Fic: Meeting of Minds - Part 2 of 2 (McKay/Sheppard, NC-17)
Title: Meeting of Minds
Author: florahart
Recipient: lilyfarfalla
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC17
Words: 19,950, give or take
Spoilers: There is reference to Last Man, but no reference to the canonical end of the series. So, either between those two somewhere, or AU sometime after Last Man. Not otherwise AU.
Warnings: So, there is a thing in here which I expect if I leave completely and totally unwarned, a few folks would feel unhappy about it; however, I can't figure out how to warn for it effectively. [It is not, though, any of the things that are among the most likely to trigger (it is not rape or abuse or anything like that). It could, though, be perceived as an uncomfortable kind of deception. If you as a reader really need to know more than that and don't want to wait for reveals or rely on others to tell you, feel free to leave a comment to that effect, and I'll explain via anon PM or via the mods or something.]
Author's Notes: This has maybe less team than the recipient could have hoped, although there is some. Thanks to L and E for lightning-fast above-and-beyond beta services, and to the mods for patience.
Summary: So, let's see: the world is gray, there's no sound, Rodney can't find John or Teyla, and Ronon is evidently moonlighting as an accountant. Yeah, this is going to be a good day.
( Meeting of Minds - Part 1 of 2 )
--
The dark-and-light thing would be a lot more useful if Rodney had any clear sense of how much time passed with each change. Or even--he's sort of starting to think that isn't consistent, or that it's on a schedule for which the pattern is not simple one and one. He supposes he could do something truly mind-numbing like count his pulse from one end to the other, but he's sort of hoping by the time he got through one iteration he'd be out of here, and boring the shit out of himself to no good purpose would be like taking art history all over again.
Yeah, no.
He's just considering trying to figure out where Chieh'ad's quarters are when she's at his door again. He tilts his head. "Beer and rocks again?"
Chieh'ad grins, this wide, cocky grin that makes Rodney feel at ease, and plunks down in the chair, putting her feet up on his bed. Nope, Rodney hears underlying the words again, which is both nice and all over again puzzling because he seriously can't do this with anyone else even half so well. Think we're gonna get you out of here tomorrow.
"Too bad," Rodney says. "I mean, I want to go, but you and I get along pretty well, all things considered."
That gets him a funny look, then Chieh'ad asks a question. At least, he thinks it's a question, though really he doesn't even know if a Mauvetopian interrogative ends with an upturn to the pitch like English.
"Not a clue," he says. "But I mean, with enough time, I bet we could crack the language barrier."
She shrugs. Going home beats the hell out of that, he imagines she must be saying. She's looking at him, but maybe almost past him, which is weird, weird, weird, because up till now she's been so totally direct.
The notion of something being noteworthily weird here is striking enough that Rodney almost misses the next bit. Not really, because it would be hard as hell to truly miss, but it's sort of a near thing. Her voice lowers to a growl, and yeah, he doesn't have whatever vocabulary is required, but the sense is totally obvious. Chieh'ad says Fuck it and drops the boots to the floor, standing and walking toward him, getting right in his face. Now or never. By the time she stops, she's right in his space, maybe Teyla would say, and maybe Rodney would too, and Chieh'ad is really tall and apparently... she's decided Rodney would make a good snack? He's pissed her off somehow? Shit. Her face is thundery and heated, and it's only at the very last second that Rodney realizes what he's seeing is something akin to lust, only, all right, it's tenderer than pure animal drive.
He stands his ground and lets her kiss him.
Good to know: NotLantians kiss just like humans, all pressure and slick heat, and Rodney's never been totally sure he's all that good at this, but Chieh'ad seems to like it all right, maybe more than all right, and probably Teyla or Ronon or Not Jennifer He's Really Sure Now would have mentioned if there were really a compelling reason not to go with something like this, right?
Well, they should have, and it's not his fault if they didn't, so he's going. He's usually not the one from their team to wind up in the midst of this sort of thing (and usually doesn't want to be, because he's rarely a fall-into-bed-first type, what with how learning later that his partner is an idiot is just, no), but it's hardly as though none of them ever do, so it's totally his turn, anyway.
And Chieh'ad is probably the best reason he's ever seen to do it, despite that yeah, still, they barely know each other. It's weird how comfortable she feels.
He walks her backward to the uncomfortable mattress that's masquerading as a usable bed (it's pretty surprising his back hasn't had a cow yet. Hey, maybe head injury is a good way to solve back problems. Wait, too many reasons that's a lousy idea. And way too many reasons, like a strong jaw and wet lips and his fingers finding functional underwear, for Rodney to spend another second on the concept right now). He groans, and she groans back, and hey, they've achieved communication again. At the ape level, sure, but then, what they're doing isn't exactly all about the intellect, so that's probably fair. He grunts as he fumbles with her buttons and tries to figure out how to push open the button-down shirt and shove up the t-shirt under at the same time with the same hand and without stopping his exploration of her tongue and chin with his lips. This proves impossible, but it doesn't matter; Chieh'ad is stripping both over her head, stopping only for a tiny moment when the cuff snags on the thing she wears around her wrist, and then Rodney's facing a lot of firm flesh that--all right, Teyla has a lot of firm flesh, and on the whole, purely as a matter of observation, her chest is at least a nine on the standard one to ten scale. Chieh'ad's is an eleven, and Rodney's mouth goes dry and he's really sure that his response to her hands unsnapping the button on the pants is not a result of head injury, but it might as well be because the language barrier is completely irrelevant when you can't form a coherent concept in your own head, for fuck's sake.
Chieh'ad doesn't shove the pants down, just leaves them open like some kind of invitation and goes back to kissing him, hands strong and rough on his jaw and shoving into his hair (This iteration--iteration? reflection? fuck. instance, maybe--of him has a lot more hair than his real scalp, which is probably the only good feature, if the mirror he's caught a glimpse of once or twice, really not on purpose because it's freaky as fuck even if he can also see his real self, blue-eyed and balding, underneath, is telling the truth), tugging gently at all that hair just in the same way her teeth are denting into his lower lip, pulling like she doesn't want to let go. The hand on his jaw slides down, working at his clothes (she's maybe thirty times better at stripping him than he was her, and that only makes Rodney think about how a woman like this must have her pick and plenty of opportunity and the fact she wants him--obviously; she started it, right?--makes his head swim a little. A little more, anyway). He helps with his shirt and unfastens his pants, leaving them the same way she did because even though getting down to it has always been sort of his style, if she finds the potential half or even five percent as hot as he does, well, he wants to make her tense and tight and eager like he is.
Of course, then she steps out of her boots, and that is a good, good reason for leaving them untied half the time, because Rodney has to actually sit down and untie and pull and that's entire spans of seconds that are not kissing, are not touching, and are not taking advantage of the invitation to explore hidden smooth flat skin that's right there waiting.
She crawls up onto the bed, bare feet with high arches following her knees as she goes around him and takes up a position behind his back, those hands on his bare shoulders, kneading and touching, sliding into his hair again and then tracing his ears and pushing down onto his chest as she bends forward and mouths at the left one. Rodney turns into the kiss, his shoulder brushing across a hard nipple still covered in plain cotton as his body rotates and Christ, there's really no reason for that alone to be what makes him whimper, but he ducks down and brushes his lips across the same square inch of material and feels the full-body shudder that says Chieh'ad likes that just as much as he does.
He shoves his boots the rest of the way off in a hurry and yes, it's a lousy job of untying them and probably he'll have some sort of contusion on his heel from it, but he's much more used to physical injury than he used to be (well he is, and just because he still complains doesn't make that untrue, damn it) and he doesn't care. At the moment. He still leaves his pants in place because she does, but he turns and clambers up on his knees with her, dropping his head to nibble his way down the side of her throat and running his fingers down her hard belly (she really is fit, with abs that could probably be used as a writing surface even if one were writing in pencil, but the skin is still surprisingly soft), and when he reaches the oh-so-tempting waistband, loose and open and just asking to be pushed down, he finds he wants to savor the moment a little, so he just pushes the tips of his fingers down to find functional cotton briefs that might as well be men's except for the absence of a flap (Victoria is so keeping the wrong secret, at least sometimes). He rubs his hands back and forth, the backs of his knuckles moving along that softer waistband as he tastes her collarbone. He feels her drop her head back and momentarily worries she'll manage to keel over backward because probably he would, in the same position, but then, he's the one who keeps enduring head injuries, and those fit abs keep her completely balanced and the feel of them working even just that little bit has him pushing his hands down a little further, hands turning inward as they follow around the sides of her hips and make their way back and down so squeeze her ass a little.
"Rodney," she says.
He looks up. "Yeah?"
But she's not actually trying to communicate anything verbally, really; she's saying his name, a low groan, and pressing forward against him and no longer letting her head drop back as she returns the maneuver, gripping Rodney's ass hard and sucking a wicked wet mark on his throat and Jesus, that's totally going to show and she knows it, pulling back just enough to let him see her looking at it critically and grinning.
And then he's on his back, and she's got his pants and shorts down around his knees and the same suction is going to work on new areas--hipbone, crease of thigh, inner thigh as she's straddling his legs and curling forward, flexible and lithe with her hair all shoved over her shoulder and she hasn't even touched his cock and Rodney's hard at work trying to remember any theorem of any type so he can mentally excoriate his undergrad advisor regarding the examples used in teaching it because fuck, he can't think about what she's doing to him or he's going to explode.
"Slow... slow down," he gasps. "Want... shit."
She looks up, and that just makes her wild hair fall differently, brushing the head of his dick, and oh God.
She grins again and licks a slow, hot, wet stripe up his cock from root to tip, then challenges him not to come yet. He thinks. He can't imagine what else she'd be saying, but crap, crap a challenge is a challenge and if she's got him in the state he's in with cotton underwear and tangled hair, he has to know what else is to follow.
Of course, given her, it's probably also the case that yes, shut up, he's forty, but for this, he can probably go again, so it might be worth...
She shakes her head, and he gets the feeling she can pretty much read his mind.
At least, about this.
He grits his teeth as she licks again, then whimpers as she slips to the side, off him, to stand on the floor and push down pants and underwear and then wrestle with the bra for a minute like it's not that familiar before expediently pulling it over her head, too.
She's stretched out next to him again before he remembers the value of oxygen (eight, but that's a whole different value) and takes a breath, and then she's kissing him again, and rolling him toward her, onto her, and for all the take-charge she has, he fully expected to be at her mercy as she rode him, but apparently she has other ideas. He spends maybe a quarter of a second trying to work out with about five percent of his brain how one has a conversation about sexual history and risk before concluding that shit, there aren't that many really horrible STIs, and she seems totally unconcerned about other unwanted consequences, and he's not even going to--he's just going to go with it.
Definitely.
As she pulls against his shoulders and makes greedy throaty sounds he can't put a name to and doesn't want to, it occurs to him that he ought to be at least sort of gentlemanly and kiss his way down her body, too, make sure she's as wet as he is hard--but then, the odds that she's clawing at him like this, gasping his name (thank fuck that the one word they really definitely have is that one), if she's not just as ready and wanting as he is, seem low, so he lets her pull him into place and lets himself slide home in one hard thrust.
Chieh'ad stills under him, face gone startled and slack, and what the hell? But then a second later she's writhing again, hips pressing up, hands wandering, lips parted and panting, and he's just... gone. He slides in and back over and over, watching her, murmuring nonsense and begging her to come for him, come on baby (who says that? Who calls people baby? Not him, but he can't help it, and as she arches and convulses and says his name again like he's some sort of superhero, he's pretty sure it's not as ridiculous as it feels).
Watching her come slows his movements, but then, it's not like his cock is at a disadvantage; the ripple of tight-squeezing muscle pulling at him is amazing, and as it slows, he thrusts forward once more and spills into her, collapsing forward into what will surely be irritating awkward heaviness.
She wraps her arms around him and holds him down, close, making little sounds that he thinks are like purring, only they're made out of his name, and he has no idea what he's done to make her this excited about the whole thing, but he's really, really glad he did it.
--
He's both unsurprised and surprisingly unhappy to wake alone some time later. It's still dark, and the lights in his quarters are out, but she's clearly not here, and he still has no clue where her quarters are, so he can't even go after her.
