(no subject)

[purna]

*

They ended up necking on the couch and missed half the Star Trek marathon, because debating the relative merits of the Kirk versus Gorn episode--"C'mon, he looks like a Sleestak," and "Land of the Lost? Jesus, you are a geek"--was weirdly hot, and John gave in to the urge to blow McKay right then and there. After that, McKay offered to reciprocate, but he pled bad knees and for a change in venue, and John couldn't argue with his reasoning.

John stayed over, and things heated up again in the wee hours of the night. He emerged from an erotic dream, achingly hard, and he was lazy and horny and only half-awake when he rolled over to let McKay fuck him.

McKay spooned up against his back, and it was like a continuation of the dream. McKay was hard, his erection poking John in the back, his mouth coming down wet and hot on John's shoulder. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to press back against McKay, growling a little when the tip of McKay's cock slid into the crease of his ass.

"Go ahead," John said, half-drunk on the need to feel someone on him, in him, a man's weight on his back.

He hadn't done that in years, and hadn't really planned on doing it with McKay, but things happened that way sometimes. Giving in to that need to get fucked probably wasn't smart. It tended to mess with his head, but even his dumbest ideas tended to make more sense in the quiet pre-dawn darkness.

"Just a second." McKay moved, clambering over John's body to get to the bedside table. He rooted around in the drawer around for a long time, cursing under his breath. "I know I saw it in here somewhere," he added, sounding impatient.

John breathed in the comfortable smell of McKay's sheets, his drowsiness held off by the prickle of nervous anticipation and the heat rising in his gut. Just the thought of having McKay's intensity channeled into fucking him was doing strange things to his insides.

"Aha, found it," McKay crowed. Something thumped onto the sheets next to John's shoulder, and then McKay himself was back, sliding into place next to John, propped up on his side. John followed his lead, lazily rolling onto his right side so that his back was against McKay's chest.

He pushed his ass back against McKay's groin. "Oh, fuck," McKay groaned, rocking his hips against John's ass. McKay's erection hadn't softened during his bedside rummaging, and John felt his groin tighten at the thought.

Arousal was cutting through John's drowsiness, and he moved his left leg forward and out of the way. It left him wide open, no hiding his eagerness to get fucked, and it was part of why he hardly ever did this. There was no distance here, no protective surface. This was too real, too intimate for deception.

"Wait, jeez, wait," McKay said, pulling back a little. John heard a plastic-sounding pop, and then a cold, slick finger was pushing into his ass, making him hiss.

"Don't stop," he whispered. McKay didn't, and they were both breathing hard, the quiet of the room cut by the sounds of their gasps and groans. Here and now, he didn't have to bite back the sex sounds, he realized, and that was a rush, something that turned him shy and slutty at the same time. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and let himself go, groaning as loudly as he could.

"Want to fuck you now," McKay said on the heels of the sound, and after that McKay wasted no time, careful in spite of his shaking fingers. Heat rushed to John's face and his groin at the thought of McKay's fingers inside him, getting him ready for McKay's cock.

There was the crinkle of a wrapper being ripped open and the unmistakable latex smell, and the cold touch of more slick. And then John's unspoken wish became reality, the blunt push of McKay's cock into him, the head popping just inside. John froze, and McKay froze with him. He'd somehow forgotten this part, the momentary crawling panic, oh, christ, too big, that'll never fit, and he made himself breathe through it, made himself relax.

Easy, easy, and the moment felt endless. Let go, and his ass unclenched a little, and then a lot, and then McKay was sliding into him, and it was, yes, so much better. McKay slid into him slow and easy until he hit the spot inside, and John let out a sound at the spark of sensation. "Yeah, right there. C'mon, McKay."

McKay didn't break from his deliberate pace, nudging the spot lightly, and easing out with excruciating slowness. "Christ, come on, McKay," John growled, pushing back against the solid body behind him. "We're fucking here, not having high tea."

That got through, pushed McKay into finally putting his back into it. Goaded, McKay had a feral side and wasn't afraid to use his teeth and strength to pin John to the bed and fuck him silly.

John came so hard he saw stars. As sweaty and gross as they were, they slept like the dead after that, and it was the best night's sleep John had had in weeks.

He was still feeling it in the morning, tired and sore and relaxed, and McKay could fuck like a champion and hadn't freaked out on him once. It all felt comfortable and almost domestic in a way that John tried not to think too much about.

