Reciprocity
by lamardeuse
Overall series rating: NC-17
Set before and after SGA 2x09, "Aurora".
There was no other way to look at it. John was trying to torture him.
It had been three weeks since John had made what Rodney privately called The Declaration, and since then—absolutely nothing. Well, all right, so John had spent two of those weeks in the medlab, and the rest of the time he’d been running around trying to get back up to speed in his role of military commander of Atlantis. But still, Rodney had kind of been hoping that John would show up one night and they’d spend some quality time together, time which would possibly involve more Declarations and some truly spectacular blow jobs.
When Teyla invited the team to the mainland for a bit of R&R before they went back on active duty, Rodney’s hopes shot into orbit again. For the first time in weeks there would be no Caldwell, no military hierarchy breathing down their necks, and a short hiatus, at least, from the burden of responsibility. There could be laughter and celebration and blow jobs and possibly some cuddling, not that Rodney really needed that sort of thing, but he’d been missing his cat lately, and—oh, hell, he just really missed regular sex in general. And sex with John in particular.
But instead of dragging Rodney off into the woods for said activity, John had spent the whole morning actually socializing with people. Fine, so they hadn’t seen Halling in a while, was that any reason to spend hours with the man? And Jinto was as eager as a puppy, tagging after Sheppard constantly, nipping at his heels. It was revolting, though since he was a child Rodney supposed it was no surprise he’d make a fool of himself like that.
“And you, Doctor McKay,” Halling was saying to him, “you have been well?”
It took Rodney a moment to respond; he was a little distracted by John’s laughter at something Jinto had said to Ronon. John’s laugh was halfway between the bark of a slow, rusty machine gun and the leering snicker of a dirty old man, and Rodney hardly ever got a chance to hear it.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Rodney answered, “considering the excessive exposure to solar radiation and being trussed up by murderous thugs and sharing psychic space with—” he shuddered expressively “—G.I. Jane.”
Halling nodded sagely as if this all made perfect sense to him, which pissed Rodney off no end. “Well,” Rodney said, clapping his hands together briskly, “as much fun as this has been, I just remembered that I need to see Colonel Sheppard about a—an important matter of…ah, importance.”
Halling smiled indulgently. “Of course, Doctor. I’m sure you have many pressing matters to attend to.”
Oh yes, Rodney thought smugly, smiling right back at him, there will definitely be pressing. Also, if I’m lucky, rubbing and fondling and coming. He turned and walked toward John with a decided spring in his step. Enough of this playing around. When a man told you he loved you, the influence of massive amounts of drugs aside, there was generally an expectation that sex would follow at some point, hopefully while he was still young enough to enjoy it.
John, Jinto and Ronon were discussing something animatedly, and Sheppard was waving his arms with gusto and miming something that looked disturbingly like physical activity. As he drew closer, he saw that someone had drawn shapes in the dirt at their feet, though he couldn’t make out what they were supposed to represent.
With a final flap of his hands, John turned, ran into the jumper and emerged—with a soccer ball. As Rodney watched, horrified, John then proceeded to bounce it off the side of Ronon’s massive skull. The giant turned slowly toward Sheppard and regarded him the way a lion might a mosquito.
Well, the sex thing had been a good idea, Rodney mused. Too bad John was about to die.
“Oh, geez,” he heard John sigh. “Here, Jinto, you throw it up in the air toward me, okay?” He passed the ball to Jinto, who eyed him dubiously. “Aim high.”
Jinto obeyed, and John leapt into the air as gracefully as a gazelle and performed an effortless header, sending the ball flying.
“Whoa!” Jinto exclaimed. He paused for a moment, watching the arc of the ball, then tore off after it.
Sheppard grinned at Ronon briefly before his gaze swung to Rodney. “Hey, you want to join in?”
“What,” Rodney grated, “are you doing?”
John shrugged. “I figured football would take too long to explain.”
