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nnyFic: Devil Made Us Do It
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Summary:“That’s all from us, folks. We’ll see you here tomorrow night with all the latest sports updates, fresh off the field.” John clicks his fingers and points at the camera, a signature move that unimaginative photographers rarely deviate from. “Don’t you get left behind.”
Notes: This was for challenge 012 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
artword, but unfortunately life has eaten the artist I was working with so for the moment this stands alone. Remixing Work of the Devils and Wishful Thinking. Huge thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unamaga and torakowalski for excellent beta duties, and to newkidfan for the beautiful inspiration.
“Oh, come on. Are you insane?” Rodney has given up on the autocue altogether and is just staring at him, red-faced, across their strangely angled desk.
John lets his smirk widen into an unapologetic grin; he knows how good it looks on air, knows exactly how many magazine articles it’s made its way into because the mousy marketing girl, Teer, clips everything out and won’t let him forget. That’s not why he’s doing this, though. A little of it is for Teyla, for the way her voice is still calm and relatively quiet in his ear even though he can practically see her tearing her hair out in the control room, and he knows how she gets when Rodney takes a left turn from the script. Some is, admittedly, for the audience at home, but not because of the Sexiest this, or the Hottest whatever. It’s more like he’s sharing a joke, letting them know how much fun he’s having with this.
The rest of it – most of it – is all aimed at Rodney.
“Trading Ramirez is the best decision the Sox could’ve made,” Rodney continues, just before the silence drags on too long and Teyla makes him fill with something, “and you are an idiot and a baiter and a no good person.” He turns to his camera, a decisive movement filled with enough petulance to have John ducking his head and trying to snort away from the microphone clipped to his lapel.
“Ignore the moron to my left, sports fans, and form your own conclusions, which – since you’re all no doubt intelligent people – you will inevitably share with me.” He taps his script twice against the desk, and John looks up at camera one, the one the both of them share, easing the tell-tale shake in his voice with the grace of long practice.
“That’s all from us, folks. We’ll see you here tomorrow night with all the latest sports updates, fresh off the field.” He clicks his fingers and points at the camera, a signature move that unimaginative photographers rarely deviate from. “Don’t you get left behind.”
The lights have barely dimmed before he’s reaching across the desk and yanking McKay’s mic off his lapel, just a little thing he allows himself - the kind of little thing that critics always refer to as on-screen chemistry because that’s the safest box to put it in.
“Baiter?” he asks, voice incredulous and bright with laughter, “seriously?”
“You’ve switched positions at least three times today,” Rodney tells him, his voice still snippy but calming now he’s no longer fumbling for words on air, “depending on which will be the most annoying at any given moment. Any time you’d like to make a decision before we’re live in front of a goodly chunk of the American viewing public, Sheppard, you just let me know.”
John leans back in his chair and unclips his own microphone, letting Marie unhook and unplug him from his earpiece because he knows from long experience that it’s really for the best not to tackle that one himself.
“Just keeping you on your toes, McKay.”
“You’re just lucky we both like you, Sheppard.” The familiar drawl is a surprise, and John almost strains a muscle, turning his head to look at Jack. His voice, though, he takes care to make just as relaxed.
“Thanking all the shiny little stars every day, sir.”
Jack’s wearing a suit, but reluctantly; his tie’s all pulled to one side and the collar is gaping loose. He’s the picture of an awards party survivor, down to the bottle of champagne carried loosely in one hand. McKay’s mouth opens, but John cuts in there first – Rodney and O’Neill never seem to rub each other the right way.
“Something we should know?”
Jack makes kind of a non-committal noise. “Eh, nothing much. Just took a little look at the newest ratings results.”
It feels like a bowling ball’s settled itself in his stomach. It doesn’t look – from Jack’s face – like it’s going to be bad news, but John’s the new guy around here. Sumner’d had them in a solid fourth place slot for years, but the off-air friction with McKay started transferring itself on-screen, and he slid into Sumner's place when the chair was still warm. After the problems at his old network, the crap he got for his tendency to improvise on camera, the pressure to deliver results here hasn’t exactly been easy to take. The way he’d settled into a rapport with Rodney so quickly had kinda let him forget that for a while.
“And?” McKay’s chin is tilted up, a move dreaded by every athlete he’s interviewed over the past couple of years.
Jack grins, lifts the bottle slightly.
“This one’s mine, but there’s a crate waiting in the conference room.”
“…Third?”
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows McKay’s strangled question, camera crew standing empty handed, techs pausing in coiling wires. John can see Teyla standing by the control room door, tension betrayed by how tightly she’s gripping the head set she’s just removed.
“Boys and girls,” Jack says, enjoying the hell out of his audience, “we are now officially in third place.”
