"Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country." -- Anais Nin
Spring
The ocean's restless this morning as John pounds his way down the hard-packed sand at the edge of the surf. If he's any expert -- and he is -- later today the updrafts will be fierce and strong near the Cape. The breeze off the sea is wild in his face, and it's easy for a second to imagine that he smells something exotic, brought in on the wind over the Pacific.
As he jogs toward home, might-have-beens dog him like they haven't for months; memories chase him faster than the incoming tide. The sun picks this moment to bounce above the horizon, sending out beams of pink-orange that flash and fill the western sky.
Usually he's content these days, his daily routine enough to fill him up. It looks like today is going to be one of the rare bad days. He takes a few minutes to stand at the end of the algae-covered pier near his house. Watching the seabirds swoop and dive into the sunrise-pierced sky, his throat closes up a little and he has to swallow hard.
~ ~ ~
Fortunately, it's an unusually busy day at the shop for a late-spring weekend, so John doesn't have much time to think. Sarah called in sick again, which pisses him off, because otherwise he might have been able to sneak away for some gliding. And though most days he enjoys this part of his life, today it's exhausting dealing by himself with all the candy-and-sand-encrusted children and their exhausted parents.
He's locked the front door and is ringing up the last customer, a harried mom whose kids are waiting outside in a minivan, when someone pounds on the door. "We're closed!" he yells when the banging doesn't stop. Thankfully, the noise stops. Hopefully, whoever it is has gone away.
"It's about time!" a man says when John unlocks the door to let the woman out. John's got enough time to get an impression of broad shoulders and a receding hairline, and then the guy's pushing past him into the shop.
"Hey!" John says, going to the balls of his feet automatically, in case the guy's going to try to rob the store or do something even worse. It really doesn't look like it, though. The man is walking briskly down the aisles of the shop, obviously looking for something, while simultaneously talking non-stop on his cell phone. If the guy's going to rob him, he's weirder than any robber John's heard of. He's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt with faded lettering on it, along with a stained khaki trench coat that marks him immediately as a tourist from somewhere in the East, or at least not the Northwest. Underneath, he's wearing khaki pants in a shade that doesn't match the coat, but is close enough he might have thought it did.
"Hold on a second," the man yells into the phone. He turns blue eyes on John and snaps his fingers at him. "The geometric ones. You have something like a prism?" The guy sketches something in the air with his free hand. "You know, like a square. Only instead of flat, three-dimensional."
John is momentarily speechless.
"Hello! I wouldn't normally expect someone working in a retail shop to have any understanding of basic mathematics," the guy snaps, "but this is a kite store. You'd think the employees would have to have at least a rudimentary understanding of--"
"Just sold the last one," John manages.
"...of geometry," the guy continues over him, then seems to realize what John has said. "Wait, what, her, the lady who just went out?" He goes over to the door and looks out, then slams it back in place and puts his phone back up to his ear. "Some lady just took the last one," the guy says into his phone. "Can't it be a different--what? No, okay. Yes, yes, I understand, special shape for her, special meaning, blah, blah." He rolls his eyes at John as he talks, which makes John feel weirdly warm, like the guy is letting him in on his life.
"Okay, listen," John says, letting his voice firm with a little of the stuff he can bring if he has to. "The shop's closed. Like the sign said. The locked door was your other clue."
"Oh," the guy says. "Hey Jeannie," he says more quietly into his phone. "Can I call you back in a sec?" He hangs up and actually looks at John. He seems to deflate a little. "Um. Sorry about that. It's just that it's a tough time for her, Madison, my niece, and I promised something special. And all the shops are closed, and I fly out tonight, so." His hands describe bizarre arcs in the air, which apparently signify everything he's talking about, then come abruptly to a halt. He presses his lips together and shakes his head, then stares morosely at the floor.
"There'll be stuff at the airport you can buy her. PDX, right?" John suggests.
The guy shakes his head. "No, it has to be a kite, and," he does elaborate air quotes, "'sciencey'. I seriously doubt they have anything appropriate at Portland Airport's Mall of the Inane."
John feels a weird urge to smile. "Alright, look," he says, surprising himself; something about the guy's twisting hands and downcast face makes him feel inexplicably sorry for the guy. "I've got some more stock at my house. If you want to hang on for a few minutes, we can see what I've got there."
The guy lights up like it's Christmas, and he's beaming at John now. "Really?"
John nods.
"Though." The guy takes a breath. "Should I be worried about your house? Is it far? And oh my god, you're probably some beach bum type with a place full of allergens. I'm a very busy person. Do you think you really have a kite that's sufficiently 'sciencey'?" McKay doesn't do the air quotes this time, but John can hear them perfectly in his voice. "I can't imagine that you know whether you have a geometric--"
"I have some," John says, amused. "Though, gotta admit, not sure exactly what figures I've got. Things've been busy."
The guy's head comes up sharply, and suddenly his attention is focused intently on John. His eyes are bluer than John had thought at first, and he's got eyelashes John can see even from across the room. "You said 'figures.' So you do know some basic math." He looks John up and down, and John has a weird moment when he wonders whether the guy's searching for physical evidence of math knowledge.
He feels himself lean into more of a slouch. "You could say that. Though. Are you sure you want a box kite? With another kind, you can illustrate lift a little more...dramatically."
The guy stares at John for a second, then jams his cell phone into his pants pocket. He wipes his hand on his trench coat, then sticks it out toward John. "Sorry. Manners. Rodney McKay. Doctor. Double Doctor, actually."
John just stares at McKay's hand for a second. This guy can't be for real. He sticks out his hand, bemused. "John Sheppard. Pleased to meet you, Doctor McKay." He emphasizes the word, "doctor" just a little, and bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from adding, "double doctor."
"So, do you have any of these magic lift-illustrating kites here?" McKay says, looking around the shop, seemingly oblivious to John's gentle sarcasm, practically bouncing in place.
John shakes his head. "All sold out. Busy weekend."
McKay rolls his eyes. "Well, excuse me. Ironically, I thought this was a store that sold kites. So, when can we go?"
"Gotta lock up. Again," John can't resist adding. "Count the receipts, organize the back room, check inventory--"
"Jesus!" McKay says in a voice that's almost a yell, and John smirks. "This is a, a kite shop, not the Manhattan Project. It's not rocket science, I mean--" he breaks off suddenly and glares at John. "You're messing with me?"
John laughs, an outright laugh, a real one, the kind he hasn't had too many of for a while. "Yeah," he says. "I can leave it for tonight. Come on."
McKay follows after him, muttering about slackers who are old enough they really should be doing something more ambitious in life. Feeling strangely cheered, John whistles as he walks McKay the two blocks to his place.
McKay stops in the entry and stares. John's place is rustic-looking on the outside, but he's put a lot of work into making the inside light and clean-looking. It's nothing fancy, but it's home.
McKay turns and stares at John. "It's all neat and clean and organized," he says accusingly. John shrugs and McKay narrows his eyes. "Maybe you're a serial killer or something."
John rolls his eyes. "Maybe you're a serial killer who finds victims in small coastal towns and just pretends to want to buy whatever they have in their stores."
"Yes, yes, very plausible," McKay says, waving his hand at John. "Chop, chop, let's see the merchandise."
John leads him to the room behind the kitchen that he uses for business-related stuff. He's heading for the shelves where he keeps extra stock when he hears a little gasp from McKay, behind him. He turns and sees McKay standing fixed in place, staring at the sketch pinned down on John's drawing table. "What is it?" McKay squeaks. "It looks like a stealth bomber had an illegitimate baby with a parachute."
John feels his face warm. "Forgot it was here," he mumbles. He pulls out a box of new kites. "Here we go. Probably something in here for--Your niece, you said?"
"Yeah," McKay says, sounding a little distracted.
McKay is quiet while John sorts through the packages inside the box until he finds a couple he thinks might be what the guy's looking for. When he turns to show them to McKay, John sees that he's bent over John's drawing for a new kite design, scribbling furiously with a pencil. "Hey!" John says.
McKay holds out a placating hand in John's general direction, but doesn't look up. "If you angle this edge like this," he says, drawing furiously, "you'll decrease the pressure above the wing even more than you have."
"Now, listen," John says, advancing on McKay and his desk.
"And you can decrease the drag even more by angling this side, here, like this." McKay draws a rough outline of a slightly different angle.
"Sure, but that doesn't take into account the effect of the increased speed on the mechanics," John says, staring over McKay's shoulder.
"Oh, please!" McKay says. "There's a simple way to compensate for that. Look."
John cocks his head and looks at the drawing. McKay's scribblings have taken John's concept a step further; he can see that the changes have definitely bought him another few feet of distance and probably a decent amount of speed. "Oh," he says. "Cool."
"Yes, cool," McKay grins.
John finds himself grinning back at him. "If you think that's cool," he says, "then. Then look at this." He pulls out the concept drawing for a new kind of glider from the bottom of his pile, the one he works on once in a while, when a certain mood strikes.
McKay looks at it and sucks in a big breath, then glances sharply at John. "This is incredible. Is there anything like this on the market? I don't think so. What did you say you did before all this?" He waves his hand at the house and, presumably, the kite shop, frowning.
"I didn't say," John responds.
McKay scowls at him.
"And you didn't ask," John adds softly, but in a way that hopefully conveys, "and don't ask now". He regrets the impulse that caused him to pull out the sketch; he removes the paper gently from McKay's hand and pulls out the pre-packaged kites.
John clears his throat. "You're in luck. I've got a couple for you to choose from for your niece. How old is she?"
McKay stares at him for a moment and then presses his lips together and nods sharply. He screws up his forehead a little. "Right. She's... Uh." He holds his hand out in front of his body and puts it around waist height, then moves it up, then down. "About like this?"
John rolls his eyes. "Jesus, McKay, she's your niece!"
"I know, but normally Laura keeps track of stuff like that for me, and I've been so--I'll call her!" He rifles in his pocket for his cell phone and presses a number.
"Laura, how old is Madison?"
John hears a woman's voice, definitely raised, coming through the phone. McKay holds the phone a couple of inches out from his body and rolls his eyes. He covers the phone's microphone and stage-whispers to John, "That time of the month."
John clearly hears the woman on the other end shriek, "I heard that!" and then McKay's back on the phone. "Listen," McKay breaks in. "I pay you a lot of money to help me keep track of details like that." McKay continues, "Well, actually not a lot, but that's not my fault, that's the bureaucrats at the University who wouldn't know a valuable employee from a--" McKay nods his head. "Okay, okay, yes, ten, that's what I thought. See you tomorrow. Don't be late." He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. "She's ten. So you need this piece of critical information, why?"
John's mouth is maybe hanging open a little, but he rallies. "Well, for one thing, handling. With four-strings, you have a lot more control if you're a beginner." He smirks at McKay. "Those are usually your prisms. For speed and power, a performance kite might be better. For less windy conditions, you need a design that's going to allow for sufficient lift, because--"
"Who do you think I am, the soccer mom who bought the kite that was rightfully mine?" McKay says. "I know why you need better wing design if there's less wind. Hello, Bernoulli's Theorem!"
John finds himself staring at McKay's square hands, punching through the air. There's a moment too long of silence, then John clears his throat. "Yeah." John smiles at McKay. "I guess you do kind of grasp it."
McKay looks flustered and looks at the floor, then looks up and smiles at John. It's almost...shy? "Well, yes." McKay squirms where he's standing, right before he explodes into sound and motion. "Well? So what does that mean, that she's ten? Which one's right for her? Also, these pictures are hopelessly inadequate; I can't tell whether this kite is supposed to look like a mythological creature or a dying monkey!" He's wrestling with the packaging of the biggest kite John got out, then pulls it out of the plastic bag triumphantly. "Hmm," McKay says, coaxing it deftly into a three-dimensional shape. "Not very well designed. But I bet I could modify it to get more lift if--do you have materials like these? I need, hmm, a couple of framing pieces and some of this, what is this? Poly-something fabric stuff?"
"Sure. I've got stuff. But what you're thinking won't work. The way to give it more lift is to," John rips open a package with the identical pre-packaged kite in it, "to change the existing structure, not add to it. See, you can move this section from here," he motions with his hands, "to here. Voila!"
"Voila?" McKay puts his hands on his hips and rolls his eyes. "You can't just say, 'voila' and have it mean that you're right!"
John's strangely caught up in the give and take with McKay, but even so, it surprises him when he hears himself say, "Okay, fine. You modify that one and I'll modify this one and we'll see whose wins."
"Wins?" McKay scoffs. "What a ridiculously juvenile--Oh, I am so winning. This thing's going higher than you can imagine."
"Higher? Speed's what matters."
"Who cares about that?" McKay huffs. "What matters is how high it goes!"
"Hardly. It's how fast," John says, just to watch McKay splutter. "And how the hell are we going to know who won if we don't agree on what the goal is?" John adds.
"By adopting the only logical goal: that is to say, mine."
John squints and looks at the window. "Hmm. I might accept that provisionally, for our first race, so long as I set the parameters for the next one. But, problem. Not much daylight left."
"Fine," McKay says, intent on whatever he's doing with the kite on the table in front of him. "How much?"
"About an hour," John hazards.
"Okay. Fifteen minutes to work, then we see whose goes higher?"
John grins. "Ten minutes. It takes longer than you think to get down to the water. Not much wind this time of evening, though."
McKay grins at him over scraps of plastic. "Who needs wind? Are you a girl under your, your," he waves a hand at John's black t-shirt and jeans and seems at a loss for words, "thing? Wind is for wimps."
"Oh, you are so going down," John says, then loses himself in envisioning the interplay of forces on the materials under his hands.
"Time!" McKay yells after what seems like seconds, a yell punctuated by the loud beeping of the ridiculously large watch he's wearing.
The sun's on the horizon when they finally arrive down on the beach. McKay's got his trench coat back on, and it flaps crazily in the wind that's miraculously sprung up; usually this is the calmest time of day. His hair is flapping too, and his cheeks are pink. They finally discard their shoes partway down to the water, and McKay's got his khakis rolled up to reveal sturdy calves.
"How do we judge it?" McKay yells into the wind. "Is there a time limit?"
John thinks for a second. "Yeah. Without one, it'd be a question of who could stick it out here longest."
McKay nods. "Okay. Now if I can just remember how this works..."
John looks at McKay fumbling with the spindle and trudges over through the cooling sand. "Like this," he says, and their hands brush warmly as he shows McKay how to hold it. "I'll help you start it."
McKay's eyes narrow. "Are you patronizing me?"
John laughs. How the hell did he end up on a beach with a stranger who thinks he's patronizing him about flying a kite in a two-man competition? "Yeah McKay, that's exactly what I'm doing. Patronizing you over flying a kite on a beach at night."
McKay narrows his eyes even more, but can't hold it, and laughs. "Since I've clearly got the superior kite design, it doesn't matter. Do your worst!"
John clears his throat. "Uh. Let it out slowly. Don't let it fool you; if you let it go too far too fast, give her too much head, she'll crash and burn."