Which he shouldn't anyway, probably, if he's to leave today; if she'd wanted to stay, she would have. But the way she said his name, well, he sort of would have liked to hear that again.
This missing people thing is really overrated, though. Especially missing people whom he doesn't actually know.
Maybe it's hookups with strangers that are overrated.
He's just contemplating whether he remembers the word for lights on when the window pales to indicate it's "day" outside, so he sits up and shoves the covers back, looking down at his naked body. He has nibble-marks, little scrapes and tiny wee bruises that say this skin is just as delicate as his own. He puts his hand to his neck, where there has to be an obvious hickey, and grins at the thought.
Standing up is a little sore, and apparently he needs to be getting laid more because yeah, okay, it was intense, but it's not like they fucked for hours or anything, and why is he sore? His skin feels tight and tired, and the muscles of his ass have objections to tension, and... and the room is spinning and oh hell, his head hurts, kind of a lot, up on the side where she kept checking it, and maybe sex, unlike beer, is counterindicated when one has a head wound.
Not that he's found the wound; he has no idea how it happened or what it looks like, and while this bothers him, he's worked out that trying to think about it only makes him nauseous.
Damn it.
He sits back down in careful movements and finds his pants rumpled on the floor, then pulls them over his feet and up his thighs before another brief foray into standing to pull them up. They look like they've been slept in, but he can't bring himself to care about that sort of thing when he's on Atlantis, so here, it's totally irrelevant to him.
He stands one more time, carefully, and crap, the headache is getting worse in a hurry and that probably means his brain is bleeding and great, he's killed himself with sex, which... is probably the ideal way to go, especially if it's like that, though not waking up again first would have been better, wouldn't it?
The nightstand makes a good place to keep a hand near, just in case he goes back down (because regardless of anything about it being a good way to go, he'd prefer not to have another head injury on top of he first one), and then he trails his fingers on the wall as he makes his way toward the door. When he gets there he swallows hard and opens it. He can make it to medical. He can.
But he doesn't have to. Chieh'ad is there again--and of course they've got some sort of monitoring going; he would, under the same circumstances, and just because their tech doesn't do, like, 97% of what he thinks it should or would design, that doesn't mean they have nothing. Thank God.
Chieh'ad's expression is sober, and she won't quite met his eyes, which, Rodney wants to question that, but right now, he's busy staying upright, and when she slides an arm under his, supporting him for the walk, she still hasn't looked at him, and he still doesn't know why. They walk in silence, and all right, Rodney's been unable to hold a meaningful conversation for days now, so he ought to be used to it, but he's really not, and he finds he doesn't want to just fill the silence himself.
"Chieh'ad," he says.
Chieh'ad glances sideward toward him, and shakes her head. "Rodney, cho'kt... Cho'k shrro."
He doesn't want to be quiet, but her voice is gentle, not angry, and not frightened. Like maybe she's letting him down easy or something, which is a little ridiculous because she started it; he wasn't ever going to act on any of it without the encouragement, but it was definitely not a pity fuck because okay, he's pretty sure he's clear on how those look and feel (good, nice in their own way if he remembers correctly because university was a while ago and generally he's opted differently for the last twenty years or so, but not like that), so why the tone?
He purses his lips a little and lets her handle the walking and steering so he has room in his head (throbbing now, thanks, and mostly he doesn't want to consider it) to puzzle.
Of course, every time he thinks about puzzling out how all this works, about the pain in his head now, about who he is and who everyone else is and why Chieh'ad sounds like... oh! Sounds like she expects him to be angry. Weird. Every time he wonders about that, it's as though his thoughts are diverted, which alone says there's something messing with his head, and oh crap, what if this is like that episode of Star Trek, the second one, with...which one was it that it's reminding him of? The alien abductions and the meeting on the holodeck to build a chair, or the play and the mental hospital and the scene that keeps shattering? Maybe it's both; neither of them had science that made sense. Anyway, it'd better not be that, because that would mean the sex was either fake or with a stranger, no a real stranger, not someone who... he's known... "Oh, crap."
Chieh'ad glances at him again, and he stops letting her carry him, stops letting his feet walk.
Yeah, his head is throbbing, and it feels like there's a heat mirage between the two of them, and Rodney squints and glances up and down and tries to focus, and says, "John."
Chieh'ad sighs. "Rodney."
Rodney blinks and tries to see John in Chieh'ad the way he sees Ronon in the accountant. Now that he knows he's in there, it's not hard. The mannerisms are the same, and the boots, and the wristband, and the way they communicate and the hair.
Well, okay, the hair is longer on Chieh'ad, if just as unruly, and Rodney's at least 90% sure John doesn't typically wear a bra, plain cotton or otherwise, because the American military doesn't, by and large, allow that sort of thing to go unchallenged even under the new administration, as far as he knows.
Not that American military policy is the most transparent thing in the world, nor that Rodney has ever been willing to really learn the details; to his mind that would be about as fun as learning how to make small talk in one hundred world languages.
But if it's John... and now his headache has a whole new source, because, to review, John is in the US military, and the topic of sexuality is a little fraught, and he's never even suspected and John let him fuck him and again, to review, that wasn't a pity fuck, and right, it's not like Rodney's never thought about it because he's not in the US military, which is just as well because there are limits on how much idiocy he can tolerate in any given day and that would exceed it by a lot, but he never would have acted on it without John starting it because US military and why would John risk that and of course, why would Chieh'ad have been interested either but she was, only she's John, and--and now he's going in circles.
Maybe because the hallway is spinning now, too. And Chieh'ad--John, might as well get it right--is looking a little more worried. About something other than Rodney being pissed, and she's--he's--pulling Rodney along now, ignoring Rodney's less-than-adamant effort to deal with this now and pretty much running them to medical and there's the doctor and the new guy, and Jesus Christ it's Tarkin's interrogation droid or something like it with them.
Rodney considers trying to run, but this is John and it must be all right even if it looks like the diametric opposite and even if needles are always, always bad, and besides, what would his odds be? He'd run, and then his heart would work harder and his pressure would rise and he doesn't need to have a stroke on top of everything so he might as well just submit. He turns to John. "It's not going to scramble me, is it?"
John manhandles him to the bed and shakes his head tersely, hand flat on Rodney's chest clearly conveying, Stay.
Rodney lets himself relax onto the mattress and looks up at John until he looks back, and forces what he hopes is a non-weird smile (what exactly is the correct non-weird expression for I'm not mad, but what the fucking fuck when one is ill and has been misled and there are strangers in charge?) and says, "You know we're going to have to talk about it."
John nods sharply and looks away again, so Rodney brings up the hand that isn't already being gauzed and warmed for needle-insertion and sets it on John's hand, still on his chest. "Soon, all right?"
John says nothing, and Rodney feels the drug seep in as someone starts a buzzing rub against his scalp, and damn it, now he's really going to be bald for that conversation, and if they have sex again, there will be nothing for John to... Wow, good drugs.
--
It's a little disappointing to find that in fact, everything is still gray, gray, and more gray when Rodney wakes up, head all spacey and distant-feeling where something's been numbed, even though the setting is all twisted around like the first swirl of chocolate going into a milkshake. John's still there (and John, as well as Carson (oh. Well of course, if John was a woman, then Carson was too and that's why the inflection was a problem and also yes, Carson probably would find it a bit odd if Rodney propositioned him) and New Guy, is himself again), which is reassuring and also a little weird.
Rodney opens his mouth, which is dry, and works his tongue a little to get some moisture going. John holds a little cup-and-straw thing and Rodney takes a drink (wow, water is delicious!) and licks his lips. "What happened?"
"It's complicated," John says, at the same time New Guy shushes him and Carson cautions him against trying to think about anything too taxing.
"Oh, well in that case, I suppose I'll just have to live with not knowing. Because I never understand complicated things." Rodney looks at John, who he's only just realized is, in fact, still right where he left him. The surroundings are gray, but John isn't; he's pink-tan and stubbled and his hand is still curled against Rodney's on the bed next to his hip. "Seriously."
"Hey, I'm not the one who said no; I just said it's complicated. You want the whole story here, or you wanna go home, get a real beer, sit on a pier that overlooks water--"
"Fine, fine, yes, I want that, but Carson's going to say I need to be monitored."
"I am right here, Rodney," Carson interjects. "Not that I disagree, but I do like to think I'm a reasonable man."
"Very reasonable," Teyla says from the doorway. "Am I to understand that Nuluon's approach has been successful in repairing the way in which Rodney's brain interacts with his body?"
"My brain wasn't interacting with my body? It felt like it was!"
Teyla steps in closer, with Ronon right behind her. "My apologies; I anticipated you would have demanded an immediate explanation for the strange virtual world in which you found yourself. However, as I recall, Radek believed the simulation itself did not provide a circumstance under which one going in unprepared would be aware of its virtuality as we all were, so perhaps you had not realized."
"As you all were? Wait, how long, wait. It was virtual? Wait. The dark and light weren't days then, and, all right, Carson, obviously you don't want my brain to actually explode now that you just fixed it, do you?" Rodney turns, eyes wide, to Carson. "You can't want that."
Carson grins. "Rodney, I never want that, and I take both your previous sarcasm and your current curiosity as evidence that you are indeed feeling much better."
"Great. So I can go home and someone can explain to me why--what was it? Nuluon?--had to approach my brain at all? And Sheppard can explain why you and he were women?"
"Aye, if ye promise no' to get too excited," Carson says, beginning to retract and stow various bits of equipment.
Nuluon, who so far hasn't engaged in any of the conversation, nods somberly and then folds his hands together and gives a little bow. "I am pleased you withstood the simulation," he says. "I have already sent a detailed report with my new friend Teyla regarding the historical precedents for this facility, and would be interested to learn of your thoughts, after you are fully recovered."
Rodney isn't quite sure what to make of that, but while Nuluon is speaking, Carson's untangling wires and pulling electrodes off Rodney's scalp (he puts up his hand; it's as bald as he feared, which, yeah, that's sexy). He lets John help him up, glancing down at his clothes and finding to his relief that he's pretty much dressed in the usual, though his jacket is definitely toast, and he appears to have no hat of any description. "Ronon, Teyla? Are you coming now, or--"
Ronon glances at Rodney's hand, holding John's tightly, and lifts a brow. "Nah, we'll help the doc clean up. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Rodney's impulse is to jerk his hand away, but John holds tight and only lets go when they reach the door.
"I can't believe he let me walk out. No stretcher or anything."
John smirks. "I can't believe you voluntarily did walk out. No stretcher or anything."
"Aw, fuck you." The words are out Rodney's mouth, just part of the daily shit-flipping that goes on, before it occurs to him they're maybe awkward now. Unless they're not. Unless the virtual... "Okay, so how real was the virtual world, and under what circumstances was I interacting directly with people I knew? Know. Whatever. Also, hey, Chieh'ad said Jeannie was gone, and Elizabeth was gone, said it the same way, and I mean, I have no idea why this whole thing would involve Jeannie, but--"
"You know how Carson said not to get too excited?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm pretty sure you're too excited." John jerks his head to the right. "Gate's that way."
"Damn it. You can't just not answer that."
"Didn't say I was going to leave it hanging, and Jeannie's fine. As far as I know. The language issues were, uh, a little complicated."
"I noticed. Also the, uh, gender issues."
John shrugs. "You have no idea. Flaw in the programming, if you ask me, but Teyla found it perfectly rational, as did that Nuluon guy."
They turn toward the gate and then stop several hundred yards out. Rodney can just see the ring, distant and unlit, and he glances at John. "Are we really going back without the rest of the team? Wait, when we came here, why were Lorne and Zelenka--"
"They weren't, and it's a long fucking story, Rodney. Now the question is, you want to go over it all brand new with Woolsey, or you want to talk about it here? Ronon won't hang out forever, but I bet Teyla will find a way to get the three of them invited to some kind of ceremony for a few hours."
Rodney nods. "Here. The notion of debriefing that with Woolsey sounds like a good reason to go plug myself back in, which, I mean, I had a good time, at least, there toward the end. Well, not the end where my brain felt like it was bleeding and you had to carry me, not that I, um, well before that was good, and the beer, and, so... why were you and Carson women in functional underwear?"