For a second John just stands there, hearing the cheers that go up as waves of noise without individual voices, completely dazed and unable to think. And then McKay’s there, pushing roughly on his shoulder to turn him into a tight hug, fist pounding painfully against John’s back. He’s solid against him, yelling something unintelligible in his ear, and John just snaps back into himself abruptly and lets out the stupid, braying laugh that he’s spent forever carefully training himself out of. Lets himself give in, and hug Rodney back.
~*~
Of course, among a crew as large as theirs even a crate of champagne doesn’t go as far as it should, not to mention the fact that at least five of the bottles have been doctored with orange juice, of all things. Rodney McKay then, white Lantea Sports mug cradled in one hand, isn’t drunk. Rodney McKay doesn’t tend to get drunk, since he has a certain celebrity and isn’t nearly pretty enough to pull off the playboy look. He’s just – buzzed. Partly the warming champagne he’s consumed, and partly the knowledge that finally America’s viewing public is starting to recognise the quality sports journalism on their screens each night between midnight and one a.m. Besides, it’s always more fun to watch this sort of thing, seeing the groupings that people settle into, the ridiculously unsubtle flirting that takes place. Unless he’s much mistaken, Carson will be taking the blonde from security back to Makeup before much more of the evening has elapsed, and there are at least five of the crew panting after Sheppard.
Rodney had been tracking his progress earlier, watching him move from group to group without lingering, easy smile and loose body language concealing the way he managed to avoid almost every congratulatory hug that was headed his way. He’d given in to Teyla, letting her pull him down until his forehead rested against hers for a moment, and the enormous camera guy with the frankly unsanitary hairstyle had managed to catch him and hoist him into the air, but he’d done better than Rodney, and really, that was saying something. With him, most people hadn’t even been trying.
It’s been a while since he’s seen Sheppard, though, and he feels it’s his duty – as co-anchor – to make sure that he’s not lost, or dead, or engaging in acts that’ll make their way into the tabloids any time soon. He pushes off the wall and ducks around the tiny redhead from Wardrobe he’d briefly and disastrously dated three months previously, heading instinctively towards his cluttered office. It’s where they do most of their writing and the couch there is almost criminally comfortable; he’s lost count of the times he’s found Sheppard napping in there, lights dimmed and shoes flung halfway across the office, where Rodney, distracted by sleep-creased skin, is most likely to fall over them and die. It’s currently empty, though, and he only pauses long enough to set the coffeemaker running; he’s seen enough of John’s evening to know it’ll come in handy later.
A moment’s thought before he considers checking John’s office – he hadn’t been sure the other man even knew where it was, so it’s something of a surprise to see John’s spiky-haired silhouette outlined against the window, his forehead resting against the glass. A coffee mug dangles loose from his long fingers, and the almost-empty wine bottle on the table explains his unnatural stillness; Casillero del Diablo, an embarrassingly cheap bottle that’s been sitting in the fridge since Sumner’s departure months before.
“John?” He only trusts himself to take a couple of steps into the room, since ambient light only does so much and this room, while not as cave-like as Rodney’s, doesn’t have the wall of windows that the main workspace offers. It’s a second before Sheppard turns, leaning back against the window (Rodney’s beginning to suspect he can’t stand unsupported) with his head tipped forward enough that the smile that shows in his voice is left in shadow.
“Hey, McKay.”
“Not up for celebrating with the masses?” Rodney edges forward a little more, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light enough that he can see the edge of the desk, the frankly odd lack of much else in the way of furniture. “Not that I can say that I blame you – the news of a shift in our status apparently has them inches from a champagne-prompted mass orgy.”
There’s a soft huff of breath from John which Rodney chooses to interpret as a laugh.
“Not your scene?”
“Not really, no. The logistics are just – “ Rodney waves a hand vaguely, and it’s entirely possible he’s had a little more champagne than he’d thought because this isn’t the kind of conversation he’d usually be quite so cavalier about engaging in. “I tend to stick to just the one partner at a time.”
“Pronoun,” John says inexplicably. He pushes away from the window and walks over to the desk – slowly, but in a surprisingly straight line – and carefully refills his mug. When he’s settled again, leaning against the edge of the desk with his legs crossed in front of him, as far as Rodney can make out, a shift in shadow suggests a tilted head. “And no potential partners out there?”
“Not all of us are swayed by the first – “ the rant sounds thin in the empty room and Rodney swallows the rest of it, prompted into honesty by the lack of accountability that shadows allow. “One offer, yes. They weren’t my type.”
“Pronoun,” John says again, his voice a little lower, a register that Rodney can feel in the base of his spine. There’s a rustle of cloth as John moves again, light from the window limning the wine bottle he holds out, and Rodney takes another step forward without thinking about it, extending his mug. It’s a surprise when John’s fingers close around his wrist instead, and he almost overbalances when John tugs him forward.
