sga_flashfic | The Bitch-Slapping Tao of Rodney McKay, by Sheafrotherdon and Siriaeve (Missing Persons Challenge)

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sga_flashfic

Fic: The Bitch-Slapping Tao of Rodney McKay
Authors:

siriaeve and

sheafrotherdon
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We own nothing, but yay sandbox!
Summary: If The Tao of Rodney had ended differently – this would have happened. Says us. Spoilers for 3:14 The Tao of Rodney (um, clearly).
A/N: With enormous thanks to

akukorax who first suggested the possibility.

Once Rodney gets his memory back there's the inevitable, anti-climatic briefing, which manages to turn all the cool things about cavorting with white-light Ancients into an experience so mundane and boring John starts having flashbacks to his third grade history class and Mrs. Martin's crocodile-skin shoes. When Elizabeth finally lets them go (God it's just like school; recess never comes fast enough) John follows Rodney from the room, figuring now's the time to hear about the good stuff. Rodney's back to talking a mile a minute, hands flying, and John's missed listening to that torrent of gestures and words.

"... which was horrendous, of course," Rodney's saying as they step into a transporter. "Oh, and that was before I took the opportunity of bitch-slapping Chaya, anyway, you want something from the mess?"

They're stepping out into the hall before John's brain catches up to what he heard and he stumbles to a halt. "Wait, what? Did you say—when you were Ascended, you—Chaya?"

Rodney's powering on ahead of him, forcing John to jog to catch up, and doesn't deign to answer at first. "Oh god how I missed saturated fats. Salt! Sweet, sweet monosodium glutamates." He starts piling food onto a tray. "When did the mess start serving biscotti? This is good – and well, yes, Chaya, yes, there was noncorporeal slapping, I am a petty, petty man – seriously, this biscotti is good, you should try some."

Plate loaded, Rodney heads for a nearby table, John trailing in his wake.

"No, really, Chaya?" John can't remember the last time he was this dumbfounded by something Rodney had to tell him, but Rodney seems oblivious. Whether it's deliberate or not, John can't tell; he's clearly going to have to coax the story out of him bit by bit, watching while he chews and says 'I missed food so much' and 'you are really fixating on this to an alarming degree.'

"Hey!" John manages, pointing a finger, "You're the one who brought up Chaya. You're the one who ascended to a different plane of existence and bitch-slapped Chaya."

Rodney sniffs, damn him. "That wasn't fixating, that was just... tying up loose ends, as it were."

John gapes. "How is that a loose end? There's not an end for you to have! You weren't involved with her, that was me!"

Rodney rolls his eyes, before shovelling in another mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Exactly. God, you're so dense."

John blinks. "Wait... what?"

Something on Rodney's face shifts, and suddenly he's wearing the expression that means he's realized he's said more than he should. "I wonder if there's more coffee... " he says, craning his neck and looking back toward the line.

John feels comprehension begin to dawn, things click into place and, "Wait, Rodney – you – I – "

Rodney flushes and tries to change the subject. "Anyway, do you know how many forms you have to fill in on being declared alive again? Some of those questions are pretty invasive, and I speak as someone who has conducted several thesis defences—"

"But – you – Rodney – "

Ronon reaches over to their table to grab more butter, and glances at them both. "McKay, you break him again?"

Rodney's mouth twists mirthlessly but John doesn't miss that he's scoping out the exits, or that with his next breath Rodney's mumbling that maybe he should go back to his lab

John can feel his stubborn streak flare up, because he just got Rodney back after far too long of not knowing whether to mourn him or not, of not knowing anything, and now he just found out – found out this – and Rodney bitch-slapped Chaya and by god, John's going to suck it up and talk about it. Or at least drag Rodney somewhere and point a finger and say "Explain!" until Rodney does. But Rodney has other ideas – stands up and leaves half a cup of coffee behind – which, if that's not the final sign of the apocalypse, John doesn't know what is – mumbles some excuse and hustles away.

Ronon looks over at John with one eyebrow raised.

John glares. "I liked it better when you were stoic, you know. You're worse than Elizabeth." He pushes back his chair and leaves Ronon to his pancakes.

