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Rodney had never got the hang of dealing with people, even if they started to like him by accident.
He didn't like small talk, he didn't have the patience to teach anyone what he knew, and he didn't see the point in dumbing himself down to be understood by... well, anyone, really.
After he made it to Atlantis, met John Sheppard and a host of others who refused to leave him alone, despite his antisocial ways, he felt himself starting to care.
For a long time, he pretended like he didn't, though. It wasn't until long after the seige, after Doranda, that Rodney let himself admit it. Even then, however, he'd preferred to ignore the way his priorities had changed, because he'd long ago learned not to admit anything. Everything could be used against you, in the end, so he thought.
That was, until the time he really thought it was The End.
*
Rodney had only just recovered from his brush with ascension, and the team, Radek, and Carson decided to celebrate with a Doctor Who marathon (Rodney's choice) in Rec Room 7. The next morning was a Sunday, there were no threats on the long range sensors, and nothing in the city itself was threatening to blow them all to smithereens; Elizabeth herself had gifted them a bottle of Grey Goose, a wry smirk as in her eyes as she said something diplomatic but which meant I'm your boss, so you didn't hear it from me, but go to town.
So to town they had gone, with Radek and Teyla playing mixologists, creating a rainbow of vodka-and-Pegasus-fruit-juice-roulette cocktails. They spent some time naming the results, John and Ronon mostly dominating by virtue of shouting loudest and drinking most. Carson got flushed and babysitter-ish—he always did when he had more than a single round—Teyla got bossy and commandeered the popcorn bowl, Radek got the giggles, and John got loose-limbed and drawl-y, spreading both arms along the back of the huge, overstuffed couch that took up half the room, sock-clad feet up on the coffee table.
Rodney, sharing that couch, had to remind himself not to stare, to lean into his own pile of pillows against the armrest instead of into the hand that occasionally nudged the back of his neck, because—
Well. It wasn't how a friend would look at a friend.
*
Rodney hadn't really delved into anyone's mind to suss out secrets even before he'd gotten a headache from the cacophony of shouted thoughts people had no idea they were broadcasting. He had started consciously Not Listening, but sometimes things broke through. Such as when Elizabeth and Sheppard had stormed into the chair room, and their combined alarm and urgency had finally penetrated Rodney's euphoric self-satisfaction.
Certainly theirs were normal reactions, given extreme news like the terminal diagnosis of a friend. That fact, combined with John's later awkward qualification of 'love,' was evidence enough that not only had John had somehow cottoned on and was trying to let him down gently in his own oblique way, but that Rodney been alone in his feelings from the start.
Which he'd already known, really, though hell if he knew how John had figured him out; he'd been trying so hard not to let it slip. Nothing good came from his falling for USAF officers, and John mattered too much on too many levels to alienate in any way. Rodney had never been friends with Sam before he'd let his libido do the talking; he had the opposite entirely happen with John, even as he slowly, inevitably grew fonder than a friend.
Fonder than he'd ever been, maybe.
Obviously John must have noticed something, if he was enforcing a boundary even as Rodney lay dying.
"As a friend feels about a friend.”
And it hurt, maybe, but really this ache inside him wasn't really any worse than it had been before, and at least he knew now that there was nothing worth getting his hopes up. He'd never step over the line, now he knew that John had quietly but pointedly drawn it in the sand for him.
Nights like this, though, where he felt the bonds between himself and his team, and Radek, and Carson, and Elizabeth, he couldn't bring himself to mind too much. He remembered a time when he'd been the cold, lonely cynic who'd never felt this kind of bond, and all he could do was be grateful that he was now so far removed from that man, that he had all these weirdos as a second family that was closer to him than his actual flesh-and-blood. Though even Jeanie wasn't the stranger she could have been, anymore.
It wasn't so bad.
When Rodney had taken the truth of the ascension device's effects from John's and Elizabeth's minds, John hadn't broadcast anything except three sharp thoughts chasing each other's heels, “I can't watch this man die,” and “I don't know how to save him,” and “I won't let him die alone.”
