Title: Interpersonal Dynamics
Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R+
Wordcount: 5,292
Spoilers: None. Floats in S3
Categories: FT, humor
Summary: Because Rodney is a super-genius of the almost infinitely rare [as in, one instance in millions] variety, and because he is aware of the workings of the universe to a level that would make most theoretical physicists curl up and suck on their blankies, it comes as something of a surprise to him to discover he has missed something completely obvious.

(icon by dana-cz)


Interpersonal Dynamics

by esteefee


Because Rodney is a super-genius of the almost infinitely rare [as in, one instance in millions] variety, and because he is aware of the workings of the universe to a level that would make most theoretical physicists curl up and suck on their blankies, it comes as something of a surprise to him to discover he has missed something completely obvious.

Although, come to think of it, he shouldn't be surprised, or even troubled by this lapse in awareness, considering it involves human interaction [not even a soft science] and interpersonal dynamics, as well as a certain Lieutenant Colonel who is the very opposite of a "discrete breather" in that he is neither spatially localized [even the man's hair is all over the place] nor predictable, periodic, nor, least of all, stable.

Which is why Sheppard gets shot, again—for God's sake, didn't the military at least teach the man to duck [

"Duck next time?" Sheppard says. "That's your advice? In case you missed it, McKay, I was surrounded. And ducking implies there is actually something to duck behind. Which—there wasn't."

"Shut up and hold still, Colonel. You're bleeding all over me."

], or at least provide him with sufficient training to identify a scenario that was incipiently explosive enough to prescribe a retreat before it was necessary for Sheppard to decide on a plan that involved drawing enemy fire while Ronon and Teyla dragged Rodney back to the jumper so he could fix the damned thing and get them all out of there?

Honestly.

So, given the instability of the variable in question, it really isn't surprising after all that it's taken Rodney almost three years to realize he pays a little too much attention to Sheppard, that he's a little too aware of where Sheppard is located in the space around him, and that he definitely notices the absence when he isn't.

However, once Rodney starts thinking about it [shortly after Sheppard is wounded, he develops an infection because it takes far too long for Rodney to fix the jumper so they can get back to civilization and sterile conditions and antibiotics.

And so Sheppard is, for a brief time, delirious and flush-faced and entirely too tousled, mumbling about penguins for some reason while Rodney hunkers by his infirmary bed and offers him ice chips.

At some point, Sheppard opens his fever-puffy eyes while Rodney is putting an ice chip on his pink tongue, and he just looks so...grateful, really, that Rodney pats him comfortingly on the arm and gets a queer, lumpy feeling in his stomach when Sheppard tries to smile back and rasps, "Thanks, R'dny. You're th'best."

], Rodney decides this anomaly in his own personality needs exploring before things spiral out of control and there is more than arm-patting and the occasional staring at Sheppard's curvy mouth to be accounted for.

So, Rodney begins with his usual method of analyzing the data at hand. And because Rodney himself hasn't changed, he posits the anomaly is caused by something peculiar in the subject of his attention—to whit, one Lieutenant Colonel with a penchant for wearing black, and hair that can only be described as purely rambunctious.

The hair is a good place to start. Rodney has noticed in the past that it can serve almost as a weather warning for Sheppard's moods. In the mornings during senior staff meeting it can be quite tame, a mere quirk of cowlicks, and not the fully excited, shivering glory that it becomes when they are being chased by villagers with blow-darts, or when Sheppard is flying the puddlejumper [Gateship, really, to be technical] far too recklessly. When trapped in the infirmary, it flattens almost entirely except for the one, stubborn tuft that lies closest to the pillow.

Hair like that is really almost an affront to the follicly-challenged. Which should easily explain Rodney's interest. He's offended. That is all.

Similarly, the Colonel's long, rangy body, obviously not stunted by long hours stooped in front of two laptops and three external monitors, is equally fascinating for its differences. First of all, there's the way it ripples under black T-shirts and lounges casually against lab tables. And, no matter how many hillsides Sheppard manages to tumble down, or bullet and/or knife wounds he acquires in the line of idiotic duty, his body still seems to move with the same liquid ease, as if every joint [especially the hips. God, the hips] are constructed on well-oiled hinges.

