TEAM WAR: Fish Out of Water, "Grace, Too"
Title: Grace, Too
Author: perspi ( interview)
Team: War
Prompt: Fish Out of Water
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: "One dance, and then we'll talk cease-fire," John promises, using his free hand to carefully slide Rodney's glasses off and fold them into his shirt pocket. "You'll be home in an hour."
Notes: Title from the Tragically Hip.
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
**
John claims a high-top table in the back, perching himself on the stool and watching the seething mess of humanity that packs the rest of the bar. They're all so young, but not a one of them is innocent.
John can tell.
His lips curl in a sneer that keeps the young ones away. He can taste the taint of their iniquity; it adds a welcome depth to the scent of his beer. He settles in, ready to wait for the one he's been sent to meet.
John tastes him first: fresh and clean like a clear winter day, the scent cuts through the sweat and heat like a sword. The man who finally settles in the seat across from John does not belong here, and even the young ones can tell; he's dressed in jeans and a light gray shirt, he's pale and soft and balding just a little, he's fidgety and nervous and nebbishy behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"You?" John asks him. "They sent you?"
The man crosses his arms and juts out his chin. "Yes, me."
"Seriously?"
The man rests his elbows on the table as he leans closer to John, his scent washing forward. "I'll have you know I am an excellent negotiator. I always get what I want."
"You mean you bludgeon your opponent with your brain," John replies, leaning back and hooking one arm over the back of the stool.
"Well, yes, that," the man agrees, his mouth quirking into a lopsided smile, "and I'm quite stubborn."
"Been a long time, Rodney," John says, letting his hips slide to the edge of the seat. Rodney's eyes follow the movement before cutting back up to John's face; a blush tinges his neck just above his collar and John suddenly wants to lick it.
"One might even say ages, John," Rodney answers quietly.
They regard each other for a bare moment before Rodney slaps both hands flat on the table, everything about him going sharp. "I'd ask how you've been, but we both know. Debauch any virgins lately?"
John sends his shrug rolling from his shoulders down to his hips. "What can I say? I like my job."
"Hm," Rodney snorts derisively. "As fascinating as this is, I have better things to do, so if we could--"
"Let's dance," John interrupts, pushing himself off the stool and grabbing hold of Rodney's wrist. He manages to pull Rodney to his feet before Rodney grabs John's wrist with his other hand, and suddenly Rodney is immovable, solid and firm.
"Maybe I don't dance," he grumbles.
John turns and steps in close; Rodney's skin is cool under his fingers, around his wrist, would be cool and refreshing to John's tongue. For a moment, John feels like his chest is a gaping, painful hole, and he remembers what he's worked so hard to keep buried, wants like he hasn't in years. "C'mon, Rodney. Just once, for old times."
Rodney pulls back a little and gives John a narrow-eyed look.
"One dance, and then we'll talk cease-fire," John promises, using his free hand to carefully slide Rodney's glasses off and fold them into his shirt pocket. "You'll be home in an hour."
Reluctantly, Rodney lets go, lets John pull him out into the heat, into the music. His wrist slides easily in John's grip, but he moves awkwardly; where John slinks through the spaces between bodies, Rodney jerks and stumbles, bumping and barreling past. He doesn't apologize, doesn't notice the looks he's getting.
When John finally stops them both, Rodney simply stands, waiting and uncertain, watching with an expression John can't begin to unravel. So he steps in close, slides up to Rodney and settles them chest to chest, belly to belly. Rodney's awkward with his arms, his body held stiff, so John threads one thigh between Rodney's and wraps one arm around Rodney's waist, forcing Rodney to bend and sway with his movement. His scent is strong, crisp and intoxicating and familiar.
After a long moment, Rodney relaxes into John's hold, and they begin to really move in time with the music, the bass beat shivering in their bones, the heat of the young ones pressing in around them, pressing them together.
Rodney proves as adept as ever: he quickly matches John's little hip-swivel with one of his own, his big hands land possessively on John's shoulder and ass. John can feel Rodney's cock beginning to respond to the friction of his hip, can feel himself responding to the delicious rub of Rodney's jeans against his own.
"Fuck, I'd forgotten how good you are," Rodney whispers, his breath puffing gently over John's neck, the barest hint of longing in his voice.
Of course that's when the gunfire starts.
"OF ALL THE STUPID--" Rodney yells, then suddenly the club is filled with blinding white light. Rodney's wings open wide, shining and silver, before wrapping tightly around John and Rodney both, blocking out the smell of panic and the screams of the dying.
"I miss the days when this war-for-souls was not so much with the war," Rodney sighs into the suddenly-still air around them.