It didn't add up to love. But it was enough. He'd make it be enough.
*
As the unspoken guest of honor, Rodney made an effort to keep himself from getting maudlin in his cups.
Instead, he got talkative, to the point where Teyla had stopped shushing him and just started lobbing pillows at his head whenever he piped up about the science of the show, or the references to classic episodes and other pop culture. But that didn't stop him and John from making up increasingly ridiculous rules to their drinking game that went with the episodes. Radek frequently snorted his mirth, his asides caught only by Ronon, who'd chortle into his beard, take a swallow of beer, and refuse to explain.
That might have actually pissed Rodney off, before, paranoia and insecurity goading him into making a defensive ass of himself. Tonight, Rodney found himself grinning along, speaking up just to hear John snort, to let Teyla chuck another pillow.
Eventually Carson issued warnings about alcohol poisoning—as if they weren't all lightweights completely soused by splitting a six-pack and a fifth of liquor between them, some three fingers still in the bottle. With the long Lantean night still yawning ahead, eventually the party shrank. First Carson and Teyla peeled themselves off the strangely-shaped Athosian loveseat thing, Carson hiccupped once, cartoonishly loud and unfeigned, and let Teyla guide him out with promises of stopping for water on the way back to the living quarters.
A half hour later, Ronon started giggling again, and then snoring, like someone flipped a switch. Radek, owlish with drink and the late hour, yawned and dragged him up, grumbling in Czech, as affectionate as he was exasperated. They stumbled out, Ronon amusingly half-draped on Radek's shoulders, and Radek supporting him with sturdiness that would have surprised Rodney, once upon a time, a week ago.
And then it was just Rodney and John in the flickering light of the TV, John still a couch-hogging, stupidly sexy sprawl, and Rodney suddenly bereft of reasons not to look. They were quiet, now, and to be honest, as much as Rodney enjoyed being with everyone, it was a kind of relief. He sank back against the couch, legs curled and tucked beside him. He could hear the soft sound of John's breath, and had to tuck his toes in the blanket-strewn gap in the cushions to keep from trying to tuck them under the man's thigh.
*
Rodney knew it was selfish of him, but something that had hit home while he'd been learning John's dodgy meditation techniques was: It really was hard to be quiet, but if he had to, he knew he could be with John.
He even wanted to be, wanted to be able to relax into the silence of someone he truly trusted, because he wasn't sure he'd ever had that before in his whole life.
Of course, his super-genius mind wouldn't stop working long enough for it to happen, new flashes of insight into the deep mysteries of the cosmos striking his synapses in bursts of revelatory lightning. He'd spoiled every session with inspiration—and yes, with impatience, and fear, and the incipient grief held at bay with sheer denial.
Things got better when he quit meditating and started tying his loose ends. He'd hurt more of his friends than he'd meant to, or hadn't shown them how much they mattered. Things that, as he saw them now—as he could see them, now—made him...ashamed. Maybe to some of his closest ones, his attempts to make amends weren't enough; he didn't invade their minds to find out. He was almost scared to know. But even after apologizing to Radek, and writing for Elizabeth, and healing Ronon's scars, and making significant tea for Teyla, he still had no idea what to say or do for Carson, or John. It was a bit maddening, because they were his closest friends, but how could he even claim that if he couldn't think of a way to show them before he was gone?
Right before he collapsed in John's room—practically in his arms, Christ—Rodney had been wracking his brain for a fitting gesture, and eventually had just given up, flat out asking, “We're cool, right?”
“ 'Course,” John had replied, a little knee-jerk but mostly affronted, all what-a-thing-to-say, and Rodney had been reassured for a heartbeat before he had defaulted to babbling things that made John a specific kind of stoically-angry-but-worried that only surfaced in the direst circumstances. That alone made Rodney wish he'd never started talking; he didn't want to be the one to put that look on John's face, and though these instructions needed to be said, how was that a fair return on their friendship?