"You check out Carson's underwear, too?" John starts walking again, ambling in the general direction of the gate and looking around into the gray-green tree trunks as they pass.
"No, but I only have the one example to go from."
"It's probably valid; that part the VR thing got from you, best I understood. I'm not a computer guy, but evidently, okay, there were built-in parameters. No leadership position--expedition leader, chief medic--in the society that built the thing was ever held by a man. We tried to get it to give us bodies that would make more sense to you, on the principle that you'd be more likely to make sense of what your mind was showing you."
"But Ronon and Lorne--"
"All of them, the damn thing recognized as laborers or underlings or something. Just like you." John smirks and Rodney suppresses the urge to say something nasty; he figures if they'd both been women everything would have gone differently because he'd have known it was part of the program, so it's just as well. "That's why we sent them in to 'find' you and bring you in, but it's also why Zelenka took you in circles and stuff."
"Why did we have to be quiet?"
"Same issue, more or less. We were trying to get it to let us talk to you, and it seemed like confusing the issue with more words than we had to would only make things worse. You notice the only words that sounded like English were ones for which there was no native equivalent? Names, the jumpers, that stuff."
"Huh." Rodney has no idea how to bring this conversation around to what he wants to talk about with John and definitely not with Woolsey, which is last night's scorching hot and please can they do it again only what the hell John isn't a girl and that's fine but the military has rules and Christ, this is basically just exactly as overwhelming as the whole rest of the experience only he has a vocabulary.
"By the way," John continues, "the linguistics software had parameters, too. It has the sound sh-, but besides all the, uh, glottal stops and funky vowels shoved into strings, it has no p or b anywhere, so Sheppard didn't come out my lips no matter what--"
"Let me guess. Shaeya'aharrd."
"Not bad. And feminine names can't end in N."
"Really?"
"I know, right?" John steers them into a little grove where a couple of old fallen trees form a slightly off-kilter bench, and sits down. "So I couldn't make it spit out my name. Carson either, first or last, because N and B. We'd say it our way, and it would spit out whatever close representation it thought it might have come up with, no matter how not-right."
"So you weren't trying to confuse me. Though I might have worked out heckett if presented with it."
"Nah, no picking on the brain-injured. General rule. And yeah, you might. And then we thought about trying to write it out for you, but our virtual hands would only write in the local text, so that was pretty fucked up, too."
"Wow. Thorough. And, wait, it picked my brain for your underwear?"
"Not that I was rooting for itchy lace, which I don't even know what I'd have done with other than wiggle all day. And anyway, it was also your idea, you getting a peek at it."
Rodney enjoys the mental image of a wiggling John for a moment, then stills. "Wait, so all that me touching was all my plan, even though you--"
"What? Oh. No, uh. That thing with the camo--look, it's about ten percent sensible and the rest insane, but it's a program they no longer use, in an abandoned facility. You were in it because of the explosion--no, I know, you don't remember that part--and we had to put you in stasis and that involved probably doing more damage to prevent death." John pauses and looks at Rodney seriously. "We argued about that. About whether you'd want to be damaged if--"
"Not really, no. Which side were you on?"
"Yours. It was a short argument, since we only had about ten seconds to decide, and I guess it turned out not to make anything worse. In your brain, anyway. Yeah, its real use was as a prison for people who, you know, spoke the language and were familiar with the general environment. Apparently it only imprisoned people as long as they didn't know they were in VR and let them learn they were if they eventually repented or something, so it had all this built-in shit that Zelenka has been working his ass off trying to push around. That's why you only saw him early on, because he was busy trying to make the damn thing's default into something a little more doable than making you repent nearly dying."
"Wow, that's the default assumption? Who designed this thing?"
"No idea, really. We finally convinced it not to assign you KP and stuff, but it had to build the release scenario from you. That it was Atlantis, that part was you."
Rodney frowns. "And it made me come along to learn about the solution with New Guy."
"Right. I wasn't about to just leave you on your own, and obviously Teyla had to be who went and made contact--"
"--which was why she was never there; that freaked me out by the way." Rodney slumps back against the second tree trunk and picks at his thumbnail. "So it made you show me your underwear? What am I, twelve?"
"I thought you seemed a little older later," John says without much inflection.
So, right, he's not going to go there, is he? "But it didn't make you jump me, did it?" Rodney asks. "Because that part I didn't find stupid, just unbelievable."
"Why?"
Rodney stares. "Why not stupid?"
John snorts and then guffaws, the laugh familiar. "No, Rodney, I think I know zero men who think a scenario in which they get laid is stupid."
"So you didn't think it was stupid either, then."
"No, but you're avoiding the question."
"Why did I think it was unbelievable?"
"That's the one."
"Because why would she? Have you looked at me? And at, uh. Well, you, but in the form of her, though really either applies, which I guess makes sense, they'd make her beautiful because she's you, only with soft skin and--"
"And a cunt," John cuts him off.
"Uh, okay, yes that, but that's really not the chief issue, I don't think. The main thing is, if the device was forcing a scenario based on how I thought it should go, then conceivably I made you jump me, which is, um, is there a word for that? I don't think there's a word for that. Also, wait, so you had virtual sex as a woman, which, did that feel, um."
"Weird?"
"Yes, that."
"You might say. And what I perceived to be very real."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." John shifts on the awkward bench, and then Rodney finds himself squirming, too, and yeah, obviously they're both twelve, because hey, twelve is a good age, lots of curiosity and a whole world to discover, but it's really fucking bad for discussing one's incredibly bizarre sexual encounter.
Finally, Rodney takes a deep breath. "We might as well do this for Woolsey if we're just going to squirm, so: did the fact that it was my scenario require you to--"
"No."
"Then..."
"You're not going to like it, Rodney." John looks at his knees.
"Maybe not, but since you can kick my ass on my best day and I've been bedridden for a few days, I don't think I'm going to beat you up or anything."
"Not what I'm afraid of. I did it because since you hadn't recognized me yet, I figured you weren't going to, and I wanted to, and how often am I going to find myself in a scenario in which I'm a hot chick?"
Rodney can't help being a smartass. "I hear there's a weekly drag contest somewhere not all that far from the base. At SGC, I mean. So I guess you could make it happen." He pauses. "Well, not the cunt part. Is that what you, er..."
"Well, now we've got that cleared right up. No, not that. The part where you look at me and see someone whose underwear you want to see in the first place." John's cheeks have gone ruddy even in the gray light here, and Rodney waits for him to look up because Jesus, if he's got John Sheppard looking this insecure (John is often insecure and Rodney knows it, but looking vulnerable is more a hens' teeth kind of thing), he's going to take a minute and get this right. Finally, John looks up. "What?"
"One, I'm nearly sure I said, like five minutes ago so I would think it would have sunk in by now, that I think she was beautiful because she was you, which even I, in all my socially-misregarded glory and I know that's not a word but inept isn't really true as it implies absence of capacity and I have the capacity, thank you, just not the interest which is different, but even I see that as probably a compliment to the you that is currently present, and two, for the record, I have considered your underwear often enough to have opinions about it including whether it exists because you seem like a commando kind of guy except that I know I've seen a waistband or two so maybe it's only sometimes and then of course I have to wonder what the circumstantial motivations would be and okay there's a three but is there any point at which you're going to say shut up, Rodney? Because I was expecting it somewhere in the middle of point two."
"Shut up, Rodney." John's face is still off, but his tone's gone maybe a little warmer. "Wait, first tell me point three, then shut up."
"Three, what do you mean, perceived to be very real, exactly? I perceived the whole thing to be really real, and I mean, then I was sore, which, come to think of it I'm not now so probably that was more a brain thing, but what do you mean?"
John glances away again, the blush returning, which, if Rodney were to try to label it, that would be, and Christ, when does he say, or even think, this sort of thing even really quietly, sort of painfully adorable (ugh, no, even thinking it isn't his style, and yet, there it is. Score one for capacity over inclination). "I mean," John says finally, "that I came. In this body. You, by the way, didn't. Which sort of implies I made you jump me, kind of."
"Really? I didn't? Wow, that was the most convincing fake orgasm ever, and also, you checked? And also, wow, that must have been an interesting post-sex conversation, not with the person with whom you were having sex, and also--"
"Shut up, Rodney. I didn't exactly expect it, and I really didn't expect to have this conversation about it, and you don't owe me flowers or anything, but I took the opportunity presented."
"Which you think I might be thinking, about the flowers or anything, because my body, with its broken brain-body connection, didn't have a neurological response?"
"Which I think you might be thinking because it's not as though we've ever, you know. Anything."
Rodney offers a half-shrug at that, one shoulder, slow, mostly to buy time because he's about to jump in, deep end, cement blocks affixed with non-water-soluble stickum, and he's definitely jumping but it's still a little scary, and the sort of thing which requires deep breathing and loosening up of shoulders and whatnot. "You know, I think I'm offended," he says after a while.
"Sorry. Like I said, I figured if you hadn't figured it out yet, you weren't going to, so I didn't expect you to need to know."
"That's not why."
"Oh?" John's still being all still, and it's not as though Rodney's gotten a million percent better at body language in the last 24 hours, but he'd like to think he has a couple of new insights into John's body language, because he's seen it divorced from John. Or no, actually, he has a couple of new insights into how he looks at the entire issue, because really, it's that Chieh'ad's body language was John's that was why he was so comfortable. Huh. So his attention to the topic is situational and not particularly conscious, and he knows that a still John is a cautious John, and he's being quiet for too long and he needs to speak (it's good to know this happens at least sometimes. Well, at least once).
"Oh. Yeah, I'm offended that you think it's perfectly reasonable that you've been going around keeping this shit all bottled up, which, I know, military, stupid policies, motivation, yeah, all that, but I can't possibly have been doing the same. Hello, genius? Who also keeps government secrets just like you do? And who, according to you, spent about forty years figuring out how to find you in an unknown millennia-distant future in another reality which has the exact same basis as this one so how the hell is that even not a clue?"
John's face goes from one kind of still to another, like from cautious in general to wary of a specific, and okay, he hated this movie, but Rodney's a little bit reminded of Forrest Gump learning he has a kid and going from ohgod to ohgod in about a half a second at the potentials.
Rodney decides this is probably the greatest disadvantage at which he will ever have John, so he moves fast, leaning in and pressing a totally imperfect kiss that half-misses and is too sloppy and too hard and probably wrong six other ways to John's lips, then pulls back just long enough they both have time to blink, and does it again.
And just like that, John does that in-charge thing where he makes a decision and implements it and if you're in the way he gives you one chance, maybe one and a half, and then you're toast.
Fortunately, Rodney is already toast, and pretty happy about it, because this fallen log is by no means an adequate bed, but with John kissing him back (Christ, it's just like with Chieh'ad, obviously, only with stubble and a sharper jaw and neither of those is in any way a detriment) and pressing against him like John's a sponge and Rodney's water and sopping him up is urgent, yeah, he's on his back half wedged into place, and John's mouth is on his throat making the hickey real (fuck, there's no way this one is more real or otherwise better, only it is and John's using his teeth now and his hands, and there's nothing dirty about where he's touching but it doesn't matter because the effect is like--no, there's nothing it's like), and Rodney can hear himself making all these sounds that thank God John is interpreting right (don't stop or I might die of need is a good loose translation) even though there's no more clarity in the linguistics than there ever was in Grayburbia. "This is," he finally manages, happy about getting two words in a row on the first try, "this is why I could hear you."
"What?"
"At the pier. When I could understand your meaning but not your words."
John chuckles, a low sound that's better than that loud laugh because it's all for Rodney and it's right against his skin and he can feel the bunching of the flesh around John's mouth that's making a broad grin no one can see. "And you've got my meaning now?"
"Maybe not," Rodney admits, "since we've both been dancing around it, but yeah, I think the fact you've got me pinned and hard, and don't think I'm not paying attention to every inch of you, so I've certainly noticed you're in about the same state. Except for being pinned. I think that suggests a pretty clear intention. Of which I approve, in case it needs saying."
