Crack!Fic: Hounds of Lurve
Sep. 17th, 2005 08:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneToday is my last day at work! So, to celebrate:
Title: Hounds of Lurve
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Vague Season 2
Summary: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle meets Kate Bush meets cracked-out 19th Century pastiche. Or: “Colonel, is there a reason you’re humping my leg?”
Hounds of Lurve
Recommended listening: Hounds of Love - The Futureheads
When they first told him about it, he laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was just too much, on top of everything else: the waistcoats, the cravats; the men with their funny little mustaches and their even funnier ginormous sideburns; the women with their long skirts and their tight corsets and their scandalized reactions to Teyla’s BDUs. Things had calmed down a little when the local lord offered them a place at the family table for the evening meal (and had almost heated up again when they got a glimpse of Ronon’s table manners); then the women, along with a reluctant Teyla, had withdrawn and left the men to smoke and sip something that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike brandy. John wished he had a beer. At least, he did--until Voss Shukbate turned to them, and with a look of utter seriousness on his face, gave them his warning.
John knew from past experience that beer itched like crazy coming up your nose.
Rodney made a noise that could, ungenerously and accurately, be called a snort. “I’m sorry--did you just say...”
Their host nodded solemnly. “If you go out on the moors, you must beware...” He paused, as he had the previous time, for dramatic effect. “...The Hound!”
“The Hound,” John said, slowly. Then he burst out laughing again. It was a good thing Teyla wasn’t there; boy, would she be glaring at him right about now.
“By ‘hound’ you mean a large dog, right?” said Rodney. “Four-legged canine, furry, lots of drool, likes getting scratched behind the ears?”
“Few,” said Voss Shukbate, nodding solemnly again, “have scratched and lived to tell the tale.”
“Oh,” said Rodney, helping himself to another handful of almost-after dinner mints, “few. Well, thank goodness it hasn’t been able to eliminate all the ear-scratchers. For a moment there I was really worried.”
If Rodney thought a potential threat was no big deal, you knew it was time to relax--or run screaming in the opposite direction. John straightened up, the space between his back and the seat of the chair going from about a thirty degree angle to something approaching seventy-five. “Can you tell us anything more about this hound?” he asked.
“Yeah, like does it smell strongly of phosphorus?” asked Rodney, licking his fingers. John kicked him under the table.
“Anything you could tell us would be helpful,” John said, his mouth stretching into his best diplomatic grin. “We don’t like the idea of heading into a potentially dangerous situation unprepared.”
Voss Shukbate gave his muttonchops a pensive stroke. “Then it would be best if you did not venture onto the moors at all.”
Rodney suddenly grew serious. “But that’s where--”
John nudged him again. “We’ve been entrusted with the task of surveying this entire area,” he said, “and that includes the moors. Don’t worry; we can handle ourselves.”
Voss Shukbate looked less than convinced, but then, he didn’t know what half the weaponry strapped to John’s body was for--or what it could do. “Very well,” he said. “I will tell you all that I know, and tonight Vossel Shukbate and I will say a prayer for your safekeeping. The rest...”
He looked vaguely toward the ceiling. Across the table, John caught Rodney rolling his eyes. He glanced briefly at Ronon, who looked attentive--or sleepy. Or bored--before returning his gaze to Shukbate. The lord of the manor nodded solemnly once more, then began to speak.
The ensuing story was pretty much exactly what John had anticipated--so much so that he kept expecting the Pegasus Galaxy’s version of a Candid Cameraman to jump out from behind the firescreen. Generations ago, blah blah, family curse, yadda yadda, still haunts us to this day...been there, read that, saw the movie with Basil Rathbone.
“And it’ll attack anybody?” asked Rodney, catching the pertinent difference. “You--and by that I mean I--don’t have to be a member of the family, the sole surviving ancestor, any of that?”
“Worried, McKay?” John whispered, just loud enough for Rodney to hear and shoot him a glare, at the same time Shukbate steepled his fingers and said, “There are times, I believe, when the Hound has been known to be...less than discerning.”
“Yay,” said Rodney, managing to look contemptuous, maybe a tad worried, and vaguely insulted, all at once.
“Thank you for the warning,” John said, smiling still, “I can assure you that we’ll exercise all due caution.” Which earned him another snort from Rodney.
*
“Hey,” said John, coming up behind Rodney a few hours later and making him jump. He grinned. “Are we letting the atmosphere get to us?”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very low-grade Hammer House of Horror.” Rodney was staring out the window of their shared sitting room, part of the suite to which they’d been escorted after the smoke, drink, and scare portion of the evening was over. They each had a bedroom--John and Rodney both had large guest chambers, and Ronon the smaller servant’s quarters, though from his monosyllabic response, he didn’t seem to mind; Teyla, who would certainly not be adding this planet to her list of favorite travel destinations, had been politely but firmly asked to take a bed at the other end of the house, with the rest of the single women.
The darkened glass reflected Rodney’s pale face; superimposed over that image was the hazy outline of the moor, a mass of knotted heather (or the Pegasus equivalent) and waving, sharp-edged grass. “There ought to be a castle on the horizon,” John agreed, “with one lighted window at the top. Maybe some bats circling, for flavor.”
Rodney didn’t say anything. That was a surprise. John shifted his gaze away from the other man’s face and back to the view, and it was at that moment that Rodney chose, redundantly, to say, “Look.”
John looked. Coming toward them across the moor--and in the darkness, it was impossible to properly judge the distance, judge the rapidly narrowing space--were two points of greenish-gold light, bobbing and swirling through the air. John gulped. “Will o’ the wisps?” he said hopefully. “Twin alien fireflies?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think so,” whispered Rodney. And then the howling started up.
It began deep and low, barely more than a moan, but it quickly grew, becoming harsher, more primal, more animalistic. Hungrier. “Please tell me you paid Ronon a powerbar to do that,” John said.
Before Rodney could find his voice--and there did seem to be a bit of a struggle going on--Ronon came out of his room. “I heard a sound,” he said. He was still wearing his coat; John wondered, irrelevantly, if he slept in it.
“Hound,” John said, jerking his thumb toward the window and deciding, right then, that unless this thing leapt at his or one of his teammate’s throats, he was not going to let it bother him. He’d fought real monsters now; he wasn’t going to let a fake one get under his skin. “Why don’t you help McKay to bed? He looks like he could use someone to sing him a lullaby or two.”
Rodney swallowed. But when he spoke, his voice was 100% shake-free. “Yeah, do you know ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’? Colonel Sheppard likes to hum it to himself every night before tucking in.”
Ronon looked back and forth between the two of them, glanced out the window, then gave them both a stony, level look. “I don’t sing,” he said. Then flash, swish, whirl of the coat, and he vanished as quietly as he’d come.
John looked outside; the moor was silent and dark. Rodney had retreated to the doorway of his bedroom; his fingers were spasming in front of his chest. “There is no Hound,” he said.
“Right, exactly,” said John. “Hound, what Hound?”
“Right.”
“Right.”
Rodney’s head bobbed on his shoulders. “Well. Goodnight, then, Colonel.”
John grinned. “Goodnight, Watson,” he said, and before Rodney could protest, quickly shut and locked his door.
*
“I’m Holmes, you’re Watson,” Rodney said again, clearly laboring under the misapprehension that he could win this argument purely through repetition. “It shouldn’t even be open for debate! It’s obvious!”
Beside him, Teyla grit her teeth and exchanged another long-suffering look with Ronon. John adjusted the angle of his P-90 and tried to hide his grin. “I don’t know, Rodney,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Watson was the doctor.”
“Oh, right, because medicine and astrophysics--completely the same!” He paused for a second to consult his energy readings, but only for a second. “You know the only thing worse than a voodoo pill-popper? A Nineteenth Century voodoo pill-popper!” He gave him a look that screamed, And this is what you compare me to?
“I’ll be sure to let Carson know that there’s a profession you hold in lower esteem than his,” John said, enjoying himself, last night almost forgotten. He felt a rush of magnanimity. “You know what, Rodney? If it means that much to you, you can be the repressed, virginal, anti-social cocaine addict. I don’t think you’ll find the adjustment to be too--”
“Colonel!”
The tone of Teyla’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “What is it?” he asked, pushing his way through the tall grass and over to her; the vegetation was remarkably resilient, springing back whenever they tried to cut a path through it. Where she was standing, however, the stalks were firmly beaten into the mud. “What--?” he started, and then he saw it.
A pawprint. A really big one.
He felt Rodney draw up beside him while he was still grasping for words. “It’s fake, right?” Rodney said. “A hoax. Like Bigfoot.”
But Ronon shook his head, even though he couldn’t know what Bigfoot was; shook his head, touched his fingers to the pawprint, and said, “Recent.”
“Great,” said Rodney, ringing his hands. “Just great. Why can’t we ever visit a normal planet?”
