SGA: The Best Things in Life Are Free (3/8)

[smittywing]

A longer part this time. Thanks always to reccea for the beta and also miss_porcupine for entertaining my grumpiness of yesterday? Tuesday? monanotlisa made the adorable Young!Rodney icon. :D

The Best Things in Life Are Free (Link goes to summary link post with previous parts and additions.
High School AU
Rated: R (really, this time)
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay (eventually)



Part Two

"Hey, McKAY!"

Rodney blinked as he heard his name bellowed at the top of someone's sizable and very healthy lungs.

"McKay!" It was Aiden Ford, all bright eyes and teeth, grinning and slinging an arm around Rodney's neck. "Tell me you're coming to the game tomorrow night. C'mon, you can't miss it." He snugged Rodney's head in close and punched him several times in the arm.

Rodney panicked instantly, searching the crowd for John, who was leaning against a locker, trying to talk to Teyla, who had turned her head and was watching Rodney.

"Er. Well, I hadn't planned, I mean -- "

"You have to come," Aiden said. "You're going to party with us afterward, right?"

Rodney saw John watching him and saw the small smirk twist the side of his mouth. He nodded, slightly, and relief flooded Rodney.

"Yeah, sure," Rodney said instantly. The truth was, he'd made it to one football game that season -- and that was after telling Radek he was going to the university library -- solely for the purpose of watching John play. He'd had to leave in the second quarter when John got sacked and came up spitting blood. Rodney and blood didn't do so well together when it came to John.

He glanced over at John, just one more time, he promised himself, before he started quizzing Ford on when and where he had to be. John was smiling at him and the look on his face was almost...affectionate? Rodney was spellbound until Teyla reached up and tapped on John's chest, and his attention snapped back to her.

Rodney sighed and looked back to Ford. He was so doomed.

"Hey! You're just in time," John's father called as he walked through the door, still sweaty and tired from practice. "Phone for you." He was grinning and John raised one eyebrow and went into his room for privacy.

"Got it," he said into the receiver and waited for the click of his father hanging up the extension in the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Hi, John." The voice was warm and so familiar his chest ached. He could almost hear the smile in her voice.

"Elizabeth?" John kicked off his shoes and settled back against the wall. "Long time, no hear," he teased and then added in a softer voice, "I've missed you."

"I'm really sorry about that," Elizabeth said. "I was at a party the night before and I crashed in a friend's room, and then I went hiking that afternoon and I've had classes and work...oh, I feel like I have so much to tell you!"

"Sounds like a good time," John said, wondering whose room she'd crashed in and whether that was a female friend or a male friend. Not that it was any of his business, he reminded himself.

"Oh, it's fantastic," Elizabeth enthused. "My Spanish class went out to this restaurant the other night and ordered the entire meal in Spanish! And last weekend? We ate Moroccan, seven courses in one meal. It took three hours to serve the entire thing but it was to die for."

"That's kind of neat," John said, but she was already off and running to the next thing.

"I've finally found someone besides you who can beat me at chess," Elizabeth said, "and -- oh! I can't believe I didn't tell you this first! I might get to spend six weeks in Switzerland this summer. A couple of the econ classes I need are going to be held abroad and I have a really good chance of getting a seat."

"That's great. You should do it," John found himself saying when he really wanted to ask who could beat Elizabeth at chess and if she was going to send him postcards from Switzerland when he was sweating it out in BCT.

"I hope I can," she said wistfully and John remembered nights sitting on the hood of the Nova, when he told her he wanted to see the stars and she told him she wanted to see other lands. "Hey, you haven't said anything. What's going on with you? How was your day? Do you have a game tomorrow? I've missed you so much!"

"Everything's -- " John paused. "You remember Rodney McKay?"

"Rodney," Elizabeth said thoughtfully. "Very smart? Very talkative?"

"That's him," John said with a smile. "So I um, ran into him at the...mall, and we started talking and -- " He wasn't even sure what he was going to say because it absolutely had nothing to do with taking a thousand dollars from Rodney to fix the dent he'd gotten in his father's car while making out with another girl, but as it turned out, he didn't need to say another word.

"Elizabeth, you coming?" a girl's voice called from the background and John stopped talking.

"Yes, sorry, just one minute!" Elizabeth called back, muffled. "Oops, I gotta go, I'm very late. But I'll talk to you later! Call me!"

"Yeah, sure," John said to the dial tone and hung up the phone with only a little more force than necessary.

Safely encased in his fleece pullover, Rodney climbed the bleachers in search of a seat. He hadn't tried to convince Radek to come with him and he'd refused to let Jeannie tag along for the same reason. John had said, So you're going to party with us after the game? in a kind of skeptical tone of voice that clearly meant he hadn't expected Rodney and maybe didn't want him. It made Rodney all the more determined to go, but he was pretty sure John wouldn't welcome additional guests.

"Rodney! Rodney, over here!"

Katie Brown waved at him from her huddle with Jeannette Simpson and Laura Cadman.

"Hi," he said, reluctantly sliding onto the end of the bench next to Katie. "How much did I miss?"

"Only the first seven minutes," Laura said. She was tall and pretty and ran track. She also had an uncanny knack for building things that went boom, so the girls in the science club loved her.

"I've never seen you at a game before, Rodney," Katie said. "Do you like football?"

"Uh. I'm really more of a hockey fan," Rodney said, glancing back at the field just in time to see John throw a forward pass for a seventeen-yard gain.

Rodney and the girls cheered for him, and for Chuck-somone who had completed the pass, and then Laura Cadman leaned over and said, "So you've been hanging out with the football players an awful lot, Rodney. When did that start?"

Rodney shrugged, suddenly terrified. "I live next door to John Sheppard," he said. "We're friends."

"Huh," Laura said thoughtfully, but that seemed to be the end of it.

They won, 23-14, and when Rodney wandered out of the stadium and into the parking lot, Katie was still glued to his side. He didn't really know how to get rid of her or where he was supposed to go for the party and he didn't see anyone he knew. He thought about just asking Katie out for ice cream, but then he saw John standing in the parking lot, talking to an older man slightly taller and broader than him. The other man must be John's father, the Colonel, Rodney thought, watching him slap John on the back and walk off.

