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.fic: The Planarian - McKay/Sheppard PG
Eh. Now or never, though I'd kind of prefer never.
Title: The Planarian
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warning: PGish, oddness, abuse of biological science
Disclaimer: SGA belongs to SciFi&co. If it belonged to me, well... I wouldn't be here.
Advertisements: cliché!fic; clueless!Rodney, and forceful!Sheppard. Set sometime during S1, probably pre-"Duet" (though there are no specific references to canon events).
Challenge stuff: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 #7 (Cliché). Because it is.
Notes: First time with the Sheppard/McKayness, though I'm sure this particular approach has been taken a zillion times before, both in and out of this fandom. (Hence the preemptive cliché designation.) Infinite gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
verstehen, stillane, and dancink for advice and putting up with myself and Sheppard.
THE PLANARIAN
“Nice night, hot tits.”
“Huh?”
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine. Great night. Whatever.” Rodney McKay glances briefly upward before turning back to the control panel, leaving Sheppard with the distinct impression that he hadn’t actually seen the sky in any meaningful sense. “Could you hand me that?” A blind, flailing gesture at the toolkit, and Rodney could really be pointing at anything – a screwdriver, the water bottle, John’s shoelace.
“Sure thing.” John pulls a random something from the toolkit and hands it over.
Rodney doesn’t even look at it before handing it back. “Not that, the other that. The blue thing.”
“Oh, the blue thing.” John replaces the wrong that and hands Rodney what he supposes is the right one. Rodney does look at it this time, grunting in something that falls between surprise and approval and John rolls his eyes.
A steady series of beeps begins to sound from the control panel cradled in Rodney’s arms, and John tries not to interrupt him; it is sort of delicate work Rodney’s doing, after all, some problem with power flow in this pylon that only Rodney can fix. So, in the interest of not blowing up the city, John settles for leaning against the railing and staring at the top of Rodney’s head.
And it really is a nice night, with a breeze out of the northeast and a clear sky, and you have to give it to the Atlantians – they really knew how to pick a planet.
“So,” Rodney says, out of nowhere, “why are you out here, exactly?”
“There’s nothing else to do, and I’m bored.”
This is true. He’s got the night off but has, for reasons that still escape him, has traded his TV hours with Beckett. Something about how Carson really wanted to watch a rugby tape that one of the science techs brought with him, and allowing him to do so won’t make John’s next physical any more painful than it has to be. He’s lent out War and Peace, which he still hasn’t finished, Teyla’s off on the mainland doing... whatever it is that Teyla does on the mainland, and everyone else is on duty.
This leaves John’s other favorite recreational activity, which is flirting with and/or annoying Rodney. Very often he engages in both activities at the same time.
Not that he tells Rodney that part. Instead, he explains about Carson and his rugby, and when Rodney nods absently John realizes that he’s drifted off again. John gets the impression that, in these sorts of circumstances, he could say pretty much anything – so I saw Elizabeth with her clothes off earlier, and in fact did you know that she’s declared every Friday Naked Day and if you report for duty with your clothes on you’ll be summarily executed – and Rodney will hmmm and nod in agreement like he always does when he’s not paying attention.
Like he does whenever John flirts with him, and really, that annoys John just thinking about it, because no one – no one – who’s as smart as Rodney is can be (or should be allowed to be) this oblivious to a large-scale assault of barely-veiled innuendos, and outright lustful stares. He’s spent goddamn months trying to find a way through the McKay defensive system, and he’s been thwarted every time. It’s like... like...
Like Rodney’s asexual, like one of those worm things. Planarians.
John has vague memories of looking at one in his high school biology class, the droning nasal voice of his teacher explaining about how planarians were asexual – all of the guys had snickered (he said sex) and the girls had rolled their eyes (morons) – and that, if you cut one down the middle the planarian would become two planarians. And, if you cut those planarians in half, you would have four planarians, and so on.
Rodney is sort of like that planarian.
Not that if you cut him down the middle he’ll become two Rodney McKays – because, let’s face it, that would be gross and disgusting – but that he is, most times (when it comes to John, that is), deeply and frustratingly asexually oblivious.
It also doesn’t help that Rodney has a boyfriend already, and his name is ZPM.
The third frustrating thing in John’s rapidly-growing list is that he knows Rodney has to have hormones somewhere. Because he’s seen him date and flirt... or try to, anyway, which has provided John and others with hours of entertainment. Or else maybe there’s so much science crammed into Rodney’s skull that it’s atrophied the hormone-producing regions of his brain. Maybe Carson could test for that.
As it is, John is not about to reconcile himself to running a distant second to some fancy ancient power generator. Or wait around to see if anyone else is going to be able to do what he can’t.
“You can stop staring at me now; I’m done. Atlantis is safe for another day.”
“I wasn’t staring,” John says, even though he’s been staring for the past ten minutes, and Rodney, who now seems puzzled and vaguely irritated, has apparently been watching him stare.
Rodney looks at him for a second before hauling himself to his feet. John’s not sure, exactly, what to make of the expression on Rodney’s face – the shadows are too weird, and it looks like Rodney’s trying to work something out for himself and (uncharacteristically for Rodney) isn’t quite able to do it.