"They didn't know you were going to be here?" John asks, his breath ruffling the hair behind Rodney's ear. The light from the interior of Rodney's wings is not as bright as the exterior, but John still has to squint a little. He wants to reach up, to trace his fingers along the pulsing veins, to feel the velvet-soft skin of a wing beneath his hand, but he doesn't. He doesn't dare.
Rodney heaves a long-suffering sigh. "It doesn't matter if they knew or not. The truth is nobody's really interested in a cease-fire."
"Yeah, not really," John drawls, and Rodney shifts so they can look each other in the eye. "I'm not actually authorized to make any concessions."
"I am really fucking sick of this, of this whole fucking thing," Rodney growls, right before he kisses John.
It's everything John remembers colored by centuries apart; the memories hit with almost physical pain and the hole in his chest renews its deep ache. Rodney tastes like home, like a home John no longer has, like everything John's ever lost and taken. It's over far too soon.
John whispers into Rodney's breath, "I miss you."
"You can't come back," Rodney says sadly. John buries his face into Rodney's neck, feels Rodney's arms tighten around him. "You know that, right?"
"Yeah," John answers into soft skin.
"There's just--there's too much," Rodney says, and John feels the muscles under his cheek shift as Rodney waves a hand. "It doesn't mean you're not loved, though," Rodney murmurs into his hair. "It doesn't mean you're not mourned."
John's breath hitches; he can't hear this, he can't know this, but he cannot, cannot pull away.
"You were never meant to lose your wings."
The breath leaves John in a low sob, and he shakes with the loss of it, of them. "I want--" he chokes out, and Rodney holds him impossibly closer, wraps them even more tightly.
"I know, John," Rodney answers, knowing as always what John can't say. "You know it's funny? I don't remember you being this obtuse."
"What?" This time it's John who pulls back, frowning at Rodney, who would be beautiful if not for the smug, superior look on his face. Who is beautiful because of it.
"I didn't come to save the many, John. I came to save one."
"Rodney, no, you can't," he breathes, struggling to pull back, to pull out of his grip. He tries to vanish, to skip to somewhere, somewhen else, but he's held far too tightly in Rodney's arms, blocked by the brightness of Rodney's wings.
"I just needed to know," Rodney continues as if John isn't struggling at all. "It won't be the same, of course--we won't be the same; we'll have a choice--"
"No, no, no--fuck balance, Rodney, don't you dare give--not for me, Rodney--"
Rodney's satisfied smile is the last thing John sees before everything is engulfed in shimmering white. "I told you, John. I always get what I want."
"Major, think of where we are in the solar system."
"Did I do that?"
Poll
Author: perspi ( interview)
Team: War
Prompt: Fish Out of Water
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: "One dance, and then we'll talk cease-fire," John promises, using his free hand to carefully slide Rodney's glasses off and fold them into his shirt pocket. "You'll be home in an hour."
Notes: Title from the Tragically Hip.
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
**
John claims a high-top table in the back, perching himself on the stool and watching the seething mess of humanity that packs the rest of the bar. They're all so young, but not a one of them is innocent.
John can tell.
His lips curl in a sneer that keeps the young ones away. He can taste the taint of their iniquity; it adds a welcome depth to the scent of his beer. He settles in, ready to wait for the one he's been sent to meet.
John tastes him first: fresh and clean like a clear winter day, the scent cuts through the sweat and heat like a sword. The man who finally settles in the seat across from John does not belong here, and even the young ones can tell; he's dressed in jeans and a light gray shirt, he's pale and soft and balding just a little, he's fidgety and nervous and nebbishy behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"You?" John asks him. "They sent you?"
The man crosses his arms and juts out his chin. "Yes, me."
"Seriously?"
The man rests his elbows on the table as he leans closer to John, his scent washing forward. "I'll have you know I am an excellent negotiator. I always get what I want."
"You mean you bludgeon your opponent with your brain," John replies, leaning back and hooking one arm over the back of the stool.
"Well, yes, that," the man agrees, his mouth quirking into a lopsided smile, "and I'm quite stubborn."
"Been a long time, Rodney," John says, letting his hips slide to the edge of the seat. Rodney's eyes follow the movement before cutting back up to John's face; a blush tinges his neck just above his collar and John suddenly wants to lick it.
"One might even say ages, John," Rodney answers quietly.
They regard each other for a bare moment before Rodney slaps both hands flat on the table, everything about him going sharp. "I'd ask how you've been, but we both know. Debauch any virgins lately?"
John sends his shrug rolling from his shoulders down to his hips. "What can I say? I like my job."
"Hm," Rodney snorts derisively. "As fascinating as this is, I have better things to do, so if we could--"
"Let's dance," John interrupts, pushing himself off the stool and grabbing hold of Rodney's wrist. He manages to pull Rodney to his feet before Rodney grabs John's wrist with his other hand, and suddenly Rodney is immovable, solid and firm.
"Maybe I don't dance," he grumbles.