John turned, and he must have caught Rodney staring because he jogged over. He was still in his uniform and his face was tired and grimy with dried sweat and blacking.

"Hey, you had a good game," Rodney said before realizing how condescending he must sound. "I mean, you did really well. Except for that one time when you threw it away and Dex was wide open but nobody's perfect, right? I mean, at least you won. I mean, the team won. And you helped. Well, did a lot of it, mostly."

"Thanks," John said, cutting off the embarrassing flow of babble. He touched his hair gingerly. It was messier than usually after being crammed under his helmet. "I've gotta go shower. I'll see you at the party, right? It's at Ronon's house." He glanced over at Katie. "You coming too, Katie?"

Rodney glanced over. Katie's eyes had widened when she realized John knew her name and her cheeks flushed. Just what he needed -- the one girl in school who was actually interested in him mooning over the guy Rodney was madly in love with. How was that for equilateral irony? He was ready to work up a good sulk when John looked back to him.

"I'm catching a ride over with one of the guys," he said. "If you two want to wait around, I can get you a seat, but it might be a while."

"I've got my dad's car," Rodney said, slightly mollified. "Ronon's house is the big old one on the corner before ours, right?"

"You got it," John said, nodding. "I'll see you there." And then he jogged off, his helmet tucked under his arm.

"It's um, it's a little early," Rodney said, because he was sure Ronon was in the locker room with everyone else and didn't want to lurk around Ronon's house in the dark or worse, have to go in and make small talk with Ronon's parents. "You want to get some ice cream?"

"Rodney, it's cold out," Katie said with a pretty smile, and Rodney didn't feel quite so stupid as he might have.

"But it's ice cream," he said, smiling back. "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else."

Katie blushed and it took an awkward moment for Rodney to realize she thought he was suggesting they go somewhere to make out.

"I mean," he babbled. "If you wanted pizza or something. It's warm. Or hot. Since you're cold."

"No, ice cream's ok," she said, and Rodney breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ok. The car is over here," he said, leading the way to his father's old Buick Electra. He unlocked the driver's side and started to get in and then realized Katie was standing outside. "Oops, sorry." Rodney jumped out and ran around to the other side and unlocked her door, too. "I don't get a lot of passengers," he said, completely mortified.

He should know better, he thought, face hot as he turned on the engine. He was Canadian for crying out loud! He shifted quickly from embarrassed to indignant. After all, it wasn't his fault his father had never taught him the rudiments of taking out girls and it wasn't like his mother was going to do it.

John wouldn't have made that mistake, he thought miserably, driving to the ice cream parlor. He started weighing how embarrassing it might be to ask John versus the possible repercussions of never learning at all. He might never get laid, ever, if he didn't at least get the opening doors thing down. On the other hand, mortal humiliation in the face of the school's most popular boy was not to be taken lightly, either.

For a sudden, terrifying moment, Rodney wondered if John would mock Rodney about all the things he learned about him over the course of the month. John didn't seem like that sort of guy, but Rodney had never thought to put a gag clause in the contract and well, they'd never had a lot of contact before. He reminded himself sternly that John had never actually done anything nasty to him before and concentrated on not running the stop sign in front of the ice cream parlor.

"Rodney?"

He looked over to see Katie peering at him oddly and sighed out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Sorry," he said. "I was...concentrating. What uh, what kind of ice cream do you like?"

"I usually get chocolate chip," Katie said, sliding her hand around Rodney's elbow as they went inside.

"You want a double?" Rodney asked. "I'm getting a double." He needed the fortification for the party, he rationalized.

"Oh, no, just one scoop is fine," Katie said.

Rodney ordered her a double anyway, because he hadn't really been listening and covered by offering to eat any she didn't want. So Rodney ate two scoops of pistachio -- and he imagined John asking if he wasn't allergic to nuts and snapping out a brilliantly witty and cool response -- and three-quarters of a scoop of chocolate-chip while listening to Katie talk about saving her grandmother's African violet from the dastardly threat of overwatering.

"They don't like to have wet feet," she explained perkily.

Rodney had failed at paying attention several minutes before this proclamation and was thinking about John Sheppard in tight gray leggings that were padded in the ass and football cleats, his calves thin and hairy between them.

"Rodney?" Katie was blinking at him owlishly from across the table.

"Um, yes?"

"I asked what you thought."

"About -- ?" Rodney's mind raced to recall what might have been a question requiring his opinion.

"We've been sitting here for a while," Katie said cautiously. "Do you think maybe we should, you know, go? So we're not late?"

"Oh, yes. Excellent, uh, excellent idea." Rodney jumped up and grabbed his jacket, hustling Katie out the door and into the car. He wasn't sure if it was possible to be late to football player party, but he figured he didn't really want to find out.

When they pulled up to Ronon's house, Ford and a short, stocky player named Lorne, a junior whose first name Rodney could never remember, were spilling out of an aging Plymouth Fury.

"McKay!" Ford roared, crashing enthusiastically into Rodney, who stumbled under the assault.

"Hey, um, good job," Rodney said.

Ford beamed at him and Rodney couldn't help but smile back.

"Did you see that run I made around the Sam?" Ford asked Rodney excitedly. "I picked up twenty-four yards on that play!"

"That was great," Rodney said sincerely, even though he had no idea what a Sam was. He knew that ten yards was a down and that twenty-four yards was definitely a first down. "Do you know Katie?"

"Hey," Ford greeted her, turning his million-watt smile to her. "Aiden Ford. You're Rodney's...what?" He gave them a mischievous grin. "Friend?"

"We're, um, I mean -- " Katie looked up at Rodney from under her bangs.

Rodney shifted nervously. "We are friends," he said stiffly. "Katie is in the science and algebra clubs with me."

Ford nodded slowly, his eyebrows creeping high on his forehead. "Wow," he said. "That sounds like good times. C'mon, let's go in and get a drink!" And he was off and running again.

Rodney felt his face get hot and he didn't look at Katie as they followed Ford into Ronon's house and down the stairs to the basement. He didn't see Ronon's parents anywhere, but most of the kids at their school were military brats and their parents were often gone at odd hours.

Rodney's parents were not gone at odd hours and he hoped they didn't ask too many questions about this party.