It's ridiculous. The Colonel is, frankly, an absurd spectacle of a man, not for the least reason he appears to think exhibiting even a modicum of his intelligence [and there is something of a serviceable brain hiding under that thatch of boisterous hair] would be a challenge to his native "cool."

Sheppard is, obviously, trying to pass. As a non-geek.

As a card-carrying member of the geek brigade himself, Rodney finds it a little offensive he should even try.

So, it's hardly surprising that Rodney, a man of [many] letters, who suffers from an unjust thickening of the waist and an early thinning of his hair, should be somewhat fascinated by this bony, slinky, smirking collection of contradictions.

It's obviously all Sheppard's fault.

:::

"Are you going to eat that?"

A stupid question, really, since Sheppard never finishes what's on his tray. [In fact, Rodney notes for his data set that the foods Sheppard always seems to have to spare align almost exactly with Rodney's favorites. Coincidental?]

"Be my guest," Sheppard says, leaning back. He rests his hand on his stomach and rubs a little, apparently absently [or not.]

The planet they gate to after breakfast is frozen over, a wasteland of snow not unlike the Northwest Territories of Canada.

"Terrific, we've arrived on Ice Planet Zero," Rodney gripes, and notes Sheppard's revealing snort. Obviously he is a fan of the classic Battlestar Galactica [and with a flash of insight, Rodney realizes Sheppard must think he's some sort of incarnation of Captain Apollo—he of the dark hair and the confusing eye-color and the constant slouching, which had led to Rodney becoming somewhat fascinated with the character in his youth, resulting in no small amount of teasing from his pest of a younger sister, Jeannie.

"Rodney loooves Apollo, Rodney loooves Apollo," six year-old Jeannie would chant, and he'd stutter out a denial that Apollo was simply the most intelligent of the ensemble and thus more of interest.]

The Ice Planet has at least one thing going for it—the tantalizing energy readings Rodney is picking up from the glacial promontory a kilometer to the north.

"You think they have a pulsar gun?" Sheppard says, cementing his geek-hood. His hair, could it be seen under his cap, would be, Rodney is sure, positively perking with interest, as it always does at the mere mention of powerful weaponry [another data point.]

"I don't know, Colonel. Why don't we find out?"

Ronon, looking miserable in far too many layers of leather and fur, leads the way toward the promontory. It's a stiff climb, but every time Rodney starts to slip down the icy incline, Sheppard's hand is there to grab Rodney's all-weather expedition jacket and hold him in place.

They find the entrance to what is obviously an Ancient facility of some kind. Sheppard's magical gene makes the door panel glow under the snow, and when he scrapes it clean and touches it, the doors slide open and a waft of ten thousand year-old air hits them in the face.

"Gack," Sheppard says, staggering back and coughing.

Inside, the temperature of the facility is blissfully above freezing, and they all strip some outer layers in the entryway before Teyla says, sounding a little crankier than usual, "Is there something in particular we should be looking for, Rodney?"

"Well, for one thing, I'd like to know what power source is driving the lights. And the heat—it's already getting warmer, and we've only been here a few minutes."

"Are you thinking ZPM?" There's excitement under Sheppard's lazy drawl.

"I'm always thinking ZedPM, Colonel. Let's start searching for the main console, too. I need to find out what this facility is for."

It's just typical that, after years of searching, it's Ronon, not Rodney, who finds the ZedPM. It's at least three quarters full of charge, and is glowing like the most beautiful thing in two universes.

"Oh, my God," Rodney says reverently, "Come to daddy." [If he were a lesser man, he'd have a hard-on right now.]

Sheppard's face goes strange for a moment before he shuts his jaw and makes an exceedingly off-color joke. Ronon laughs, a deep burst of sound, and Teyla joins him.

When Rodney can tear his petting hands away from the ZedPM, he digs directly into the console. The news is even better than he'd hoped.

"It's a terraforming station," he relates to the team.

Sheppard cocks his head, his hair asking the question for him.

