Broken
by Jen

 
His lips are dry in the sun.  Rodney was right: he should have used sunscreen.  Instead, there he is, flat on his back, feeling his lips crack open a little more with every second that passes.  Running his tongue over them only makes them hurt more, the bare suggestion of moisture simply concentrating the sun’s rays. 

He hasn’t had sunburn like this since he was nine years old, that day at the beach.  Then there’d been calamine lotion and, for an instant, his father’s cool hand on his forehead.

He knows that won’t happen now, but it doesn’t stop him from waiting.  Waiting for Rodney, knowing that Rodney always knows what to do.  He’ll know how to stop his lips hurting like they do.  He’ll know how to stop the sun licking at his chest in a way that makes him feel like he’s melting, until he can almost feel the wetness on his skin, sticking his t-shirt to him beneath the tac-vest. 

Even holding his P-90 is getting difficult, because his hands are cold, which makes no sense given how hot his face feels.   But it isn’t important, and it doesn’t really matter.  Because Rodney will be here soon.  And then everything will be all right.

 

Voices, hands taking away his P-90, disturbing him.  He hits out but all that happens is that his hands are caught and held down, a strong grip holding his wrists while something’s pulling at his vest.  Another hand’s slapped against his forehead.  It’s large and warm and damp, and makes him feel even hotter. 

“Oh, how did I not guess?  Of course if the Major said it, it must be right.  You were born to a career – and I use the term loosely – in the military, weren’t you, Lieutenant?”

Rodney sounds even more pissed than usual at Ford, and John thinks he should probably open his eyes and say something, because Ford’s a good kid most of the time, so long as you don’t let him name anything.

“McKay,” he manages, but his mouth is swollen and dry, misshapen around the word.  He runs his tongue over his lips.  It feels like sandpaper moving over broken glass and he frowns, trying to understand why it hurts so much.  He’s going to tell him to lay off Ford, but, “Sunscreen,” he says instead.

“Yes, we’ll preserve your girlish complexion, Major, so you can continue romancing the galaxy.  Now would you just do your damned job, Lieutenant, without all the excuses, and get us the hell back home?”

“Doctor McKay – “

It’s Teyla’s voice, but Rodney’s on a roll and she doesn’t get any further.  “Look, don’t any of you get it?  If we don’t get him to Beckett right now, he’s not going to make it.”

John tries to open his eyes, knowing from Rodney’s voice that something’s wrong, but then he’s being moved, and pain is dragging him so deep that he can feel the weight on his chest, hear the buzzing in his ears, and he knows he’s going to implode under the pressure.  He tries to tell Rodney, but the breath won’t come, and Rodney’s talking again anyway, and John thinks that maybe there’s something wrong with the ZPM because he’s never heard that tone in Rodney’s voice before. 

He doesn’t implode after all, but he does drown, in the pain and the darkness.

The evening light is soft through the med bay window, and John wonders, yet again, what quality the Ancients built into their glass so it never gets dirty.   Whatever it is, it’s just as well, because Atlantis would be a bitch to try and clean. 

He knows he’s letting himself get distracted, but it’s easier that way.  Easier than watching Rodney not watching Beckett change the dressings on John’s wounds.  Beckett tried to get him to leave, John told him to go, but Rodney did the thing he’s so good at – wearing them both down until it was easier to try and ignore his presence than to put up with any more of his arguments.

The morphine makes it bearable, but not much more than that.  John can’t stop the sounds that force their way between his teeth at one point, and at that instant Rodney stops not-watching, and his eyes meet John’s, and John hates that.  He hates the horror in Rodney’s eyes.  He hates the pity that Rodney has for the mess that used to be John’s torso.  Before the shooting, which John still can’t believe because who in this Galaxy would have a shotgun and bullets?  The science team still haven’t managed to identify the metal from which the bullets were made, not only because of the way they disintegrated into tiny pieces it took Beckett hours to clean out and which probably saved John’s life, but because it’s like nothing they’ve yet encountered.  Like the nanovirus, they have no explanation, and that makes John nervous. 

Afterwards, when Beckett has left, Rodney sits besides John’s bed and tells him about his latest project.  In detail, of course, as Rodney does.  He has to share his enthusiasm for ideas, for success and his own infallibility, as well as his disgust at those who threaten his progress, and the sound of Rodney’s commentary on life has become as familiar to John as the controls of an Apache, or a puddlejumper.  John is maybe the only person on Atlantis – or Earth, for that matter – who finds Rodney’s voice soothing, even though right now he can’t really follow what Rodney’s saying.