Ronon's basement was finished and divided into several rooms. The lights were dimmed in the main room where several of the players were already well-sloshed, holding plastic cups of beer and at least one was already making time with a cheerleader, running a hand up her bare leg.

Rodney stared. He tried not to, but she was blonde and tan and well, it wasn't like he saw that kind of thing every day. Katie's hand squeezing his arm startled him away from the sight and she glanced around nervously.

"Do you uh, want anything to drink?" Rodney asked as gallantly as he could muster.

"Uh, yes?" Katie said, her voice lilting into more of a question than an answer. "If you...." She trailed off with no indication of what she might have wanted to say.

"I'll be right back," Rodney promised, pulling his arm away and looking for someone he knew. "What are you doing to that thing?" he asked, when he saw Ford and half a dozen of his teammates killing themselves in a sorry attempt at a kegstand so he detoured to show them the correct angle and rigged up a simple way to hold the tap open until the idiot in question was ready to stop. Then he asked Ford where the rest of the drinks were, and got pointed into a small room off to the side.

"Do you not have any soda?" Rodney asked the makeshift bar as he rooted through beer, cheap whiskey, and wine-in-a-box. Predictably, the bar didn't answer.

"Having fun, McKay?"

Rodney recognized that drawl. It belonged to John Sheppard and if Rodney had a better sense of human interaction than he did, he might have noticed that the tone wasn't particularly happy.

"If by 'having fun' you mean being forced to save your brain-dead teammates from death by terrible beer and not finding a single decent thing to drink that wasn't bought with a fake ID, yes, I'm having a fantastic time, thank you."

John smiled tightly. He was holding a can of beer in his hand and his hair still looked damp. "Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities," he said. He tilted his head back and poured half the can down his throat. Rodney got distracted from his ire by the sight of John's neck muscles shifting as he swallowed. "We're kind of in the mood to celebrate when we win."

"Oh. Yeah, right." Rodney bit his lip. "Did I tell you that you did really well? Because I watched the whole game and you looked really good out there. I mean, you played well. Your -- throwing arm looked good."

John grinned, slow and lazy. "You came to watch me?"

"Well, yeah," Rodney said, as if John was stupid and Rodney knew he wasn't. "And there was no blood this time, which was really good because I probably wouldn't have made it through the whole thing if there was -- well, anyway. Ford said I should come."

"Well, Ford was right," John said, and then, before Rodney could reply, tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.

"What -- oh?" Rodney turned his head and saw Katie peek into the room. "Katie?"

"Rodney?" Katie's eyes were huge and she looked even paler than usual. "Would you mind taking me home? It's late and -- " She glanced at John and turned her head a little so that only Rodney could hear her lowered voice. " -- I'm not very comfortable here."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," said Rodney, who wasn't entirely comfortable there himself. "You want to go now?"

She nodded and before Rodney could say good-bye, John said, "Actually, could I catch a ride home, too? I've got to be up early tomorrow and since you're right next door and all...."

"Sure," Rodney said, just relieved to be escaping.

It took longer than expected because John's exit had to be heralded with backslaps and bellybumps and other ridiculous forms of physical congratulations on the victory. Katie looked thoroughly miserable when Rodney unlocked and opened the car door for her. He didn't know what to say, at least not with John sprawled in the backseat, so he drove to her house in silence. He'd been there once before, for an algebra club party the previous year.

"'Night, Katie," John said as Rodney held the car door for her again. "Thanks for coming out."

"Are you okay?" Rodney asked when they'd reached her front door.

"I -- I -- The only other girls there were cheerleaders," Katie said helplessly. "And they were watching this movie in the back and there was so much beer and pizza and no soda or anything and I just -- I'm sorry, Rodney. I guess I'm just not a party girl."

"I didn't know it was going to be like that," Rodney said, but Katie was already going inside and closing the door on him. He sighed and went back to the car, thinking that at least he didn't have to worry about whether to kiss her.

John was lounging in the front passenger seat, arms folded behind his head, when Rodney returned.

"That was smooth," he said helpfully as Rodney got in the car.

Rodney considered the ignition for a moment, then turned to look at John. "So you want to tell me what that was all about?" he asked, twisting the key savagely. The engine cranked to life reluctantly.

"What?" John asked, sounding believably surprised.

"That. Tonight," Rodney said waving one hand in the general direction of the house. "Inviting Katie to a party where people are doing kegstands and making out and watching porn movies. What on earth made you think that was a good idea? No, wait, let me guess. You thought it would be funny to get a rise out of the little geek girl. Because it's fun. Wow, and I just told Radek you weren't a gorilla. I hate being wrong!" Rodney threw the car into reverse and backed out into the street with more gas than was entirely required.

"Hey. I was trying to be nice," John shot back, straightening up. "She was standing right there! What were you going to do, say sorry, I'm going to a party now, have a nice walk home?"

"I don't know what I was going to do," Rodney said. "Besides, I was working off inadequate data. You didn't tell me it was that kind of party."

"Yeah, because I didn't invite you!"

"That's another thing!" Rodney replied, completely on a roll, now. "You're supposed to take me everywhere with you! That includes parties! You said so yourself."

"I didn't think you'd want to go," John said. "It's that kind of party."

Rodney opened his mouth, but paused to concede -- to himself only -- that John had a point. "You could have asked."

The resultant silence was moody until Rodney got twitchy enough to break it by speaking again.

"Do you like that kind of party?"

"You notice I'm sitting here?" John muttered. He shrugged. "I don't mind. It's okay."

Rodney glanced over at him. He was slouched back, head tilted down, his face in shadows. "Was that your dad, tonight?" he asked.

The dark head moved and then John said, "Yeah."

"He came to watch you play?"

"Yeah. And to tell me that he's on his way somewhere else. He'll be back Monday."

"Oh." Rodney didn't know anyone who was away quite as much as John's dad was. "You, uh, you wanna sleep at my house? There's an extra bed in my room somewhere and my mom makes breakfast on the weekends."

"No, thanks." John's face was shadowed still, but Rodney thought maybe he'd smiled a little.

Of course John didn't want to be around his family at breakfast. He'd witnessed one McKay Family Meal, and that was one of the ones where they all managed to ignore each other.

"Thanks for the ride," John said when Rodney pulled into his own driveway and put the car in park. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Rodney said, in no hurry to get out of the car. "Tomorrow."