"Yes, yes, I know—Ice Planet, not very habitable. But it looks like they'd just begun their research when they had to stop to focus their resources on the Wraith. However, there are..." Rodney pauses dramatically, "two more stations on this planet. Two. That means—"

"Three ZPMs. Three in total." It's enough to make even Sheppard lose his studied cool, because he suddenly sounds breathless and young.

Rodney beams. "You are correct, sir."

"So, let's go get 'em," says Ronon, ever the romantic.

:::

When Atlantis radios them, they give the news to Colonel Carter. It takes them two days to travel to the distant points on the planet where the other stations are located. Thankfully, since the planet is completely uninhabited, there aren't the usual ethical dilemmas about removing the ZedPMs.

Also, there's a distinct lack of violence perpetrated on any of their persons.

In the northern facility, they discover sleeping quarters. Rodney figures out how to crank up the heat so they don't have to sack out in the jumper, and Ronon volunteers for first watch.

"As if we need it," Rodney mutters. "Does he think we're going to be attacked by a Yeti?"

"He's just going on the odds," Sheppard says, stacking a couple of the thin, foam-like mattresses on the floor and then unrolling his sleeping bag on top. It looks like a sound plan, so Rodney follows suit.

"Do you remember 'In Search of...' The one about the Yeti?"

Sheppard gives him a wry look. "You were that much of a Trekkie that you had to watch Nimoy on some stupid show about crop circles and pyramids?"

"No. I don't know what you're talking about. And excuse me, but the proper term is 'Trekker.'"

Sheppard har-hars his disgusting laugh until Teyla tells them both to shut-up [in a perfectly nice way.]

"See," Rodney hisses, "Now you got us in trouble."

Sheppard's smile is funny—he's obviously trying to pull it down out of sight, but Rodney's noticed in the past that Sheppard's muscles must be weaker in one cheek, because he's only successful in a completely lopsided way [which is, well, charming, Rodney has to admit against his will. It's another sign of Sheppard's dastardly hypnotic abilities, and Rodney makes a firm promise to himself to research methods for evading mind-control techniques.]

"I wonder, though—" Sheppard says, resting his cheek on his forearm and looking at Rodney with sleepy eyes, "You know—what Nimoy would say if he knew about Atlantis. Because it's pretty much every nutcase origin theory and ancient, unsolvable mystery all wrapped up in one crazy package."

It's in that second—when Sheppard is pretty much admitting by implication that he was as bad a Trekker as Rodney was—that Rodney realizes [data complete: conclusion inevitable] he is utterly, tragically and ridiculously in the throes of the worst ever crush he's had in his life.

And it's on his best friend.

Sheppard falls asleep right after that, and Rodney spends the long hours freaking out, his eyes locked on Sheppard's lean profile in the dim blue light.

:::

When they get back, Rodney immediately immerses himself in the control room to begin bringing systems to life that have lain dormant for ten thousand years. Sheppard is nothing more than a voice on the radio as Rodney directs him to one remote location or other to wield his ATA touch.

And then there's data—tons of data coming from too many sources. From deep ocean scanners, from the drone manufacturing plant [when Rodney relays the news of their first ever successful creation of a drone, Sheppard makes a sound that can only be described as orgasmic. Rodney is forced to duck into the bathroom and splash cold water on his wrists.] And, best of all—after mining some ore on P2K-892, they should be able to start making new puddlejumpers [Rodney is merciful and lets Sheppard learn about this new development through his daily report rather than over the radio. The man might embarrass himself.]

After ten days of living on MREs, PowerBars, and little to no sleep, Rodney drags himself out of the labs and into the mess hall for team dinner.

He hasn't seen any of them for days. It feels weird walking in to find them huddled at their favorite table, the circle closed around the gap where Rodney usually sits. For a second he's afraid they'll all simply look up and give him blank faces when he stops at their table.

Stupid, really. Teyla immediately greets him with a warm smile, Ronon grunts something that might be hey, McKay, and Sheppard stares at him for a second before his eyes crinkle an almost-smile.

"Saved you a brownie," he says.

