Hello, I Must Be Going by Stormy Stormheller

On the long flight back from Afghanistan, it had been relatively easy for John to stay upbeat. I’m just going get my wrist slapped, he told himself, and be sent back into action. He was, by nature, an optimist.

He’d arrived at Peterson to find they didn’t really want him there. It was suggested he take a few days leave instead. John couldn’t bear the thought of being on base anyway, surrounded by people he didn’t know, activities he wasn’t part of, planes he couldn’t fly. It was further suggested that he make himself available, and while the entire problem was that he didn’t do well with direct orders, he discovered he followed suggestions implicitly.

So he chose leave, selecting a hotel on the cabbie’s say-so. He called the base with the phone number the instant he checked in and didn’t leave the hotel again for days.

The first day, he ordered room service, watched an old movie, and started reading A Tale of Two Cities. His sleep was untroubled.

By the evening of the second day, he’d begun to get anxious. He paced the room for an hour or so, back and forth, counting the steps after a while just to be sure the walls weren’t actually closing in on him. He managed to convince himself he was imagining things. About the walls. About his fate. So maybe they’d assign him to a desk job for a while. It wouldn’t be forever; he was too good a pilot to be grounded. He ordered room service again, failed to strike up a conversation with the waiter, and read another chapter of his book. He woke up with the blankets wrapped around him like a shroud, and the pillow on the floor.

On the third day, John wondered if they might send him to the war zone in Iraq. Assigning undesirables to the front lines was a time-honoured military tradition, after all. He went to the hotel gym and lifted weights until his muscles twitched, and came back feeling calmer. After jerking off in the shower he went to bed early, but woke up sweating, fading nightmares echoing through his brain.

On the fourth day, he realized if they kicked him out of the Air Force, he might not be able to fly ever again. Commercial airlines -- hell, even crop dusters -- had their pick of honourably discharged pilots. Who’d risk hiring him? John swam laps until his arms wouldn’t move anymore and collapsed without calling down for dinner. Sleep was not his friend that night. At 2 a.m. he dialed his brother, but the woman who answered just swore at him and slammed the phone down before John could identify himself. He didn’t try again.

On the fifth day, he ran until his lungs burned and knees aches. I’m going to prison, he thought, heart pounding in time with his feet on the track. Why else would it be taking so long? They’re putting together the case against me. He wondered if he should get a lawyer.

Back in his room, he reviewed the range of punishments he’d come up with over the last five days: how bad was it that being sent to Iraq seemed like a good thing because then he’d still be able to fly?

Fuck! His knuckles stung, but left no mark on the heavy door. He had to get out of this hotel room before he decided to hang himself with his own dog tags just to get it over with.

Out sounded good. There must be a bar in the hotel. Or he could ask the concierge to recommend someplace where he could go and catch a game and maybe some conversation with someone outside his own head.

If he was lucky, he might…get lucky, find some release from this unbearable tension.

He dug his only civvies out of his bag, hanging black jeans and T-shirt in the bathroom to steam. After his shower, he shaved carefully and fussed with his hair a bit; he needed all the attitude he could muster. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork in the mirror, amazed each time he thought about it that people found his gangly body and uneven features appealing. Of course, people who’d just met him didn’t see the gawky fifteen-year-old that John saw when he looked in the mirror. Still, intellectually he knew people found him attractive and he was all about exploiting tactical advantages.

He picked up his watch and pocketed his wallet, hand hovering briefly over his dog tags before choosing not to wear them. Anonymity was probably a good idea. He grabbed his worn leather jacket and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. He double-checked the lock out of habit.

~*~*~*~*~

The hotel bar turned out to be the classy candles and crystal kind, with only a smattering of couples making quiet conversation. John didn’t even go in. "Try the Northgate," the doorman helpfully suggested. "Walking distance. Three blocks south, make a right. Big sign. You can’t miss it." John thanked him and headed off.

It was a mild evening and the walk was pleasant. John kept his eye out for covert military escort, but, when none was evident, decided he was flattering himself. Obviously, the brass didn’t figure him for a flight risk, although that was his whole problem — he’d risked himself and his plane, against orders, in the hope of saving lives. He’d just been trying to do the right thing. John thought this was what regret must look like, wondering what he could have done differently.

He made the turn, and a big sign did, indeed, declare he’d found the Northgate. He reached for the door and hesitated. With a couple of military installations in the area, he might see someone he knew. He really hoped not. It had been some time since he’d felt a sense of camaraderie with his peers, and he wasn’t in the mood to swap war stories tonight. Once, he’d felt a sense of belonging in the Air Force, of being an important part of something bigger than himself. At this point, he felt like an outcast, a pariah. Like the great military machine in which he’d invested so much of himself was now turning without him. He steeled himself and pushed open the door.

The bar seemed nice enough: not a fern bar or a disco or a country and western place, just a neighbourhood bar in a pretty good neighbourhood. It was, in fact, relatively empty. There were a few tables of people drinking quietly and a pool table in the back, the crack of balls audible over the music. John surveyed the place quickly, taking the end seat at the bar. He didn’t see anyone he knew and felt nothing but relief. He had no problem meeting people, so tonight he’d find someone new. Someone who didn’t know anything about him, his past, or his fuck-ups.

"Beer, please. Whatever’s on tap." The barman nodded and brought him a big sweating glass of unidentified beer. "Thanks," John said when it arrived, tipping well.

At the sound of laughter, John turned and glanced at a booth full of people along the wall behind him. The music was just loud enough that he couldn’t make out their words, but the laughter sounded a bit cruel, as if at someone’s expense. John watched as he sipped his beer.

The booth contained a group of young women, probably straight from the office, judging by their clothes and tired make-up. Squeezed in on the wall side was a not-bad-looking guy in a grey button-down who was trying to make time with the cute blonde beside him.

Unsuccessfully, John noted, although the guy obviously wasn’t getting the picture. John recognized the body language easily: the guy was leaning in facing her, but the girl was leaning forward, about as far away as she could get given the crowded booth. She even gestured to her girlfriends for help -- how oblivious could the guy be? -- but the girlfriends waved her off, clearly saying, "You’re on your own."

A waitress arrived at the table and the guy flashed a platinum card. John felt for the guy; women could be so cruel. So could men, come to think of it.

Grey-shirt guy chose that moment to look up. John shrugged and smiled, hoping to convey encouragement, camaraderie, and solidarity. The guy looked surprised, then assessing, before turning back to his reluctant conquest.

John waved his glass at the bartender to order another beer. "So, Barry," John read the little brass name badge, which was so shiny it practically glowed, "new here?"

"Nope, worked here for years. And the name’s Mike."

"But the name tag..." John pointed vaguely at Mike’s chest.

