SGA Fic: A Pocket Full of Posies, Part 2
Continued from here.
John spent the next few days waiting for the other shoe to drop and Rodney to put two and two together and work it all out. He was sure that when push came to shove, Rodney would have no problem whatsoever getting independent confirmation and confronting him with it, but that didn't happen, which worried him even more. Since Rodney wasn't an idiot, the continued lack of confrontation could only mean that Rodney didn't consider it an adequate response, which meant that any day now, John would wake to the entire city knowing, because Rodney had spilled.
When he went to see Heightmeyer about it, she nodded and scribbled a lot, and then mumbled something about clusters and paranoia to herself, at which point John cut their session short and went to the infirmary to consult the medical database. He really hated not having access to Google.
He was still there paging through the DSM when Beckett walked in. "Hello, Major, anything wrong?"
John shook his head. "No, just doing some research," he said.
"Found anything interesting?" Beckett asked, glancing over his shoulder at the screen.
John shook his head again.
"Well, then maybe you can assist me in my research by giving me another blood sample," Beckett said.
"Sure," John said, rolling up his sleeve.
"I think I...well, I'm not sure, the first sample could have been tainted, but I think I might be on to something." Beckett explained while he prepped a syringe.
"Like what?" John asked.
"The lymphocytes in the first sample I took from you were behaving...strangely," Beckett said.
"By which you mean what, exactly?" John asked.
Beckett shook his head. "It's really too early to say anything definitive. That's why I'm collecting this new sample." He pulled the needle from John's arm. "There, all done." He patted John on the shoulder. "Run along now. I'll let you know as soon as I find anything of value."
***
The next week, John piled a bunch of scientists into a puddle jumper for a little road trip to the satellite out back. As with pretty much everything else he'd touched recently, that trip turned to shit quickly once they inadvertently got themselves onto a planet with a very hungry Wraith, but at least it allowed him to work off some of the pent-up aggression left over from the incident with Kolya.
It was while he and Rodney were flying back afterwards, that Rodney, without taking his eyes off the screen, said, "So I think I've figured it out."
"Figured what out?" John asked, momentarily taken aback. He'd almost convinced himself that Rodney had decided he was suffering a hopeless case of internalized homophobia.
"I thought of hacking into your personnel files," Rodney continued, ignoring him. "But then I thought that would be childish and I should just ask you instead. I mean, I'm assuming this isn't covered under 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' and even if it is, you've already outed yourself to me quite effectively, so--"
"Fine, you've worked it out," John interrupted. "What do you want? An award for your powers of deduction?"
"Of course not," Rodney said. "To be honest, it took me an embarrassingly long time since I'd always assumed they'd just discharge you."
"Can't do that, Rodney, not unless they have some other reason to," John said.
"Huh." Rodney looked thoughtful.
"Surprised?"
"A little," he admitted. "Well, at any rate, now that I've worked it out and we don't have to have the awkward talk, it stands to reason that, well..."
John sighed. "Is there a point to this, Rodney?"
"Yes, I think so," Rodney said, finally turning to face him. "If the only reason you've stopped our, our thing has been because you think it's going to be an issue that you're--"
"Watch where you're flying!" John shouted, diving for the controls.
Rodney laughed. "That was infantile, even for you. We're in the middle of a vacuum. What do you expect me to hit out here?"
"You hyperventilate when you get a hangnail," John pointed out instead of answering.
"That's different," Rodney said.
"Yes," John agreed. "A hangnail heals after a few days."
Rodney nodded. "Alright, I admit, I may have reacted badly at first."
"You don't say," John said weakly.
"Yes, I almost woke Carson at 3 o'clock in the morning and demanded he test me immediately."
"You didn't!" John sputtered.
"Of course not, it would have been utterly humiliating," Rodney continued blithely. "Carson would have said, 'You can't catch HIV from kissing, Rodney'"--John surged forward into the crash position to ward off the sudden onset of nausea--"and then given me the equivalent of a fifth grade sex ed lesson. So I thought of going to see Heightmeyer instead." Rodney turned around. "John? Are you alright?"