The next morning, they kicked back on the deck in nothing but boxers and sweatshirts, drinking their coffee and watching the sun on the water. At least, John was watching the water. McKay never seemed to enjoy looking out at the ocean. In fact he'd actually gone white when John invited him down for a swim. Which made his possession of an expensive beach house just one more piece of the puzzle that was Rodney McKay, John mused, glancing over to see that McKay was watching him.

"How long have you been a lifeguard?" McKay asked, his casual tone a little at odds with the serious look in his eyes.

John deliberately took a big swallow of coffee, burning his tongue. After a moment, he said, "Not long."

McKay nodded, as if to himself, and John felt his shoulders tensing. "What made you...choose that line of work?" The question was cut by a long pause that made John sure McKay'd been about to ask something else.

John shrugged. "I happened to be at the beach when they had open try-outs. Seemed like a good idea at the time. It's an okay job."

Too strapped for a hotel and tired of the fruitless search for a cheap apartment, he'd taken to parking at the beach, crashing in his car. He'd been bumming through another morning by the water when he'd been caught up in the crowd of lifeguard hopefuls. He'd done the swim test on a whim and ended up qualifying easily.

McKay looked down at the deck. "You like to save people," he said softly.

Blue eyes caught his before he could shrug again, and then McKay was smiling. Without any warning, he leaned over and stole a coffee-flavored kiss. It started quick and light but tripped over into hot and nasty, coffee sloshing as their mugs slammed down onto the patio table, strong tongue and then hands and groping.

The idea floated up from the base of John's brain, crazy and hot and irresistible, and he didn't even try. He pulled away from the kiss and slid down to his knees--the old instincts screaming at him, too public, this is stupid--and one of the few good things about being asked to resign his commission was that he could tell his instincts to go fuck themselves.

McKay's violent gasp made John smile, and a shudder went though the man when John's hands slid up bare shins, ruffling the hair there. He pushed McKay's knees apart and shouldered his way into the space between McKay's thighs. Shooting one last look up at McKay's saucer eyes and gaping mouth, he leaned in to shove his face into the crotch of McKay's boxers. The musky smell was all male and all McKay, and he scrubbed his unshaven cheek against the cloth covering McKay's swelling hardness.

"Oh, my god," McKay said, sounding stunned. "We're having sex on my deck."

John's laugh was muffled; he was mouthing McKay's cock through the fabric of his boxers. The spreading wet spot on McKay's underwear was a mixture of John's saliva and McKay's pre-come; the faint detergent taste of the cloth mixed with the mild bitterness of McKay.

McKay was making breathy little moans that went right to John's cock. It thickened between his thighs, trapped by his shorts.

"Please, please," McKay muttered under his breath, and John decided to take that as direction. He spread the flap of McKay's boxers, sighing when McKay's stiff, red cock poked through the opening.

John let out an appreciative noise. He didn't tease, just leaned in and wrapped his mouth around the head of McKay's cock. It felt dangerous and exciting, sucking cock in the open air, everything about them exposed for the world to see. It felt like freedom.

Freedom to move McKay like this, to pull these sounds from him, and John's knees were reminding him he wasn't twenty anymore, but he ignored them.

He sucked until his cheeks and jaw were sore, but he didn't stop when McKay stiffened in his chair, swallowing him down as McKay came and came.

"Jesus," McKay wheezed, and slid right out of his chair, clutching at John as he joined him on the deck. "Oh, Jesus, let me," McKay said and fumbled inside John's boxers, and god, finally, a warm, strong hand wrapped around him.

He grunted and sighed as McKay's fingers slid up and down his cock, McKay's mouth pressed into his neck, warm tongue tasting his racing pulse. "You're so hot, so fucking hot," McKay muttered, leaning in to suck on John's neck.

McKay bit down, hard, into the vulnerable flesh of his neck, and that was what tripped John over, made him stiffen and come all over McKay's hands.

They knelt there on the deck, still clutching at each other, their breathing slowing. The come was going cold in John's shorts by the time they pulled away enough to look at each other. McKay stared over at John, a smile twitching at his lips.

"What?" John asked, trying not to laugh.

"What, 'what'? " McKay said, a contented look in his eyes as he tilted his head at John. "I like looking at you. You should stay here tonight, so that I can look at you some more."

It was a very McKay thing to say, bald and straightforward, and John surprised himself by flushing a little. The smart thing would be to turn McKay down, to get some distance, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to cut himself off from McKay, from whatever was developing between them.

John finally shrugged. "Sure."

"You'll come back here after your shift?" McKay asked, a strange look on his face, almost relieved, but sad at the same time.

"I said I would, didn't I?" John said patiently.

McKay leaned forward to slam a hard kiss onto John's mouth, more desperate than possessive.