John woke up to the sound of the phone ringing in his ear.

"Mrngh, what?" he mumbled around a yawn, rolling to his back.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to the party tonight," Rodney said matter-of-factly.

John blinked and rubbed one hand through his hair. "Yes, you are," he said. "I'll be over at eight." He hung up the phone and dragged the pillow over his face. There was still potential for another hour or two of sleep.

The phone rang again.

"This is not me wimping out or feeling socially insecure," Rodney said when John picked up the receiver, just to make it stop ringing. "It's merely a matter of self-acceptance after last night's unfortunate...unfortunateness."

"Rodney," John groaned, rolling his neck. "I don't do this emotional support shit. You said it yourself -- we are not girlfriends."

"I never asked -- " Rodney started.

"You're going to the party," John said as firmly as he could manage. He shifted on his bed. It was weird to be talking to Rodney with his morning erection still heavy in his boxers. "I'll be over at eight and we'll walk over. Be ready." He palmed himself with a wince. "And stop calling. Some of us are trying to sleep over here." He rolled to his side and set the phone back in the cradle. There was no way he was going to back to sleep, now. He kicked off the sheets wandered into the bathroom. He relieved himself and turned on the shower, stripping off his shirt and shorts while the water warmed up.

He tried to think of Elizabeth when he jerked off in the shower, her thin body arching and her strong arms wrapped around his shoulders the first time he pushed into her, but Rodney's voice kept distracting him. Elizabeth was so very far away, fading into the background, and Rodney was so very there all the time. John wondered if Rodney was a virgin or if he'd been with some girl -- probably not Katie Brown. John couldn't imagine her in bed with anyone, although if he tried hard, he could picture her small pale hands on Rodney's dick, maybe even her mouth on him --

John came into the spray of water, his back curled and shuddering. He stared at his hand, water sluicing away the pale liquid. He washed himself slowly and wondered why it didn't bother him more that he'd just jerked off thinking of Rodney's dick.

Rodney was bound and determined not to leave the house that night, even when John showed up brandishing hair gel and blow dryer.

"I don't care about your dissociative teenage existential angst," he said, holding Rodney's head under the bathroom faucet.

"My angst is not existential," Rodney sputtered. "My angst is the incredibly real fear of likely social humiliation resulting in ostracization."

"You told me this morning that this wasn't social insecurity," John said, dragging Rodney's head from the running water and throwing a towel over the top. "Dry."

Rodney rubbed the towel over his head and glared balefully at John.

"It's not going to be like last night," John finally said, his voice low so Rodney's parents -- watching television in the living room -- couldn't hear him.

"What, no porn and booze?" Rodney asked, snatching the towel away.

John rolled his eyes. "There'll be alcohol. But you don't have to drink it. Although maybe you should. You could use a drink or two."

"Right, and my bloodhound of a mother isn't going to smell that a mile away," Rodney muttered.

"Spend the night at my house," John suggested. "I'll go out and tell them some sob story about hating to be alone while my dad's away and you can save me from the terrible sucking loneliness." He turned on the blow dryer, handed it to Rodney, and left the bathroom.

Rodney aimed the blow dryer at his forehead and picked at his hair with a comb. His hair was nearly dry when John came back, shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.

"You didn't," Rodney said, dropping his aching arm to his side and thumbing the blow dryer off.

John raised both eyebrows and widened his eyes. "I'm very, very lonely at home," he said with heart-breaking sincerity. "Raised without a mother, by an itinerant father...I'm just lucky I have you as a friend to keep me from feeling abandoned."

Rodney stared at him. "You're a con artist," he accused. "You've completely suckered my parents into thinking you're some kind of -- some kind of -- "

"Shut up, you're ruining my tragic childhood," John said, taking the blow dryer and comb away and coming at Rodney with the hair gel. "Now hold still."

Half an hour later, Rodney was gelled, dressed in acid washed jeans, white t-shirt, and a vinyl jacket that was making a really good run at looking like leather.

"I really don't think I should go," Rodney tried one last time.

"I really don't think you have a choice," John said, dragging Rodney and his overnight bag into the living room.

"Oh, there you are," Rodney's mother said as they walked out. "Rodney, it's so nice of you to keep John company while his father's away."

"I really appreciate it, Mrs. McKay," John said, doing that thing with his eyes again. "You have no idea."

"He's a con artist," Rodney announced. John kicked him. Dr. McKay rustled his paper.

"Rodney," Mrs. McKay scolded. "It's not nice to joke about such things. Now run along. Be home for dinner tomorrow. John, you're invited too, of course, dear."

"Aw, thanks, Mrs. McKay," John said with a grin. "If my dad doesn't get in, I just might." He pushed Rodney out the door with one hand, waving goodbye to the McKays with the other.

"What the hell was that?" Rodney asked loudly when the door closed behind them. "Have you been possessed by the ghost of Eddie Haskell or something? That was nauseating."

"You missed the part where I was charming your sister," John said cheerfully. "Drop your bag in my garage. We'll walk over."

"Aw," Rodney groaned. "I think I'm going to hurl."

"Maybe later," John suggested, patting him on the shoulder. "You haven't even had any beer yet."

John had a beer in his hand less than a minute after he walked through the door. Rodney was so busy being delighted by the backslaps and arm punches that came with being John's friend that he didn't even see where he'd gotten it. He didn't seem to actually be drinking from it, though and Rodney didn't worry about it until Ford showed up with a trio of plastic cups, filled with something red.

"Jello shots," he exclaimed, passing them each one. "You ever done one, McKay?"

Rodney glanced at John because of course he'd never done them before -- the science clubs were well aware that such things killed brain cells and they had no need of oblivion.

"Loosen it up with your tongue," John said, demonstrating so effectively that Rodney's mouth went dry. "And then just let it slide down." He tipped his head back and dropped the shot into his mouth, throat working to swallow it whole.

Still staring at the play of muscles in John's throat, Rodney licked around the edges of his own shot. The vodka burned on the tip of his tongue. He tossed the shot back and got a lungful of air. Then John leaned forward and tapped the bottom of the cup firmly and the Jello was sliding into his mouth and down his throat. The vodka seared his sinuses and made his eyes water but he managed not to cough. A second later, warmth shot through his body, flushing his extremities.