“Define normal,” said John.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a planet not overrun by creatures ripped from the pages of 19th Century melodrama?”
“At least it is not Wraith,” said Teyla, quietly and firmly.
“Yeah. There is that,” John agreed, shooting Rodney a look.
“Okay, point,” Rodney admitted. “Besides: in the novel there was a logical, scientific explanation. I can only assume that the same is true in this case, as well.”
John poked at the pawprint with the toe of his boot; it looked like he could fit his entire foot within the impression of the center pad, if he really wanted to drive the point home. Which he didn’t. “Wouldn’t a giant, alien beastie be a logical, scientific explanation?”
“Shut up,” Rodney said, his eyes never leaving the ground. “I’m trying to figure out if we need to be worried or not. And by ‘we’ I mean the rest of you--I’m pretty much going to worry no matter what.”
“Perhaps we should return to the Gate,” Teyla suggested. “Doctor McKay said there was only a possibility of--”
“A good possibility!”
“--of the reading he was getting being synonymous with Ancient technology,” she continued, undeterred. “Is this trip really worth the risk?”
Great. John hated making this kind of decision--a decision that could get people killed. And while that seemed less likely to happen in this situation than in many others they had faced, wouldn’t it totally fit with his luck if it was the wacky Victorian planet where a bad call on his part led them all to a messy, ironic end. And what could be more ironic than evading the really scary life-sucking aliens only to meet death at the paws of Cujo’s 19th Century cousin?
“Oh, come on,” Rodney said, seeing his face. “You’re not really going to call this thing on account of cynophobia, are you?”
“Hey!” John said, and Teyla sighed, clearly anticipating where this discussion was going. “Whatever happened to ‘worry no matter what’?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Colonel, I worry about, among other things, the likelihood of Africanized honey bees spreading to this galaxy, the proximity of citrus fruit to my person, the chances of a collision between two neutron stars occurring in close enough proximity to whichever planet I am currently occupying that the resulting ten-second burst of gamma radiation is strong enough to kill me and every living creature on it, the not-negligible risk of getting hit by falling debris from an airplane or--as of late--a puddlejumper, and the possibility, however remote, of an atom smasher producing a form of matter even more stable than protons and neutrons, thereby triggering a cataclysmic, self-sustaining reaction that’d consume, I don’t know, this galaxy and possibly several others. Yet I manage to get up every morning and continue about my work in a cheerful and productive manner. Don’t tell me that I can’t depend on the same level of professionalism from you.”
“Colonel,” said Teyla, several long seconds later, “is there something wrong with your jaw?”
And that was how it was agreed that 1) they would continue their search for the source of Rodney’s energy readings for at least another hour, and 2) John would check out that suspicious looking...thing over there. You know, the one in the opposite direction from the way Rodney was heading. Really, he could swear he saw it a minute ago.
“Try not to get over-excited and shoot somebody’s puppy,” he called as Rodney, flanked by Teyla and Ronon, headed off into the waving grass.
Rodney flashed him a tight smile. “Sure thing, Colonel. Just as long as you remember not to pet any stray bitches; you could get a nasty case of space mange.”
“Ha ha,” he said, but he was already alone.
The wind whistled across the moor. John straightened his shoulders and tried not to shiver.
*
“Colonel Sheppard!” The voice was Teyla’s, coming panicked through his com as John attempted to occupy himself by poking some bracken with the butt of his gun. Immediately he dropped the pretence, body going rigid and alert. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s something in the grass.” He could hear her long intake of breath, evidence of her attempts to remain calm. “It passed right by us. We believe it to be headed in your direction.”
Well, fuck. “What’s it look like?”
She hesitated. “I did not get a good look,” she said. “Just...it was...”
“What?” he asked, snappier than he’d like. It wasn’t Teyla’s fault.
And speak of the devil. “It was friggin’ huge!” Rodney shouted. “We’re talking, ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat’ big. ‘That’s no moon, it’s a space station’ big! I’ve seen SUVs show more restraint!”
“While that’s both trivia-packed and environmentally conscious, McKay, it fails to answer the relevant question, namely, where the hell is it?” John scanned the expanse of tall grass, all of which had gone unnaturally, eerily still. “Guys?” he prompted. “A little help here?”
“Do you hear that?” Rodney whispered, and just then, John did.
The haunting cry of a ghostly hound. A hound on the hunt. A hound that was moving...Directly. Toward. Him.
“Shit,” said John, as the grass in front of him began to rustle. He turned on his heels and ran, stumbling over ground that seemed suddenly determined to give him a sprained ankle. Or, as he caught a glimpse of glowing yellow eyes behind him, something much, much worse.
“Colonel Sheppard? What’s your status?” Rodney’s voice was like a tether, reeling him in, but it wasn’t fast enough, not even close. “John, do you copy? Are you all right?”
“I’m--” he started. Then something hot and heavy landed on his back, and the world went black.
*
“John?” Rodney tapped his com, fear settling in his stomach faster than bad chilli con carne. The only answer was an ominous hiss of static. “Oh, no.”
“I am sure he is fine,” said Teyla, but her fingers were white where they clutched the P-90, and she did not look convinced. “The Colonel can handle himself,” Ronon added, but he didn’t sound convinced, either.
“I knew I was right about hating dogs,” Rodney muttered. “‘Man’s best friend.’ Ha!”
There was a rustling sound to their right; Rodney was going to be jumping out of his skin every time he heard a breeze for the rest of his life. Shakily, he raised his gun; beside him, his teammates did the same: Teyla with an effortless grace and Ronon so quickly that stop-motion photography would’ve been necessary to properly capture the movement. All three of them tensed, bracing for impact. Instead, John wandered into view, tossing them all a cheery little wave, like he’d just gotten back from relieving himself in the bushes. “Hi, guys.”
The concern washed out of Rodney’s system so fast, it was like he’d had an empathy enema. How typical: make him worry, scare him half to death, then act like it was no big deal. So Rodney lowered his gun and ratcheted up the scorn. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
John glanced down at himself. “I fell.”
“Into a shredder?” John’s clothes looked like something Tom Hanks might’ve worn in Cast Away. “What happened to your vest?”
“Must’ve caught on something,” John said.
“Why don’t you be more vague,” Rodney suggested. “You wouldn’t want to use up some of Ronon’s allotment of words.”
“Colonel, are you sure you are all right?” Teyla inquired, shooting Rodney a look that, remarkably, had the power to make him feel somewhat guilty. “We were quite concerned--”
“I was fine until your concern sent me sprawling into a ditch,” John said, but there was nothing aggressive in his voice. His hands were in his pockets; he was smiling broadly, his gaze rotating between them like clockwork--a second or two on each of their faces and then on to the next, again and again and again. Rodney thought he felt those wide hazel eyes settle on him a moment longer, but then he blinked, and John was back to smiling inanely at Teyla.
“Okay, that’s it,” he decided. “I’m done with this stupid planet.”
“What?” said John, quirking his head to the side and flashing them a pouty lip. “You wanna go now? I’m just starting to like it here!”
Three pairs of eyes took long, careful blinks. “Maybe he hit his head,” Ronon said.
“What about your energy readings?” John asked, gesturing emphatically in the direction of Rodney’s scanner.
Rodney fought the urge to fling the vital and nigh-irreplaceable piece of equipment over his shoulder. “What about the ravenous hellbeast from whose vast, gaping jaws you were fleeing with your life not five minutes ago?”
“Hellbeast?” John scoffed. “Please. I didn’t see any hellbeast. None of you actually saw a hellbeast. It was probably a squirrel.”
“It was not a squirrel!” Rodney insisted as Teyla and Ronon exchanged What the fuck’s a squirrel? looks.
“Whatever.” John rolled his eyes at them. “You know, it’s funny. I never figured you guys for being so suggestible. Except for you, Rodney.”
Rodney glared and pointed a determined finger back the way they had come. “Manor. Gear. Jumper. Home. Now.”
“So we’re just gonna turn tail and run? Not only is that cowardly, isn’t it also kind of rude?” He turned to Teyla for confirmation. “Don’t we owe Voss Shukbate a little more thanks for his kind hospitality?”
From the expression on Teyla’s face, it looked like she would really prefer to say Screw hospitality, but she sighed and nodded. “It is expected that we at least stay for a farewell meal.”
“We’re going to thank him by eating more of his food?” Rodney asked. “That’s--” Actually not a plan he much wanted to object to. Some of that pudding had been really good.
Teyla’s eyes trailed over John’s body in a manner that would’ve kept Rodney occupied for weeks, had the look been directed at him. “He will not be impressed by your state of dress, however.”
John gave the homeless-chic look he was currently sporting another bored glance. “That’s okay, I’ll just borrow something.” He slapped Rodney firmly on the back, and the vital and nigh-irreplaceable piece of equipment once again almost met a messy end. “Come on, guys! Let’s have some fun!”