Rodney looked down at the markings in the dirt, which he could now tell clearly depicted a soccer field and the starting positions of the players.
He looked at John. John looked back at him, his expression three parts serenity and one part mischief.
“You’re—” Rodney spluttered. “You—”
John raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. Fine,” Rodney spat, all hopes of woodsy sex bouncing off Sheppard’s skull and soaring away, “I’d like nothing better.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Soccer, by coincidence, was the one sport Rodney had played in high school. Of course, he’d taken it up solely to impress a blond, athletic girl who had been (unwillingly) partnered with him in his Grade 12 Physics class. The fact that he’d been two years younger than her and galaxies beyond her intellectually had not endeared him to her, and so he’d hared off with the enthusiasm of the never-laid on a quest to prove himself worthy. After a brief study of the available options, he’d settled on goaltending on the soccer team as his most promising option, since success was heavily dependent on the calculations of angles and velocities. It had the added benefit of not requiring a great deal of running and yet still being cool enough to win the heart of fair, well-muscled maidens.
Funnily enough, he’d actually turned out to be a fair goalie, thanks to determination, dedication and Jeannie, who’d been only too happy to spend hour upon hour after school kicking balls at him in the back yard. He never did get the girl, but he did get his first hand job in the showers after the intramural finals from the extremely talented and nimble right midfielder. To a young man who’d always considered jocks as a race to be shunned and feared, this opened up a whole new world of fantasy possibilities.
Unfortunately, the pace of university study—at least the pace of Rodney’s university study—hadn’t allowed him the luxury of pursuing his newfound hobby, and he’d retreated back into weedy, pale-skinned geekdom. But now, on this hot day on an alien planet, Rodney was magically transported back to the age of fifteen, feeling the exhilaration of youth, the nearly forgotten sensation of having a body that did exactly what you told it to do. The nostalgia was fed by the sight of Sheppard sailing the length of the field, the ball obeying the subtle commands of his feet, gray shirt dark with sweat and hair made even more schizophrenic by wind and soccer balls and activity. He was wild and beautiful and dazzlingly alive and if Rodney were a praying man he would pray that John stay like this forever, suspended in this perfect summer afternoon that flowed around them like liquid amber.
Sheppard skidded to a stop before one of the teenaged Athosians on the opposing team, then made a swift flick pass to Jinto, who was in the clear on his right. Jinto ran with it until he was confronted with opposition, then kicked it back to John with a touch too much force. John lunged to meet the centering pass, reaching it just in time. It rolled up almost to his bare knees before falling to earth again, and then he drew back with his right foot and snapped it forward, sending the ball into the air with a perfect chip shot—
—that flew right past Rodney’s daydreaming head and between the two poles defining the goal.
The Athosians were a polite bunch, but that didn’t stop a soft, collective groan from rising from the throats of Rodney’s team and its supporters. Teyla, Rodney’s captain, gave him what could only be called the fish eye.
What? Rodney wanted to yell. It threw me when he was so hot.
John came bounding up to him, tongue practically lolling out of his sweat-streaked, grubby face, and Rodney resisted the urge to throw him to the ground and rut against him shamelessly and messily.
“Reflexes a little off?” he drawled.
Rodney raised his chin in lieu of an answer, not because he had nothing to say but because I have to fuck you now was beneath even his shabby dignity.
“Well, cheer up,” John said, patting him on the arm in a display of testosterone-fueled camaraderie, “you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
Rodney opened his mouth to snap that if he didn’t have the hang of intense sexual frustration by now, he hoped he never would, but John was already trotting back down the field toward his rejoicing teammates.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Rodney’s evening wasn’t shaping up to have any more sex in it than his afternoon had, but at least by now he was too full to care. The Athosians believed in large feasts, and the vegetables that were rubbery and pallid when prepared by the Atlantis cooks were culinary perfection when roasted over huge open fires on the beach. Rodney didn’t even mind the lack of butter in his not-quite corn, though he could have done without the half hour he spent picking the kernels out of his teeth.