"Anthropomorphizing much?" McKay asks, eyebrow raised, giving John one of his intent looks.
John ducks his head and steps back. "Fine. Just wait; you'll see."
McKay counts down and they launch the kites. It's touch and go; the wind falters for a second and it looks like both kites are coming down. Just in time, the wind revives, and they both lift as one. John lets a little line spin out, then holds his kite steady for a few seconds, getting the feel of how the redesigned structure's going to fly.
McKay's yelling, a gleeful roar, "Look at mine! I'm so winning!"
"It's not over till the fat lady sings, McKay!" John yells back, letting his kite have its head, watching it soar higher, higher.
"Speaking of fat!" McKay yells even louder. "Your kite looks like a Before picture of a girl in an ad for a weight-loss product!"
"Well, your kite looks like a girl in a Before picture made it," John yells back.
"My mother could make a kite better than yours, are you insane?" McKay shouts.
John gasps out a laugh and has to steady his hand on the kite's lead. "Your kite looks like your little sister designed it!"
"My kite looks like it's twenty feet higher than yours already!" McKay shouts back. "And my sister's got a PhD in engineering physics!"
John's been so absorbed in their kite-flying that he hasn't been paying attention to the beach around them, so it's a jolt when he hears familiar laughter close at hand. He squirms inwardly; it figures that he'd be caught out doing something this absurd by the very people who've been urging him to let loose a little. He'd somehow forgotten what time it was.
"Hey, Sheppard! Ditched us today, huh?" Ronon says in a booming voice while jogging in place. Couldn't take three days in a row, old man?"
John grimaces at him while still managing his kite.
Teyla is doing a hamstring stretch, holding a frankly-improbable pose with her leg up behind her, and grins. "Now, Ronon, we've been telling him he needs to get out, have more fun."
Ronon snickers -- snickers! "Yeah, but I never thought it'd be playing on the sand."
John spares a second to think about what a picture he and McKay must make; two almost-middle-aged guys with their pants legs wet, running backwards through the sand, eyes on bobbing kites attached to strings.
"You're both hilarious," John manages, feeling his kite dart and weave on a random thermal, and pulling his line in a little.
"Who's your friend?" Ronon asks.
John kind of wishes they'd just go away, but gathers his wits. "Oh. This is Doctor McKay," he says. "And these," he says to McKay, gesturing with one hand to Ronon and Teyla, "are friends of mine. Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagen."
"Pleased to--oh shit!" McKay says from a few feet away. "The lines are going to tangle. Pull back, pull back!"
John shakes his head and gestures to Ronon and Teyla, a "what are you going to do" type of shrug-wave, while running backwards and pulling hard on his kite's line. They both laugh again.
Teyla says, "Well, nice to meet you. We apologize, but we cannot break for too long. We need to stay aerobic."
"Oh!" McKay says. "Yes, uh. Pleased to meet you. My name's Rodney. Ridiculous to call me Doctor. Even though I am one. Two. Call me Rodney." He turns to John and repeats himself. "Call me Rodney."
John doesn't know whether he's imagining that McKay's voice deepens a little on that last bit.
"Nice to meet you, call me Rodney," Teyla says with a smile. Ronon snorts, and John wants to kill them. Can't he have a little innocent fun with a customer?
Ronon and Teyla take off jogging down the beach. Rodney asks, "So, they're...?"
"Uh. He's a writer. Trying to be a bestselling novelist. Freelances for magazines. She's some sort of marketing and fundraising person for Atlantis."
Rodney looks puzzled. "Atlantis?"
"Oh. Right, that sounds pretty weird. Atlantis Energy."
Rodney stares at John blankly.
"The clean energy company that set up shop here; they're trying to make a go of alternative energy sources from the ocean." John smirks at McKay and says airily, just to see what reaction he can elicit, "Something about waves, tides, temperatures."
"'Something about waves.' Why does it not surprise me that this is your level of description of something scientific?" McKay huffs. "Are they...?" he wiggles the fingers of his free hand suggestively in the air.
John draws a blank for a second, then figures it out. "Oh. No! Just friends. With each other."
"Then, you--never mind, sorry," McKay says quietly, then louder: "I'm sort of bad at social interaction."
"I hadn't noticed," John manages. "And no. Just friends. All of us. Have each other's backs, though."
McKay's voice sounds almost wistful. "Must be nice."
John's about to ask where McKay's from, what he does, when the wind shifts and blows hard off the cliffs looming to the east. McKay shouts and John grins, and then they're focused solely on their kites, rising up, up, into the darkening sky.
Their kites are still heading higher when the sun sinks completely to the horizon; they're specks now. Night falls fast; there are a few minutes of brilliant rose-tinted light, then dusk, then almost complete darkness.
John's strangely reluctant to end the competition, and McKay doesn't say anything either, despite the rapidly-falling temperature and the cold wind whipping their clothes. Their kites are invisible now, swallowed up in the night sky. John's just decided that he's going to have to say something and end it when they both gasp. High, high above the beach there are twin flashes of brilliance; rays from the sinking sun have somehow caught on their kites and reflected the rose-orange-yellow back down into their darkened quadrant of the Earth.
"Wow," McKay says breathily, close to John's ear. John turns and can barely see his face, outlined faintly by distant lights from the town. McKay's expression is completely different than any John's seen on his face so far; it's full of wonder. He's looking up, gazing at the two flashing points of light, and John fights a strange and inappropriate urge to put his hand on McKay's cheek.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Wow."
"Have you ever seen that before?" McKay asks quietly.
"Yeah," John says after the silence stretches a little too long. "Once. Not here, though. Somewhere else." Memories swirl for a few seconds; John comes back to himself with the feel of McKay's broad hand warm on his shoulder.
"Hey. You okay?" McKay's standing even closer to John now, and part of John wants to lean into his sturdy warmth, soak up his sarcasm and strength.
"Fine," he says a little too brusquely. McKay lets go of John's shoulder and steps away. John's abruptly freezing and hungry and tired.
"Well. I'd better--" McKay says.
"Right. We'd better get the kites for your niece figured out."
John finds himself watching McKay's hands as he efficiently sorts through packages, then watching his expressive mouth as he rejects them one at a time: "No, no, shoddy workmanship, no oh my god is this trying to turn little girls into sluts, no, I don't think so -- military wannabe, no, impossible physics, won't fly for more than two seconds."
McKay finally picks two kites, a dragon and one that's got every geometric configuration under the sun in it.
"You want to grab a late dinner?" John blurts.
"Oh! I,uh." McKay coughs into his hand, then looks back at John. "I--"
A loud beeping comes from McKay's hideous wristwatch and McKay looks momentarily confused, then incredulous. "Oh my god, why didn't you tell me it was eight o'clock!" he says.
"Well, I--"
"No, never mind, of course you didn't know. I have to be in Portland in an hour and a half. How much for the kites?" McKay digs in his pants pockets and pulls out a credit card from his seedy-looking wallet.
"Eighty bucks," John says, weirdly reluctant for the transaction to end. "But I don't have any way to take a credit card here at home."
"Oh. Of course," McKay says, looking around John's house as if surprised he's not in the store. The look on McKay's face has changed from confusion to almost-panic. "Oh god. I don't have cash. Never carry it. Ridiculous waste of space, and there are criminals everywhere. Though," he squints and looks out the big window in John's workshop, "if there were a place that was too remote for them, it might be here. But that's beside the point. I've got no cash, but I have to leave right this second or I'll miss my plane, and though I'm virtually certain to be late for it as is, on the off-chance that this state's abysmal roads aren't clogged with fleece-wearing weekenders heading to Portland, I have to try to make the flight, since my future Nobel Prize is at risk, not to mention the fortunes of my asshole employer, and--"
"Listen," John interrupts. "Just take the kites."
"No, no, I can't do that!" Rodney exclaims, looking horrified. He gestures at John's admittedly-not-palatial house around them. "I'm sure the multinational corporations who make these so-called 'kites' rake massive profits off the top of your, well, profits? If you have them? I mean, not that you probably don't, I'm sure you're very good at--"
"I'm doing fine," John says, then holds out his hands to forestall McKay's next round of protests. "Fine. Look, send me the money. Here." He grabs a piece of paper and, hesitating only for a second, scrawls his personal email address. "Email me and we'll make arrangements."
"Seriously?" McKay asks. "I hate to--okay, really, that's--yes. Okay, yes. I really can't miss this flight. But here." He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a battered card, flips it over and writes something on the back. "In case I forget. I get...distracted. Email me and I'll send it." He stops talking finally, and just stares at John.
There's sudden awkward silence, and John finally says, "Well, okay then."
McKay smiles and shuffles a little and replies, "Okay. I'll. Be emailing you?"
"Yeah. 'Bye." It feels like there's something the situation calls for, and after a bit he sticks out his hand.
McKay looks at John's hand as if it's something alien. Things go almost-awkward again, and then everything seems to click in all at once for McKay. "Right!"
"Okay." John smiles, and they keep standing there another few moments.
Rodney grips John's hand harder for a moment. "And be careful. I saw your paragliding stuff. Don't be stupid."
"I'm always careful," John says quietly.
Rodney rolls his eyes and releases John's hand. "Right. Going now." John opens the door and lets McKay out. He stares at McKay's retreating figure until he can't see him any more in the gathering mist. Huh.
~ ~ ~
John stays busy for the next few days. Really busy; he's been putting off doing the inventory for what may have added up to years, so he pulls everything off all the shelves, drags everything that's stacked up at his house over to the shop, and proceeds to try to get everything sorted and organized. When that's done, he organizes his sketches and design files. Then, since everything's all crazy anyway, he cleans. He does worry a little when he finds himself on his knees with a toothbrush scrubbing grout, but hell, it's been a while since the shop's gotten a thorough cleaning.
Ronon and Teyla seem to be on a fitness kick; they're there every night at seven to drag him on a run if he doesn't meet them at the pier, and Teyla's taken to getting him every morning before the shop opens and forcing him to do Tai Chi and Taekwondo with her on the beach.
"McKay ever send you the money?" Ronon asks ten days later, when they've run even farther and faster than usual.
"Nah," John pants, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "Didn't figure he would."
"Huh," Ronon says. "You've got his email address, right?"
"Yeah. I think so. He put it on a card."
"And that tells where he works, right?" Ronon presses. "Did you write him?"
"Nah. It's no big deal," John says, not making eye contact.
There's silence for a few minutes. John works out a twinge in his hamstrings; he can feel Ronon's eyes on him. "Okay. Just seemed like the kind of guy who could lose your address, you know?"
"He could look up the shop, if he wanted to." John cringes at the petulant note he thinks he hears in his voice.
Ronon smiles gently. "Could. Didn't seem like the type to think to do that."
John smiles at Ronon. It was a good day when he met him, on this very beach. "Maybe."
That evening, he fingers the card McKay had pressed into his hand, and looks at the email address scrawled on the back. After a few minutes, he puts it back in his wallet. It's just too weird; it'll seem like he's asking for the money, which he could care less about. And if it seems like something else, well, that's weird, too.
Chickenshit, yeah. But he's had enough drama for multiple lifetimes; he doesn't need to invite more in. Even if McKay were interested. Which he obviously isn't. Besides, he lives in Vancouver. Hours and hours away, and a different country besides. So. The card stays in his wallet.
~ ~ ~
"Seriously, guys, I appreciate it," John says the next morning, a Sunday, when both Ronon and Teyla show up with frightening-looking sparring equipment. "But I'm fine. Just going through the beginning-of-the-tourist-rush thing, with the shop. You know."
They nod, and back off a little. Not all the way, because that's how they are with each other. But enough that John can breathe.
~ ~ ~
Summer
John's almost forgotten the sight of Rodney's competent hands piecing together a miraculous kite, almost forgotten how it felt to trash-talk with him on the beach, when he gets a frantic email from a University of British Columbia address. Is this Sheppard? it reads. Coming there with niece Friday. My sister=insane and wants to prevent her from becoming a juvenile delinquent by allowing her fond wish to throw herself off a cliff. Thought of your ridiculous gliding. Will pay big bucks and copious amounts of alcohol. After the gliding. Available???
The second John's finished reading the email, his cell phone rings; it's a number he doesn't recognize, and he's pretty sure it's B.C.'s area code. Sure enough, it's McKay, who starts talking like it hasn't been two months since he stormed into John's shop. "This is John Sheppard, right? Designs stealth gliders in secret? Frivolous shop, slacker hair?"
John has to hold the phone away from his body for a moment and stare at it; until now, he thought that was something people only did on television. He can hear McKay's tinny voice continuing, so he cautiously puts the phone back up by his ear. "...divorce has hit her hard, and she's running around with a bad crowd. Seriously, how a ten year old can have a bad crowd, I really can't understand. Though, hmm, that was about the age that I constructed that working model, the nuclear thing, so who knows. Anyway, the point is--Sheppard? Are you there?"
"Yeah?" John manages.
"Of course you're there. Where else would you be? Anyway, the point is, could you, that is, she is my niece, and I told Jeannie that I knew someone who wouldn't let Madison crash into the ground or fall into the ocean, though truthfully of course I don't actually know you, per se, but still, it's better than looking in the Yellow Pages, and at least I know you understand some basic physics and engineering." McKay finally sputters to a halt, and there's silence for a second. "Uh. Sheppard?"
"Yeah, okay," John says. "When do you--?"
"I knew you would!" Rodney says gleefully. "I told her you would. She didn't believe me when I told her I knew an expert, but--"
"McKay," John all but growls into the phone.
"Right, okay."
"How long are you going to be here?" John eyes the calendar on the wall. "When? Because I'll only take people up if the weather conditions are right; if I'm taking someone with me, I'm erring on the side of caution. If it's a kid, even more caution. There's no guarantee it'll happen."
"I knew it!" McKay exults. "I told her you'd be perfect!"
John waits.
McKay finally says more quietly. "We're coming tonight? If that's okay. Staying at--Laura, where are we staying again?" he yells. Laura, whoever that is, yells back, "Pacific Inn!" McKay talks into the phone again. "The Pacific Inn. And we have all Saturday and Sunday. We're not heading back until Monday, to beat the crowds. My sister..."
John hears McKay's pause, and senses that they're entering more serious territory.
Sure enough, McKay's voice gets lower, quieter. "My sister's going through a rough time. So is Madison. I haven't--I've been kind of a shitty brother. And uncle. So, I thought..."
"Gotcha." John remembers this, how McKay would veer from total oblivious obnoxiousness to a sort of sweetly open vulnerability. Like he never completely learned how to be a grownup. "Yeah, we can do that. And if the weather doesn't cooperate, I think we, uh, you, can still find some stuff she'll like to do. With kites and stuff I've got in the shop. Bad weather can make flying some of the stuff I've got pretty cool."
"Okay, yes, that's, that's nice." The vulnerability is still there, along with a hesitance, like McKay is only now considering whether John might want to spend time with him. "You? That is, you don't have to--"
"I want to," John says. And he surprises himself with how much he does.