John took a couple of deep breaths, before he finally managed to answer, "No."
"Hm. Didn't know you got space sick," Rodney said. "But I'm sure it'll pass if you keep your head down a little longer."
John swallowed hard. "Heightmeyer?"
"Yes, but that would have been a complete waste of time, too, because I only would have gotten another sex ed lecture, this time with some pop psychology thrown in. So I did the sensible thing and researched."
John groaned. "What?"
Rodney patted his shoulder in what he must have thought was a reassuring way. "Carson brought along a complete medical database. Not wanting to blow my own horn or anything, but I think I'm more or less caught up, and I just want to point out for the record that biology is messy and horrible and if I were even half as error-prone as reverse transcription, we all would have died long ago. But that's neither here nor there. What I'm trying to say is that, well, I think I can cope. More or less. I mean, as long as we're careful, and I intend to be very, very careful..."
"Oh God," John whimpered.
"Do you think you maybe ate something wrong?" Rodney asked. "I don't think flying usually does this to you."
John pulled himself together and sat up staring straight ahead. "Can we please, please stop talking about this?"
Rodney shrugged. "Fine. All I'm saying is that it's not me that's got the problem here."
He left it at that, and they spent the rest of the flight in silence. It wasn't until John was landing the jumper in the bay that he said, "I know. Okay? I know it's not you."
***
Half of Atlantis almost dying of a virus a couple of weeks later really put things into perspective for John. And when all was said and done, the city was nanovirus-free, and he'd had his dressing down from Elizabeth, he founding himself pacing restlessly around his quarters, his finger only a hair's breadth away from touching his earpiece to call Rodney. In the end, Rodney saved him from having to make a decision when he knocked on John's door.
John wordlessly stepped aside to let him enter and went to sit down on the bed.
"So, that was different," Rodney began.
"Hmmm." John agreed then said, "Rodney," just as Rodney said, "John."
Rodney smiled. "You first."
John stared at his feet for a moment and began talking without looking up. If this was going to come out, it was going to happen fast and rough, like pulling off a band-aid. "I met Jess my freshman year of college, and then about two years after we started seeing each other, Jess got really sick, and once we figured out why, I was sure it wouldn't take too much longer before I got ill too, but then Jess died and I still hadn't had as much as a cold and I just thought I was lucky or cursed or something. And now it's been more than fifteen years, and nothing at all has changed."
"That's good, isn't it?" Rodney asked.
"It is? Doesn't look that way from where I'm standing."
"Fine, so you've just spent the past sixteen years moping around?" Rodney asked. "Do I even have to point out how asinine that is?"
"Of course I haven't," John replied, ignoring the jibe. "I've just gotten a lot more careful about who I'm getting involved with, and--"
"And nothing," Rodney said, kneeling down in front of John and forcing his face up. "It doesn't matter, at least not enough to make me reconsider, so will you just shut up with the pity party already and get to the kissing part?"
And John did. Slowly and carefully and with quite a bit of trepidation because he still expected Rodney to bolt just as soon as he realized the full extent of what he was getting himself involved with. But Rodney didn't stop. Instead, he got up from the floor wincing slightly when his knee joints creaked and settled down on the bed next to John, unbuttoning his shirt.
"Shouldn't we discuss--" John started, but Rodney interrupted, "I am done discussing, thanks. Mostly what I'm after at this point is making out for a bit and then maybe some mutual masturbation."
"Rodney..."
"Fine, fine," Rodney said magnanimously, "I'm not going to make you accept a handjob from me, but can we at least work on the making out part?"
It seemed easier to just go along with Rodney than try and argue him to a standstill.
He started regretting it about 0.2 seconds post orgasm, because that's when things started getting awkward. He sat up and said, "This was a mistake."
"No it wasn't," Rodney said. "And I'm getting kind of tired of you thinking that just because you're--"
"Rodney," John said warningly.
