Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG
Words: 3,142
Spoilers: None. Floater.
Warnings: at the bottom.
Summary: Psychic Zombie Killer Trees make them do it.
Categories: And yet, it's not crack!fic. Not really.
FT, cosmic mush in places. Does it count as an AU if I give Rodney a balcony?
Warnings: Author does not condone unsafe psychic zombie tree sex.

A/N: Thanks to emptybackpack, cesperanza, kisahawklin and wintercreek for the pom-pom twirls and the sweet advice. This ridiculous concept was born out of the early part of our #sga chat on irc.sff.net on Friday, January 9th, at the End of All Things. So I blame all the lovely people who attended (::frowns especially at lanning, emyrys and beadslut::) from whose sick imaginations such lovely things bloom.
Go here to find out more about joining #sga chat.


Really Close

by esteefee


"They're trees, Rodney," John said for what felt like the millionth time but was probably, oh, only six or so, "Hell, they're dead trees." And maybe his impatience was starting to show with a little growl, because Rodney shot him an irritated look and huffed himself up.

"I'm aware of that, Colonel. But do they have to be so—with the—" he waved his arms, "—and the eerie finger-branches thing going on and—there isn't any wind!" he said loudly, then lowered his voice. "So why do they keep whispering?"

John trudged on, keeping his mouth shut because otherwise he'd have to agree. The dead trees did seem to be making some awfully weird sounds. They creaked, and they rustled and whispered even though their branches were ancient and stripped bare. And there wasn't any wind, he had to give Rodney that.

Even Ronon looked a little freaked out, and that was saying a hell of a lot.

"Let's just get through them," John said tightly, and picked up the pace.

Ronon jogged from his six to say quietly, "We're not going to make it through tonight, Sheppard. Not before we lose the light."

"That's just great," John muttered, anticipating Rodney's response when he found out they'd have to make camp.

Something flickered, dancing in the corner of John's eye, and he twisted to look, but there was nothing there.

Just more trees.

:::

Rodney was still going strong when John cracked out the self-heating MREs. It wasn't a particularly good rant, focused mainly on John's hair being a sign of his lack of intelligence in leading them out here into the Dead Tree Zone instead of taking them on the longer route around the Haunted Forest to reach its southern end.

But John couldn't accept the delay. This was the first hint of rumor they'd heard on Ford in over two years, and if Ford really was alive and camping out on Gitchigumi ("Gichygune," his brain corrected him in Teyla's voice) then they'd better damn well check it out quickly before Ford moved on.

Though, John was starting to regret it a little once they'd settled into their bags and everyone had grown quiet. The whispering of the trees seemed louder, sounding almost like a language, and there was a dim haze of moonlight that made shadows flutter and sway, yet there still wasn't any wind to explain it.

John felt a nudge against his leg—Rodney was caterpillaring his sleeping bag closer to John's. John tried to ignore the unexpected warmth he felt knowing Rodney was cozying up to him for comfort. Instead, he turned his head and checked on Ronon, who was sitting with his back against a fallen trunk, keeping first watch. Teyla was on his other side, the only thing visible the moonlit shine of her hair tumbling over her pack, which she was using as a pillow.

After a while the whispering changed, grew more rhythmic, almost soothing, and John's eyes started to close. The change raised alarm bells, and should have been enough to spike some adrenaline, but for some reason he couldn't seem to shake his creeping lethargy. His jaw cracked in a yawn, and he managed to slit his eyes open enough to see Ronon's head bobbing lower and lower to his chest, and panic made it almost, but not quite, possible for John to open his mouth and form a word of warning, before he slipped into the dark.

:::

John was being dragged by his feet. The whispering had turned into a chattering that sounded almost like Ancient—he thought he could almost make out the words, and his mind buzzed with kinship and seedling and blood-bearers. He tried to raise his head to keep it from dragging, the soil digging into his scalp, but he couldn't move, couldn't see his team, or hear if they were with him, or even knew what was happening. Nothing but chittering and rustling and something that thrummed under it, like blood rushing.

With a dizzying spin he was twirled upright, his feet and calves sinking into something, and this time he managed to flail an arm, the back of his hand rasping against something that felt like bark, and he finally succeeded in opening his eyes.

