ago, after a village elder had mistaken the colonel for a pretty-eyed slave, and he’d ended up pants-less in the main square with Rodney’s beloved country’s flag as the only vaguely clothing related option.
I do not even want to know why Rodney habitually carries around a sizeable Canadian flag on missions or where he keeps it. I have a pretty good idea why John continued to do so, but still. That's so random, and yet so perfect.
Also: Sheppard mistaken for a slave. Snuck that one right in there.
Both Ronon and Colonel Sheppard were abnormally attached to earth tones and dark colors. He didn’t see how they’d have noticed their position otherwise.
“Hold on,” Lorne said, then urged the craft around again, sweeping even lower. “Definitely a Canadian flag. Good one, Dr. McKay.”
“Yes, yes,” Rodney murmured smugly, craning his neck to see, “always thinking ahead. Can we land?”
“Working on it,” the major rejoined. Then said, “Let’s see if we can take a couple of these fuckers out while we’re at it.”
Do you laugh every time John Sheppard, career pilot, hardened military leader of Atlantis, says "crap?" Because I do. I realize that they're not going to have him swearing a blue streak on the SciFi Channel, but it's still funny.
Which was how they ended up landing on one, another plastered gruesomely across the windshield, drool-flecked gaping maw snapping half-heartedly at them as its yellow eyes grew dimmer and dimmer, and when Sheppard staggered up the gangway, he grinned, said, “That’s gonna be a bitch to clean,” and then promptly passed out.
*
For the first time since P37-55X, Rodney didn’t dream of eating pancakes:
His hand on Sheppard’s belly left a messy red print, and he slowly painted the curve of each rib, smoothed up over a nipple, over the bump of his collarbone, curled fingers around his neck, thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat. He watched almost absently as Sheppard arched into his touch, unfurling with a cat-stretch, a purr just under the surface of his skin.
He said, “Protection,” and Sheppard laughed, murmured, “No,” and trapped his wandering hand before it could sweep over his sternum.
“The red’s fading,” Rodney protested, blood thrumming almost audibly through his thick wrist, heartbeat in time with the thumb Sheppard pressed against the bone.
“It’s called sharing, Rodney,” Sheppard drawled, amused. “You can’t keep it forever.”
Okay, so if stained hand = protection, he's . . .
Help me out here: Rodney's sharing the protection with Sheppard, yes?
Rodney rolled over into consciousness, his comm. radio on the bedside table a crackle of, “McKay? You awake yet?”
“Awake,” he said to the ceiling. And turned on. And contemplating jerking off to Sheppard’s inane morning chatter. He didn’t, but it was a close call.
The colonel wrapped up with a, “Carson’ll let me out with an escort. Breakfast?” and Rodney finally pulled himself out of bed.
*
“I’m all right.”
Rodney harrumphed. “You don’t look all right. You look like you’ve been mauled by a bear.”
“No bears, Rodney,” Sheppard chuckled dully, “just big-ass wolves.”
He looked dead on his feet, skin pasty gray against the shocking white bandages covering the right side of his neck, peaking out from under his dark t-shirt, wrapped half-way down his arm. His eyes were bloodshot and hazy green with deep thumbprint bruises of exhaustion pressed underneath them, and he staggered once, then leaned heavily into Rodney.
Rodney automatically snaked an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “You don’t really want breakfast, do you?” he asked resignedly.
“My kingdom for a bed,” Sheppard muttered, letting his head fall sideways onto Rodney’s shoulder. “Carson hooked me up, buddy.”
“The good stuff, I hope,” Rodney said, rolling his eyes. “Come on. I’ll take your kingdom and set up a puppet régime.”
They're just . . . they're adorable, aren't they? And the best part is that we totally get this kind of thing in canon. They're so BFF.
Sheppard snorted.
“You’ve been far too lax with your subjects.” Rodney maneuvered him around, tugging him towards a transport. “Unruly, the bulk of them. Nearing anarchy. The key,” he added, “will be the element of surprise.”
“Mmm?”
The transport doors closed and he propped Sheppard up against the wall. “Stay,” he said, then pressed the area of the map that housed the colonel’s quarters. He eyed Sheppard critically. “Do you even own a brush?”
Sheppard’s gaze sharpened for a split-second. “Yes.”
“Huh.” He tapped a finger to his chin, head cocked. “I figured just the sight of a comb would shock your hair into submission. I may have to reevaluate my takeover plans.”
“Funny, McKay,” Sheppard drawled.
Rodney flashed a weak half-smile as the doors slid open, and they were both quiet as they made their way down the hallway. “So,” Rodney said when they reached his room.
Sheppard slipped inside and Rodney absently followed, rubbing the back of his neck and dipping his head, watching peripherally from the center of the room as the colonel slumped down onto his bed, a fleeting wince flashing across his face as he jarred his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Sheppard frowned. “What for?”
“For,” Rodney waved a hand, “you know.”
“Not really, no.” He patted the mattress next to him in invitation, but Rodney just rocked back on his heels.
Rodney, the man is patting the mattress next to him in invitation. Please get with the program.
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he spat out.
Sheppard looked bemused. “It was an order, Rodney.”
“Please.” Rodney made a face. “Like that means anything.”
Sheppard blinked. “I like to think so. Makes my job easier.”