"Barry quit. I lost mine." He shrugged, grinning. "Why not?"

"Why not indeed," John responded. Mike turned away to serve another customer, and John focused his attention back on the debacle happening in the crowded booth.

"That," John hooked a thumb over his shoulder when the bartender came back his way, "is cruel and unusual punishment for the crime of finding someone attractive."

Mike sighed. "Look. They’re not bad people. They’ve just been here since around 6:00, so I think they’ve reached the cool stage of tonight’s drunk."

"Cool or cruel?" John had never been good with rejection -- giving or getting -- and he was pretty sure he’d never drawn it out for the price of a few drinks and the amusement of his friends. At least he hoped not.

"She’s just feeling empowered by the attention, unwanted or otherwise."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Psych major. Long time ago. Sorry." Mike grimaced and leaned down. "The Doc there can be a little intense at times."

"He’s a regular here?"

"Yeah. Works around here somewhere. First time I’ve seen him get like this though. I think the girls were bored and called him over or something. Don’t think I’ve ever seen them speak to him before. Usually he keeps to himself, has dinner, reads. Says he likes the food." Something about the way Mike phrased that last made John reconsider ordering dinner. Mike poured John another beer without being asked. "Yeah. Maybe Alicia and her friends are being a bit rough, but, hey, the Doc is one of those guys who won’t take ‘fuck off’ for an answer."

"So he’s pushy?" John asked, hating the kind of guy who ends up getting girls who are just too polite or too shy to say no.

"No, nice enough guy." Mike laughed, scratching one tattooed shoulder. "More dense really. Just dense. At least when it comes to women. Pretty interesting guy to talk to, though. Can really hold up his end of the conversation. Likes hockey."

"So what kind of doctor is he?"

"Dunno. Dentist maybe." Mike’s interest in the Doc and in John was obviously waning. Grabbing a rag, Mike wiped down the counter and let the activity carry him to the other end of the bar where he engaged in conversation with a not-very-busy waitress wearing a really revealing blouse. John couldn’t say he blamed him. John, on the other hand, found that his eyes kept wandering back to Doc and the train-wreck-in-progress.

John was on his fourth beer when he observed Doc making absolutely the worst mistake in pick-up history. Having finally clued in that he wasn’t getting anywhere with Alicia-the-perky-blonde, he was now trying to hit on her dark-haired friend. There was no way this could end well, and this time the girlfriends presented a united front, their posture making it clear to John they were giving poor Doc a hard time. John could hear their voices rising above the music.

Without thinking, he waved at the guy. Oh, jeeze, he thought, here I go again, trying to rescue somebody who’s been shot down. The motion caught Doc’s eye and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. John patted the bar stool beside him. Sheppard to the rescue. Hope it goes better than last time.

Understanding dawned on Doc’s face. The man nodded and slid out of the booth, retrieving his credit card from the table and grabbing a jacket from a nearby hook. The girls looked a little shocked when he said goodbye; maybe they expected him to be their evening’s entertainment, as well as bankroll their drinking.

"Hi." He strode up to John and seated himself on the stool John had indicated. "That obvious, was it?" His self-deprecating chuckle sounded hollow; his face was grim.

"I’m a pilot," John replied. "I know crash and burn when I see it."

"Oh. Thanks a lot." Doc sounded sarcastic, insulted and grateful all at once.

"You’re welcome," John drawled, seeing Doc’s sarcasm and raising him graciousness.

Doc ordered a beer (imported), buying one for John as well. Four beers already and no dinner, John was feeling more than a little buzzed. He considered leaving, but now that he’d finally made a little human contact, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again.

"So, Ace," Doc started, clinking bottles with John, "uh, come here often?"

"First time," John said agreeably. "You?"

"Me? Oh, fairly often. They make really good sandwiches here. And the beer’s good. Sometimes the company, not so much." Doc rolled his eyes, and launched into a tirade on the perfidy of women.

John turned to face his companion, leaning an elbow on the bar, and took a sip of his beer. He let Doc’s grumbling wash over him. "I never learn…" and "It’s always the blondes…"

When he tuned back in Doc was saying, "I just don’t have the touch." He stared straight ahead, sliding a practiced thumb under the label of his beer. "Men are so much easier."

Okay. That was unexpected. Since he’d watched the guy hitting on not one but two women, John had assumed his new friend was straight, although really, he should know better. He leaned his head on one hand, checking Doc out more thoroughly, and decided Alicia was a total idiot.

"Men, huh?" John responded. "That’s a pretty dangerous thing to say. This is a military town. How do you know I’m not military?"

The Doc gave him a sideways look. "Well, of course you’re military."

John prided himself on the fact that he could hide his military bearing. He slouched when others stood tall, he sprawled when others sat stiffly. He looked directly at people, smiling as much as possible. "What makes you say that?"

"There’s a line around the back of your neck where the hair’s all rubbed away." At John’s deliberately puzzled look, Doc reached out and quickly dragged a finger across the back of John’s neck just above his T-shirt collar, adding, "Dog tags. And the fact that you left them at home tonight makes me pretty sure what you’re after." He leaned in and patted John’s arm. "And the come-hither look? Said it best."

"No. See, that was a come-get-rescued look." John argued for absolutely no reason he could think of, except that arguing with this guy was kind of fun. "There was no ‘hither’ in my look."

"Oh, so just ‘come’ then," Doc smirked.

While this -- the guy-on-guy thing -- had been at the back of John’s mind from the beginning, he hadn’t actively sought it, choosing a mainstream watering hole rather than the easy pick up he could have had just by arriving at a different kind of bar. He hadn’t actively looked for it, but now that the possibility was before him, he found he wanted it. Wanted it very much. The idea of it, the idea of this intriguing man sitting next to him hit him low and hard; easing some things and tightening others. He felt warmth uncurl at the base of his spine and low in his gut.

John licked his lips automatically, although he would have done it consciously if he’d thought about it. Oh, yeah. He watched Doc’s eyes darken. This is going to be good. Just what the doctor ordered. And he liked the sound of that, too. John looked away, breathing rapidly and feeling a little flushed.

Doc leaned in close to John, eyebrows raised and forehead crinkled. His expression had a pleading quality to it, yet there was nothing humble about it. It wasn’t as if Doc was begging John to accept him, to want him, but rather that he was beseeching John be smart enough to recognize what he was being offered. John was almost shocked to feel a surge of what could only be called affection, and started to reach out a hand, jerking it back and taking a sip of his beer instead.

Doc, looking terrified but resolute, said abruptly, "Listen, you seem to like me and you’re, you know, exceedingly hot, so could we just go home now?"

John choked on his drink.