"Easy there," John said when they parted. He cupped the side of McKay's neck with a hand, a little confused by McKay's reaction.

McKay offered no explanation, just nodded and led them inside. They cleaned themselves up, and John changed his underwear before they headed back onto the deck. Rounding up some fresh coffee, they went back to sunning lazily on the deck.

There wasn't much talking, but the silence felt natural, and John was again amazed by how comfortable he was with McKay. It was frighteningly easy to just sit with him, even when they weren't getting all sweaty together.

"You run, don't you?" McKay said, when he caught John eyeing the packed sand of the low-tide beach.

"I'll go later," John said, but McKay flapped a hand at him.

"Go, do your disgustingly healthy thing. Gotta keep that girlish figure of yours."

John rolled his eyes and went to change. He winced his way through the run, but he'd be damned if he was changing his routine because of enthusiastic sex. Trekking back up the cliff path to McKay's house, he paused at the base of the deck stairs, knocking the sand off his running shoes.

McKay must have left the glass doors to the deck wide open; voices drifted down from inside the house.

"...got nerve, sending you. What part of 'no' do they not get?" That was McKay's voice, a trace of panic sharpening his words beneath the surface exasperation

"They need you. I need you," a deep voice replied. "We all need you, but you're busy here playing beach bum with that slacker lifeguard--"

"Leave him out of it," McKay interrupted, low and fierce.

Leaning against the stair railing, John went still. Someone was keeping tabs on McKay, someone good enough that John hadn't even noticed.

McKay's response had silenced the other man for a moment, but it didn't last. He spoke, in a softer tone. "I don't want to go back without you, McKay."

"That's too bad," McKay said, his voice going a little shrill. "I can't go back. The Genii--" He cut himself short. "You should know better than anyone that I can't go back."

A long stretch of silence, and then the deep voice said, "It scares the shit out of me, too. I saw what they did to you. They made me watch. Christ, I should have stopped them." The flat, colorless tone was one that John knew all too well.

McKay's voice softened. "You did all you could. They would have killed you. Who would have saved my ass, then?"

The deep voice kept going, "I hate having to ask this, McKay. I know you deserve a rest. But I'll tell you straight up...we need you. We really need you. And maybe sometimes you just have to face your fears."

"On the contrary, I'm quite content with my fears staying far, far away, in another galaxy, as it were. And yeah, you dragged my ass out when the city was coming down around our ears, and I owe you for that. But not this. I can't do this."

City? Carol's mysterious government project was looking even more mysterious. But he didn't have time to try to puzzle it out: McKay sounded like he was about to have an aneurysm, and John had had enough. He loudly thumped his way up the stairs.

"McKay, I'm starving," he called out before he reached the top.

Two faces swiveled towards him when he stepped onto the deck. John slouched his way into the house and narrowed his eyes at the man with McKay. Dark and solid, he stood with painfully perfect posture, and his short, tightly-curled hair was just starting to recede to reveal a high forehead. Dark brown eyes glared right back at John, and even without a uniform, there was a no-nonsense, suspicious air about him that screamed NCO.

"Ah, John," McKay said, sounding flustered. His hand went up to gesture towards the stranger. "This is Se--" McKay stopped himself at a sharp look from the man. "I mean, this is, um, Bates. Mr. Bates."

Yeah, right, thought John. "John Sheppard." He held a hand out and unobtrusively slid between McKay and Bates, whose face was growing a disgruntled frown. He looked like he had a stick shoved right up his ass, and John so would've gone for a macho knuckle-buster of a handshake if the man hadn't apparently saved McKay's life at some point.

Bates' expression was skeptical as his eyes moved from John's sweaty, tousled hair down to his ratty T-shirt and running shorts. It triggered John's contrary streak; he slouched even more, hooking an elbow onto McKay's shoulder, leaning into McKay's space.

"How do you know McKay, Mr. Bates?" he asked. He made sure his voice was low and careless, flippant enough to make Bates' frown deepen.

McKay had jumped a little when John got so close, but he didn't move away from the contact. He stared over at John, looking pleased and flushed.

"We used to work together," Bates said, tight-lipped. He turned his attention to McKay. "I should be going. You will consider what we were talking about?"

"You already know my answer," McKay said, his mouth pulling down on one side.

Bates' narrowed eyes bounced between him and McKay as they showed him to the door. "Bye, now," John said, in a bright tone, which earned him one last glare.

McKay slammed the front door and leaned back against the door's surface. He closed his eyes with a sigh, but they popped open again when John leaned over to cup McKay's chin in his hand. His thumb moved back and forth over McKay's mouth, and McKay's eyes widened.