John nibbles a whole new path (indirect, like avoiding being an easy target) down to Rodney's collarbone, then comes back for a fresh start at his mouth again, and this time Rodney keeps him there, tugging at his lower lip and sucking on his tongue and crap, how long will Ronon and Teyla (and Carson, but he's a doctor and he's probably seen worse) give them, and does he want to do this with an audience? He mutters something to that effect, and John mutters back something about Woolsey and debriefing and Rodney says this part doesn't go in the minutes, and John laughs again, and then with a groan he pushes up and away and helps Rodney up again. They remain seated on the bench, kissing, just kissing (all right, there's sometimes a little groping, but it's to be expected; it's been a rough week) until John hears Teyla making about thirty times as much noise as she usually would, which makes them both laugh as they try to behave like (sort of giggly, which is not at all masculine but he can't help it) grownups for a few minutes, and even though Teyla glances discreetly at his neck and gets that serene knowing not-smile (and Ronon is way less discreet and way more mocking, even if the mocking is silent), they all make it to the gate quickly, and if Woolsey works out there's something they're leaving out, he doesn't say so. Even if his eyes have serious questions about that hickey.
--
Rodney expects the door closing behind them in John's quarters (no idea why this is their destination without discussion, because Rodney's bed is a little bigger, not much, but then, John's means they'll have to stick close and oh, that's a good thing and also probably this is some sort of subliminal assertion of dominance or something, which, okay, last time Rodney was the only one with a dick, and it's not like he's under the impression this put him in charge, because wow was he ever not in charge, but still) to bring them back to the painful awkwardness, and to have to get past it all over again, but John stops the instant it's fully closed and maneuvers so he has to reach around Rodney to manually engage the lock. That's obviously a means of bringing them face to face, and close, and Rodney sees no reason not to take advantage, so he does, bringing up his hands (and his own hands on John's own face are really a lot better that he remembers from last night) and smoothing his thumbs over the stubble John hasn't gotten rid of (maybe he should keep it) and he brings them back together. John leans into him for a second, but then they're moving, trying to touch all over and not get disconnected and coordinate their feet, which leads to a couple of perilous instants that could involve toppling to the floor, but John's athletic (news? No.) and Rodney's pretty sure they won't actually fall and if they do John will catch him, so it's fine.
Not that head injuries are anything to fool around with, but Carson said something on the way back to the damn gate about how even though they had to shave him bald over one temple to get the device to disengage, there's no real reason to feel the area is exceptionally delicate, just naked.
Naked was a good word, but not in the context of describing his head. Still, John's hands are there now, and Rodney remembers smaller hands, no less tough, no less demanding, tugging at the hair he never had then and doesn't have now. Instead, John's palm is cupping and his thumb is stroking these tiny little pats that feel like sparks because the skin is sensitive because it's new to exposure, and because it's John and they're almost to the bed, and now they have to do the clothing game again.
It's almost sort of a relief that John is less smooth at this than he was as Chieh'ad, which, yeah, a simulation, when you know it's a simulation, there can be tricks as far as the mind deciding things have been done, so that explains that, and now they have to push out of shirts and unfasten pants, and Rodney's torn: get naked, for real, or touch the skin he's seen before and actually some of it touched before because they've been in all sorts of ridiculous situations involving injuries and being tied up and only able to reach each other's pockets and he's sure he's forgetting relevant examples but the point is, touching is not the same as touching, and now, there's all this skin, some of it pale like pretty much all of Rodney's, some of it tanned and tough from sand (a long time ago, but some things don't change) and wind and a hundred visits through gates of every description.
Rodney opts for touching. He can get naked in a minute. He kneels, and it's not that surprising to learn that his knees have a problem with that, but they can just hold their horses because Rodney has skin to nuzzle, hot skin that's soft, oh crap just as soft as it was on Chieh'ad, except where there's dark hair covering it, and probably it's just as soft underneath, but the hair that covers his chest and tapers down his belly is a whole new very worthwhile texture, and Rodney slides his lips across from above the hipbone to just under the navel, and then he looks up and oh, John is watching him, hands hanging loose at his sides, eyes dark, lips parted, and when Rodney gasps at the intensity there, John brings his hands together under Rodney's chin and unbuttons the top button again, then leaves the invitation open.
Yep, just as hot here.
Rodney struggles to stand again (his knees report that if he's going to ignore their complaints, he doesn't get to bitch when the predictable result is pain), and his hands dip in and find elastic and cotton, the backs of his knuckles rubbing and then following around to grip. John presses forward against him when Rodney squeezes his ass, and it's familiar and perfect and John makes this noise that's a strangled hybrid of Rodney and please and nngh and it occurs to Rodney that he might commit actual mayhem not even motivated by anyone being an idiot if the reward was to keep hearing that, and instead he gets to hear it again for free, even while he's additionally being rewarded by John's hands, undoing his buttons and reaching and squeezing and they probably should discuss how they're going to do this because when John was a woman there was a by-far-most-obvious approach (not that there wasn't a host of other choices that were appealing and Christ, must stop thinking of additional scenarios in which John is hot because one is plenty stimulating) and that's really not the case here, but it doesn't matter; all that matters is hands and John's mouth on Rodney's collarbone again and maybe John has a fetish about these hickeys but Rodney isn't about to object because teeth and tongue and wet.
Getting to the bed from where they're standing next to it proves a long-term project, and Rodney's both so desperate to get there it feels like his skin is going to quiver possibly right off him (not really, because that would be incredibly unsexy and also this is how burn victims die and why is he thinking about this when he has John making these noises) and also so mesmerized by fingers and eyelashes and the way the stubble has his lips sore and burning and all he wants is more anyway that he can't even try to propel them, and it's a good thing he's a genius because what is that quote about holding two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time? Not that he's doing much of a job at continuing to function, except yes, he is; his hands are roving and he's found that John's nipples, the smaller flatter ones that belong on this body, are every bit as sensitive as Chieh'ad's and that he's more than happy to attend to them.
When they finally crash down, and Rodney's personal theory is that this is a conspiracy hatched by their boots because they keep banging feet and stepping on toes as they try to climb each other all at once, and seriously, patience is a virtue--he's been told this a hundred times, and generally these adages have at least some vague basis in reality, not that this one is one he's ever embraced before but there's a first time for everything (there's another one; it's one he does embrace kind of often) and he really hopes they have plenty of time to do the five hundred or so things his brain has come up with in succession (over, say, years) rather than the all at once they seem to be trying to manage, Rodney lands half on top of John and that makes for friction for both of them, hard cocks and abdominal muscles and fuck, the boots have to go, and the pants, and for a couple of guys who regularly survive being shot at by pissed-off aliens and invaded by foreign critters that try to eat their brains or turn them into bugs, they suffer a moment of outrageous coordination failure, and there's nothing to do but laugh, and that makes everything easier.
Rodney's never really tried laughing during sex before (being laughed at, yes, which may have colored his perception), and this is a failure for which he should do penance immediately, because everything slows down and the intensity, it's still there, but it feels less heavy, more manageable, more like something they can work with rather than fight against, and they do enough fighting against the aforementioned aliens and bugs. He sits up, pushing John back down and looking at him until he stays, then slowly unties and untangles and pulls away layers until they're both bare to the skin, and okay, he has this tiny moment of insecurity, because he's not deformed or anything, but he's never really thought he was exactly brilliant to look at, but it takes about point-three seconds to get over it because John's staring and he's not drooling, per se, but it's not an inapt description, so yeah, they're okay there. He pushes the insecurity away and sits back down, turning to stretch out and letting his fingers trail down through all that hair and yeah, he wants John touching him, but he can wait.
He drops his head to kiss John's shoulder, and along the collarbone (he can see the appeal) as his fingers find John's hard cock and wrap around, his thumb sliding across the tip and back until John's shuddering and pulling at him. He's surprised to have been allowed to take the lead this long, so when he ends up on his back again, staring up at John straddling him and leaning forward and rummaging for lube and considering the beads of fluid sliding down the underside of his dick, it's practically a formality anyway, but either way it's hot and John's nipple is right there and Rodney lifts up to taste and everything goes desperate again, just like that. John finds his lube and drips some on his fingers, but they're both on edge and figuring out any position other than the one they're in, John dropped down on his elbow, hand between them, oily fingers squeezing them together and both of them thrusting and ragged and needy, is off the table.
When Rodney comes, John slows and watches him, and then with hardly another movement, he's pouring out hot between them too, and a little planning would have meant having a towel or something available, but none of this has been about planning, so they don't. John's smile, sated and blissed-out and--what do you know, Chieh'ad did look like John, and Rodney's maybe been a little blinder than he's realized--well, it's worth a little bit of sticky pulled hairs, because unless there's actually a really serious orbital bombardment about to commence, he has no plans to move from this spot in the next while.
--
"Rodney?"
"Hmm?" The bed is in fact a bit small, and they're cramped, and Rodney hates being cramped, except this is kind of nice. He lifts his head and takes in the sight of John's hair, which is apparently staging a revolt with even more fervor than usual, and okay, he could really get used to this, and it's a little hard to believe that 24 hours ago he was waking up sad to be alone and sore all over.
Well, no, he's sore all over now, too, but that's different. Also, it's a nice change of pace to have an enormous injury crisis on a mission and return to reality to find this. Not that he wants to get hurt and get a new, uh, boyfriend? Are they dating? What are they doing? Anyway, not that he wants that each time they go through the gate, although he's thinking end-of-mission sex really ought to become a tradition with this (the word will have to do until they think of a better one even if it sounds kind of juvenile) boyfriend.
"So, did you miss the underwear?"
"What?"
"No bra to fuck with," John points out.
"What, you want to wear one? I don't think you have the usual reasons, but far be it from me--"
"Just checking. That you weren't, like, sad about--"
Rodney raises up higher. "Don't even start. It was always you, so just, all right, she had nice, er, breasts, but that wasn't the point, and if you want, or don't want, to wear underwear, just as long as it's not in a rainbow of gray, I am more than happy to watch. I mean, I can watch you put it on, take it off, wear it around the house..."
"Wear it while I do a little dance?"
"Let me get my laptop. Webcams are useful."
John snorts. "I can't believe you stayed here without stopping for your laptop first."
Rodney blinks. "Oh. I didn't even... I got used to not having it, while I was there, you know? I mean, the one I took with got pretty fucked, and it's going to be, I don't know, maybe Eiser can retrieve the data from it eventually, but the one in the lab, shit, I should go get it, huh? I left the new atmosphere-routing routine debugging, and..." He stops. "No, I bet someone's seen to that by now anyway, and I'm pretty sure I'm on restricted duty."
"So, no laptop?"
"And no webcam."
"Huh. Must be love."
Rodney blinks and tries to figure out what the meaning there is, because John's tone is light but the word is a big one, and okay, it's also a true one, but he doesn't actually say it very often, and John really doesn't go there lightly, but maybe it's okay because they both get that? "Uh, must be. Either way, your underwear dance is safe."
John wriggles his way around and kisses Rodney's chin, then his chest, then a nipple, and looks up. "Good to know, but I was thinking of something else I'd rather not go on film," he says.
"No film in a laptop," Rodney points out as the kisses continue lower. "All... digital. No, um..."
John looks up again from where he's worked his way halfway down under the covers. "Not the point, Rodney."
"Oh, really? Because I was under the impression a discussion of media format was usually best done while one's... boyfriend? looked to be making a short exploration of one's balls."
John gives another nuzzle. "Your impression is fucked, and if you keep that question mark I'm going to start doubting your commitment."
"What, and have me decommissioned?"
John laughs, the loud laugh that's still just for Rodney because it's here in private, and nods. "Yes. And retired to my quarters. Work for you?"
Rodney reaches down and manhandles John up next to him, or rather, meets him halfway because the blankets cannot possibly get more fucked up, and kisses him hard. "Maybe spending time here voluntarily would be healthier. Also, I cannot believe I have just made a suggestion as to relationship health."
"Better than me making one." John kisses back, and nods. "But I think you're right. So. You keep your job, I consider getting a better bed, and we institute some new practices regarding successful ends of missions."
"Ooh, great minds! I was just thinking--"
"Good." John kisses him to shut him up, and yeah, he doesn't say so, but please, people are always trying to shut Rodney up, so it's totally what he's doing. Rodney kisses him back and thinks about ways to need shushing more often.