*
“Oh, I’m having fun all right,” Rodney said. He rocked back on his heels and emitted a full-out giggle. John stood there patiently, rolling his eyes. “Just give me a second, I’m not really sure where to start.”
“Take your time,” John said.
“Right, right, very generous of you.” Another giggle erupted from his lips. “Hang on, just--Ronon, come here! You gotta see this, and I need someone else to help me appreciate the full...Colonel?”
John had stepped closer. Much closer. “Ronon went out. Voss Shukbate wanted to show off his hogs.”
“Lucky Ronon. Um, Colonel, what are you doing?”
John’s mouth was suddenly disturbingly close to Rodney’s ear. “You like my outfit,” he whispered. “I thought you might want to take a closer look.”
Rodney gulped. “Actually, I could see it better back when...back--”
John’s teeth closed around Rodney’s earlobe and gave a gentle tug.
“Ow!” Rodney yelped. He gave John a forceful shove. “What the hell was that? Who--who does that? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Was just playin’,” John said, swiping his tongue across his lips and shooting Rodney a broad, childish grin. His body in the pseudo-calfskin breeches and the loose white linen shirt looked lithe and disturbingly boyish; He should be skipping through a field somewhere, Rodney thought. Instead he was advancing, slowly and steadily, a predatory gleam in his eyes. They look more golden than hazel, Rodney thought, and then John seized him sharply by the shoulders and all he had a chance to think was, Eeep.
“Mmm, playtime,” John said.
Rodney’s brain was a scrambling mess of synapses; his body, meanwhile, had decided to handle this attack by going completely rigid--defense by impersonation of an inanimate object. His brain was the first to reboot. “Um, Colonel,” he said, carefully. “Is there a reason you’re humping my leg?”
John answered by running his tongue wetly up Rodney’s neck.
Rodney was contemplating whether it would be considered an overreaction to knee his CO in the balls when the dinner bell rang. Rodney would swear that he saw John’s pointy little ears quirk up. “Food!” John said, disengaging himself from Rodney’s leg and bounding toward the door.
“That’s it?” Rodney asked John’s retreating back. “No ‘thank you’?” Then, “What?” he asked himself and the empty room. Neither seemed particularly inclined to respond.
John stuck his head back in the door. “Food!” he said, bouncing eagerly.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Rodney. “Take your jacket and your tie-thing, you’re going to scandalize Vossel Shukbate again.” He looked at John more closely. “And seriously, try to stop drooling.”
*
Rodney’s thoughts during dinner consisted of basically two things: Can we get to the soused hog’s face, already? and What is he on? The answer to the first question turned out to be, Yes, but only after some boring and possibly citrus-tainted appetizers; the answer to the second, while less forthcoming, was probably, The really good crack. After skipping eagerly down the stairs, smiling and slapping the backs of several horrified members of the Shukbate household as he went, John plopped down at the dining room table and bobbed in his chair like a hyperactive jack-in-the-box until a plate of food was set in front of him. This he tucked into with a level of enthusiasm that had even Ronon looking pointedly at John’s neglected fork.
“Yes, I’m pleased to see you all returned...unscathed,” said Voss Shukbate, attempting to smile and stammer through. “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” he told a servant who had asked, wide-eyed, if it would please his Voss to have the barely-brandy brought out now. “I’m sure you all are anxious to return home.”
“Actually,” said John, slopping more pudding onto his plate. “I was wondering if you would mind putting us up for another night. It’s a long walk back to our cab. Hack. Flying-carriage thingy.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “And it’s gotten kinda dark.”
“Well, erm.” Shukbate looked helplessly at his wife, who was glowering at them over her glass of wine. “I wouldn’t want to put you in any danger--”
John’s expression spread into a wide grin. “Thanks, pal!” He looked at each of them, smiling and bobbing his head a lot. “Isn’t that great, guys? It’s pretty great.”
Yeah, great, Rodney thought.
John turned to him and winked.
*
After dinner, Rodney managed to pull Teyla aside before she could be whisked away by Vossel Shukbate’s minions. To his surprise, she was able to do the virtually impossible and cut him off before he had a chance to speak. “Yes, I have noticed, and yes, I agree: there is something somewhat...off about Colonel Sheppard.”
“Somewhat?” Rodney hissed. “He--”
Teyla waited patiently for him to finish.
“But that’s not the point,” Rodney continued, composing himself. “What should we do about it?”
“I think we should leave this place, as soon as possible. The Colonel may require medical attention, but when I tried to speak to him about it, he told me that my...antipathy toward these people’s customs was affecting my judgement.” Teyla did not roll her eyes, but her opinion of that bit of Psych 101 was no less clear.
“I’ll talk to him,” Rodney promised. “I don’t want to spend another night here, anyway; it’s like sleeping on sacks of bricks, those beds--they make Atlantis’ mattresses seem like...Right. I’m going now.”
*
He found John standing by the same window Rodney himself had been peering out of the night before. Rodney, however, had not had both hands pressed up against the glass; nor had he been bobbing anxiously on his toes. “Colonel...” Rodney started, then paused, a flash of sympathy making him change his mind. “You know, the bathroom’s right down the hall.”
“Rodney!” said John, spinning around. His mouth was hanging open in a dopey, naked grin that lacked the slightest trace of his usual smirk. “Oh, good! You’re here!”
Rodney paused for a moment to consider the financial windfall that would result from getting a sample of whatever was indubitably coursing through John’s bloodstream and selling it on the black market; then he reminded himself that evil geniuses always met lame, heavily ironic ends, often involving lava. “Colonel,” he said, shaking himself, “I talked to Teyla and we both think--”
“C’mere, I wanna show you something,” John said, grabbing his arm and jerking him out of the room.
“Hey, leggo!” Rodney slapped ineffectually at the fingers clasped around his bicep. Damn, John had a good grip. Rodney saw that they were heading for the servants’ staircase; he tried digging his heels in. “I don’t care how high you are, I’m not having an assignation with you in the pantry! Those breeches must be cutting off circulation to your brain, or else you would know that I’m not that kind of--Oof!”
John had slammed him up against the wall and clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asked, looking down at Rodney through eyes that were unusually round and--Rodney was sure it wasn’t just a trick of the light--flecked with gold. He nuzzled Rodney’s neck by way of apology. “We have to be quiet now,” he whispered. “If I let you go, will you be good?”
Good at kicking your ass! Rodney thought, but he nodded vigorously.
John let him go. Immediately, Rodney made a break for the stairs. “Teyla!” he shouted, because a real man isn’t above requesting assistance for his ass-kicking. “Help! He’s out of his gourd!”
John tackled him. Rodney elbowed him in the ribs, but John barely flinched. “Bad boy!” he said. “Naught boy!” Then, with the true shock of fear and betrayal just surfacing in Rodney’s brain, John raised his fist; then there was pain and a flash of white, and finally, nothing at all.
*
When Rodney awoke, he had a splitting headache, his hands were bound behind his back, and he was tied to a pole in the middle of a field of waving grass. “Oh, great,” he said, wincing. “As if this day wasn’t perfect enough, now I get to play Fay Wray in your amateur production of King Kong.” He glared at John, who was standing just to the side and grinning at him as if they were two buddies getting ready for the game instead of a ritual sacrifice. Rodney scowled. “In case you were wondering, I hate you.”
John’s teeth flashed brightly in the moonlight. “Not for long,” he said.
Rodney decided he really, really didn’t like the sound of that. He strained against the ropes. The knots were strong, really strong; John’d probably had to take a course in that--damn the U.S. military! “You know,” Rodney said, sagging back against the pole (and my God, was that uncomfortable), “I don’t really hate you. I actually like you quite a bit. Especially when you’re saving my life or being weirdly clever, or when you screw up and do something dorky. Please don’t feed me to the hellbeast.”
John crept forward and laid his head against Rodney’s thigh. This was, Rodney supposed, progress--though not as much as actually untying him would be. “Tell me more about why you like me,” John said.
Trying to quell the Bernard Herrmann-esque shrieks sounding in his head, Rodney said, “Well...you’re not a complete automaton, unlike most of the military personnel I’ve worked with. You have a sense of humor; you’re fun to talk to--when you’re not being an utter asshole, that is.”
John apparently didn’t appreciate this addendum; he nipped at Rodney’s thigh through the fabric of his pants. Rodney yelped and jerked back against the pole. “Jesus Christ! Could you possibly make this any more twist--”
John’s hands swept up Rodney’s thighs, parting his legs. Rodney really should have known better than to ask a question like that.
“Keep talking,” John said.
Rodney gulped. “You helped me out,” he said, his throat dry. “When we first arrived in Atlantis. You gave me a chance, didn’t judge a book--”
John’s hand was on his dick, stroking him through his pants. He ran a nail up the seam and Rodney hissed. “Don’t stop,” John said.
