Guy Stuff
by lamardeuse
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Possible spoilers for Season 3 of SGA.
Thanks to anna_luna for the AMAZING artwork!
Rodney knew something was wrong when he heard Sheppard laugh. He halted on his way out of the jumper bay, frozen at the unexpected – and unusual – sound.
“No way. No damn way!” Sheppard exclaimed.
“I’ve done it,” came the cool response. Usually Sheppard was the coolest one in any conversation – whether chatting with madmen, military leaders or Wraith queens, the Colonel was always the epitome of cool. But that wasn’t Sheppard’s voice.
And Rodney did not flatten himself against the wall so he could hear them talking in the hallway outside the jumper bay without being detected.
“In your dreams, maybe.” Dear Lord, Sheppard was practically giggling like a schoolgirl. “No human being could survive that maneuver, even with inertial dampeners.”
“I’ll show you.”
There was a brief silence. “Right now?” It was almost a squeak. Rodney closed his eyes in pain.
“Sure. Nobody’s trying to take over the galaxy right this minute. Let’s go.”
Rodney unstuck himself from the wall just in time to be sideswiped by Sheppard as he went flying through the door, followed right behind by a smirking Colonel Cameron Mitchell. Sheppard was like the puppy racing ahead of his master, his tongue lolling from his stupid, pretty head.
“Hey, Rodney,” Sheppard said, hands closing over Rodney’s upper arms when Rodney stumbled from the impact. “How’s it going?”
“Just ducky,” Rodney drawled, but Sheppard was already bounding away after Mitchell, his tail wagging back and forth, back…and…
“Kill me,” Rodney sighed, turning on his heel and marching off in the opposite direction.
Colonel Cameron Mitchell and the rest of SG-1 had shown up last week to play hero, and had done their typical saving-the-day-with-two-tubes- of-lipstick-and-some-duct-tape-MacGyver schtick. This morning he’d been in a briefing with Sheppard, Mitchell, Teal’c and Ronon, and the testosterone had practically oozed over the surface of the conference table. Jesus, even their resident geek, who Rodney remembered vaguely as kind of a weedy type, now sported biceps bigger than Rodney’s calves. Obviously the steroid supply in the Milky Way was in no danger of running low, not with this crew keeping the factories burning the midnight oil.
And that was not jealousy he was feeling; just because Rodney hadn’t seen Sheppard off-duty in nearly a week now that the Colonel seemed to be spending all of his free time (not that they’d had a lot of it) with his new macho buddy, that certainly wasn’t cause for Rodney to take offense. They’d done all the things that Rodney expected Air Force officers did with one another: flying too fast in F-302s, surfing on the mainland, and generally being excessively jovial together. Rodney wouldn’t be surprised if they’d exchanged locks of one another’s hair and friendship wristbands before tomorrow morning, when the team was scheduled to leave.
“Rodney, are you alive in there?”
Rodney’s head snapped up at the sound of Sam Carter’s amused question. Just as had been happening all week, it took him a moment to remember she wasn’t a hallucination; he knew it made him look like he’d taken a few too many blows to the head, but then he’d remember he had, and –
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m here. Sorry.”
Sam sat on the stool beside him and leaned one elbow on the desk, then looked into his eyes with something resembling concern. “You’ve seemed kind of distracted this week. Are you okay?”
Rodney blinked. “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.” There had been a time when being the focus of this woman’s attention would have made his decade, but now all he wanted to do was deflect her scrutiny. “You, um, you did really great this week.”
Sam smiled at him. “So did you. We worked shockingly well as a team.”
Rodney snorted. “Yeah, you never drew your sidearm on me once. I consider that a success.”
“‘Sidearm?’” Sam said, chuckling. “You’re turning into a real G.I. Joe.”
Rodney shook his head. “Hardly. I leave the hero stuff to the professionals.”
Sam sighed. “Rodney, I’m trying to compliment you and you’re not letting me. Just let me get it over with and we’ll never have to speak of it again.”
“Oh.” Rodney smiled faintly. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s a nice change.” She frowned, contemplating him. “You’ve changed.”
“The constant threat of death and dismemberment will do that to you, I suppose,” Rodney said heavily. He stared at his hands. “Seeing your friends, people you’ve worked with…” He trailed off, swallowing.
Sam’s warm hand gripped his shoulder, and he looked up. “I’m being an idiot,” he rasped. “You know all of this.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said softly. “And so does he.” She nodded encouragingly. “You should talk to him about it. Among other things.”
