fic: Theory/Practice (SGA, McKay/Sheppard, NC17)
I have three stories in progress, so naturally I wrote something else.
Theory/Practice by Isis
McKay/Sheppard, NC17, about 1280 words
Thanks to z_rayne for instabeta!
ETA: now also at my website: Theory/Practice. I'd prefer pointers and recs point to the website version - thanks!
Rodney McKay learned the difference between theory and practice in grade six, when the CIA questioned him for six hours about his science fair project: a model atomic bomb. You'd think that would be enough to make the lesson stick. But sometimes he forgets.
In theory, Dr. Rodney McKay is the world's foremost expert on stargates. Hell, he's probably the foremost expert in at least two galaxies. He knows the equations that describe wormhole formation backwards and forwards, can predict the exact shape of the event horizon, and will bore you to tears if you're unwise enough to ask about discontinuities at the singularity boundary. Given enough naquadah (which nobody in his right mind would give him), he might even be able to build a stargate from scratch.
Of course he learned everything he knew from a virtual model at Area 51, which is a little bit like learning about sex by reading Dr. Ruth and Alex Comfort. Not that he would have admitted it, but in his bones he knew he lacked the depth of knowledge that only practical experience could provide. You could have threatened to blow up Chicago with his grade six science fair project, but when it came to making a big boom? Only theoretical.
In practice, when Rodney stepped through the stargate he was as nervous and excited as any botanist or marine sergeant. If he hadn't thought it inappropriate for a man in his position, he'd have jumped through backwards like Aiden Ford, shouting with glee. And when they found Atlantis - the fabled city of the Ancients! - on the other end, he was as wide-eyed as the rest of them.
In theory, Rodney likes blondes. He's liked a whole string of them (in theory), from Missy Delacroix (his babysitter when he was six, who burst into peals of laughter when he announced he was going to grow up and marry her) to Jennifer Swinton (who was the most popular girl in his high school, but as might be expected, didn't even know Rodney's name) to Susan Schmidt (who piqued Rodney's attention in college by getting the second-highest grade on the physics mid-term junior year, and lost any chance she had of taking Rodney's virginity by beating him on the final by three points) to Samantha Carter (who he still dreams about, sometimes). Blondes are popular, blondes are flirty, blondes are famously dumb - except when they aren't.
In practice, Rodney gets a little flustered any time he has to actually talk to a blonde. Even when he found out that Susan's hair color came from L'Oreal, he still babbled like an idiot whenever he asked her how she'd solved a problem on their thermodynamics homework. (She thought it was kind of cute. But to this day she's baffled as to why, when she gleefully showed him her returned final exam paper and asked him what he'd scored, he spat out, "I knew you dyed your hair!" and stomped off.)
In practice, Rodney's dated more brunettes and redheads than blondes. April Bingham, the first girl he ever kissed? Dark brown hair. The first girl he ever had sex with had dark brown hair. So did the first boy he -
In theory, Rodney is strictly heterosexual.
No, really.
In theory, Rodney wants to pass on his genes to a whole litter of astonishingly brilliant yet surprisingly attractive little McKays. (As long as their mother keeps them out of his sight. But he owes it to posterity.) He wants to spend his days in his laboratory, tinkering with Ancient technology and experimenting with rare elements in myriad combinations, calculating and modeling and building ZPMs-in-the-air; when he's too hungry and tired to think, he wants his wife to appear, smiling, with a plateful of something delicious and a steaming mug of coffee. He imagines himself shaking the hand of the king of Sweden, accepting the Nobel Prize: "And I could not have done this without the support of my lovely wife," he will say, and she will rise smiling to the applause, a willowy figure in an elegant evening gown. (She's blonde, of course.)
In practice, Rodney likes cock.
Well, he wouldn't put it quite that way. Rodney likes the jutting angle of a masculine hipbone, the subtle play of muscles under smooth skin, the soft rasp of stubble. The curve of a woman's breast draws his eye, but so does the hollow between a man's neck and shoulder.
A woman hides mysteries between her legs. Folds of scented skin, moisture that appears from nowhere, a hole that swallows him up. But a man has a penis, and guess what? So does Rodney. He knows exactly how to stroke, how hard to squeeze, and he knows to slide two wet fingers behind the balls while he licks down the shaft, because that's what he likes, himself. A cock is right out there in the open. What you see is what you get, in your mouth or in your ass, and he likes it that way.