The guy whacked him on the back a couple of times. "So, three strikes, I’m out, then?" he asked, misery replacing hope. "A shutout. Great."

"You know," John wheezed, wiping his watering eyes. "You’re not actually supposed to hit someone on the back when they’re choking."

"I know that. Really. I just like to hit people who rescue me from desperate situations in order to personally shoot me down!" His voice had risen above the music and a couple of people were staring at them.

John made calming motions with his hand. "Hey. No shooting down here. We’re good."

"Oh. Well, good then." Doc downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp and stood, snatching up his jacket. "Name. What’s your name?" he demanded, snapping his fingers near John’s left shoulder. The rapid shift in the conversation, along with the four beers, left John a little stunned and he failed to answer right away. Doc leaned in close, saying, "It doesn’t have to be your real name. Just so I have something to scream, you know."

"John," he managed to croak out.

"Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it? Casual, anonymous sex. Very good, then." He nodded once, firmly. "Rod. You can call me Rod."

"Rod the Bod, hmmm? As in bad porn?" John joked.

"No," Rod said, looking incredibly serious, incredibly intense. "As in really, really good porn."

Rod pushed off from the bar and strode away, leaving John scrambling to finish his drink and pull on his jacket.

"C’mon. C’mon." Rod’s voice was in his ear again thirty seconds later. "You’re ruining my great exit. Let’s go!"

John pushed away from the bar, which brought him face to face with Alicia, who had come up behind him while he was distracted.

"Hey, Rodney," she purred, "Who’s your friend?"

"Yes. Well, ah…" Rodney moved his eyes suspiciously from John to Alicia. Unsure wasn’t a good look on him at all. His shoulders slumped and he took a half step back.

Alicia ran an intrusive hand down John’s chest, saying, "Are you a doctor, too, cutie?"

John grabbed her hand before it could descend into dangerous territory. "Yes," he lied. "Yes, I am. And it’s my professional opinion that you need to see an ear, nose and throat specialist."

"Ear, nose and…Why?" She stared up at John in unfocused confusion, swaying a little on her high heels. She looked tired and drunk and a lot less perky than before. And John almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Because it’s obvious to me, even from all the way across the room, that there’s something wrong with your sense of taste." John slung his arm over Rodney’s shoulders and together they made the great exit Rodney had tried for earlier.

With Rodney walking flush up against him, John could feel the little bounce in his step, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the huge grin on Rodney’s face. As soon as they turned the corner and were out of sight of the door, Rodney turned and put a hand in the middle of John’s chest, gave it an approving pat and said, "Thanks."

John grinned back. "My pleasure." He pulled Rodney towards him and kissed him, licking along the corner of his mouth when it failed to open under his.

Rodney pushed away from him, but he was still smiling. "Car’s this way." His short hair brushed John’s cheek as he tilted his head to indicate the direction.

John was already breathing a little quickly, just from the simple closed-mouthed kiss. He let Rodney start the car -- a Volvo, for Chrissake! -- and then he grabbed him and kissed him again, trying to persuade Rodney to open his mouth, to let him in.

"Wha--?" Rodney pushed him back, harder this time. "No. No. Wait! I can’t…"

"So no kissing then?" John rolled his eyes, letting his disapproval show in his voice. "Just fucking?"

"No. No. That’s not...well, yes about the fucking, but wait. Have you had any citrus products today? Even like, orange juice or whatever?" Rodney was peering at him as if he could determine John’s citrus intake by intent alone. "I need you to think about this very, very carefully. It’s a matter of life or death."

O…kay. This was new. "I had a fruit cup thingy at breakfast. I think there were orange slices in it. Maybe grapefruit, too."

"But just at breakfast, right? What did you have for lunch?"

"A burger and a Coke. And fries," John ticked off on his fingers. "I’m pretty sure there was no citrus in any of that."

"Oh, you’d be surprised, ah, John." Rodney said, putting the car into gear. And he rambled on about the omnipresent use of citrus in North American food production. John found the flow of words strangely soothing, but, with the stress and the anticipation and the beer all churning through his system, soothing wasn’t exactly what he was looking for and he wondered what it would take to shut Rodney up.

He looked over at Rodney, eyes captured by the flex of the thigh so close to his own. He bit back a grin and reached out, laying his hand high on Rodney’s thigh, letting his thumb stroke idly back and forth, pleased to hear the anti-citrus tirade sputter to a stop. The muscle beneath his hand twitched.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" Rodney demanded, scowling over at John.

John made sure his face wore its most innocent look. "Sorry." He stopped the idle stroking of his thumb, and gave Rodney’s leg a small pat in apology. He moved his hand, about an inch, judging that far enough to be safe, close enough to still be a distraction.

"So, Rodney." Rodney flinched at the use of his full first name, much to John’s amusement. "Mike back at the bar called you 'Doc'. Said you’re a dentist?"

Rodney took his eyes off the road long enough to stare at John. "Does that turn you on?" Rodney’s tone was more speculative than teasing.

"No, actually. I’ve never been that fond of my dentist."

"Oh, so not into pain. That’s a relief. We won’t be re-enacting Marathon Man then, and just for the record, not one of my favourite movies."

"Me neither." John agreed. He was about to ask Rodney what movies he did like, but Rodney was already slowing down to make the turn into a large apartment complex.

"We’re here." Rodney announced, suddenly sounding nervous. "Uh, this way."

He led John through a stark hallway and into an elevator. Rodney met John’s eyes briefly, then stared at his shoes like they fascinated him. John took the opportunity to check out his companion in the bright lighting, approving again of his choice for buddy fuck de jour.

As they left the elevator, John let Rodney get a step in front of him. The back view was, if anything, even better than the front. He lengthened his stride, letting his arm fall across Rodney’s back and getting a hand on his ass. It felt really good, so he gave it a little squeeze. Rodney stumbled, squawked, and glared at him. John gave him a wicked grin and left his hand where it was.

Rodney fumbled with his keys as he opened the door, but he was all smooth action once he had it closed, spinning John around and back against the door, holding him there with his hands on John’s shoulders. He slid one hand down and around until he got a good grip on John’s ass and grabbed hard, making John’s hips jerk forward. "Hey!"

"What’s good for the goose…"

John’s grin widened as he got both hands on Rodney’s ass this time, pulling him in tight and rubbing suggestively against him. "I can’t wait to get a gander at this."

Rodney snorted. Arching his back, he pushed his hips more firmly into John’s, the heat in his gaze enough to make John sweat. John’s grin faded; he couldn’t look away, his eyes caught by incredible blue ones. It felt like he was soaring through a clear blue sky, looking out over the sea.

A persistent "meow" broke the spell. John glanced down to see a good-sized grey cat twining itself around Rodney’s ankles and getting increasingly vocal. Rodney’s hands ran down John’s chest in a rough caress as he reluctantly pushed back.