Rodney puts down his tray and notices on Sheppard's there's only one brownie, untouched, which means Sheppard is lying, because usually he snags at least two—one for himself, and one extra for Rodney.

It means Sheppard wasn't expecting him. That makes sense since Rodney hasn't been to dinner for a week, at least. But it's like Sheppard has given up on him, which gives Rodney a cold feeling [data does not want to compute] and makes him snap, "What, only one?"

Sheppard gives him a wary look, and Teyla says, too gently, "It is good to see you again, Rodney. We know you have been very busy—" Her eyes flicker to Sheppard and Ronon before resting on Rodney again. "—but you have been missed."

Odd, but it occurs to Rodney that until Teyla said that, no one has ever claimed to miss him before. Not really. Needed him for this or that; wished he'd been around to fix something, yes, but never really missed, per se [unless you count his freshman year in college, when twelve year-old Jeannie had run away from home and taken a bus, all alone, to visit him at the dorm, saying, "You left me all alone with them, Mer. No fair."]

"Well, it's nice—that is, I'm glad to be here," Rodney says far too heartily, and everyone looks away politely.

But when he sneaks a look at Sheppard, Rodney notices his hair is looking distinctly depressed.

:::

After dinner, instead of going to the lab and diving headlong back into the data, Rodney decides to take a nap. At least, that's what he tells himself he needs, but he ends up pacing in his quarters and thinking very hard about being missed, and the way Sheppard's eyes had drooped in the corners, and how Sheppard hadn't returned his last email crowing about the sauna room they can now open up on Three East because isn't having surplus power a beautiful, beautiful thing?

Actually, Sheppard hasn't replied to any of his recent emails. He'd just assumed that meant Sheppard was as busy as he was, but now he isn't so sure. It's almost like Sheppard is mad or something, or avoiding him, which really isn't allowed.

If anyone is going to avoid anybody, it's going to be Rodney doing the avoiding.

An off-hand comment by Teyla the next day gives Rodney the perfect set-up and, determined to gather data for this new puzzle, Rodney radios Sheppard and requests his presence on Three East right after the end of his workout.

"I'm busy, Rodney," Sheppard says, almost whining [point: Sheppard never whines about physical labor, only emotional], and Rodney firms his voice.

"Now, if you please. I won't take much of your time."

This, if things go as he hopes [he's allowed to hope, regardless incomplete data], is a lie. Rodney grabs a stack of towels from his bathroom and heads over to the transporter.

He puts the towels on a bench inside the sauna room and then stands in the corridor in case Sheppard needs direction. He has to wait a while; Sheppard is obviously taking his sweet time [another tick in the avoidance column], but it gives Rodney an opportunity to calm his zinging nerves. He tries meditative breaths, he tries his relaxation mantra—I'm good enough, I'm smarter than everyone, and I don't give a damn if people like me—and then finally falls back on trying to solve Frankl's union-closed sets conjecture, an old favorite, and the trembling in his stomach eases.

When Sheppard finally exits the transporter he flicks his head in the wrong direction first, and then spots Rodney, and even from a distance Rodney can see a sudden stiffening of his spine when he realizes he's being observed [interesting] and the involuntary smile when he identifies Rodney [even more interesting] that disappears as he approaches.

"Mind telling me what this is about?" Sheppard says in more of a growl than usual. He's still sweaty from his workout, and is dressed in a tight T-shirt and track pants.

"In here," Rodney says. Now that the moment is almost upon him, he feels as calm as he ever is under crisis; which is—outwardly jittering but inwardly clean and focused.

The room is dark, but, as usual, as soon as Sheppard steps in, the walls and control console light up like it's Christmas in Who-ville.

Rodney locks the door behind them.

"What is this place?" Sheppard says. The room contains a series of lounging chairs and benches, and the control console sticks out from one wall, but otherwise the room is empty. The walls are pure white, and the floor is soft and gives under Rodney's feet.

"Didn't you get my email? It's a sauna and steam-room," Rodney says lightly. He steps over to the console and gestures Sheppard over.

"You brought me over here to turn on a steam room?" Sheppard says in disbelief.