He was tangled in tree branches, only they were moving creakily and wrapping around his wrists and shoulders and throat, holding him in place. He made a gargled sound and heard not words but sounds like music hushing him. But something was stirring at his feet, and he looked down to see the dirt moving, rising—only it wasn't dirt, because it crawled under his pant cuffs and up his legs—he tilted his head back to shout, scream, anything.

"Ronon," he gasped out, because he needed the big guy right now, needed him and his stunner and maybe a good flamethrower.

The dirt rose higher, hardening on the outside and turning almost instantaneously gray, the same gray of the dead limbs wrapped around him, and with horror John suddenly understood what was happening.

Fuck. Fuck-fuck-oh-God. His thoughts felt frayed, slivered by the incessant whispering, messages coaxing him to be with us, blood bearer...one of us, be one with us.

Oh Hell, no. The soil stuff was up to his waist now—he would soon be completely encased—and with an effort he dragged his wristband off and pushed it until it was trapped, embedded and sticking out from the bark that was growing up around him. He only hoped it could flag his location.

Because this was like a nightmare gone bad. Thank God the rest of the team wasn't—except he heard a rise in the chittering, and then the sound of those creaking limbs, dragging—

Shit. It was McKay, flat on his back with his arms out. He wasn't struggling, but his eyes were open and horrified.

Rodney, John wanted to cry out, but he couldn't, he couldn't speak at all; the itchy, skittering soil had reached his throat, was crawling coldly up his jaw, and finally John's panic broke hard enough to allow him to move his head, and he thrashed it wildly, trying to make enough room around his face as the walls rose up and hardened.

And then everything was black.

The whispers weren't sounds so much as thoughts, interleaving with his, brushing against his terror, urging him again to peace, to be one. Brother, they said, and John growled in his mind. He could feel his hot breath bouncing against the bark in front of him, but there was cool air as well coming from somewhere, and his fear of suffocating eased a little.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but it was long enough that he grew exhausted and was losing himself within the tangled mass of the alien thoughts. And then he heard Rodney.

Or: he didn't hear Rodney, but Rodney was there, his mind yammering in fear and outrage, screaming insults—you bark-wearing, photosynthesis-loving parasites, get out of my goddamned brain, it's mine mine and you can't have it—and he was so fucking relieved to hear Rodney's mind, to feel him like sap rising, boiling in fury, that John reached out with: Now, now. Is that any way to embrace alternative life-beings?

Sheppard! God, what the hell is this?

I think we're being assimilated, buddy. We're trees.

Oh, that's just great—like I would choose to be a cellulose-based life form. Lower than a flatworm, even.

The dry tone made John laugh, and in his head it even sounded like him, har-har-har. The sound overrode the whispering crowd, which seemed to pull back in confusion.

John felt a surge of hope, because they could maybe survive this, he and Rodney, if they just hung onto each other's minds. He communicated the thought to Rodney, who got it immediately, because he thought back, I feel like we're in a Star Trek episode. Seriously—this can't be worse than being turned into a styrofoam cuboctahedron.

As if our entire lives aren't Star Trek, McKay, John tried to drawl in his mind, and was amused to feel/hear Rodney's long-suffering sigh.

Well, you have to admit the wraith are very much like the Salt Monster. Just with a better wardrobe. After a moment, Rodney added plaintively, I don't want to be a tree, John.

John could only agree. He shivered suddenly—something was happening. The whispers were getting louder, almost angry-sounding. Oh, shit, John thought, and then it felt like his mind was being shredded with claws, hard thoughts tearing at him, whistling through and scattering everything him, everything he was, like confetti in a windstorm. He reached out desperately, holding onto a single thought—Rodney—and felt Rodney screaming back through the wind, mind-like-fingers reaching out, grasping until John had him—

John had Rodney cupped in the palm of his mind, and he felt Rodney holding him the same way.

It was perfect. Fuck, it was perfect, even better than his cosmic trip with Chaya. Rodney's mind was so smooth and clear and bright. It vibrated, swelled in John's mind. John felt a sudden shock of warm pleasure that made him lose focus; it was too much, too close, and for one terrible second the winds were back, tattering him. But then he felt Rodney winding around him with a sure touch, keeping him together until he could find his place again.