He was leaning in for the kiss when McKay spoke. "How much did you overhear?" he asked carefully.

John pulled back with a sigh, the hesitation deepening McKay's frown. "Enough to know you've earned your retirement," John said. "You were tortured. Sergeant Bates should leave you alone."

It was a guess, but it made sense. Some of McKay's scars had looked deliberate, placed with a malicious care that made John insides go cold just thinking about.

McKay's expression went still, and then he shouldered his way past John to hover at the center of the room. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes. "It's not that simple. Sergeant Bates saved my life."

"He kept a civilian safe. That's the job," John shot back.

McKay opened his eyes. "You used to be military." There was no surprise in the quiet voice. John felt his lips tighten, but McKay wasn't done yet. "A pilot, right? I bet you wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid. Aerospace engineering," he added, waving a finger at the sky as if to support his reasoning.

John gave a short jerk of a nod but didn't let himself be diverted. "And you were a scientist working in some kind of war zone," he guessed. "Until it all went bad."

McKay sighed, scrubbing at his face. "That's...a pretty accurate description, actually. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Signed your life away, I know," John said. He shrugged. "Talk if you need to. Or don't."

"I think I'll make breakfast," McKay said after a pause. He was clattering around in a lower cabinet, his face hidden, when he spoke again. "I don't think I'm ready. Not yet. But thanks all the same."

"It's just...I can relate," John said through stiff lips.

McKay stood up from his crouch, a skillet in one hand. His eyes met John's, his expression shadowed. "I thought you might." Ducking his head, he set the skillet on the stove. "John, on the topic of needing to talk--"

"I'm good," John said quickly. "I'm good. Now, was that bacon I saw in your fridge?"

*

It was a bad shift. Three exhausting rip current rescues were followed by an allergic reaction to a bee sting. John couldn't do much as they watched the little girl struggle for breath, as frantic for the arrival of the medical team as the helpless parents.

He was glad to have McKay's undemanding company after that. John talked about the little girl, and McKay took a breath and pulled out his own epi-pen and revealed an up close and personal knowledge of anaphylactic shock.

There was beer and Chinese delivery and a slow decompression after that, and then the welcome distraction of bending McKay over the breakfast bar and fucking him within an inch of his life.

"We eat here," McKay said afterwards in a disgusted voice, eyeing the bar stool he'd decorated with come. John couldn't stop laughing, punchy as hell and lightheaded, and McKay shot him a fond you're such a freak look that set him off again.

Maybe because he was dead tired, the dreams came back that night. The smell of aviation fuel mixed with the taste of desert dust, choking him, and the heavy weight of Holland rolled off his shoulders onto the sand--sightless eyes, dead, oh, god, dead but wait, this isn't the way it happened--and the flash of wrongness was what brought him out of it.

He woke, his heart racing, still trapped in the frantic images. He vaguely thought he'd heard a shout and wondered if it had been his own.

"Ow, damn it, John." McKay's voice came from the floor.

John was finally catching his breath; he reached over to flick on the bedside light. He looked over to see McKay sprawled on the floor, clutching at his nose. He frowned, gesturing towards McKay's face. "I did that?" He couldn't stop the shake in his voice.

McKay pulled himself back up onto the bed and nodded. "Knocked me right out of bed," he said, pinching his nostrils. He peered at his fingers. "It's not bleeding." McKay looked over at him, eyebrows raised. "That was some dream."

"Yeah." John turned out the light, ignoring McKay's implied question.

They were settled back under the covers, the room dark and quiet, when McKay moved closer. He slid a heavy arm across John's chest, and his mouth was soft and wet on the skin where John's neck met his shoulder.

"Your dreams." McKay's voice was muffled against John's skin. "Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," John said after a long silence, his voice rough. He could hear McKay let out a sigh.

"You said the name Holland," McKay said cautiously.

John had pulled himself out of McKay's arms and was sitting up on the edge of the bed, the light flipped on, almost before he'd realized it.

"Jesus, John." McKay was sliding a hand up his bare back. "We don't have to talk about it."

Rooting around on the floor for his boxers, John barely heard the words.

"Shit," McKay muttered. "John, calm down; I won't push you. I told myself I wouldn't push you. But please don't leave. Come on, you don't have anywhere to go." The last sentence was almost shrill, McKay sounding frantic.

John froze. "What did you say?"

McKay was silent; John looked over to see that he'd buried his face in his hands. "What did you say?" John repeated, his tone oddly calm.