The taste of cheap wine is thick and too sweet in John’s mouth, and his skin is too smooth from shaving just before the show and from carefully applied makeup and that’s all Rodney can process; the feel and the taste of it, the soft slick sounds of their mouths moving against each other. It’s easier than trying to reshape this until it fits into his head. John’s fingers thread clumsily through his hair, tugging a little, and Rodney doesn’t manage to swallow his moan; his own hands bracket John’s narrow hips, thumbs hooked into belt loops and fingers spread across the small of his back.
The disadvantage of not thinking about it: somehow he’s been manoeuvred between John’s legs with no clue how he got there, one of John’s hands curled into his shirt hard enough that Wardrobe will crucify him for the wrinkles, but it’s difficult to care when he’s being insistently nudged forward. The first contact of John’s body, hot and solid against his, forces a groan from his chest; he can feel John’s smile against his mouth. It’s not all he can feel – clearly he’s not the only one enjoying this, and he can’t help (drunk as John clearly is) but thrust back against him.
He hadn’t thought about this. Self preservation hadn’t let him think about this but it never, in his imagination, would have been like - John is beautiful, sat behind the anchor desk, smirking at Rodney across the trestle catering table, (letting his head fall back so Rodney can sink his teeth into the juncture between shoulder and neck). If he’d imagined, it would have been the cool smirk on John’s face as Rodney sank to his knees. Would have been John allowing this, not – Jesus, begging for it, practically writhing as he pushes uncoordinatedly up against Rodney, movement knocking his empty mug off the edge of the desk to fall with a muffled thud onto the floor.
Fuck.
Rodney tears his mouth away from the renewed kiss, pressing John’s hips back against the desk.
“John, we can’t, we – “ The almost empty wine bottle catches the bare light from the window, mocking him. “John, you –“ John pulls forward, stronger than Rodney imagined, and he stumbles back up against him, ungainly but sending a jolt of sensation through him. “God – don’t want this,” he continues, determined, against all evidence to the contrary.
“Please,” John insists, leaning up to whisper it against his mouth. “Please, Rodney.”
And there’s a hand undoing his belt, sliding down to curl around him, and it’s unbelievably, impossibly good. Better when Rodney gives in and lets his own hand slide down from John’s waist so that the heel of it presses against John’s cock through his pants, when John starts making small cut-off whimpering noises, his hand on Rodney’s cock irregular and just this side of too tight.
He barely even registers when John’s cock jerks against his hand, when he lets out a barely-there groan, too caught up in his own orgasm. But he hears John’s voice, thready next to his ear, as he comes.
“Jesus, Rodney, I’m sorry.”
~*~
John squints against the sunlight, even through his aviators, and folds his arms against his chest as he waits for Rodney to catch up to him. This is a punishment for something, he’s pretty sure of it; normally he’d be all for covering the local colour, the small golf competition that attracts the occasional big name, but usually he’d have got more than three hours sleep. Normally he wouldn’t have woken up on the couch in his co-anchor’s office after having drunk enough to tranquilise an elephant, after –
He’s not thinking about that right now.
As soon as Rodney’s drawn even with him he starts down the other side of the ridge, through the waist-high grass that’s been setting off Rodney’s allergies until he’s sneezing every other step; Makeup are gonna have their work cut out for them. At least Rodney’s sneezing and low-level bitching excuse the lack of any other kind of communication, make the silence between them a little less awkward. Behind them, Lorne is talking to the camera guy, Ronon, about how he’s going to produce this segment, about the film already in the can. His voice is rapid and almost apologetic in tone – because it’s shit. John knows it’s shit and he can’t bring himself to care. He has a headache that’s threatening to split his skull, he threw up twice in the golf club’s restroom, and he’s pretty sure as soon as Rodney gets a chance to talk to Jack, he’s going to be out of a job.
Not his best fucking day ever.
So he’s held himself apart all day, his comebacks a little sharper than usual, leaving Rodney visibly stumbling on film. He’s refused to take his sunglasses off for any of the takes, and has tugged his tie loose and crooked each and every time he’s had it fixed. If he’s going down in flames he’s making it as spectacular as possible without entirely screwing his career for the future.
The worst of it is that he’d almost stopped expecting it. He’s almost let himself feel at home on this show, has let his guard down enough to hang out with Rodney off camera, to usurp his couch and let the easy back and forth continue through writing, through watching sports events on the couch together with their sides pressed against each other. He’d let himself want things that –
“Um, guys?”
Lorne’s voice. John almost feels sorry for him; he’s not had much experience with segment producing, and this one’s fucked six ways through Sunday.