“Yes, you were,” Rodney says after a moment, “and you’re still staring.”
“I told you I wasn’t, and I’m not.”
“You were, and you are.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
John scowls. Rodney glares back, the muley expression he gets whenever someone is trying to make him do something he doesn’t want to do, and this is way too much like ‘immovable object meets unstoppable force’ for John’s liking. So he stalks up to Rodney, being very careful to keep staring and be obvious about it, gets in Rodney’s space enough to make him back up – almost tripping over the toolkit, which would be hilarious under other circumstances – back and back and back until the pylon wall brings him up short.
Rodney glances back over his shoulder, like he’s surprised that there’s a wall there. And when he looks back John’s closer, close enough now to be able to see irritation and puzzlement flashing across his face, the beginnings of a McKay-esque rant starting when Rodney opens his mouth.
He’ll pretend, for the sake of expediency, that Rodney’s about to say “Just kiss me, you idiot” and decides to save him the trouble.
Rodney’s mouth is soft with surprise, a huff that was probably “What the hell – ?” choked off and smothered against John’s lips. There are hands on John’s shoulders, his neck, his face, like Rodney has no idea what to do with them and can’t decide whether he wants to shove John off or make him keep going. John likes the second option better and makes an approving sound low in his throat when Rodney stops futzing around and goes with it – which Rodney never ever does and this has to mean something – hands sliding low around John’s torso to pull him closer.
And Rodney now... well, he’s a lot less planarian-like, finally finally finally catching on and getting into the spirit of things, and is that tongue? By God it is, and Rodney’s not exactly confident but more than willing to try, and John’s always been one for positive reinforcement.
Has to break for air eventually or risk brain damage, even though Rodney could stand to lose few million brain cells. And Rodney’s face is... well, wow is one way to put it, astonished and completely at a loss, mouth slack and moist and... well, wow.
“That was sort of nice, wasn’t it?” John asks, grinning because he can’t help himself and because it really seems to piss Rodney off. Besides, it was sort of nice.
“You’re still staring,” Rodney says accusingly.
“So?”
“Stop doing it.”
“Make me.”
And Rodney, to John’s surprise and infinite delight, pulls him back in and makes him do just that.
-end-
Post-fic stuff: Two fics for the price of one... This isn't my "usual" type of fic--I'm more into the "does the angst make your eyes bleed?" school of writing. So a more representative sample of my style is something like The Ensign Theory, which is mostly McKay but with Sheppard, too, and there can be slash, if you squint.
ETA: Stupid 9 key keeps coming off. Must... not... use... parentheses!
Title: The Planarian
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warning: PGish, oddness, abuse of biological science
Disclaimer: SGA belongs to SciFi&co. If it belonged to me, well... I wouldn't be here.
Advertisements: cliché!fic; clueless!Rodney, and forceful!Sheppard. Set sometime during S1, probably pre-"Duet" (though there are no specific references to canon events).
Challenge stuff: written for
wordclaim50 #7 (Cliché). Because it is.Notes: First time with the Sheppard/McKayness, though I'm sure this particular approach has been taken a zillion times before, both in and out of this fandom. (Hence the preemptive cliché designation.) Infinite gratitude to
verstehen, stillane, and dancink for advice and putting up with myself and Sheppard.THE PLANARIAN
“Nice night, hot tits.”
“Huh?”
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine. Great night. Whatever.” Rodney McKay glances briefly upward before turning back to the control panel, leaving Sheppard with the distinct impression that he hadn’t actually seen the sky in any meaningful sense. “Could you hand me that?” A blind, flailing gesture at the toolkit, and Rodney could really be pointing at anything – a screwdriver, the water bottle, John’s shoelace.
“Sure thing.” John pulls a random something from the toolkit and hands it over.
Rodney doesn’t even look at it before handing it back. “Not that, the other that. The blue thing.”
“Oh, the blue thing.” John replaces the wrong that and hands Rodney what he supposes is the right one. Rodney does look at it this time, grunting in something that falls between surprise and approval and John rolls his eyes.
A steady series of beeps begins to sound from the control panel cradled in Rodney’s arms, and John tries not to interrupt him; it is sort of delicate work Rodney’s doing, after all, some problem with power flow in this pylon that only Rodney can fix. So, in the interest of not blowing up the city, John settles for leaning against the railing and staring at the top of Rodney’s head.
And it really is a nice night, with a breeze out of the northeast and a clear sky, and you have to give it to the Atlantians – they really knew how to pick a planet.
“So,” Rodney says, out of nowhere, “why are you out here, exactly?”
“There’s nothing else to do, and I’m bored.”
This is true. He’s got the night off but has, for reasons that still escape him, has traded his TV hours with Beckett. Something about how Carson really wanted to watch a rugby tape that one of the science techs brought with him, and allowing him to do so won’t make John’s next physical any more painful than it has to be. He’s lent out War and Peace, which he still hasn’t finished, Teyla’s off on the mainland doing... whatever it is that Teyla does on the mainland, and everyone else is on duty.