“--By it’s cover!” Rodney gasped as John plastered himself against his body. Rodney’s head thunked back against the pole again and he barely even noticed. “Oh God,” he said, “this is so, so, unbelievably fucked up.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” John whispered against his lips.
“Of course it does; you’re high as a--” John kissed him, wet and warm and rather more sense-making than he’d anticipated. “This is just great,” he said, as John drew back, “I’m never going to be able to finish a sentence aga--” John’s tongue was just as nimble as his fingers; Rodney wondered if the U.S. Military had a course for that, too. “Although I suppose I can think of worse th--”
Rodney’s hands were still tied behind his back. Instead, in place of what he really wanted to do--which involved his fingertips and the inviting expanse of hairy, muscled chest showing through John’s open shirt--Rodney locked his foot around John’s ankle, pulling their bodies even more tightly together. One of the funny-looking stocking-things that John was wearing (and for which he would later be much-mocked) came loose and pooled around his shoe. Rodney imagined what they must look like, and the resulting mental image was so ludicrous that the only thing that kept him from bursting into hysterical giggles was John reaching around and grabbing his ass.
Part of Rodney’s brain was still screaming, Bad idea! Horrendously bad idea! Tied to a frickin’ POLE! but it was rapidly being outvoiced by the part that was all Oooh and Mmm and Fewer clothes!--and John’s name, over and over. “Wow,” he sighed, coming up for air, and was ridiculously pleased when John let out a deep moan in response.
Wait a minute.
“John, please tell me that was you.” And John licked the curve of his jaw, which was encouraging, but he also shook his head, which wasn’t. Decidedly wasn’t.
“Oh, fuck,” Rodney said, and began tugging at the ropes again.
John was still draped lazily over Rodney’s body--quite an achievement considering that Rodney was jerking and shaking enough to register a good four-pointer on the Richter scale. “Do you want me to untie you?” he asked.
“Yes!” Rodney shouted. “Yes, I want you to untie me! Five minutes ago would have been good!” The howling was getting louder; Rodney thought that the rustling of the moonlit grass was starting to take on a definite pattern, parting as something barreled through it, right toward him.
“Okay,” John said. Then he did something nimble with his fingers and--Not the time! Rodney’s rational mind berated another, less sensible part--the ropes fell away.
“Oh, thank God,” Rodney said, pausing for a moment to rub at his sore wrists. Then another howl sounded, and Rodney realized that rope burn was the least of his worries. “Come on!” he said, grabbing John’s arm and giving it a useless tug; John’s feet had apparently sprouted roots. “Dammit, Sheppard! Unless you want to stay here and act out certain choice scenes from An American Werewolf in London, I think we really ought to move!”
John just smiled at him. “Doggie,” he said, and before Rodney could do much more than stare at him in astonishment, he’d grabbed Rodney’s arms and pinned them behind his back.
“Wait, no!” Rodney struggled and stomped hard on John’s toes. “You untied me! You agreed I should be free of ties!” Yellow eyes glinted in the darkness. “John, don’t do this!”
John bent his head and gave Rodney’s neck a hard kiss-bite. “For your own good,” he said. “You’ll see.”
But all Rodney saw was the vast black shape rocketing at him out of the dark. He tried one last time to wrench out of John’s grasp, but the other man held him tight. Rodney closed his eyes. Then there was hot, rancid breath in his face and a heavy weight on his chest, bearing him down to the ground. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable ripping, tearing pain, but all he felt was John’s steady hand on his shoulder and something...something wet...
The Hound of the Shukbates licked him, its vast, fleshy tongue drawing a long, damp stripe across his face. “Gah!” said Rodney. “Blaaagh!” He opened his eyes and stared into a maw that was not so much gaping as grinning. The Hound nudged him with its big wet nose, splattering large globules of drool everywhere; then it lifted its paw off Rodney’s stomach and trotted around them in a circle, like it was auditioning for the Westminster. The damn thing’s tail was even wagging.
Rodney pushed himself into a sitting position. “What the--?”
“Doggie,” John said happily. The Hound bounded back over and nudged noses with him; then John allowed his ass to be sniffed, and with a farewell howl, the Hound raced away. “Nice doggie.”
Rodney got shakily to his feet. “If you’d wanted me to meet your new pet so badly, you could’ve just asked.” He looked down at himself; his shirt was covered in slobber and tufts of hair; it was also ripped in several places--seams appeared to rupture spontaneously simply by coming into close proximity with the Hound. “Well, crap.”
John giggled. “Looks like somebody’s going to have to change.”
“Just so you know, I’m back to hating you again.” Rodney let the tatters of his shirt fall back against his chest and stepped angrily into John’s personal space. “I can’t believe this was all an elaborate assault on my wardro--wow, you smell really good.”
Good was not the word. John smelled intoxicating, like sweat and exertion and his own particular scent, all knotted up and tied together with a thick bow of lust. In the back of his brain, Rodney realized that John had always smelled like this and he was only just noticing it, his brain just now allowing it to become clear. He felt like a man with really bad allergies who’d been given an antihistamine for the first time.
“This is like a Claratin ad,” Rodney said, burying his nose in John’s neck.
“Isn’t it, though?” John replied, and he made it sound like Rodney had said something really romantic.
Rodney inhaled again, but suddenly that wasn’t enough. His other senses were crying out for their share. He wanted to taste--so he dipped his tongue into the hollow of John’s clavicle, swirling over warm skin and the elegant sweep of bone. He wanted to hear--so he laid his head on John’s chest and listened to the echo of his heart, to the vibrations of the low growl gathering in his throat. His vision felt grey and cloudy, but the rest of the world was singing with sensation, with smells and sounds, with tastes and textures, and all of it, all of it, came back to John.
“Wow,” Rodney said. “I am majorly stoned.”
“Fun, isn’t it?”
We are so going to pay for this later, Rodney thought. “Yup,” he said. He gave John’s throat another appreciative sniff. “Wanna make out?”
John’s answering grin was positively wolfish.
*
Ronon stood outside the chamber door, his arms folded across his chest. Teyla looked at the expanse of wood and tried not to wince at the sounds emanating from behind it. “You should have notified me sooner,” she told him. “How long did you say this has been going on?”
“Four hours. Maybe five.”
Teyla blinked. “Continuously?”
Ronon shrugged.
Vossel Shukbate, in a nightcap and heavy-looking robe, barreled into the sitting room, pushing her husband in front of her. “Do something!” she hissed. “I can hear it all the way from the other end of the house!”
Voss Shukbate wrung his hands. “I’m not really sure--”
Suddenly the door burst open and John and Rodney spilled out into the room, trailing a portion of torn and knotted sheet. John was wearing his breeches and nothing else; Rodney, John’s shirt and yeah, other than that, nada. Vossel Shukbate emitted a shocked gasp that took on a bit of an indignant edge when her husband attempted to cover her innocent eyes. Teyla bit her lip and tried not to laugh.
“Guys!” John and Rodney said, in tandem. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, and as one body, they turned to one another and burst into a fit of hyena-like giggles. “You go,” said Rodney. “No, you go,” said John. “No, you--” Rodney said, and then John nipped at his ear until Rodney said, “Okay, fine.” He turned to them, grinning wildly. “Hey, guess what? We’re gonna live here!”
What happened next, according to Teyla’s official mission report, was that both Dr. McKay and Col. Sheppard lunged forward and accidentally ran headfirst into the table leg Voss Shukbate happened to be holding. To make amends for this unfortunate incident, the Voss personally oversaw the dragging of the Doctor and the Colonel’s unconscious bodies to the Stargate. He also offered to watch over the jumper until somebody could be sent to retrieve it. All in all, Teyla concluded, it was a friendly, if utterly useless, strategically unimportant, and--did she mention?--unpleasant-smelling planet. Ronon’s own, rather terse report corroborated this.
McKay and Sheppard were brought to the infirmary, where, upon waking, they both reported experiencing sporadic color-blindness, dry mouth, and halitosis. Dr. Beckett said that these symptoms could have been caused by the blows to their heads. Or maybe by something they ate.
No one reported the way Dr. McKay’s tongue kept lolling out of his mouth when he got excited. Or how Col. Sheppard repeatedly asked the people who came to visit him in the infirmary to scratch him behind the ears. Nor did anyone remark on how, as soon as they were released, both men raced off toward the living quarters together, McKay hot on Sheppard’s tail.
And no one, positively no one, uttered the words “doggie style.”
Out loud, anyway.
*************
Oh, and because I haven't mentioned it in the last four seconds: OMG Serenity Premiere! *dies*
Title: Hounds of Lurve
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Vague Season 2
Summary: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle meets Kate Bush meets cracked-out 19th Century pastiche. Or: “Colonel, is there a reason you’re humping my leg?”