“- and then we can loop the feedback from the Gate through the naqahdah generators so we can power a new generation of ZPMs and –“

He isn’t sure where Rodney got baby ZPMs from nor why they’re in his lab for him to work on, but it doesn’t really matter.  He can keep his eyes closed and not worry about anything except the sound of Rodney’s voice until Rodney stops for breath, at which point he can needle him about the one huge flaw in his project.  Which he can’t think of just at the moment because he didn’t seem to quite follow Rodney’s thesis – and now he comes to think of it, it sounds a little strange even for Rodney, breeding ZPMs. 

 Rodney’s late, and John’s bored.  He’s still on limited duties and, bored as he is, he’d rather be here in his quarters staring at the ceiling and waiting for Rodney than sitting in his office and staring at the mountains of paperwork on the desk he’s reduced to flying at the moment.  He’d thought the whole point of computers was that you didn’t have papers any longer, but obviously he was wrong.  Ford’s not much help: nice kid, but not so good with the written word.  So the papers are stacking up, and John’s furthering his knowledge of aerodynamics by launching differently-designed paper airplanes from the balcony whenever Elizabeth’s not around.

Not that she’d say much, if she did catch him out.  She’d probably just look at him with that understanding empathetic expression that she must have learned at diplomat school while he was learning to blast things out of the sky.  Thing is, nobody’s saying much to John these days, since M7X-844.  Everyone’s so damn nice to him.  Even Rodney, and that’s just not right.  That’s not Rodney.

John doesn’t want nice.  He wants things to be the same as they used to be.  He wants to be fucked until he’s hot and sweaty and so hard that he can’t remember his name, and then fucked some more.  He wants Rodney to push him against the wall and take him with the same aggressive intensity he uses on his research. 

Rodney doesn’t do that any more.  Rodney does foreplay, and Rodney brings him off, but Rodney won’t fuck him.  Rodney is so careful with him that it makes John want to dump his ass on the floor, just to prove he can.  If he can spar with Teyla again, he sure as hell can take anything Rodney McKay can dish out in the bedroom.

Well, probably.

He knows he could do it, could push Rodney up against the wall and take him the way he wants it.  But he knows that won’t change the way Rodney feels.  He knows he’s got to get Rodney to the point where he no longer sees John as the broken body they got back from M7X-844 that day, but as John.

He thinks he might know just the way to do that.

Rodney won’t say it, but John knows he has a thing for John’s dog tags.  Maybe it’s some deeply repressed military fantasy, but when John’s moving, whether over or under Rodney, and the tags clink, Rodney’s eyes are drawn to them.  Problem is, Rodney also has a thing about John’s chest at the moment; the expression in his face, the way his mouth pulls at the corner when he sees the scars, means John can’t just strip off and lie there in nothing more than his dog tags.

But what he can do is put on one of those black t-shirts that he knows Rodney likes him in, making sure his tags are outside it, and finish the outfit off with BDU pants.  No socks, no underwear – nothing that might slow this down and cause Rodney to start thinking.

He arranges himself on the bed in a way that’s supposed to look sexy but casual, and finds himself snorting at the thought that he needs to put it on a plate for anyone.  It’s kind of pathetic, really, but nobody ever told his dick that dignity was more important than getting laid, and John isn’t about to start now.

His pants are looser than they used to be, but as a matter of habit he still sucks in his belly to make room for his hand as it pushes down under his waistband, so he can stroke himself.  He could undo his pants, but he’s so fucking ready to be fucked that he has the feeling he might not be able to do them up again if he does.  And he knows that this has got to be something that Rodney thinks he’s initiated.  If he senses John coming onto him, and John thinks that lying there with his pants open might just give him that message, Rodney’s going to back off and they’ll have a nice evening of slow, considerate hand-jobs and blow-jobs that won’t scratch John’s itch at all. 

John wants dirty and nasty, and doesn’t even mind fast.  He wants Rodney to push him against the wall, his cock hot and so hard where it’s pressing against John’s ass.  He wants Rodney to hold his arms above his head with one hand, and with the other unzip his pants, then start to jerk John off.  But before he gets too far, he’ll stop to pull John’s pants down, and there might be spit and there might be lube, but whatever it is Rodney does won’t take him more than a nanosecond because John needs Rodney thrusting deep inside him.

And ok, so maybe he’s even more ready for this than he thinks because he can feel moisture on his thumb as he moves it over the head of his cock.  He was supposed to be getting himself just hard enough for Rodney to notice when he comes in, not jerking himself off in the middle of his bed.  Alone. 

Reluctantly, he manages to pull his hand away.  With no further stimulation, things begin to subside slightly, and he’s ready for Rodney. 

