lillyjk (lillyjk) wrote in mcshep_fairytal,

The Pilot and the Ancient Gene

Title: The Pilot and the Ancient Gene(loosely, and I do mean loosely based on The Princess and the Pea)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Mckay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: @4100
Author's Notes: So, this is actually the second Princess and the Pea McShep story that I've written. The first one died a horrible death when my harddrive died. This one is a little less fairy-taleish, and doesn't revolve around Rodney and his bad back at all like the original. *sigh* I guess this follows more the theme of not realizing what you've got is right under you nose. *scratches head* this all made much more sense when I was writing the porn. Definitely AU, set pre-Atlantis. oh, I'll also be using this as one of my fanfic100 entries. But I'm not sure what prompt yet. Enjoy!

“Come on Gran, you’re not going to tell me another one of your dreams are you?” Rodney rolled his eyes trying to ignore the prickle of tears that threatened to fall.

Lying in her hospital bed, Berta McKay smiled at her young grandson, the expression transforming her plain face into one of beauty. “The dreams don’t lie Rodney, the true one will light up your life more than you can possibly imagine.”

Twenty Years Later

The man at the bar looked like trouble. Rodney noticed him right off when he sauntered in back-lit for a moment by the fading sunlight that drifted through the door. He had a motorcycle helmet tucked under one black leather clad arm that had done nothing to tame thick black hair that stuck up determinedly in several directions at once.

That, Rodney thought, as he finished off the last gulp of his whiskey, was exactly the kind of man his Gran McKay would have warned him about…if she’d realized that her grandson was more attracted to men than women. Judging from the way Rodney’s parents had reacted when he came out, perhaps her early death had saved his Gran from heartache.

He tore his eyes away from the lean stranger and waved the waitress over. “How ‘bout another one Teyla?”

Teyla tilted her head to one side and arched an eyebrow. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight Rodney.”

“Come on Teyla,” Rodney peered up at her through his eyelashes. “I’m drowning my misery.”

Teyla shook her head. “Still no luck with the dig?”

“Nah,” Rodney shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s not going too well at the moment.” If it had been anyone else Rodney could have badgered a drink out of her, but he never got anything by Teyla. “Please?”

“One more Rodney, and you catch a ride home.” She waited until he nodded before heading back to the bar.

He would never be a successful alcoholic. After two drinks he was already pleasantly flushed, the pleasant warmth of the whiskey doing its trick to soothe his ragged nerves. Word had come down from the SGC two days ago, Doctor McKay would not be allowed to leave the Ancient project. Any further inquiries into terminating Dr. McKay’s contract may result in an investigation. Oh, and by the way, since Dr. McKay had yet to show any progress his requests for a staff were denied.

He’d spent most of the summer in the Ancient ruins located a few miles outside this deserted Arizona town. The locals all thought he was some sort of archeologist trying to dig up dinosaurs. And if anyone thought it was strange that an archeologist would have military visitors from time to time, nobody commented on it.

Rodney found his eyes drawn back to the man at the bar, one of only a handful of others who had sought refuge from the Arizona heat in the cool confines of the honky-tonk. The man was lean, all hard angles and smooth muscles stretched over a lanky frame. His blue jeans dipped dangerously low over his hips, and just a sliver of his boxers peeked out over the edge. As Rodney watched the man shrugged out of his battered looking leather jacket to reveal a snug black t-shirt. Before Rodney could tear his eyes away, the man caught him staring, giving Rodney a little nod before turning back to the bar.

Rodney’s heart started to beat a little faster as the man let out a laugh at something Teyla said, the sound smooth and rough at the same time. Definitely out of his league. He let his eyes drop back to the table, looking for the answers in the bottom of an empty glass.

Teyla set another whiskey down on the table with a thunk, waving away the crumpled bills that Rodney tried to shove into her hand. “Maybe your luck is changing.” She nodded toward the man at the bar. “The gentlemen just bought you a drink.”