Hounds of Lurve
Recommended listening: Hounds of Love - The Futureheads
When they first told him about it, he laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was just too much, on top of everything else: the waistcoats, the cravats; the men with their funny little mustaches and their even funnier ginormous sideburns; the women with their long skirts and their tight corsets and their scandalized reactions to Teyla’s BDUs. Things had calmed down a little when the local lord offered them a place at the family table for the evening meal (and had almost heated up again when they got a glimpse of Ronon’s table manners); then the women, along with a reluctant Teyla, had withdrawn and left the men to smoke and sip something that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike brandy. John wished he had a beer. At least, he did--until Voss Shukbate turned to them, and with a look of utter seriousness on his face, gave them his warning.
John knew from past experience that beer itched like crazy coming up your nose.
Rodney made a noise that could, ungenerously and accurately, be called a snort. “I’m sorry--did you just say...”
Their host nodded solemnly. “If you go out on the moors, you must beware...” He paused, as he had the previous time, for dramatic effect. “...The Hound!”
“The Hound,” John said, slowly. Then he burst out laughing again. It was a good thing Teyla wasn’t there; boy, would she be glaring at him right about now.
“By ‘hound’ you mean a large dog, right?” said Rodney. “Four-legged canine, furry, lots of drool, likes getting scratched behind the ears?”
“Few,” said Voss Shukbate, nodding solemnly again, “have scratched and lived to tell the tale.”
“Oh,” said Rodney, helping himself to another handful of almost-after dinner mints, “few. Well, thank goodness it hasn’t been able to eliminate all the ear-scratchers. For a moment there I was really worried.”
If Rodney thought a potential threat was no big deal, you knew it was time to relax--or run screaming in the opposite direction. John straightened up, the space between his back and the seat of the chair going from about a thirty degree angle to something approaching seventy-five. “Can you tell us anything more about this hound?” he asked.
“Yeah, like does it smell strongly of phosphorus?” asked Rodney, licking his fingers. John kicked him under the table.
“Anything you could tell us would be helpful,” John said, his mouth stretching into his best diplomatic grin. “We don’t like the idea of heading into a potentially dangerous situation unprepared.”
Voss Shukbate gave his muttonchops a pensive stroke. “Then it would be best if you did not venture onto the moors at all.”
Rodney suddenly grew serious. “But that’s where--”
John nudged him again. “We’ve been entrusted with the task of surveying this entire area,” he said, “and that includes the moors. Don’t worry; we can handle ourselves.”
Voss Shukbate looked less than convinced, but then, he didn’t know what half the weaponry strapped to John’s body was for--or what it could do. “Very well,” he said. “I will tell you all that I know, and tonight Vossel Shukbate and I will say a prayer for your safekeeping. The rest...”
He looked vaguely toward the ceiling. Across the table, John caught Rodney rolling his eyes. He glanced briefly at Ronon, who looked attentive--or sleepy. Or bored--before returning his gaze to Shukbate. The lord of the manor nodded solemnly once more, then began to speak.
The ensuing story was pretty much exactly what John had anticipated--so much so that he kept expecting the Pegasus Galaxy’s version of a Candid Cameraman to jump out from behind the firescreen. Generations ago, blah blah, family curse, yadda yadda, still haunts us to this day...been there, read that, saw the movie with Basil Rathbone.
“And it’ll attack anybody?” asked Rodney, catching the pertinent difference. “You--and by that I mean I--don’t have to be a member of the family, the sole surviving ancestor, any of that?”
“Worried, McKay?” John whispered, just loud enough for Rodney to hear and shoot him a glare, at the same time Shukbate steepled his fingers and said, “There are times, I believe, when the Hound has been known to be...less than discerning.”
“Yay,” said Rodney, managing to look contemptuous, maybe a tad worried, and vaguely insulted, all at once.
“Thank you for the warning,” John said, smiling still, “I can assure you that we’ll exercise all due caution.” Which earned him another snort from Rodney.
*
“Hey,” said John, coming up behind Rodney a few hours later and making him jump. He grinned. “Are we letting the atmosphere get to us?”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very low-grade Hammer House of Horror.” Rodney was staring out the window of their shared sitting room, part of the suite to which they’d been escorted after the smoke, drink, and scare portion of the evening was over. They each had a bedroom--John and Rodney both had large guest chambers, and Ronon the smaller servant’s quarters, though from his monosyllabic response, he didn’t seem to mind; Teyla, who would certainly not be adding this planet to her list of favorite travel destinations, had been politely but firmly asked to take a bed at the other end of the house, with the rest of the single women.
The darkened glass reflected Rodney’s pale face; superimposed over that image was the hazy outline of the moor, a mass of knotted heather (or the Pegasus equivalent) and waving, sharp-edged grass. “There ought to be a castle on the horizon,” John agreed, “with one lighted window at the top. Maybe some bats circling, for flavor.”
Rodney didn’t say anything. That was a surprise. John shifted his gaze away from the other man’s face and back to the view, and it was at that moment that Rodney chose, redundantly, to say, “Look.”
John looked. Coming toward them across the moor--and in the darkness, it was impossible to properly judge the distance, judge the rapidly narrowing space--were two points of greenish-gold light, bobbing and swirling through the air. John gulped. “Will o’ the wisps?” he said hopefully. “Twin alien fireflies?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think so,” whispered Rodney. And then the howling started up.
It began deep and low, barely more than a moan, but it quickly grew, becoming harsher, more primal, more animalistic. Hungrier. “Please tell me you paid Ronon a powerbar to do that,” John said.
Before Rodney could find his voice--and there did seem to be a bit of a struggle going on--Ronon came out of his room. “I heard a sound,” he said. He was still wearing his coat; John wondered, irrelevantly, if he slept in it.
“Hound,” John said, jerking his thumb toward the window and deciding, right then, that unless this thing leapt at his or one of his teammate’s throats, he was not going to let it bother him. He’d fought real monsters now; he wasn’t going to let a fake one get under his skin. “Why don’t you help McKay to bed? He looks like he could use someone to sing him a lullaby or two.”
Rodney swallowed. But when he spoke, his voice was 100% shake-free. “Yeah, do you know ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’? Colonel Sheppard likes to hum it to himself every night before tucking in.”
Ronon looked back and forth between the two of them, glanced out the window, then gave them both a stony, level look. “I don’t sing,” he said. Then flash, swish, whirl of the coat, and he vanished as quietly as he’d come.
John looked outside; the moor was silent and dark. Rodney had retreated to the doorway of his bedroom; his fingers were spasming in front of his chest. “There is no Hound,” he said.
“Right, exactly,” said John. “Hound, what Hound?”
“Right.”
“Right.”
Rodney’s head bobbed on his shoulders. “Well. Goodnight, then, Colonel.”
John grinned. “Goodnight, Watson,” he said, and before Rodney could protest, quickly shut and locked his door.
*
“I’m Holmes, you’re Watson,” Rodney said again, clearly laboring under the misapprehension that he could win this argument purely through repetition. “It shouldn’t even be open for debate! It’s obvious!”
Beside him, Teyla grit her teeth and exchanged another long-suffering look with Ronon. John adjusted the angle of his P-90 and tried to hide his grin. “I don’t know, Rodney,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Watson was the doctor.”
“Oh, right, because medicine and astrophysics--completely the same!” He paused for a second to consult his energy readings, but only for a second. “You know the only thing worse than a voodoo pill-popper? A Nineteenth Century voodoo pill-popper!” He gave him a look that screamed, And this is what you compare me to?
“I’ll be sure to let Carson know that there’s a profession you hold in lower esteem than his,” John said, enjoying himself, last night almost forgotten. He felt a rush of magnanimity. “You know what, Rodney? If it means that much to you, you can be the repressed, virginal, anti-social cocaine addict. I don’t think you’ll find the adjustment to be too--”
“Colonel!”
The tone of Teyla’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “What is it?” he asked, pushing his way through the tall grass and over to her; the vegetation was remarkably resilient, springing back whenever they tried to cut a path through it. Where she was standing, however, the stalks were firmly beaten into the mud. “What--?” he started, and then he saw it.
A pawprint. A really big one.
He felt Rodney draw up beside him while he was still grasping for words. “It’s fake, right?” Rodney said. “A hoax. Like Bigfoot.”
But Ronon shook his head, even though he couldn’t know what Bigfoot was; shook his head, touched his fingers to the pawprint, and said, “Recent.”
“Great,” said Rodney, ringing his hands. “Just great. Why can’t we ever visit a normal planet?”
“Define normal,” said John.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a planet not overrun by creatures ripped from the pages of 19th Century melodrama?”
“At least it is not Wraith,” said Teyla, quietly and firmly.
“Yeah. There is that,” John agreed, shooting Rodney a look.
“Okay, point,” Rodney admitted. “Besides: in the novel there was a logical, scientific explanation. I can only assume that the same is true in this case, as well.”