Aiden slapped him on the back, grinning. "See? Mitch's shots are awesome!"

Rodney nodded enthusiastically.

"You seen Teyla around?" John asked in a way Rodney felt completely failed at casual.

Aiden's face lit up. "I saw her out by the pool earlier."

John's eyebrows went up and he reached out to pat idly at Rodney's shoulder. "That sounds promising," he said. "Rodney, you're on your own for a few. Don't worry. Ford here will protect you."

"Wait, what does that mean?" Rodney demanded, petulance reinforced by alcohol. "You're just going to abandon me here?"

"I think there's subs and pizza in the kitchen," Aiden said. "Want to get something to eat?"

"Huh, what, food?" Rodney said, attention successfully drawn. "Lead the way."

Ford was right -- there was pizza and subs, plus chips and pretzels, M&Ms, punch, soda, and a fridge full of beer and more Jello shots.

"This is fantastic," Rodney said with his mouth full as Aiden cracked open a beer. "Hey, can I have another of those Jello things?"

"Sure," Aiden said, passing one over.

Rodney did much better this time around, popping it free of the cup and knocking it back easily. The warmth that flowed through his body was milder, more comfortable.

"Hey, you're catching on," Aiden said, tilting his head back and swallowing one himself.

The kitchen was getting too warm so Rodney switched to punch and was getting up the nerve to ask Ford about John and Teyla when Laura Cadman walked in with a few girls Rodney knew by sight but not name.

"Hey, Rodney," Laura said easily and, with raised eyebrows, the other girls greeted him, too. They went over to the counter and started playing with the bottles stacked there, but Laura hung back. "So," she said softly as Aiden tried to talk up one of her friends. "What did you do to Katie last night? She said she's finished with you."

"Well, that's ridiculous," Rodney said, refilling his cup with more punch. "We'd have to start something for her to be finished with it." He rolled his eyes and took a deep drink. "I was supposed to go hang out with some of the players after the game and Katie was standing there, so John invited her along. The guys were being, you know, guys, so I took her home."

Laura tapped her fingers on the counter and looked thoughtful. She was a redhead, too, but more blonde than Katie. Even though she wore her hair long, down over her shoulders, and Rodney not-so-secretly preferred short haircuts, he still thought she was probably the hottest girl at school.

Not that he'd ever say so.

"She seemed pretty upset," Laura said. "Did you ask her what was bothering her?"

"Did I -- NO!" Rodney said. "She's -- she's not even my type! Why on Earth would I ask her what was bothering her? It was obviously all the -- the testosterone and porn."

"Wow, McKay," Laura said with a roll of her eyes. "You know absolutely nothing about women."

"Yes, well, thank you very much. That's extremely helpful and also, irrelevant because I do not need to know anything about women. Katie and I are not dating." Rodney scowled and swigged more punch.

"If you want," Laura offered, "I could help you out. Give you the whole woman's perspective on things."

"Were you not listening to a single thing I said?" Rodney asked, and his next words were drowned out by the distinctive whir and crash of a blender on "broken."

Laura was closer and she pulled the plug out of the wall before the appliance had time to catch fire or anything else really awful and Rodney shouldered her friends aside to examine the smoking hulk.

"I can fix it," he said, unscrewing the jar from the base and passing it to Laura. "Does anyone have a screwdriver? Wait, I think -- yes." He had a small Phillips' head in his Swiss army knife and before long, he had the thing open and spread across the counter.

"Hey, now look there," Laura said with a gentle nudge to his right shoulder blade. "You're good with your hands. There may be hope for you yet."

"Oh, thank you," Rodney snapped. "Your approval means so very much to me. Now would you please be quiet so I can fix this and then you get back to being juvenile delinquents with the alcoholic equivalent of power tools. And hand me that wire, the red one." He snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

There was dead silence. After a beat, it was broken by a light sigh and couple of murmurs.

Rodney looked up and blinked at Laura owlishly as a couple of her friends made appreciative noises. She winked at him and it didn't look coy, but then Rodney really didn't know anything about women and if admitting that got him that kind of attention, he wasn't going to make a fuss. Well, not that big a fuss.

"What are you, uh, trying to make?" he asked as Laura set the wire in his palm.

"White Russians," Friend Number Two said, tossing her dark hair behind her shoulder and cocking one hip.

"You don't need a blender for that," Rodney snorted. "Is there any ice cream in the freezer?"

"I'll check," Laura offered and came back with a box of Breyers.

"Great, give me a glass," Rodney said, putting the case of the blender back together. "Look, instead of crushing the ice cubes and watering down the drink, just use ice cream instead of the cream and shake." He dumped vodka, Kahlua, and a healthy scoop of ice cream into a tall glass, slapped a styrofoam bowl on top, and shook the whole thing together. "There, shortcut." He handed the glass to Friend Number Two, and started the process over again.

He'd just finished mixing up one last batch for Laura when John and Teyla came into the room. "Hey, Rodney," John said with a smile. "Having fun?"

"Always," Rodney said, fumbling the cup he was handing to Laura. She caught it anyway and licked away the droplets that had spilled over the rim of the cup onto her hand. "You?"

"John is going to teach me to do vodka shots," Teyla said, the note of challenge evident in her voice. She was wearing her bathing suit top with a denim skirt and her feet were bare.

"Mitch has a sugar jar around here somewhere," John said, lifting a bottle of Absolut from the stash and picking the bowl of lemon wedges off the table.

"Are you doing body shots?" Rodney asked, taking a drink of his punch.

Teyla glanced at John. John was looking at Rodney.

"Oh, don't even tell me you don't know how to do a body shot," Rodney said, as if he hadn't just read about them that afternoon. "All right, all right, give me. Here." He pulled the bowl of lemon wedges out of John's hand. "Take one of these and put it in your mouth," he ordered Teyla, consciously trying not to touch any of the wedges. His last allergic reaction had been years ago, but the memory was enough to make him shy away. "The rind side. Hold it there."

Teyla held the lemon between her teeth and made a face at Rodney, the corners of her eyes crinkling up adorably. Rodney grinned back at her and managed to tear his gaze away long enough to glance around the gathering crowd. "Someone bring me the sugar bowl," he commanded, snapping his fingers. "And you," he added, indicating John. "Pour a shot."