He sat back with the others, jacket spread under him to repel the worst of the sand, as the sun slowly sank toward the wide horizon. John and a gaggle of the Athosian children were waist-deep in the water, silhouetted against the reddening light. Continuing with the day’s sports theme, he was now teaching them to surf with the board he’d had brought back on the Daedalus’ last run.
As Rodney watched, John demonstrated the technique for mounting the ridiculously tiny board, which didn’t look big enough for Jinto, let alone a full-grown man. But within moments he was rising from a crouch to harness an unsuspecting wave. Unfortunately for Sheppard, he only made it a couple of dozen feet before he lost control and toppled into the surf. The children paddled and leapt through the water to reach him, and soon they were all engaged in a laughing, screaming splashing match. John took off down the beach with the board under one arm and the children pounding after him, a Beach Boy Pied Piper if ever there was such a thing.
There were times when the paradox that was John Sheppard walked up to him and slapped him silly. This was one of those times. Really, what the hell was he doing with this glorious mess of a human being? And perhaps more importantly, what the hell was John doing with him?
And really, why did he give a damn as long as it kept on happening?
“He has a way with children.”
Pried from his own tangled thoughts, Rodney turned to look at Teyla, who had perched beside him on the beach while he was focused on John. Assuming a more detached expression than whatever soppy sentiment was probably plastered to his face now, Rodney snorted. “They’re naturally attracted to beings like themselves. Immature. Hormonal. Fascinated by shiny objects.”
Teyla merely looked at him with that inscrutable, too-sharp gaze, and Rodney turned back toward the water. The irony was that the Athosian kids were a perfect match for Sheppard, because they were children in name only, their innocence shattered by horrors no one should have to experience. Far too often, he looked into John’s eyes and saw an old, weary man; one of his greatest pleasures, he now knew, was to find ways to make those eyes light up with adolescent delight.
“I am glad to see him well again,” Teyla sighed, smiling.
Rodney’s heart lurched, and just like that he was back outside the medlab, listening to Elizabeth telling them the world was ending. “Yeah,” he managed, and Christ, suddenly his throat felt tight and he was blinking back tears. “Yeah, it’s uh, it’s—” Good. It’s so damned good I’m about to break down like a crazy person, thank you for that.
“Rodney,” Teyla said gently. “There is no one to fear here.”
“I, um,” Rodney said, blindsided and hating it, because he had promised himself he wouldn’t, “I, I know but I, uh, I can’t.” He scrubbed viciously at his face with one hand, and Teyla seemed to pick up on the hint, because she rested a hand on his shoulder briefly before rising silently and leaving him to his thoughts and his contemplation of John’s exuberant flight along the shoreline, pursued by a relentless, friendly horde.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
Rodney jerked like a landed fish, adrenaline flooding his body as he tried to establish where the hell he was. The sound of the ocean he now associated with home was subtly different, accompanied by a soft, rhythmic shusshhhhing sound. He blinked up into darkness that resolved itself into glittering starlight.
“Relax.” John’s voice, coming from above and just to his left. “You fell asleep on the beach.”
Rodney pushed himself up on his elbows, grunting when his back protested the sudden movement. The dark shape stretched out beside him appeared to be the only other human presence on the beach. “Oh,” he said, lamely. “What time is it?”
“Late,” John answered dryly.
That didn’t answer the question of how long John had been sitting there watching over Rodney, but he let that go. “You should have woken me up sooner.”
“You were so peaceful and quiet. I was enjoying the contrast.”
“You’re hilarious,” Rodney snapped, reaching back to brush the sand out of his hair.
“Hey,” John said again, one hand sliding over Rodney’s. “What’s wrong?”