In practice, Rodney sucks cock like a pro, and he comes hardest when he's jerking off in the shower, one hand around his dick and the other at his hole, and he's thinking of John Sheppard.
In theory, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is his counterpart. His opposite number on what could be considered the ruling council of Atlantis; Dr. McKay represents the scientists, and Colonel Sheppard represents the military, and any student of history would immediately recognize the classic set-up for power struggles and domination games.
In theory, Sheppard and McKay wouldn't have much to do with each other, except maybe plot each other's downfall. (Not that they haven't considered it once or twice.)
But in practice, Sheppard chose McKay for his off-world exploration team and taught him how to use a gun and fly a spaceship. Sheppard's smarter than he looks, smarter than he acts (and the fact that he acts as though he isn't smart proves that he's very, very smart), and he might not be able to follow everything Rodney says, but when he doesn't, he knows what questions to ask.
In practice, John Sheppard is Rodney's best friend.
In theory, John Sheppard could be Rodney's lover.
Certainly Rodney would like that very much, at least in theory. Right now his knowledge of what John's neck would taste like as he licked and kissed along his skin is entirely theoretical. He can only make guesses at how John might respond to a tongue in his ear, to a hand cupped around his cock, to fingers sliding inside him.
Rodney could follow him to his room, slip in and close the door and pin him to the wall. He could storm his mouth with kisses, run his hands under the tight T-shirt along John's ribs, slide a thumb across a nipple. He could drop to his knees and undo John's fly and take him into his mouth. He could say, "I want you to fuck me." In theory.
In practice, Rodney knows it would be a nightmare. The Atlantis military might be multinational, but Sheppard's in the US Air Force, and they're not exactly known for their tolerance of homosexuality. And that's leaving aside the whole chain of command thing, the whole don't dip your pen in the company inkwell thing, the whole why mess up a good friendship thing.
In practice, John has never given any indication to Rodney that he is anything other than perfectly straight.
In practice, Rodney jerks off in the shower a lot.
In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice.
In practice, there is.
Theory/Practice by Isis
McKay/Sheppard, NC17, about 1280 words
Thanks to z_rayne for instabeta!
ETA: now also at my website: Theory/Practice. I'd prefer pointers and recs point to the website version - thanks!
Rodney McKay learned the difference between theory and practice in grade six, when the CIA questioned him for six hours about his science fair project: a model atomic bomb. You'd think that would be enough to make the lesson stick. But sometimes he forgets.
In theory, Dr. Rodney McKay is the world's foremost expert on stargates. Hell, he's probably the foremost expert in at least two galaxies. He knows the equations that describe wormhole formation backwards and forwards, can predict the exact shape of the event horizon, and will bore you to tears if you're unwise enough to ask about discontinuities at the singularity boundary. Given enough naquadah (which nobody in his right mind would give him), he might even be able to build a stargate from scratch.
Of course he learned everything he knew from a virtual model at Area 51, which is a little bit like learning about sex by reading Dr. Ruth and Alex Comfort. Not that he would have admitted it, but in his bones he knew he lacked the depth of knowledge that only practical experience could provide. You could have threatened to blow up Chicago with his grade six science fair project, but when it came to making a big boom? Only theoretical.
In practice, when Rodney stepped through the stargate he was as nervous and excited as any botanist or marine sergeant. If he hadn't thought it inappropriate for a man in his position, he'd have jumped through backwards like Aiden Ford, shouting with glee. And when they found Atlantis - the fabled city of the Ancients! - on the other end, he was as wide-eyed as the rest of them.
In theory, Rodney likes blondes. He's liked a whole string of them (in theory), from Missy Delacroix (his babysitter when he was six, who burst into peals of laughter when he announced he was going to grow up and marry her) to Jennifer Swinton (who was the most popular girl in his high school, but as might be expected, didn't even know Rodney's name) to Susan Schmidt (who piqued Rodney's attention in college by getting the second-highest grade on the physics mid-term junior year, and lost any chance she had of taking Rodney's virginity by beating him on the final by three points) to Samantha Carter (who he still dreams about, sometimes). Blondes are popular, blondes are flirty, blondes are famously dumb - except when they aren't.
