sga_flashfic | Like Pop Rocks on Your Tongue by Mireille (Wish Fulfillment Challenge)

Title: Like Pop Rocks on Your Tongue
Author: Mireille (

mireille719)
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG
Summary: Rodney's heart started pounding like his chest was about to explode, and he wondered for a second if thirteen was too young to be having a myocardial infarction.
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: They are definitely not mine.
Feedback/Concrit: Both welcome, either here or at mireille719 {at} gmail {dot} com
Notes: It's not even high school AU; it's junior high math-geek AU. Thanks to the wonderful

wesleysgirl for the beta, and to both her and

soft_princess for convincing me to post. This fits into the "guiltiest fiction pleasures" part of the challenge, obviously.

Rodney would always remember the date of his first kiss, not because it was that earth-shattering an event (okay, it was, but he wasn't going to tell John that), but because it was the same day that they won the Minnesota state junior high math competition: April 7, 1984.

After the contest, they'd all been herded into a tiny room for pictures and refreshments, and after Rodney had submitted to having at least a dozen pictures taken, he'd made the unhappy discovery that apart from the coffee urn--"Adults only, Rodney," Mr. Hammond had said, and hadn't given in no matter how much Rodney had scowled--the only thing to drink was lemonade. Lemonade! Were they actually trying to kill off the student with the highest individual score in state history?

It was probably a plot. He'd thought there was something funny about how fast Caz Kolya's team had made it into the "hospitality room." Caz was probably still pissed that Atlantis Junior High had wiped them out in the second round. Until last year--Rodney's first on the team--Genii Middle School had been undefeated since 1973, but their winning streak was definitely over, as long as nobody on Rodney's team did anything stupid, like move to Iowa or decide they liked girls better than math.

Mr. Hammond wasn't impressed by Rodney's conspiracy theory, but he did give him some change and tell him to go find a vending machine, which was even better than backing down on the coffee issue; it gave him an excuse to leave the room. Rodney wanted to savor his victory for a while, not have to tell the losers that they'd played a good game when they absolutely hadn't. They'd been morons who didn't know Euler's formula, and not even in the name of "good sportsmanship" was Rodney going to overlook that.

Rodney found the room with the coke machines without much trouble, surveying the choices before dropping his coins into the slot and punching the button for Dr. Pepper. Nothing happened, so Rodney kicked the machine, trying to stifle a yelp of pain when the machine proved to be a lot tougher than both his sneaker and his foot.

There was a snicker from behind him, and Rodney turned around, hopping on one foot, glaring when he saw who had followed him. "What are you doing here?" He wasn't sure if he meant "here in the hallway," or "here at all"; Mr. Hammond insisted that John Sheppard belonged on the math team, but Rodney had been in math with him since kindergarten, and John was lazy. Smart, but lazy, and Rodney hated that. Next year, when he was captain instead of Samantha Carter, maybe he could do something about it, but for now, Mr. Hammond had made it clear that Rodney should shut up and play nice.

John shrugged. "Followed you," he said, which was kind of creepy, because what did he think he was, Rodney's personal stalker? You didn't follow people around for no good reason.

Even if you were John Sheppard, with your stupid sticking-up hair and your stupid Bugs Bunny necktie and your stupid sweatband on your wrist all the time, not just in Phys Ed. Not to mention your stupid smile that made Rodney's stomach feel like the time Radek had convinced him to go on the Corkscrew at Valleyfair on their sixth-grade class trip and Rodney had thrown up everything he'd eaten since probably February. That smile made Rodney want to smack John Sheppard in his stupid face, except that, one, he didn't want to get detention, and two, John was a starter on the football team even though he was only in eighth grade and all the rest of the first string were ninth-graders, and he could probably make hamburger out of Rodney without even breaking a sweat.

"Why would you follow me?" Rodney demanded, thumping the side of the soda machine hopefully. Nothing happened, of course. Nothing ever happened when he needed something to make him look cool.