Rodney felt his cheeks flush. Was he actually being cruised in a honky-tonk? Cruised by that? He ignored Teyla’s curious look, and accepted the drink with a mumbled, “Thanks.” Maybe he was hallucinating the whole thing. He stared down at the amber colored liquid for a good ten count before sneaking another peek at the man at the bar.

The man was staring at him. Definitely not a hallucination then.

Rodney raised his glass and nodded toward the man, “Thanks.”

And dear god, he was coming over. Rodney felt his throat go dry as the man walked toward him, his lean hips doing some sort of walking sex motion that ought to be illegal. “Mind if I join you? I never did like to drink alone.” His voice was some sort of whisper drawl that hinted equally at Texas and California and a lot of places in between.

And that made a lot more sense. Not getting cruised, just serving at entertainment for some other poor sap that found himself in Whatever-ville, Arizona, population two hundred or thereabouts as the little sign at the town limits proclaimed. This Rodney could deal with.

“Uh, no.” Rodney managed to stammer out. “I mean, no I don’t mind, not no you can’t join me. Join me, by all means. I hate to drink alone too, but to tell you the truth there’s not a lot else to do this time of day. I’m stymied on a work project right now and the air conditioner is broken at my shack of a rental house and my name is Rodney McKay. And I…” He broke off mid-sentence when he realized the other man was staring at him curiously. “Is something wrong?”

A slow grin spread across the other man’s face, and Rodney noticed with a sense of impending doom that he even had dimples. “No,” the man dropped down in one of the rickety chairs, “I was just waiting to see how long you could talk like that without taking a breath.” He took a long swallow of his beer before continuing. “I’m John.”

“Hmmm?” Up close he was even better looking, with a mouth that looked like it specialized in all sort of illegal things, and just the right amount of ruggedness to keep him from looking pretty instead of handsome. “Sorry, I talk a lot I know. It’s just that I haven’t really had much company out here for the last few months and I’m dying for some conversation. I know you’re not from around here because I would have seen you before now.” He paused, his eyes narrowing, “Please tell me you can talk about something other than sports, crop irrigation, and right-wing politics. Because if you can’t I’m going to say we should wrap this up right now because if I hear one more comparison between barb wire fences versus cyclone fences I won’t be held responsible for any violent actions.”

John let out another one of those low laughs that made Rodney’s stomach clench. “Oh, I think you’ll find I can talk about a lot of things.” He took another swig of his beer, letting his thumb rub along the top of the bottle. “And I’d say you must be pretty good at more than talking if you can hold your breath that long.”

Rodney felt his cheeks flush again, and this time it was from more than the whiskey. He leaned in toward John, “Are you fucking with me? If you’re fucking with me you should just mosey on along, or whatever it is you Americans do because I’m not in the mood to be trifled with!” He stopped, his mouth dropping open. “Oh my god, you’re one of those gay bashers aren’t you? You’re going to try and lure me out of here under false pretenses so you and your red-neck buddies can beat me to death.”

“Hey, hey, easy now.” John’s hand settled on his shoulder just as Rodney started to rise from the chair. “All you had to say was that you weren’t interested.”

Rodney pushed the hand away, “Well I am interested you idiot, but only if you really mean it. Not if I’m about to be the victim of a hate crime.”

John grinned again, and leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know anybody could turn that red that fast.” One hand drifted down to scratch at his belly, the movement making his shirt ride up enough to expose a sliver of tanned belly. He cocked his head to one side and gave Rodney an appraising look. “It’s kinda hot.” With that he drained his beer and put the empty bottle back on the table. “Now, what say we get out of here and clear up this little misunderstanding?” He leaned forward again, close enough that Rodney could feel the heat of his breath against his neck, “I want to see what you can do with that crooked mouth.” A look of confusion passed over the other man’s face before he settled back into a smirk.

Rodney gaped at him, dimly aware that the whole tall dark stranger thing just didn’t happen outside of bad porn and romance novels. Nevertheless he found himself shot gunning what was left of his whiskey and pushing back from the table. “Let’s go.” He must have sounded more certain than he felt because John gave him a little smile as he gathered his coat and helmet and led the way.