John turns and steps in close; Rodney's skin is cool under his fingers, around his wrist, would be cool and refreshing to John's tongue. For a moment, John feels like his chest is a gaping, painful hole, and he remembers what he's worked so hard to keep buried, wants like he hasn't in years. "C'mon, Rodney. Just once, for old times."
Rodney pulls back a little and gives John a narrow-eyed look.
"One dance, and then we'll talk cease-fire," John promises, using his free hand to carefully slide Rodney's glasses off and fold them into his shirt pocket. "You'll be home in an hour."
Reluctantly, Rodney lets go, lets John pull him out into the heat, into the music. His wrist slides easily in John's grip, but he moves awkwardly; where John slinks through the spaces between bodies, Rodney jerks and stumbles, bumping and barreling past. He doesn't apologize, doesn't notice the looks he's getting.
When John finally stops them both, Rodney simply stands, waiting and uncertain, watching with an expression John can't begin to unravel. So he steps in close, slides up to Rodney and settles them chest to chest, belly to belly. Rodney's awkward with his arms, his body held stiff, so John threads one thigh between Rodney's and wraps one arm around Rodney's waist, forcing Rodney to bend and sway with his movement. His scent is strong, crisp and intoxicating and familiar.
After a long moment, Rodney relaxes into John's hold, and they begin to really move in time with the music, the bass beat shivering in their bones, the heat of the young ones pressing in around them, pressing them together.
Rodney proves as adept as ever: he quickly matches John's little hip-swivel with one of his own, his big hands land possessively on John's shoulder and ass. John can feel Rodney's cock beginning to respond to the friction of his hip, can feel himself responding to the delicious rub of Rodney's jeans against his own.
"Fuck, I'd forgotten how good you are," Rodney whispers, his breath puffing gently over John's neck, the barest hint of longing in his voice.
Of course that's when the gunfire starts.
"OF ALL THE STUPID--" Rodney yells, then suddenly the club is filled with blinding white light. Rodney's wings open wide, shining and silver, before wrapping tightly around John and Rodney both, blocking out the smell of panic and the screams of the dying.
"I miss the days when this war-for-souls was not so much with the war," Rodney sighs into the suddenly-still air around them.
"They didn't know you were going to be here?" John asks, his breath ruffling the hair behind Rodney's ear. The light from the interior of Rodney's wings is not as bright as the exterior, but John still has to squint a little. He wants to reach up, to trace his fingers along the pulsing veins, to feel the velvet-soft skin of a wing beneath his hand, but he doesn't. He doesn't dare.
Rodney heaves a long-suffering sigh. "It doesn't matter if they knew or not. The truth is nobody's really interested in a cease-fire."
"Yeah, not really," John drawls, and Rodney shifts so they can look each other in the eye. "I'm not actually authorized to make any concessions."
"I am really fucking sick of this, of this whole fucking thing," Rodney growls, right before he kisses John.
It's everything John remembers colored by centuries apart; the memories hit with almost physical pain and the hole in his chest renews its deep ache. Rodney tastes like home, like a home John no longer has, like everything John's ever lost and taken. It's over far too soon.
John whispers into Rodney's breath, "I miss you."
"You can't come back," Rodney says sadly. John buries his face into Rodney's neck, feels Rodney's arms tighten around him. "You know that, right?"
"Yeah," John answers into soft skin.
"There's just--there's too much," Rodney says, and John feels the muscles under his cheek shift as Rodney waves a hand. "It doesn't mean you're not loved, though," Rodney murmurs into his hair. "It doesn't mean you're not mourned."
John's breath hitches; he can't hear this, he can't know this, but he cannot, cannot pull away.
"You were never meant to lose your wings."
The breath leaves John in a low sob, and he shakes with the loss of it, of them. "I want--" he chokes out, and Rodney holds him impossibly closer, wraps them even more tightly.
"I know, John," Rodney answers, knowing as always what John can't say. "You know it's funny? I don't remember you being this obtuse."
"What?" This time it's John who pulls back, frowning at Rodney, who would be beautiful if not for the smug, superior look on his face. Who is beautiful because of it.
"I didn't come to save the many, John. I came to save one."
"Rodney, no, you can't," he breathes, struggling to pull back, to pull out of his grip. He tries to vanish, to skip to somewhere, somewhen else, but he's held far too tightly in Rodney's arms, blocked by the brightness of Rodney's wings.
"I just needed to know," Rodney continues as if John isn't struggling at all. "It won't be the same, of course--we won't be the same; we'll have a choice--"
"No, no, no--fuck balance, Rodney, don't you dare give--not for me, Rodney--"
Rodney's satisfied smile is the last thing John sees before everything is engulfed in shimmering white. "I told you, John. I always get what I want."
"Major, think of where we are in the solar system."
"Did I do that?"
Poll