Author: florahart
Recipient: lilyfarfalla
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC17
Words: 19,950, give or take
Spoilers: There is reference to Last Man, but no reference to the canonical end of the series. So, either between those two somewhere, or AU sometime after Last Man. Not otherwise AU.
Warnings: So, there is a thing in here which I expect if I leave completely and totally unwarned, a few folks would feel unhappy about it; however, I can't figure out how to warn for it effectively. [It is not, though, any of the things that are among the most likely to trigger (it is not rape or abuse or anything like that). It could, though, be perceived as an uncomfortable kind of deception. If you as a reader really need to know more than that and don't want to wait for reveals or rely on others to tell you, feel free to leave a comment to that effect, and I'll explain via anon PM or via the mods or something.]
Author's Notes: This has maybe less team than the recipient could have hoped, although there is some. Thanks to L and E for lightning-fast above-and-beyond beta services, and to the mods for patience.
Summary: So, let's see: the world is gray, there's no sound, Rodney can't find John or Teyla, and Ronon is evidently moonlighting as an accountant. Yeah, this is going to be a good day.
( Meeting of Minds - Part 1 of 2 )
--
The dark-and-light thing would be a lot more useful if Rodney had any clear sense of how much time passed with each change. Or even--he's sort of starting to think that isn't consistent, or that it's on a schedule for which the pattern is not simple one and one. He supposes he could do something truly mind-numbing like count his pulse from one end to the other, but he's sort of hoping by the time he got through one iteration he'd be out of here, and boring the shit out of himself to no good purpose would be like taking art history all over again.
Yeah, no.
He's just considering trying to figure out where Chieh'ad's quarters are when she's at his door again. He tilts his head. "Beer and rocks again?"
Chieh'ad grins, this wide, cocky grin that makes Rodney feel at ease, and plunks down in the chair, putting her feet up on his bed. Nope, Rodney hears underlying the words again, which is both nice and all over again puzzling because he seriously can't do this with anyone else even half so well. Think we're gonna get you out of here tomorrow.
"Too bad," Rodney says. "I mean, I want to go, but you and I get along pretty well, all things considered."
That gets him a funny look, then Chieh'ad asks a question. At least, he thinks it's a question, though really he doesn't even know if a Mauvetopian interrogative ends with an upturn to the pitch like English.
"Not a clue," he says. "But I mean, with enough time, I bet we could crack the language barrier."
She shrugs. Going home beats the hell out of that, he imagines she must be saying. She's looking at him, but maybe almost past him, which is weird, weird, weird, because up till now she's been so totally direct.
The notion of something being noteworthily weird here is striking enough that Rodney almost misses the next bit. Not really, because it would be hard as hell to truly miss, but it's sort of a near thing. Her voice lowers to a growl, and yeah, he doesn't have whatever vocabulary is required, but the sense is totally obvious. Chieh'ad says Fuck it and drops the boots to the floor, standing and walking toward him, getting right in his face. Now or never. By the time she stops, she's right in his space, maybe Teyla would say, and maybe Rodney would too, and Chieh'ad is really tall and apparently... she's decided Rodney would make a good snack? He's pissed her off somehow? Shit. Her face is thundery and heated, and it's only at the very last second that Rodney realizes what he's seeing is something akin to lust, only, all right, it's tenderer than pure animal drive.
He stands his ground and lets her kiss him.
Good to know: NotLantians kiss just like humans, all pressure and slick heat, and Rodney's never been totally sure he's all that good at this, but Chieh'ad seems to like it all right, maybe more than all right, and probably Teyla or Ronon or Not Jennifer He's Really Sure Now would have mentioned if there were really a compelling reason not to go with something like this, right?
Well, they should have, and it's not his fault if they didn't, so he's going. He's usually not the one from their team to wind up in the midst of this sort of thing (and usually doesn't want to be, because he's rarely a fall-into-bed-first type, what with how learning later that his partner is an idiot is just, no), but it's hardly as though none of them ever do, so it's totally his turn, anyway.
And Chieh'ad is probably the best reason he's ever seen to do it, despite that yeah, still, they barely know each other. It's weird how comfortable she feels.
He walks her backward to the uncomfortable mattress that's masquerading as a usable bed (it's pretty surprising his back hasn't had a cow yet. Hey, maybe head injury is a good way to solve back problems. Wait, too many reasons that's a lousy idea. And way too many reasons, like a strong jaw and wet lips and his fingers finding functional underwear, for Rodney to spend another second on the concept right now). He groans, and she groans back, and hey, they've achieved communication again. At the ape level, sure, but then, what they're doing isn't exactly all about the intellect, so that's probably fair. He grunts as he fumbles with her buttons and tries to figure out how to push open the button-down shirt and shove up the t-shirt under at the same time with the same hand and without stopping his exploration of her tongue and chin with his lips. This proves impossible, but it doesn't matter; Chieh'ad is stripping both over her head, stopping only for a tiny moment when the cuff snags on the thing she wears around her wrist, and then Rodney's facing a lot of firm flesh that--all right, Teyla has a lot of firm flesh, and on the whole, purely as a matter of observation, her chest is at least a nine on the standard one to ten scale. Chieh'ad's is an eleven, and Rodney's mouth goes dry and he's really sure that his response to her hands unsnapping the button on the pants is not a result of head injury, but it might as well be because the language barrier is completely irrelevant when you can't form a coherent concept in your own head, for fuck's sake.
Chieh'ad doesn't shove the pants down, just leaves them open like some kind of invitation and goes back to kissing him, hands strong and rough on his jaw and shoving into his hair (This iteration--iteration? reflection? fuck. instance, maybe--of him has a lot more hair than his real scalp, which is probably the only good feature, if the mirror he's caught a glimpse of once or twice, really not on purpose because it's freaky as fuck even if he can also see his real self, blue-eyed and balding, underneath, is telling the truth), tugging gently at all that hair just in the same way her teeth are denting into his lower lip, pulling like she doesn't want to let go. The hand on his jaw slides down, working at his clothes (she's maybe thirty times better at stripping him than he was her, and that only makes Rodney think about how a woman like this must have her pick and plenty of opportunity and the fact she wants him--obviously; she started it, right?--makes his head swim a little. A little more, anyway). He helps with his shirt and unfastens his pants, leaving them the same way she did because even though getting down to it has always been sort of his style, if she finds the potential half or even five percent as hot as he does, well, he wants to make her tense and tight and eager like he is.
Of course, then she steps out of her boots, and that is a good, good reason for leaving them untied half the time, because Rodney has to actually sit down and untie and pull and that's entire spans of seconds that are not kissing, are not touching, and are not taking advantage of the invitation to explore hidden smooth flat skin that's right there waiting.
She crawls up onto the bed, bare feet with high arches following her knees as she goes around him and takes up a position behind his back, those hands on his bare shoulders, kneading and touching, sliding into his hair again and then tracing his ears and pushing down onto his chest as she bends forward and mouths at the left one. Rodney turns into the kiss, his shoulder brushing across a hard nipple still covered in plain cotton as his body rotates and Christ, there's really no reason for that alone to be what makes him whimper, but he ducks down and brushes his lips across the same square inch of material and feels the full-body shudder that says Chieh'ad likes that just as much as he does.
He shoves his boots the rest of the way off in a hurry and yes, it's a lousy job of untying them and probably he'll have some sort of contusion on his heel from it, but he's much more used to physical injury than he used to be (well he is, and just because he still complains doesn't make that untrue, damn it) and he doesn't care. At the moment. He still leaves his pants in place because she does, but he turns and clambers up on his knees with her, dropping his head to nibble his way down the side of her throat and running his fingers down her hard belly (she really is fit, with abs that could probably be used as a writing surface even if one were writing in pencil, but the skin is still surprisingly soft), and when he reaches the oh-so-tempting waistband, loose and open and just asking to be pushed down, he finds he wants to savor the moment a little, so he just pushes the tips of his fingers down to find functional cotton briefs that might as well be men's except for the absence of a flap (Victoria is so keeping the wrong secret, at least sometimes). He rubs his hands back and forth, the backs of his knuckles moving along that softer waistband as he tastes her collarbone. He feels her drop her head back and momentarily worries she'll manage to keel over backward because probably he would, in the same position, but then, he's the one who keeps enduring head injuries, and those fit abs keep her completely balanced and the feel of them working even just that little bit has him pushing his hands down a little further, hands turning inward as they follow around the sides of her hips and make their way back and down so squeeze her ass a little.
"Rodney," she says.
He looks up. "Yeah?"
But she's not actually trying to communicate anything verbally, really; she's saying his name, a low groan, and pressing forward against him and no longer letting her head drop back as she returns the maneuver, gripping Rodney's ass hard and sucking a wicked wet mark on his throat and Jesus, that's totally going to show and she knows it, pulling back just enough to let him see her looking at it critically and grinning.
And then he's on his back, and she's got his pants and shorts down around his knees and the same suction is going to work on new areas--hipbone, crease of thigh, inner thigh as she's straddling his legs and curling forward, flexible and lithe with her hair all shoved over her shoulder and she hasn't even touched his cock and Rodney's hard at work trying to remember any theorem of any type so he can mentally excoriate his undergrad advisor regarding the examples used in teaching it because fuck, he can't think about what she's doing to him or he's going to explode.
"Slow... slow down," he gasps. "Want... shit."
She looks up, and that just makes her wild hair fall differently, brushing the head of his dick, and oh God.
She grins again and licks a slow, hot, wet stripe up his cock from root to tip, then challenges him not to come yet. He thinks. He can't imagine what else she'd be saying, but crap, crap a challenge is a challenge and if she's got him in the state he's in with cotton underwear and tangled hair, he has to know what else is to follow.
Of course, given her, it's probably also the case that yes, shut up, he's forty, but for this, he can probably go again, so it might be worth...
She shakes her head, and he gets the feeling she can pretty much read his mind.
At least, about this.
He grits his teeth as she licks again, then whimpers as she slips to the side, off him, to stand on the floor and push down pants and underwear and then wrestle with the bra for a minute like it's not that familiar before expediently pulling it over her head, too.
She's stretched out next to him again before he remembers the value of oxygen (eight, but that's a whole different value) and takes a breath, and then she's kissing him again, and rolling him toward her, onto her, and for all the take-charge she has, he fully expected to be at her mercy as she rode him, but apparently she has other ideas. He spends maybe a quarter of a second trying to work out with about five percent of his brain how one has a conversation about sexual history and risk before concluding that shit, there aren't that many really horrible STIs, and she seems totally unconcerned about other unwanted consequences, and he's not even going to--he's just going to go with it.
Definitely.
As she pulls against his shoulders and makes greedy throaty sounds he can't put a name to and doesn't want to, it occurs to him that he ought to be at least sort of gentlemanly and kiss his way down her body, too, make sure she's as wet as he is hard--but then, the odds that she's clawing at him like this, gasping his name (thank fuck that the one word they really definitely have is that one), if she's not just as ready and wanting as he is, seem low, so he lets her pull him into place and lets himself slide home in one hard thrust.
Chieh'ad stills under him, face gone startled and slack, and what the hell? But then a second later she's writhing again, hips pressing up, hands wandering, lips parted and panting, and he's just... gone. He slides in and back over and over, watching her, murmuring nonsense and begging her to come for him, come on baby (who says that? Who calls people baby? Not him, but he can't help it, and as she arches and convulses and says his name again like he's some sort of superhero, he's pretty sure it's not as ridiculous as it feels).
Watching her come slows his movements, but then, it's not like his cock is at a disadvantage; the ripple of tight-squeezing muscle pulling at him is amazing, and as it slows, he thrusts forward once more and spills into her, collapsing forward into what will surely be irritating awkward heaviness.
She wraps her arms around him and holds him down, close, making little sounds that he thinks are like purring, only they're made out of his name, and he has no idea what he's done to make her this excited about the whole thing, but he's really, really glad he did it.
--
He's both unsurprised and surprisingly unhappy to wake alone some time later. It's still dark, and the lights in his quarters are out, but she's clearly not here, and he still has no clue where her quarters are, so he can't even go after her.