Rodney sucked in a breath as his irritation blew away on the soft night breeze. “You know what? Nothing,” he said softly, wonder spreading through him. “For once, nothing is wrong.” Looking up, he was just able to distinguish the outline of John’s features and the glint of his eyes in the starlight. He paused for a split second to consider whether those eyes were old, young or a combination of both, then decided it didn’t matter. John’s mouth met his with the eagerness of youth and the ease of experience and familiarity, and paradoxes, Rodney concluded, could be a very good thing.
John pushed him back into the sand, one hand still supporting his head while the other roamed over his body with definite intent, and Rodney thought, Jesus, I’m Deborah Kerr. And really, when he thought about it, he didn’t particularly care if he was Annette Funicello, as long as John kept kissing him and touching him and God, to think he might’ve had to live without this. John kissed him and he kissed John until John made a low noise and shifted to lie practically on top of him, and Rodney’s back should have been screaming at its mistreatment but apparently it wanted Rodney to get laid as much as Rodney did because there wasn’t so much as a twinge—
Then suddenly the warm weight of John’s body was gone, and Rodney was blinking up at the stars again, bewildered and bereft. “Sorry, I, uh, wasn’t thinking there,” John admitted, his own voice rough. “This isn’t the best place for that.”
Rodney’s dick protested that this was, in fact, the perfect place. “I think all the Athosians are snug in their beds, dreaming of sugarplums,” Rodney said, pleased he was still able to form complete sentences. “Anyone out this late deserves whatever they get.”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking more of the sand,” John added.
“Which under normal circumstances I agree would probably be a deal-breaker, but at this point I don’t care if the entire Sahara Desert finds its way up my—”
“Rodney,” John said, voice firm and low. “I mean—” John ran a hand through his own hair this time “—I’m trying to say…it’s not a good time.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, nodding and trying to make it sound like he understood, when really he had no idea what the hell was going on, only that it probably had something to do with him.
“It’s not you,” John said quickly.
“Right. Of course. Fine,” Rodney murmured, aware he sounded like a petulant five-year-old whose mother had refused to buy him an overpriced chocolate bar in the supermarket checkout line.
John sighed and rolled to his feet, then hovered over Rodney until he stood too. They fell into step naturally as they plodded up the beach toward the village.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Six days later Rodney was staring up at the low ceiling of his quarters aboard the Daedalus, quarters that were approximately one third the size of his undergraduate dorm room, which was shorthand for "barely visible to the naked eye." He was tired and cranky and pissed off and frustrated and horny and pissed off and vaguely sad and far too reflective for his own taste. Unfortunately, with the mission wrapped—without success, though he supposed the destruction of two Wraith cruisers was a form of consolation prize—there wasn’t a whole lot left for him to do but gaze at the ceiling and contemplate Life with a great big L.
Life, he swiftly concluded, Sucked with a great big S. He might as well just close his eyes and sleep the remaining fourteen hours it would take to return to Atlantis. In fact, maybe he could convince Elizabeth to put him in stasis for a couple of weeks; he could construct a virtual environment with a population of one and spend the time sleeping, jerking off, watching the Monty Python movies back to back and eating his body weight in junk food. He’d emerge well-rested and he wouldn’t gain an ounce.
He was mapping out the base algorithm in his head when he heard a soft knock at the door. “Yes?” he snapped.
“Open the door, Rodney.”
“Open it yourself,” Rodney answered. “It’s not locked.”
The door opened and John walked in—and stopped when he nearly ran into Rodney’s bunk. “Whoa. How’d you get one of these cabins?”
Rodney scowled. “They told me this was all that was available. Why? Is yours bigger?”
John made one of his trademark faces. “So how’re you doing?” he asked after a moment.
“Peachy,” Rodney muttered. “You?” Before John could answer, he waved a hand. “Oh, never mind. I forgot, you’re always cool, aren’t you?”
John’s eyes glittered. “Yeah. That’s me. Great work, genius.” He turned toward the door.
Suddenly leaping over the line from pissed off to livid, Rodney swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and stood, a move that put him within about six inches of John’s taut body.
