SGAfic: "A Fate Worse Than Death" by The Spike
“A Fate Worse Than Death”
by The Spike
Pairing: McDex
Rating: FS for fluffy and sweet like a lollipop in your pocket
Summary The seven stages of grief in five minutes, as performed by bunniesRodney McKay.
Warning: not a deathfic, you eeeediot.
Belatedly for to cheer ficbyzee who had a cold on moving day.
Rodney wakes slowly in the alien darkness. He is warm; he is comfy - snug in his sleeping bag in a way that is deliciously different from all the other times he has woken in his sleeping bag. It’s like his sleeping bag has somehow learned to conform exactly to the shape of his body, to embrace him with tender care; supportive and firmly cushiony. And vaguely affectionate. And breathing. And… bearded.
The shriek that comes out of him is girly even by his own standards. And his attempt to flail free -- or move even an inch -- fails miserably. Ronon’s leg is strategically hooked over both of Rodney’s legs; his big muscle-y arms wrap around Rodney’s torso from on top and underneath. His sleeping bag encloses the rest of him and he is effectively pinned in the most comfortable wrestling hold ever. Ronon’s breath is warm in the crook of Rodney’s neck, his beard softly scratchy against Rodney’s cheek.
It makes Rodney feel strangely shivery and warm inside. There is possibly a little stirring down below.
“Okay, this is *not* happening,” Rodney says to the universe at large. His mind thrashes aimlessly for a minute, then it comes to rest on an idea just brilliant enough to save the day. If Ronon’s hand wasn’t pinning his fingers against his stomach he would be snapping them like a flamenco dancer. No matter. It’s the idea that counts.
“Of course it’s a dream,” Rodney says, relieved. “I probably have weeks of post-traumatic flashbacks coming to me. This one’s about the Wraith cocoon, isn’t it. Trauma mixed with guilt because I distracted myself by working out some design specs for an adult Jolly Jumper based on the webbing while Earth was potentially on the dinner table. That’s all it is. A dream. A blot of mustard. A bit of undigested not-potato.”
Ronon smacks his lips wetly against Rodney’s ear and mutters something that sounds disturbingly like: “Mmm. Potato…”
Rodney’s stomach growls. Okay, fine. Not a dream. Of course it’s not a dream. That would imply that the universe was giving him some kind of break, which is as likely as Cadman solving a Millennium Problem.
“Fine,” Rodney says, giving up on divine intervention and going directly to the source of his misery:
“Look, if it’s about my calling dibs on the extra blanket, I told you. I have a particular sensitivity to cold since the unfortunate incident where I was trapped under the ocean dying of hypothermia. I mean it’s not like you didn’t spend seven years sleeping under the stars in your altogether, not to mention walking around the galaxy in a leather tank top in the dead of winter and flaunting your overwrought metabolism at every turn. But, okay, okay. I’m nothing if not a fair man. Let me go and the binkie’s all yours.”
“Yours…” Ronon breathes, dreamily. He shifts a little, arms tightening around Rodney with the inexorability of a boa constrictor lovingly digesting a Volkswagen Beetle.
“Oh God,” Rodney wheezes. “This is how they’re going to find my corpse in the morning.” He squirms and twists and manages to find a little breathing space. He lies there for a minute, soaking up the oxygen and listening to the low rumble of Ronon’s snoring in his ear. It’s both uncomfortable and weirdly comforting, not unlike half-waking in the night to find 30 lbs of warm cat purring away atop his kidneys.
And that, really, is the worst part. The way a person can get used to those little discomforts, bend and twist themselves around to accommodate them and then suddenly their cat is lightyears away and they still wake up at 3 am needing to pee, only the bed they come back to is cold and empty, and then how is a person supposed to get back to sleep after *that*?”
“It’s not the cat, per se,” Rodney says, plaintively. “It’s the empty cat-shaped hole it can potentially leave behind in one’s life . Which is much more discomfiting, I think you’ll have to agree, than an emptiness that never had any particular shape to begin with. And you…” Rodney grunts, shifting again, this time with feeling, “…weigh a lot more than 30 lbs.”
“You still talking, McKay?” Ronon says. His voice is sleep rough and intimate against Rodney’s neck. “How the many times does a guy have to fuck you before you actually shut up?”
“Hey!” Rodney huffs.
“What?” Ronon says. “Is this that gay freak out Sheppard warned me about? ‘Cause if you don’t wanna have sex with me again, I’m not going to make you…”
“No, no, no, God no,” McKay says, frantically. “I don’t want to stop the sex. I lo-I mean the, the sex was really… very… pleasant. Really very pleasant. Very electrifying and...and edifying and... whatnot.
“Than what’s the matter?”
“It’s just… Oh God, I can’t even… I mean who would have…? Look it’s…
"You’re a cuddler,” Mckay says, despairing. “I mean this is my, my fate, if we continue to have sex, there’ll be cuddling afterwards. We’ll be cuddling afterwards. Together. All night long. Cuddling.”
“Yeah, McKay,” Ronon says. “Cuddling. It’s something people who care about each other do after they fuck. You got a problem with that?”