Which he shouldn't anyway, probably, if he's to leave today; if she'd wanted to stay, she would have. But the way she said his name, well, he sort of would have liked to hear that again.
This missing people thing is really overrated, though. Especially missing people whom he doesn't actually know.
Maybe it's hookups with strangers that are overrated.
He's just contemplating whether he remembers the word for lights on when the window pales to indicate it's "day" outside, so he sits up and shoves the covers back, looking down at his naked body. He has nibble-marks, little scrapes and tiny wee bruises that say this skin is just as delicate as his own. He puts his hand to his neck, where there has to be an obvious hickey, and grins at the thought.
Standing up is a little sore, and apparently he needs to be getting laid more because yeah, okay, it was intense, but it's not like they fucked for hours or anything, and why is he sore? His skin feels tight and tired, and the muscles of his ass have objections to tension, and... and the room is spinning and oh hell, his head hurts, kind of a lot, up on the side where she kept checking it, and maybe sex, unlike beer, is counterindicated when one has a head wound.
Not that he's found the wound; he has no idea how it happened or what it looks like, and while this bothers him, he's worked out that trying to think about it only makes him nauseous.
Damn it.
He sits back down in careful movements and finds his pants rumpled on the floor, then pulls them over his feet and up his thighs before another brief foray into standing to pull them up. They look like they've been slept in, but he can't bring himself to care about that sort of thing when he's on Atlantis, so here, it's totally irrelevant to him.
He stands one more time, carefully, and crap, the headache is getting worse in a hurry and that probably means his brain is bleeding and great, he's killed himself with sex, which... is probably the ideal way to go, especially if it's like that, though not waking up again first would have been better, wouldn't it?
The nightstand makes a good place to keep a hand near, just in case he goes back down (because regardless of anything about it being a good way to go, he'd prefer not to have another head injury on top of he first one), and then he trails his fingers on the wall as he makes his way toward the door. When he gets there he swallows hard and opens it. He can make it to medical. He can.
But he doesn't have to. Chieh'ad is there again--and of course they've got some sort of monitoring going; he would, under the same circumstances, and just because their tech doesn't do, like, 97% of what he thinks it should or would design, that doesn't mean they have nothing. Thank God.
Chieh'ad's expression is sober, and she won't quite met his eyes, which, Rodney wants to question that, but right now, he's busy staying upright, and when she slides an arm under his, supporting him for the walk, she still hasn't looked at him, and he still doesn't know why. They walk in silence, and all right, Rodney's been unable to hold a meaningful conversation for days now, so he ought to be used to it, but he's really not, and he finds he doesn't want to just fill the silence himself.
"Chieh'ad," he says.
Chieh'ad glances sideward toward him, and shakes her head. "Rodney, cho'kt... Cho'k shrro."
He doesn't want to be quiet, but her voice is gentle, not angry, and not frightened. Like maybe she's letting him down easy or something, which is a little ridiculous because she started it; he wasn't ever going to act on any of it without the encouragement, but it was definitely not a pity fuck because okay, he's pretty sure he's clear on how those look and feel (good, nice in their own way if he remembers correctly because university was a while ago and generally he's opted differently for the last twenty years or so, but not like that), so why the tone?
He purses his lips a little and lets her handle the walking and steering so he has room in his head (throbbing now, thanks, and mostly he doesn't want to consider it) to puzzle.
Of course, every time he thinks about puzzling out how all this works, about the pain in his head now, about who he is and who everyone else is and why Chieh'ad sounds like... oh! Sounds like she expects him to be angry. Weird. Every time he wonders about that, it's as though his thoughts are diverted, which alone says there's something messing with his head, and oh crap, what if this is like that episode of Star Trek, the second one, with...which one was it that it's reminding him of? The alien abductions and the meeting on the holodeck to build a chair, or the play and the mental hospital and the scene that keeps shattering? Maybe it's both; neither of them had science that made sense. Anyway, it'd better not be that, because that would mean the sex was either fake or with a stranger, no a real stranger, not someone who... he's known... "Oh, crap."
Chieh'ad glances at him again, and he stops letting her carry him, stops letting his feet walk.
Yeah, his head is throbbing, and it feels like there's a heat mirage between the two of them, and Rodney squints and glances up and down and tries to focus, and says, "John."
Chieh'ad sighs. "Rodney."
Rodney blinks and tries to see John in Chieh'ad the way he sees Ronon in the accountant. Now that he knows he's in there, it's not hard. The mannerisms are the same, and the boots, and the wristband, and the way they communicate and the hair.
Well, okay, the hair is longer on Chieh'ad, if just as unruly, and Rodney's at least 90% sure John doesn't typically wear a bra, plain cotton or otherwise, because the American military doesn't, by and large, allow that sort of thing to go unchallenged even under the new administration, as far as he knows.
Not that American military policy is the most transparent thing in the world, nor that Rodney has ever been willing to really learn the details; to his mind that would be about as fun as learning how to make small talk in one hundred world languages.
But if it's John... and now his headache has a whole new source, because, to review, John is in the US military, and the topic of sexuality is a little fraught, and he's never even suspected and John let him fuck him and again, to review, that wasn't a pity fuck, and right, it's not like Rodney's never thought about it because he's not in the US military, which is just as well because there are limits on how much idiocy he can tolerate in any given day and that would exceed it by a lot, but he never would have acted on it without John starting it because US military and why would John risk that and of course, why would Chieh'ad have been interested either but she was, only she's John, and--and now he's going in circles.
Maybe because the hallway is spinning now, too. And Chieh'ad--John, might as well get it right--is looking a little more worried. About something other than Rodney being pissed, and she's--he's--pulling Rodney along now, ignoring Rodney's less-than-adamant effort to deal with this now and pretty much running them to medical and there's the doctor and the new guy, and Jesus Christ it's Tarkin's interrogation droid or something like it with them.
Rodney considers trying to run, but this is John and it must be all right even if it looks like the diametric opposite and even if needles are always, always bad, and besides, what would his odds be? He'd run, and then his heart would work harder and his pressure would rise and he doesn't need to have a stroke on top of everything so he might as well just submit. He turns to John. "It's not going to scramble me, is it?"
John manhandles him to the bed and shakes his head tersely, hand flat on Rodney's chest clearly conveying, Stay.
Rodney lets himself relax onto the mattress and looks up at John until he looks back, and forces what he hopes is a non-weird smile (what exactly is the correct non-weird expression for I'm not mad, but what the fucking fuck when one is ill and has been misled and there are strangers in charge?) and says, "You know we're going to have to talk about it."
John nods sharply and looks away again, so Rodney brings up the hand that isn't already being gauzed and warmed for needle-insertion and sets it on John's hand, still on his chest. "Soon, all right?"
John says nothing, and Rodney feels the drug seep in as someone starts a buzzing rub against his scalp, and damn it, now he's really going to be bald for that conversation, and if they have sex again, there will be nothing for John to... Wow, good drugs.
--
It's a little disappointing to find that in fact, everything is still gray, gray, and more gray when Rodney wakes up, head all spacey and distant-feeling where something's been numbed, even though the setting is all twisted around like the first swirl of chocolate going into a milkshake. John's still there (and John, as well as Carson (oh. Well of course, if John was a woman, then Carson was too and that's why the inflection was a problem and also yes, Carson probably would find it a bit odd if Rodney propositioned him) and New Guy, is himself again), which is reassuring and also a little weird.
Rodney opens his mouth, which is dry, and works his tongue a little to get some moisture going. John holds a little cup-and-straw thing and Rodney takes a drink (wow, water is delicious!) and licks his lips. "What happened?"
"It's complicated," John says, at the same time New Guy shushes him and Carson cautions him against trying to think about anything too taxing.
"Oh, well in that case, I suppose I'll just have to live with not knowing. Because I never understand complicated things." Rodney looks at John, who he's only just realized is, in fact, still right where he left him. The surroundings are gray, but John isn't; he's pink-tan and stubbled and his hand is still curled against Rodney's on the bed next to his hip. "Seriously."
"Hey, I'm not the one who said no; I just said it's complicated. You want the whole story here, or you wanna go home, get a real beer, sit on a pier that overlooks water--"
"Fine, fine, yes, I want that, but Carson's going to say I need to be monitored."
"I am right here, Rodney," Carson interjects. "Not that I disagree, but I do like to think I'm a reasonable man."
"Very reasonable," Teyla says from the doorway. "Am I to understand that Nuluon's approach has been successful in repairing the way in which Rodney's brain interacts with his body?"
"My brain wasn't interacting with my body? It felt like it was!"
Teyla steps in closer, with Ronon right behind her. "My apologies; I anticipated you would have demanded an immediate explanation for the strange virtual world in which you found yourself. However, as I recall, Radek believed the simulation itself did not provide a circumstance under which one going in unprepared would be aware of its virtuality as we all were, so perhaps you had not realized."
"As you all were? Wait, how long, wait. It was virtual? Wait. The dark and light weren't days then, and, all right, Carson, obviously you don't want my brain to actually explode now that you just fixed it, do you?" Rodney turns, eyes wide, to Carson. "You can't want that."
Carson grins. "Rodney, I never want that, and I take both your previous sarcasm and your current curiosity as evidence that you are indeed feeling much better."
"Great. So I can go home and someone can explain to me why--what was it? Nuluon?--had to approach my brain at all? And Sheppard can explain why you and he were women?"
"Aye, if ye promise no' to get too excited," Carson says, beginning to retract and stow various bits of equipment.
Nuluon, who so far hasn't engaged in any of the conversation, nods somberly and then folds his hands together and gives a little bow. "I am pleased you withstood the simulation," he says. "I have already sent a detailed report with my new friend Teyla regarding the historical precedents for this facility, and would be interested to learn of your thoughts, after you are fully recovered."
Rodney isn't quite sure what to make of that, but while Nuluon is speaking, Carson's untangling wires and pulling electrodes off Rodney's scalp (he puts up his hand; it's as bald as he feared, which, yeah, that's sexy). He lets John help him up, glancing down at his clothes and finding to his relief that he's pretty much dressed in the usual, though his jacket is definitely toast, and he appears to have no hat of any description. "Ronon, Teyla? Are you coming now, or--"
Ronon glances at Rodney's hand, holding John's tightly, and lifts a brow. "Nah, we'll help the doc clean up. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Rodney's impulse is to jerk his hand away, but John holds tight and only lets go when they reach the door.
"I can't believe he let me walk out. No stretcher or anything."
John smirks. "I can't believe you voluntarily did walk out. No stretcher or anything."
"Aw, fuck you." The words are out Rodney's mouth, just part of the daily shit-flipping that goes on, before it occurs to him they're maybe awkward now. Unless they're not. Unless the virtual... "Okay, so how real was the virtual world, and under what circumstances was I interacting directly with people I knew? Know. Whatever. Also, hey, Chieh'ad said Jeannie was gone, and Elizabeth was gone, said it the same way, and I mean, I have no idea why this whole thing would involve Jeannie, but--"
"You know how Carson said not to get too excited?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm pretty sure you're too excited." John jerks his head to the right. "Gate's that way."
"Damn it. You can't just not answer that."
"Didn't say I was going to leave it hanging, and Jeannie's fine. As far as I know. The language issues were, uh, a little complicated."
"I noticed. Also the, uh, gender issues."
John shrugs. "You have no idea. Flaw in the programming, if you ask me, but Teyla found it perfectly rational, as did that Nuluon guy."
They turn toward the gate and then stop several hundred yards out. Rodney can just see the ring, distant and unlit, and he glances at John. "Are we really going back without the rest of the team? Wait, when we came here, why were Lorne and Zelenka--"
"They weren't, and it's a long fucking story, Rodney. Now the question is, you want to go over it all brand new with Woolsey, or you want to talk about it here? Ronon won't hang out forever, but I bet Teyla will find a way to get the three of them invited to some kind of ceremony for a few hours."
Rodney nods. "Here. The notion of debriefing that with Woolsey sounds like a good reason to go plug myself back in, which, I mean, I had a good time, at least, there toward the end. Well, not the end where my brain felt like it was bleeding and you had to carry me, not that I, um, well before that was good, and the beer, and, so... why were you and Carson women in functional underwear?"