"John, there's an elephant in this room, and for once it's nothing to do with me," Rodney said.
"I know," John said quietly, "I know, okay? It ruined my marriage--"
"Wait, you were married?" Rodney interrupted. "To a woman?" John nodded. "Why? To keep up appearances?"
"Of course not," John replied. "We got married because we fell in love."
"Was she...?"
"No," John shook his head. "I met her because she was heading a long-term study for the CDC, and, well."
"Hm."
"What?" John asked.
"Nothing, I was just thinking," Rodney said.
"Nancy used to do that, you know," John said. "She had this bee in her bonnet about...doesn't really matter."
"No, actually I think it does," Rodney replied.
John sighed. "She kept on wanting to talk about...to, I dunno, share? Discuss how at peace I was with everything?"
Rodney laughed. "You're kidding me, right?" he asked. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but if I were to list the people least inclined to talk about what's going on in their heads, you'd be pretty close to the top."
"That's more or less what she said the day she served me with the papers," John said morosely. "And that she'd finally realized that I just wasn't ready for...look, it's all ancient history now." He stood up, pulled down his shirt, pulled up and buttoned his pants, and, with as much calm and dignity as he could muster, repeated, "This was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened."
Rodney looked like he was poised to argue, but then he just pressed his lips together and nodded curtly before turning away to fasten his own clothes and leaving without a look back.
Which really was for the best, John thought when he woke up the next morning. He just wasn't ready to, to be part of a functional relationship again. He hadn't managed with Nancy, no matter how hard he'd tried, and he knew that if it hadn't happened while playing house, it certainly wasn't going to happen sneaking around after hours.
Messing with Rodney really hadn't been the plan. The plan had been to look, not to touch. The plan had been to lust after Rodney from afar and possibly pine a bit in moments of quiet contemplation. It certainly hadn't involved any actual sex, because John had sworn off the complications that accompanied that messy business. Besides, he knew he could be a grade-A dick the morning after.
Just knowing that was utterly useless, of course, in the same way knowing that disobeying a direct order would be career suicide had been. Judging from his last few forays into her office, Heightmeyer wasn't going to be any help either. She'd probably consider John's insistence that the whole event had been a terrible, never-to-be-repeated mistake further proof of his emotional unavailability and scribble a whole novella of notes to that effect. (It didn't really matter that John was prepared to admit that he was emotionally unavailable, since he suspected their explanations for it would differ drastically.)
For one happy day, with Rodney holed up in his lab, he thought he had extricated himself without embarrassment and they both could just go on pretending it hadn't happened, but that notion was blown to smithereens when he checked his e-mail the next morning and found several missives from Rodney detailing the findings of various studies he had found in the databases, together with some choice words regarding exactly how Rodney felt about having to research the soft sciences because John was behaving like a complete idiot. John only scanned the first few, cursing the fact that they had ever set up a network in the first place, and then deleted the rest unread, choosing instead to answer an e-mail from Bates concerning duty rosters, which probably more or less proved Heightmeyer's point about being in denial about his condition.
The next day, Rodney's e-mail barrage appeared to be a succinct bibliography of the expeditions self-help text (or possibly psychology books, it was hard to tell), accompanied by a lengthy diatribe about how Rodney felt about having to waste twenty minutes of his precious time writing a boolean search widget to save himself from actually having to read any of the texts himself.
John's finger hovered over the delete key for quite a few minutes before he sighed and hit the reply key instead. The message he wrote back was a tersely worded demand that Rodney stop meddling in his affairs, and Rodney's response was almost instantaneous and loosely translated as, "Up yours."
So John slapped down the lid of his laptop and stalked off to shoot some things.
Dinner that night was tense. It didn't quite progress to Rodney asking Ford or Teyla to ask John to pass the salt, but it came close. Teyla spent most of the meal with a bemused look on her face, while Ford, caught in the crosshairs of what even to him must have had the air of a lover's spat, looked decidedly uncomfortable. By the time John pushed back his tray, he knew that he couldn't just ignore things anymore.