John grinned, all slow and lazy, like he was doing it because he wanted to and not because Rodney had said so, and poured the shot. Someone produced the sugar and Rodney took the small glass from John.

"Okay, hold on to this," he said, setting the shot glass on her shoulder and tipping her head to the side to keep it upright.

"McKay," John said.

"You can do it next," Rodney said, taking a pinch of sugar as soon as he was sure the glass wasn't going anywhere. He stepped up close and took a deep breath, then ducked his head and kissed Teyla low on the extended curve of her neck. She tasted good, very good, and he wondered if John had already tasted her there. He sprinkled the sugar on the damp patch his mouth had left and felt John's eyes hard on him. Bravely, he looked back and saw John's lashes flicker in surprise. Rodney leaned forward and licked the sugar off Teyla's neck, then tilted his head to the other side, pulling the shot glass from her neck and swallowing the vodka, which didn't burn quite so much anymore. He looked up and felt a sinking sensation. "You're supposed to -- to suck the lemon next," he said, taking a step back. "I can't. I'm allergic."

John leaned forward and put his mouth on the lemon wedge. From Rodney's angle, it looked like he was kissing Teyla but his eyes opened and went straight to Rodney. He leaned back with the lemon between his teeth, then wrinkled his nose and pulled it out of his mouth.

"My turn?" Teyla asked.

"Go for it," Rodney said, crossing his arms and easing back into the crowd.

Teyla put a lemon in John's mouth and a shot in his shoulder. She was too short to get all the way up to his neck, so she licked at his collarbone above his black t-shirt and sprinkled sugar across the skin.

Rodney put his hands in his pockets to hide the fact he was getting hard, but he'd forgotten how close the jeans fit and realized the position didn't help.

Teyla licked the sugar off gracefully, wrapped her mouth around the shot glass, and went up on her toes to take the lemon from John's mouth.

"Hey, Rodney?" Laura Cadman asked, touching his shoulder.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he said awkwardly, turning and leaving the kitchen which, by now, had attracted most of the party. He found the bathroom readily enough and locked himself in. A few awkward jerks toward the toilet took care of his biggest problem and cold water took care of his red face, but he was still fairly embarrassed. He cursed the accident of genetics that had required John to finish the demonstration. Why couldn't they need a nice apple or something? He pushed himself up on the counter and kicked his heels against the cabinet until someone knocked on the door.

"Hey, Rodney!" Andrea Dumais caught his arm as he walked into the living room.

"Uh, hi Andrea. What's up?" She was in Rodney's math class and was actually reasonably intelligent for someone who managed to get invited to one of Mitch's parties. She'd also never given him the time of day, let alone grabbed his arm.

"I heard you were pretty good at mixing drinks. Do you know how to make a Cosmopolitan?"

"Of course I do," Rodney said disparagingly. "The question is why would you want one?"

"Aw, c'mon." Andrea flashed a surprisingly pretty smile. "I've always wanted to try one."

"Sure," Rodney said with a sigh. "But you're pouring the lime juice."

The crowd in the kitchen had thinned out significantly since he'd retreated and John and Teyla were nowhere to be seen. Rodney shook up the vodka and lime juice with triple sec and cranberry juice, and got a kiss on the cheek for his efforts.

He stepped into the living room and ran into someone he didn't know, requesting a screwdriver. He privately thought anyone who couldn't make a screwdriver was an idiot, but did so anyway, adding a little too much vodka to get them to leave him alone.

"McKay!"

Rodney looked up and kept on looking. Ronon Dex, easily the biggest guy on the football team, loomed into Rodney's space.

"Er, hi," Rodney said. Ronon used to spend a lot of time hovering around John and Rodney suddenly wondered if Ronon was irritated at being supplanted. "Um. Is there something I can do for you?" He cast a surreptitious glance around the room, hoping for John to appear and save his ass.

"People say you're good at mixing drinks," Ronon rumbled.

"I'm surprised the people in this place are sober enough to be forming sentences," Rodney muttered.

Ronon leaned into Rodney's personal space and slung an arm around his shoulders. "Any chance you know how to make a Dirty Girl Scout?"

"Yes," Rodney said, thinking that really, Ronon might be his kind of guy after all. "Yes, I do."

After that surreal encounter, Rodney collapsed on the nearest sofa, only to find himself shaken awake by John an indeterminate amount of time later.

"Rodney. Rodney."

"Huh, wha- ?" Rodney asked sharply, sitting straight up. "Where'd everyone go?"

"Home," John said, his mouth twitching up at the corner. "Which is where we're going."

"Home?" Rodney repeated, bouncing up off the couch. The room spun insanely and he flailed and sat down hard. "The room's spinning," he announced.

"Because you're drunk," John said helpfully.

"No, I'm not. I can't be. I kept very careful track," Rodney said, noticing that really, something wasn't quite right and maybe his tongue was a little too big. He said so.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you're toasted," he said. "Let's get you walking."

Rodney made it to his feet this time without getting dizzy and he felt better the minute they stepped outside.

"So what did you drink, Mr. Boston?" John asked.

"I had," Rodney said, trying hard to remember, "a shot. With you. And Aiden Ford."

"The Jello shot," John agreed. "And then I left you alone."

"And then I did another one," Rodney added. "With Aiden."

"Okay," John said. "So, two Jello shots. Then what?"

"Then you came back," Rodney said. "And then I did the shot on Teyla."

"Yeah, remind me to kick your ass for that," John said but Rodney didn't think he was serious. "What else did you drink?"

"Nothing!" Rodney shouted, secure in his calculated sobriety. "I was mixing drinks for everyone because I memorized this bartending book my dad has and I know every drink in the world, now, but I'm not drunk, because I drank the punch instead!"

"Rod-ney," John drawled, clearly trying not to laugh. "You never drink the punch. Who knows what Mitch spiked it with?"

"What?" Rodney repeated, a sudden roiling sensation in his stomach. "What did you say? What was in the punch?"

"I don't know," John said as they walked down the street, Rodney now clutching his stomach. " Probably the cheapest swill they could get. That's why I don't drink anything I don't pour out of the bottle myself."