Make that very ready, because Rodney is really taking his time in getting to John’s quarters.

He’d never really appreciated before how very boring his ceiling is.  The only thing more boring is the one and only book he has on his bedside cabinet; he reached page 47 when in med bay, which is way ahead of his schedule, so he’s saving it for emergencies.  And while this might not be fun, it’s hardly an emergency.  Yet.  Though if Rodney doesn’t get his ass in gear soon…

The thought of Rodney’s ass means his hand gets involved again.  And then he’s back to staring at the ceiling and, really, the Ancients could have made their quarters a little more exciting.  Perhaps some exotic art on the ceilings would have been a start.

 

It’s only when his eyes open that John realizes he fell asleep.  He sleeps more, these days.  From the dryness in his mouth, he’s guessing he’s been out for at least an hour, and when he looks at his watch, he finds it’s nearer to two.  And no matter how delectably splayed over his bed he was while sleeping, he wasn’t molested.  Which means Rodney still hasn’t made it back.

When John makes it off the bed and sees himself in the mirror, he realises that, actually, that might have been a good thing.  His body might have been splayed appetizingly, but he has a big red imprint on his left cheek from the pillow’s seam, and a rather alarming case of bedhead.

So if the scientist won’t come to the pilot, there’s only one thing left to do.  Once the imprint on the cheek has worn off, of course.

 

 

“McKay.”

“Hmmmn – what?  Oh, it’s you, Major.  Give me the readout on that console, will you.  And then see if it correlates to –“

“Rodney.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll look at that in a minute.  I just need – wait, what you are you doing?  You Neanderthal  - you can’t just  - oh, and that’s just wonderful, you have no idea what was on that laptop, how many hours of research.  You’ve just set my Nobel prize back by at least six months, if not years, not to mention the safety of this city and – what are you doing?”

“I’m shutting you up.”

John only lets go of Rodney’s top once they’re in the cupboard of an office off the science lab that had been all Elizabeth had seen fit to give him to work in while he was barred from missions.  It didn’t even have any windows, which he’d been pissed about at the time, but looking back realized it was probably a good call on her part, because if he’d been forced to watch as well as read the reports on some of those idiots learning to fly the puddlejumpers he’d have given himself a heart attack.  Or indigestion.

It’s not as though there’s anyone else in the lab at this time of night, but still John wants the privacy of his office because right now he doesn’t know whether he’s going to hit McKay or fuck him, and he doesn’t particularly want any of the science team walking in and finding him doing either.

Rodney’s fussing, brushing down his top where John’s grip has pulled it out of shape.

“Well, Major, I’m sure you’ll be gratified to know that you have my attention, which is, I assume, what the histrionics – not to mention the mindless destruction of my last three hours extremely valuable, probably irreplaceable, work - were about.”

John steps forward, into Rodney’s space, and Rodney’s mouth falls slightly open as he stops speaking and looks instead at the dog tags that chinked when John moved.  And then he looks back up at John, and John’s mouth is on his before he has a chance to say anything more.  His mouth opens fully beneath John’s, hot and wet, and John’s pushing him back against the desk, not caring that the jolt of their combined weight sends papers cascading to the floor, not caring about anything but feeling Rodney’s body pressed against his while his tongue fucks Rodney’s mouth.  His hands are undoing all of Rodney’s good work with the smoothing of his top, because he’s bunching it up, and pulls away from Rodney’s mouth just long enough to yank it over his head.  Then his mouth is back on Rodney’s and his hands are on the fastening to Rodney’s pants and he can’t get the fucking things undone fast enough because if he doesn’t get Rodney naked in the next two seconds, he’s not going to be responsible for his actions.

And then Rodney’s pants are open and John’s hand is on Rodney’s cock, and Rodney’s arching backwards against the table, babbling some sort of nonsense against John’s mouth, and thrusting into John’s hand.  John finally realizes the nonsense Rodney is babbling is actually quite important, because it’s about how if he doesn’t stop that right now, Rodney’s going to come.  John stops so fast he nearly gets whiplash, because there’s no way he’s going to lose out on this fuck that he’s been after for so, so long.