When John gets outside, he sees that Rodney's not really running down the corridor (that would probably be undignified) but he's certainly walking very, very fast. "Hey," he calls. "McKay, wait up," and suddenly Rodney is walking very, very, very fast, and jeez, descension? UnAscension? Either way, there's gotta be some sort of cardio workout involved because John's really having to lengthen his stride to catch up. "McKay," he says again, grabbing Rodney's shoulder, and Rodney flinches so hard and the expression on his face is so utterly miserable that John's decides he's through and manhandles him out to a balcony, reassuringly shadowed by the coming night. "Spill," he hisses.

Rodney swallows. "No, it's just – forget I said anything, I don't know why – I just, at the time it seemed like a good idea, and then it seemed like something you should know, and – "

John cuts him off with a glare. "Do you like me?" he asks suspiciously

Rodney folds his arms, jaw tightening and says "Oh, you mean like a friend likes another friend?" His tone is waspish, and John thinks he has his answer but he asks again anyway, stepping forward into Rodney's space.

"Do you like me?"

Rodney's eyes get bright and he looks like he's about ten seconds from breaking into pieces or calling John a feckless, pox-ridden, son-of-a-bitch and making him sterile with the power of his mind, but either way he doesn't say a blessed word.

John steps forward again, so close he can feel Rodney's body heat, evidence of his very satisfying, all-new corporeality. "Do you like me?"

Rodney tilts his chin. "That's hardly the point. The point is far more that I've hated her since the day we met her and you just - " he gestures " - fell under her sway. Chaya's so charming," he sing-songs nastily. "Lieutenant Colonel Lovesick Schoolboy – and all for some badly dressed, Xanadu harpy who lost her roller-skates and probably killed Gene Kelly in some Ancient ritual rising out of general envy of Wraith hair."

It takes a moment for John to process that image and the meaning behind it, but then he's smiling, the skin beside his eyes crinkling happily, his voice warm with the light irony that always seems to show up when he can't help but laugh at himself. "You like me, you really like me..."

One corner of Rodney's mouth quirks as if he gets the joke but isn't quite ready to give in. Not that John's waiting around for him to get with the program – he brushes his knuckles over Rodney's cheek, slides his hand around to cup the nape of Rodney's neck and he's leaning in, lips stilling against Rodney's for a moment before Rodney's mouth opens beneath his, before Rodney lets John kiss him, kisses him back, grabs hold of his shirt and holds on tight as if he might lose his balance if he doesn't. John ends up leaning against the balcony rail, supporting Rodney's weight with his, because Jesus, Rodney more than likes him, he really – everything's hot and wet and Rodney's tongue is all but fucking his mouth and John lets him, gasps, hips flexing upwards.

Rodney pulls back a fraction at that and says "Finally. You get it. Jerk." And then he's mashing his face into John's neck and seems like he might well be indulging in some manly trembling, so John holds onto him, just in case.

"So," John offers lightly, though his arms are squeezing tight, "are there any other ex-girlfriends of mine I should warn?"

"Asshole," Rodney says.

"No, really. Should I send a message back to Emma Wilton from tenth grade, tell her to be on the lookout for a pissed-off ball of incorporeal light, looks a bit like a radioactive squid?"

Rodney lets out a long unsteady breath. "It's just – how's a. . . flubby – "

"Flubby?"

" – neurotic scientist going to compare with a goddamn being of light? No wonder you wanted her. And I don't mean you picked her, because of course you didn't know that I was having, you know, and I didn't exactly – I – I mean, why would you? That's absurd, I just - "

John says "Well, you don't compare," then amends when he feels Rodney start to stiffen, says "No, no, I mean that, next to you, she's not – you're always – do I have to say it?"

Rodney pulls back and looks at him, completely confused. "I don't - say what?"

"Um, you know," and John can feel his ears burning. Jesus. "I didn't pick her, and I wouldn't, not after, now, well, with you. I. I would." Stellar, John, he thinks. Superb.

Rodney just blinks, looking stunned. "I - I – "

Shit, they really suck at this talking business.

"Your quarters are closer?" Rodney offers hoarsely.