Rodney stooped down to pick up the cat, stroking it under the chin. "Do you like cats?"

John took a deep breath, trying to get himself back under control. "Yeah, they’re okay." He held his fingers out for the cat to sniff. Having apparently decided that John passed the test, the cat butted its head against John’s hand, demanding more attention. The cat wasn’t exactly what John wanted to be petting right now, but he did like cats, so he lifted it out of Rodney’s hands and gave it a good scratch, listening to it purr.

Rodney disappeared for a moment and John figured he was doing cat-owner things. He was surprised when Rodney reappeared with a brand new toothbrush still in the package and a roll of dental floss. "Here." He thrust them at John. Ah, right. Dentist. John put the cat down so he could take them.

"So. Not Marathon Man but Pretty Woman? I guess I can do that, although I don’t think I’ll look that good as a red-head."

"And the mini-dress wouldn’t do a thing for you. No. No. Weren’t you listening?" John wondered if the "you moron" was usually implied or if Rodney was making a special effort for him. "I have an anaphylactic reaction to all citrus. Even the tiniest bit could kill me. So, go. Make sure you don’t have any bits of pulp caught between your molars or anything."

John started to bristle, but then the penny dropped. "Oh, right." John thought maybe the "you moron" was actually called for. "I read about a kid up in Canada who died because her boyfriend had eaten peanut butter earlier in the day and then they kissed."

"Right. In Quebec. Not entirely an idiot, I see." He made shooing motions toward what John figured was the bathroom.

"You know most people wait until after they’ve slept with me before insulting my hygiene," John joked, delighted by the look of consternation on Rodney’s face. He stepped quickly into the bathroom and attended to his gums with military precision.

~*~*~*~*~

"All done. Do I see the hygienist next or--" However John had planned to finish that sentence was lost forever as Rodney pinned him to the wall, kissing him desperately, almost savagely. They were pretty much of a height, but Rodney was broader, heavier. John reveled in the feeling of being restrained for a long moment before executing a neat twist which ended with him behind Rodney, holding him firmly by the hips.

"Yes. Yes. Military. I get it," Rodney panted, his forehead resting against the wall.

John snaked a hand around Rodney’s chest and pulled him back until they were crushed together, shoulders to knees. Rodney felt solid and warm against him, somehow grounding John and at the same time making him feel like he was about to fly. Anticipation coursed through him, speeding up his heartbeat, making him sweat.

Pushing aside Rodney’s collar, John leaned in to lick the spot where neck and shoulder met. He tasted salt. He closed his teeth on Rodney’s neck, biting down, worrying at the spot with lips and teeth and tongue until, he heard Rodney gasp and felt his head roll back invitingly. A lick, a nip and a ghost of a breath on that sensitive spot, and Rodney shuddered. "God, that is so hot."

John mouthed a procession of gentle bites along Rodney’s jaw as far as he could reach, and then back across his cheek. He loved the feel of stubble on his lips and tongue. With his mouth right next to Rodney’s ear John breathed, "So are you."

Normally John wouldn’t do this; normally he’d be keeping things light, superficial. But tonight, even the temporary release from the tension that had been grinding him down left him feeling reckless, a little wild. "Fuck me?" he asked softly, running his hand down Rodney’s chest and firmly stroking his hard cock through his pants.

Rodney shuddered in John’s arms again, head turning restlessly against his shoulder. "Not going to…"

"Not going to what?" John teased, his hand squeezing gently. "Not going to fuck me?"

"Not going to last if you don’t stop doing that." Rodney twisted out of John’s grasp, grabbed his arm and dragged him bodily into the bedroom. Turning to face him, Rodney brought both hands up to cup John’s face and pulled him down into a hard kiss, all lips and teeth and bruising pressure.

It didn’t satisfy Rodney for long, however. He dragged his mouth away from John’s, and gasped, "Touch me."

John suddenly found himself following orders and Rodney, apparently, was good at giving them. "Touch me," Rodney repeated, and John wrapped both arms around Rodney, pulling his shirt loose in the back, and sliding one hand up under it, enjoying the feel of skin and muscle.

Rodney, in the meantime, had John's T-shirt pushed up under his arms. "Off," he panted. "Take this off." John reluctantly let go to help Rodney get his shirt over his head, and went to work on the buttons of Rodney's shirt to even things up, dragging it off as soon as the last button came free.

Skin was good. John splayed his hands out over Rodney’s shoulders, palms caressing, fingers mapping the ridge of his spine, flirting with the waistband of his pants, before dipping under to get both hands on Rodney’s ass and haul him in tight, rubbing his own aching cock, still trapped in his jeans, up against Rodney’s erection.

Rodney ground against him once, twice, and then got his hands between them again, working at John’s zipper, and pushing his jeans and boxers down his thighs. He followed them down to the floor; dropping to his knees and helping John get his feet out of the clothes, pulling his socks and shoes off at the same time.

Rodney sat back on his heels, his gaze sweeping up John’s body. His cheeks were flushed, and his chest rose and fell rapidly. Their eyes locked as Rodney reached out and let the tip of his finger brush John’s cock, then closed his hand around it. John could almost feel the heat in Rodney’s gaze; his cock twitched in Rodney’s warm grasp.

With a wince, Rodney scrambled to his feet again. "My knees can’t take the floor. Come here." He stepped backwards, grabbing John’s arm and pulling him along. He sat down on the bed, maneuvering John to stand between his thighs, John’s cock was now within reach of Rodney’s wicked mouth. Rodney’s tongue darted out for a taste then he opened his mouth and just sucked John all the way down.

John watched, enthralled. He was so turned on his hair hurt -- no wait, it was probably Rodney’s hair that hurt because John had made fists in it and was pulling pretty hard. He forced himself to relax his grip, and petted a couple of times by way of both apology and encouragement.

Not that Rodney needed much in the way of encouragement. He licked and sucked, and for one glorious moment hummed, and that was all it took. John came with a groan, and Rodney swallowed, and swallowed again, continuing to lick gently until John softened in his mouth, letting him slip out with a sigh. Rodney leaned his forehead into John’s stomach, still holding his hips, and took a couple of deep breaths before letting go.

John flopped onto his back beside Rodney. "Just give me a minute," he said, closing his eyes.

The bed shifted, followed by a rustle of clothing being removed. Rodney chuckled. "Take your time. I’m just getting started."

John’s eyes opened again just in time to see Rodney crawling naked onto the bed beside him. He straddled John’s hips and ran both hands up John’s chest to his shoulders, leaning down for another kiss. John felt strangely protected with Rodney blanketing him like that.