~ ~ ~
Friday night he's open late, since the daylight lingers this time of year. This far north near the solstice, it doesn't get dark until at least ten o'clock, and he likes to be open for families that want to indulge in a little after-dinner kite flying with their kids.
Still no sign of McKay and his niece, but that's not really a surprise. Undoubtedly McKay wanted to take her straight to the hotel anyway. And why wouldn't he? They're not even acquaintances, let alone friends, not really. John grimaces as he takes down the special wind-catcher he keeps hanging in front of the shop's door whenever he's open. He's gone a long time on the good, but non-intrusive friendships he's made in this town, and that's the way he likes it. Why he's started thinking of McKay as someone he might like to be friends with is beyond him. And dangerous; he has no sense that McKay would be interested, and John figured out a while ago that it's expectations that get a person hurt.
"Look at the pretty winged horse!" a girl's voice pipes into John's thoughts.
"I already told you, don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well who, or well, what, that is. Don't try that 'pretty horsey' stuff with me!" McKay's voice.
John turns, and sure enough, Rodney's standing in front of the shop with a tall, slender girl with blond hair. McKay's hands are moving rapidly through the air, just like John remembered. He's wearing a short-sleeve shirt this time, a medium blue that makes his eyes stand out even more than they do otherwise and shows how broad his shoulders really are, not to mention highlighting the surprising amount of muscle in his arms.
The girl tosses her hair back and frowns at McKay, who puts his hands on his hips and glares at her in return. Suddenly, she breaks into a huge grin and laughs. "Sure. Pegasus. Read all about it when I was six," she says. "Though what a kite store in Podunk, Oregon is doing with a picture of Pegasus on its front window is a mystery to me."
McKay grins at her, then seems to notice John for the first time. He takes two quick steps toward John, face lit with what looks like a genuine smile, then comes jerkily to a stop.
"McKay," John says as levelly as he can manage.
"Don't even say it, I know I'm not a good person!" McKay holds up a hand as if warding John off, and his smile fades.
"Say...?"
"I should have paid you. But here." McKay digs around in his jeans pocket for a minute. He pulls out a crumpled wad of bills and stretches his arm out, presses the money into John's hand.
"No," John manages. "I mean, no, don't worry about it. That's not--."
"Absolutely, I insist," McKay continues. "And we're paying full freight for the paragliding," he darts a venomous glance at Madison, "that is, should the little princess actually deserve it by then, and for anything else we do. Also, we owe you dinner."
"You do?" John feels the corner of his mouth pull up a little.
"Yes. Remember, you offered."
"But we didn't--"
"True. But without your guidance, we'll be lucky to find a fast-food restaurant around here, let alone something Madison or I can stomach. Unless," McKay looks away, then coughs into his hand, "unless there's a family, someone you need to go home to? Or you, uh, have a hot date?"
It's the most obvious fake-nonchalant quest for personal information John's ever heard, and his stomach flips ridiculously. He still doesn't know what McKay's thinking, but John smirks all-out at him anyway. "Not exactly."
~ ~ ~
Rodney eats like no one John's ever seen; his obvious delight in food's tastes and textures has John at a loss at first, but he quickly comes to appreciate the gusto with which Rodney seems to tackle something as prosaic as a cheeseburger. He's tempted to call it sensuality, but that's probably too nice a word for something that involves chomping sounds and grease all over the guy's fingers.
Sandy, their waitress, looks a little horrified and a little impressed, and he's pretty sure she's stifling a smile when she brings the desserts. Sure enough, she lingers long enough to hear McKay's orgasmic noises over the Chocolate Decadence. John has to admit he'd chosen The Puddlejumper half in anticipation of what the restaurant's signature cake might elicit from McKay, and he's not disappointed.
John can't quite get a feel for Madison; one minute she seems like a normal, happy kid, the next, a little withdrawn. Still other times, she's almost as smart and sarcastic as McKay.
By mutual agreement, they walk down onto the beach after dinner. The sun's finally going down, and the beach is almost deserted: there are a couple of joggers, a couple of people with dogs, and a couple of people with kites.
There's something familiar about the look of one of the kites, but before John figures it out, a small voice calls, "John!" It's Torren, with Teyla.
"Hey buddy," John says, as Torren runs up to him, curls bouncing.
Torren suddenly comes to a halt and looks down at his feet. "Hey," he mumbles; it's the shyness that Teyla and Kanaan worry so much about.
"How old are you?" Madison asks, with no buildup.
"Nine," Torren says. "Ten on Sunday."
"I'm older than you. I've been ten for three weeks," Madison says in a superior tone.
Torren narrows his eyes at her. "Well, I have a kite, and you don't."
"I do so have a kite! It's just...not here."
Torren looks at her for a minute and then says softly, holding his kite handle out toward her, "You want to fly mine for a while? It's really cool."
"Seriously?" she asks.
"Yeah. You know how?"
"Of course," she scoffs, taking the kite spindle from him.
"Madison! Manners!" Rodney says.
"Sure, sure, thank you," Madison says, letting the string on the kite out, walking backwards and watching the kite soar higher. As the kite rises, she turns to Torren and smiles, a genuine smile. "Really thank you. What is it?"
"It's a pterosaur. Ancient flying--"
"I know what a pterosaur is! Jeez, what do you think I am, stupid? Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I don't know about ancient flying reptiles!"
Torren puts his hands on his hips, a posture John's never seen him take. Teyla is watching the scene with one eyebrow raised, looking like she's not sure whether she might need to intervene. "And just because I'm a boy doesn't mean I think you're stupid," Torren says, not shy-sounding at all.
Madison grins at him. "Do you live here or something?"
"Yeah."
"Seriously? Wow, that's so cool. What kind of sea life do you see? Any marine mammals? Oh! Do you have jellyfish? Have you ever been stung by one?"
"We have marine mammals, Eumetopias jubatus for example, and a number of creatures from the cnidarian genus, what people call jellyfish."
Madison stares at Torren with her mouth slightly open for a few seconds, then grins hugely at him. "Sea lions, seriously? Can you show me?"
"Well, no, not right here. But I can tell you where you can see them. The jellyfish, yeah, I can show you." Torren says. "Come on. Mom, can you hold the kite?"
Teyla takes it, and the adults watch them run down to the water's edge. Rodney looks nervous, and Teyla says, "Torren understands the dangers of the ocean. He will not let her get in too far."
John nods at Rodney. "And we'll be right here. I always stay within a few yards of anyone near the water. I'll pull her out if anything happens."
"Okay, if you think so," Rodney says, keeping a sharp eye on the figures bending and examining something on the sand.
Teyla smiles at Rodney. "I have heard much about you."
John gives her a dirty look, but Rodney's reaction is almost worth it. "You. You have?"
"We don't get a lot of genius scientists dropping into the kite shop," John drawls, but the look Rodney's giving him might be speculative.
"So, how did you, I mean, are you from here?" Rodney asks Teyla. "I mean. I guess that's probably rude. Is that rude?" he asks John.
Teyla smiles and prevents John from having to respond. "No. I'm not from here. I'm here because of Atlantis. I'm one of the co-founders. I handle the investors, marketing, that kind of thing. We're convinced we can provide the world with a cheap, non-polluting source of renewable energy."
"Oh, please," Rodney says, rolling his eyes, having obviously forgotten to be awkwardly polite. "You and the rest of the world. So, let me guess. What is your group of ex-hippies doing? Harvesting the wind? Because Earth to New-Agers: it's not reliable enough, you can't--"
"Not wind, though that has its place. We are utilizing a resource far greater than the wind: the ocean. It covers most of our planet, and it's practically unlimited, it--"
"Yes, yes, the ocean is very big. But no one's been able to tap its--"
Teyla leans forward, eyes gleaming. "We will, I'm sure of it. We are of course exploring wave energy and tidal energy for smaller uses. But the main focus of our group is thermal energy conversion, and I believe we are very close to a breakthrough. Do you understand the concept?" Teyla asks with a small smile playing around the corner of her mouth.
"Do I--?" Rodney splutters.
God, John would pay good money to watch McKay cycle through his different moods and reactions.
"Yes, I understand the concept," Rodney finally manages. "I've got a double doctorate in--"
"Come to our party, then," Teyla interrupts.
"What?"
"Tomorrow night. If, that is, John?"
"Sure, great idea," John says.
"What--?"
"Tomorrow we're having a party, a celebration really, for our employees, and friends of Atlantis. You and Madison should attend. Torren would love to have her company. And I'm sure John would be happy to show you where we are?"
John nods, and looks down at the shoreline where Torren and Madison are digging around in the wet sand. He can feel Rodney glance at him, then at the kids.
"Really?" Rodney says.
"Yes. You might enjoy talking to the co-founder of the company. He is the genius behind our techniques." Teyla's secret smile is still hovering.
"Ha! I'm pretty sure there's only one genius in this town right now."
Teyla laughs, a sparkly sound. John's actually relieved, because he's wondered about his own weird interest in McKay, but figures if Teyla actually likes him, maybe it's okay. "Six o'clock, our house. John will be happy to bring you?"
"Yes," John says.
Rodney looks at John again. "I don't want to be an imposition. I mean, you might have other--"
"My pleasure," John says softly, and McKay looks down, but not before John sees what he thinks is a smile on his face.
"Okay, well, probably time for me to get Madison to bed. We're both exhausted." Rodney goes down to the shore line, and after quite an interval of gesturing and discussion, he and Madison finally walk back to John. They say goodbye to Teyla and head back to the street where Rodney's rental is parked. "Well. Thanks for, for everything," Rodney says.
"Tomorrow, around ten? First lesson?" John asks. "Weather permitting."
Madison beams. "Earlier! And if there's bad weather, kites!"
"No, not earlier." Rodney shakes his head. "It's late, and we have to eat a good breakfast. Ten sounds good. At your shop?"
"Yeah, I've got everything there. If the weather's right, we might drive to the dunes. I've got a jeep for it. Wear shoes that are good for hiking, too."
John watches the two of them walk toward Rodney's rental car. In the light from a far-off streetlight, he can see Madison reach out her hand towards Rodney. John swallows hard.
Sleep is a long time in coming.
~ ~ ~
Morning dawns clear and bright, but since he can hear the wind even from inside, John doesn't have to see the sky to know there's no way they're going to be able to go up today. Still, there's a lot he can do to get Madison ready; the weather forecast predicts virtually no wind tomorrow, so it's likely conditions will be good.
Rodney seems subdued when he brings Madison by the shop at ten, and so does she. John tries to interest her in various kites since they're not going to be gliding today, but she just nods quietly, touching them listlessly. After a while, Rodney pulls John aside. "Hard night," he says. "I think it's all hitting her. Jeannie, she--she made a mistake, got pregnant with this guy, a real jerk." Rodney glances over at Madison and lowers his voice even more. "I told her to terminate the pregnancy, but she wouldn't listen." He sighs. "I'm telling you, she could have been halfway to a Nobel by now herself." Rodney must see something on John's face, because he shakes his head quickly. "Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no, I get that it's awesome Madison exists and everything, but. They got married and Jeannie subverted her career to this guy, Jamie, excuse me, James, despite--"
"You were telling me about Madison," John prompts gently.
"Oh. Oh, right," Rodney says, face pulling into a frown. "He left them with no warning, which, good riddance, he's an asshole, but since he left, he's only called Madison twice. He promises her to see her, and then never shows. Jeannie finally has a high-powered job, but she's got less time for Madison now, and she's not exactly an easy child anyway, so..." McKay sighs and looks at John with a soft, tired expression on his face.
John loses a short battle with the urge he feels to touch McKay, and reaches out, grasps his arm lightly. "She'll be okay."
Rodney seems to lean into the touch, and John wants to pull him closer, wants to--
"Thanks," Rodney says softly, and John drags his eyes up from Rodney's mouth. He can feel his cheeks heat a little; he needs to watch himself. Rodney doesn't seem bothered, and reaches his own big hand to clasp for a second around John's arm.
"Can I give her a kite?" John asks.
"If you let me pay."
John shakes his head. "I'm charging you full freight for the paragliding, but I want to give her one, from me."
Rodney looks at him a second, then nods. "Okay. Sure. Hey," he adds, face brightening. "Want to have a competition again?"
"Competition?" Madison says from the doorway, having returned from whatever she was doing.
John smiles. "Bring it on. We can practice stuff for gliding later."
~ ~ ~
Three hours later, sandy, disheveled and grinning, the three of them tramp into John's house. John fixes them frozen pizza and chocolate cake -- he'd bought it and brought it home from the restaurant last night.
He spends the afternoon working with Madison on procedures for safe paragliding. In and out of the harness, how to roll if a landing goes bad, learning about updrafts and downdrafts and parachutes. Rodney spends the time grading papers in John's workroom, and John thinks about how strange it is that it feels...normal to have him there, working in the background, cursing occasionally and talking under his breath to himself.
When John pokes his head in to say it's almost time to go to Teyla's, Rodney looks startled. "It is? Oh, wow. Sorry, I didn't mean for you to have to spend all day with us. God, we're not that pathetic."
John smiles at him. "You want to use my shower? One of my shirts or something? Madison's got a change of clothes, I checked."
"Oh. Well, yes, if that's alright, I could really use that."
John shows Rodney the bathroom off his bedroom and hands him a shirt that's never fit him right, studiously avoiding glancing at the bed, half-made and dominating the room. There's nothing embarrassing around, but still, it feels strangely intimate having Rodney there. Rodney seems to feel it too, and he stammers a little when he takes the towel John offers. "Yes, thanks, that's very--Well, I'll be showering now. In the bathroom. Oh god." He rolls his eyes and walks into the bathroom.
John tries very hard not to imagine Rodney in the shower, hot steam turning his skin pink, his eyelashes covered with tiny droplets...
~ ~ ~
When they pull up to the house in John's jeep, Rodney sits silently for a moment, then says, "Wow."
"Yeah," John says. "Kanaan's an architect, so..."
"So I'm guessing Teyla wouldn't exactly have to work?"
"No. She does it because she believes in it. Says it's something she has to do."
"What's her background?"
John steers the jeep into the large gravel area to the side of the house. "She was a marketing and investor relations guru for some big international company before, wanted to do something with more meaning. Kanaan works from home a lot, doesn't have to work full-time because he can charge so freaking much, so one or the other of them is pretty much always with Torren."
John parks the jeep and leads them to a path cut through low-growing dune grass. "We can get in this way."
"You come here a lot?" Rodney asks.
"Yeah. They like having friends hang out." He shoots Rodney a grin. "And Torren's got some great video games."
They round the corner and the house comes into sight again. It's low to the ground and blends in with the short dunes around it. It's got sweeping curves that somehow mimic the mountains to the east and the curl of the water to the west. Terraces sweep down the back side to the sand, with decks in strategic locations. Some sort of New Agey music is playing gently through hidden speakers. Small groups of people are sitting or standing on the back deck, drinking and talking. They're all dressed casually and seem relaxed. Torren's there, along with the children of some of the other guests; mainly people John's met before.
