Drabble marathon: #1
Dec. 18th, 2008 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiercelydreamedThe first of the so-called oh man I fail at short drabbles I owe various people for various things. I'm writing them in no particular order, but there's a decent chance that add-ons to particular stories will end up being written in clusters. These will all be posted unbetaed, so read at your own risk.
#1. For A., who said, Oh, man, I would love a little more "Always Sleep With My Guns," like what happens (sex!) when they are finally safe. SGA, McKay/Sheppard, adult, makes little sense without the original story.
John calls Teyla from the car and then spends more than an hour criss-crossing the DC area, while Rodney scans the roads around them and tries to keep his post-crisis panic attack discreet. Most of the adrenaline's washed out of his system by the time John turns down a cul-de-sac outside Bethesda, thumbs a garage door opener, and backs up the driveway of a featureless townhouse in a row of featureless townhouses.
It's so unexpected and yet so cliche -- the secret agent's port of last resort equals hiding out in suburbia -- and Rodney knows there's a sarcastic comment to be made there. He just can't quite get it off the ground.
John makes Rodney to stay in the car as he gets out and deactivates the security system, then slips silently up the stairs to the townhouse, gun in one hand. Rodney studies the inside of the garage door, which appears to be steel-reinforced, and the security pad, which appears to be a complicated home job, twenty-two buttons instead of the usual twelve or sixteen. A minute later, the garage light flips on and John comes thumping back down the steps. In the rear-view mirror, Rodney can see both John's hands swinging loose and empty, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the headrest in a dizzy wave of relief.
The car door opens with a click, and then John's leaning over him, saying, "Hey, it's clear, you can come on up." Rodney struggles with the seatbelt clasp long enough that John slides a hand down to release it for him. Rodney stares up at John's stubbled face, only a couple of inches away, and thinks that this is really the moment to make his move and kiss him again if he's going to do it.
He just can't quite get it off the ground.
Inside, the townhouse is as anonymous and blank as it had been on the outside -- narrow main room blending into perfunctory kitchen, opaque curtains, cheap lighting, furniture in tan and gray. "Bedroom's upstairs," John says, gesturing, and Rodney licks his lips, "bathroom too," and Rodney shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding, thinking, moron, you moron. "Kitchen's -- uh, mostly empty, but there's pizza in the freezer," John says, looking kind of awkward himself. Rodney takes a breath to ask what kind, because crappy microwaved pizza sounds like the perfect distraction to stop himself from doing something ill-advised and humiliating, and then John rocks on the balls of his feet and tips a finger back toward the stairs, biting his lip as he adds, "so help yourself, I mean, unless you'd rather--"
"God, yes," Rodney blurts, and nearly tears the pockets out of his pants trying to get his hands free when John blows out a huge breath and grabs his belt loops to drag him in for a kiss.
They leave a trail of clothing up the stairs, fumbling with buttons, stumbling as they toe their shoes off in the hall. "No, leave it," Rodney mumbles against John's neck as John moves to kick a sneaker out of the way, "improvisational defense and warning system, anyone coming to kill me will break their neck when they fall down the stairs."
John huffs a breathless laugh into Rodney's ear, working on the zipper of Rodney's hoodie with one hand as he gropes for the door knob with the other. "Hey, that's pretty smart, Rodney. You ever think about doing this stuff for a living?"
The bedroom is almost totally lightless, just the faintest blue glow to pick out the lower edge of the curtain, and the mattress squeaks like a crate of pissed-off lab mice when Rodney and John pitch down onto it. "Seriously?" Rodney says, dragging his palms up John's chest, feeling the scratchy spring of hair and the tight nubs of John's nipples, the heat of his skin. "You paid money for this? It's worse than my dorm bed in college."
"I didn't really think about anyone sleeping in it," John admits, sounding almost embarrassed as he gropes Rodney through his pants. There's nothing Rodney can do in response but grab him by his pointy ears and kiss him again.
They're both rusty and nervous, elbows and knees getting tangled, John favoring his left arm and Rodney trying to keep pressure off his bruised back. It takes John most of a minute to get Rodney's belt unbuckled, like it somehow requires far more dexterity than dismantling a bomb or cleaning a gun, and when Rodney slides John's boxers off, his hands are shaking almost as badly as they had when he'd dropped the nailgun. The bed creaks when John spreads Rodney out flat and sucks him, and complains loudly when Rodney pushes John over to rub off against his hip as he runs his hand along John's dick, and groans like it's on the verge of structural collapse when John shudders and comes, hips jerking, dick twitching and pulsing in the narrow space at the top of Rodney's closed thighs.