After a few moments, it occurred to him that so far this had all been about him. John tried to work a hand in between them so he could take hold of Rodney’s cock, but Rodney grabbed his hand and held it away. "You’ve had yours," he said. "My turn."

"I know," John protested. "I’m trying to--"

"Well don’t. Don’t touch."

"But you just said--"

Rodney bought John’s hand to his mouth. He bit hard at the base of his thumb, then moved to suck on the pulse point at his wrist. How had John gotten this far in life without knowing that was a hot spot for him? Rodney spent a long time applying his clever mouth to any number of heretofore unknown erogenous zones on John’s body. Or had John’s body just become one big erogenous zone under Rodney’s intense ministrations? He worked his way across John and back, before returning to his mouth for long moments of serious kissing.

By the time Rodney raised his swollen lips and looked hazily into John’s eyes, John was amazed to feel a stirring in his groin again. Maybe there was something in that imported beer. Or maybe they were just really good together. Rodney squeezed his hands and said, "Don’t move," before letting go.

John had already gathered that Rodney was something of a control freak, but what he hadn’t realized was just how devastatingly sexy it was to be on the receiving end of Rodney’s powerful focus. John would have liked to have obeyed the "don’t move" command, but by the time Rodney had worked him up and down, and inside and out, John was writhing and thrashing, unable to hold still at all.

"Rod-ney!" John moaned, as close to begging as he’d ever been in his life.

Rodney raised his head, his pupils huge and dark. "Still want me to fuck you?" he asked, fingers moving, his expression all raw confidence and anticipation.

"God, yes." John didn’t bottom often, but something about Rodney made him want to do this. He couldn’t recall ever having wanted it so much. "God, Rodney. I-- God."

"Well, since you ask so nicely." Rodney moved away to find and roll on a condom, and John started to flip over on his knees. "No." Rodney laid a hand on his thigh. "Stay like that. I want to see you while I fuck you." Rodney leaned down to kiss John again. "You’re so beautiful."

It wasn’t a compliment John was used to and he might have protested if Rodney hadn’t been in the process of pressing John’s knees up against his chest. John wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking harder as Rodney pushed inside in one long, steady thrust.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." Rodney panted, stilling, deep inside, giving John a chance to adjust. "I can’t. I--" He pulled out and thrust back in, brushing John’s sweet spot, ripping a moan from him. Rodney began thrusting in earnest, causing John to groan with each forceful stroke.

"Touch yourself!" Rodney husked.

John barely touched his cock when he was coming all over again. Rodney slammed in once more, and John felt the echoes of Rodney’s orgasm as if it were a continuation of his own.

After a minute, Rodney let go of John’s legs, which were beginning to cramp. He carefully withdrew and rolled away to deal with the condom. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to John, breathing raggedly.

John ran a finger through the mess where he’d come on own his stomach, still panting. "Pass me the…"

Rodney grabbed the box of tissues from the nightstand and smugly offered it to John across his arm, like a sommelier offering a really good bottle of wine.

John raised one eyebrow. "I prefer a full-bodied Merlot myself."

Rodney poked him with the box. "Well, the house white is all we’ve got."

John smiled. "Maybe I’ll complain to the management." He grabbed a handful of tissues and cleaned himself off before tossing the wad into the wastebasket by the bed.

Rodney scooted in close, laying his head down on John’s shoulder, tangling their legs together, and resting his hand on John’s chest. It was as though he was trying to make sure that as much of their skin as possible was touching. John thought that it was kind of nice cuddling with Rodney like that and just drifted for long minutes.

Eventually he stirred and rubbed his hand up and down Rodney’s arm. "Don’t let me fall asleep."

Rodney nodded, looking resigned. "Yeah. Military. I know. Look, I’ll make coffee. I’ll be right back. Don’t touch anything." Rodney’s authority was a little undermined by the fact that he was pulling his boxers on backwards and had to start again. "You want any? Beer? Or water, maybe?"

"Got any orange juice?"

"So very funny. Ha ha." Rodney paused in the bedroom doorway, a disheveled silhouette with tousled hair and baggy boxers. "I’ll be back in a minute. Do not," he pointed at John, "touch anything."

John snapped off a mocking salute, and fell back against the pillows. He should be getting dressed and leaving, but he felt too good to move yet. Rodney’s cat jumped up on the bed and onto John’s chest, stretching out and bumping John’s hand for more petting. Soon it was purring loudly again. John was practically purring himself when Rodney returned with two mugs of coffee and a bag of Oreos under his arm.

"You should be honored. She’s usually pretty stand-offish," he observed, placing the coffee and cookies on the nightstand. "In fact, I might be a little jealous."

John maneuvered himself halfway upright so he could drink his coffee without dislodging the cat. He was enjoying the contact. "Cats like me." John grinned. "What can I say? It’s my secret charm. What’s her name?"

"Um. Schrödinger." Rodney passed John his coffee. "And, no, I didn’t name her. Somebody thought that was funny."  He dropped the open bag of cookies on the bed between them, took one, and dunked it in his coffee before stuffing the whole thing in his mouth. John was reminded just how accommodating Rodney’s mouth could be, and couldn’t look away.

John quirked an eyebrow. "Well, another perfectly good theory shot to hell. I think we can definitively say she’s alive."

"You know…" Rodney swallowed quickly, "about Schrödinger’s cat?"

"I’m a man of hidden depths."

"Yes, well. Been there, plumbed that." Rodney continued while John choked. "Mostly I call her ‘Cat.’ It’s not like she answers anyway." He shoved another cookie in his mouth.

John took a sip of coffee, letting his gaze to drift around the room. The furniture was spare, but good quality-- queen bed, large dresser and mirror, and a desk off in the corner. The desk was covered in stacks of books and magazines, with a couple of framed degrees on the wall behind it, flanking a photograph of a very young Rodney beside an older man with graying hair and large, heavy-framed glasses. John thought the man looked familiar.

"That’s Richard Feynman, isn’t it?"

"Yes, it is. I’m surprised you recognized him."

"I remember him from the Challenger investigation. That’s you, right? How did you know him?"

"He was a professor of mine at Caltech," Rodney replied. "I guess you could say I was kind of a fan."

John raised one eyebrow. "Of a physicist?" He squinted at Rodney’s degrees. "So not a dentist then?"

"Yes, right. Because a recent ruling of the American Dental Association now permits me to conduct oral examinations… with my tongue!"

"Rod-ney." John managed to make it sound like a threat, thinking that less than an hour ago it had sounded like a prayer.

"Well, you know," Rodney explained, looking almost apologetic "Dentist. Theoretical astrophysicist. It’s a fine line, really."

"Oh, yeah. I get that. ′Cause cavities and wormholes are both caused by plaque and a rift in the space-time continuum."