"Just wanted to tell you you did a good job today," John said, shrugging again.

"You didn't exactly suck, yourself," Rodney admitted. Hammond had paired them up for the cipher round, and to Rodney's surprise, it had worked. When he and Radek had teamed up in practice, they'd argued most of the time, and last year when he'd been Sam's partner, he'd been too worried about impressing her to really be able to enjoy what he was doing. But with John, it had been different. For the thirty minutes of the round, they'd forgotten all about how John thought he was so much cooler than Rodney, and how Rodney resented John for not even caring about being smart (and also for having some kind of screwed-up superpower that made Rodney notice when John smiled, for pete's sake). They'd just done the math, and it had totally worked.

"Thanks," John said, and Rodney looked up at him just as he smiled again. Rodney's heart started pounding like his chest was about to explode, and he wondered for a second if thirteen was too young to be having a myocardial infarction. Or maybe it was just John Sheppard, being stupid and messing with Rodney's head again.

He'd probably be better off if John was just messing with his head somehow. Rodney knew what people said about boys who wanted to kiss other boys. He knew his parents would probably ground him for a hundred years, and he'd get beaten up at school--even more than he did now--and nobody would write him a decent recommendation for college, so he'd be stuck going to someplace like Duluth or St. Cloud State instead of a real university.

And John would hate him. Would probably beat the crap out of him and leave his bleeding body right here in the Commuter Students' Lounge for Radek or Miko or Sam to find when Hammond got tired of waiting for him and sent somebody out to look for him.

But the thing was, John looked at math the way Rodney did--Rodney could tell the numbers clicked in John's head the same way they did in Rodney's--and John's smile made Rodney's stomach do weird things the same way that getting a glimpse down Sam Carter's V-neck sweater did; and John had a stupid Bugs Bunny tie and an untied left sneaker; and Rodney was pretty sure he was going to die anyway if he didn't find out what it was like to kiss John Sheppard. Not that he had anything to compare it to, unless aunts and grandmothers and baby sisters counted, but you had to start collecting data somewhere.

So Rodney decided that not-quite-fourteen was a pretty good lifespan, anyway, and stood on his tiptoes--because of course John had had a growth spurt before Rodney did--and pressed his lips against John's. His shoulders were tense, bracing himself for the punch he knew was going to come any second now, followed by John running back to the others yelling, "Hey, did you guys know McKay's a fag?"; his heart was pounding harder now, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to take the kiss back because it was terrifying or keep doing it because it was awesome. Maybe both, especially now that John might be kissing back--although he also might just be trying to avoid bumping noses with Rodney for the third time. It was hard to tell.

Rodney stepped back again, hesitantly; John was looking down at the toe of his sneakers, and Rodney waited for him to say something. He could feel his ears and neck getting red and hot, and he wondered if maybe just running for it would be the best plan, after all.

Then John looked up, his face every bit as red as Rodney's own, and he grinned at Rodney. "Cool," he said, and Rodney's entire body felt like his tongue did when he'd just poured Pop Rocks on it (back when you could find Pop Rocks, anyway): fizzing and jumpy and weird, but in a good way. Rodney grinned back, because maybe that meant that one day John would let him do that again. He hoped so; this was even better than the day he'd made it to the split-screen level in Pac-Man--not that he was that into video games, but he'd been trying to prove a point.

"We should probably be getting back," John said, punching the soda machine so that Rodney's Dr. Pepper dropped down into the slot. Rodney didn't even mind being shown up by a football player. Not this football player. Not today.

Rodney took the can and nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Hammond's going to come looking for us soon."

When they started down the hall together, side by side, there was a split second when Rodney thought John was going to hold his hand, but he didn't even have time to decide how he felt about that before the moment passed. Instead, John bumped his shoulder against Rodney's, grinning at him again, and Rodney decided that was just as good.

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From:

wesleysgirl.livejournal.com

Yay! I love this story so much, it's just great. It makes me really happy. :-)

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