He stalked out of the mess hall and headed to the infirmary. Ostensibly, this was because he was eager to see whether Beckett through some fluke had managed to find something that some of the brightest minds in the Air Force had somehow missed, but really, if John was honest with himself, it was because, with Sumner dead, Beckett was one of only three people on Atlantis who knew, and he really didn't feel up to seeing Heightmeyer.
"Good evening, Major," Beckett greeted him when he walked in. "What brings you down here?"
"Um," John fidgeted. "Any news?" he asked lamely.
Beckett shook his head. "Nothing I feel comfortable discussing with you yet," he said. "These things take time."
"Oh. Hm." John said, trying to hide his disappointment and at the same time mentally chastising himself for getting his hopes up in the first place. "Well, I guess in that case, I better..." he waved in the direction of the door, but hesitated.
"Was there anything else?" Beckett asked.
"It's just that McKay--" John began and stopped abruptly. Rodney what? Rodney was a meddling busybody who couldn't take no for an answer? What concern was that of Beckett's? But it was too late to say anything else, because he could see the light bulbs going on in Beckett's eyes and the good doctor jumping to exactly the wrong conclusion.
"Ah, yes, of course," Beckett said and pulled a handful of condoms from a drawer, placing them in a small paper bag. "Here you go, just let me know when you need more."
He offered the bag to John, who was far too embarrassed by any explanations he'd have to offer in order to decline it. "Thanks," he said weakly.
"Don't mention it," Beckett replied. Then, while John was already halfway to the door, he added cheerfully, "You know, Rodney has already come to see me about the same thing."
John managed to walk all the way back to his quarters without hitting anything or anyone, but this really had to stop. Time to go and see McKay--not Rodney anymore--and drive the point well and truly home.
Later that night, when he was reasonably certain the labs would be empty except for McKay, he went to see him. He barely took the time to look around and make certain they were alone in the lab, before he said. "This has to stop, McKay."
"So it's McKay now, not Rodney, is it?" McKay asked bitterly.
John closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. "Look, I'm sorry I...I was lonely and stressed and lots of other things that aren't really excuses, and I'm sorry if I made you believe that we could ever be anything other than colleagues, but we're not. Ever. So you need to back off and forget anything ever happened."
McKay turned back to his laptop without saying anything, the dismissal clear.
"Do you understand, McKay?" John asked.
"Yes, Major, I understand perfectly," McKay spat out. "Don't let me keep you any longer."
John made it all the way back to his quarters before his hands started shaking.
***
And then they went to Proculus and McKay behaved pretty much like McKay. Maybe with a couple of side orders of jealousy and bitterness added for good measure.
John really did have only the best intentions when he invited Chaya to visit Atlantis, and he was being strategically diplomatic when offering to show her around. He should have considered the implications of inviting an alien woman on a moonlit picnic a little more carefully, perhaps, but McKay's reaction was uncalled for. It wasn't that he was deliberately trying to goad McKay. Or maybe he was, just a little, to make McKay forget about him. Not that he would have chosen to have their little spat in the middle of a public hallway, or in front of Chaya's quarters.
"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly, when the door to Chaya's quarters closed behind him.
"It isn't you who ought to be apologizing," she said, then added, "Unless you were violating some covenant between you?"
"No," John replied.
She looked at his face searchingly for a moment. "You don't seem certain."
"I--McKay and I...it's complicated."
"He does not value spirituality."
"No, but there are other things he values just as fervently as you value your belief in Othara," John said. "It makes him..."
"Compelling?" she asked.
"I don't think I would have put it quite like that, but sure, that's one way to describe him."
"Then why are you here?" she asked.
John opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.
"Why are you here with me instead of at his side?" she asked again, perhaps thinking he had not understood her question.
"I--" John began, then shrugged.
Chaya yawned. "I must rest," she said. "I think, perhaps, you ought to find your friend."