Rodney ignored the sarcasm, waving off the misunderstanding. "What about you? Pilot, you said. Air Force, right?"

John’s sense of well-being evaporated instantly, his entire body tensing. Cat leapt from his chest, digging her claws in for purchase. He rubbed the raw scratches; they stung a bit, and his chest felt tight. "For now," he answered shortly.

"Why just for now?"

"I don’t want to talk about it," John said flatly. "Just…leave it, okay? "

John thought that was pretty much the evening’s death knell, and he should probably be getting back to the hotel. He placed his half-empty coffee cup on the nearest nightstand and rose. He wandered around the room, collecting and pulling on his scattered clothing. Rodney lay sprawled out on the bed, watching him intently, his expressive face unreadable in the dim light.

Standing in front of the dresser mirror, John ran his fingers through his messy hair; it would have to do. His eye was caught by a palm-sized stone in some sort of metal casing sitting on the dresser. As he reached out, Rodney shouted "Don’t touch that!" Too late. John’s hand landed on the stone, and it glowed green beneath his palm. John jerked his hand back.

Rodney erupted off the bed. He grabbed the green thing, holding it tightly. Nothing happened. "Touch it again! Again!" Rodney commanded, thrusting the stone at John.

John tentatively reached out and touched it again, and again it shone green, the glow leeching out between his loosely cupped fingers.

"Cool. What is that?"

Rodney didn’t answer. He pulled the stone away and laid it carefully back on the dresser, turning immediately to a carton in the corner. He yanked off the lid and pulled out a small black box covered in silver filigree. He shoved it at John. "Here. Touch this."

Nothing happened. "Think at it," Rodney ordered. At John’s "Huh?" he added, "Think ‘on’ at it." And while that clarified nothing for John, somehow just thinking about thinking ‘on’ at it must have done the trick because now it was whirring and vibrating under John’s fingers. Rodney jerked it away again and placed it back in the cardboard box.

The third item spun and hummed when John touched and thought at it. When it projected an amazing lightshow of unfamiliar suns and planets on the ceiling, John’s "cool" was accompanied by a sliver of alarm. He was about two minutes from freaking because Rodney was being weird and so were these objects. "I’ve got to be going."

Rodney looked at him in horror, like he’d just said the stupidest thing Rodney had ever heard. "No. Absolutely not." Rodney stabbed John’s chest, hitting Cat’s scratches with ridiculous accuracy. "You can’t leave." He ran towards the closet and started pulling out clothes. "We have to go…" The words were badly muffled by the sweater Rodney was pulling on. "I have to call Weir." Rodney ran out of the room.

Okay, this was so not a good idea. Getting involved with whatever it was that had Rodney so excited seemed dangerous. If it got out that John had been here, under these circumstances, it would be the final blow to his career. He’d thought he couldn’t get into deeper shit, but now he knew he’d been so wrong. Time to bail. John moved swiftly to the front door, grabbing his jacket on the way by. It was a good thing he hadn’t given Rodney his full name.

~*~*~*~*~

John fidgeted as he stood waiting at the elevator, silently urging it to hurry. It dinged and the door slid open just as Rodney stuck his head out of his apartment door and shouted, "Hey! Come back here."

John jumped through the door, trying to look harmless. Rodney’s increasingly frantic shouts penetrated the cage and the other riders edged as far from John as possible.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, John hurried across the lobby. Outside, he could see a taxi letting off a fare, and he dashed for it. As he pushed through the heavy glass door, another elevator dinged its arrival. Rodney shot from it, still barefoot and dressed only in boxers and a sweater. "Come back..." he yelled. "I need you to--"

Rodney’s pursuit only served to spur John on. He yanked open the cab door, jumping in the back. The last thing he heard as the car pulled away was Rodney calling, "…or at least give me your phone number!"

Letting his head fall back against the seat, John thought that that had just been too close. He concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse.

Back at the hotel, John kept looking over his shoulder as he tried to open his door. Even though he knew Rodney couldn’t have followed him, he still half expected to see him come charging off the hotel elevator. He’d seemed like a very determined man.

John fumbled with the card-key several times, cursing the little red light. He practically tumbled into his hotel room when the light finally glowed green. "They should make doors that respond to brain waves like those weird Rodney-things," he mumbled to no one.

Once in the room, he felt safe again. He smiled, amused at his own silliness. He was sated and exhausted and aching in a good way. He kicked off his shoes and headed to the bathroom, a shower well earned and very much in order. As he soaped up, he hummed "Ring of Fire" without a trace of irony.

It had turned out to be a pretty good night overall, right up until that part at the end when things -- and by "things" he meant Rodney -- had gotten a little crazy. Rodney’s whiplash switch from "hey, don’t touch that!" to "touch it again. Now! Now!" had just been weird. John chuckled, recalling his daring escape from the intense and insane gravitational pull of the loud and under-clothed man charging across the lobby.

He was almost sorry he’d never see Dr. Rodney again.

And those things that lit up at his touch. He fell asleep wondering at the way those strange things had made him feel.

~*~*~*~*~

John surprised himself by sleeping soundly. He enjoyed a full room service breakfast and placed the decimated tray out in the hallway, only noticing then that he’d carefully piled all the citrus on one side of the tray.

He had just closed the door when he got the call he’d been dreading, and was given instructions to report to General Stephenson’s office in a little less than two hours.

After taking another shower, John carefully inspected and put on his dress uniform. For one whimsical moment he imagined going to the meeting in the same casual civvies he’d worn last night, soft, wrinkled and smelling of sex and Dr. Rodney. He smiled at the fantasy, but knew he would never do it. He’d play this out according to the script written for him by generations of American soldiers.

He arrived a few minutes early, and was directed by the General’s adjutant to take a seat. Concentrating on not fidgeting, he was caught off-guard by the arrival of another general, with a young Marine lieutenant in tow. John leapt to attention and saluted sharply. The silver-haired general saluted back briefly, tossing an "as you were" at John before heading to the adjutant’s desk.

"He’s expecting you, General O’Neill. Please go in."

Hand on the doorknob, General O’Neill stopped and pointed at John. "You. Don’t go anywhere," he said. The tone of voice was direct, but not unkind. "Ford," he added, "keep Major Sheppard company."

The lieutenant, presumably Ford, acknowledged the odd order. "Yes, sir!" Odder still was the big, open grin on Ford’s face. It seemed so out of keeping with the boring watch-dog detail he’d just been assigned.

"And Ford." The General stuck his head back out of Stephenson’s office. "Try not to enjoy yourself too much."

"Yes, sir." Ford’s grin, if anything, grew wider. It was as if he knew something that John didn’t and really, really liked it.