Teyla sees them arrive and greets John with a quick press of lips to each cheek, then the forehead-leaning move that's her signature greeting for close friends. She turns and smiles at Rodney and Madison. "I'm so glad you came. Madison, do you wish to join Torren and the other children? They are playing games over there."
Teyla points to a long low table littered with board games and puzzles and Madison nods. "Can I, Uncle Mer?"
"Uncle Mer?" John watches as Rodney's cheeks flush slightly.
"Yes, yes, an unfortunate naming incident. Meredith. My parents are...interesting. Can we just forget it?"
John grins in a way that hopefully lets Rodney know he's unlikely to mean his response. "Sure."
"So, can I go?" Madison tugs on Rodney's arm.
"Of course. Don't go down to the beach without telling me, though."
"They won't," Teyla says. "Torren knows the rules on that. Madison, can you tell the gentleman with the frizzy hair to come over when he has a minute?" They watch as Madison runs over to the table and says something to Zelenka, and Torren greets her with a smile.
Teyla turns to Rodney. "Rodney, I have someone I want you to meet. I believe you have something in common with him."
"I do?" Rodney's wearing the shirt John loaned him, and it stretches tautly across his shoulders.
"Here he is now!" Teyla says. "Radek! Come here a minute. There's someone I think you should meet."
Zelenka lopes over, a small bundle of energy. His hair is, if anything, more dramatic in the damp salty air than John's used to. "Yes, yes, what is so important that I must interrupt my discussion with your son and his friend about possible life in other galaxies?"
Teyla smiles. "Radek Zelenka, meet Rodney McKay. That is, Doctor Zelenka meet Doctor McKay. Rodney, Radek is my partner in Atlantis, and the genius behind our proprietary technology."
"Is he the genius who came up with the hokey name?" Rodney asks while shaking Zelenka's hand.
"Hey!" John says. "It was my idea!"
"Figures," Rodney says, rolling his eyes.
Zelenka shoves his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and stares at Rodney. "It is singularly excellent name actually. Signifying hope for future civilization. Endless clean energy, like a myth, but we can make it true."
Rodney gapes at him. "What is your doctorate in, anyway, romanticism? And also, it sank!"
John takes a step forward to intervene, but Zelenka is grinning at Rodney. "What is yours in, pessimism? My breakthrough will revolutionize all of human life."
"Yet somehow I've never heard of you," Rodney responds.
"That is because I am more concerned with advancing future of humankind than petty science politics. I am the person who came up with new system for maximizing efficiency of heat exchange required for harvesting ocean's thermal energy," Radek says.
"You--Wait, you have? Is it sustainable? And what's the temperature differential out here, anyway? Because I don't see how it possibly can have the required range between temperature at the floor and at the surface."
"Ah! You do know something about thermal differential energy," Radek says.
"Know something!" Rodney huffs. "I wrote the book on it. Literally. Well, it's not hardcover, because not enough people care, but the seminal--"
"Wait, wait." Radek slaps his forehead. "McKay! You are Doctor McKay of the article, 'Maximum Efficiencies Problem in Thermal Differential Energy Production' in latest physics journal! Double doctor, I believe, in fact. Oh, very pleased to make your acquaintance. I have meant to contact you and see whether I might run some concepts by you, but thought perhaps you wouldn't--"
Rodney visibly puffs up and smiles at Zelenka. "Normally I reject all attempts to use the results of my work for idiotic projects that will never function. But since I'm here, maybe I could take a look, see where you went wrong..."
Zelenka beams at him. "I feel certain that if I can simply determine mechanism for preventing heating of deeper water through the process itself--"
"Yes, yes, then you would only be dealing with the basic differential required, not the additional heating brought on by the process." Rodney snaps his fingers at the air. "Pencil! Paper!"
When no one responds, he looks around, frowning. "Someone! Humanity-saving work going on here!"
"Here," Radek says, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his back pocket and two pens out of his front shirt pocket. John resists the urge to look to see whether he's wearing a pocket protector. Radek pulls Rodney over to a nearby table and presses him down into a chair. "You can see where I am at in the problem, and--"
"Yes, but here," Rodney stabs his finger at some numbers scrawled messily on the paper, "here you didn't take into account the--"
"True, but if you look at the reverse side, you will see that I compensated--"
"What, with the size of your writing? Just because it's bigger doesn't mean that it's right. Though, hmm--"
"Yes, yes exactly what I wondered..."
Bemused, John exchanges a glance with Teyla. She raises her eyebrow and he shrugs at her. He leaves them sitting there, figuring it'll be a while until Rodney's wanting to be social again.
Sure enough, when he comes back an hour later with a drink for Rodney, after having made paper airplanes with the kids, he and Radek are still deep in discussion. They must have found more paper somewhere, because there are crumpled-up balls littering not just their table, but the deck around them. John stands and listens for a while, and they're still doing what they were, finishing each other's sentences before John can even figure out what they're talking about, and scrawling notes on top of each other's writing. John watches Rodney's muscled forearm flex as he scratches mathematical notation on a napkin, and he has to swallow.
"Rodney," John finally says softly. Then, when there's no response, a little louder. "Rodney. Hey, buddy."
"Busy now," Rodney says, waving with his hand in the universal gesture for, "go away."
John takes a breath. He puts the drink down on the table in front of Rodney, then brings his hand to Rodney's shoulder; a gesture that is sufficiently neutral not to raise eyebrows, he knows from experience, yet if the person's interested--
Rodney freezes under his hand and looks up from the table at John.
"The bonfire's started, and I thought maybe you'd want to join in?" John bites his lip and lets his hand move a little on Rodney's shoulder, then squeeze, feeling pretty damn juvenile. Under his hand, Rodney's shoulder is huge and strong and warm.
"Uh. Yes, yes, that'd be--Okay, yes, that sounds--Where's Madison?"
"She's good," John says, only now removing his hand. "I made airplanes with them." He adds, "Paper ones," at Rodney's raised eyebrow. "There're marshmallows for the kids, brandy for us."
"Yes, yes," Radek says, continuing to scribble on the piece of paper in front of him.
They collect Madison and traipse down to the sand, where a huge bonfire's already lit. There are blankets spread out, and they find one with enough room for them to fit. The sun's putting on a show; it's sinking in a blaze of color, painting the entire western sky orange and hot pink. The water seems calmer than earlier, as it often does at this time of night, the breakers coming in hypnotically perfect succession.
A couple of people have guitars and someone has a flute. There's singing, and s'more-making, and drinking, and then star-gazing once the sun finally sets.
Rodney's uncharacteristically quiet, and Madison is obviously exhausted; she's curled into a blanket in front of them, only occasionally opening her eyes.
Eventually the fire dies down and people start drifting back up to the house or their cars. John's strangely reluctant to leave, and Rodney hasn't said anything or moved in a long time.
The three of them are the only ones left on the beach when Rodney finally talks. "Pegasus is that way," he says quietly, breaking the silence and pointing. The stars are out in force now; the sky is littered with brilliant points of light. The Milky Way is a hazy cloud flung across the span of sky. "You know it's a galaxy?"
"That's not what I named the store after, but yeah," John says, matching his quiet tones. "I'm kind of an amateur astronomer. I've got a telescope at my place. When I was a kid, I always wanted--" He stops himself. It's not like him to talk this much.
"You wanted?" Rodney asks.
John grimaces. "To be an astronaut. That wasn't something my parents were going to let happen, not if they could help it." John's starting to feel uncomfortable with the way Rodney's looking at him, searchingly, like he can figure him out if he just looks at him hard enough.
Somehow he and Rodney have ended up inches apart on the blanket. It's cold now, and Rodney scoots a little closer. John's heart rate kicks up a little and he thinks, careful, careful, and he means that in a lot of different ways all at the same time.
"Hmm. My parents didn't want me to be what I wanted, either," Rodney says.
"Which was...?"
"You'll laugh." Rodney's looking up at the stars, leaning back on his elbows.
John pitches his voice low. "I don't think so."
Rodney turns towards John, his face a lighter blur in the firelit dark. "A musician. I played piano. I was a prodigy, of course."
"Of course."
John thinks Rodney's going to say more about himself, but he surprises him. "So what did you name the store after, if it wasn't the galaxy?" Rodney's funny that way: John will think he's not paying attention, and he often isn't, but then he'll turn around and remember something like that.
John smiles at him. "It's the symbol Britain's parachute troops used in World War II. Pegasus."
"Wow," Rodney says. "Cool." John waits for Rodney to say more, but he doesn't. After a few seconds, Rodney blurts, "Do you--?" He coughs into his hand. "That is, I was wondering whether, well, all indications are no, but then again, I've wondered a couple of times, because--Oh god, I'm so bad at this, and I want to be your friend no matter what. And that's most important, I mean, I really like you, and that just doesn't happen, like ever, but I also, that is--"
Madison stirs in her blankets. Her voice is heavy with sleep. "Jeez, Uncle Mer! The wind-catcher in front of his shop is a rainbow!"
"I--. Oh. It is? Really? I wasn't--"
John's heart stutters and he has to remember to breathe for a second. "Go to sleep, Madison," he manages.
"Mrmph," she says, snuggling into her blankets, body going lax again.
Rodney's eyes are huge in the light from the coals of the bonfire. "But that doesn't necessary mean," he says breathily. "Unless it's some secret code, a signal, like the hobo signs during the Depression or something--"
"It kind of is, I think, Rodney," John whispers, leaning in, despite the warnings going off in his head. "Do you--?"
Rodney whispers back, "I have terrible gaydar, always have. I have terrible straightdar, too, it's non-discriminatory terribleness. I just never know, and I usually am wrong, and put my foot in my mouth, or whatever's analogous to that when it comes to, uh, stuff like that. And I'm babbling, aren't I? I do that when I get nervous, which I am. Not in the bad way, in the good way, but I--" and John, who's been torn between amused incredulity and amused fondness, finishes the lean, and they're kissing for the first time. Rodney's lips are soft; long and thin, but surprisingly warm. It's just a brush of lips at first, but then Rodney opens his mouth a little and John runs his tongue along Rodney's bottom lip, a tentative exploration, and then Rodney's tongue is pressing into John's mouth just a little.
It's been so long, and it feels so good; the taste of Rodney's mouth is setting off sparks all along John's skin, and his hands are aching, literally aching to touch. And then Rodney's elbows apparently give out and he's crashing down flat on the ground, and John's got his own elbows on either side of Rodney's head and his hands cupped around his face, and Rodney's hands are in John's hair, one stroking gently around his ear, one on the back of his neck, pulling him down.
John's lying half on top of Rodney now, chest on his chest, and something about the way Rodney has to hitch in a breath moves John inexplicably. The kiss that was spiraling into heat slows down; he slows it down, turns it sweet again, and Rodney follows, seemingly happy for any kissing with whatsoever. Maybe he's been as hard-up as John, or maybe that's just John's wishful thinking.
They both seem to remember Madison at the same time. Rodney says, "Uh" into John's mouth just when John's about to say something. John pulls up a few inches and smiles at Rodney. Rodney rolls his eyes, which makes the heat in John's belly coil a little tighter, and yeah, that's probably a little weird, but there's something about Rodney's sarcasm that really does it for him.
"So," Rodney says in a normal tone of voice. "Are you catching all of this, Madison?"
John thwacks him on the arm and rolls off. Rodney says, "What! What good is a cool uncle if you can't learn a few things?"
Madison groans sleepily from her blanket. "Would you shut up! All I want to do is sleep!"
"Now, Madison, that's no way to talk to your uncle." Rodney's grinning at John as he says it. His lips look a little swollen and his eyes are still big.
"One word. Blackmail. I'll tell my mom you were making out," Madison says, unfolding herself from the blankets and rubbing at her eyes.
"I am so proud of her," Rodney says to John. "Isn't she something?"
Madison rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of Rodney.
"Come on," John says. "I'll take you guys back to your hotel. You can get your car tomorrow." If there's a little disappointment in his voice, he figures no one can blame him.
They stumble into the house to say their goodbyes. Thankfully there are only candles and lanterns burning; their eyes have adjusted to the almost-dark and even that low lighting seems incredibly bright.
Teyla takes one look at John and ducks her head, smiling full-out towards the floor, but manages to bring her face back to almost-neutrality when she speaks. She turns to Rodney and says hesitantly. "We were wondering. Perhaps you would not be comfortable with this, which would be completely understandable, but...Torren has been so happy spending time with Madison. It is his birthday tomorrow, and he has not made good friends among the local children yet. We hoped, that is, Torren hoped, that Madison could come over, stay with us, sleep over? We would make sure all was proper, of course."
"As if!" Rodney blurts. "They're ten! They just want to build things and dissect things and watch stupid movies!"
John bites his bottom lip and shuffles a little, because what they've just offered would mean--might mean, he corrects himself, because he's not going to make any assumptions about what Rodney might want...
"Yes, we agree. Some parents do not understand that friendships can be formed between girls and boys. We had hoped, well, Torren wished to visit the Aquarium in Newport. We'd take them there in the afternoon, eat out in Newport at Torren's favorite restaurant, watch the boats, then come home and they could play, watch movies..."
"Oh, please, Uncle Mer! Torren says I might see sea lions there! Can I, can I, pleeease?"
Rodney narrows his eyes at Madison. "Do you think I'm a simpleton? Batting your eyelashes won't get you anywhere." Madison pouts a little and Rodney grins. "Alright, you can. Assuming we're done with the gliding."
"It's gotta be early anyway," John confirms. "The wind always kicks up later in the day. We'll be done." He hopes he doesn't sound too eager. Rodney hasn't looked in John's direction this whole time, and John can't figure out whether he's not really interested, or oblivious, or just not looking his direction.
"Are you sure, though?" Rodney asks Madison. "And what will I do without you? I'll be lonely."
Madison smiles at him, a smile of someone a lot older than her years. "You won't be lonely. John can keep you company. Can't you, John?"
John changes a nervous laugh into a cough and nods. "Yeah. I can handle that. If he wants."
"But what about you and Kanaan?" Rodney says to Teyla. "You'd be taking the rugrat off my hands for a good twelve hours." His gentle hand on Madison's head belies his words, and John can see that she understands he's joking. "How about I take Torren during the day tomorrow? He can hang out with us? After the gliding, too, until it's time to leave for the Aquarium?" Rodney's face crumples into a sudden frown and he turns to John. "That is, if that's okay with John? And, of course, I don't mean you'd have to hang with us all day or anything, you probably don't want--"
"Yes," John says simply, and watches McKay's face change again, this time to a pleased smile.
"There is no need for you to reciprocate," Teyla says, "as giving up Madison for that time will be doing us a great favor. However, we could use some time alone, and time to prepare for the party, so, yes! Torren may only come along as an observer, though. He has been paragliding with John before. This time will be for Madison. Are you going up?" Teyla asks Rodney.
"Me?" Rodney gasps. "Do you think I'm insane? I wouldn't go up in one of those things if my life depended on it! God!"
Teyla looks amused. "With John, you'd always be perfectly safe."
