SGA fic: "Not in a Dream, Much Less in the Real World"

[unadrift]

Title: Not in a Dream, Much Less in the Real World

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Categories: angst, first time, episode-related
Words: 3500
Spoilers: Doppelganger
Notes: I couldn't help myself. Alternate ending and tag for Doppelganger.

Big, big thank you to tacit_uk for the beta. You rock! Seriously, you do!

---

"I'm not dead," Rodney calls out loudly as moral support for Sheppard, who looks pretty beat up, lying there on the dream-floor in front of the dream-stargate. Actually, Rodney also manages to reassure himself a lot. He walks down the dream-stairs, shoulders squared, back painfully straight, chin held high, broadcasting as much confidence as he can muster. A lot more confidence than he actually feels, if he's absolutely truthful.

Crystal entity not-Sheppard turns around and -- Oh boy. Rodney never wants to see that expression on any kind of Sheppard ever again. Growling, Sheppard throws himself at Rodney, twisting his hands in Rodney's jacket, steering him backwards until his shoulders slam into the wall.

"You can't win," he snarls, his face only inches from Rodney's.

"Yes, we can," Rodney snarls right back, surprised at his own vehemence. And they very probably really can, if Rodney's conclusions have been right, which they usually are.

The evil Sheppard changes tactics in the space of a blink. His mouth twists into a humorless smile, and suddenly there's a gleam of cold, calculating amusement in his eyes. The quick transition and that-- that look in the eyes of his best friend is deeply unsettling. Rodney forgets what he's been about to say. Something about their plan to defeat this thing, he thinks.

"Do you even know," Sheppard asks in a low voice, "why John puts up with you, with your abrasive personality, your enormous ego, your wannabe omniscience, your pathetic whining and complaining, every fucking day of his miserable life?"

Over Sheppard's shoulder, from the corner of his eye, Rodney can see the real Sheppard -- John, Rodney has to think of him as John now -- struggle to sit up.

Sheppard leans in further until their noses almost touch. His breath is eerily cold and tasteless on Rodney's lips. "It's because," he starts, whispering, then he turns his head and rubs his cheek along Rodney's, stubble burning, until his mouth is close to Rodney's ear, "he wants to get in your pants."

When Sheppard suddenly pushes close, enforcing full body contact, Rodney tries not to panic. His wrists are now pinned effectively, almost painfully, against the wall next to his head; the rest of his body is held in check by Sheppard's lean but strong form. Rodney is caught, unable to move, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Rodney feels without a doubt that Sheppard is hard. The way he's pushing against Rodney's hip doesn't leave much room for error. Rodney feels cold sweat running down the side of his face. This is wrong, so wrong, because he isn't John, he isn't even a he, he's an *it*, evil, a cold-blooded murderer. But, Jesus, with John, the real John, he'd want this.

"Face it, Rodney," Sheppard drawls in his ear, sounding almost perfectly like the real deal, with just a hint too much mockery in his tone. "Otherwise John wouldn't give you the time of day."

Then he stops talking, for which Rodney is pathetically grateful, right up to the point where Sheppard starts licking a wet trail across Rodney's cheek, from below his ear, along the jawline, towards Rodney's mouth. Each gust of breath on Rodney's skin causes shivers of revulsion to trickle down his spine. With his breath hitching, Rodney wonders if his dream self is capable of throwing up. He hopes it is, because if this entity, this-- abomination, tries to kiss him, he will vomit all over the fucking thing.

Then, suddenly, John is there. He grips the thing by the shoulders and sends it flying halfway across the gateroom. Rodney lets his hands fall to his side, unable to do anything but breathe. That is the moment when electricity begins to crackle, creeping over the floor and walls, over Sheppard's body, reducing the crystal entity to a swaying daze within moments.

"What the hell was that?" John starts manhandling the fake Sheppard in the direction of the gate.

"Defibrillator. He-- It can't handle the jolt of electricity," Rodney says, still leaning heavily against the wall. His pulse probably scores 150 bpm. "That's why I'm alive."

John gives the entity its final shove and sends it stumbling through the event horizon. "They shocked me? Shouldn't I be dead, then?"

"Doesn't look like you are."

"Doesn't look like I am? That was your great plan? Shock the guy, maybe he won't die?"

"Well, if you'd rather gone another round hand to hand with your evil crystal twin, you should have said so. I could have waited." Rodney pushes off the wall and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Even with everything going out of hand, sarcasm is always easy.