John seated himself again once the office door closed. Ford took a seat across from him and tried to strike up a conversation, something about the weather, John thought, so nervous he wasn’t really listening. So instead he paced. Well, not so much in reality because pacing in General Stephenson’s reception area wouldn’t have been conducive to much of anything. But inside, he was pacing just the same.

Desk job. Iraq. Why did this General O’Neill know his name? Dishonorable discharge. Prison. What did it mean that deciding his fate required two generals?

Iraq. He glanced up at the young lieutenant sitting across from him. Discharge. The Air Force had gone from giving John rank, status, command, and multi-million-dollar planes to fly, to giving him a babysitter who looked to be around twelve. Prison. The military escort seemed to make this the likeliest option.

The lieutenant grinned again. He didn’t look like any MP John had ever seen. He was enjoying his job altogether too much. What was a Marine doing as aide to an Air Force general, anyway? John worried at that problem for a while, but couldn’t come up with anything that made sense. About any of it.

Nothing he could do about it now; he’d find out the bad news soon enough. In an attempt to distract himself he started running through the most complex math problems he could think of while time ticked slowly by. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty.

Waiting had never been John’s strong suit, and after five days of it in his hotel, he thought he’d implode if Stephenson left him in his reception area much longer.

"Sir?" Ford asked when John rose abruptly.

"Bathroom," John responded.

"Good idea, sir. I’ll go with you." The adjutant indicated the closest men’s room and Ford followed along behind John. "How ′bout those Broncos?" Ford asked, standing next to John at the row of urinals. The surreal feeling stayed with John all the way back to the waiting area where the two generals were now standing at the door.

"Oh, there you are," O’Neill said. "I thought you’d made a break for freedom and Ford here had been forced to shoot you."

John paled, hand shaking just the tiniest bit as he saluted General Stephenson.

"Because Ford doesn’t actually like to shoot people. He’d much rather blow them up." O’Neill looked pleased

Ford, on the other hand, looked embarrassed and finally stopped grinning.

"Major," Stephenson snapped, indicating his open office door. "If you please…"

John followed the two generals in. He started a little as the adjutant closed the door firmly behind him. General Stephenson seated himself behind his big, imposing desk, while O’Neill leaned one hip against the meeting table that filled half the room. Having not been invited to sit, John stood at attention, trying to face both generals at once. O’Neill helpfully pointed at Stephenson, so John turned to face his general, feeling oddly trapped by having the other man behind him, out of his sightline.

Stephenson let him stand there a few minutes more while he flipped through a large and untidy file. A small cough sounded behind John and Stephenson glared at his counterpart, before launching into the dressing down that John could have predicted, including the expected "we’re disappointed in you", "you could have had a bright future in front of you," and "your father, God rest his soul…" John started tuning out at that point.

As General Stephenson concluded his remarks, John refocused on his words. "You were facing a dishonorable discharge. If it were up to me, you’d be out on your ear. However.."

Stephenson was known for his cruel and unusual pauses. Another cough from behind John seemed to spur him into abruptly finishing his sentence. "O’Neill here apparently sees something in you that I don’t, and you are hereby assigned to his command. I hope that you will see fit to smarten up in the future. Dismissed."

"Sir." John turned to O’Neill. "Sir?"

"Wait outside with Ford, please, Major."

"Yes, sir." John quickly left the office.

O’Neill didn’t keep them waiting more than a couple of minutes. As he left the office he handed a file -- John’s personnel file, it looked like -- to Ford. "Gentlemen. We have a mountain to get to."

Lieutenant Ford maneuvered their very unremarkable car through the streets of Colorado Springs. O’Neill wasn’t saying much, just flipping through John’s file which he’d retrieved from Ford, occasionally making "oh" and "um" noises. John tried to read sideways, but, catching him at it, O’Neill slapped the file shut and gave John an accusing glance. John felt like he’d been caught cheating off a classmate’s exam paper. He turned his eyes, if not his attention, to the scenery flowing by.

They actually drove into, and then under, a mountain. John had known there was a military installation there, but had never really wondered about it. Ford dropped them at an entrance and drove away again. Once inside, John followed O’Neill through a maze of busy hallways that felt more like tunnels. There were a lot of military personnel but, surprisingly, there were an even greater number of civilians in lab coats. What the hell was this place?

Enlightening conversation was postponed until John was seated across from O’Neill in the General’s office. It was a simple room with none of the trappings of power that generals like Stephenson adored.

"I understand," O’Neill began, "you did some questionable things a while back. You’ve managed to piss off some pretty important people. They don’t take kindly to disobeyed orders and what they claim are unnecessary risks.

Claim? John looked away quickly. A little hope touched his soul.

"You keep that up, you’re going to get yourself assigned to some sort of weird secret project where nobody can find you. It’s dangerous work, but it can be rewarding. Some of us even make General, eventually."

"Sir?"

"You also, ah, seem to have made a new friend… quite recently. Someone who thinks you’ve got some potential."

"New friend, sir?"

"It seems you demonstrated some pretty unique skills last night."

It was a good thing nobody had offered John coffee because spitting all over a general, like disobeying direct orders, was not a good career move.

"Last night, sir?" And maybe, at some point, he’d find his brain again, but right now rational thought was not John’s friend.

And of course the door opened right then and Rodney appeared. "Oh, good. He’s here. And hey, John’s your real name. Imagine my surprise."

John buried his head in his hands.

"Don’t worry, Major. McKay has that effect on most people." To Rodney, the General added, "Good morning, Dr. McKay. Nice to see you, too."

"Yes. Yes. Pleasantries all ′round. So, did you tell him yet?" John looked at him blankly. "No? What’re you waiting for?"

"Just a little thing we top secret military guys like to call ‘clearance.’"

"Oh. Uh. Sorry." Rodney fidgeted in place for about five seconds, obviously torn between pushing the General further and just absconding with John right then. He practically vibrated. "So, how long is that going to take? I’ll just take him to my lab while we wait. I really, really need him to touch something for me."

A litany of Oh God, oh God raced through John’s mind. He’d underestimated the creativity of military punishment.

"No, you can’t take him to your lab. Jesus, McKay." O’Neill sighed. "Look. Go back to work and I’ll send someone to get you when he’s been briefed."

"No way am I letting him out of my sight again. Because that went so well the last time." Rodney snorted. "I can take him to the cafeteria, can’t I? I know the meatloaf contains unidentifiable substances but I don’t think it’s actually a breach of security."

"Yeah, okay," O’Neill conceded, glancing at his watch.

"Come on, Major. Let’s go get some lunch." Rodney dragged John up out his chair, pulling him towards the door. John pushed off Rodney’s hands and turned, resolute, to face O’Neill.