He balked at the motorcycle, because come on, helmet or not that was making it a little too easy for fate to crack his skull open. They settled on taking Rodney’s car, with John behind the wheel. The first hint that letting John drive might be a mistake was when he somehow coaxed Rodney’s ancient Taurus into speeds that Rodney was pretty sure the car hadn’t been able to manage right off the assembly line. The upside was that the drive to Rodney’s rental house took ten minutes instead of twenty, most of which was spent with Rodney alternating between screaming at John to slow down, shouting out directions, and closing his eyes and gripping the dashboard.

John just smiled through it all, one of his low laughs the only response to Rodney’s shouts.

Rodney was still shouting when the car rolled to a stop in his driveway, because hot guy or no hot guy, Rodney McKay’s life was not something to be trifled with. He had turned to John to say as much when the other man kissed him.

John tasted like beer and heat and man, his mouth moving over Rodney’s with slow precision. Funny how the feel of a very talented tongue licking its way in and out of his mouth made him forget all about the reckless driving. Instead all he could think about was this, oh god it had been too long. John’s hands were tugging at him, sliding him closer so their chests were pressed together. Rodney’s hand slid down to brush along John’s thigh, and he was pretty sure that he was going to come in the next thirty seconds until the gear shift ground into his ribs and he pulled back with a gasp.

John reached for him again, his thumb sliding along Rodney’s bottom lip. “I knew that mouth would be good for all kinds of things.” His voice had gone rough, “Let’s go.”

Rodney may possibly have made a little whimpering sound when the callused pad of John’s thumb pressed against his lip one last time before drawing away. But he would, of course, deny it. Instead he took one more deep breath and opened the car door.


The house was as hot as he expected after a day of Arizona heat with no working air conditioner and only a ceiling fan to stir the air. For a minute Rodney wished they’d just stayed in town and gotten a room at the little motel, but then John was pushing past him and leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he stripped. “Let’s do this before we over think it.”

Jesus, Rodney didn’t even know he liked men with hairy chests until he saw John’s, a thick mat of dark hair spreading over golden skin. He tugged futilely at his own clothes, trying to get his t-shirt over his head without having to miss one second of John’s little striptease across the living room. By the time he caught up, John was down to his boxers and the glint of what looked suspiciously like dog-tags around his neck.

Rodney reached out to touch the metal, because in his experience dog-tags meant only one thing. John caught his hand mid-reach and pulled it down to rest against his flat belly. There was a flare of something in hazel eyes and then, “Let’s just say Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and leave it at that.” One hand pushed Rodney’s palm to the waistband of his boxers as he pulled the dog-tags off and tossed them toward the pile of clothes. John leaned forward then, his lips brushing lightly against Rodney’s. Rodney was too eager, twinge of pain as his lip caught on teeth. Then there was nothing but the slow slide of tongue as John explored Rodney’s mouth, his hands moving to tug Rodney’s pants open.

Then Rodney’s hand was sliding over smooth flesh and taut muscles before finding John’s cock, a heavy weight against his palm. He watched as John’s head fell back, revealing an expanse of tanned skin. Rodney leaned forward to lick a stripe along John’s throat as his hand learned John’s dick. His fingers traced the curve of the head and circled the length, just a few leisurely strokes that made the other man buck up into his hand. Too long, Rodney thought somewhere in the back of his head, it’s been too long for him too. He could feel the slickness of precome against his thumb.

Rodney took John’s boxer shorts with him when he went to his knees, sliding the cotton down muscular legs. He knelt there, his hands sliding back up calves and around to brush against the inside of John’s thighs before he leaned forward and opened his mouth around the head of John’s cock. It shouldn’t taste this good, feel this good, to have the weight of another man’s dick against his tongue. He shouldn’t crave the feeling of smoothhardslick skin in his mouth as he began to rock himself forward and back.