"Oh, my god," Rodney groaned. "There could be anything in there. I could be suffering from severe alcohol poisoning from -- from -- who knows what! I -- I -- oh, god."

"You okay?" John asked, stopping and turning to look at Rodney.

Rodney felt miserable and shivery and sick under John's scrutiny. His stomach jumped again. "I think," he said weakly.

"If you're going to get sick -- " John started.

"I'm fine," Rodney snapped. "I just have...a delicate stomach."

"It'll make you feel better," John offered. "Do it in the gutter."

The offer was too tempting and Rodney turned, waited a minute, and threw up on the side of the street. He sniffed, squeezing his eyes closed and decided that John was right -- he did feel better.

John's cool hand on the back of his neck, and John's soft voice murmuring, "See? Isn't that better?" helped some, too.

"Yeah," Rodney croaked, resting his hands on his knees for a few extra seconds, just because he didn't want to displace John's hand.

"C'mon," John said when it was pretty clear Rodney was done. He patted Rodney's back and guided him down the street. "You can stay in my room. I set up the cot and bucket this afternoon."

John had model airplanes in his room, exactingly accurate, and books of every shape and size, piled on top of each other, crammed into two bookcases beside the bed. Rodney approved. John also had posters of Carol Alt in a bikini and Phoebe Cates in a school girl outfit on his wall. Rodney wished he at least had the good taste to like blondes.

Then he caught sight of the smaller picture, framed, sitting on the window sill over the cot. It was a black and white picture of a woman in her twenties with windswept hair, soulful eyes, and a secretive, wistful smile. "Wow, who's this?" he blurted out, his mind racing to place her. "She's hot."

"It's my mom," John said with a sideways glance that Rodney wouldn't even know how to start interpreting. "She died when I was fourteen."

"Oh. Oh." Rodney looked at the picture of the late Mrs. Sheppard smiling softly at him. "She was, uh. You, um." Half sentences formed in his head, coming out before he realized how stupidly they all ended. "How'd it happen?" He peered over his shoulder at John and wanted to take it back and apologize. It wasn't any of his business, really, but he wanted to know and, well. Okay, it was rude. But it would be worse to sputter about it.

"Cancer," John said. "It was fast." He took the picture from Rodney and sat down on the cot with it.

"Oh." Rodney looked helplessly at the back of John's head. "How fast is fast? I mean, is that good? It means she wasn't in pain for long, right?"

"It didn't feel fast," John said, running his thumb down the side of the frame. "Six weeks, I think. I don't remember much of it."

Rodney sat down next to him. "Was your dad gone then?"

"No, he was here the whole time. He took leave so he could be with her. I mean, I don't think she told him for the first couple weeks, but then he came home and then she was really sick. I really don't remember very much."

Rodney's stomach felt hollow. His mother was a pain in his ass and asked him stupid questions all the time and just didn't get it, but he couldn't imagine her dying like that. Sick and in pain and when he was young. "I -- I wish I had something nice to say. I'm really sorry."

John shrugged again, and leaned over to put the picture back on the shelf. "That was nice," he said. He walked over to his bed and kicked off his jeans. "Bathroom's down the hall and bucket's on the floor if you need it," he added.

Rodney wanted to say something nicer, to explain that he was sorry for bringing it up, maybe even give John a hug. But John didn't seem that bothered or else he really just didn't want to talk about it, so Rodney undid his own jeans and climbed onto the cot, pulling the blankets around him. John turned off the light and Rodney listened to the sound of John's breathing in the dark room.

"I -- I'm sorry," he said before he lost his nerve. "About calling your mom hot. And um, about the thing with Teyla. I should have asked, first."

"If she'd minded, she would have kicked your nuts so far up your ass, you wouldn't be able to sit down," John said mildly.

"Ah, yes. There is that," Rodney admitted.

"Besides," John said, his voice low with sleep. "It was really kind of hot."

Rodney opened his mouth to answer and closed it again. He was sure John meant that actually doing the shots with Teyla was hot, but if he didn't say anything, he could pretend, just for a little while, that it was his mouth on Teyla's shoulder that John had found so arousing.

"Ha! Take that!" Rodney crowed, dropping the joystick controller and pumping both fists into the air.

John scowled at the game console. "Best out of seventeen," he tried.

"No, because thirteen is the next highest prime and even if you managed to win both games, I'll still be ahead." Rodney sat back down on the couch, cheeks glowing in satisfaction. He had woken up with a mild hangover but after a couple of aspirin and some breakfast, it was long gone. "Face it, Sheppard. I beat you."

John tossed his joystick down next to Rodney's and rolled his eyes. "Fine," he conceded. "You won. You are the Supreme Intergalactic Commander."

"You can call me 'Supe' for short," Rodney offered smugly.

"Wow. Thanks," John said, rolling his eyes. He glanced up and was hit, again, by the fact that Rodney's arms weren't entirely laughable. "Hey," he said thoughtfully. "Did anyone ever show you how to throw a football?"

Rodney's expression fell from glee into wariness. "Oh, no," he warned. "You are not recruiting me into your little band of miscreants. I'm already compromising my dignity for this 'cool' thing. There's no way I'm selling off my immortal soul."

"Rodney," John complained, rolling his head back on the back of the couch. "We don't want you on the team. It's too late in the season anyway. I just wanted to know if they teach you to throw a football in Canada."

Rodney huffed. "We do have a football league, you know. And for your information, no. I have never needed to throw a football. Hockey is obviously the superior sport."

"Which is why we won the gold in '80," John muttered.

"And didn't even make the medal rounds in '84," Rodney concluded smugly.

"Okay, c'mon," he said loudly, before Rodney could vent further about Olympic hockey. He marched through the garage and snagged a football from the sports ball bin hanging on the wall. Rodney, after crowing unintelligibly from the living room, finally followed him out and around to the back yard.

"All right," he said, setting his fingers between the laces. "See how I'm holding my hand? Fingers between the laces and seams. Both hands," he added, setting his other hand on the side of the ball and pulling it up to his chin. "Arm back." He drew his arm into position, feeling the familiar stretch. "Keep your elbow bent. Now decide where you're throwing, point at it, like this, and then -- " John stretched out his empty hand, drawing a line straight to the invisible point ten yards in front of him, and threw a hard, level pass. "Like that. If you want to throw a long pass, you need to drop your shoulder and aim up."