Rodney’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t seem to produce intelligible sounds. Finally, he managed, “I don’t – know what you mean.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Please. You’ve been looking like a boy who’s lost his puppy all week.”
Rodney’s jaw dropped.
“Really,” Sam said, patting his shoulder before letting go. “Life’s too damned short. Especially in our line of work.”
“Sorry, Rodney,” Sheppard said, over the roaring in Rodney’s ears. “I kinda forgot.”
Rodney peered through the doorway into Sheppard’s room, where Mitchell and Ronon were currently taking turns playing marauding Visigoth with a ginormous bowl of popcorn. He felt the DVD case of Pirates of the Caribbean II (he’d scored it from an old connection in the CIA, who could easily have him killed in the Pegasus Galaxy if he ever revealed his identity) burning through his sweating palm.
“It’s his last night here,” Sheppard murmured sotto voce. “And he’s got the Superbowl game…”
The DVD almost slipped from his damp fingers. “Right. Fine.”
“We can see it tomorrow night, right?”
“Sure,” Rodney said, and his voice did not just crack.
Sheppard nudged him in the arm. “Hey, you want to come in? I know you’re not big on football, but there’s all the popcorn you can eat – ” he cast a glance over his shoulder “ – uh, well, as long as you’re willing to fight for it.”
“No, really, that’s fine. You’re – having fun. You don’t want to be saddled with someone who – ” is as jealous as hell of your perfect little flyboy boyfriend, Rodney almost said aloud, and god, he was going completely insane. “Good night, Colonel.”
“Rodney,” Sheppard whined, but Rodney was already striding down the hall with his tail tucked between his legs.
When Rodney opened his door at nine on the dot the next night, he knew he’d passed Go and gone straight to hell.
Colonel Sheppard was standing there with a big, goofy grin on his face, an eyepatch covering one eye, a fake parrot – where the hell had he gotten a fake parrot? – adorning his shoulder and a plastic fork protruding from his right jacket sleeve.
“Ahoy, matey,” Sheppard said, in the worst Robert Newton impression ever, gesturing with the fork as he spoke.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Rodney breathed, grabbing him by the parrotless shoulder and hauling him forward, “get in here before someone sees you.”
Sheppard stumbled in and the doors whooshed shut behind him; his grin had faded a little, but not by much. “You were jealous,” he announced without ceremony.
“I was not!” Rodney protested, face heating, because there was a gleam in Sheppard’s good eye that looked like – no, it couldn’t be –
“Rodney,” Sheppard growled, holding up his right arm warningly, “don’t make me use the fork on you.”
“All right, all right!” Rodney blustered, figuring that admission of a little friendly jealousy was within the bounds of plausibility. “I – ”
“How much?” Sheppard demanded.
“Wh-what do you mean how much?” Rodney spluttered.
Sheppard took a step forward. “How jealous were you?”
“What, do you want me to go down to my lab right now and bang together a patented Jealous-ometer? How the hell am I supposed to measure something like that?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll rephrase the question: what kind of jealous were you?”
Rodney’s lip might have trembled. “Wh-wh-what kinds are there?”
The Colonel took another step forward, and Rodney took a step backward. “Well, it’s pretty simple, actually: there’s the friendship kind, and then there’s the other kind.”
Rodney pointed at him. “Friendship! Definitely the friendship – no doubt about it.”
Sheppard stopped dead. “Definitely?”
“Yes!” It was so much easier to say now that he didn’t have to worry about lying – well, much. “I can admit it: I was jealous of the time you spent with Colonel Mitchell, doing – ” he waved a hand “ – guy stuff.”
Sheppard stifled a laugh. “‘Guy stuff,’ Rodney?”
“Yes, you know, all the mano a mano activities you Air Force jock types are always engaging in: flying, running, shooting things,” Rodney explained, earning him an eyeroll. “Seriously,” he added, “I’m not very good at guy stuff; I never have been. Well, except for hockey, but I think if you don’t like hockey they revoke your citizenship, and, um, anyway, if that’s what you’re looking for in a friend, I – ” And that was as much as he got out before Sheppard dropped the fork, took a step forward, leaned in and kissed him.