John poked at the pawprint with the toe of his boot; it looked like he could fit his entire foot within the impression of the center pad, if he really wanted to drive the point home. Which he didn’t. “Wouldn’t a giant, alien beastie be a logical, scientific explanation?”
“Shut up,” Rodney said, his eyes never leaving the ground. “I’m trying to figure out if we need to be worried or not. And by ‘we’ I mean the rest of you--I’m pretty much going to worry no matter what.”
“Perhaps we should return to the Gate,” Teyla suggested. “Doctor McKay said there was only a possibility of--”
“A good possibility!”
“--of the reading he was getting being synonymous with Ancient technology,” she continued, undeterred. “Is this trip really worth the risk?”
Great. John hated making this kind of decision--a decision that could get people killed. And while that seemed less likely to happen in this situation than in many others they had faced, wouldn’t it totally fit with his luck if it was the wacky Victorian planet where a bad call on his part led them all to a messy, ironic end. And what could be more ironic than evading the really scary life-sucking aliens only to meet death at the paws of Cujo’s 19th Century cousin?
“Oh, come on,” Rodney said, seeing his face. “You’re not really going to call this thing on account of cynophobia, are you?”
“Hey!” John said, and Teyla sighed, clearly anticipating where this discussion was going. “Whatever happened to ‘worry no matter what’?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Colonel, I worry about, among other things, the likelihood of Africanized honey bees spreading to this galaxy, the proximity of citrus fruit to my person, the chances of a collision between two neutron stars occurring in close enough proximity to whichever planet I am currently occupying that the resulting ten-second burst of gamma radiation is strong enough to kill me and every living creature on it, the not-negligible risk of getting hit by falling debris from an airplane or--as of late--a puddlejumper, and the possibility, however remote, of an atom smasher producing a form of matter even more stable than protons and neutrons, thereby triggering a cataclysmic, self-sustaining reaction that’d consume, I don’t know, this galaxy and possibly several others. Yet I manage to get up every morning and continue about my work in a cheerful and productive manner. Don’t tell me that I can’t depend on the same level of professionalism from you.”
“Colonel,” said Teyla, several long seconds later, “is there something wrong with your jaw?”
And that was how it was agreed that 1) they would continue their search for the source of Rodney’s energy readings for at least another hour, and 2) John would check out that suspicious looking...thing over there. You know, the one in the opposite direction from the way Rodney was heading. Really, he could swear he saw it a minute ago.
“Try not to get over-excited and shoot somebody’s puppy,” he called as Rodney, flanked by Teyla and Ronon, headed off into the waving grass.
Rodney flashed him a tight smile. “Sure thing, Colonel. Just as long as you remember not to pet any stray bitches; you could get a nasty case of space mange.”
“Ha ha,” he said, but he was already alone.
The wind whistled across the moor. John straightened his shoulders and tried not to shiver.
*
“Colonel Sheppard!” The voice was Teyla’s, coming panicked through his com as John attempted to occupy himself by poking some bracken with the butt of his gun. Immediately he dropped the pretence, body going rigid and alert. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s something in the grass.” He could hear her long intake of breath, evidence of her attempts to remain calm. “It passed right by us. We believe it to be headed in your direction.”
Well, fuck. “What’s it look like?”
She hesitated. “I did not get a good look,” she said. “Just...it was...”
“What?” he asked, snappier than he’d like. It wasn’t Teyla’s fault.
And speak of the devil. “It was friggin’ huge!” Rodney shouted. “We’re talking, ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat’ big. ‘That’s no moon, it’s a space station’ big! I’ve seen SUVs show more restraint!”
“While that’s both trivia-packed and environmentally conscious, McKay, it fails to answer the relevant question, namely, where the hell is it?” John scanned the expanse of tall grass, all of which had gone unnaturally, eerily still. “Guys?” he prompted. “A little help here?”
“Do you hear that?” Rodney whispered, and just then, John did.
The haunting cry of a ghostly hound. A hound on the hunt. A hound that was moving...Directly. Toward. Him.
“Shit,” said John, as the grass in front of him began to rustle. He turned on his heels and ran, stumbling over ground that seemed suddenly determined to give him a sprained ankle. Or, as he caught a glimpse of glowing yellow eyes behind him, something much, much worse.
“Colonel Sheppard? What’s your status?” Rodney’s voice was like a tether, reeling him in, but it wasn’t fast enough, not even close. “John, do you copy? Are you all right?”
“I’m--” he started. Then something hot and heavy landed on his back, and the world went black.
*
“John?” Rodney tapped his com, fear settling in his stomach faster than bad chilli con carne. The only answer was an ominous hiss of static. “Oh, no.”
“I am sure he is fine,” said Teyla, but her fingers were white where they clutched the P-90, and she did not look convinced. “The Colonel can handle himself,” Ronon added, but he didn’t sound convinced, either.
“I knew I was right about hating dogs,” Rodney muttered. “‘Man’s best friend.’ Ha!”
There was a rustling sound to their right; Rodney was going to be jumping out of his skin every time he heard a breeze for the rest of his life. Shakily, he raised his gun; beside him, his teammates did the same: Teyla with an effortless grace and Ronon so quickly that stop-motion photography would’ve been necessary to properly capture the movement. All three of them tensed, bracing for impact. Instead, John wandered into view, tossing them all a cheery little wave, like he’d just gotten back from relieving himself in the bushes. “Hi, guys.”
The concern washed out of Rodney’s system so fast, it was like he’d had an empathy enema. How typical: make him worry, scare him half to death, then act like it was no big deal. So Rodney lowered his gun and ratcheted up the scorn. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
John glanced down at himself. “I fell.”
“Into a shredder?” John’s clothes looked like something Tom Hanks might’ve worn in Cast Away. “What happened to your vest?”
“Must’ve caught on something,” John said.
“Why don’t you be more vague,” Rodney suggested. “You wouldn’t want to use up some of Ronon’s allotment of words.”
“Colonel, are you sure you are all right?” Teyla inquired, shooting Rodney a look that, remarkably, had the power to make him feel somewhat guilty. “We were quite concerned--”
“I was fine until your concern sent me sprawling into a ditch,” John said, but there was nothing aggressive in his voice. His hands were in his pockets; he was smiling broadly, his gaze rotating between them like clockwork--a second or two on each of their faces and then on to the next, again and again and again. Rodney thought he felt those wide hazel eyes settle on him a moment longer, but then he blinked, and John was back to smiling inanely at Teyla.
“Okay, that’s it,” he decided. “I’m done with this stupid planet.”
“What?” said John, quirking his head to the side and flashing them a pouty lip. “You wanna go now? I’m just starting to like it here!”
Three pairs of eyes took long, careful blinks. “Maybe he hit his head,” Ronon said.
“What about your energy readings?” John asked, gesturing emphatically in the direction of Rodney’s scanner.
Rodney fought the urge to fling the vital and nigh-irreplaceable piece of equipment over his shoulder. “What about the ravenous hellbeast from whose vast, gaping jaws you were fleeing with your life not five minutes ago?”
“Hellbeast?” John scoffed. “Please. I didn’t see any hellbeast. None of you actually saw a hellbeast. It was probably a squirrel.”
“It was not a squirrel!” Rodney insisted as Teyla and Ronon exchanged What the fuck’s a squirrel? looks.
“Whatever.” John rolled his eyes at them. “You know, it’s funny. I never figured you guys for being so suggestible. Except for you, Rodney.”
Rodney glared and pointed a determined finger back the way they had come. “Manor. Gear. Jumper. Home. Now.”
“So we’re just gonna turn tail and run? Not only is that cowardly, isn’t it also kind of rude?” He turned to Teyla for confirmation. “Don’t we owe Voss Shukbate a little more thanks for his kind hospitality?”
From the expression on Teyla’s face, it looked like she would really prefer to say Screw hospitality, but she sighed and nodded. “It is expected that we at least stay for a farewell meal.”
“We’re going to thank him by eating more of his food?” Rodney asked. “That’s--” Actually not a plan he much wanted to object to. Some of that pudding had been really good.
Teyla’s eyes trailed over John’s body in a manner that would’ve kept Rodney occupied for weeks, had the look been directed at him. “He will not be impressed by your state of dress, however.”
John gave the homeless-chic look he was currently sporting another bored glance. “That’s okay, I’ll just borrow something.” He slapped Rodney firmly on the back, and the vital and nigh-irreplaceable piece of equipment once again almost met a messy end. “Come on, guys! Let’s have some fun!”
*
“Oh, I’m having fun all right,” Rodney said. He rocked back on his heels and emitted a full-out giggle. John stood there patiently, rolling his eyes. “Just give me a second, I’m not really sure where to start.”
“Take your time,” John said.
“Right, right, very generous of you.” Another giggle erupted from his lips. “Hang on, just--Ronon, come here! You gotta see this, and I need someone else to help me appreciate the full...Colonel?”