"Right, because I have so many opportunities to throw footballs from my roof to yours," Rodney said, but his eyes had tracked the ball and he'd obviously paid attention.

"You never know," John said. "Go get it and throw it back to me."

"What am I, your fetching hound?" Rodney asked, but he jogged off to scoop up the ball.

John watched him set up the pass, could almost see the gears turning in his head as he followed each step.

He released too early and the ball turned end over end before hitting the ground halfway to John's position.

"You let go too soon," John called to him, walking forward to get the ball. "Don't release until it's right over your head, and then snap your arm forward. If you don't follow through, it's just going to float around. Put your shoulders into it." He lobbed the ball back to Rodney, a short toss that didn't actually require much in the way of form, but he did it picture perfect anyway, just the way his dad had taught him a decade ago, so Rodney could see how to do it right.

John walked backward as Rodney wound up, every step computing in his brain, and this time when he threw the ball, John bent his knees and caught it in both hands, a foot from the ground.

"Nice," he called back, even though it was sloppy as hell and awkward to boot. "Remember to follow all the way though." He threw the ball back and Rodney ducked to the side and missed it. "Right," John muttered under his breath as Rodney ran over to get the ball. "All right," he called so that Rodney could hear him. "Nice and hard, right into my hands." He clapped his hands together and held them up to give Rodney a target.

This attempt was better and John's assessment that Rodney had a few muscles in that skinny body of his was gaining some support. He still had to lean for the ball, but it made it to him at ten yards out and that wasn't bad.

"Okay, now catch this one," he called, winging it back to Rodney with a flick of his wrist to give the ball some spin.

Rodney threw his hands in front of his face but somehow didn't manage to actually catch the ball. The result was immediate and deafening.

"Ow! Owowowowow!" The football bounced harmlessly on the ground as Rodney doubled over, his hands clamped to his face.

Shit, John thought. I broke his nose. He dashed the length of the yard in a time that would have impressed his coach. "Let me see," he demanded when he reached Rodney's side and laid one hand on Rodney's shoulder.

"Dod't touch it, dod't look ad it," Rodney wheezed.

"Rodney, let me see," he demanded, fisting his hand in Rodney's shirt and dragging him upright.

Rodney's hands were cupped over most of his face, but when John tugged them away, there was no blood.

"By dose!" Rodney protested. "Id's broked."

"It's not broken," John said, touching the bridge. It was swelling, but it didn't seem to be misshapen and Rodney wasn't indicating pain in one area more than the rest. Tears ran down both sides of his face but he wasn't bleeding or bruising the way John's nose had when he'd taken a bat to the face in Little League. He'd deserved it, his father said later, for standing up and being bossy when he was supposed to be catching, but at the time, all he'd known was the blood and the tears, his mother's hand smoothing down his hair in the emergency room, and the intense, intense hatred for Bobby Millbrook.

"I cad't breade," Rodney said.

"Try," John suggested.

Rodney glared at him and inhaled, blinking in surprise when it worked. John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Rodney scowled back. "Oh, sure," he snapped, sniffing indignantly. "Just because my face isn't a mess of blood and bone doesn't mean I don't have cartilage injuries. I could still be horribly disfigured." He blinked hard and rubbed irritably at his damp cheeks.

"We'll go in and get some juice," John suggested, tucking the football under his arm and clamping a hand on Rodney's shoulder.

"Juice? You think juice is going to fix my eventual disfigurement?" Rodney shrieked, letting John steer him back toward the house.

"You're not disfigured," John sighed. His parents had always offered juice as an alternative to tears, even when the tears were just a result of an impact too close to his tear ducts. He pushed Rodney into a chair and pulled out a bottle of orange juice.

"Oh, God, are you trying to kill me?" Rodney squeaked.

"What, with OJ?" John asked, snagging a glass off the drainboard.

"Hello, were you paying attention last night?" Rodney asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What, with the lemon?" John asked, wishing he didn't remember the look on Rodney's face when he's turned away from Teyla. Taking his place had been the smoothest way John could think of to cover the awkwardness of the situation.

"It's not lemon," Rodney sniffed, touching his nose gingerly. "It's citrus."

John blinked at the orange juice and put it back in the fridge.

"Coke okay?" he asked. "We have that and milk."

"Coke's fine," Rodney said. "Thank you," he added as John passed over a frosty can.

John slouched across the table with his own can and watched Rodney down half the can in one gulp. "Look," he said. "Teyla said she'd go to the movies with me on Saturday night. Why don't you ask Katie and we'll all go together."

"Really?" Rodney blurted out.

"Yeah." John shrugged. He wouldn't get that far with Teyla, not with an audience, but Katie really had looked freaked out on Friday and he felt that he should feel bad about that.

Also, John could still feel the sense-memory of Teyla's mouth on his collarbone and he could thank Rodney for that.

"The base theater is playing Top Gun," he said. "I totally want to see that."

"The one with Tom Cruise and the planes," Rodney asked, lighting up a little.

"Yeah, it's supposed to be great," John told him. He let himself feel a little thrill of knowing that Rodney was just as excited about something as he was, and then realized he'd have to spend the entire movie listening to what they got wrong.

"Cool." Rodney fiddled with his can. "I, um, I need to get home. I have a ton of homework I haven't done this weekend. Are you coming over for dinner?"

John half-shrugged. "No, thanks. I've got some stuff to do here."

"You can come over if you're doing homework," Rodney said. "I can probably give you a hand if you need it?"

"Nah, I'm fine," John said. "It's other stuff."

"Oh. Okay." Rodney looked skeptical.

"Phone calls. Working out," John explained.

"Oh, yes." Rodney got up and threw his can away. "Well. Thanks for letting me stay."

"Yeah. I'm sorry I threw a ball in your face," John said, thinking that really, it was Rodney's fault for letting it go through his fingers.

"That's all right," Rodney said. "In fifteen years when I'm giving lectures and everyone wants to know why my face is so messed up, I can tell them it's an old football injury and be telling the truth."

John snorted and shook his head. "See you tomorrow, Rodney."

Rodney offered him a slight grin. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'll meet you outside."

Part Four