“I never would have pegged you for a coward,” he bit out.
The words weren’t even completely out of his mouth before Rodney realized that had been a spectacularly stupid thing to say. But when John turned back slowly, his face for once was registering—Jesus, everything, and Rodney felt his knees go weak.
“Well, you win again,” John said, voice ragged, “because I’ve been feeling like a fucking coward lately.”
The words hit Rodney like a stunner blast. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean, don’t listen to me, I’m—”
John shook his head. “I’m not listening to you, I’m listening to me. I know it’s stupid, and I keep telling myself it’s gone, but—” he sucked in a breath “—at night I can still feel it inside me.”
“God, John—”
“I’m just starting to get back in control of my own body, Rodney. I can’t—give that up yet.”
Rodney gaped. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand whether John was likening sex with Rodney to alien mutation, but then in a startling burst of insight, it occurred to him that it was a valid comparison. Though what had happened to him wasn’t a rape, John had still been invaded, his free will and his consent stripped from him by an external force. When you considered it from that perspective, it wasn’t surprising that he wasn’t eager to be with anyone but himself for a while.
Rodney wasn’t used to thinking of John as a victim; in fact, up until this moment he wouldn’t have believed it possible that he would ever be one. And he was willing to bet the man standing in front of him had felt the same way until a few weeks ago.
“I, uh. I understand. Well,” Rodney added with a nervous roll of his hand, “I suppose that sound facetious, because I can’t really understand, because nothing like that has happened to me, unless you count Cadman which wasn’t the same thing at all, but I meant it in the sympathetic—”
“Rodney,” John interrupted gently, “‘I understand’ is just fine. Thanks.”
Rodney couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he merely stood and smiled at John in what he hoped was a reassuring and supportive manner. John’s gaze dropped, lashes shuttering his eyes, and Rodney’s hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his hands still. John probably didn’t want to be touched, but then again, what if he did and he took Rodney’s not-touching the wrong way? Was the risk of touching him outweighed by the risk of not touching him?
God, he was absolutely terrible at this.
Then John’s gaze rose again, his expression speculative. “Look, would you mind if I—tried something?”
Heart suddenly pounding, Rodney shook his head jerkily.
John hesitated for another moment before leaning forward slowly and touching his lips to Rodney’s. As though inviting a wounded and skittish animal into his living room, Rodney stood motionless, allowing John to take the lead at the pace that suited him. He didn’t respond to the kiss until John pressed more insistently against him, didn’t open his mouth until John nudged his lips apart with his tongue, and only used his own to meet John’s more aggressive forays. When John finally pulled back, Rodney was shuddering with the need to touch him, but he was now sure that would be the worst thing he could do.
“Yeah,” John murmured, as though Rodney had just said something worthy of agreement. “That’s it.” He kissed Rodney again briefly before reaching for the hem of his shirt. Obedient for once, Rodney lifted his arms over his head, wincing when his knuckles grazed the ceiling. John made no move to remove his own clothes, and since Rodney received no encouragement to help him he took part instead in his own slow disrobing. Long minutes later Rodney was completely naked and John, still fully clothed, was trailing graceful fingertips over the landscape of Rodney’s quivering body.
“You cold?” John asked as he palmed the curve of Rodney’s ass.
Rodney shook his head again. “N—no.” He felt more exposed than he’d been in his entire life, which was ridiculous considering he’d spent far too many occasions pinned down by hostile fire or running for his life, and considering this was John—
Right. Yes. This was John. John, who had the unerring ability to pry beneath his admittedly abrasive surface until he saw…
…well, to be honest, Rodney still wasn’t sure exactly what John saw in him. Brilliance was sometimes a potent aphrodisiac, but in his experience it had always had a pathetically short shelf life. Usually it lasted until sometime around the middle of breakfast, when the other person realized Rodney was a conceited prick. At least that seemed to be the most popular epithet.