"You check out Carson's underwear, too?" John starts walking again, ambling in the general direction of the gate and looking around into the gray-green tree trunks as they pass.
"No, but I only have the one example to go from."
"It's probably valid; that part the VR thing got from you, best I understood. I'm not a computer guy, but evidently, okay, there were built-in parameters. No leadership position--expedition leader, chief medic--in the society that built the thing was ever held by a man. We tried to get it to give us bodies that would make more sense to you, on the principle that you'd be more likely to make sense of what your mind was showing you."
"But Ronon and Lorne--"
"All of them, the damn thing recognized as laborers or underlings or something. Just like you." John smirks and Rodney suppresses the urge to say something nasty; he figures if they'd both been women everything would have gone differently because he'd have known it was part of the program, so it's just as well. "That's why we sent them in to 'find' you and bring you in, but it's also why Zelenka took you in circles and stuff."
"Why did we have to be quiet?"
"Same issue, more or less. We were trying to get it to let us talk to you, and it seemed like confusing the issue with more words than we had to would only make things worse. You notice the only words that sounded like English were ones for which there was no native equivalent? Names, the jumpers, that stuff."
"Huh." Rodney has no idea how to bring this conversation around to what he wants to talk about with John and definitely not with Woolsey, which is last night's scorching hot and please can they do it again only what the hell John isn't a girl and that's fine but the military has rules and Christ, this is basically just exactly as overwhelming as the whole rest of the experience only he has a vocabulary.
"By the way," John continues, "the linguistics software had parameters, too. It has the sound sh-, but besides all the, uh, glottal stops and funky vowels shoved into strings, it has no p or b anywhere, so Sheppard didn't come out my lips no matter what--"
"Let me guess. Shaeya'aharrd."
"Not bad. And feminine names can't end in N."
"Really?"
"I know, right?" John steers them into a little grove where a couple of old fallen trees form a slightly off-kilter bench, and sits down. "So I couldn't make it spit out my name. Carson either, first or last, because N and B. We'd say it our way, and it would spit out whatever close representation it thought it might have come up with, no matter how not-right."
"So you weren't trying to confuse me. Though I might have worked out heckett if presented with it."
"Nah, no picking on the brain-injured. General rule. And yeah, you might. And then we thought about trying to write it out for you, but our virtual hands would only write in the local text, so that was pretty fucked up, too."
"Wow. Thorough. And, wait, it picked my brain for your underwear?"
"Not that I was rooting for itchy lace, which I don't even know what I'd have done with other than wiggle all day. And anyway, it was also your idea, you getting a peek at it."
Rodney enjoys the mental image of a wiggling John for a moment, then stills. "Wait, so all that me touching was all my plan, even though you--"
"What? Oh. No, uh. That thing with the camo--look, it's about ten percent sensible and the rest insane, but it's a program they no longer use, in an abandoned facility. You were in it because of the explosion--no, I know, you don't remember that part--and we had to put you in stasis and that involved probably doing more damage to prevent death." John pauses and looks at Rodney seriously. "We argued about that. About whether you'd want to be damaged if--"
"Not really, no. Which side were you on?"
"Yours. It was a short argument, since we only had about ten seconds to decide, and I guess it turned out not to make anything worse. In your brain, anyway. Yeah, its real use was as a prison for people who, you know, spoke the language and were familiar with the general environment. Apparently it only imprisoned people as long as they didn't know they were in VR and let them learn they were if they eventually repented or something, so it had all this built-in shit that Zelenka has been working his ass off trying to push around. That's why you only saw him early on, because he was busy trying to make the damn thing's default into something a little more doable than making you repent nearly dying."
"Wow, that's the default assumption? Who designed this thing?"
"No idea, really. We finally convinced it not to assign you KP and stuff, but it had to build the release scenario from you. That it was Atlantis, that part was you."
Rodney frowns. "And it made me come along to learn about the solution with New Guy."
"Right. I wasn't about to just leave you on your own, and obviously Teyla had to be who went and made contact--"
"--which was why she was never there; that freaked me out by the way." Rodney slumps back against the second tree trunk and picks at his thumbnail. "So it made you show me your underwear? What am I, twelve?"
"I thought you seemed a little older later," John says without much inflection.
So, right, he's not going to go there, is he? "But it didn't make you jump me, did it?" Rodney asks. "Because that part I didn't find stupid, just unbelievable."
"Why?"
Rodney stares. "Why not stupid?"
John snorts and then guffaws, the laugh familiar. "No, Rodney, I think I know zero men who think a scenario in which they get laid is stupid."
"So you didn't think it was stupid either, then."
"No, but you're avoiding the question."
"Why did I think it was unbelievable?"
"That's the one."
"Because why would she? Have you looked at me? And at, uh. Well, you, but in the form of her, though really either applies, which I guess makes sense, they'd make her beautiful because she's you, only with soft skin and--"
"And a cunt," John cuts him off.
"Uh, okay, yes that, but that's really not the chief issue, I don't think. The main thing is, if the device was forcing a scenario based on how I thought it should go, then conceivably I made you jump me, which is, um, is there a word for that? I don't think there's a word for that. Also, wait, so you had virtual sex as a woman, which, did that feel, um."
"Weird?"
"Yes, that."
"You might say. And what I perceived to be very real."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." John shifts on the awkward bench, and then Rodney finds himself squirming, too, and yeah, obviously they're both twelve, because hey, twelve is a good age, lots of curiosity and a whole world to discover, but it's really fucking bad for discussing one's incredibly bizarre sexual encounter.
Finally, Rodney takes a deep breath. "We might as well do this for Woolsey if we're just going to squirm, so: did the fact that it was my scenario require you to--"
"No."
"Then..."
"You're not going to like it, Rodney." John looks at his knees.
"Maybe not, but since you can kick my ass on my best day and I've been bedridden for a few days, I don't think I'm going to beat you up or anything."
"Not what I'm afraid of. I did it because since you hadn't recognized me yet, I figured you weren't going to, and I wanted to, and how often am I going to find myself in a scenario in which I'm a hot chick?"
Rodney can't help being a smartass. "I hear there's a weekly drag contest somewhere not all that far from the base. At SGC, I mean. So I guess you could make it happen." He pauses. "Well, not the cunt part. Is that what you, er..."
"Well, now we've got that cleared right up. No, not that. The part where you look at me and see someone whose underwear you want to see in the first place." John's cheeks have gone ruddy even in the gray light here, and Rodney waits for him to look up because Jesus, if he's got John Sheppard looking this insecure (John is often insecure and Rodney knows it, but looking vulnerable is more a hens' teeth kind of thing), he's going to take a minute and get this right. Finally, John looks up. "What?"
"One, I'm nearly sure I said, like five minutes ago so I would think it would have sunk in by now, that I think she was beautiful because she was you, which even I, in all my socially-misregarded glory and I know that's not a word but inept isn't really true as it implies absence of capacity and I have the capacity, thank you, just not the interest which is different, but even I see that as probably a compliment to the you that is currently present, and two, for the record, I have considered your underwear often enough to have opinions about it including whether it exists because you seem like a commando kind of guy except that I know I've seen a waistband or two so maybe it's only sometimes and then of course I have to wonder what the circumstantial motivations would be and okay there's a three but is there any point at which you're going to say shut up, Rodney? Because I was expecting it somewhere in the middle of point two."
"Shut up, Rodney." John's face is still off, but his tone's gone maybe a little warmer. "Wait, first tell me point three, then shut up."
"Three, what do you mean, perceived to be very real, exactly? I perceived the whole thing to be really real, and I mean, then I was sore, which, come to think of it I'm not now so probably that was more a brain thing, but what do you mean?"
John glances away again, the blush returning, which, if Rodney were to try to label it, that would be, and Christ, when does he say, or even think, this sort of thing even really quietly, sort of painfully adorable (ugh, no, even thinking it isn't his style, and yet, there it is. Score one for capacity over inclination). "I mean," John says finally, "that I came. In this body. You, by the way, didn't. Which sort of implies I made you jump me, kind of."
"Really? I didn't? Wow, that was the most convincing fake orgasm ever, and also, you checked? And also, wow, that must have been an interesting post-sex conversation, not with the person with whom you were having sex, and also--"
"Shut up, Rodney. I didn't exactly expect it, and I really didn't expect to have this conversation about it, and you don't owe me flowers or anything, but I took the opportunity presented."
"Which you think I might be thinking, about the flowers or anything, because my body, with its broken brain-body connection, didn't have a neurological response?"
"Which I think you might be thinking because it's not as though we've ever, you know. Anything."
Rodney offers a half-shrug at that, one shoulder, slow, mostly to buy time because he's about to jump in, deep end, cement blocks affixed with non-water-soluble stickum, and he's definitely jumping but it's still a little scary, and the sort of thing which requires deep breathing and loosening up of shoulders and whatnot. "You know, I think I'm offended," he says after a while.
"Sorry. Like I said, I figured if you hadn't figured it out yet, you weren't going to, so I didn't expect you to need to know."
"That's not why."
"Oh?" John's still being all still, and it's not as though Rodney's gotten a million percent better at body language in the last 24 hours, but he'd like to think he has a couple of new insights into John's body language, because he's seen it divorced from John. Or no, actually, he has a couple of new insights into how he looks at the entire issue, because really, it's that Chieh'ad's body language was John's that was why he was so comfortable. Huh. So his attention to the topic is situational and not particularly conscious, and he knows that a still John is a cautious John, and he's being quiet for too long and he needs to speak (it's good to know this happens at least sometimes. Well, at least once).
"Oh. Yeah, I'm offended that you think it's perfectly reasonable that you've been going around keeping this shit all bottled up, which, I know, military, stupid policies, motivation, yeah, all that, but I can't possibly have been doing the same. Hello, genius? Who also keeps government secrets just like you do? And who, according to you, spent about forty years figuring out how to find you in an unknown millennia-distant future in another reality which has the exact same basis as this one so how the hell is that even not a clue?"
John's face goes from one kind of still to another, like from cautious in general to wary of a specific, and okay, he hated this movie, but Rodney's a little bit reminded of Forrest Gump learning he has a kid and going from ohgod to ohgod in about a half a second at the potentials.
Rodney decides this is probably the greatest disadvantage at which he will ever have John, so he moves fast, leaning in and pressing a totally imperfect kiss that half-misses and is too sloppy and too hard and probably wrong six other ways to John's lips, then pulls back just long enough they both have time to blink, and does it again.
And just like that, John does that in-charge thing where he makes a decision and implements it and if you're in the way he gives you one chance, maybe one and a half, and then you're toast.
Fortunately, Rodney is already toast, and pretty happy about it, because this fallen log is by no means an adequate bed, but with John kissing him back (Christ, it's just like with Chieh'ad, obviously, only with stubble and a sharper jaw and neither of those is in any way a detriment) and pressing against him like John's a sponge and Rodney's water and sopping him up is urgent, yeah, he's on his back half wedged into place, and John's mouth is on his throat making the hickey real (fuck, there's no way this one is more real or otherwise better, only it is and John's using his teeth now and his hands, and there's nothing dirty about where he's touching but it doesn't matter because the effect is like--no, there's nothing it's like), and Rodney can hear himself making all these sounds that thank God John is interpreting right (don't stop or I might die of need is a good loose translation) even though there's no more clarity in the linguistics than there ever was in Grayburbia. "This is," he finally manages, happy about getting two words in a row on the first try, "this is why I could hear you."
"What?"
"At the pier. When I could understand your meaning but not your words."
John chuckles, a low sound that's better than that loud laugh because it's all for Rodney and it's right against his skin and he can feel the bunching of the flesh around John's mouth that's making a broad grin no one can see. "And you've got my meaning now?"
"Maybe not," Rodney admits, "since we've both been dancing around it, but yeah, I think the fact you've got me pinned and hard, and don't think I'm not paying attention to every inch of you, so I've certainly noticed you're in about the same state. Except for being pinned. I think that suggests a pretty clear intention. Of which I approve, in case it needs saying."