Oh. Oh, that was – that was really good. Really, really good, with Sheppard’s full lips caressing his own, taking small, gentle sips as though the Colonel was unsure of his welcome. Rodney hated the thought that Sheppard would be unsure about anything – a split second’s worth of unsure in this galaxy was enough to kill you – so he wrapped his hand around the back of Sheppard’s neck (oh, soft hair, he’d always hoped it would be soft) and began a slow, teasing stroke designed to drive him out of his mind.
It worked; Sheppard broke off and leaned his head back into Rodney’s touch and groaned. “I’d – I’d say you’re pretty damned good at guy stuff,” he panted, Adam’s apple bobbing.
And suddenly Rodney’s blood ran cold. “Did you do this with him?” he murmured.
John’s head snapped up and he stared at Rodney incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Did you?”
“Jesus, Rodney,” John breathed. “You’re kind of dense sometimes, you know that? First of all, Cam is straight – ”
“Oh please,” Rodney sneered. “You’d turn Jerry Falwell gay. I never looked at another man before I…” He trailed off when John lifted the eyepatch in order to stare at him better. “Never mind.”
John paused for a moment, then said, “And number two: I don’t want him. Never did.”
Rodney folded his arms at that, but John merely pried them apart again and wrapped them around his own waist. He pressed closer, and Rodney could feel – against his thigh, Rodney could feel John’s – god, that was just all kinds of hot. “Then who?” he croaked.
With a noise that sounded like pure frustration, John pulled Rodney into his arms and outlined Rodney’s mouth slowly with the tip of his tongue.
“I’ll give you one guess, laddie,” John drawled, grinding his hips against Rodney’s, “and then ye’ll have to walk the plank.”
“Oh my god,” Rodney breathed into John’s open, panting mouth, “yes please.”
The parrot, thank god, was long gone, buried under a heap of hastily discarded clothes, but John insisted on wearing the eyepatch even after Rodney had stripped him of everything else, retrieved his lonely tube of lube from his bedside table, and stuck a warm, slick finger up John’s ass. As John sighed and groaned and wiggled said ass against the pillows they’d heaped under it, Rodney looked down at John and watched him grin up at him with his thousand-watt smile and his ridiculous not-costume and figured he was about the luckiest guy in two galaxies right about now.
Slowly, carefully, he set up a rhythm to his stroking, earning him more undignified moans and writhing, and eventually a chant of “fuck me, fuck me,” that had Rodney grabbing for his cock long before they were close to finishing. “I don’t – I don’t have any – ” he stammered.
“Pants pocket,” John grunted, and Rodney scrambled off the bed and rummaged through the pile of clothes, trying not to smear too much lube on Sheppard’s uniform, and hallelujah, we had liftoff. Rolling a condom onto his cock always made it a little easier on him; he was between sizes, he guessed. Whatever the reason, it cooled him off sufficiently to try burying himself in John instead of spilling on the sheets like a sixteen-year-old the way he’d been planning to a minute ago. Climbing back on the bed, he slicked himself up quickly and braced John’s legs on his shoulders before pushing in.
John bit his own lip as Rodney edged deeper, a stifled shout gusting from him suddenly.
Rodney stroked John’s calf anxiously. “You okay? Did I – ”
John let go of his lip. “No,” he gasped. “Just – been a while.” He pushed up on his elbows.
“What are you – ” John writhed experimentally beneath him, stomach muscles pulling taut, then –
“Ohhhh,” John said, and Rodney’s dick swelled at what was possibly the sexiest sound he’d ever heard from a human throat. That sound was sex, distilled into the vibration of a few billion air molecules. Hips jerking helplessly, Rodney felt himself slide a couple of inches further, and John groaned again.
After that, the main activity for Rodney was finding ways to make John produce that sound, because yeah, that really worked well for both of them, and then John hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down far enough to kiss that groan into his mouth, and that was it, thank you very much and good night.
Afterward, as they lay together in a tangle of limbs, drying sweat and eyepatch, Rodney murmured, “So, does this mean I have to call you Long John Silver in bed from now on?”
John punched him weakly on the shoulder. “Nah, I like variety. Thought we could try out the naughty French maid routine tomorrow night. I have these crotchless panties – ”
Rodney chuckled and pulled Sheppard into his arms; John went without protest, draping himself over Rodney’s chest like he’d been doing it for years. “Where the hell did you get that parrot, anyway?”
John lifted his head. “I cannot reveal my sources. You’ll never make me talk, copper.”
Rodney tightened his arms around John’s body and closed his eyes. “We’ll try that one next week.”
End
July 2006
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