“Well, I,” Rodney says. “Actually, I…”
“Whatever,” says Ronon. “Let me know when you figure it out.” He slides his arm out from underneath Rodney, grabs the top corner of the sleeping bag and turns over, dragging the covering over himself as he settles in, his back to Rodney, not quite touching.
“Ronon…” Rodney says, helplessly. He still has plenty of sleeping bag around him but a lick of chill has crept in where Ronon’s body is no longer plastered against his.
“Get some sleep, McKay,” Ronon growls.
“Oh, right. Sleep,” Rodney mutters. “Like I’m going to get any…” But Ronon is already snoring softly again. Oblivious. Rodney sputters on gamely for a few seconds, but then he stops.
It’s just not fair.
He’s not entirely without a heart, of course. It’s just never expected this. Not here, not now, not with Ronon and most definitely not this.
And obviously, it’s completely up to him, sort of in the way that breathing out or breathing in is completely up to him. And it doesn’t have to be entirely about filling holes, emotional or…well, whatever. But really, it could just be a practical thing.
It’s actually pretty cold in the tent and the sun won’t be up for hours and it’s not like he can just head down to the mess, grab a cup of coffee and spend some quality time with the Ancient database until morning.
And he really *really* likes having sex with Ronon.
And if he does -- okay, he can use the C-word -- *care* about Ronon in some way that might make his not being there the kind of thing he really doesn’t want to wake up at 3 am thinking about *ever*, well - what two consenting adult males do in their tent after the mind-blowing gay sex really is nobody’s business but their own.
So.
Cuddling.
Rodney wriggles around experimentally, getting his arms under and over Ronon, nudging a knee between Ronon’s thighs. Ronon nudges back and shifts around to accommodate him a little and he burrows a little deeper into the warmth of Ronon’s neck, a little closer to Ronon’s bulk.. It’s awkward and his arm is already asleep and Ronon’s hair is going *right* up his nose but yes, he’s man enough to admit it’s not horrible.
It's even rather nice in it’s own potentially hazardous and completely unergonomic way.
He might be able to survive it after all.
Rodney doesn’t even notice falling back to sleep with Ronon in his arms.
Which, it turns out, is how a picture is obtained by a certain Major 2IC and a certain Czech scientist who happen to also be on the mainland that night. Aphotograph is then posted anonymously on the Atlantis intranet although nobody believes it's not one of those ridiculous photomanips like the ones in which Colonel Sheppard appears to be in the cast of Lord of the Rings so nobody has to die, or at least that what Dr. Weir tries to tell Rodney in the aftermath.
But that, as Scheharazade used to say, is a whole 'nother story.
*
by The Spike
Pairing: McDex
Rating: FS for fluffy and sweet like a lollipop in your pocket
Summary The seven stages of grief in five minutes, as performed by bunniesRodney McKay.
Warning: not a deathfic, you eeeediot.
Belatedly for to cheer ficbyzee who had a cold on moving day.
Rodney wakes slowly in the alien darkness. He is warm; he is comfy - snug in his sleeping bag in a way that is deliciously different from all the other times he has woken in his sleeping bag. It’s like his sleeping bag has somehow learned to conform exactly to the shape of his body, to embrace him with tender care; supportive and firmly cushiony. And vaguely affectionate. And breathing. And… bearded.
The shriek that comes out of him is girly even by his own standards. And his attempt to flail free -- or move even an inch -- fails miserably. Ronon’s leg is strategically hooked over both of Rodney’s legs; his big muscle-y arms wrap around Rodney’s torso from on top and underneath. His sleeping bag encloses the rest of him and he is effectively pinned in the most comfortable wrestling hold ever. Ronon’s breath is warm in the crook of Rodney’s neck, his beard softly scratchy against Rodney’s cheek.
It makes Rodney feel strangely shivery and warm inside. There is possibly a little stirring down below.
“Okay, this is *not* happening,” Rodney says to the universe at large. His mind thrashes aimlessly for a minute, then it comes to rest on an idea just brilliant enough to save the day. If Ronon’s hand wasn’t pinning his fingers against his stomach he would be snapping them like a flamenco dancer. No matter. It’s the idea that counts.
“Of course it’s a dream,” Rodney says, relieved. “I probably have weeks of post-traumatic flashbacks coming to me. This one’s about the Wraith cocoon, isn’t it. Trauma mixed with guilt because I distracted myself by working out some design specs for an adult Jolly Jumper based on the webbing while Earth was potentially on the dinner table. That’s all it is. A dream. A blot of mustard. A bit of undigested not-potato.”
Ronon smacks his lips wetly against Rodney’s ear and mutters something that sounds disturbingly like: “Mmm. Potato…”
Rodney’s stomach growls. Okay, fine. Not a dream. Of course it’s not a dream. That would imply that the universe was giving him some kind of break, which is as likely as Cadman solving a Millennium Problem.