John’s hands were on his shoulders, making quick little circles against his skin. One of Rodney’s hands moved to the base of John’s cock, fingers brushing the heavy weight of John’s balls before joining in the stroke slide of his mouth. His own cock pushed against his jeans, the head leaking enough that the denim was wet. John’s hands moved up to tangle in Rodney’s hair, and Rodney could feel John fighting the urge to fuck his mouth, to just thrust himself over and over until he spilled down Rodney’s throat. And god help him, Rodney wanted it.

Rodney could feel the way John was trying to hold still, the tremble of muscles fighting the urge to move. He tightened his grip around John’s cock with one hand and then slid a saliva slicked finger to press against John’s entrance. He left it there, just the pad of one finger pressing lightly, until John’s hands tightened in his hair. A guttural, “Do it,” and then John was pushing back against Rodney’s finger and pushing forward into Rodney’s mouth, back and forth as Rodney worked one finger and then another inside.

The hands in Rodney’s hair jerked him back then, and John was coming, hot splash of it marking Rodney’s neck and chest. The house was silent except for ragged breathing, and then John was tugging Rodney to his feet, pressing an open mouthed kiss against Rodney’s throat, long swipes of his tongue as he licked himself off of Rodney’s neck.

The first night Rodney came with John’s hand around his cock and John’s mouth against his throat.

He was convinced that it had all been a dream when he woke up. Tall dark handsome men did not just wander into honky-tonks in the middle of nowhere so they could hook up with slightly less attractive physicists who specialized in a technology nobody could understand. Then John slung an arm around his waist and hauled Rodney back against his chest.

John’s lower lip was swollen and Rodney felt like half his IQ had been sucked out the end of his dick when he stumbled to the bathroom an hour later. Somewhere between bedroom and bathroom Rodney decided that if it was a dream, he’d like to stay asleep just a little while longer.

When John was still there three days later Rodney was convinced that he was a gigolo looking for a sugar daddy. When John pointed out that Rodney lived in what could be considered a shack that didn’t have air conditioning, and drove a ten year old car, Rodney admitted the whole sugar daddy theory wasn’t valid.

The next day John got a construction job.


The first time John fucked Rodney they went slow. They’d had the talk, and condoms were deemed unnecessary even though they should both really know better.

John’s fingers were slick and a little unsteady, and Rodney made noises that John had never heard before when John stretched him. He almost came the first time he sank himself into Rodney’s tight heat. Rodney was spread out underneath him, solid body sheened with sweat and John thought he was beautiful.

Then he started to move, ass arching up to meet John’s strokes and John’s whole world got redefined.


The third day John came home from work soaked with sweat and with new calluses on already callused hands, Rodney climbed into the shower with him. He washed him with careful hands, strangely shy as he let his hands move over every inch of John’s body. Then he pressed John against the slick shower tiles and licked his way down John’s spine. When he was on his knees, Rodney leaned forward and pressed a hesitant kiss at the base of John’s spine. Then he reached forward with trembling hands and spread John's ass open so his mouth and tongue could explore.

That night John begged as Rodney showed him something else that his crooked mouth was good at.


They had been together almost three weeks when John asked Rodney to fuck him.

They were both unsteady on their feet as John tugged him toward the bedroom. John said the words against Rodney’s mouth as he kissed him, lick and flick of tongue and then he was gone. “I want you to fuck me. I want you inside me.”

Rodney was still trying to process the words when John threw himself down on the bed, all golden skin against crumpled white sheets. He nodded toward the night-stand as he struggled out of his jeans. And god, it should be illegal for anybody to look that good, lean body stretching across the expanse of bed to dig for lube.

When John tried to turn away Rodney wouldn’t let him, instead he pushed a pillow under lean hips and watched as John’s eyes slid closed and then wide as Rodney moved inside him. Fingers first, extra twist making John cry out and buck up, and then stretch and burn as Rodney’s cock pushed its way inside.

Rodney leaned over him, his arms braced on either side of John’s head and promised, “I’ll go slow.”