But then a spike of pain shot straight through his raggedly expanding mind, and he sort of lost the train of thought.
*
The evening closed soft and dark around them, the room dimming either with Atlantis's natural light cycle and energy-saving patterns, or because John might have told it to. It was just the pair of them, tipsy and relaxed as they hadn't been in months, and the city as normal as life in the Pegasus galaxy could aspire to be. The Doctor faced down the devil in a black hole, and Rodney found himself beginning to doze—
A hand on his shoulder roused him, but easily, a warm, coaxing pressure as he blinked slowly awake, still drunk. His eyes barely opened at first. He had the impression of John's eyes, gleaming in the low light, and it took a few beats for him to notice how close those eyes were. John peered at him from barely a foot away, near enough to feel his breath, a hot-cold rush laced with alcohol fumes. Rodney felt pinned by John's scrutiny; there was something complicated happening behind his eyes that Rodney couldn't follow. He was so intent, lips parted, hair mussed from the couch, and Rodney just wanted to stare back, dazed by how damn good John looked, all brooding and inscrutable and kissable.
Belatedly, Rodney registered the besotted expression that must be on his own face, good as a confession.
Something like shame, something like sorrow twisted inside. Rodney knew he was too scared to hear John let him down gently, for real. So he tried to derail the moment, offering an attempt at a self-deprecating smile.
“Sorry,” he said thickly, letting it mean all the layers of apologies a friend might owe a friend, then looked away. His eyes started to sting. “Must be getting late. Ready to call it a nigh—”
And then John kissed him.
*
The thing about telepathy as Rodney had experienced it was, he could hear thoughts almost like speech. Even if the person he was reading off of had the kind of mind that was more imagery than linguistic, he still got things like, “Cheese is the best,” or, “Damn fucking piece of shit desalinization tank needs to be set on fire.” Strangely, the actual emotions these thoughts represented remained undetected. Evidently not even ascension could make Rodney more empathic or empathetic, and didn't that just explain every mad scientist experiment of the Ancients.
So while Rodney knew Simpson had a hankering for a smooth Brie with blueberries, he did not feel the hankering himself. Same with Greyson's vicious hatred of the desalinization tanks—which, granted, were prone to temperamental fits that which resulted in mild water rationing, and that led to the gym and certain computer labs becoming distinctly pungent.
Anyway, it was sort of like internet chat, in that you got statements with no real nuance available for interpretation. So when he'd heard John thinking so loudly he couldn't help but overhear, “I can't watch this man die,” and, “I won't let him die alone,” it was just as if Sheppard had said it in that flat, no-nonsense way he had. The command tone, like Rodney was a mission.
Then, days later, Elizabeth tearfully told him that they all loved him, and John drew a line, as a friend does for a friend.
Rodney... got it. He even could use it to let go, because if there was no hope for him and John, it was actually easier to turn his attention elsewhere, the broad, unexplored expanses of existence beckoning, dimensions in his view like dawn breaking over alien horizons.
But then, even as Rodney felt himself slipping into the void beyond the void, he heard John's mind cry out, echoing and lonely, “Don't leave, Rodney!”
Well. One could only guess what John was feeling. Rodney had never been excelled at guessing emotional states, his own included. John was loyal to a fault, didn't form bonds easily, and was as wary as a feral cat about actual emotional nudity. His mouth said, “as a friend loves a friend,” and his mind screamed a plea down through eternity itself.
Rodney just had to put it down to things about people he just would never parse. Humans were unpredictable at best.
For example how, just as Rodney began reflecting on the transitory nature of ego, John went and called him out by name.
And everything Rodney McKay was came flooding back, everything that had led him to John, and everything John meant to him because of the weight of all that experience before—like no other relationship of any kind Rodney had ever had—like nothing he could let himself give up—
Just like that, Rodney had struck upon the way to save himself, as if it had been there all along.