John feels Rodney look him up and down, the most blatant checking-out he's engaged in yet. "Let's hope not," Rodney says crisply, and John smirks at the floor, feeling his cheeks burn. So Rodney had realized what Teyla's offer would mean for them.
Rodney talks non-stop for the entire drive back to their hotel, filling John's ear with the mistakes Zelenka's making at Atlantis and the potential for ocean-generated energy to save the world. "It even produces clean water," he enthuses. "Desalinization is a byproduct of the process of tapping thermal differential energy, you know."
"You could bottle it and save the world from the effects of the bottles," John says, straight-faced.
"Haha, you are so amusing I forgot to laugh." But John sees the corner of Rodney's mouth twitch, and suddenly he wants to lick that corner, lick it and lick his way inside, into the heat and--
"We're here," Rodney says.
John carries the now fast-asleep Madison into the room while Rodney holds the door open, and then there's an awkward moment by the door when John reaches for Rodney just as he's backing up and then Rodney reaches for John just as he's turning to leave.
"Stay!" Rodney finally stage-whispers, motioning to the floor directly inside the door, in the tone of voice you'd use for a dog.
John grins and stays, and Rodney tips his chin up and whispers, "If I could, I'd ask if you'd, well, want to stay. For a drink. Or whatever people do. Who know about this stuff."
"I'd stay," John says quickly before he can chicken out.
"God, why did I get lucky the one time I have my ten year old niece with me?" Rodney whines quietly. "Or wait. Maybe the reason I got lucky is because I have my niece with me. Is that it? You know, like the guys who take babies to the grocery store because then women hit on them?"
"Yes, Rodney. I'm hitting on you because your niece is so cute it reflects cuteness onto you," John deadpans in a whisper.
"Oh, haha, your sense of humor is pathetic," Rodney says. "And also, come here," he adds, reaching out and pulling John's mouth to his and giving him a searing kiss that leaves John feeling shaky. "There!" Rodney says when he breaks it off. "Sleep on that."
"Screw you, McKay," John laughs. "Screw you."
Rodney raises his eyebrow at John significantly, and John has to fight back something that feels damn close to a giggle.
John's still smiling when he gets home.
~ ~ ~
Sunday dawns clear and calm, just like John's favorite weather site predicted. He wakes up early, despite not having been able to get to sleep until very late, and has everything loaded early. Kanaan drops off Torren and confirms the plans for later. They pick up Rodney and Madison from their hotel; John gives them a once-over and nods approvingly at their footwear and jackets. He's already fitted Madison for the correct helmet and gliding gear, and he's got snacks and first-aid stuff loaded, so it looks like they're good to go.
"You have all the safety equipment?" Rodney asks without preamble.
John nods. "You bet. Plus extras."
"First-aid?"
"Yeah. Not the cheap store-bought kit," John adds when Rodney's about to ask more questions. "I've got everything short of a hospital emergency room in there."
"Okay then," Rodney says nervously, getting into the front passenger seat. He turns and raises his eyebrows at Madison. "I call shotgun!"
Madison rolls her eyes. "Seriously," she says to Torren, "Which one of us is the kid?"
John grins most of the way to the Cape. If he takes the hairpins a little too fast just to hear McKay mutter under his breath, he figures it's not really his fault; it's just too fun.
When they park, Rodney grabs Madison's hand before she can dart to the overlook. "Oh no, Missy, I am not losing you in some freak cliff-sliding accident. Your mother might actually miss you."
Madison's face takes on the sad look it sometimes does, and John can practically see Rodney kicking himself. "He's right," John says softly. "From now on, everything's about safety. A lot of people would miss you if anything happened to you."
Madison is silent, but accepts Rodney's outstretched hand. "So!" Rodney says too-brightly. "What terrifying thing do we do next?"
John parcels out all the necessary equipment from the jeep and motions to a barely-discernible trail in the slope heading up to the top of the cliff. He's chosen the easiest launch spot, as well as the safest gliding route available here; there are the fewest rogue downdrafts off this side of the Cape, and the easiest emergency landing spots on the sand down below.
Rodney's panting hard by the time they reach the top, face a little pink. John's thighs are screaming, and he's actually kind of impressed that Rodney made it at all, and he says so.
"What?" Rodney huffs, bent over with his hands on his knees. "As if I'm letting my sister's child do this without me here! Besides," he adds, real concern pulling his mouth into a thin line, "this way I have a convenient cliff to jump off of if anything happens to her."
"Uncle Mer, mom signed the papers ahead of time, and she said I could do it!" Madison says, hands on hips. "So it's her fault if I die."
"Now look, no one's dying here," John says, before Rodney can jump in.
"Yes, well," Rodney say, twisting his hands nervously and looking at Madison.
John hands Madison her vest and helmet. "Here. Put these on. Torren can help. I'll be checking everything in a minute."
"Listen," John says, pulling Rodney to one side. "I'd, well, I'd die myself before I let anything happen to her, okay?"
Rodney stares at him, eyes wide and mouth a little open. Something seems to register in John's manner, because Rodney's eyes clear a little and he nods like he gets it. "The scary thing is, I think you really mean that," he says softly.
"Yeah," John says.
"Okay," Rodney says. "Okay then, if we're doing this, then let's do it right. I'm taking video, Madison, so make it great, okay?"
John straps in, then gets Madison locked in. He's been over everything with her a dozen times, but this time is for real, so he reminds her again of all the safety procedures and protocols.
"John!" she says, and he can practically hear the eyeroll. "Can we get with the program here?"
"Madison!" Rodney chides, and John has to laugh, because she sounds so much like Rodney it's not even funny.
The takeoff is perfect, and John eases them over almost-level rock back towards land for the first few minutes; they float easily on the updrafts. Madison whoops and yells, "Uncle Mer, it's awesome!"
Rodney's an orange-jacketed blur on the launch spot, waving and smiling, but John's attention has to be on steering and trajectory. He scans ahead and yells down to Madison, "You ready to soar a little?"
"Yeah!" she yells back.
He eases them over the top of the cliff and feels Madison's gasp as much as hears it: the Pacific is hundreds of feet below, dashing itself up against rocky cliffs. There's just enough wind to catch and fill the wing, and he feels like he could do this forever, stay suspended and catch the updrafts, gauge the wind off the top of the Cape and accelerate forward. There are seagulls below them, and yep, what he'd hoped for -- sea lions, barking loudly over fish.
"Oh!" Madison gasps.
They ride the perfect winds for a very long time, until John feels like he's part of the air, or a bird, until it feels instinctive, like flying is what he is.
Conditions are so favorable that he's able to do a perfect landing within feet of where they took off; no need to ease down to a waiting strip of sand. Rodney and Torren run up to them immediately. John figures he's done good when he sees Rodney's smile; he's guessing that it reflects Madison's expression. Sure enough, as soon as he unhooks her from the harness, she launches herself into Rodney's arms. Rodney looks over Madison's head at John, sending him a grateful look, and pats her hair, then buries his face in it and pulls her close.
"Oh, Uncle Mer, that was perfect! Thank you so, so much!" She turns a beaming face to John. "I want to be an astronaut, I do. I always have."
John swallows and hesitates only a moment. "Then that's what you should be."
Rodney's looking at John with serious eyes from where he's squatting and John has to look down. Rodney says softly to Madison, still looking right at John, "You should be whatever you want to be."
"I love to fly," Madison sighs. "There's something about it, it isn't like anything else."
John's voice is a little hoarse when he responds. "No. It isn't." As he begins to pack up the equipment, his hands are shaking a little, but he's fine.
"Can we go again?" Madison asks.
John shakes his head. He doesn't need any equipment to tell him the wind's already kicking up too strong. "Feel that?" he says, sticking out a hand. "Anything over about five miles per hour is too much for paragliding."
"What if it was, like, a real glider? With solid wings, not the parachute sail thing?"
John stands up and turns his back while he loads the equipment onto the top of the jeep. "They can take conditions that are much more windy. But I don't fly those kinds of craft."
"Why not?" Madison asks. "Can't you go further and faster in those? I know you love it."
"They can. Go further and faster. But I don't do it."
"But--"
"Madison!" Rodney breaks in. "Help John pack up." John looks around at him gratefully, then has to look away. Rodney's staring at John like he's a problem he's trying to solve, eyes intent.
~ ~ ~
John jiggles his bare, sandy feet where they dangle off the side of the pier. Rodney's sitting next to him, and they're watching Madison and Torren as they construct an elaborate castle, complete with aqueducts and turrets. The remains of a huge picnic are on their blanket on the sand; they'd stopped at Lorne's Foods and pillaged the place for rolls and meats and cheeses, as well as fresh fruit and some of The Puddlejumper's brownies. He and Rodney have beer for later; right now they're basking in the early-afternoon sun, leaning back on their hands.
"If they build the wall up a little, the one facing the ocean, it'll survive high tide," Rodney says lazily.
"Hmm." John looks closely at the structure. "Only if there's a system for draining water out."
Rodney turns and cocks an eyebrow at John. "Wanna?"
"You're on." John stands up, stretching a little, and he's pretty sure Rodney's eyes on him have gone hot. "Well, come on," he says lightly, reaching a hand down to help Rodney up. "Let's show them how it ought to be done."
Rodney stands up, and he's right there, slightly inside John's personal space, warm and so very present. Rodney is impossible to ignore; you always know he's there.
"Well hello," Rodney says softly, and John has to stop himself from swaying towards him. He feels his body drawn towards him like a living thing to sunlight.
"Hello," John husks out, and he doesn't miss the way Rodney swallows or the way his hands reach towards him briefly, then withdraw.
Rodney clears his throat. "We have a kingdom to save, I believe."
John nods, momentarily struck dumb by the way the sun gilds Rodney's short curls.
The mood shifts and changes as they work on the castle; soon they're lobbing wet-sand missiles at each other. When Teyla and Kanaan arrive to collect the kids, all of them are covered in sand and laughing. Pretty soon they're all stripped to swimsuits and gasping as the waves hit them; even in summer, the Pacific this far north is frigid.
There's a massive water fight, and John finally has to cry, "Uncle" when they all team up on him. "Hey! That's not exactly fair!" he protests, but everyone just grins at him. Finally, they float on their backs, and John feels the release from thinking he always gets when he's in the ocean, a release almost as powerful as the one he gets from flight. They're out far enough that the waves don't break; they're buoyed on big swells that lift them up, up, then gently deposit them back down.
Soon it's time for everyone to leave, since the drive to the Aquarium will take a while and Teyla figures the kids will want a couple of hours there. Rodney looks worried when it's time for them to leave, but Madison is practically jumping up and down with excitement. Teyla gives Rodney her cell phone number, Kanaan's cell phone number, the number of the Aquarium, the name of the restaurant in Newport they're going to eat at, and their home phone number for good measure.
"I know, but she's my niece! And I'm responsible for her," Rodney says defensively to everyone.
"It means you're a good person," Teyla says, and John has to agree.
Suddenly they're gone, and it's just Rodney and him. They revert to their position on the pier, this time with beer bottles that are dewy and chilled from the cooler. They've thrown their shirts on with their suits, but Rodney's only buttoned a couple of the buttons, and John catches glimpses of golden curls over pale skin. He tries not to think too much about Rodney's nipples, standing pert in the waves earlier.
The sun is even hotter than it was earlier, and John feels the heat and the salt air easing stresses in his body he didn't even know were there. "Mmmm," Rodney says, setting off a small vibration that John feels through their barely-touching shoulders.
And John can't really deny it any more: his whole body is thrumming with awareness of Rodney. After two nights and a day of being almost constantly together, and only a minute of touching last night on the beach, John feels like every nerve-ending is sensitized to Rodney's presence. Rodney's competent hands are splayed just a few inches from John's, his huge shoulders are touching John's, his strong thighs are right there.
John turns toward Rodney, and his eyes are drawn inexorably to his mouth. He's afraid he's going to kiss him right here, which would be a mistake, because the gentle thrumming in his body is turning into something not-gentle at all, and--
"Hey, up here," Rodney says, but the hoarseness in his voice belies the attempted humor.
John raises his eyes to Rodney's and sees--
"Can. Can we--?" Rodney's voice comes out a harsh whisper.
"Yes." John pushes to his feet, but this time doesn't reach for Rodney, afraid of what will happen out here in front of the entire beach if he feels Rodney's powerful hands in his or their bodies come too close together. Instead he mutely gathers up their things on the beach, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Rodney is doing the same thing.
They walk in silence back to John's house, and then John is fumbling for his key. Rodney silent is almost frightening, but it's not, not if it means that he's having as hard a time as John is keeping his hands to himself.
John gets the door open and walks through, and then Rodney's got his hands on John's shoulders and he's shoving him back against the inside of the door, as grabby and pushy as John had hoped. Their mouths connect and the door slams shut, and there's no subtle exploration this time, just their tongues in each other's mouths and gasps for air, then reconnection. Rodney's hands start wandering from John's shoulders; they burn paths down his arms, his sides, then linger on the tops of his hips.
At first John's so overcome that his hands won't move from Rodney's shoulders -- and yeah, those shoulders are everything he'd thought they were, huge and powerful -- but finally they do, tracing down Rodney's back, coming to rest on his waist.
Rodney pulls his mouth off John's and gasps. His fingers trace maddening patterns on the tops of John's hipbones. "Is this--Can I--?" Rodney whispers.
"Yes. I can--?" John whispers back, almost appalled at how lust-hoarse his voice sounds, letting his hands slide under the bottom of Rodney's shirt, stroke the smooth skin at the bottom of Rodney's back.
"Oh god," Rodney says into John's mouth, and John turns them, presses Rodney back against the door and fumbles for the buttons of his shirt, frantic to feel what he saw earlier. "God, oh Jesus," Rodney pants, hands reaching for John's shirt and pulling ineffectually at it.
"Here," John says, wrenching his own shirt open and shivering as Rodney pushes it off his shoulders, then attacking the buttons on Rodney's shirt and sliding his hands over the slightly-soft stomach, up over crinkly hair until his fingers are brushing taut nipples.
Rodney groans into John's mouth and it goes straight to John's already half-hard cock. John bends down, licking at Rodney's neck, sucking a path down, down, then flicking his tongue over first one, then the other rosy nipple. He's never been much into this, but something about Rodney's chest is making him crazy, and the noises Rodney's making, wet and choked, are firing directly into his blood.
Rodney gasps when John licks lower, towards his belly, says, "No, not yet, I want--" and hauls John up, pushes him back against the door -- seriously, John will never think of his front door in the same way ever again -- and fumbles with John's swim trunks, managing somehow to shove them down with one hand while the other fists in the back of John's hair and his tongue is in John's mouth.
Rodney's broad strong hand curls around John's dick, and John is dizzy with it all, the feel of Rodney's hand, the smell of his salt-and-sweat male body, the taste of his mouth.
This is all going to be over way too fast if Rodney doesn't stop what he's doing, so John reaches down and grabs Rodney's forearm. "What?" Rodney pants.