Rodney takes advantage of his sudden stillness and comes back at John, his tongue as forceful in John’s mouth as his hands are on his body, and he’s turning them round, pushing John up against the desk and all John can do is open his thighs to welcome Rodney’s cock, which is rubbing up against him in increasingly frantic thrusts.  Then Rodney’s hands are at John’s pants, undoing and pulling them down, and John wants to curse into Rodney’s mouth because it’s too fucking difficult to get them off and keep this frantic mouth-fucking going, but he needs, he fucking needs this, and he also needs to lose his pants.  Somehow they manage, or rather, John manages to toe off his boots and get rid of his pants, because Rodney’s no help at all - his hands are firmly on John’s ass, pulling him tighter against Rodney.  And then John’s being pushed back onto the desk, and he’s lost Rodney’s mouth, but that’s all right because Rodney’s between his legs, a finger pushing into John without hesitation.  Or lube, but there’s spit and it’s enough for now.

His head thuds back dully against the desk, and it’s then that he realizes he’s lying on top of those piles of papers, but he really doesn’t give a fuck about anything except Rodney, naked and hot between his legs, and Rodney’s cock, which, please God, he’s going to be doing something with very, very soon. 

Rodney’s saying something even while he’s still fucking John with his finger, and it takes John a while to stop panting long enough to hear.

“Lube,” Rodney says, in a tone that suggests it’s not for the first time.  “Don’t tell me you came here without lube, Major.”

And if he weren’t so desperate, John would laugh.  But he is, so he doesn’t, and instead points at his pants, abandoned on the floor.  “Left pocket,” he says.

And it’s too long but really no time at all before Rodney’s cool slick fingers are sliding into him again, and John jerks as Rodney moves them inside him.  Then John’s back arches off the desk as Rodney’s thick cock pushes into him.  Rodney’s leaning over him now, hands braced either side of John, and John can see him fighting for breath.  And in the instant before Rodney realizes, before he remembers why he shouldn’t be doing this and what’s really under the black t-shirt, John’s hand curves round the back of Rodney’s head and pulls his mouth down to his.  The kisses are wet, messy, hot, and Rodney’s moaning into his mouth, or maybe that’s him moaning into Rodney’s, as Rodney’s hips start moving, driving deep inside John.  And it doesn’t take long at all before John says “Fuck”, and comes all over Rodney and his t-shirt, and not much longer after that for Rodney’s thrusts to become shallower, more desperate, and then stop completely as he groans against John.

Rodney collapses on top of him, and John can feel his heart thundering, almost as fast as John’s is.  He can feel Rodney’s breathlessness as though it’s his own.  And then Rodney slowly straightens up and moves off John and John realizes why sex in the office – at least on the desk – is really not a good idea, because some of these papers are never going to be the same again. 

John pushes himself up off the desk and stands up.  He’s a little appalled by the wreck that Atlantis’s Military HQ seems to have been reduced to.

“See, if you hadn’t been working late, we could have done that in a bed and saved all that mess,” he says.

“And if you hadn’t dragged me away from my very important research, humanity’s knowledge would have been considerably advanced by now.” 

Rodney picks up his top from its somewhat rakish position on the back of John’s chair.

“Don’t,” John says, as Rodney wads it up in order to clean up after them.

“You don’t seriously expect me to walk back through the corridors in this state, do you?” Rodney gestures down at the mess that John left on his stomach. 

“No.”

And before Rodney can say anything more, because he does have this whole issue going about how licking is really unhygienic, though the argument usually falters after the second application of John’s tongue to his skin, John tucks his tags inside his t-shirt before he pulls it off and hands it to Rodney.

“This won’t show as much,” he says.  “Anyway, it’s already kind of messy.” 

The corner of Rodney’s mouth is doing its usual journey when confronted by John’s chest these days.  That doesn’t stop him wiping himself off with John’s t-shirt before handing it back to John.

“And can we please leave the door to the office open so it looks as though a draught from the science lab caught those papers,” John says, as he pulls his pants back on.  “It’s going to take Ford at least half a day to sort them out, and I don’t need him bitching at me about having to do the same job twice.”

“Oh please.  It’s not as though Lieutenant Ford has anything better to do.  And he does need the practice with his alphabet.”

“Hey, he can kick your ass when it comes to shooting things,” John protests.

“And that’s going to be such a very useful skill when he’s trying to work out which report is going to be first to die in a hail of bullets, isn’t it?” 

“I guess,” says John.  He’s happy for Rodney to win this one.  Because he’s still standing there without a t-shirt on, and Rodney’s mouth has gone back to normal. 

In fact, decidedly normal, because when they leave John’s cupboard HQ, he’s reminded of the destruction John wreaked by dragging him away from his research, and his mouth doesn’t stop running long enough to turn down at all.  John stands there watching Rodney, watching his arms windmill as he expresses his disgust with the intellectually bankrupt imbecile who has no understanding of the importance to humanity of what Rodney does, and he smiles. 

He likes the way Rodney gets so enthusiastic over things.  It reminds him that he’s alive.

 

End