Which really was the last thing John wanted to do, but he bowed slightly and let himself out of her quarters.
When he walked into the mess a few minutes later, the place was almost deserted, with only a few night owls scattered around the tables, Beckett amongst them. He made himself a cup of tea and wandered over to join him.
"Anything the matter?" Beckett asked when he slid into the chair across from him.
John shook his head. "Just thought I'd have something hot to drink before turning in," he said. "Any news from those tests you ran?"
"Aye," Beckett said, "the second set turned out just as interesting as the first. I'm just not quite sure what to make of it yet. Perhaps, if you've time tomorrow, you could stop by the infirmary?"
"I can't, I'm alien sitting," John said. "Did you realize she had he gene, by the way?"
"What? Our miracle patient?" Beckett asked.
John nodded. "Must have. When I took her on a tour of the control room earlier, she touched a bit of Ancient tech Grodin was messing around with, and it lit right up for her."
"It's really most remarkable. I was just telling Dr. Weir a few hours ago that I could nary believe how healthy--" Beckett began and stopped midsentence to stare at John thoughtfully.
"Doctor?"
"I think I've had a sudden flash of inspiration, Major," Beckett said rising from the table. "Do come and see me as soon as time allows."
***
The next day, Chaya was standing there in front of him on Proculus, offering to "share," whatever that meant, and then he was starting to be absorbed in the glow swirling around her, and he barely had time to say, "This...is...cool!" before the golden glow turned orange and he could hear Chaya's voice echoing all around him in swirling patterns of color-sound-smell-magic. You carry our blood.
"What do you mean?" John asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
One of your ancestors was one of us.
This was really getting kind of weird. "It's the gene, isn't it? Always gives me away."
You are...I can feel...there is...
John stepped back hurriedly. He hadn't even considered whether the "sharing" would put Chaya at risk. "I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, extricating himself from the glow. "I should have told you. I have a--an infection, a chronic disease."
The glow around Chaya faded and she took a step back. "The plague," she said.
John just stared at her.
"A long time ago, some of our people were struck with...not the disease as you know it exactly, but its forebear," she explained. "Thousands died before we found a way to...not cure it, and not eradicate it, but to make it...harmless."
John felt nauseous. "What?"
"We altered, no, not altered exactly," she said. "We manipulated one of our genes to spark a modified cell-mediated immune response that keeps the infection latent indefinitely in those afflicted by it." Her voice sounded odd.
"You said 'some of your people,'" John said. "Not everyone?"
Chaya's face darkened. "No. It only seemed to strike the...less desirable."
People like me, John thought bitterly, but didn't say it out loud. "What happened to them?" he asked instead.
"They lived out their lives and then they died," Chaya said.
"But did they get ill?" John persevered.
"No, but they...they were not like us," she said. "They did not share our ideals, our values. They showed no interest in leaving this plane, and the few that reconsidered after being struck by the plague did not have the fortitude to do so. They were..." she stopped.
Dirty, lesser beings, John thought, the implication of her words clear. "Will I stay healthy?"
"I can't promise you that," Chaya shook her head. "The plague has mutated, and while you are more like them than most of the others that came with you, their blood in you is diluted, less potent than that of those who survived the plague."
"But it is possible?" he asked again, because he had to know.
"Everything is possible, John," she said, the interview clearly over and the outlines of her body already turning to light-energy.
***
He almost crashed into the still opening jumper bay doors, he was in such a rush to get to the infirmary. Unfortunately, he also ran into McKay, who was still fuming. "Back from your alien love nest?" McKay asked viciously.
"Hi, McKay, nice to see you, sorry, can't stop, need to go see Beckett," John said, trying to push past the man.
"Got the space clap already?" McKay asked.
John stopped and turned. It was bad enough being called an 'undesirable' by some stuck-up Ancient bitch without having to put up with McKay's uncalled for comments as well, and this was really turning out to be a very bad day. "No, not the space kind," he said tightly, trying to control his temper. "And this"--he waved at the space between them--"this is the reason why I can't be involved with you. You would never be able to forget it was there, no matter how hard you tried to pretend it wasn't."