John walks towards him, looking uncomfortable, and guarded, and honestly-- something. "Thank you," he says, which throws Rodney completely off the loop.

He starts looking around the dream-gateroom nervously. "Okay, this is really weird."

"You're telling me." John seems equally creeped out, even though this whole scenario is his own damn creation.

"I thought there'd be more--" Rodney stops, because he was about to say 'hot girls' which would be ridiculous, considering-- "Is it true? That thing, did it--?"

"Can we not have this conversation?" John interrupts darkly.

Being molested by an evil alien entity has done nothing to extend Rodney's capacity for patience. "Fine," he snaps. "Fine. We can deal with it in the real world. I'm okay with that."

John starts to protest, but Rodney is already concentrating hard on waking up.

---

Apparently, they aren't dealing with it at all. Not in a dream, much less in the real world.

Rodney never manages to get further than "Colonel, can we--", or "I think we need to--" or, on one memorable occasion (not one of his finest moments), "Will you fucking tell me--!" in his attempts to bring up the topic during the days after. John always shuts him up with a fierce, somewhat hostile stare that shouldn't still be working as a stop-talking mechanism with Rodney -- but it does. Rodney tells himself that this is not because John resembles his crystal entity twin during these moments, right down to the cold gleam in his eye.

Most of the time Rodney can't even find John, which makes asking questions that much more difficult. John starts hiding in remote sections of the city, presumably busy. Rodney considers suing him for copyright infringement, because that is his approach to strategic evasion.

One night though, lying awake with his thoughts running in circles, Rodney realizes there might be answers he really doesn't want to hear. Sheppard's crystal twin has been in his own head, too, with free access to Rodney's nightmares, greatest fears, most dangerous secret desires. Rodney doesn't think he could handle the knowledge that he's been manipulated masterfully, that evil-Sheppard has played into his fantasies, managing to seriously damage the friendship Rodney values most. He decides to stop pursuing John, to stop asking.

The day after, Rodney finds himself standing in the botany lab, breaking up with Katie, which is surprisingly anti-climactic. He should have known it would be.

By some kind of strange sixth sense John seems acutely aware that the waters are clear again. He skips his trips to the far-out piers and the extra flying sessions, and gradually relaxes around Rodney again. Things don't go back to normal, not completely, but John either doesn't notice or he doesn't mind.



"What do you need all that stuff for?" John leans against the doorjamb, looking over the chaos in the lab.

"I don't know, saving our lives, maybe? Discovering the secret ingredient of ZPMs?" Rodney unpacks one of his bags again, because clearly the method of random stuffing isn't the way to go here.

"Love," John says airily.

Rodney looks up, bewildered. "What?"

"The secret ingredient of ZPMs. If this were some cheesy sci-fi movie, the secret ingredient would be love."

"I know that movie, and it wasn't all that cheesy. At least they went easy on the science."

"They did?" John raises an eyebrow. "I wonder why we haven't thought of putting the four elements on pedestals, getting someone to kiss Teyla at the center of the set-up, and let the Wraith and the Replicators be whisked away by a beam of light. Since it's so realistic and all."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Well, at least there's no time traveling involved."

"Admit it, you just like the movie, regardless of the scientific weirdness."

"Fine," Rodney says exasperatedly, closing the zipper on the bag. "If that puts an end to this conversation."

He lunges to swing the heavy bag over his shoulder. The momentum causes him to stumble backwards. If John hadn't moved to his rescue, Rodney would have been fine. The way things actually progress, Rodney flinches back from John's outstretched hands like a cat from splashing water, and because he hasn't gotten his balance back yet, he lands on the floor, flat on his ass. Something is smashed beneath his elbow with a sharp sound; probably the most expensive piece of equipment he has packed.

Strangely, Rodney doesn't care. Not with John staring down at him like that, face unreadable, his body utterly still. He might even have stopped breathing.

"A little help would be appreciated," Rodney finally snaps, and that seems to break the spell on John. He extends a hand, slowly this time. Rodney takes it.

"One bag should be enough, McKay," John says after an awkward pause, then he turns and leaves.

They spend a two-day mission not talking about it.

---

Once they've gotten back, Rodney half expects John to pick up his routine of avoidance again. But there's a knock at his door that night, and Rodney isn't surprised by that, either.

"Colonel," he greets noncommitally.

"Rodney." They stare at each other for a moment, then Rodney moves. John follows him in, hesitantly, and only a couple of steps. He seems determined to avoid an uncomfortable silence, because he starts without introduction as soon as the door has closed behind him.