In practice, Rodney gets a little flustered any time he has to actually talk to a blonde. Even when he found out that Susan's hair color came from L'Oreal, he still babbled like an idiot whenever he asked her how she'd solved a problem on their thermodynamics homework. (She thought it was kind of cute. But to this day she's baffled as to why, when she gleefully showed him her returned final exam paper and asked him what he'd scored, he spat out, "I knew you dyed your hair!" and stomped off.)
In practice, Rodney's dated more brunettes and redheads than blondes. April Bingham, the first girl he ever kissed? Dark brown hair. The first girl he ever had sex with had dark brown hair. So did the first boy he -
In theory, Rodney is strictly heterosexual.
No, really.
In theory, Rodney wants to pass on his genes to a whole litter of astonishingly brilliant yet surprisingly attractive little McKays. (As long as their mother keeps them out of his sight. But he owes it to posterity.) He wants to spend his days in his laboratory, tinkering with Ancient technology and experimenting with rare elements in myriad combinations, calculating and modeling and building ZPMs-in-the-air; when he's too hungry and tired to think, he wants his wife to appear, smiling, with a plateful of something delicious and a steaming mug of coffee. He imagines himself shaking the hand of the king of Sweden, accepting the Nobel Prize: "And I could not have done this without the support of my lovely wife," he will say, and she will rise smiling to the applause, a willowy figure in an elegant evening gown. (She's blonde, of course.)
In practice, Rodney likes cock.
Well, he wouldn't put it quite that way. Rodney likes the jutting angle of a masculine hipbone, the subtle play of muscles under smooth skin, the soft rasp of stubble. The curve of a woman's breast draws his eye, but so does the hollow between a man's neck and shoulder.
A woman hides mysteries between her legs. Folds of scented skin, moisture that appears from nowhere, a hole that swallows him up. But a man has a penis, and guess what? So does Rodney. He knows exactly how to stroke, how hard to squeeze, and he knows to slide two wet fingers behind the balls while he licks down the shaft, because that's what he likes, himself. A cock is right out there in the open. What you see is what you get, in your mouth or in your ass, and he likes it that way.
In practice, Rodney sucks cock like a pro, and he comes hardest when he's jerking off in the shower, one hand around his dick and the other at his hole, and he's thinking of John Sheppard.
In theory, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is his counterpart. His opposite number on what could be considered the ruling council of Atlantis; Dr. McKay represents the scientists, and Colonel Sheppard represents the military, and any student of history would immediately recognize the classic set-up for power struggles and domination games.
In theory, Sheppard and McKay wouldn't have much to do with each other, except maybe plot each other's downfall. (Not that they haven't considered it once or twice.)
But in practice, Sheppard chose McKay for his off-world exploration team and taught him how to use a gun and fly a spaceship. Sheppard's smarter than he looks, smarter than he acts (and the fact that he acts as though he isn't smart proves that he's very, very smart), and he might not be able to follow everything Rodney says, but when he doesn't, he knows what questions to ask.
In practice, John Sheppard is Rodney's best friend.
In theory, John Sheppard could be Rodney's lover.
Certainly Rodney would like that very much, at least in theory. Right now his knowledge of what John's neck would taste like as he licked and kissed along his skin is entirely theoretical. He can only make guesses at how John might respond to a tongue in his ear, to a hand cupped around his cock, to fingers sliding inside him.
Rodney could follow him to his room, slip in and close the door and pin him to the wall. He could storm his mouth with kisses, run his hands under the tight T-shirt along John's ribs, slide a thumb across a nipple. He could drop to his knees and undo John's fly and take him into his mouth. He could say, "I want you to fuck me." In theory.
In practice, Rodney knows it would be a nightmare. The Atlantis military might be multinational, but Sheppard's in the US Air Force, and they're not exactly known for their tolerance of homosexuality. And that's leaving aside the whole chain of command thing, the whole don't dip your pen in the company inkwell thing, the whole why mess up a good friendship thing.
In practice, John has never given any indication to Rodney that he is anything other than perfectly straight.
In practice, Rodney jerks off in the shower a lot.
In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice.
In practice, there is.