"Well, of course I realize not everything is as exciting as creating new weapons for your arsenal or flying machines to shoot them out of, but some people believe in the necessity of relaxation between life-threatening forays into this absurdly dangerous, comic-book galaxy." Rodney snaps it all out in one breath and then lifts his chin challengingly.

Sheppard shakes his head, but gives a little laugh and pushes Rodney away from the console to take his place. "All right, all right. Let's see what we've got here." He puts his hands down and closes his eyes for a second. The glow deepens under his palms, and a small screen pops up, detailing various options in Ancient. Sheppard doesn't bother looking—apparently, the reason he's never bothered learning Ancient is his intuitive grasp of equipment functions has made labels unnecessary. [It's one of many annoying things about the man.]

A hissing sound begins, and soon steam is entering the room, the lights shifting into a torrid purple glow. Low music starts playing, cheesy and rhythmic, and Sheppard snorts.

"Wacka-wacka," he says.

And that's Rodney's cue, he realizes. "Can you turn off that horrible music?"

Sheppard closes his eyes and the music stops.

"Good." Rodney turns and strides over to the pile of towels he laid on a bench earlier. With his back turned to Sheppard, he methodically unzips the collar of his shirt and strips it off.

"What—what the hell are you doing, McKay?" Sheppard sounds strangled.

"What does it look like? I remind you I've had a busy, busy two weeks. I'm going to unwind." Rodney turns his head and catches Sheppard eyeing him, his mouth open. "You want in?"

"I, uh—"

Rodney shrugs as if he doesn't care and kicks off his shoes. Then he unfastens his pants and starts pushing them down.

He's always been told he has an excellent ass [worthy of sonnets, perhaps, if that hadn't required dating someone in the Liberal Arts.] As he drops his pants and bends over to pick up his towel, he wonders if Sheppard's swift inhale doesn't indicate his involuntary agreement.

For the first time in a long, long time, Rodney feels...attractive [sexy]. Still, he doesn't want to spook Sheppard, so he wraps the towel around his waist before turning.

Sheppard is decidedly not looking at him, and instead starts fiddling with the controls again. Another long hiss of steam escapes from the vents.

"Is this hot enough, you think?" Sheppard's indomitable hair has not yet succumbed to the damp heat, but his face is gleaming and flushed.

"Plenty. You'd better—" Rodney waves his hand at Sheppard's torso, "—before you develop apoplexy."

Sheppard walks over to the pile of towels, but hesitates, his back tense.

"Shy, Colonel?"

Stripping his T-shirt in a jagged movement, Sheppard throws over his shoulder, "I practically grew up in a barracks, McKay. So, no." The skin of his back is darker than Rodney expected, and his ass, as he pushes out of his track pants, is smooth and strikingly pale.

It's Rodney's turn to look away, because Sheppard's ass is neither as scrawny as it appears in his baggy uniform, nor hairy, as Rodney had secretly feared.

No, it's perfect.

There's another whoosh of steam, and suddenly it really is harder to see, the heat soaking Rodney's bones and the skin on his face, chest and back. He walks over to the bench catty corner to the one Sheppard sits on, and rests against the surprisingly comfortable padding. It's not slick or sticky, but almost soft under his skin, and absorbs the trickle of sweat running down his back.

"God," Sheppard says, his voice low and pleasure-dazed. "This is—this was a pretty damned good idea, Rodney."

"Glad you agree," Rodney says, relaxing further. Sweat is pouring off him now, mixing with the steam, and his muscles are turning rubbery. He turns his head and finds Sheppard's half-lidded eyes on him.

Sheppard, oddly, doesn't look away.

Since Sheppard is staring, Rodney gives his own eyes license to roam over Sheppard's chest and the way it glistens in the strange light. He notices Sheppard's shoulders seem both narrower and more muscular, more defined, without the heavy tack vest weighing them down. His biceps are—

"You're checking me out," Sheppard says, his voice wondering and still lazy, almost as if he were discussing something abstract [not attached to them], and it keeps Rodney from panicking.