John seemed to sense the change in his mood, because he eased away. “Sorry. This isn’t such a hot idea, is it?”
Rodney shook his head, then realized that was the wrong response. “No. I mean, it’s fine.” Daring greatly, he reached up and touched John’s mouth, caressed his stubble-shadowed cheek with a thumb. “I mean…whatever you need,” he murmured. “All right? Whatever you need.” His heart leapt as it occurred to him that he didn’t have a clue what he’d just agreed to, but: this was John.
John studied him for a long moment, then burst into a supernova grin, a reward that Rodney felt over every inch of his skin. Talk about Pavlovian, he thought wryly, right before John pushed him back to lie on the bed.
He closed his eyes as John began a gradual, devastating inventory of his body, starting with the insides of his elbows, of all things. Rodney gasped and bit his lips to silence himself. Intellectually, he knew that John needed to give him this but it was killing him to just lie there and not reciprocate, because John struck him as someone who wanted far too little for himself at the best of times. Rodney knew he would never teach him to be greedy, but he had hoped John was on his way to demanding his fair share.
John, however, didn’t seem to have any complaints, for he bent to the one-sided worship of Rodney’s body as though he’d never wanted anything more. He nuzzled the hollow of Rodney’s collarbone and tongued his nipples until Rodney thought he would come just from that, then moved lower to plant suckling kisses down the middle of his chest. Long, nimble fingers glided over his thighs, creating swirling currents and eddies of sensation that placed a plea for mercy on the tip of Rodney’s tongue.
When John leaned up to kiss him, he must have tasted Rodney’s desperation, because without any further ado he skimmed a hand over Rodney’s stomach and wrapped firm, knowing fingers around Rodney’s cock. Rodney did cry out then, a small, broken sound that John swallowed down with a bruising kiss.
You’re killing me, Rodney wanted to say, but it was actually the opposite that was true: John was bringing him to life, breathing heat and air and energy into Rodney’s cells, taking away fear and loneliness and that vague discontent he’d carried around with him ever since he realized he was smarter than practically everyone else on the planet. He didn’t know what he would be if John managed to completely eradicate those ingredients of his psyche; perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, then, that John was in his own way as fucked up as Rodney, and kept advancing and retreating in a shuffling emotional two-step, because if Rodney had a steady diet of this he’d be normal in no time, and then where would he be?
That was his last coherent thought before John began fisting Rodney’s cock with a perfect, ruthless stroke, and after five seconds of that Rodney was helpless beneath John’s hand and John’s tongue and John’s indecently soft lips, and within a minute he was breathing John’s name into his mouth and spilling messily over his own belly and thighs.
John sighed against Rodney’s mouth with a deep sound of satisfaction, then slid his fingers through the wetness striping Rodney’s skin. “Thank you,” he said solemnly, and Rodney couldn’t help laughing, which was damned hard to do when you were hyperventilating.
“Anytime,” he giggled, one hand flopping spastically, the endorphin rush making his arms and legs feel like they were made of cooked spaghetti. “Really, no thanks necessary.”
John rolled his eyes and sat up. Before he could escape, Rodney pushed himself up on his elbows and touched John on the arm, careful not to restrain him in any way.
“Look,” Rodney murmured, “I’m no good at this. But you knew that already, and if I haven’t managed to send you packing by now, I figure—” He trailed off, blinking. “You know, I don’t think I’ve truly figured that out.”
John stared at him for a moment, then sat back down on the edge of the mattress. The hand that had held him rose to brush against his lips, and Rodney suppressed a shiver.
“Maybe,” John said slowly, “you’re a lot better at this than you think, Mr. Science.” And while Rodney was still sitting stunned and shaken from that, John gave him one last kiss and left.
And then Rodney smiled, lay back down and slept for the next thirteen and a half hours. He dreamed of John, hands on his hips, standing in the middle of a sunny summer afternoon, the undisputed owner of a small, perfect portion of space and time.
End
September 2005
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