*
Sometimes, a paradigm shift felt like a gloriously expanding mind.
Sometimes, it felt like having less than a week to live.
Sometimes, it felt like John Sheppard, leaning into him, over him, pressing him into the pile of pillows and blankets against the armrest.
*
“Mph,” Rodney gasped immediately, eyes wide. John had closed his, and his soft, slick tongue curled a question against the point of Rodney's upper lip. For an instant—an eternity—Rodney hesitated, disbelieving. Then, something broke in him, and he let his eyes slide shut, giving in to John in a way he had thought he'd never be allowed.
Distantly, he heard the pneumatic hiss/clank of the door lock engaging, but he was more preoccupied with John's lean body, a surprisingly heavy, heady weight, radiating living heat. He tasted of popcorn and sweet drinks and himself, Rodney discovered, letting John lick into his mouth. They kissed slowly, nearly silently beneath the TV's soundtrack, John's full lower lip sliding smoothly across Rodney's, sensuous and unhurried despite the change in their breathing.
Rodney's heart hammered against his ribs and his arms rose to wrap loosely around John's chest and back, pulling him in tighter. He could feel John's heart thudding away, too, just as frantic as his, and he gave another soft, strangled gasp. John, as if given leave to explore, set about pushing his callused hands under Rodney's shirt, rucking it up to stroke against his ribs and down his flanks. John's mouth trailed off Rodney's to rasp stubbly, shivery kisses down his his neck.
And, Christ, it was—It had been so long since Rodney had wanted anyone this badly, if he ever had. He was certain he'd never been this blatantly desired in return, yet John did desire him, his kiss sliding into wet, sucking nips, which felt amazing and might leave marks—and Rodney knew he shouldn't let him, but he wanted John to mark him up, wanted proof of John's mouth on his body.
Then John dragged his hands up Rodney's sides, thumbs sweeping over his nipples simultaneously.
Rodney arched up, thoughtless from the bolt of sharp pleasure, hips following through on the wave of arousal that made his hard-on twitch harder. John growled, a sound more felt than heard, and he rocked his own hot, telling bulge against Rodney's hip and—God—slipped his knee between Rodney's, pressing his thigh with careful intention against Rodney's dick through the layers of BDUs and boxers.
A moan bubbled up out of Rodney's mouth before he could stop it, but then John's lips sealed on his again, swallowing the sounds, kissing wet and hot and deep. He drew one hand down to cup Rodney's hip, still toying with Rodney's nipple with the other. Then he began to rock against him in a languid, unhurried rhythm. Rodney's own hands roamed across John's back, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath the cotton t-shirt. He pushed on, up into John's hair, gripping tighter than he'd meant to—but John rumbled again, so Rodney tugged a little, making John angle his head so Rodney could draw his tongue in and suck, just as his other hand squeezed one firm globe of John's ass.
John actually cried out, hands jerking down to Rodney's hips as he bucked hard into him, and he broke the kiss and the silence between them with a gasped, “Rodney.”
They stared at each other, mere inches between their panting mouths. And Rodney remembered, “I can't watch this man die,” and “I won't let him die alone,” and, “Don't leave, Rodney!”—all the context those statements had been missing now shining out like a beacon in the tender shape of John's green-amber eyes, his face red-lipped and flushed to the tips of his ears.
Rodney felt his heart stick in his throat. Even an hour ago, he'd never have dreamed— It was all too much, and he really had to speak, had to tell John everything, but there was too much to say, sentences log-jamming him into silence. But, Christ, he couldn't just lie here like a lump, he had to—
He let go John's hair and found that his fingers shook as he caressed the side of John's face. John leaned into the touch, and when Rodney cupped his cheek, John turned to kiss his palm, still staring through lowered lashes, letting himself be seen. His near-silent sigh gusted warm and intimate against Rodney's hand and wrist, like a secret being told, or an apology, or the sound of coming home at long last.