“Fine,” Rodney says, giving up on divine intervention and going directly to the source of his misery:
“Look, if it’s about my calling dibs on the extra blanket, I told you. I have a particular sensitivity to cold since the unfortunate incident where I was trapped under the ocean dying of hypothermia. I mean it’s not like you didn’t spend seven years sleeping under the stars in your altogether, not to mention walking around the galaxy in a leather tank top in the dead of winter and flaunting your overwrought metabolism at every turn. But, okay, okay. I’m nothing if not a fair man. Let me go and the binkie’s all yours.”
“Yours…” Ronon breathes, dreamily. He shifts a little, arms tightening around Rodney with the inexorability of a boa constrictor lovingly digesting a Volkswagen Beetle.
“Oh God,” Rodney wheezes. “This is how they’re going to find my corpse in the morning.” He squirms and twists and manages to find a little breathing space. He lies there for a minute, soaking up the oxygen and listening to the low rumble of Ronon’s snoring in his ear. It’s both uncomfortable and weirdly comforting, not unlike half-waking in the night to find 30 lbs of warm cat purring away atop his kidneys.
And that, really, is the worst part. The way a person can get used to those little discomforts, bend and twist themselves around to accommodate them and then suddenly their cat is lightyears away and they still wake up at 3 am needing to pee, only the bed they come back to is cold and empty, and then how is a person supposed to get back to sleep after *that*?”
“It’s not the cat, per se,” Rodney says, plaintively. “It’s the empty cat-shaped hole it can potentially leave behind in one’s life . Which is much more discomfiting, I think you’ll have to agree, than an emptiness that never had any particular shape to begin with. And you…” Rodney grunts, shifting again, this time with feeling, “…weigh a lot more than 30 lbs.”
“You still talking, McKay?” Ronon says. His voice is sleep rough and intimate against Rodney’s neck. “How the many times does a guy have to fuck you before you actually shut up?”
“Hey!” Rodney huffs.
“What?” Ronon says. “Is this that gay freak out Sheppard warned me about? ‘Cause if you don’t wanna have sex with me again, I’m not going to make you…”
“No, no, no, God no,” McKay says, frantically. “I don’t want to stop the sex. I lo-I mean the, the sex was really… very… pleasant. Really very pleasant. Very electrifying and...and edifying and... whatnot.
“Than what’s the matter?”
“It’s just… Oh God, I can’t even… I mean who would have…? Look it’s…
"You’re a cuddler,” Mckay says, despairing. “I mean this is my, my fate, if we continue to have sex, there’ll be cuddling afterwards. We’ll be cuddling afterwards. Together. All night long. Cuddling.”
“Yeah, McKay,” Ronon says. “Cuddling. It’s something people who care about each other do after they fuck. You got a problem with that?”
“Well, I,” Rodney says. “Actually, I…”
“Whatever,” says Ronon. “Let me know when you figure it out.” He slides his arm out from underneath Rodney, grabs the top corner of the sleeping bag and turns over, dragging the covering over himself as he settles in, his back to Rodney, not quite touching.
“Ronon…” Rodney says, helplessly. He still has plenty of sleeping bag around him but a lick of chill has crept in where Ronon’s body is no longer plastered against his.
“Get some sleep, McKay,” Ronon growls.
“Oh, right. Sleep,” Rodney mutters. “Like I’m going to get any…” But Ronon is already snoring softly again. Oblivious. Rodney sputters on gamely for a few seconds, but then he stops.
It’s just not fair.
He’s not entirely without a heart, of course. It’s just never expected this. Not here, not now, not with Ronon and most definitely not this.
And obviously, it’s completely up to him, sort of in the way that breathing out or breathing in is completely up to him. And it doesn’t have to be entirely about filling holes, emotional or…well, whatever. But really, it could just be a practical thing.
It’s actually pretty cold in the tent and the sun won’t be up for hours and it’s not like he can just head down to the mess, grab a cup of coffee and spend some quality time with the Ancient database until morning.
And he really *really* likes having sex with Ronon.
And if he does -- okay, he can use the C-word -- *care* about Ronon in some way that might make his not being there the kind of thing he really doesn’t want to wake up at 3 am thinking about *ever*, well - what two consenting adult males do in their tent after the mind-blowing gay sex really is nobody’s business but their own.
So.
Cuddling.
Rodney wriggles around experimentally, getting his arms under and over Ronon, nudging a knee between Ronon’s thighs. Ronon nudges back and shifts around to accommodate him a little and he burrows a little deeper into the warmth of Ronon’s neck, a little closer to Ronon’s bulk.. It’s awkward and his arm is already asleep and Ronon’s hair is going *right* up his nose but yes, he’s man enough to admit it’s not horrible.
It's even rather nice in it’s own potentially hazardous and completely unergonomic way.
He might be able to survive it after all.
Rodney doesn’t even notice falling back to sleep with Ronon in his arms.
Which, it turns out, is how a picture is obtained by a certain Major 2IC and a certain Czech scientist who happen to also be on the mainland that night. Aphotograph is then posted anonymously on the Atlantis intranet although nobody believes it's not one of those ridiculous photomanips like the ones in which Colonel Sheppard appears to be in the cast of Lord of the Rings so nobody has to die, or at least that what Dr. Weir tries to tell Rodney in the aftermath.
But that, as Scheharazade used to say, is a whole 'nother story.
*