McKay's face crumpled and he almost looked sorry. "John," he began.
"Just shut up, McKay," John interrupted him. "Don't dig yourself any deeper than you already are."
When he entered the infirmary five minutes later, Beckett barely had time to look up from his screen, before John said, "It's the gene. The gene is--"
"Somehow preventing your lymphocytes from dying or going on killing sprees," Beckett said. "At first I thought the lab conditions or contamination were preventing the virus from replicating properly in a sample of my own blood I infected."
"But you have the ancient gene as well."
"Aye, but who would have thought that had anything to do with it?" Beckett asked. "It wasn't until Chaya's blood work came back far too healthy for a human from a pre-technological society that it occurred to me that, McKay's hypochondria aside, the ancient gene could be providing some sort of protection against infection."
"And does it? Really?" John asked, both desperate for and dreading an answer.
Beckett shrugged. "It does not prevent infection, as you know, but, yes, the non-ancient-gene-carrier samples I have since infected are so far showing what appears to be normal virus replication, so I think, all things considered, it is an avenue worth exploring." He paused. "What exactly did the lass tell you?"
"That the plague--that's what they called it, apparently--was fatal to the Ancients until they manipulated one of their genes to keep it at its latent stage indefinitely," John replied, deciding to skip the 'undesirable' part.
Beckett nodded. "You know, there was that lass in Antarctica...just a second, let me try and find the files," he said, frantically typing on his laptop. "Aha! Here we go. The woman they found frozen in the Antarctic ice, at least three million years old. And she infected SG-1 with, well, something that was a lot like meningitis, if I remember correctly..." he paused to read for a moment. "Hm. Interesting."
"What?" John asked.
"The autopsy results are incomplete," Beckett said.
"They covered something up?" John asked.
Beckett gave him a quizzical look. "You're starting to sound a lot like Rodney, Major. It could be a simple clerical error. Not everything is a conspiracy."
"But meningitis is nothing like..." John said, and stopped just short of saying the words.
"No, of course not," Beckett agreed. "But she would have been particularly susceptible to viral infections if the ancient plague was anything like--"
"I know, okay?" John interrupted, running his hand through his hair. "I know."
"Very well," Beckett sighed. "Tell me, have you tried talking to Dr. Heightmeyer about your inability to call a spade a spade."
"No," John interrupted again. "Yes. Look, I've had that speech from any number of counselors and I realize it isn't healthy, but it is a coping mechanism, so can we just..."
"Of course," Beckett agreed. "Tell me, did Chaya share any other information?"
"She said the plague had mutated since the time of the Ancients."
"It's notorious for that even now," Beckett nodded. "And to think that it must have jumped species several times...well, I'm surprised she even recognized your description."
"Not description, exactly, it was more of a--" John hesitated. There was really no way to explain the experience and not sound insane to anyone except possibly McKay. "A Vulcan mind meld is probably the closest analogy."
"Come again?"
Oh well, the worst Beckett could do was send him to see Heightmeyer again, right? "She turned into that weird energy-light thing we saw when she left here and kind of...merged with me?"
"I see," Beckett said, though he clearly didn't. "Anything else?"
"That she didn't know whether the latency would last," John replied.
"Nor do I, I'm afraid," Beckett said. "At least not without access to tissue samples from Earth and a whole platoon of scientists to establish a sound epidemiological link between gene carriers and nonprogressors, but I'd say you've pretty good odds."
"Brilliant," John said, disappointed. "So where does that leave me?"
Beckett blinked. "I'm sorry, Major, I don't think you quite understand how truly remarkable--"
"Trust me, I do," John interrupted him. "You have the same look on your face that McKay gets when he's contemplating his future Nobel prizes."