"So are you," Rodney says, "You're...looking at me." He's starting to wonder if there are mood-altering drugs contained in the steam, because he's never felt or sounded this relaxed, and Sheppard looks as if he's positively melting—all his usual tension and protectiveness dissolving in the damp heat.

"So what else is new?" Sheppard says with a hint of self-deprecation.

[Data complete.]

"You idiot," Rodney says happily. "You utter and complete dope."

"Back atcha," Sheppard says, but he sounds a little uncertain, and his eyes flick away momentarily.

Rodney can't let that stand. Won't. Not if Sheppard [Rodney knew it, he knew it but he didn't know it because it was impossible] wants him. Has been looking. Has been, perhaps, compiling his own list of blame, and hating himself a little, because even though it appears almost anything is possible in the Pegasus Galaxy, certainly it could not extend to this—

—to the way John Sheppard is looking at him now, and swiping his tongue against his upper lip to catch the bead of sweat there, and maybe thinking about kissing [and licking and fucking] Rodney's mouth.

"Jesus," John says, and Rodney realizes he's already sliding over to John's bench, his towel trapped under his thigh and coming loose as he gets close enough to [John is moving to] kiss him. Kiss John, lick the moan from his lips, awkwardly trap John's tongue between his teeth and then suck it into his own mouth.

Rodney tastes the salt of John's sweat and feels John gripping his shoulder as if he has to hold on. But Rodney isn't going anywhere he isn't taking John with him. He wraps his hand around the small of John's back and pulls him down to the soft, giving floor. John's towel is rough against his cock, and Rodney lifts his hips long enough to yank it off so he can feel [sliding, slick, hot, wet] John's cock trapped against his own.

"Good. So...so...Christ, Rodney," John moans. He grabs Rodney's ass with both hands and then they click like the best kind of machined device, a subtle shift as they fit together, cock against hip, slipping and sliding, the rough hair on John's groin making Rodney make whimpering sounds of gratitude.

But it's not enough, not enough, and before Rodney knows it he's rutting against John with all the finesse of a teenager, and John isn't doing much better—he's got his feet planted on the floor and is thrusting up wildly, grunting like a crazy man. His sounds [God. Please. Want to—want] hum directly through Rodney cock, and he gasps, "John," and goes over, his cock jerking come all over John's sweat-slicked belly.

John gives him a feral smile and pushes up on a tilt to roll Rodney over until he's trapped underneath. And then John thrusts up and down until he gasps a kiss against Rodney's throat and starts to come.

Rodney pulls back to watch it take John's face—sees his eyes rolling back and his lashes fluttering, his mouth open [beautiful. He's so—] Stretching up, Rodney presses his mouth against John's just as he jerks a final time and groans low in the back of his throat.

[Rodney hadn't thought, but if he had, he would have imagined it like this.]

John is still kissing him, weakly but persistently, and Rodney just lets him, because if the psychotropic steam hadn't done him in, it would be the tender way John's lips move over his as if speaking fragile words.

After a while the heat and John's weight make Rodney feel a little suffocated, so he gives a gentle push and John slides off to puddle beside him on the floor.

For the very first time in his life, Rodney isn't tempted to say anything at all. He would have expected John to be at least as laconic as when being tortured by unfriendlies, but John says quietly, "I never thought you'd go for it."

Rodney rolls on his side. John is staring up at the ceiling, and Rodney studies his profile. He remembers memorizing John's face in the dim blue light and telling himself a hundred times this was impossible.

"Me neither," he says. "I am brilliant, after all, and statistical probability and the ridiculous exigencies of human attraction would clearly indicate the pure impossibility of..."

"Of?"

"Us. That is—we, two, being—" Rodney waves between them, "—like this. Or, at least, of you being—"

"Rodney."

"Of me being Rodney? Clearly not."

"Don't do that. Don't—Jesus." John rolls to face him. "You punched my card for me, is that it?"

"What? Whatever are you talking about?" It's suddenly difficult to speak, because John has put his hand over Rodney's and is rubbing his wrist softly, coaxingly.

"It's a personality test, a punch card they use in the service. To decide what assignments you're suited for."

Rodney starts to smile.