“Just. Don’t do it again.” He cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t meant to say that, actually, and he really hadn’t meant to use that desperate a tone.
“Give you an order?”
“Yes! I mean,” he spluttered, “I mean.” He jabbed an accusing finger at him. “You could have been eaten. And, true, if we’d stayed together we all could’ve been eaten, but at least we would’ve gone down as a team and you’re the one always harping on about having each other’s backs and blathering about no one getting left behind.”
This is what I hope for them. (I mean, if they're not allowed a Happily Ever After and die of old age in bed.) They deserve to all go out together.
Crinkling his brow, Sheppard scratched at a shallow cut above his right eye. “Okay,” he said placatingly. Then completely ruined the soothing gesture by adding, “Do you have a point, Rodney?”
Rodney wasn’t sure he actually did, and that was honestly worrying. Instead of answering him, though, he hustled forward and bullied Sheppard under his covers with a, “Lie down, lie down,” and a, “Stop talking now,” and then, when Sheppard cut in with a, “You’re the one talking, McKay,” he growled, “Do you want to go back to the infirmary?” which earned him a half-hearted glower and a petulant huff.
Rodney sighed deeply, planting his hands on either side of Sheppard’s hips. “If I pinky swear that we’ll be best friends forever, will you stop your womanly posturing?”
Sheppard’s eyes went wide. “My...” He trailed off, mouth gaping.
“Seriously, it’s getting old. All the huffing and flouncing and pouting.”
“Flouncing?” Sheppard echoed faintly.
“Here.” He grabbed the colonel’s hand, hooking their pinkies together. “I solemnly swear that Ronon Dex will never ever take your place in my life, no matter how many puddings he deigns to share with me, and if given a choice between a stack of pancakes and your company, provided the two are mutually exclusive, I will always choose you. Good enough?”
I really feel as though we should lobby for a canon pinky-swear. Because I can so see this.
“Rodney,” Sheppard drew out indulgently, wriggling his fingers around to grasp Rodney’s full hand, pressing their palms together, hazel eyes shiny with what was probably one of the effects of Carson’s happy drugs, because Sheppard really wasn’t the shiny-eyed type. His smile was soft, though, completely unguarded, and Rodney’s heart clenched, sending a skein of pure pleasure down his arm.
Then. “Oh my god, you’re in love with me, aren’t you?” Rodney nearly shouted, eyes flying wide.
There you go, Rodney. Not drugged. Poleaxed.
Sheppard flinched back, clocking his head on the wall. His face flushed red. “Um... Sorry?”
Such a typically Sheppard response. This is like the standard Declarations of Love scene, only turned inside out. So great.
“Sorry? Sorry?” Rodney tightened his grip on Sheppard’s hand. He leaned forward, pushing close to his nose. “Colonel - John. I’m.” He paused, suddenly at a complete loss for words.
And the Monumental Calling Him John Moment, with not one extra word devoted to calling attention to it. Again, thank you.
“Yeah?” Sheppard prompted warily.
“God. This is just. The best moment of my life,” he finally bit out, and wow did that sound cheesy when pancakes weren’t involved, but who the hell cared?
“That’s what you said about your pancakes,” Sheppard pointed out unhelpfully, a girlish moue curving his mouth down, but with something like amused affection shining in his eyes, and perhaps he was the shiny-eyed type when properly provoked.
“The pancakes were a fucking prelude, John,” he growled, and uncurled his free hand against John’s neck, kissing him like he’d honestly wanted to for months, wet and open-mouthed and maybe not as sweet as he’d imagined, since most of his fantasies included an ungodly amount of maple syrup, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the fact that fate was a cruel, cruel bitch and nearly half John’s body was in angry shreds, so even though he really, really wanted to lick all of John’s edges and live inside him for a while, he’d have to content himself with gingerly snuggling.
I heart Rodney's run-on sentences. That line about the maple syrup kills me. You so know that some part of Rodney's brain would be employed in comparing reality to fantasy, and thinking, "Yes, that's due to less maple syrup."
John lazily brushed his thumb over Rodney’s stained palm, frowning. “I think I can get this off for you,” he said.
Curled up loosely at John’s side, Rodney flexed his fingers. “Hmm? Really?”
“Paint thinner. Should be some in the supplies.”
“Isn’t that corrosive to human skin?” Rodney snapped, trying unsuccessfully to squirm out of his grasp.
“We’ll have water handy.”
“John...” He narrowed his eyes at John’s profile, noting the twitch of a smile at the corner of the man’s mouth.
Then his head fell to the side, smile morphing into his patented trust-me grin. There was blatant wickedness couched in the slightly parted lips, but Rodney always, always fell for it anyway.
“It won’t even sting, Rodney,” John drawled. “I promise.”
Oh, what a beautiful ending. They're best friends forever and there will be sex in the near future, as soon as John is better, and John noting Rodney's stained palm brings it full circle (as does the mention of maple syrup).
I still--okay, I still don't quite get what the stained palm represents other than protection; I know it must be something else. I don't, and it's not the story, it's that I'm obtuse. But it doesn't diminish my great and pure love for this story: such a wonderful story. I reread this over and over while I was writing this commentary, because there are so many layers (like a stack. Of pancakes) to muse over and enjoy, and the story's told with humor and love and action and all of the things that make life great. skoosiepants, thank you.
And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make some pancakes.