"Yes, even with the gene therapy only being effective in 47% of recipients, this really could be the first step in developing a vaccine, the first step in saving thousands, if not millions, of lives," Beckett agreed.
"Understood," John said. "But I'm still..."
Beckett patted his shoulder. "You'll be fine, lad, trust me. You're far more likely to be culled by the Wraith." He paused. "There's only one thing you can do, and it's what you've been doing all along: living your life. It's the best any of us can do, really."
Which was all fine and dandy for Beckett to say, but it didn't really change the fact that John was living on borrowed time, always aware that life could catch up with him at any moment. So what if technically everybody in Pegasus lived with that same Damocles' sword hanging above their heads?
***
Two weeks later, a Wraith armada was closing in on the city, and John's life expectancy suddenly looked a little grim, even without the prospect of dying of an ancient plague.
But it was probably both because he'd been expecting death for all these years and because he couldn't shake the feeling that he really was expendable, that he was prepared to fly out on a suicide mission in the first place. He'd heard the desperation in McKay's voice when he ran from the chair room, seen it in Elizabeth's eyes in the control room, but for the first time in years, he felt remarkably zen about dying; possibly because he was going to do it on his own terms and in his own way, at a time of his choosing.
When it finally was all over and only adrenaline mixed with half of the infirmary's pharmacy was keeping him on his feet, he was surprised to find that he was glad he was still alive.
He helped with the mopping up and getting the evacuees back from the alpha site, and then, by the time that was done, he couldn't for the life of him remember when he'd last slept, so he decided to call it a night and made his way back to his quarters.
Stepping from the brightly lit hallway into the dark room with only the first light of dawn falling through the windows, he didn't recognize McKay at first. Not until the outline of the figure sitting on the bed said quietly, "Promise me you will never, ever do that again."
John thought on dim lights and replied easily: "The Daedalus showed up just in time, so no harm done."
"That is no reason to fly too close to the sun," McKay said.
"What sun?"
McKay waved his hands expansively. "Never mind. Academic humor. Forget it."
John sighed, and sat down by his desk. "What is it you want from me, McKay?"
"I want you to stop taking stupid risks," McKay began. "I want you to stop going on suicide missions. I want you to stop living in denial."
"For the last time, McKay, I'm not in denial. I'm perfectly fine with feeling attracted to other men," John said, using his talking-with-children voice.
"Not what I meant, and you know it," McKay said angrily. "I want you to stop acting out of some sort of mistaken, chivalrous need to shield me. I want you to stop calling me McKay and start calling me Rodney again, and most of all, I want you to give this thing"--he gestured wildly between them--"we've got going on a chance."
"McKay," John said, then corrected himself. "Rodney. I--"
"You're shit at communicating, I get that," Rodney said. "It's not like I'm any good at it either, but then again I don't have to be because I generally don't get involved with women who demand it."
"You don't get involved with women," John said.
"True," Rodney agreed. "And I'm going out on a limb here trying to get involved with somebody who's probably got more baggage and certainly more neuroses than I do--and that's a frightening concept--but at least I'm willing to take that risk and have been all along, so how about you cut yourself some slack and try living your life, hm?"
John looked up suspiciously. "Did you and Beckett decide to tag-team me?"
"No, but these sessions with Heightmeyer seem to have given me a solid grounding in the pseudo-sciences." Rodney shuddered. "And seriously, if I'm prepared to at least attempt to comprehend basic psychology for you, then it must be love."
"It's not that easy, Rodney," John said.
"Actually, it is," Rodney said. "And believe me, I've already thought of everything you could possibly say about why it wouldn't be, and I've dismissed all of those reasons as invalid due to faulty logic."
John smiled; he had to. "And the reasons for you being right are?"
"No reasons, just a question," Rodney admitted.
"And that is?"
"Do you like me?" Rodney asked. "And I don't mean in the not-wanting-to-strangle-me-on-most-off-world-missions way."