"I wasn't going to say anything. It slipped out, I swear."

"McKay."

McKay's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed. "You're living in your car," he said, his voice gone sharp, almost angry. "You don't need to do that. I can help. Look, you can stay in the guest room, if you want." His voice went low, persuasive. "You don't have to leave."

McKay's hands eased their way up John's spine, comforting and warm in a way that John wanted to shrug off. But walking away from McKay had somehow become impossible, and John let himself be coaxed, relaxing back into McKay's embrace.

Lights out once more, John sighed and let McKay arrange them both under the covers.

"What gave it away?" he asked, sounded resigned.

McKay sounded sleepy. "The sleeping bag. The surfboard that's always on your car. I guess I just put things together."

John nodded. It was awkward with McKay half-lying on him, but he didn't move. He reached over to weave his fingers with McKay's.

"Guest room, huh?" he said finally, going for an arch tone.

"Don't even think about it," McKay muttered, already mostly asleep.

*

At the VA hospital, John was ahead of his reading schedule. They were up to Book Five and Pierre Bezukhov was drowning his guilt in Freemasonry, ready to renounce his atheism. John's voice stumbled and he finally had to stop reading. His grip on the book tightened, crumpling the pages and cracking the book's spine.

He looked over at Hol, silent and still on the bed. "I think it must be easier," he said finally. "To be able to believe like that."

Holland breathed in and out, slowly, softly, and didn't even flinch when the book hit the window with a thud.

*

"You can't see it from here." McKay sounded pensive, his words almost too low for John to hear.

"See what?"

John's question made McKay start, as if he hadn't realized he'd been speaking aloud. McKay sucked in a noisy breath but didn't answer. "There's Vega," he said quickly. "That one." He wrapped a hand around John's wrist, shifting the finger John had pointed at Perseus to another part of the sky.

They were lying on their backs out on the deck, trying to stargaze through the light pollution. McKay's shoulder was warm against John's, and he hadn't moved the hand on John's wrist.

"White main sequence star, about seven parsecs away." John let out a smug bark of a laugh at dredging up that bit of trivia from the cobwebbed corners of his brain.

"Closer to eight, smartass. Paaaarsec." McKay stretched out the first syllable and rolled the word off his tongue. "I've always liked that word. Makes me think of Han Solo."

"Geek." John nudged McKay's knee with his own. Before McKay could start huffing, John used a finger to trace a line between Cygnus' tail and head. "Deneb. And Albireo." He nodded up at the sky, even though the gesture was probably lost in the darkness. "My mother taught me these," he said quietly.

"So did mine." McKay sounded startled, his head turning to look over at John.

The stars stood out weakly here, but John was remembering the inky black of a rural Georgia sky. "I said I wanted to visit every star in the sky, and she told me that would take a long time. I was nine."

His chest had ached with it, the need barely formed, but powerfully real. He'd wanted to go, to see, to be free to fly to each of those distant points of light.

McKay chuckled, the sound low and warm in the darkness. "My parents were fighting like cats and dogs, so my sister Jeannie and I used to stay up half the night in the backyard with the telescope. The neighbors thought we were freaks, figured we were teenage voyeurs trying to watch all the suburban moms and dads not having sex."

"Where'd you grow up?" John asked. He knew some pretty intimate things about McKay that it seemed strange to think he'd missed some of the basic getting-to-know-you stuff.

"Toronto. You?"

"All over. Texas and Hawaii for high school," John said.

"Hawaii's where you learned to surf?" McKay gave John's wrist a squeeze.

"Yeah." John smiled as he thought about that first time on a surfboard, the sense of rightness. There'd been one perfect second of balance and speed and the power of the wave beneath him, before he'd wiped out spectacularly. It had made up for the suckitude of being the new kid, again, for the billionth time in the middle of his junior year.

It wasn't until McKay let out a breath and said, "You make surfing sound sexy," that John realized he'd said all of that aloud.

"It's almost as sexy as sex." John made sure his smirk came through loud and clear.

McKay propped himself onto his side, facing John. John shut his eyes to enjoy the warmth pressed against him, the glide of McKay's fingers up his arm from his wrist to his shoulder.

They ended up making out there in the darkness, until the chill and the unforgiving surface drove them inside, to a comfortable bed and John on his back, his legs draped over McKay's broad shoulders.

Being folded up like a pretzel with McKay's weight pressing down on him made it a little hard to breathe, but John didn't care. McKay slid into him, filled him up, stretched him out. John growled, his head slamming back against the pillows, and McKay's mouth sought out the exposed line of his neck, mouth and teeth working at his skin. He could feel the marks already. They'd turn into dark bruises by morning, and a part of him welcomed the thought of wearing such obvious signs.