Less than five hours after the first time Rodney is the proximate and not just the ultimate cause of someone else's death, John curls in behind him on the shitty mattress, slips an arm around his waist, and brushes a kiss along the back of his neck. For the first time since he was eleven, Rodney McKay falls asleep without triple-checking a single lock.
#1. For A., who said, Oh, man, I would love a little more "Always Sleep With My Guns," like what happens (sex!) when they are finally safe. SGA, McKay/Sheppard, adult, makes little sense without the original story.
John calls Teyla from the car and then spends more than an hour criss-crossing the DC area, while Rodney scans the roads around them and tries to keep his post-crisis panic attack discreet. Most of the adrenaline's washed out of his system by the time John turns down a cul-de-sac outside Bethesda, thumbs a garage door opener, and backs up the driveway of a featureless townhouse in a row of featureless townhouses.
It's so unexpected and yet so cliche -- the secret agent's port of last resort equals hiding out in suburbia -- and Rodney knows there's a sarcastic comment to be made there. He just can't quite get it off the ground.
John makes Rodney to stay in the car as he gets out and deactivates the security system, then slips silently up the stairs to the townhouse, gun in one hand. Rodney studies the inside of the garage door, which appears to be steel-reinforced, and the security pad, which appears to be a complicated home job, twenty-two buttons instead of the usual twelve or sixteen. A minute later, the garage light flips on and John comes thumping back down the steps. In the rear-view mirror, Rodney can see both John's hands swinging loose and empty, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the headrest in a dizzy wave of relief.
The car door opens with a click, and then John's leaning over him, saying, "Hey, it's clear, you can come on up." Rodney struggles with the seatbelt clasp long enough that John slides a hand down to release it for him. Rodney stares up at John's stubbled face, only a couple of inches away, and thinks that this is really the moment to make his move and kiss him again if he's going to do it.
He just can't quite get it off the ground.
Inside, the townhouse is as anonymous and blank as it had been on the outside -- narrow main room blending into perfunctory kitchen, opaque curtains, cheap lighting, furniture in tan and gray. "Bedroom's upstairs," John says, gesturing, and Rodney licks his lips, "bathroom too," and Rodney shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding, thinking, moron, you moron. "Kitchen's -- uh, mostly empty, but there's pizza in the freezer," John says, looking kind of awkward himself. Rodney takes a breath to ask what kind, because crappy microwaved pizza sounds like the perfect distraction to stop himself from doing something ill-advised and humiliating, and then John rocks on the balls of his feet and tips a finger back toward the stairs, biting his lip as he adds, "so help yourself, I mean, unless you'd rather--"
"God, yes," Rodney blurts, and nearly tears the pockets out of his pants trying to get his hands free when John blows out a huge breath and grabs his belt loops to drag him in for a kiss.
They leave a trail of clothing up the stairs, fumbling with buttons, stumbling as they toe their shoes off in the hall. "No, leave it," Rodney mumbles against John's neck as John moves to kick a sneaker out of the way, "improvisational defense and warning system, anyone coming to kill me will break their neck when they fall down the stairs."
John huffs a breathless laugh into Rodney's ear, working on the zipper of Rodney's hoodie with one hand as he gropes for the door knob with the other. "Hey, that's pretty smart, Rodney. You ever think about doing this stuff for a living?"
The bedroom is almost totally lightless, just the faintest blue glow to pick out the lower edge of the curtain, and the mattress squeaks like a crate of pissed-off lab mice when Rodney and John pitch down onto it. "Seriously?" Rodney says, dragging his palms up John's chest, feeling the scratchy spring of hair and the tight nubs of John's nipples, the heat of his skin. "You paid money for this? It's worse than my dorm bed in college."
"I didn't really think about anyone sleeping in it," John admits, sounding almost embarrassed as he gropes Rodney through his pants. There's nothing Rodney can do in response but grab him by his pointy ears and kiss him again.
They're both rusty and nervous, elbows and knees getting tangled, John favoring his left arm and Rodney trying to keep pressure off his bruised back. It takes John most of a minute to get Rodney's belt unbuckled, like it somehow requires far more dexterity than dismantling a bomb or cleaning a gun, and when Rodney slides John's boxers off, his hands are shaking almost as badly as they had when he'd dropped the nailgun. The bed creaks when John spreads Rodney out flat and sucks him, and complains loudly when Rodney pushes John over to rub off against his hip as he runs his hand along John's dick, and groans like it's on the verge of structural collapse when John shudders and comes, hips jerking, dick twitching and pulsing in the narrow space at the top of Rodney's closed thighs.
Less than five hours after the first time Rodney is the proximate and not just the ultimate cause of someone else's death, John curls in behind him on the shitty mattress, slips an arm around his waist, and brushes a kiss along the back of his neck. For the first time since he was eleven, Rodney McKay falls asleep without triple-checking a single lock.