"Just. It's been so long, I'm not gonna be able to--Here." John has an inspiration and slides to his knees, right there in front of the door, gratified at the moan Rodney makes at that. He noses at Rodney's cock through his trunks, then catches the waist with his fingers and slides them down, tenting them open in the front because, yeah, thick and solid and hard, and it's been way too long since he's felt the stretch and the fullness in his mouth, the salt tang on his tongue.
"Mrmph," Rodney says somewhere above his head, and John hears the muffled thump of Rodney's hands splaying on the door above his head, presumably supporting Rodney's weight. "Oh god, I can't, no, John, I'm going to--"
"S'okay, let me," John manages to say when he comes off for air. He can almost feel Rodney trying to think, so he relaxes the back of his throat like he remembers, and slides his hands around behind Rodney, pulling his suit down in back as he does. And then he's cupping Rodney's ass in his hands, cupping and pulling Rodney in, as deep as he can. He can almost feel it when Rodney gives up, gives in, and it's a sweet feeling, that he did that. Rodney's ass is strong and full and really doing it for him, and he gets daring, slides one hand down the crack, feeling for the soft place right behind the balls, and--
--and Rodney loses control, pumping frantically into John's mouth, making little sounds like he can't help himself. John loves all of this: being on his knees, fighting for air through his nose, the ache of his jaw, Rodney's cock pressing at the back of his throat.
And Rodney's coming, coming hard, bucking up against John. Rodney must have his mouth resting on his arm, because the sound is muffled, but it's an outright groan, the kind John loves; as much as he's probably never admitted this to anyone and as weird as he knows it might seem given his personality, he likes partners who are uninhibited in bed.
"Holy. Holy shit," Rodney pants, and then he's sliding down in front of John, grabbing his face between his hands and sticking his tongue in his mouth, moaning again when John curls his come-slick tongue around Rodney's.
"You are, you are amazing. Still waters, etcetera," Rodney says, taking John down to the floor. Rodney moves down John's body, fortunately not making any detours, because at this point, John's ready to kill for it. Rodney slides John's trunks all the way off and doesn't hesitate, just goes straight down on John's aching cock, using one hand to stroke and then cup his balls. John's about to explode; it's been so long and this feels so incredible. Rodney slides a finger tentatively back and John bucks into it, arching into Rodney's mouth, and he can't help the moan in the back of his throat.
"You like that," Rodney whispers. "Oh god, do you like--?" and he's back with a saliva-slicked finger, pushing a little in.
John groans, a deep guttural sound that embarrasses him but only seems to turn Rodney on more.
"Yeah. You want this. Oh my god. Yes," Rodney whispers, voice smoky, and crooks his finger inside John. John's body clamps down hard, and there's tingling in his feet and hands and lower back, and he has to bite the meat of his thumb to prevent an actual scream because he's coming so fucking hard.
"Christ," he pants after, as Rodney rocks his finger gently inside him and presses his lips to John's spent cock.
John's not usually so vocal, or so shameless, and he feels a gentle unease trying to gain a foothold. He can't really bring himself to be too worried about it right now, though, with Rodney nosing his way up his body, then arriving at his mouth for a passionate kiss that's punctuated by Rodney's little breathy moans of, "God, God."
After a while Rodney settles on the floor next to John, unceremoniously throwing an arm and a thick, strong, leg over him. John waits for the awkwardness to set in that usually hits post-sex, and clears his throat preemptively. Rodney lifts his head up as if to speak, and John just knows it's going to get weird, but then Rodney's eyes go a little big at something he sees over John's shoulder. "Oh my god, why didn't you tell me you have a Playstation!"
And that's how they end up racing cars and battling orcs on John's living room floor after they have what is possibly -- no, why is he trying to kid himself, definitely -- the best sex John's ever had. At first they're stark naked, but during a particularly vicious lap Rodney swerves bodily along with his onscreen racecar and then yells, "Ow! Who picked this rug, an emasculating torturer? It's trying to eat my balls!" John raises an eyebrow and then they're cracking up and they both have to forfeit that round because they're laughing too hard. After that, they both pull on their discarded boxers as well as their shirts for good measure.
After John kills Rodney in the racing and Rodney destroys John's orc army, Rodney says, "Food?" and John says, "Come on," and they raid the kitchen for chips and beer and make two frozen pizzas and then eat the rest of the cake from The Puddlejumper. Rodney makes orgasm noises over the cake again, and John fights -- and then gives into -- an urge to lick the clinging frosting off the corner of Rodney's tilted mouth.
Rodney says, "Oh," and then, "Do that again." John does, and then they're kissing in John's kitchen, Rodney's hands twined through John's hair.
"You want to go to bed?" Rodney asks quietly, stroking his thumbs lightly through the graying hair at John's temples. He looks hopeful and a little scared.
"Yeah," John says, suddenly shy.
Rodney's grin is blinding. "We're a little old for the floor."
"Who's old?" John growls, running his hands possessively over Rodney's gorgeous Pinky-and-the-Brain-clad ass.
"Mmm. Come on." Rodney starts out of the kitchen and stops suddenly halfway across John's living room. John just watches. "Where the hell's the bedroom? Who designed this place, M.C. Escher?" Rodney asks.
John grins at him and leans up against the kitchen doorframe. "This way." He leads Rodney up the narrow flight of stairs to the attic he converted to a bedroom. It's kind of weird to think they haven't done anything in a bed yet; it seems like they've known each other a long time.
Rodney grabs John's shirtfront and pulls him over bodily to the bed. "I call top," Rodney says, pushing John down on his bed and bouncing onto his knees next to him.
"There's no such thing as 'calling top.'"
Rodney smirks down at John. "There is now."
"Ha!" John uses some Jiu-Jitsu and hooks a foot around Rodney's leg, flips him onto his back with one quick twist. He fake-growls and grabs Rodney's hands, leaning onto them with his own hands, pressing them into the bed.
"Oh, rowr!" Rodney laughs. "Okay, you persuaded me with your hotness, you can be top."
"Jesus, who said anything about top and, uh, not-top, anyway?"
"Ha! I knew it!"
"What are you talking about? Knew what?"
"That you like to bottom."
"Well, sure, but I'll do either, I mean--"
"Don't even," Rodney smirks, and John feels his face heat a little. "It's not like that's exactly a problem for me right now," Rodney adds. "If you, that is--" Rodney's forehead wrinkles. "Too soon, probably. I shouldn't have said anything, it's just that you're so--"
John yanks Rodney's head up to his mouth and kisses him. He already sounds wrecked when he says into Rodney's mouth, "Fair's fair. You called dibs."
Rodney's eyes are big. "You want--Because really, I'm fine with whatever. Obviously. Handjobs would probably be next on the list. Or, well first on it, but we already did the blowjobs. It's not traditional so early, you know? Because I think there are conventions." He rolls his eyes, presumably at himself. "Told you, I'm not a very good gay guy. Bi guy, actually. Which you probably figured out. I'm doing that thing, aren't I, where--"
John leans down and kisses Rodney again, this time more convincingly.
"Okay, yes, you convinced me," Rodney whispers huskily when they pull up for air the next time. "Come here." John does, sprawling along the whole solid length of Rodney's body. Rodney hooks his feet over John's legs and twines his hands in John's hair, and they kiss until they're panting, grinding up against each other.
When John's about to do something, anything, because he can't stand it any more, Rodney moves, and John's right there with the program, and they roll. Rodney's on top now, his hands still in John's hair, which is quickly becoming a thing for John, the feel of those hands carding through his hair, pressing along his scalp. Rodney's weight on him is kind of a thing too, as is the way Rodney's rocking down into John, and then reaching a hand down to cup John through his boxers.
"Mmm, yeah," Rodney says, low and soft. "Let's get these off you."
"You, too."
After John's clothes are off, he goes up on his elbows to watch as Rodney strips. He hasn't had a chance to really look. Nice. Really nice.
"Wow," Rodney says, ogling John back. John stretches a little, canting one leg up a little showily, and feels Rodney's eyes on him. "You--" Rodney sounds a little choked, and John can't help but smirk at him.
"Okay, no, seriously," Rodney says, and presses John back against the sheets, kissing him from belly to chest to neck to lips and back to John's neck.
"Rodney," John whispers, and then Rodney's lying on top of him again. The hot press of Rodney's cock on his thigh is doing things to John, and his hips jerk up to try to find some friction.
"Oh," Rodney says, and then they're kissing again, dicks slipping against each other in a frustrating counterpoint. "You have--?"
"Drawer."
"Got it."
John admires the view when Rodney leans towards his bedside drawer, reaches out a hand to trace over Rodney's ass.
Rodney freezes. "Mmm."
"Get your ass over here, McKay," John jokes, a little breathless.
"Ha, ha you should get the Nobel for humor." Rodney uncaps the tube and raises an eyebrow at John in an obvious question.
"Yeah," John says. "Yeah. You want me to--" John motions in a way that conveys his willingness to roll over.
"Is that the way you like it?" Rodney asks, cheeks pink, but jaw jutted in obvious determination.
"I dunno, whichever."
"Like this, then. Stay like this. For now at least."
Rodney shoves a pillow under John's hips, and John lifts up, unthinking. Rodney goes down on John's cock for the second time.
"Jeez!" John gasps. "Give a guy a little warning."
Rodney's mouth pulls into a grin, which John can feel against his dick -- and how weird is that -- then pulls off a little and says in a throaty voice, "Okay, I'm warning you that I'm going to lick the inside of your thigh and then stick a finger inside you."
"Uhhh." John can't get any words out.
"And I'm warning you that after that, I'm going pull it out and then stick two in."
"Oh God," John manages, and notices he's spread his legs a little.
"And after that," Rodney says cheerily, running his hands up John's calves, then resting in the hollows behind his knees. "After that, I'm thinking I'll lick your other thigh, and then lick up--"
"Rodney." John's voice is thick.
"What?" Rodney pulls up gently on John's legs, so they're bent at the knee and his feet are flat on the bed.
"You know what? Stop talking."
"But you wanted to be warned."
"I know a hundred ways to kill you with just the materials in this bed," John manages to say, even as his knees splay open a little.
Rodney laughs, a sound John admits he's getting a little addicted to. "Like that's happening. All I'd have to do to stop you is..."
His hands slide down the backs of John's thighs, then along the crease where they meet his ass, sliding slowly towards John's balls.
Rodney's hands feel hot on John's skin, and it takes only the slightest upwards pressure for John to lift his feet a little, let Rodney cup his hands under his ass. John feels exposed and chilled and on fire, and if Rodney doesn't touch him where he wants it in the next two seconds--
Then Rodney's licking him again on his thighs, first one and then the other, and John can't help but buck his hips upwards. He also can't stop his bitten-off groan when two of Rodney's fingers ease back inside him. When Rodney starts lapping at his balls, John gasps, and for a few seconds he thinks it's all over, that he's going to come on that alone, but he bites his lip and frantically calculates lift and thrust for a glider he's designing in his head, and manages to hold off.
It's almost frightening how this is making him feel, open and out of his depth. He's never done anything like this with someone he's only known a day; in fact, he's not sure he's ever done anything quite like this at all. "Now. You'd better--"
"Yeah," Rodney says, eyes dark and hot on John, face flushed. John feels a little queasy. He thinks it might have been better to turn over. This way, he and Rodney can't help but look at each other, can't help but--Rodney hits somewhere great inside him, and John realizes he's frantic for it.
"Come on. Come on," John pants, blown beyond want to pure need.
"Yeah, I'm. Hands not working very well," Rodney says in a voice that breaks a little. He's fumbling with a condom packet, and John sees his hands shaking.
"You gonna be able to--"
"Genius. I think I can manage. Oh shit!" Rodney blurts.
"Not feeling the confidence here," John manages to say.
"Fuck you. Totally could do this one-handed."
Mission accomplished: Rodney's got the condom on and is lining up, the fronts of his thighs pushed up against the back of John's legs. He raises an eyebrow at John and John nods a little, and Rodney's breaching him. John's hands stutter toward Rodney's hips, then grip. Rodney shuts his eyes for a moment and pants, then opens his eyes and pushes in a little.
John shuts his own eyes for a second to savor the stretch and burn. When he opens them, Rodney's looking at him with an expression he's not sure how to categorize. John's chest feels weirdly tight. Then Rodney reaches a large hand under John's neck to pull his head up, craning his own neck down, and kisses John, all wet and hot and tongue.
John's starting to feel a little out of control, a little overwhelmed, but Rodney begins to move inside him for real, thrusting in with long, strong strokes. Rodney's been oddly quiet, but he starts making sounds, little grunts and moans into John's mouth that ratchet the heat in John's belly up another notch and make sounds spill out of John in turn.
Rodney pulls away from John's mouth with a gasp. "Oh god." His hips snap into John's, and his weight presses John's legs inexorably back. John feels full like he hasn't been in forever, surrounded and filled all at once.
Rodney's sweating at the temples and his hair is sticking up and his face is pink. He's looking right at John, looking right into his face.
John wants to look away, but he can't, speared on Rodney's cock, and his intent eyes.
The soft look on Rodney's face from before is back, multiplied, and John finds his hand reaching up to swipe at the sweat on Rodney's temple, brush his thumb softly over Rodney's bottom lip. Rodney's lips move, soundless, and kiss John's thumb. Rodney turns his face and kisses John's hand, and something tightens a little more in John's chest.
Rodney's hand reaches down for John's face and cups his cheek; John feels himself turn into it like a plant toward light. Rodney makes a sound above John, and slows his thrusting down, and then down some more, until it feels like this has gone on forever, Rodney gently rocking into John's body, Rodney's hand stroking John's face, John's thumb brushing Rodney's lips.
Something wrong with John's breathing; he must not be getting enough air.
Rodney smiles at him, a smile suffused with sweetness. Panic flutters briefly in John's throat.
"John," Rodney whispers, angling his body so John can't help but moan and cant his hips up even more when Rodney presses slowly in.
"Oh. Oh god," Rodney says, voice thick.
It's too much, it's all too much -- John throws his forearm over his face.
"You okay?" Rodney asks quietly.
"Yeah." John's voice is gravely and low. "Just." He opens his eyes and grabs Rodney's hand, brings it to his aching cock.
"Mmm," Rodney says, taking John's dick in his fist in a maddeningly-light grip.
John feels like he's been on the edge forever. His voice actually breaks a little when he says, "Come on."
Rodney gasps and tightens his grip, speeds up. He's balanced on one hand, powerful arm next to John's shoulder. He's pounding into John hard now, and John's rising to meet his every thrust.
"I don't know if I can--" Rodney's face is screwed up, concentrating.
"S'okay, I'm--"
Rodney bends down to John and kisses him, and that's what sends John over the edge, the sloppy passion of the kiss, the taste of Rodney in his mouth, the imprint of Rodney's total focus.
He arches into it and Rodney gasps, then pounds into him for a few final thrusts, groaning as he comes, shuddering over John. Rodney stays arched over him for a while, panting, then pulls out slowly, gets rid of the condom as John lies boneless and still. Rodney sprawls on top of him, grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him more; deep at first, then turning to gentle presses of lips.