John nibbles a whole new path (indirect, like avoiding being an easy target) down to Rodney's collarbone, then comes back for a fresh start at his mouth again, and this time Rodney keeps him there, tugging at his lower lip and sucking on his tongue and crap, how long will Ronon and Teyla (and Carson, but he's a doctor and he's probably seen worse) give them, and does he want to do this with an audience? He mutters something to that effect, and John mutters back something about Woolsey and debriefing and Rodney says this part doesn't go in the minutes, and John laughs again, and then with a groan he pushes up and away and helps Rodney up again. They remain seated on the bench, kissing, just kissing (all right, there's sometimes a little groping, but it's to be expected; it's been a rough week) until John hears Teyla making about thirty times as much noise as she usually would, which makes them both laugh as they try to behave like (sort of giggly, which is not at all masculine but he can't help it) grownups for a few minutes, and even though Teyla glances discreetly at his neck and gets that serene knowing not-smile (and Ronon is way less discreet and way more mocking, even if the mocking is silent), they all make it to the gate quickly, and if Woolsey works out there's something they're leaving out, he doesn't say so. Even if his eyes have serious questions about that hickey.
--
Rodney expects the door closing behind them in John's quarters (no idea why this is their destination without discussion, because Rodney's bed is a little bigger, not much, but then, John's means they'll have to stick close and oh, that's a good thing and also probably this is some sort of subliminal assertion of dominance or something, which, okay, last time Rodney was the only one with a dick, and it's not like he's under the impression this put him in charge, because wow was he ever not in charge, but still) to bring them back to the painful awkwardness, and to have to get past it all over again, but John stops the instant it's fully closed and maneuvers so he has to reach around Rodney to manually engage the lock. That's obviously a means of bringing them face to face, and close, and Rodney sees no reason not to take advantage, so he does, bringing up his hands (and his own hands on John's own face are really a lot better that he remembers from last night) and smoothing his thumbs over the stubble John hasn't gotten rid of (maybe he should keep it) and he brings them back together. John leans into him for a second, but then they're moving, trying to touch all over and not get disconnected and coordinate their feet, which leads to a couple of perilous instants that could involve toppling to the floor, but John's athletic (news? No.) and Rodney's pretty sure they won't actually fall and if they do John will catch him, so it's fine.
Not that head injuries are anything to fool around with, but Carson said something on the way back to the damn gate about how even though they had to shave him bald over one temple to get the device to disengage, there's no real reason to feel the area is exceptionally delicate, just naked.
Naked was a good word, but not in the context of describing his head. Still, John's hands are there now, and Rodney remembers smaller hands, no less tough, no less demanding, tugging at the hair he never had then and doesn't have now. Instead, John's palm is cupping and his thumb is stroking these tiny little pats that feel like sparks because the skin is sensitive because it's new to exposure, and because it's John and they're almost to the bed, and now they have to do the clothing game again.
It's almost sort of a relief that John is less smooth at this than he was as Chieh'ad, which, yeah, a simulation, when you know it's a simulation, there can be tricks as far as the mind deciding things have been done, so that explains that, and now they have to push out of shirts and unfasten pants, and Rodney's torn: get naked, for real, or touch the skin he's seen before and actually some of it touched before because they've been in all sorts of ridiculous situations involving injuries and being tied up and only able to reach each other's pockets and he's sure he's forgetting relevant examples but the point is, touching is not the same as touching, and now, there's all this skin, some of it pale like pretty much all of Rodney's, some of it tanned and tough from sand (a long time ago, but some things don't change) and wind and a hundred visits through gates of every description.
Rodney opts for touching. He can get naked in a minute. He kneels, and it's not that surprising to learn that his knees have a problem with that, but they can just hold their horses because Rodney has skin to nuzzle, hot skin that's soft, oh crap just as soft as it was on Chieh'ad, except where there's dark hair covering it, and probably it's just as soft underneath, but the hair that covers his chest and tapers down his belly is a whole new very worthwhile texture, and Rodney slides his lips across from above the hipbone to just under the navel, and then he looks up and oh, John is watching him, hands hanging loose at his sides, eyes dark, lips parted, and when Rodney gasps at the intensity there, John brings his hands together under Rodney's chin and unbuttons the top button again, then leaves the invitation open.
Yep, just as hot here.
Rodney struggles to stand again (his knees report that if he's going to ignore their complaints, he doesn't get to bitch when the predictable result is pain), and his hands dip in and find elastic and cotton, the backs of his knuckles rubbing and then following around to grip. John presses forward against him when Rodney squeezes his ass, and it's familiar and perfect and John makes this noise that's a strangled hybrid of Rodney and please and nngh and it occurs to Rodney that he might commit actual mayhem not even motivated by anyone being an idiot if the reward was to keep hearing that, and instead he gets to hear it again for free, even while he's additionally being rewarded by John's hands, undoing his buttons and reaching and squeezing and they probably should discuss how they're going to do this because when John was a woman there was a by-far-most-obvious approach (not that there wasn't a host of other choices that were appealing and Christ, must stop thinking of additional scenarios in which John is hot because one is plenty stimulating) and that's really not the case here, but it doesn't matter; all that matters is hands and John's mouth on Rodney's collarbone again and maybe John has a fetish about these hickeys but Rodney isn't about to object because teeth and tongue and wet.
Getting to the bed from where they're standing next to it proves a long-term project, and Rodney's both so desperate to get there it feels like his skin is going to quiver possibly right off him (not really, because that would be incredibly unsexy and also this is how burn victims die and why is he thinking about this when he has John making these noises) and also so mesmerized by fingers and eyelashes and the way the stubble has his lips sore and burning and all he wants is more anyway that he can't even try to propel them, and it's a good thing he's a genius because what is that quote about holding two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time? Not that he's doing much of a job at continuing to function, except yes, he is; his hands are roving and he's found that John's nipples, the smaller flatter ones that belong on this body, are every bit as sensitive as Chieh'ad's and that he's more than happy to attend to them.
When they finally crash down, and Rodney's personal theory is that this is a conspiracy hatched by their boots because they keep banging feet and stepping on toes as they try to climb each other all at once, and seriously, patience is a virtue--he's been told this a hundred times, and generally these adages have at least some vague basis in reality, not that this one is one he's ever embraced before but there's a first time for everything (there's another one; it's one he does embrace kind of often) and he really hopes they have plenty of time to do the five hundred or so things his brain has come up with in succession (over, say, years) rather than the all at once they seem to be trying to manage, Rodney lands half on top of John and that makes for friction for both of them, hard cocks and abdominal muscles and fuck, the boots have to go, and the pants, and for a couple of guys who regularly survive being shot at by pissed-off aliens and invaded by foreign critters that try to eat their brains or turn them into bugs, they suffer a moment of outrageous coordination failure, and there's nothing to do but laugh, and that makes everything easier.
Rodney's never really tried laughing during sex before (being laughed at, yes, which may have colored his perception), and this is a failure for which he should do penance immediately, because everything slows down and the intensity, it's still there, but it feels less heavy, more manageable, more like something they can work with rather than fight against, and they do enough fighting against the aforementioned aliens and bugs. He sits up, pushing John back down and looking at him until he stays, then slowly unties and untangles and pulls away layers until they're both bare to the skin, and okay, he has this tiny moment of insecurity, because he's not deformed or anything, but he's never really thought he was exactly brilliant to look at, but it takes about point-three seconds to get over it because John's staring and he's not drooling, per se, but it's not an inapt description, so yeah, they're okay there. He pushes the insecurity away and sits back down, turning to stretch out and letting his fingers trail down through all that hair and yeah, he wants John touching him, but he can wait.
He drops his head to kiss John's shoulder, and along the collarbone (he can see the appeal) as his fingers find John's hard cock and wrap around, his thumb sliding across the tip and back until John's shuddering and pulling at him. He's surprised to have been allowed to take the lead this long, so when he ends up on his back again, staring up at John straddling him and leaning forward and rummaging for lube and considering the beads of fluid sliding down the underside of his dick, it's practically a formality anyway, but either way it's hot and John's nipple is right there and Rodney lifts up to taste and everything goes desperate again, just like that. John finds his lube and drips some on his fingers, but they're both on edge and figuring out any position other than the one they're in, John dropped down on his elbow, hand between them, oily fingers squeezing them together and both of them thrusting and ragged and needy, is off the table.
When Rodney comes, John slows and watches him, and then with hardly another movement, he's pouring out hot between them too, and a little planning would have meant having a towel or something available, but none of this has been about planning, so they don't. John's smile, sated and blissed-out and--what do you know, Chieh'ad did look like John, and Rodney's maybe been a little blinder than he's realized--well, it's worth a little bit of sticky pulled hairs, because unless there's actually a really serious orbital bombardment about to commence, he has no plans to move from this spot in the next while.
--
"Rodney?"
"Hmm?" The bed is in fact a bit small, and they're cramped, and Rodney hates being cramped, except this is kind of nice. He lifts his head and takes in the sight of John's hair, which is apparently staging a revolt with even more fervor than usual, and okay, he could really get used to this, and it's a little hard to believe that 24 hours ago he was waking up sad to be alone and sore all over.
Well, no, he's sore all over now, too, but that's different. Also, it's a nice change of pace to have an enormous injury crisis on a mission and return to reality to find this. Not that he wants to get hurt and get a new, uh, boyfriend? Are they dating? What are they doing? Anyway, not that he wants that each time they go through the gate, although he's thinking end-of-mission sex really ought to become a tradition with this (the word will have to do until they think of a better one even if it sounds kind of juvenile) boyfriend.
"So, did you miss the underwear?"
"What?"
"No bra to fuck with," John points out.
"What, you want to wear one? I don't think you have the usual reasons, but far be it from me--"
"Just checking. That you weren't, like, sad about--"
Rodney raises up higher. "Don't even start. It was always you, so just, all right, she had nice, er, breasts, but that wasn't the point, and if you want, or don't want, to wear underwear, just as long as it's not in a rainbow of gray, I am more than happy to watch. I mean, I can watch you put it on, take it off, wear it around the house..."
"Wear it while I do a little dance?"
"Let me get my laptop. Webcams are useful."
John snorts. "I can't believe you stayed here without stopping for your laptop first."
Rodney blinks. "Oh. I didn't even... I got used to not having it, while I was there, you know? I mean, the one I took with got pretty fucked, and it's going to be, I don't know, maybe Eiser can retrieve the data from it eventually, but the one in the lab, shit, I should go get it, huh? I left the new atmosphere-routing routine debugging, and..." He stops. "No, I bet someone's seen to that by now anyway, and I'm pretty sure I'm on restricted duty."
"So, no laptop?"
"And no webcam."
"Huh. Must be love."
Rodney blinks and tries to figure out what the meaning there is, because John's tone is light but the word is a big one, and okay, it's also a true one, but he doesn't actually say it very often, and John really doesn't go there lightly, but maybe it's okay because they both get that? "Uh, must be. Either way, your underwear dance is safe."
John wriggles his way around and kisses Rodney's chin, then his chest, then a nipple, and looks up. "Good to know, but I was thinking of something else I'd rather not go on film," he says.
"No film in a laptop," Rodney points out as the kisses continue lower. "All... digital. No, um..."
John looks up again from where he's worked his way halfway down under the covers. "Not the point, Rodney."
"Oh, really? Because I was under the impression a discussion of media format was usually best done while one's... boyfriend? looked to be making a short exploration of one's balls."
John gives another nuzzle. "Your impression is fucked, and if you keep that question mark I'm going to start doubting your commitment."
"What, and have me decommissioned?"
John laughs, the loud laugh that's still just for Rodney because it's here in private, and nods. "Yes. And retired to my quarters. Work for you?"
Rodney reaches down and manhandles John up next to him, or rather, meets him halfway because the blankets cannot possibly get more fucked up, and kisses him hard. "Maybe spending time here voluntarily would be healthier. Also, I cannot believe I have just made a suggestion as to relationship health."
"Better than me making one." John kisses back, and nods. "But I think you're right. So. You keep your job, I consider getting a better bed, and we institute some new practices regarding successful ends of missions."
"Ooh, great minds! I was just thinking--"
"Good." John kisses him to shut him up, and yeah, he doesn't say so, but please, people are always trying to shut Rodney up, so it's totally what he's doing. Rodney kisses him back and thinks about ways to need shushing more often.