This leaves John’s other favorite recreational activity, which is flirting with and/or annoying Rodney. Very often he engages in both activities at the same time.
Not that he tells Rodney that part. Instead, he explains about Carson and his rugby, and when Rodney nods absently John realizes that he’s drifted off again. John gets the impression that, in these sorts of circumstances, he could say pretty much anything – so I saw Elizabeth with her clothes off earlier, and in fact did you know that she’s declared every Friday Naked Day and if you report for duty with your clothes on you’ll be summarily executed – and Rodney will hmmm and nod in agreement like he always does when he’s not paying attention.
Like he does whenever John flirts with him, and really, that annoys John just thinking about it, because no one – no one – who’s as smart as Rodney is can be (or should be allowed to be) this oblivious to a large-scale assault of barely-veiled innuendos, and outright lustful stares. He’s spent goddamn months trying to find a way through the McKay defensive system, and he’s been thwarted every time. It’s like... like...
Like Rodney’s asexual, like one of those worm things. Planarians.
John has vague memories of looking at one in his high school biology class, the droning nasal voice of his teacher explaining about how planarians were asexual – all of the guys had snickered (he said sex) and the girls had rolled their eyes (morons) – and that, if you cut one down the middle the planarian would become two planarians. And, if you cut those planarians in half, you would have four planarians, and so on.
Rodney is sort of like that planarian.
Not that if you cut him down the middle he’ll become two Rodney McKays – because, let’s face it, that would be gross and disgusting – but that he is, most times (when it comes to John, that is), deeply and frustratingly asexually oblivious.
It also doesn’t help that Rodney has a boyfriend already, and his name is ZPM.
The third frustrating thing in John’s rapidly-growing list is that he knows Rodney has to have hormones somewhere. Because he’s seen him date and flirt... or try to, anyway, which has provided John and others with hours of entertainment. Or else maybe there’s so much science crammed into Rodney’s skull that it’s atrophied the hormone-producing regions of his brain. Maybe Carson could test for that.
As it is, John is not about to reconcile himself to running a distant second to some fancy ancient power generator. Or wait around to see if anyone else is going to be able to do what he can’t.
“You can stop staring at me now; I’m done. Atlantis is safe for another day.”
“I wasn’t staring,” John says, even though he’s been staring for the past ten minutes, and Rodney, who now seems puzzled and vaguely irritated, has apparently been watching him stare.
Rodney looks at him for a second before hauling himself to his feet. John’s not sure, exactly, what to make of the expression on Rodney’s face – the shadows are too weird, and it looks like Rodney’s trying to work something out for himself and (uncharacteristically for Rodney) isn’t quite able to do it.
“Yes, you were,” Rodney says after a moment, “and you’re still staring.”
“I told you I wasn’t, and I’m not.”
“You were, and you are.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
John scowls. Rodney glares back, the muley expression he gets whenever someone is trying to make him do something he doesn’t want to do, and this is way too much like ‘immovable object meets unstoppable force’ for John’s liking. So he stalks up to Rodney, being very careful to keep staring and be obvious about it, gets in Rodney’s space enough to make him back up – almost tripping over the toolkit, which would be hilarious under other circumstances – back and back and back until the pylon wall brings him up short.
Rodney glances back over his shoulder, like he’s surprised that there’s a wall there. And when he looks back John’s closer, close enough now to be able to see irritation and puzzlement flashing across his face, the beginnings of a McKay-esque rant starting when Rodney opens his mouth.
He’ll pretend, for the sake of expediency, that Rodney’s about to say “Just kiss me, you idiot” and decides to save him the trouble.
Rodney’s mouth is soft with surprise, a huff that was probably “What the hell – ?” choked off and smothered against John’s lips. There are hands on John’s shoulders, his neck, his face, like Rodney has no idea what to do with them and can’t decide whether he wants to shove John off or make him keep going. John likes the second option better and makes an approving sound low in his throat when Rodney stops futzing around and goes with it – which Rodney never ever does and this has to mean something – hands sliding low around John’s torso to pull him closer.
And Rodney now... well, he’s a lot less planarian-like, finally finally finally catching on and getting into the spirit of things, and is that tongue? By God it is, and Rodney’s not exactly confident but more than willing to try, and John’s always been one for positive reinforcement.
Has to break for air eventually or risk brain damage, even though Rodney could stand to lose few million brain cells. And Rodney’s face is... well, wow is one way to put it, astonished and completely at a loss, mouth slack and moist and... well, wow.
“That was sort of nice, wasn’t it?” John asks, grinning because he can’t help himself and because it really seems to piss Rodney off. Besides, it was sort of nice.
“You’re still staring,” Rodney says accusingly.
“So?”
“Stop doing it.”
“Make me.”
And Rodney, to John’s surprise and infinite delight, pulls him back in and makes him do just that.
-end-
Post-fic stuff: Two fics for the price of one... This isn't my "usual" type of fic--I'm more into the "does the angst make your eyes bleed?" school of writing. So a more representative sample of my style is something like The Ensign Theory, which is mostly McKay but with Sheppard, too, and there can be slash, if you squint.
ETA: Stupid 9 key keeps coming off. Must... not... use... parentheses!