The ache in John's chest from before is back. Unease coils in his stomach. It's hard to breathe with Rodney covering him like this. "Hey," John whispers, "Do you think you could--"
"Oh. Sure, sorry," Rodney whispers back, moving over to the side a little, leg still thrown over John. The sweat's cooling on their bodies, and everything is sticky and close. "That was. You are--Wow."
"You--" John stops there, can't figure out what goes next, how he feels or what to say. "I'm a little--"
Rodney's hand pats John's cheek. "You're probably exhausted."
"Yeah. That was--"
"Yeah," Rodney says slowly, sleep obviously pulling him down. Sure enough, a few minutes later Rodney's sound asleep, snoring softly on John's shoulder.
John lies awake for a long time, finally falling into a fitful sleep in the grayish light preceding sunrise.
~ ~ ~
"Oh my god!" Rodney's frantic voice wakes John. "John! It's almost nine. Teyla's going to be here any minute with Madison. And we have to make our flight, or my sister'll kill me."
"Right," John says, rubbing at his gritty eyes. "I'll make, uh, coffee."
"Dark and strong," Rodney says, grabbing John's head and kissing him with a huge smack.
It's all a blur after that: throwing on clean clothes after scrubbing off with a washcloth, stumbling into the kitchen, grinding coffee, Teyla at the door with Madison, Rodney pink and scrubbed, saying goodbye awkwardly, pressing a performance kite into Madison's hands, leaning down to the car window when Rodney motions him over.
"So, I--" Rodney says, looking flustered and unhappy.
John tries to smile and fails. Part of him wants to kiss Rodney right there, beg him to come back next weekend, more than a weekend, he wants...
"I'll call you when I get in," Rodney says. "And email. We have to figure out what we're, what, well, everything." Rodney looks at the steering wheel and says, words all jumbled together, "They offered me a job. Atlantis Energy." He looks up at John and pretty much everything's right there on his face. The hope in it feels like a hit to the throat.
John can't breathe for a few seconds, finally manages, "Wow."
Rodney looks at him sharply. "I know. Listen. Just--I'll call you when I get in, okay?"
"Yeah," John says, pulling up a smile.
"Uncle Mer, you should do it!" Madison says. "Oh, please! And I could come live with you every summer, that's when Mom worries about me because I don't have school, and I could fly with John, and play with Torren, and-"
John winces. Rodney's gaze sharpens further. "I'll call you," he says significantly.
"Great," John manages, hand held up in a wave until they're out of sight.
~ ~ ~
John finally types out an email to Rodney after ignoring eight phone messages, thirteen texts and twelve emails. He's being an asshole, he knows it, but maybe it's marginally less bad if he does it clean. Relatively clean; Rodney's already gone from "where the heck are you?" to "I know I'm not exactly a prize, except in the way that I actually am," to "fine, I get it. I'll make something up to tell Madison."
His stomach hasn't stopped clenching since Sunday night; amazing it's only been four days since that night, when they lay twined together in his sheets.
I'm an asshole. Sorry. I just. can't. He presses send and goes for a bruising run, trying not to see the Cape jutting out into the ocean, thrusting up to the sky.
He runs a lot after that, and works long hours at the shop. At night he works on designs for a prototype glider that he'll never be able to fly. It's very, very quiet in his house. Fall
Fall is maybe John's favorite season on the coast. The summer-only tourists are gone, meaning that the stream of visitors is reduced to a trickle, and that most of them are from the Northwest. The pang of loss has faded a little, merging with old aches. It's only once in a while now that he'll see a pair of broad shoulders or some scrawled math and get that tightness in his throat, only once in a while that he'll look at the Cape and remember sturdy thighs, a flushed face.
Teyla and Kanaan, Ronon, hell, even Sarah who works for him, all of them have tried to get him to do something, contact Rodney again, but he just--He knows the disaster it'd be. It's better for Rodney, really, this way. And the whole thing's crazy anyway; he barely knows the guy.
He's running on the sand in early November, a little later in the morning than usual, when he hears a high-pitched cry, sees a little girl swept off a rolling log into the crashing surf, being pulled inexorably out despite an older boy's attempts to grab her. She's flailing wildly and he's screaming, dashed down in the water and towards shore by the huge waves.
The ocean hits John like a bucket of ice; his legs are numb within seconds. He should have ditched his shoes, but the girl was starting to slip under.
Huge waves flip him around, fill his mouth with salt. He gets a lungful of ocean when he gasps for air after the last one, but the girl was right there the last time he could see her. Now if only--He dives blind, groping with almost-useless hands for a body, clothes, anything.
He comes up for air when he has to, careful this time to wait until the next wave's passed before gasping for air, then dives again.
It's starting to get hard to coordinate his limbs; he's definitely heading towards hypothermia. He wouldn't care very much, except for the girl. Right when it's clear it's going to be too late, he feels something brush against his now-numb fingers. They're not working very well, but he manages to grab onto something, whatever it is, then kick hard for the surface. It's her, a girl a bit younger than Madison, unconscious and ashen white, but he's got her shirt clasped firmly in one hand.
He almost doesn't make it back to shore: battling the surf and the outgoing tide takes every bit of strength he has, plus more. He almost quits three times, gasping for air after he inhales yet more salt water. At the end, he thinks about Madison, then lets himself think about something he never does: the other children who he wasn't able to save, in a place far from here. It gets him to shore, choking and unable to move any further, but there, on the wet sand at the edge of the beach. The girl's pink Hello Kitty shirt is still clenched in his clawed hand.
He finally looks up; the boy, probably her sister, sodden, tears in his eyes, is saying something, probably has been for a long time.
"Run. Phone. 911," John rasps out. The boy turns and runs.
John starts working on the girl right away, and it all comes back: check for heartbeat, respiration. Answer: neither. He keeps up to date online on this stuff; he pushes down panic and visualizes the instructions in his head, does the breathing for her estimated age, the chest compressions. It goes on forever, and he's still not getting a pulse. There's no breathing, and it feels like it's just him and her and this beach alone in the world.
Finally there's an approaching siren, then noise and gentle hands on him, a voice saying, "It's okay, sir, we've got her now."
He sits where they tell him, moves when they ask him to, and it's all kind of getting confusing: there was a girl in the water, and the kids in Afghanistan, and Mitch; somehow it's all jumbled up together.
He comes back to awareness at the hospital. He's in a bed with an IV and a pile of blankets over him. "The girl?" he tries to ask, but his voice is wrecked.
There's a nurse who smiles and says, "She's going to be okay. They got her started back up, and what you did--Well. You're a hero, let's just put it that way. You kept the oxygen going to her brain, and she's going to be fine. Her parents--Well. They want to see you when you're better."
"I'm fine," John attempts, but she just rolls her eyes at him.
"You hero types are all the same. Military?" she asks, quirking a brow.
He just nods, exhausted. It's more than he's told anyone about it for a very long time.
"Sleep now," she says.
~ ~ ~
He wakes up to the same nurse removing his IV. She sees him stir and smiles. "I'm your nurse, Susan Kamoshita. You're the guy with the kite shop, aren't you?"
He nods as she brings a cup of water to his mouth. "You can drink now," she says. "I've been meaning to bring my kids by there. We just moved to the area."
"Free for you," John whispers, throat raw.
She smiles. "No need for that. But I'll take a discount. I love kites, they're traditional in Japanese culture."
He nods. It's amazing how many cultures have kites as a tradition. The Chinese used to strap condemned prisoners to giant ones in attempts to invent flight. Other Asian cultures associated various spiritual meanings to them. And the Afghanis--
"Your throat's going to hurt for a couple of days. Well, actually, your whole body's going to hurt. You're going to need to stay hydrated, take it a little easy." She eyes him knowingly. "A lot easy. We're keeping you another couple of hours, and if nothing changes, you can go. Your body temperature was dangerously low, but no permanent damage." She grins at him. "I think."
Her expression grows more serious. "You doing okay? You want to talk with anyone? It can be...traumatic, rescuing someone like that."
He shakes his head. "Nah. But thanks. What kind of kites do you like?"
She smiles, wistful. "All kinds. But my favorite are the Wish Kites. Well, they're not called that, but the tradition, it's so beautiful. Everyone writes out their wish, ties it onto a kite, then cuts the string and says a prayer that their wish will be granted. It's beautiful, the sky full of kites, let free like that." She shakes her head. "Listen to me, going on like that, when you need rest."
"No, really, that's--That's nice." John takes a sip of water. "I was somewhere once where they cut the strings on kites, too. Different, though."
"Really? Where?"
"It's--I think I really am pretty tired." John coughs to cover the tightness in his throat.
"Sure," she says warmly. "I'll be off shift when you wake up, but we'll bring our kids by the store soon. You did good today."
John falls down immediately into merciful sleep.
~~~
He comes home from the hospital that night. The house is empty. Very empty. He goes into his workroom and sorts through everything available, find what he wants.
He wakes before dawn after a restless night, pads downstairs. The house is very silent.
It only takes a minute to grab everything he needs. He walks down to the beach, shivering in the frigid air. The ocean's grey and white, storm-frothed and wild. The wind is perfect; it whips at his hair, his jacket.
He crouches and scoops up a handful of dry sand. It's white, a little different than the sand in Afghanistan, but it's easy to remember what that sand looked like; Mitch's blood staining it a dirty blackish red. He looks at the kite in his hand. It's different than the ones they flew over there. This one's blue, for one thing, and it doesn't have glass shards on its string; unlike the kids in Afghanistan, he's not going to be using it for kite-fights.
John presses his hand for a second to the place he's glued a piece of paper with his writing on it. It's dry enough and won't come off. He straightens and checks the wind, does one last check of the kite. It looks good.
He swallows and then lifts the kite up high, releases it and lets out string as fast as he can. The wind tries to knock it back to earth, but the kite's sturdy and well-designed; it catches the next gust and surges skyward.
Soon it's up with the gulls, darting bright blue against the greyish sky.
As the kite shivers in the wind and seems to float motionless, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
John thinks about all the ways things could go FUBAR: Rodney not wanting him in the first place, John not wanting Rodney any more if he gets him, the two of them growing bored with each other, discovering they actually hate each other, losing Rodney to a job, a person, an accident, cancer.
He remembers: the sand of a different place, gritty in his eyes, how kids ran wild with their kites, heedless of the war around them, Mitch bleeding out in front of his eyes.
He remembers: Rodney, on this very beach the first time they met, the flash of golden-rose light reflected on their kites in the dark.
His sight blurs a little.
He swallows hard and takes a breath, then blows it out. He closes his eyes. He hears the sounds of children in the distance, a dog barking, the intermittent roar of the surf.
He sucks in a breath, holds it, makes a wish, does the closest thing he can to praying.
He opens his eyes and flicks the blade of his pocket knife through the string of the kite. He watches it, no longer bound to the land, soar higher, higher, until it's just a speck, and then is gone. He heads back to his house. He knows what he has to do.
Rodney kept calling him for a long time, and sent emails even longer. John can hardly stand to look at his email queue, but he's looking for a specific one, something Rodney sent him back after they'd first met. He finds it and prints it out and puts it in his pocket, does some other necessary stuff on the net. He calls Sarah about the shop, calls Teyla since she worries, throws some clothes into a bag.
~ ~ ~
"Mister, we're here. You don't have to be scared any more." John opens his eyes. The little boy in the seat next to him got it in his head that John was afraid of flying, and has been trying to comfort him the whole way. And maybe, in a way, he was right, John reflects, seeing how his hands are white from gripping the armrests of his seat.
"Thanks buddy," John says, "you're probably right."
It's a simple matter of giving the address to the cab driver, and then it's really happening; he's at the University of British Columbia's undergrad science campus. He hasn't really thought this through, strike that, hasn't thought this through at all, but at this point, he's committed, so he locates the right building after a lot of searching. A receptionist who clearly was considering whether to call security ("but Doctor McKay is teaching") gave him the basics, and it takes less time than he thought it would to arrive at room 238 of Stephens Hall.
He puts his hand on the doorknob and hesitates for a second. He recognizes the reckless feeling burning in his belly; it's the feeling he gets right before he does something like run towards enemy fire. But fuck it, he's going in.
He eases the door open. It's a lecture hall, banked down to a lectern below rows of desks. Rodney's standing and speaking in front of a white board filled with math and stick figure drawings. He finishes a huge equation with a flourish of his marker and turns to face the class. "So tell me, students, should any of you actually deserve to call yourselves students, what is the--"
Rodney drops the marker. He's staring at John like he's been dead and come back to life.
John takes an instinctive step toward him, but Rodney's expression turns ice-cold. Rodney's eyes narrow and his lips purse. He bends to pick up the marker and resumes his lecture. Rodney has to clear his throat; his voice comes out all throaty, which sends a rush of something hot and hopeful through John.
John slinks to the nearest table and sits, biting his lip and watching Rodney. Rodney's hands still trace arcs in the air to illustrate points, his hair still fluffs around the edges, he's still got a fantastic ass, and he's still a genius. He eviscerates famous physicists right and left, and riddles his lecture with insults to the students.
Twenty minutes before the class is supposed to end, John suddenly realizes that everyone's standing up and leaving. He realizes with another surge of hot, desperate feeling, that Rodney's ended class early.
Now that it's come to it, he has no idea what to do, let alone what to say. A wave of vertigo hits him when he tries to stand, and he ends up bending down over his knees to keep from fainting. His face heats from the humiliation, and he thinks he might actually throw up when he sees Rodney's pants' cuffs and shoes appear on the floor in front of him.
There's silence for a long time, and then Rodney finally speaks. "What the fuck are you doing here?" John's never heard Rodney's voice sound this way: bitter and defeated, angry not at people's incompetence, but just angry.
"I--" John's voice comes out all rusty, and he has to pant a little into his hands to not faint. He doesn't know what he was thinking, coming here; he'd been right all along that this would never work. The whole thing is so far beyond embarrassing that he wishes the earth would just open up, swallow the university and him and--
"Oh, for God's sake," Rodney spits. "You're here, but you can't even look at me."
"No, that's not--I'm not feeling so--" And oh god, his vision's going dark around the edges, and he just wants to lie down, lie down and make everything stop spinning. And maybe wants to throw up too; that's sounding pretty good.
Rodney sighs, a deep exasperated sound. "Oh. My. God. How long has it been since you last ate anything? Or is it just being in my presence that's doing this, which, by the way, totally is deserved, only it's not nearly bad enough for what an asshole you are."
"I--"
"Oh, spare me. Here, eat this. It's not like I don't recognize the signs of low blood sugar." Rodney thrusts a half-eaten power bar into John's shaking hand. John gnaws at it, fighting nausea the whole time. Rodney's pants legs are still in the same place they've been the whole time, and a big part of John wishes Rodney would just go away, consign John to memory.
After a few minutes of fighting nausea at the sickeningly-sweet taste, the food actually seems to be helping a little; less of John's field of vision is dark. He realizes that yeah, now that he thinks about it, he actually hasn't eaten in a long time. Maybe since the hospital? But that was jello and some sort of broth, so...