"Look, Rodney. You know that crystal thing was messing with your head, right?"

Rodney swivels around to face him, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, now we're talking about it? What's so different about this moment, as opposed to the hundred or so times I tried to start this conversation? Sorry, not interested anymore. It's done, dealt with, over, finito." Rodney gestures towards the door. "Don't let me detain you."

"This isn't about what it said," John says sharply. "It's--"

The next moment, without any prior indication of movement, John is right up in Rodney's face, standing very close, hovering really, and all Rodney can do is not stumble over his own feet while reflexively struggling to put a safe distance between them. John almost looks hurt, disappointed by the confirmation.

"This is why," John says. "You're afraid of me. You can't be afraid of me."

"I'm not!" And Rodney isn't. He's horrified by the thing that wasn't John, the thing that he apparently still sees in him in certain moments, before reality kicks in. "Maybe I'm a bit-- queasy. Around you. It'll wear off. Or-- or I'll get used to it. No problem."

"Get used to it?" John's tone is flat, and Rodney realizes what he's just said.

"No," he says, "that is not what I-- I'm not--"

"You need aversion therapy."

"What?"

John approaches him again, this time with careful, measured steps. "You need to know that I'm not him."

Rodney retreats until he runs out of space, until his back touches the wall. And doesn't that feel very familiar? He feels his heart rate climb with each step John is taking towards him. He knows what John is trying to do, but he also knows it's a terrible, terrible idea.

"I-- I know that," he stutters.

"In your head, maybe," John amends. "The rest of you, I'm not so sure about."

Rodney raises his hands defensively, trying to stop John's approach right there, at an arm's length, because this is surreal, and frightening, and dangerous.

With a firm but gentle touch John takes Rodney's wrists in his hands and pushes them back until he has them pinned down on either side of Rodney's head. From that point on, Rodney doesn't even think of resisting. His breathing is coming fast and shallow. His eyes are locked on John's, because this is where Rodney finds the most prominent difference, the anchor that keeps him grounded, that reminds him this is not some evil, scheming fake, but the real thing.

"Was it like this?" John asks, almost in a whisper.

Rodney nods. He doesn't trust his voice at this point.

"Alright so far?"

Another nod. Rodney barely recognizes the flicker of insecurity that flashes across John's face. It is quickly followed by one of determination when John starts moving closer. Rodney holds his breath. For a moment he expects John to kiss him, but John turns his head to the side, and then it's cheek rubbing against cheek again, only without the stubble this time, and completely different in every other possible way. John freezes in place with his mouth next to Rodney's ear, his body so close Rodney can feel the heat radiating from him from head to toe, but not as close as he needs to get.

"Still okay?"

The warm puff of breath in his ear causes Rodney to shiver. "Yes," he whispers, and it really is.

John stays like that for what feels like an eternity. "Okay, then," he says finally, aiming for a neutral and steady voice but failing. When he starts to move away from Rodney, it's only reluctantly, and without meeting his eyes.

The moment John lets go of his wrists, Rodney's arms find their way to John's back, pulling them back together, closer, holding on tight. Because Rodney won't let John get away this easy, not now, not after this. John's resistance elapses without ever really flaring up. He presses even closer, one hand moving to cup Rodney's neck, the other coming to rest on the small of his back. John releases an almost soundless sigh.

"You idiot," Rodney mutters when he finds his voice again. The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that his face is buried in John's neck. "You should have confessed right away. If you'd told me that thing was telling the truth, we could have worked it out sooner. You could have spared me a lot of time with the dumbest trauma in the history of pseudo science, and we could have--"

John tenses in his arms. "No. It wasn't telling the truth. I don't want to get in your pants. I-- It's more than--"

"Oh," Rodney says, suddenly feeling pleasantly warm and cold and hot and tingly all over. He nudges John's pulse point with the tip of his nose and breathes in deeply.

"The thing is," John says, trembling under the touch, "I'm not sure I can do this."

Rodney wants to pull back then, to work himself into a real state of anger -- because they are on the same page here, and that doesn't happen often to anyone, least of all to Rodney -- but John doesn't let him go. Rodney understands, even though he doesn't like it. Talking is easier if they don't have to look each other in the eye. Getting angry at John isn't that easy to achieve either, with John's solid warmth seeping through his clothes and into his skin. He suspects John knows that.