John’s breath was coming in quick little gasps and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth. Then Rodney started to move, the thrust of his hips making John see sparks. Sometime later the world fell away.


It had been more than a month when it all went to hell.

Rodney was trying to scrounge up something edible for breakfast when the reflection of the old steel spatula caught his eye. The glint of metal reminded him of something…then he remembered the dog-tags.

He’d ignored that nagging feeling that something just didn’t fit, that John wasn’t...something. He glanced toward the open bathroom door and the absolutely atrocious sound of John singing in the shower before crossing the room to dig in the pile of clothes.

They were tucked away in John’s wallet, dull metal chain twisted around a flat metal plate. The metal was cool against his palm, Major John Sheppard, USAF, #8593406. Sheppard? Wasn’t there a Major Sheppard at the SGC? Rodney felt his stomach clench and he knew the answer before he ever turned the metal over and saw the SGC logo on the back.

No coincidence then. Some sort of goddamn government conspiracy to make sure that Rodney McKay stayed just where he was supposed to be. He could just imagine the conversations, Well, we knew McKay was queer. He’d probably quit making noises about leaving the project if we could provide him with stud service. And John, goddamn him. Goddamn him.


“It’s not like that.” The louder Rodney got, the quieter John got.

“I know exactly what it’s like. Let me guess, your assignment was to keep the faggot happy. Make sure he’s not selling state secrets out in the middle of nowhere, and oh by the way, he gives a pretty good blow job so why not get it while you can.”

“I said,” John glared at him. “It’s not like that. Yeah, I was supposed to sort of keep an eye on you. But, what happened between us…” John shoved his hand back through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting that. You’ve gotta know that. I hadn’t even been,” John’s voice trailed off, “I hadn’t done all those things before.”

“Just an added bonus then. A way to explore all those pesky homosexual tendencies you thought you left back in junior high. Damnit John, your own fucking government pimped you out.” Rodney shook his head, “I can’t believe I was this stupid.” He gave John one last glare before he threw the motorcycle helmet out the front door to join the pile of clothes already decorating the porch. “Don’t worry, you can run back and tell the big-wigs at the SGC that I won’t be going anywhere. And after that,” Rodney’s voice cracked a little bit. “Just do me a favor Major forget you ever met me and I’ll try to do the same.”


John stayed away for ten days. He reported back to SGC, gave a very non-specific account of his surveillance on Doctor Rodney McKay and went on as many off-world missions as O’Neill would approve.

At night he lay in the narrow bed and thought about blue eyes and a crooked mouth.

On the tenth day, John slammed his way into O’Neill’s office and asked for leave. O’Neill looked at him, catalogued the dark circles and pinched features and granted it.

Rodney stopped looking for him after the fifth day. Stupid John with his stupid hair and his stupid smirks and his whisper-drawl voice that made “Rodney” into a three syllable word.

He was surprised when the SGC didn’t send someone else to intimidate him, but he’d learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He moved out of the rental house that smelled like John and looked like John and taunted him with happy memories that were all a big lie.

The old Streamline trailer he hauled out to the outpost actually had a working air conditioner anyway.


The day John showed up, Rodney was bent over the strange looking chair and muttering dire threats involving blow-torches and IKEA. The thing he threw at John’s head looked a little bit like a wrench.

When John woke up Rodney was yelling at him. Now he was threatening John with blow torches and IKEA and something that sounded an awful lot like Nair in his shampoo bottle. Even though John’s head had stopped bleeding and he probably wouldn’t have to have any stitches, Rodney still looked suspiciously like he’d been crying.

John was still a little unsteady on his feet when he stood up but truth be told that had more to do with the frantic little kisses Rodney had pressed on him than the head wound. Either way he figured he better sit for awhile.

Rodney went from kissing him to yelling at him when John sat down in the funny looking chair.

Then Rodney’s whole world lit up.

The chair buzzed to life and all the stubbornly unresponsive equipment Rodney had been slaving over for months started beeping and blinking.

Turned out Gran McKay had it right after all.

The End
Tags: challenge storys
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