Okay, there's the genius he knows and, uh, stuff. "Yeah," John says, "Yeah, that's – "

"I know, I'm that good," Rodney answers and grabs his wrist to yank him into motion, drops it in the split-second before they step back into the hallway, and then they definitely don't run anywhere but still manage to break some sort of Atlantis-land-speed record in getting to John's room. The door opens without John even thinking about it, and maybe that's Rodney's doing, maybe he's not quite the guy he was, but who cares – John doesn't say anything, just reaches for Rodney as soon as the door closes behind him, kisses him hungrily, hands roaming greediliy like Rodney's going to disappear again.

"Oh, oh fuck," Rodney mumbles into John's mouth, "I can't - I don't - I haven't - "

John's eyes are a little glazed when he pulls away, and his voice is hoarse – it's an effort for him to do anything more than pant and groan. "Rodney, wh – do you not – I mean." Rodney leans forward, kisses him hard, bites at John's bottom lip, and John supposes that's Rodney's way of saying 'fuck this conversation,' but he's not that easily swayed. "Rodney," he says in between kisses, "if you're not sure – we can – we can wait, we can – "

Rodney pulls back with a long-suffering sigh, rolls his eyes and says "I bitch-slapped a nearly omnipotent, fifteen thousand year old being for you, you moron. Stop slowing me down."

John laughs, startled, and starts walking back toward his bed, stumbling over thrown-aside socks and yesterday's boxers. "So how much have you - have you... you know, before?"

"You're, you're the first," Rodney says. "With. With, um, a lot of things, actually."

John quirks an eyebrow. "A lot of things, huh?"

Rodney flushes, chin tilting upwards as it tends to when he's about to do something very brave or very painful. "Yes. Yes, I would have to say – yes," even as John's dragging him down onto the unmade bed.

"So slow the fuck down," John murmurs, pinning him to the bed with his body weight. "Don't you want to remember it?"

Rodney closes his eyes, pulls in a breath. "I – I remembered you. When I was - away. Do you get that? Up there, I remembered you. Everything else from when I was alive, it was distant, not important, slipped away when I tried to think about it, but you were – you were still so sharp and clear inside my mind, like you were part of me and— I remembered you."

John can't think of a thing to say to that, because no-one's ever – it's – you don't get a goddamn instruction book for what to say when the guy in your bed remembers you after shedding his mortal form. So he drops his forehead against Rodney's and breathes for a second, just to steady himself, because something inside just got kicked off-center, displacing everything, and he's floundering here. He breathes, noses Rodney's nose, finds his mouth and kisses him, slow, deep, thorough, learning the tilt of his lips, and he's so intent on just silently mouthing yeah and god and I'd remember you too he doesn't realize for a while that he's murmuring Rodney's name between breaths.

But Rodney's not quite so dazed – flips them over, presses John down, still kissing him, grinds his hips and rolls his eyes when John groans appreciatively. "I may not have done this before, but it's hardly rocket science and – ha! Rocket science, that's definitely, definitely something I can do, so – "

John laughs a little, kisses him roughly.

Rodney pauses. "You want this?" he asks, as if his hand hasn't already crept underneath John's shirt.

"Yeah," John says, voice very nearly breaking when Rodney strokes those long, square-tipped fingers over his side, definitely moaning when Rodney's hand moves curiously along the waistband of his pants. "Yes, yeah, you." He has just a moment to see the way Rodney's face lights up at that before Rodney's bending his head, biting at the curve of John's belly, fingers rushing to undo John's fly and John's shivering hard, his vision going a little gray at the edges at Rodney's fumbling, unpracticed touch — but fuck, it's not like he ever thought grace was cool or anything and this – this is definitely cool. This is –

– oh, Rodney's fingers wrapped around him, his grip firm, stroking, pulling; Rodney's mouth at his throat, burning kisses into his skin, biting at his shoulder and his collarbone until they sting. John knows there'll be marks, a bruise there in the morning, barely hidden by the collar of his shirt, and the thought is enough to make him arch and moan.

Rodney seems to like that, seems to like the response he's drawing from John with teeth and lips and clever, clever fingers, because he's working John faster now, like he doesn't want to slow down, doesn't want to stop, like he can't. John reaches out, grabbing at whatever part of Rodney he can reach – all this new, smooth skin over refashioned bone and muscle, fire-hot under John's hands – and he wants, he wants to tell him –

But all he can manage is a moan, his hips bucking upwards, and he stills for a second in that glorious, glorious tension that comes just before release, before he's shivering and coming all over Rodney's hand.