And Rodney remembered being quiet with this man, and the way words had only ever gotten the message tangled. Now, in this moment, with no words, no telepathy, nor sudden mystical insight to muddy the waters, Rodney felt certain of the communication tacit between them, in gaze and touch alone.
With a noise that sounded desperate even to himself, Rodney pulled John's mouth back down and kissed like it was his dying wish.
John groaned into his mouth, breathing into him, and Rodney took it in, felt it galvanize him. Urgency, fresh and hot, flooded his blood as John began to frot in earnest. Rodney shamelessly rode his thigh, drinking John's sharp breaths and trailing off to suck at John's earlobe, which got him another deep rumble and a very satisfying shudder.
They practically mauled one another, then, and it was glorious. Lips and tongues, teeth and skin, the heat and friction, and the reassuring anchor of John's body pinning him in this moment. Rodney felt alive. Maybe he'd lost his new math, maybe he could have ascended—this, John, here in his arms, was all he'd really wanted from the start. John, and time to love him. Time to hash out lines in the sand, and which were made for crossing, “as a friend cares about a friend,” and which were impassible, indelible, “Don't leave, Rodney!”
By the time John finally dragged his hands away from Rodney's chest down to cup Rodney's dick through the fabric, Rodney's boxers were chafing damply and he was nearly frantic with the need for more.
“Yes, oh yes, here, let me,” he muttered between kisses like bursts of suppressive fire, and John ignored him until Rodney huffed and shouldered him up to get bat his hands away. “Let me—”
John relented, backing off enough for Rodney to work, huffing as well, but it was a Sheppardian chuckle. “Bossy."
“Take off your shirt,” Rodney retorted tartly, half expecting John to roll his eyes and maybe try to get Rodney's shirt off as retaliation.
But John just sat up, lifting his shirt over his head and casting it aside in one easy motion. Rodney watched him, the half-light of the TV playing across his skin—acres of it, furred and sleek and scarred. He found himself mesmerized by the easy motion of John's shoulders, by his kiss-swollen lips, parted and smiling, by the trace of shyness that lingered in his eyes even with his hips tipped at an unsubtle angle—and, Christ, his dick a glorious swell under Rodney's fingers as he fumbled with the buttons.
“God, John,” he said without thinking, touch definitely groping more than unfastening, the thick heat of John's cock jumping in his palm. “You—You're just so damn gorgeous.”
John blinked and swallowed, then smirked to cover the way his flush darkened his ears to flaming red. He leaned back sinuously, a fair impression of brazen, pressing his cock into Rodney's grip. He voice was low and rusty when he asked, “Like what you see?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rodney said, breathless and wanting. Before he really registered moving, he had his mouth on John's statuesque clavicle, licking at the shadows, nipping lightly down his sternum, tracing the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and lipping at the chain of John's dogtags when he crossed it. His hand had, apparently, figured out John's pants on its own, and now John was finally helping, freeing his dick from his jockeys and—
—Clearly not expecting Rodney to turn and suck his small, pebbled nipple at the same time he wrapped a bare hand on John's cock.
John's breath hitched, his spine arching, offering his tit up to Rodney's curious tongue even as a slick bead welled from the plump head beneath Rodney's circling thumb. A moment later, John heaved an explosive breath and suddenly pulled away from Rodney's lips, which came free with a wet smack.
John lunged in and kissed him, all open mouthed and, fuck, so hot—and his hands were roughly, efficiently pulling open Rodney's trousers, shoving at the rest of Rodney's clothes. Just as abruptly, John pulled back to yank Rodney's shirt off. And then he paused to take a good look of his own, gaze dark and hungry as it roved over Rodney like a caress.
It ought to have been difficult to be self-conscious under such blatantly appreciative scrutiny, but Rodney managed it fine. He reached for John, pulling him down for another kiss as much as to break the stare, but just before their lips met John slyly ducked his head to the side.