John had stepped closer. Much closer. “Ronon went out. Voss Shukbate wanted to show off his hogs.”
“Lucky Ronon. Um, Colonel, what are you doing?”
John’s mouth was suddenly disturbingly close to Rodney’s ear. “You like my outfit,” he whispered. “I thought you might want to take a closer look.”
Rodney gulped. “Actually, I could see it better back when...back--”
John’s teeth closed around Rodney’s earlobe and gave a gentle tug.
“Ow!” Rodney yelped. He gave John a forceful shove. “What the hell was that? Who--who does that? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Was just playin’,” John said, swiping his tongue across his lips and shooting Rodney a broad, childish grin. His body in the pseudo-calfskin breeches and the loose white linen shirt looked lithe and disturbingly boyish; He should be skipping through a field somewhere, Rodney thought. Instead he was advancing, slowly and steadily, a predatory gleam in his eyes. They look more golden than hazel, Rodney thought, and then John seized him sharply by the shoulders and all he had a chance to think was, Eeep.
“Mmm, playtime,” John said.
Rodney’s brain was a scrambling mess of synapses; his body, meanwhile, had decided to handle this attack by going completely rigid--defense by impersonation of an inanimate object. His brain was the first to reboot. “Um, Colonel,” he said, carefully. “Is there a reason you’re humping my leg?”
John answered by running his tongue wetly up Rodney’s neck.
Rodney was contemplating whether it would be considered an overreaction to knee his CO in the balls when the dinner bell rang. Rodney would swear that he saw John’s pointy little ears quirk up. “Food!” John said, disengaging himself from Rodney’s leg and bounding toward the door.
“That’s it?” Rodney asked John’s retreating back. “No ‘thank you’?” Then, “What?” he asked himself and the empty room. Neither seemed particularly inclined to respond.
John stuck his head back in the door. “Food!” he said, bouncing eagerly.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Rodney. “Take your jacket and your tie-thing, you’re going to scandalize Vossel Shukbate again.” He looked at John more closely. “And seriously, try to stop drooling.”
*
Rodney’s thoughts during dinner consisted of basically two things: Can we get to the soused hog’s face, already? and What is he on? The answer to the first question turned out to be, Yes, but only after some boring and possibly citrus-tainted appetizers; the answer to the second, while less forthcoming, was probably, The really good crack. After skipping eagerly down the stairs, smiling and slapping the backs of several horrified members of the Shukbate household as he went, John plopped down at the dining room table and bobbed in his chair like a hyperactive jack-in-the-box until a plate of food was set in front of him. This he tucked into with a level of enthusiasm that had even Ronon looking pointedly at John’s neglected fork.
“Yes, I’m pleased to see you all returned...unscathed,” said Voss Shukbate, attempting to smile and stammer through. “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” he told a servant who had asked, wide-eyed, if it would please his Voss to have the barely-brandy brought out now. “I’m sure you all are anxious to return home.”
“Actually,” said John, slopping more pudding onto his plate. “I was wondering if you would mind putting us up for another night. It’s a long walk back to our cab. Hack. Flying-carriage thingy.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “And it’s gotten kinda dark.”
“Well, erm.” Shukbate looked helplessly at his wife, who was glowering at them over her glass of wine. “I wouldn’t want to put you in any danger--”
John’s expression spread into a wide grin. “Thanks, pal!” He looked at each of them, smiling and bobbing his head a lot. “Isn’t that great, guys? It’s pretty great.”
Yeah, great, Rodney thought.
John turned to him and winked.
*
After dinner, Rodney managed to pull Teyla aside before she could be whisked away by Vossel Shukbate’s minions. To his surprise, she was able to do the virtually impossible and cut him off before he had a chance to speak. “Yes, I have noticed, and yes, I agree: there is something somewhat...off about Colonel Sheppard.”
“Somewhat?” Rodney hissed. “He--”
Teyla waited patiently for him to finish.
“But that’s not the point,” Rodney continued, composing himself. “What should we do about it?”
“I think we should leave this place, as soon as possible. The Colonel may require medical attention, but when I tried to speak to him about it, he told me that my...antipathy toward these people’s customs was affecting my judgement.” Teyla did not roll her eyes, but her opinion of that bit of Psych 101 was no less clear.
“I’ll talk to him,” Rodney promised. “I don’t want to spend another night here, anyway; it’s like sleeping on sacks of bricks, those beds--they make Atlantis’ mattresses seem like...Right. I’m going now.”
*
He found John standing by the same window Rodney himself had been peering out of the night before. Rodney, however, had not had both hands pressed up against the glass; nor had he been bobbing anxiously on his toes. “Colonel...” Rodney started, then paused, a flash of sympathy making him change his mind. “You know, the bathroom’s right down the hall.”
“Rodney!” said John, spinning around. His mouth was hanging open in a dopey, naked grin that lacked the slightest trace of his usual smirk. “Oh, good! You’re here!”
Rodney paused for a moment to consider the financial windfall that would result from getting a sample of whatever was indubitably coursing through John’s bloodstream and selling it on the black market; then he reminded himself that evil geniuses always met lame, heavily ironic ends, often involving lava. “Colonel,” he said, shaking himself, “I talked to Teyla and we both think--”
“C’mere, I wanna show you something,” John said, grabbing his arm and jerking him out of the room.
“Hey, leggo!” Rodney slapped ineffectually at the fingers clasped around his bicep. Damn, John had a good grip. Rodney saw that they were heading for the servants’ staircase; he tried digging his heels in. “I don’t care how high you are, I’m not having an assignation with you in the pantry! Those breeches must be cutting off circulation to your brain, or else you would know that I’m not that kind of--Oof!”
John had slammed him up against the wall and clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asked, looking down at Rodney through eyes that were unusually round and--Rodney was sure it wasn’t just a trick of the light--flecked with gold. He nuzzled Rodney’s neck by way of apology. “We have to be quiet now,” he whispered. “If I let you go, will you be good?”
Good at kicking your ass! Rodney thought, but he nodded vigorously.
John let him go. Immediately, Rodney made a break for the stairs. “Teyla!” he shouted, because a real man isn’t above requesting assistance for his ass-kicking. “Help! He’s out of his gourd!”
John tackled him. Rodney elbowed him in the ribs, but John barely flinched. “Bad boy!” he said. “Naught boy!” Then, with the true shock of fear and betrayal just surfacing in Rodney’s brain, John raised his fist; then there was pain and a flash of white, and finally, nothing at all.
*
When Rodney awoke, he had a splitting headache, his hands were bound behind his back, and he was tied to a pole in the middle of a field of waving grass. “Oh, great,” he said, wincing. “As if this day wasn’t perfect enough, now I get to play Fay Wray in your amateur production of King Kong.” He glared at John, who was standing just to the side and grinning at him as if they were two buddies getting ready for the game instead of a ritual sacrifice. Rodney scowled. “In case you were wondering, I hate you.”
John’s teeth flashed brightly in the moonlight. “Not for long,” he said.
Rodney decided he really, really didn’t like the sound of that. He strained against the ropes. The knots were strong, really strong; John’d probably had to take a course in that--damn the U.S. military! “You know,” Rodney said, sagging back against the pole (and my God, was that uncomfortable), “I don’t really hate you. I actually like you quite a bit. Especially when you’re saving my life or being weirdly clever, or when you screw up and do something dorky. Please don’t feed me to the hellbeast.”
John crept forward and laid his head against Rodney’s thigh. This was, Rodney supposed, progress--though not as much as actually untying him would be. “Tell me more about why you like me,” John said.
Trying to quell the Bernard Herrmann-esque shrieks sounding in his head, Rodney said, “Well...you’re not a complete automaton, unlike most of the military personnel I’ve worked with. You have a sense of humor; you’re fun to talk to--when you’re not being an utter asshole, that is.”
John apparently didn’t appreciate this addendum; he nipped at Rodney’s thigh through the fabric of his pants. Rodney yelped and jerked back against the pole. “Jesus Christ! Could you possibly make this any more twist--”
John’s hands swept up Rodney’s thighs, parting his legs. Rodney really should have known better than to ask a question like that.
“Keep talking,” John said.
Rodney gulped. “You helped me out,” he said, his throat dry. “When we first arrived in Atlantis. You gave me a chance, didn’t judge a book--”
John’s hand was on his dick, stroking him through his pants. He ran a nail up the seam and Rodney hissed. “Don’t stop,” John said.
“--By it’s cover!” Rodney gasped as John plastered himself against his body. Rodney’s head thunked back against the pole again and he barely even noticed. “Oh God,” he said, “this is so, so, unbelievably fucked up.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” John whispered against his lips.