"Fuck," Rodney says, looking down at wet fingers and John's damp, aching cock, "that's so fucking hot, you're just, god—"

John half-laughs, as much as he can manage because Rodney's hand is around his cock and he can't think. But then, thinking isn't really required, not beyond the lizard portion of his brain, which is urging for more and now and John, you idiot, get him naked, and, well, John's never been much good at repressing his instincts, so as soon as he's got fine motor control again, he's stripping Rodney out of pants and underwear and t-shirt. Rodney says things like "oh, oh, are you sure?" and "let me help with that" and "that zipper's always been a bit dodgy," but mostly what comes out are whimpers and sounds John's never heard before, throaty and hoarse, and oh fuck, John's half-dressed and getting Rodney naked and if he hadn't just come he might almost embarrass himself.

But he's not the inexperienced one here, he reminds himself, and he uses his thighs and the momentum of their bodies to flip them over; to knock a little of the wind out of Rodney and steal the rest with a kiss. Rodney's spread out beneath him, pale and new in every way that counts, and John wants every bit of what he sees, runs his hand over it, every curve and bump, jut of bone and twitch of muscle; and if he liked the noises Rodney was making before, he loves the louder ones he makes as John slips down his body and mouths at his chest, his navel, the head of his cock. Louder still when John licks there, gentle and slow, before opening his mouth to take Rodney in, closing his eyes at the taste and feel of him.

"Oh – oh... this – " Rodney's all but keening, one hand fisted in John's ruined sheets, the other flailing helplessly. "Could be – embarassing – " And his hips buck hard as he comes but John adjusts, swallows, sucks him through it, relishes the tremors that run through Rodney's thighs.

When John pulls back, Rodney's wrecked and John thinks it's glorious, the flush on Rodney's chest, the sweat that's made his hair stand on end. "Not embarassing," he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and dragging himself up to kiss Rodney again.

Rodney makes an inarticulate sound. "That's me," he whispers. "On your tongue." He sounds as if part of his brain might be permanently offline.

"Yeah." John grins, smug.

Rodney swallows. "Worth the cat-fight."

John blinks. "Cat-fight?"

Rodney licks his lips and closes his eyes, grumbling softly until John arranges himself so as to squash him a little less. "Well," he says at last, chest hair in disarray beneath John's cheek, "Did you think sh'wouldn't hit back?"

John snorts softly, eyes already closing. "Rodney."

Rodney lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers. "Ver' long nails after death. S'a perk, ver' good f'r scratchin' out inc'rp'real eyeballs."

"They sent you back on a drunk and disorderly, didn't they?"

Rodney flops over onto his side, a lax arm thumping over John's chest. "Nope. I asked," he mumbles.

John opens his eyes again, wanting to say something, anything, because that's the answer to the biggest question they've had for the past three months – ever since Chuck had radioed him at three in the morning to say "Colonel, you need to see this," waking him from sleep and sending him skidding into the 'gate room to see Rodney, Rodney, curled up on the floor, asleep and breathing and alive. John had stood there, hands fisted at his sides against the need to touch, to be sure that this was real, while Elizabeth knelt at Rodney's side with tears in her eyes; and when Teyla said "How?", all John could say was "Why?"

Now he knows, and it's like nothing he thought — because John had known Rodney didn't want to die, but equally he'd known the minute that Rodney's body had fallen apart into light that he wasn't going to come back. Thought he'd known, at any rate.

He runs one hand down the curve of Rodney's back, shifts a little so that he can speak to him, so that he can say — but Rodney is already asleep, breathing steadily against John's shoulder. John smiles, presses a haphazard kiss to Rodney's temple and lets him sleep. There'll be time enough for them to talk in the morning. They have time.

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From:

wychwood

This is *adorable*. I love the mixture of inarticulate failure-to-communicate and just - revelations, the way Rodney just says stuff like that, the odd mix of obliviousness and perception that marks their relationship. Awwwwwwwwwww.

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