Thanks. And John didn't even have to think it at him; Rodney was already responding with a pleased flush in John's mind.

Rodney's mind/voice was soft. It's...you know...nice. Holding...I suppose I'm holding you. With the thought, Rodney conveyed a whole array of sensations and feelings, dizzying in intensity, so that John could hardly register them all. But at least one of them surprised the hell out of him, and he felt Rodney respond to his startlement by faltering and drawing back.

No, Rodney! John thought, afraid Rodney would lose his hold. It was John's turn to shape, to contain Rodney, protect him, and it was such an easy thing to do, because it was familiar. Somehow, he'd always been the one to do this for Rodney.

He wanted to keep doing it. Hold him this close. Closer, even.

John forced himself to take his certainty and expose it, letting Rodney sense it. He felt Rodney's shy pleasure, and had just begun to return it when, with a wrenching shock, they were torn apart.

John gasped in, suddenly aware of his body again, of his cramped, aching limbs, and of the sound of Ronon's fierce voice yelling, "Sheppard! Sheppard, talk to me!" Ronon was tearing through a split in the bark-shell, hacking at it while continuing to shout his name.

Swallowing against the sandpaper in his throat, John tried to respond. "Here. I'm here."

"Hey. You're alive," Ronon said, his voice booming in the hollow of the trunk.

"Yeah. Alive and—well, not-kicking. How's Rodney?"

"Teyla's getting him out. We hit the wrong tree first, because there's one on the other side of you."

And then there was a whole lot of cursing and banging, as Ronon hacked at the stubborn wood with what looked like a really sharp rock. When he finally pulled John from the trunk, John felt a cobweb of tendrils parting from his skin, like a tearing, but painless.

The webbing seemed to dry instantly into powdery silt. Ronon eased him down to his knees, and John brushed at his face and arms and scrubbed at his hair, trying to get rid of the itch. By then, Rodney was kneeling beside him, and John gave him a quick look to make sure he was all right.

Rodney's face was flushed underneath the uneven dusting of gray powder, and his hair was sticking every which way. He looked fantastic. He looked just like he'd felt, in John's mind.

John shook his head.

"Hey," Ronon said, and handed him his wrist band. "Good idea."

John took it and pulled it on, then used it to wipe at his face. "How in Christ did you figure out we were in there?"

"Yes, I'm a little interested in that myself," Rodney said acidly. John found himself reaching out to soothe him with a pat on the back. Rodney looked at him, startled, and John dropped his hand.

"It was Ronon who became certain the trees were somehow involved," Teyla said. "We radioed back to Atlanis and Dr. Zelenka found an obscure entry to an Ancient experiment related to semi-sentient trees, ah," she took a breath, "bio-engineered, he said, as guardians, and created with a hive-mind to coordinate defense. They thought to seed inhabited planets to protect them from the wraith."

"But why—but, we're not wraith!" Rodney sputtered.

"No, but Dr. Zelenka said the first trees were...brought into being using Ancients who sought ascension through this modification." Teyla's lifted eyebrow gave her opinion on that. "The trees are obviously dying. He suggested perhaps they sought to renew their numbers, and somehow detected you both have the gene. They dragged you here, and—" Teyla shrugged.

"I don't understand how they did that. They're not even alive." John was sure of that much. The trees had been completely dead, stripped and silvered with age. Dead wood.

Ronon shrugged. "Yeah, well, they still don't like fire much."

"Ronon used the explosives from some of our ammunition to throw fire bombs at them." Teyla smiled fondly. "They left us alone after that."

"Very clever, Ronon," Rodney said.

"Flamethrower would've been better," Ronon said, sounding disappointed.

"I'll get you one, Chewie. First thing, I promise." John heaved himself to his feet and then automatically put down a hand for Rodney, who took it and pulled himself up with a groan. For a long second he didn't let go, and John felt that flash of warmth again, just an echo compared to the perfection of holding Rodney's mind in his.

"Well. Ah. I guess we should. The mission."

"John, if the trees are meant as a wraith defense...Lt. Ford has the wraith enzyme in him. They would almost certainly have attacked soon after he entered the forest. If he survived, I think it unlikely he would remain here for very long."

"Great," Rodney said sarcastically, "So, this whole thing was a wild goose chase."