“Of course it does; you’re high as a--” John kissed him, wet and warm and rather more sense-making than he’d anticipated. “This is just great,” he said, as John drew back, “I’m never going to be able to finish a sentence aga--” John’s tongue was just as nimble as his fingers; Rodney wondered if the U.S. Military had a course for that, too. “Although I suppose I can think of worse th--”
Rodney’s hands were still tied behind his back. Instead, in place of what he really wanted to do--which involved his fingertips and the inviting expanse of hairy, muscled chest showing through John’s open shirt--Rodney locked his foot around John’s ankle, pulling their bodies even more tightly together. One of the funny-looking stocking-things that John was wearing (and for which he would later be much-mocked) came loose and pooled around his shoe. Rodney imagined what they must look like, and the resulting mental image was so ludicrous that the only thing that kept him from bursting into hysterical giggles was John reaching around and grabbing his ass.
Part of Rodney’s brain was still screaming, Bad idea! Horrendously bad idea! Tied to a frickin’ POLE! but it was rapidly being outvoiced by the part that was all Oooh and Mmm and Fewer clothes!--and John’s name, over and over. “Wow,” he sighed, coming up for air, and was ridiculously pleased when John let out a deep moan in response.
Wait a minute.
“John, please tell me that was you.” And John licked the curve of his jaw, which was encouraging, but he also shook his head, which wasn’t. Decidedly wasn’t.
“Oh, fuck,” Rodney said, and began tugging at the ropes again.
John was still draped lazily over Rodney’s body--quite an achievement considering that Rodney was jerking and shaking enough to register a good four-pointer on the Richter scale. “Do you want me to untie you?” he asked.
“Yes!” Rodney shouted. “Yes, I want you to untie me! Five minutes ago would have been good!” The howling was getting louder; Rodney thought that the rustling of the moonlit grass was starting to take on a definite pattern, parting as something barreled through it, right toward him.
“Okay,” John said. Then he did something nimble with his fingers and--Not the time! Rodney’s rational mind berated another, less sensible part--the ropes fell away.
“Oh, thank God,” Rodney said, pausing for a moment to rub at his sore wrists. Then another howl sounded, and Rodney realized that rope burn was the least of his worries. “Come on!” he said, grabbing John’s arm and giving it a useless tug; John’s feet had apparently sprouted roots. “Dammit, Sheppard! Unless you want to stay here and act out certain choice scenes from An American Werewolf in London, I think we really ought to move!”
John just smiled at him. “Doggie,” he said, and before Rodney could do much more than stare at him in astonishment, he’d grabbed Rodney’s arms and pinned them behind his back.
“Wait, no!” Rodney struggled and stomped hard on John’s toes. “You untied me! You agreed I should be free of ties!” Yellow eyes glinted in the darkness. “John, don’t do this!”
John bent his head and gave Rodney’s neck a hard kiss-bite. “For your own good,” he said. “You’ll see.”
But all Rodney saw was the vast black shape rocketing at him out of the dark. He tried one last time to wrench out of John’s grasp, but the other man held him tight. Rodney closed his eyes. Then there was hot, rancid breath in his face and a heavy weight on his chest, bearing him down to the ground. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable ripping, tearing pain, but all he felt was John’s steady hand on his shoulder and something...something wet...
The Hound of the Shukbates licked him, its vast, fleshy tongue drawing a long, damp stripe across his face. “Gah!” said Rodney. “Blaaagh!” He opened his eyes and stared into a maw that was not so much gaping as grinning. The Hound nudged him with its big wet nose, splattering large globules of drool everywhere; then it lifted its paw off Rodney’s stomach and trotted around them in a circle, like it was auditioning for the Westminster. The damn thing’s tail was even wagging.
Rodney pushed himself into a sitting position. “What the--?”
“Doggie,” John said happily. The Hound bounded back over and nudged noses with him; then John allowed his ass to be sniffed, and with a farewell howl, the Hound raced away. “Nice doggie.”
Rodney got shakily to his feet. “If you’d wanted me to meet your new pet so badly, you could’ve just asked.” He looked down at himself; his shirt was covered in slobber and tufts of hair; it was also ripped in several places--seams appeared to rupture spontaneously simply by coming into close proximity with the Hound. “Well, crap.”
John giggled. “Looks like somebody’s going to have to change.”
“Just so you know, I’m back to hating you again.” Rodney let the tatters of his shirt fall back against his chest and stepped angrily into John’s personal space. “I can’t believe this was all an elaborate assault on my wardro--wow, you smell really good.”
Good was not the word. John smelled intoxicating, like sweat and exertion and his own particular scent, all knotted up and tied together with a thick bow of lust. In the back of his brain, Rodney realized that John had always smelled like this and he was only just noticing it, his brain just now allowing it to become clear. He felt like a man with really bad allergies who’d been given an antihistamine for the first time.
“This is like a Claratin ad,” Rodney said, burying his nose in John’s neck.
“Isn’t it, though?” John replied, and he made it sound like Rodney had said something really romantic.
Rodney inhaled again, but suddenly that wasn’t enough. His other senses were crying out for their share. He wanted to taste--so he dipped his tongue into the hollow of John’s clavicle, swirling over warm skin and the elegant sweep of bone. He wanted to hear--so he laid his head on John’s chest and listened to the echo of his heart, to the vibrations of the low growl gathering in his throat. His vision felt grey and cloudy, but the rest of the world was singing with sensation, with smells and sounds, with tastes and textures, and all of it, all of it, came back to John.
“Wow,” Rodney said. “I am majorly stoned.”
“Fun, isn’t it?”
We are so going to pay for this later, Rodney thought. “Yup,” he said. He gave John’s throat another appreciative sniff. “Wanna make out?”
John’s answering grin was positively wolfish.
*
Ronon stood outside the chamber door, his arms folded across his chest. Teyla looked at the expanse of wood and tried not to wince at the sounds emanating from behind it. “You should have notified me sooner,” she told him. “How long did you say this has been going on?”
“Four hours. Maybe five.”
Teyla blinked. “Continuously?”
Ronon shrugged.
Vossel Shukbate, in a nightcap and heavy-looking robe, barreled into the sitting room, pushing her husband in front of her. “Do something!” she hissed. “I can hear it all the way from the other end of the house!”
Voss Shukbate wrung his hands. “I’m not really sure--”
Suddenly the door burst open and John and Rodney spilled out into the room, trailing a portion of torn and knotted sheet. John was wearing his breeches and nothing else; Rodney, John’s shirt and yeah, other than that, nada. Vossel Shukbate emitted a shocked gasp that took on a bit of an indignant edge when her husband attempted to cover her innocent eyes. Teyla bit her lip and tried not to laugh.
“Guys!” John and Rodney said, in tandem. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, and as one body, they turned to one another and burst into a fit of hyena-like giggles. “You go,” said Rodney. “No, you go,” said John. “No, you--” Rodney said, and then John nipped at his ear until Rodney said, “Okay, fine.” He turned to them, grinning wildly. “Hey, guess what? We’re gonna live here!”
What happened next, according to Teyla’s official mission report, was that both Dr. McKay and Col. Sheppard lunged forward and accidentally ran headfirst into the table leg Voss Shukbate happened to be holding. To make amends for this unfortunate incident, the Voss personally oversaw the dragging of the Doctor and the Colonel’s unconscious bodies to the Stargate. He also offered to watch over the jumper until somebody could be sent to retrieve it. All in all, Teyla concluded, it was a friendly, if utterly useless, strategically unimportant, and--did she mention?--unpleasant-smelling planet. Ronon’s own, rather terse report corroborated this.
McKay and Sheppard were brought to the infirmary, where, upon waking, they both reported experiencing sporadic color-blindness, dry mouth, and halitosis. Dr. Beckett said that these symptoms could have been caused by the blows to their heads. Or maybe by something they ate.
No one reported the way Dr. McKay’s tongue kept lolling out of his mouth when he got excited. Or how Col. Sheppard repeatedly asked the people who came to visit him in the infirmary to scratch him behind the ears. Nor did anyone remark on how, as soon as they were released, both men raced off toward the living quarters together, McKay hot on Sheppard’s tail.
And no one, positively no one, uttered the words “doggie style.”
Out loud, anyway.
*************
Oh, and because I haven't mentioned it in the last four seconds: OMG Serenity Premiere! *dies*
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-18 01:36 am (UTC)Lol. this line amused me so much. Mostlky because every once in a whil, I have to go shoot the red squirrels that live in the woods near my house. I know it's mean, but if I don't, they start eating at the siding of my house. we've actually had one come down the chimney before. literally. it was funny at fist, but catching it wasn't so much fun. Loved this, and DOGGIE!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-19 07:30 pm (UTC)5-year-old!Me: Dad, there's a bat in my room.
34-year-old!Dad: Don't be silly, sweetie. It's probably just a cricket.
*goes to check*
White-as-a-sheet!Dad: Holy crap, there's a bat in your room!
Then he captured it in a garbage bag and stuffed it in my little brother's diaper pail. Poor bat.
ANYWAY...glad you liked the story. Er, the other story. ;-)