"Sir. Permission to--" O’Neill waved off the formalities. "What’s going to happen to me?" He met and held the General’s eyes, deliberately not looking at Rodney.

"Ah, good question." O’Neill stroked his throat and gazed up at John. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to fly helicopters around Antarctica. That is, when you’re not, ah, touching things for Dr. McKay." O’Neill’s voice was neutral, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Stunned, John latched onto the fact that he’d still be flying. Even though it would be helicopters rather than F-38s, and in Antarctica of all places, it sounded better than any of the other possibilities that had been running through his mind since he’d first been hauled up on disciplinary charges.

"Um, thank you. I think."

"Good. Good. Let’s go." Rodney grabbed his arm again and pulled him away. Rodney walked quickly and John had to lengthen his stride to keep up through the twists and turns and down long tunnels that now felt light and airy, despite the fact that there was an entire mountain over their heads.

Rodney’s running monologue was both entertaining and incomprehensible, and probably defied a good deal of the "doesn’t yet have clearance" policy. When it became obvious there would be no break in Rodney’s lecture, John interrupted. "So, how did you find me?" He needed to clear up at least one of the mysteries in this confusing day.

"Shhh. Not here." It seemed ridiculous to John that suddenly Rodney was concerned about confidentiality, although whether about this top secret whatever-it-was or about outing them, John had no idea. There was no way O’Neill, at least, hadn’t figured out exactly what John and Rodney had been up to last night.

Rodney looked around, and, seeing several people within earshot, crossed to the nearest door and opened it, pulling John in after him. The room held a couple of people in white coats arguing over the contents of a whiteboard. They stopped abruptly when they saw McKay.

Rodney motioned to them. "I need this room for a few minutes." He scanned the mathematical formulae scrawled across the whiteboard. "And you’re obviously not doing anything important."

"Yes. Yes. Glad you are here, McKay. You can settle this argument for us." Having been stationed in the Balkans for a tour, John recognized a Czech accent when he heard one. The Czech was a short man with messy hair and glasses and looked to be rapidly losing patience. "We are working on the interface protocols, and Dr. Kavanagh and I cannot find--"

"There’s nothing wrong with my math, Zelenka," the other scientist cut in, "so it must be your engineering." He made "engineering" sound like a slur.

Rodney looked from one scientist to the other. "I cannot communicate to you the depths to which I do not care about your little contretemps. I need this room. You’ll have to--"

"Here’s your problem," John interrupted, pointing at the whiteboard.

All three scientists spoke at once.

"What? But you’re a pilot!"

"There’s nothing wrong with my-"

"Yes. Yes. The major is right. How could we have missed...? The Czech slapped himself on the forehead, leaving a dark blue handprint. He grabbed a marker and started correcting the calculations, muttering as he worked.

"Oh, for the love of--" Kavanagh tossed his marker at John, missing completely, and stalked from the room.

"Look, uh, Doctor…"

"My name is Zelenka," he replied, his marker flying over the whiteboard changing this, correcting that. "You have a very big brain, you say. It is very simple. Z-e-l-e-n-k-a. Now we are best friends. Go away. Bye bye."

"But I need--"

John noticed another door on the far side of the room and walked over. It opened on a smaller room, maybe an office or a break-out room. "Rodney. We can talk over here."

Rodney was following Zelenka now, getting lost in the math. They appeared to be stalled, although John almost couldn’t decipher the mess they were making while trying correct the original formulae. John returned to the front of the room, located the marker Kavanagh had chucked at him and went to the board as well. He reached around Zelenka, brushed some of the figures out of existence with the side of his hand and added in a square root symbol that was clearly missing. "There," he said, nearly whining. "Okay now?"

"Oh, my God. How did you do that? If you can do that, why are you flying planes?" Rodney beamed at John, like his very slow student had just shown some promise.

"I like flying planes," John said, getting marker all over Rodney’s lab coat as he dragged him into the tiny back office. "So, answer the question, Doctor. How did you find me?" He hadn’t actually meant to slam the door.

Rodney looked guilty, but unrepentant. "It was fairly easy, actually. DNA. We have a geneticist on staff and since I knew you were military…" he trailed off, sweeping one hand across the air impatiently.

"DN-- Oh, my God, Rodney. Tell me you did not give them--"

"No, no, of course not." Rodney made a face, but then Rodney seemed to always be making faces. "The dental floss. There was blood on it."

Oh, but you would have, John thought, if you’d had no other choice. He was already learning that very little got between Dr. McKay and his goals.

One mystery solved. Try for another. Maybe this one wouldn’t threaten to give him a heart attack. "So, what were those things last night? The stuff that lit up when I, ah, touched them?"

Rodney rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. John licked his lips, wondering if Rodney had taken the time to shower in his haste to track John down. They probably could have gotten a fair amount of John’s DNA from Rodney’s neck, had they tried. "Look. You heard O’Neill. I’m not supposed to tell you anything until we get you clearance. Suffice it to say it’s huge, it’s exciting, and you’re going to love it." Rodney rocked back on his heels.

"You think?"

"I know," Rodney insisted. "I’m the smartest man you’ll ever meet. I’m never wrong." He raised one eyebrow suggestively. Rodney’s features were emotional semaphore to anyone with enough sense to pay attention. "Was I wrong last night?"

"No," John smiled. "It was really, really good porn." He leaned in for a quick taste of Rodney’s crooked, smiling, and always-right mouth. "Thank you."

"For what?" Rodney put a hand to his mouth, fingers ghosting over the spot John had just kissed.

"I don’t know how you did it, because there’s no way you haven’t outed us to O’Neill -- and don’t think I’m not going to have something to say about that later -- but you seem to have been responsible for saving my ass anyway," John replied.

"Oh, that." Rodney smiled. "Well, it’s a nice ass. I have plans for it. Let’s go get some lunch. All will be revealed."

John opened the door and stepped back into the outer room. The whiteboards had been rearranged so that a relatively blank one was in front of the others. On it in large red letters was scrawled, "Gone to lunch. Touch nothing!"

"Lead on, McKay," John murmured, thinking about huge and exciting and how much he was already loving it.

John entered the Ancient’s facility a few steps behind O’Neill, who he’d just flown in. He’d been looking forward to seeing this facility since being granted clearance and learning about the Stargate program. To say that it had been exciting was a huge understatement.

John looked around with interest.

"Jack!" someone called across the room.

O’Neill took a step toward the man who was hailing him, but when Rodney McKay came rushing towards them, the General turned to John with a wink and said, "Now, don’t touch anything."

And John laughed out loud, feeling better than he had in years. As soon as Rodney was close enough, he reached out and touched him.

End

Feed me back here, please.