Fic: Think of Your Body as the Pen Where the Ink Resides // (SGA, McShep, G)
Title: Think of Your Body as the Pen Where the Ink Resides
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, pre-slash
Rating: G
Wordcount: 510
Summary: black ink scrawls up John's arm in curving Greek letters and numbers, numbers, numbers
Notes: Little ficlet I wrote for my best girl ocelotspots, who I have lately seduced into SGA fandom and the cult of one Dr. M. Rodney McKay. *sparkly hearts* Oddly, this is my first McShep fic. Weird. o_0
(Title from Incubus, "Redefine")
PODFIC VERSION: HERE read by sly_hostetter
John always keeps crappy beer in the minifridge in his quarters, even when the Daedalus is weeks away and he has to use every ounce of his charm to convince Miko to win some off Cadman for him during ladies' poker night. He keeps it there for the nights when Rodney comes storming in, gesturing wildly with his datapad and complaining about the utter incompetence of everyone on the expedition until John sits up and shifts his legs off the bed and Rodney sits beside him with a huff and takes the offered can.
The beer itself usually results in another round of complaint, but the "acceptable" beer is always gone within a week of its appearance on Atlantis (either consumed so quickly it's a miracle everyone doesn't show up with hangovers or, more likely, secreted away by those quick enough to get their hands on it), and so far John hasn't discovered a brew so divine as to be given the McKay seal of "good", so he doesn't worry about it. Besides which, Rodney is an expert at complaining, and even though John has heard his diatribe about the state of alcoholic beverages in the Pegasus galaxy about a hundred times over the years, he lets the words wash over him and nods in the right places and once Rodney's downed a can or two and is running out of steam, he'll throw Back to the Future on his laptop just to give Rodney something new to complain about.
The best nights are the ones where Rodney has just a little too much, when his annoyed gestures at the screen turn to scrawling equations in ballpoint pen on John's forearm because it doesn't work like that, see? he has to prove to John why this movie is awful, really. And then he forgets quite what he was arguing about, starts scribbling whatever comes into his head and the black ink scrawls up John's arm in curving Greek letters and numbers, numbers, numbers, until he reaches the edge of John's t-shirt and if he's had enough of the truly awful beer that John keeps stocked in the minifridge for just these nights (and if John's honest about the little knot of guilt in his gut, he knows it's not really for Rodney that he keeps it), he'll tug at the hem and pull John's shirt over his head and keep writing, across his shoulders and down the lines of his back. The expedition keeps good pens, and the ballpoint glides smoothly as Rodney's equations describe the universe on his skin.
He always washes his arm before leaving his quarters the morning after one of those nights, up to the shoulder so it doesn't spill out from the edges of his shirt, but he doesn't bother to scrub away the ink on his back. Sometimes the traces of it linger for days, ghostlines and shadows he can barely see in the mirror, memories of pen-pressure and one-point-twenty-one gigawatts and Rodney's breath, beer-smelling and warm, against his neck.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, pre-slash
Rating: G
Wordcount: 510
Summary: black ink scrawls up John's arm in curving Greek letters and numbers, numbers, numbers
Notes: Little ficlet I wrote for my best girl ocelotspots, who I have lately seduced into SGA fandom and the cult of one Dr. M. Rodney McKay. *sparkly hearts* Oddly, this is my first McShep fic. Weird. o_0
(Title from Incubus, "Redefine")
PODFIC VERSION: HERE read by sly_hostetter
John always keeps crappy beer in the minifridge in his quarters, even when the Daedalus is weeks away and he has to use every ounce of his charm to convince Miko to win some off Cadman for him during ladies' poker night. He keeps it there for the nights when Rodney comes storming in, gesturing wildly with his datapad and complaining about the utter incompetence of everyone on the expedition until John sits up and shifts his legs off the bed and Rodney sits beside him with a huff and takes the offered can.
The beer itself usually results in another round of complaint, but the "acceptable" beer is always gone within a week of its appearance on Atlantis (either consumed so quickly it's a miracle everyone doesn't show up with hangovers or, more likely, secreted away by those quick enough to get their hands on it), and so far John hasn't discovered a brew so divine as to be given the McKay seal of "good", so he doesn't worry about it. Besides which, Rodney is an expert at complaining, and even though John has heard his diatribe about the state of alcoholic beverages in the Pegasus galaxy about a hundred times over the years, he lets the words wash over him and nods in the right places and once Rodney's downed a can or two and is running out of steam, he'll throw Back to the Future on his laptop just to give Rodney something new to complain about.
The best nights are the ones where Rodney has just a little too much, when his annoyed gestures at the screen turn to scrawling equations in ballpoint pen on John's forearm because it doesn't work like that, see? he has to prove to John why this movie is awful, really. And then he forgets quite what he was arguing about, starts scribbling whatever comes into his head and the black ink scrawls up John's arm in curving Greek letters and numbers, numbers, numbers, until he reaches the edge of John's t-shirt and if he's had enough of the truly awful beer that John keeps stocked in the minifridge for just these nights (and if John's honest about the little knot of guilt in his gut, he knows it's not really for Rodney that he keeps it), he'll tug at the hem and pull John's shirt over his head and keep writing, across his shoulders and down the lines of his back. The expedition keeps good pens, and the ballpoint glides smoothly as Rodney's equations describe the universe on his skin.
He always washes his arm before leaving his quarters the morning after one of those nights, up to the shoulder so it doesn't spill out from the edges of his shirt, but he doesn't bother to scrub away the ink on his back. Sometimes the traces of it linger for days, ghostlines and shadows he can barely see in the mirror, memories of pen-pressure and one-point-twenty-one gigawatts and Rodney's breath, beer-smelling and warm, against his neck.