John looked at Rodney, who was sitting there looking kind of hunched and remarkably unsure of himself for a man of his ego. "Yes, Rodney, I like you," he said. "In the I-want-to-kiss-you-when you-wake-up-with-morning-breath way."
"Then get the fuck over yourself already," Rodney said, getting up from the bed.
He was almost to the door when John said, "Wait." Rodney didn't turn around to face him, but stopped. "I don't want you to leave, but I don't know how to make you stay. At least not past tonight."
Rodney turned around. "You could just ask."
"I don't know that I can," John said, running his hands through his hair. "I mean, what happens when"--when you figure out that I can't lay myself bare like you want--"when I start progressing?"
"What happens when the Wraith figure out Atlantis is still here and turn around?" Rodney asked exasperated. "You're looking at this completely ass-about-face!"
John sighed. "Look, Beckett's been running some tests, based on some information we got from Chaya," Rodney visibly twitched at the mention of the name, "and now that we have access to Earth's resources again...well, there's a chance of him finding...something."
"And you just want to sit around and wait on the off-chance that he does?" Rodney asked. "What kind of strategy is that?"
"I'm trying to make you understand that everything could change tomorrow!" John said.
"Fine, then we'll deal with it tomorrow," McKay replied. "It's not like anyone around here knows what's going to happen from day to day. Now will you just stop overthinking every move you make?"
John got up and took a tentative step towards Rodney. "I...I can't make any promises," he said, closing the distance between them. "That didn't work out so well last time. But I'd like you to stay. Now. If you want."
"Oh, thank Christ! My next move was going to be hitting you upside the head with a plank," Rodney muttered before John took his face in his hands and leaned in for a kiss, the kind of tentative kiss that comes with nearly forty years of experience at navigating the minefield of interhuman relationships. It wasn't the best kiss in the world as far as skill was concerned, John knew, but it had a lot of promise when it came to intent.
The sex this time was different too. It wasn't the furtive groping for a hurried handjob before the next crisis could materialize. And it wasn't the wild and passionate groping of a couple of twenty-year-olds, because they were both too old for that. There were wrong starts and unspoken questions and moments of hesitation as they tried to gauge each other's baggage. But despite that, or maybe because of it, it was quite possibly the best sex John had had in years.
Afterward, when he was lying pressed against Rodney's back in the much too small bed while the sun peeked through the blinds, he said, "So I was thinking..."
"I already told you to leave the thinking to the professionals," Rodney grumbled. "How about you go to sleep instead?"
John pressed his lips to the back of Rodney's neck. "No, listen, this is important. I was thinking that maybe I should stop obsessing about it."
"My God," Rodney replied drowsily. "A miracle has happened. Praise be to Othara."
John slapped his arm lazily. "You shouldn't mock people's deeply held beliefs, you know."
"No," Rodney replied, "I should mock people's deeply held beliefs, particularly when they're wrong, wrong, wrong, such as this insane belief you have that you don't deserve a relationship just because you're--"
"Rodney," John interrupted.
"Well, hello Dumbo, nice to see you again," Rodney said. "Here, let me move over so you can get into bed with us."
John slapped his arm again. "This room really isn't big enough for an elephant and your ego," he said quietly, drawing Rodney closer to his chest.
"Trying to suffocate me isn't actually going to make the pachyderm go away," Rodney pointed out helpfully.
"True, but it might make you focus on your own medical situation instead of mine," John said.
You know," Rodney said thoughtfully, "the one angle I completely failed to consider were the complications caused by having two hypochondriacs in this relationship."
"I'm not a hypochondriac," John said, then sat up straight. "Wait, relationship?"
Rodney yawned. "Please tell me you're not going to panic about that as well."
"This is a relationship?" John asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice.
"Yes, it's been a relationship for the past year, you moron," Rodney replied. "The only difference is that now there will hopefully be regular sex with the angst and the mood swings."
"Hmm. I suppose that isn't the worst idea in the world," John agreed.
"Took you long enough," Rodney mumbled. "Try to remember that tomorrow morning, will you?"
And John did.