“You're so damn gorgeous,” John rasped out, hot against his ear, and the echo of Rodney's words should have been teasing and somehow wasn't at all. John wasn't teasing, either, as he slid his hands up Rodney's thighs, raising trails of gooseflesh and a rush of anticipation. John gripped his cock in a long, sure stroke, and Rodney's breath shuddered. He spread his legs as much as his pants, now bunched on top of his socks, would let him, offering himself into the touch.
“John,” he gasped, “Please—”
He could feel John grin into his neck, hand working a slow, dry stroke. "Yeah, Rodney."
He couldn't help the whimper of loss when a moment later, John let go to wiggle around, ungainly but briefly, and manhandled him, so that he laid with knees bent and thighs cradling John's hips. John's legs braced against the couch and Rodney's tangled feet levered up so John could yank them free. When John lowered back down, it was to drape his whole body over Rodney's, carefully aligning their cocks next to each other, trapped between their bellies, the fuzzy weight of his balls against Rodney's own an intimacy as strangely endearing as it was maddening.
John's mouth claimed Rodney's moan even as he voiced it, his whole body flushing hot as they pushed against each other. Rodney found himself rising up into John's sinuous thrusts, thighs and knees gripping John's hips closer, calves folding onto John's back. His cock slid against John's, shockingly erotic. They'd been at this for an eternity, and Rodney was leaking a steady thin stream against their sweat-slick skin. He couldn't seem to settle on just one place to touch, his hands roaming up and down John's back, John's hair, John's ass, and when John plunged his tongue deep, and Rodney sucked on it, keeping time to the rhythm of their bodies.
John's hands held Rodney's hips, gripping hard for leverage as he sped up, the slide of his cock against Rodney's a perfect goddamn burn. Rodney had to break away to gasp for breath, fairly writhing for more, closer, harder, faster. He only realized he'd said some of that out loud when John started shuddering against him, control fraying, before he was—he was going faster, shoving harder, the force drawing grunts of exertion out of both of them, mingling with the slap of flesh on flesh.
“Christ, I wanna fuck you,” John's growl in his ear was pure sex, one hand sliding to squeeze Rodney's asscheek, fingers splayed and nearly, almost reaching the sensitive crevice between—
—And Rodney could picture it as if John had broadcast it directly into his brain—the two of them, like this, only on a bed, and John—fingering him, getting him wet and hot and open, making him ready for—John inside him, pounding into him like this—
Rodney came, his whole frame stiffening beneath John's, his cock giving a jerk as his balls drew tight. The first slick burst of come spilled over both of them, making their movements that much more slippery, that much louder. Above him, John swore, his hips jittering against Rodney, frantic and self-interested even as Rodney kept spurting, three times, four.
John sucked hard at his throat, and fingers dipped deeper, hot and searching. They brushed Rodney's fluttering, eager hole—electric pressure, and when Rodney jerked down into it and felt John's fingertip slide inside, he almost thought he could come twice, just from that.
“Yesss,” he hissed, lapping at what bits of John he could reach, feeling drunk all over again, feeling so damn alive and wanton and wanted, “Yeah, John, fuck me. Give it to me, c'mon—”
John bucked twice more, and then groaned and stilled, trembling like plucked string in Rodney's arms, between his thighs. John's cock surged, thick white ropes spattering audibly against Rodney's skin and his own, adding to the utterly human mess between them.
They kissed through the aftershocks, breathless, damn near awestruck. Bone-deep satiation turned Rodney to a pliable puddle, heavy-limbed and suddenly exhausted. After after long moments, John slumped to one side, wedged between Rodney and couch cushions. He yawned, nuzzled the bottom of Rodney's chin, laid his head on Rodney's shoulder, and fell asleep.
*
Rodney had never really gotten the hang of ascension, even when he almost did it by accident.
He didn't like telepathy, he couldn't teach anyone what he learned, and he didn't see the point in giving up everything that made him who he was.
But as he laid in a sated, sticky heap with John, limbs tangled, their breath blending as one, he swore he felt himself begin to glow.
The End