"No, wait—they didn't attack you, Teyla. And they must have sensed your wraith DNA," John said, because—Jesus, Ford. They were so close.

"Perhaps, but I haven't much," Teyla said, sounding a little defensive. "And I lack the necessary pheremones, according to Dr. Parrish. Apparently trees have a sense of smell."

"Star Trek. We're living in Star Trek," Rodney muttered.

John thought for a moment, then said heavily, "I guess you're right—Ford's probably long gone."

"And we have a long walk back," Ronon said. "Are you two good to go?"

Rodney nodded, but wouldn't meet John's eye; not then, and not when they were breaking camp.

John was all alone in this thoughts, all the long walk home.

:::

In Atlantis, Rodney chivvied John toward his quarters as soon as Woolsey and Keller were through with the team. Rodney was acting weirdly animated, as if the last two excruciating hours of ignoring John while giving his stilted, heavily-edited verbal report had never occurred.

Once inside Rodney's quarters, John decided to go out onto the balcony, seeking more neutral ground. The solid bar of the rail pressed against his sore back as he tried to lean casually—kind of difficult to maintain with Rodney stalking over to push within a foot of him.

"What's the problem, McKay?" John asked as dryly as he possibly could.

"Look—don't," Rodney began, then paused to blurt, "Just because we had weird, psychic zombie tree sex doesn't mean you have to—" Rodney stopped, bit his lip, and started yet again. "We have to talk about this. Establish an agreed-upon outlook on the whole affair."

"You mean we need to talk about how we're never going to talk about it?" John said, trying to be sarcastic but not quite making it; disappointment was heavy in his throat.

"No! I mean, yes, well, if that's your standpoint." Rodney's expression wavered, and John couldn't read it. Damn it, he couldn't read it, and just a couple of hours ago Rodney couldn't even think without John hearing him.

"It was...the whole thing. It's hard to believe it happened. But," John said with his stupid mouth, "it happened."

"Well, thank you for the summary, Captain Obvious."

John gritted his teeth. "No problem."

"I guess that's all there is to say. It happened."

And finally John recognized that look—recognized the leaden disappointment. "Yeah, Rodney, it happened. It was real."

Rodney frowned.

"It was real. It was...really real. The realest thing, I think—"

"Oh." Rodney's eyebrows lifted.

"—I mean that I've ever—"

They stared at each other in tense silence.

God. Rodney's eyes were so damned blue.

"John—"

"I'm not sure if anything else could come close," John said quickly. "But—" he slowed to a halt.

"But...we could try?" The corner of Rodney's mouth lifted in a tentative smile that hit John right where he lived.

"Yeah. Try."

"You want to try?"

"Yeah, well—right now?" John squeaked, suddenly panicked. What had been so damned easy during the psychic thing would probably be bumbling and awkward and totally freaking embarrassing in reality, and John wasn't up to that just yet. Not yet.

Now Rodney was looking a little exasperated, and John could dig that. He was being a dork.

"Well, there's one thing we could—to seal the deal, I mean. Right now," he offered, and Rodney started to smile, then wet his lips.

His thin, pink lips, which were open a little, waiting.

John did it. He leaned over and slipped his mouth over Rodney's, and yeah, it was awkward, and Rodney tilted too far to the left and John had to shuffle forward to keep them together, but oh, man. A warm, soft, wet kiss from Rodney was almost like—like that. Like it had been. Instinctively, John wrapped his arms around Rodney, felt Rodney do the same, his hands warm on the small of John's back, and just then everything clicked to perfection. He was holding Rodney. Rodney was holding him, and kissing him, and breathing heavily against John's cheek.

John's pulse thumped hard in his temple, in his throat, and he pulled away.

"Really close," were the first words out of John's mouth, and for a second he thought he'd have to explain, but then he saw Rodney get it. Rodney got it, got him.

It was actually a little terrifying even just thinking that, but John couldn't imagine giving up any of this, not the sweet taste of Rodney's mouth or the way his hands made grabby fists on John's hips. Or the sensation of holding him like this, knowing Rodney wanted the connection, too.

Then Rodney tilted forward, and John did the same, until their foreheads touched.

"Almost there," Rodney said.

Yeah. Almost there.


End.

Warning: Possible triggers for being trapped/immobilized. No non-con or torture.