"I'm guessing," John clears his throat, "you decided 'a, c, b, a, a, e' and that meant 'not a chance.' But, boy, you got that wrong—"

"Is that what you used?" Rodney can feel his smile absolutely, stubbornly continuing to spread across his face.

John takes his hand back. "Maybe."

"And I was rated 'not a chance' based on what criteria?"

Plopping back, John responds, ticking off his fingers. "Likes 'em smart, blonde, and petite. Not to mention female. Likes it when he can steal my fry-things, or when I stop by the lab, but never comes to my office or my quarters just because. Likes it when I make things light up, but never seems to...doesn't—"

Rodney jabs an elbow, but there's no response. His turn, then. "Entirely too...too good-looking. Too 'cool.' Has a thing for priestesses. Can easily pass as a non-geek." Rodney swallows hard. "Can't ask, can't tell."

"One for five. Pretty pathetic."

For a second Rodney is a little angry, because John must certainly realize he is, at the very least, a spectacularly good-looking guy. The kind of guy who makes women want to throw their panties and hotel keys on stage.

Except, considering John's list, maybe he doesn't know it, or thinks it's not important.

And it isn't, really, so Rodney is a fool.

"I never come by your office because you only have that one little visitor chair, the one you made sure was uncomfortable so Lorne would cut his reports short."

"Oh."

"And your quarters are right by Ronon's, and about a fifty marines, and, anyway, you're hardly ever there, because you're usually in my lab."

John is quiet a moment, then says, "And that didn't clue you in?"

"No, because that is simply where I work."

"And you think I save extra cake for just anyone?"

"I am a highly powered individual and the sugar and chocolate help me perform to the peak of my abilities."

John seems to relax. "I'm looking forward to verifying that. In fact, I think I'll keep a chart on your 'peaks.'"

"Oh, my God. That is the stupidest come-on I've ever—"

"Shut up or I won't."

"Shutting up."

Rodney doesn't turn his head, but he can feel John smiling next to him.

:::

Over the next few weeks, Rodney does further analysis in a much more gratifying field of study—how best to make John make come helplessly, and in novel ways [

"Oh. Oh, ohhh, McKay—" John's hands scrabble at the sheets.

"Don't call me that in bed," Rodney says in a way that some might consider 'prim' but he prefers to call 'clipped.' He moves his fingers lazily.

"Okay. What-whatever you want, just keep—God. GOD."

"Or, you can call me that."

], and very, very hard.

John, in a petty attempt at reprisal, does keep an actual, physical chart taped to the wall, only cryptically labeled, but which Rodney understands maps, on an x and y axis, the volume of Rodney's ejaculations versus their length in time [in seconds.] Rodney has to assume this because John always scrambles off the bed, while Rodney is still panting and limp, to use a pencil to plot the next coordinate.

It's really very annoying, especially since John's data is meaninglessly subjective. But Rodney isn't stupid enough to complain, because he's also learned a few more things about their dynamic, not the least of which is, the less Rodney bitches about sex, the more they have.

[Besides, it's obvious, from the current, excited state of John's hair, that he's really, really happy these days.

So, Rodney is, too.]



End.


ETA A/N: I'm an idiot for neglecting to mention, as I had intended, that Shep's delirious muttering about penguins is a reference to Douglas Adams' The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, in which Kate Schechter is in the hospital after being knocked out by Thor's lightning (my favorite paragraph of the book):

It was a couple of days before Kate Schechter became aware of any of these things, or indeed of anything at all in the outside world.

She passed the time quietly in a world of her own in which she was surrounded as far as the eye could see with old cabin trunks full of past memories in which she rummaged with great curiosity, and sometimes bewilderment. Or, at least, about a tenth of the cabin trunks were full of vivid, and often painful or uncomfortable memories of her past life; the other nine-tenths were full of penguins, which surprised her. Insofar as she recognised at all that she was dreaming, she realised that she must be exploring her own subconscious mind. She had heard it said that humans are supposed only to use about a tenth of their brains, and that no one was very clear what the other nine-tenths were for, but she had certainly never heard it suggested that they were used for storing penguins.