"It's too much," John says. Rodney doesn't think he's ever heard John sound broken, hopeless, before. "It's too much of everything. I'm juggling with it all, I'm trying to, but there are too many balls in the air. And whenever I drop one, people die. I don't know how long I can--" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Keep this up, Rodney silently finishes for him. He wonders how he has managed to completely miss the fact that John has loaded the weight of the whole galaxy entirely on his own shoulders.

"If I started worrying about you as-- as-- a lover," John makes the audible effort of saying the word. "It would be too much. I couldn't lose you."

Rodney knows how that feels. It's the material his nightmares are made of. John with a killer bug stuck to his neck, John turning into an insect, John single-handedly delivering a nuke to the enemy, John shot and bleeding, John screaming, John dying.

"Do you worry about me now?" Rodney asks. "Could you lose me now?"

John doesn't answer, but his grip on Rodney's neck tightens.

"The thing is," Rodney says, "I'm not sure I can not do this."

This time John lets him pull back, far enough that Rodney can tilt his head and lean in for a kiss. The first touch is short, light and dry. John doesn't react at all, just stays impossibly still. Rodney rests his forehead against John's and breathes him in, savoring, releasing the breath again with a contented sigh. John makes a strangled sound, and then there are hands cupping Rodney's face, and lips descending on his, wet and warm and open. John's tongue is in Rodney's mouth, meeting his own, claiming, demanding, and Rodney gives back as good as he gets, even more than he thought he had, chanting yes, yes, yes in his head and maybe gasping it out loud.

It's desperate, and hurting, and comforting, and so fucking perfect Rodney doubts his genius for an instant, because they should have done this sooner, much sooner, before the fate of the galaxy was hanging in the balance, but then again, Rodney can't remember a time in Atlantis when it hasn't been.

It doesn't feel at all familiar when Rodney is pushed back against the wall again, when he feels John grind his erection against his hip, because John is kissing him and kissing him, dirty and hot, and Rodney can stroke his fingertips across the bare skin under John's shirt, down his stomach and lower still to unbutton his pants, and hear him gasp and feel him shiver.

Once John touches his cock, Rodney knows this will be over far too soon. Open-mouthed and panting, with his forehead resting on John's shoulder, he can't do anything more coordinated than fist his hands in John's shirt, reflexively tightening and loosening his grip synchronously with John's strokes, until he comes, blindingly, searingly, embarrassingly fast.

John doesn't urge him to reciprocate, but his mouth searches Rodney's again, and this kiss is the best afterglow ever, until Rodney remembers that he wants to be considerate here and starts pushing John's pants and boxers out of the way. John braces his hands against the wall on either side of Rodney's head and offers himself up. Rodney's breath catches at the sight. He closes his fist around John's cock and dives back in to kiss him. When John's breathing turns fast and laboured, Rodney leans his head back against the wall, just watching. Their eyes are locked when Rodney brings John over the edge, and it's the most amazing thing Rodney has ever seen.

When it's over, they're locked in an embrace again, keeping each other upright, really.

"That was--" Rodney says into John's shoulder.

"Resolution? Catharsis?"

"I was going for brain-melting or unbelievably hot, but yours work, too."

John pulls back, smilling. "Are you alright?"

"Would you not ask me that again? I'm fine. Better than fine. Really not traumatized in any way, shape, or form. You?"

"I'm good." He looks more at ease than Rodney has seen him in months.

"Hey, um," Rodney says. "I have a bed."

"How nice for you," John dead-pans, but then he kicks off his shoes and pulls his shirt over his head, and he looks good doing it. Rodney is much less graceful, even though his pants are still mostly up when he starts undressing.

The bed is far too narrow for two, but still, it's comfortable. Better than just that, really, with John's arm around Rodney's back and Rodney's head resting on John's shoulder.

It's John who breaks the comfortable silence. "You know this is not just--"

"Desperate we're-all-going-to-die-anyway sex?" Rodney finishes. "For me neither."

John seems to ponder that for a moment, then he laughs, a welcome, liberating, wonderful sound, even though completely off-topic.

"What?" Rodney asks, confused and more than a bit irritated.

"I think we've just discovered the secret ingredient for saving this galaxy."

"Hot, therapeutic sex? That's our new masterplan?" Rodney snorts. "Good luck with explaining that to Sam."

"Okay, no," John says. "Let's not do that."

Rodney tightens his arm around John's waist. "You know, we might very well have found the secret ingredient for saving our sanity."

"Yeah," John agrees with a smile in his voice. "We might."


- end -

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