He ventures raising his head a little, has to put it back between his knees. "Could you just...maybe forget about me?" he manages to croak to Rodney's shoes.
"Which is what I've been attempting to do for two months," Rodney says, each word biting. "Oh, I know I should be all coy and act like it didn't hurt, but it fucking did. Are you better now? Because I'm leaving."
"Please. Just. Just listen, okay?" John manages to lift his head this time and keep it up. The food is definitely helping.
"You look like shit." Rodney's eyes narrow. "What happened to you? How did you get here?"
"Plane." John winces just saying it, and Rodney's eyes narrow even more. He reaches out and cups John's chin, lifts his head up so he's looking into his eyes. His hand on John feels...like the first real thing that's happened to John in two months.
"You flew here?" Rodney asks.
"Yeah, I--I haven't flown in, in a long time." Rodney still has John's chin in his hand, and Rodney's angry expression falters for just a second, shifts into something else. The anger's back just as quickly. "When I say I'm a genius, I'm not kidding: I kind of figured that one out. What's with the not eating thing?"
"There was--There was this thing. Forgot to eat after." John's dying from humiliation.
Rodney looks at him sharply. John's pretty sure it hasn't escaped Rodney's notice that John's not actually told him anything about what happened, but Rodney just says, "Alright, come on, we've got to get you some real food."
John gapes at Rodney for a second.
"I said, come on!" Rodney's walking up the rest of the steps to the entrance to the lecture hall and holding the door open. John scrambles to his feet and has to put his hands on his knees for a moment and pant. Rodney rolls his eyes from the doorway and John straightens.
"You have a car?"
John shakes his head and Rodney rolls his eyes again. "Oh my god, such a head case. What, a cab? Are we in a movie? Because I am not going to be running after you in the airport or any other cliche that might be rattling around in your fucked-up head."
Weirdly, Rodney's invective is making John feel a little better; it's kind of nice to be known by someone. "I tried not to think about the cliche thing," John says. His voice still sounds weird. "I tried not to think at all."
"Why does that not surprise me?" Rodney says, getting in his car and motioning impatiently for John to get in the passenger side. They drive in silence to an apartment building a couple of miles from campus. Rodney's fingers are drumming on the steering wheel, and John tries to feel hope in that little sign of tension.
Rodney's apartment looks like John pictured it, only more barren. There are journals and books lying everywhere, and an empty chip bag on the sofa. There's a photo or two of Madison and a woman John assumes is Rodney's sister, and not much else other than utilitarian furniture. Rodney rustles around in the small kitchen and John stands awkwardly by the table, clutching his small duffel.
"Sit," Rodney says. "Here." Rodney puts stuff in front of John: stale bread, mayo, turkey. John obediently constructs a sandwich and starts eating. He tries to do everything slowly; Rodney hasn't kicked him out, and for now that's all he's focusing on. He does feel better almost immediately, but as his strength returns physically, the hollow feeling inside grows more insistent. "Rodney, I--"
Rodney's sitting silently, just looking at him.
"I'm sorry. I'm really--" John freezes, at a loss for words, not an uncommon state for him.
"Fucked up?" Rodney offers. "An asshole?"
"Yes. Really sorry." John stares at his plate.
"No shit." Rodney drums his fingers on the table. "So? Why are you here? Because I think you could have told me all that over the phone, or the internet if you wanted to be even more pathetic. But you didn't even do that. So, I repeat, what?" Rodney leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.
John swallows. He wants to reach for Rodney. "I was in the Air Force." He darts a quick glance up at Rodney.
Rodney nods. "Wasn't sure which branch, figured out the military part. Despite the rainbow."
There's silence in the kitchen. John glances up again. Rodney arches his eyebrow.
"There was a guy." John looks at the table again.
"Okay," Rodney says.
John's teeth scrape together, he's biting down so hard. "He and I--." He glances at Rodney.
Rodney nods. "Okay, I get it."
"No. He was killed. I couldn't get to them in time, their chopper went down and the launcher hit just when--" John stops abruptly. He really can't do this. It's just not going to work for him; he'd been right all along. There's not enough left inside to give to someone. He pushes up to his feet and bites his lip, looks at Rodney. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this, I thought--" He walks out of the kitchen and toward Rodney's front door. He hears the scrape of Rodney's chair but ignores it.
"Oh, for god's sake," Rodney says, grabbing him by the arm.
John tenses, ready to fight off the touch.
"John," Rodney says, John, and his voice finally, finally holds something other than anger.
John bites his lip. His throat is tight and his eyes sting. He has to look away from Rodney's face.
"Come here. Sit down." Rodney leads John to the sofa in his living room and pushes him down, sits down next to him. Doesn't let go of his arm. Doesn't let go. "Talk."
Suddenly, John wants him to know everything. He nods and clears his throat. "Thing is, I called in an air strike. Taliban stronghold, the ones who did it. I thought. It wasn't. It was--" John can't get any more words out. He's exhausted and brittle and feels like he's going to break if he has to say anything more.
Rodney snaps the fingers of his free hand. "Kites. Kids flying kites, I knew there was something about the kites."
John looks at him incredulously. "How did you--That's, that's right."
"I read. You know, those things called books? I'm very eclectic." Rodney smirks, an expression that floods John with something like relief.
"Yeah. I'm getting that." John sighs. "They were playing, fighting their kites, kids from the village, and somehow, the coordinates were wrong, and--" He closes his eyes, remembering the shredded remains of kites, mothers, children.
"You really are pretty fucked up," Rodney says softly, in a tone that belies the words.
"Yeah." John looks right at him and smiles grimly. "I am."
"Well," Rodney says airily, "I on the other hand am a paragon of having my shit together. Witness my apartment. And my job babysitting undergrads who wouldn't know the difference between the lyrics to the latest horrific musical hit and string theory."
"True," John deadpans, looking around significantly at the barren apartment.
"I know," Rodney sighs, then looks at the floor. When he looks back up at John, his eyes are serious. "So," he asks quietly, "why did you come?"
"Because I want you to take the job. If you want it. Be, you know, what you wanted to be." John attempts a smile, which he's pretty sure comes out sickly. "Save the world with science. For real."
Rodney bites his lip and his forehead crinkles.
John has to take a deep breath to get the important part out, but he does. "And I want to try this. With you. If you want to. If you--" He swallows hard.
"I'm really, really mad at you," Rodney whispers.
"I know." John lets himself reach out finally, reach a hand that -- god he's pathetic -- is shaking a little, reach and touch Rodney's arm.
Rodney says quietly, "You totally freaked out."
"I did," John says softly. "I really, really did. I haven't--It's been since Mitch."
Rodney closes his eyes. John dares to bring his hand up to Rodney's bicep. Under his sleeve, Rodney is strong and warm and very much alive. Rodney whispers, "If you hadn't freaked out, I probably would have. I could feel a freakout coming. It's been, well, forever for me, too."
"Yeah," John says, then gives into the urge and grips Rodney's other arm, gently pulls Rodney toward him. Rodney comes, falling forward into John.
"Please. Please, Rodney," John whispers into Rodney's neck.
Rodney takes a deep, harsh breath of air, and then his arms come around John in a bruising squeeze. His face is in John's hair, his hands are strong on John's back.
"Okay. Okay," Rodney says into John's neck.
"I've got...intimacy issues," John murmurs. "That's a euphemism for messed-up. But I won't disappear, not again, not like that. I'll tell you if--"
"Okay, you know what, I think we've had enough talking for about ten years or so," Rodney says briskly, breaking the hug.
John smiles a little, and Rodney grins at him, and the tightness is back in John's throat, but now he knows it's something he wants. "Can I--?" He lifts his hand near Rodney's face.
Rodney snorts. "Come here."
John does.
~ ~ ~
Later that night, sticky and sore and wrapped up in each other, John says, carefully, because they're both still a little tender. "If you. If you need a place to stay, if you wanted, you could, you know, hang out at my place. I mean, no pressure, and--"
"Yes," Rodney murmurs.
"Okay. Okay, cool," John says, trying hard to tamp down the ridiculous warmth that keeps blooming in his chest at random moments.
"And you sound like me now, by the way. It's ridiculous. Try to get back to the one-syllable talking."
John grins. "Right."
"And I'm not going paragliding. No matter how mind-blowing the sex."
John laughs and wraps his arms tighter around Rodney. "Okay. No paragliding. One-syllable words. Mind-blowing sex. Check."
Rodney hmphs and hooks his leg tighter over John's.
As he teeters on the edge of sleep, John thinks that he really needs to remember to thank that nurse from the hospital. No wonder Wish-Kites were her favorites. They're like...flying wishes to the sky.
EPILOGUE
Summer
"I'm going to kill you right now!"
"Well, Rodney," John says, making his voice as full of drawl as he can, "That's going to be a little difficult, seeing as how you're going to be a little busy for the next few minutes." He cinches the line holding Rodney in place a little tighter and does one last safety check.
"I really think you aren't considering your options wisely," Rodney says, a little breathless. "I'm prepared to offer anything else." He looks over at Madison, who's standing a few yards away, and stage-whispers. "Sexual favors!"
John laughs. "There's one little problem with that, buddy."
"What!"
"Well, aside from the fact that this was what you bet, you'd enjoy it too much."
"Seriously, I really don't think I can--"
"Relax," John says into Rodney's ear. "And hang on."
"Hang on? Hang on! As if I can do anything else other than--Oh my god!"
The launch is perfect, and they skim easily over the top of the dunes John's chosen for Rodney's flight. It's a crystal-clear day with optimum wind, and they can see for miles in every direction. The ocean sparkles in the sun, and Madison waves and yells from down below them. "You're doing it, Uncle Mer!"
John can feel the tension in Rodney's body slowly ease. Maybe he shouldn't have forced the issue, but he wanted Rodney to see, to share, even just once--
"Oh!" Rodney yells up at him. "Oh!"
They'd both been so careful with each other at first; it'd been great, but somehow...not quite them. John smirks as he remembers the first time one of them stopped being careful: it'd been Rodney, of course. They'd had a passionate session in bed, and John had murmured Rodney's name a lot and maybe said some other stuff in the heat of passion. After, John felt a little antsy and Rodney kept giving him assessing looks. It had started to bug John, and he put on his running gear and got his keys even though it was night. Rodney had quirked an eyebrow at John and said acerbically, "So, what? Are you going to be fainting now?"
John had stared at him, and Rodney had slapped a hand over his mouth, and they stood there in the living room being horrified.
Then John felt something pull up the corner of his mouth. Amazingly, he laughed a little, short and sharp. Really, it was pretty much a snort.
Rodney stared at him for a little longer, and then, looking vulnerable and scared and happy, said, "Okay, please make a note of this, because this is an historic occasion, because I want to say, I'm sorry. And I won't ever, ever say that again, because even I, in my total assholity, which mind you, I pride myself on -- even I, well, no. Never."
John walked over to Rodney, who still looked a little scared. "Okay, You wanna bet, though? That you don't say it again? Because seriously, you really are an asshole. I don't think it's possible for you to not use it. I mean, gotta say, it's certainly mockery material. I'd use it."
"As tempting and perfect material as it is, I never will again."
"Bet you will," John had said, cocking his eyebrow and his hip in the way he knew made Rodney's brain not function quite up to par.
"I'll take that bet," Rodney said, looking so relieved that John had to kiss him, but not before he made him agree he'd paraglide if he lost.
It didn't take much, a couple of months later, to make Rodney forget his intention.
Below them, more and more of the coast is visible as they catch the updrafts John knows congregate at this stretch of dunes. There are miles and miles of sand and blue water and storm-tossed cliffs and forested mountains, all right there, underneath them. John feels the nuances of the wind in the paraglider wing like a living limb, and thinks of all the humans who've tried for the sky.
When they land, Madison rushes to them and somehow they end up tangled in a big hug. Rodney looks flushed and joyous and like yes, he understands, because of course Rodney understands, of all the people in the world: he's the guy who dreams of other worlds, other galaxies, other universes.
"It's--." Rodney stops, shakes his head. He grins at John, eyes bright. "You know what it is. Thank you."
John nods at him. "Yeah."
After a moment, Madison clears her throat. "Okay guys, you made me promise to remind you. Time to get ready for the party."
Everyone's quiet on the ride back to town; there's a lot to think about, maybe for all of them.
~ ~ ~
Madison rolls her eyes. "Would you two stop! We have to be there in twenty minutes! And yes, I get that you both look stunningly handsome and everything, but just stop!"
John backs away slowly from Rodney, hands in the air in mock-surrender. It's just...Rodney in a tux, all full of himself, well. Rodney apparently feels the same way about John, because he hasn't been able to keep his hands off him since they started getting dressed for the party.
Usually everyone at Atlantis Energy dresses in jeans or shorts, but tonight is special: tomorrow the first five cities to use thermal-differential energy go online. The whole thing ramped up much faster than anyone expected. "Obviously," as Rodney says, "since anyone could have predicted that would happen once I came on board." Rodney's name is being mentioned for a possible Nobel, and even Ronon has something big to celebrate; his series of articles on ocean energy have captured national attention.
John's had a pretty great week, too, what with starting to moonlight as an occasional pilot for a couple of regional airlines; they need a lot more flights from the local airport now that Atlantis has ramped up. Being back in the air...well. His design for a new glider combining the free-form paraglider style with that of a fixed-wing is going to prototype at a company in Portland. And the kite shop's more popular than ever now that he's doing educational visits to schools, talking about the plight of kids in Afghanistan.
The best thing of all -- well, next to Rodney -- is Madison. She came at the beginning of June for the summer, obviously a little unsure of her welcome. John watches her closely, and he thinks she's blossoming here, where she can run and play and be as smart as she wants to be, whether with them or with Torren. Since he's not related to her, he figures he can indulge her as much as he wants, but with Madison, that takes the form of time: turns out she loves designing kites and competing to fly them farther and faster. And as far as he's concerned, he really can't get enough of hanging out with her or any other kid he can coerce into spending time with him. The fact it's a handy excuse to take up surfing again is just icing.
It turns out that Rodney has to find something he needs before they can actually leave for the party, so John takes a minute to step out onto the deck he built this spring. The sun is setting over the ocean, which today is a gorgeous deep blue. The ache he used to have all the time, looking at the sand, seeing the wind-tossed kites on the beach, is almost gone. He figures it won't ever go away completely, and really, he doesn't want it to. Because the stuff he's been through, the stuff he regrets; it's all part of who he is.
"Penny for them," Rodney says quietly.
John turns. Rodney must have come out here when John was thinking; he's leaning on his elbows on the railing of the deck, looking towards where the sun is painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks. It's painting Rodney, too, showing off the brightness of his eyes, his eyelashes. It hasn't all been sweetness and light; they've had some spectacular fights and they've both had to compromise. But. But.
John smiles in Rodney's direction.
Rodney turns and sees. John keeps smiling, doesn't try to hide anything.
Slowly, Rodney's mouth curves into a smile of his own, a smile that tells the same story.
John looks at Rodney, looks and looks and doesn't turn away.