When he came, long and loud and hard, the clenching of his ass muscles around McKay's cock set him off even more, deepened the intensity of the orgasm. He got come everywhere, on the sheets and on his chest and even in his fucking hair.

McKay held on until John was down to lethargy and shivers, and then McKay let out a ragged sound and slammed into him, over and over, shoving him into the sheets and almost painfully into the headboard.

"John, John," McKay said, and then, "Fuck." John's ass was really starting to hurt when McKay pushed into him one more time, a ragged, stuttering thrust, and then let go, coming with his teeth clenched against his shout.

John didn't realize his face was wet until after McKay had pulled out, his fingers going out to trace a line from the corner of John's eye to his ear.

"Did I hurt you?" McKay blurted, and then, "What?" when John started laughing, strung-out and well-fucked and hugging McKay with arms that felt like noodles.

*

They continued in that vein, strangely careful with each other. McKay didn't question when John left early most mornings, hours before the start of his shift. They danced around certain subjects, like the dreams they both had and the whispered, angry way McKay sometimes answered his phone.

One night turned into two, and then a week, and then somehow they were going grocery shopping together. The argument over milk was the kicker for John, skim or whole, and he nearly freaked out right there in the dairy aisle. His knees went wobbly, and he had to sit, the cold edge of the milk cooler cutting across his ass.

"John, you okay?" McKay asked, and he looked so normal, harmless, hair fluffy and sticking up from where John had smacked him for dithering over melons, for crissake, and the grocery list on a post-it note stuck to one hand. The rush of affection was unexpected but not unwelcome, and John managed to hold in the hysterical laughter that threatened.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he said finally, pushing himself upright again. It's just that I never expected this, but he didn't say it out loud, because he couldn't imagine having that discussion anywhere, much less in the middle of Albertsons.

There was another weird moment at the cash register, when John beat McKay to the punch, pulling cash from his wallet while McKay was still fumbling at his back pocket.

"I got it," McKay said, pulling out his credit card. He was shooting John a strange look, concern hovering under annoyance, and John wanted to snarl that he wasn't a charity case.

He stopped himself from ripping into McKay, just barely, because fair was fair and McKay didn't actually deserve it. Living in his car didn't present a picture of financial stability, and he had to admit that there wasn't a trace of pity in McKay's gaze.

But John couldn't help the stiffness that took over his face, and McKay's chin came up in response.

The clerk broke the tension, taking McKay's credit card and then snagging two twenties from John. "Here," she said, leaning over to slide the money into McKay's shirt pocket. "Split it between the two of you. That's fair, right?"

"More than fair." McKay shot John an apologetic glance, mouth quirked. He tucked the bills away into his wallet, his eyes not leaving John's. "We good?" he asked.

"We're good," John said slowly, and he didn't think they were just talking about the grocery bill.

*

That wasn't the end of it, since it turned out that neither of them had good track records with playing well with others. But the divots and bumps of their personalities meshed more than clashed, which seemed to be a new experience for both of them. They managed surprisingly well.

John found himself waking up too warm and tangled around McKay, thinking huh. His usual urge to untangle himself, to keep his personal space his own, seemed to give McKay a free pass.

He decided to take McKay's dislike of the ocean as a personal challenge, and a judicious application of wheedling and sex got McKay down onto the beach. The sea breeze had died some time during the night, and the ocean was dead calm, and John's blowjob turned out to be highly persuasive.

The sun beat down comfortably warm onto John's shoulders, offsetting the chill of the waist-deep water that he stood in. Stiff as the surfboard beneath him, McKay floated next to him, nearly motionless on the still surface of the ocean.

"It's fine, see?" John said, one hand on the board and the other on McKay's shoulder.

A snort was the only response. McKay's eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth an unhappy slant, and he was wearing a T-shirt. McKay hardly ever went without a shirt, even in bed.

The shirt was soaking wet and clung to his chest, his nipples standing erect under the cloth. John tried to ignore the distraction; this was about dealing with McKay's phobia, not his sex appeal.

McKay's fingers had a white-knuckled grip on John's surfboard.

"Relax," John said. "You're not going to drown."

John felt McKay's laugh more than heard it, the jerk of his shoulder followed by a mumble.

"What?" John asked.

McKay pried open one eyelid, the glare making him squint as he looked up at John. "I said that I'm not afraid of drowning. Well, I am afraid of that, but not more than anyone else."

John kept silent, waiting, and McKay continued, sounding almost dreamy. "I can hear them sometimes, even when I'm awake. Voices, carried over the water."

Flashback, but John said only, "Hear who?"

"Atla--" McKay stopped himself and started over. "All the people I should have saved." He sat up, straddling the board. "People died because of me," he said, his expression crumbling a little, and there wasn't much John could say to that.

John managed a small nod. "It happens. Sometimes no matter what you do, people die." Or worse, he thought and had to close his eyes for a second.

He opened them to find McKay watching him. "John?"

John shrugged it off, shaking his head. "When we first met," he said slowly. "Was that why you were in the water? You heard them?"

McKay nodded, his eyes closing.

John leaned forward, and the kiss was almost chaste. Closed mouth and dry, and the only comfort John could offer.

*

John went back to reading War and Peace during his next visit to the hospital, a little ashamed of his outburst and subsequent book abuse. He'd found the paperback in its usual spot on the dresser, the wrinkled pages and the creases in the cover smoothed out.

"You found your book?" asked one of the orderlies, the harried lines of his face molding into genuine concern. "I saw it during Captain Holland's last PT session."

John nodded, trying not to flush. "Thanks," he managed.

"It's good, you reading to him," the orderly said, and John tried not to cringe. The man seemed unaware of John's discomfort. "If I was ever, you know... I'd want someone visiting, reading to me, like you do."

I'd rather be dead. John couldn't help the flash of thought. It should have been me. He almost said the words out loud and came close to losing it right there. The blood drained from his face, and he had to bite the inside of cheek so hard he tasted copper.

Holland's thirst for flying had been even deeper than John's. They'd had more than one drunken bull session on the subject: flying like sex, freedom and razor sharp control and moving through the air, the faster the better.

They were tight, friends with a shared love of scotch and poker and with twin needs to push the limits of machine and man. They were buddies. At least that was what John had told himself when he looked at his friend and some treacherous part of him couldn't help wanting more.

The orderly's smile was fading. John had been silent too long.

"We're buddies," John said finally, managing to smile back. "It's no big deal."

*

"I don't feel so good," John said to the speckled vinyl floor of the ER waiting room. Bent over, his head between his knees, he was trying not to spew the contents of his stomach and maybe wishing that he hadn't been so quick to brush off the lifeguard who'd dropped him off--Richard or Roger, something starting with R. John's head was spinning too much to pursue it.

Noise made his head hurt, and the other lifeguard had been talking, talking, a background buzz of words that John couldn't quite make out through the fog that gripped him.

"I'm fine. You can leave now," John had said finally. He'd had to repeat it twice, which triggered more talking, which triggered a wave of something that must have shown on his face, because the guy had said something else, softer, quieter, and left.

Bright red drops spattered onto the tile below him. He stared at them, confused for a second before he realized he was bleeding all over their nice clean floor. Head wounds bled like nothing else, but the rational side of him couldn't squash the twinge of queasiness. "Shit," he said and pressed the wadded gauze more firmly to the back of his head.

Of all the dumb ways to earn a trip to the ER, a beach volleyball game turned violent had to be one of the dumbest. John had been trying to break up the fight when he caught a beer bottle to the back of the head, and there should be a special place in hell for stupid fuckers who brought glass onto the beach.

Shivering, he huddled into his lifeguard jacket and then had to stifle a groan as he realized he was probably bleeding all over it.

The man sitting in the chair next to his was talking and pointing at him. "What?" He sounded muzzy, even to himself.

"I said your phone is ringing," the man said, eyeing John a little warily.

"Oh," John said, fumbling at his pockets. He finally got the phone out and open and right side up, all with a ridiculous degree of difficulty, and he was pretty sure the last time he'd had a head wound, he hadn't felt this bad. Getting old sucks, he thought as he mumbled something into the phone.

It was McKay, and the conversation that followed was surreal, moving quickly from, "Hey, you want Thai tonight?" to yelling and John losing track of what McKay was saying, and then, "Hospital? Which hospital, John?"

John kept repeating, "I don't know," until the guy next to him snatched the phone out of his hand and started talking into it.

He sighed in relief at the relative quiet and let his head drop back down. The peace didn't last long, though. The guy started waving the phone in front of John's nose until John reached out and pocketed it.

"He's coming down," the man said, sounding out of patience. "He says you're a moron, by the way."

John blinked. "Okay. Thanks, I think," he said. A nurse finally called his name, and he staggered to his feet, cranky and hurting and tired, and his one last hope was that they weren't going to shave his entire fucking head.

*

John was cleaned up and stitched up and was trying to ease back into his jacket when he heard his name called from two different directions.

"John?" McKay and Annie both said at the same time.

"Oh, crap," John said. Compartmentalization meant sanity and peace of mind for him. Even without a head injury, he was in no way prepared for this meeting of the disparate parts of his life.

"Someone called me," Annie said in a rush and then she let out a startled sound when McKay moved close, his hands fluttering over John's face and shoulders and chest.

"Damn it, John," McKay gritted out, and his hands settled on John's shoulders, pressing their lips together in a quick, harsh kiss. McKay pulled away and went dead white when the blood stains on John's T-shirt caught his eye. "Oh, jeez."

"Don't puke on me, McKay," John said gently. "I'm okay. Really." Annie kept silent through the exchange, but her expression was worried.

McKay stepped back a little, his hands still moving in the air between them as if he hadn't been quite ready to let go.

"Don't really like blood." McKay's voice sounded strangled, and he took in an unsteady breath. He was frowning as John winced his way into one sleeve and reached over to help John into the jacket.

He left one hand on John's shoulder and said, "You scared the shit out of me." McKay shot a wary look at Annie. "And who the hell are you?"

Annie ignored McKay's surliness. She put on a brave smile and stuck out her hand. "Annie Sinclair."

"Dr. Rodney McKay." McKay shook her hand. He seemed rattled, judging from the too vigorous handshake and the formal introduction, and John tried not to sigh.

"This is Holland's sister," he said. McKay was smart, scary smart, so it was no surprise that comprehension dawned almost immediately, his eyes widening. "She's a friend. So is her husband," he told McKay pointedly.

"Oh." McKay seemed embarrassed. "Sorry to be so grumpy," he said to Annie.

"You were worried," she said, shrugging it off. "I know exactly how that feels." She was smiling at them, the expression indulgent, and John wanted to squirm.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John suppressed the urge to let his hand stray up to the shaved patch around his stitches. The skin was still numb, so it was ridiculous that it already felt a little itchy. He squinted; even with the drugs the doctor had given him, his headache was nearly blinding.

McKay looked disheveled, his rumpled T-shirt one that John knew was worn and soft. John was feeling stretched thin and breakable, and he had a sudden fierce urge to be back at the beach house, to lie down on the couch, his head in McKay's lap. Something must have shown on his face, because when McKay glanced over, he did a little double take, his expression softening.

"Annie, McKay can take me home. I'm really sorry they bothered you," John said finally, ready to get the hell out of there, but not wanting to be rude. "I'd forgotten I had you down as my emergency contact."

She shoved stray wisps of hair back from her face, her forehead scrunching up. "Jesus, John, please don't apologize. You saved Jason's life. We owe you so much; we can't even repay you--"

She faltered, something in John's expression cutting her off. "You're injured. You should go home and rest."

McKay was silent in the car on the way home, his eyes darting over at John every few seconds. John drooped in his seat, trying to find a position that jostled his head the least.

"Go ahead and ask; I can hear you thinking over there," John said tiredly.

McKay flapped a hand in the air. "Holland's alive?" he blurted. "She said you saved him. I thought..." He trailed off, sounding frustrated.

John took in a breath and let it out. "Hol's lying in a bed up at the VA hospital. He's a vegetable, McKay, and he won't get any better." It sounded angry, but his harsh tone faded fast. "Any questions?" he whispered. McKay flinched at the break John couldn't keep out of his voice.

McKay was silent, his hands clenching on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm so sorry."

*

John's captain called him up, to check on his health and to give him three days off to recover. The asshole who had thrown the bottle had been arrested, ratted out by his friends. The news was less satisfying than John was expecting, although McKay smiled a vicious little smile when he heard.

He spent the time off doing absolutely nothing, lazing around the house. McKay only tried to baby him for the first day, backing off after John snarled at him a few times.

"You should put your surfboard in the garage," McKay said on the second day. He was going for casual, not looking up from his laptop, but John could hear the tension in his voice. John raised an eyebrow but didn't need much convincing, and then his board was no longer suffering the indignity of being strapped to a car roof 24/7.

Whatever was between them--sex, geeky companionship, shared denial--worked scarily well. They joked and argued over the remote and fell asleep on the couch together and had great sex.

It felt weird but good to have clothes that didn't smell like his car, and to sprawl on a big bed, and McKay calling from the store, "Hey, I'm picking up doughnuts, you want anything?" It was friendship and affection and something that felt suspiciously close to happiness.

It was...good. John felt like he belonged somewhere, for practically the first time in his life. He should have known it couldn't last.

Part Three