Maybe he’ll have better luck with John’s replacement.
“We’re just gonna – we’ll go with what we have. Get back to the studio, maybe pick up some antihistamines for the Chief.”
“Sygophand,” Rodney mutters, but he heads towards the van readily enough, trailing tissues, and John loses a second or two watching him go. Might as well look while he’s got the opportunity, right?
It takes him entirely by surprise when Rodney’s waiting for him by the side of the van, sun glaring off the white metal and right into his eyes. He’d expected him to be already settled inside, taking advantage of the air conditioning, so he doesn’t even think to defend himself when Rodney is suddenly in front of him and roughly shoving him backwards.
“What the hell,” Rodney says, rough and loud and angry, “what the hell, Sheppard?”
“Fuck off, McKay,” he all but snarls, sidestepping, but Rodney cuts him off again.
“What, you’re the big man, now? You don’t have to worry about how you look on my fucking show?”
“I don’t care how I look to you right now. Replacements are a dime a dozen, right?”
He doesn’t expect the punch. It’s not even that hard, but he genuinely never thought that Rodney would hit him and it knocks him sideways, sprawling on the tarmac at his feet. Rodney’s knees click as he crouches down, lowering his voice so that it’s clear the anger is only for him.
“You’ve had me now, yes, and I get that that’s a boost for your oversized ego. I’ve been the universe’s whipping boy long enough not to care about how you make me feel, Sheppard, and frankly I refuse to give you the satisfaction of getting upset about it. But wreck my show and I will use every resource at my disposal to take you down, is that clear?”
He pushes himself slowly to his feet and marches over to the van, shoulders hunched and defensive, and John just watches him go, mouth open.
Apparently they weren’t having the conversation he thought they were, at all.
~*~
Rodney knows better. He knows better, and he can’t believe he let John Sheppard – with his smirks and ridiculous catchphrases and untameable hair – let John Sheppard get the better of his longstanding rule not to sleep with anyone he’s working so closely with.
He’d had misgivings, last night. He’d even tried to say no – not hard, admittedly, but the effort had been made. And then after he’d managed to clean them both up, after he’d carefully buttoned and tucked and smoothed them presentable again, he’d manhandled John through to the couch in Rodney’s office and settled him under the ugly throw Jeannie had knitted when she was pregnant. John had smiled, sleepy and slow, and leaned up just far enough to press a gentle kiss against Rodney’s lips, and he’d almost let himself hope that –
He knows better.
On his way to Wardrobe, he stalls unexpectedly when he catches sight of an open door, a Pegasus Corp mug butted up against the leg of a desk. Apart from that and the wine bottle on the desk, there’s no other sign of what happened; it would be so easy to pretend it never did, if John would stop being such an ass. Rodney pushes the door a little wider, takes a step into the room, and it’s exactly as bare as he’d thought it was. It’s almost – months, John’s been here, and there’s not a sign of life to the room. The only hint of personality is the battered duffel tossed carelessly into a corner, the one John always takes for field reporting; blank khaki green and a battered luggage tag with just his name.
And – shit. He gets it, and he curses under his breath.
“Stupid – you moron.”
“Me?”
He lets out an undignified squeak, spinning on his heel to find John leaning against the doorframe, easy posture belied entirely by the tension around his eyes.
“Yes, you, you – “ Rodney flails inarticulately. “How could you think – God, John, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He bites his lip, feeling the flush spreading over his face, and hurries on. “To us, to the show. You haven’t relaxed for a second since you got here, have you?”
John shrugs, awkward.
“With – with you, yeah.” He says it quickly, like that’ll make it mean less. “Didn’t mean to.”
Rodney makes a frustrated noise, almost a growl, and stomps forward until he’s almost nose to nose with him.
“I don’t care how many other shows have been idiotic enough to waste you, understand? I – SGC can go suck a lemon because they had you and they let you go. You’re in Pegasus now, you idiot, and we’re not going to fire you just because you take things into your own hands.”
John’s smile has been reluctant but growing, and Rodney curls his hand into the front of his shirt. Wardrobe can go to hell.
“I would have even – I’d have kept working with you even with the – “ he waves a hand between them, an awkward gesture. “But - but if you still wanted - you don’t have to be drunk, if you want to, if you –“
And apparently Rodney isn’t the only one who’s been wanting this, because John mercifully leans forward and stops his babble in the best way possible.
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Summary:“That’s all from us, folks. We’ll see you here tomorrow night with all the latest sports updates, fresh off the field.” John clicks his fingers and points at the camera, a signature move that unimaginative photographers rarely deviate from. “Don’t you get left behind.”
Notes: This was for challenge 012 at
artword, but unfortunately life has eaten the artist I was working with so for the moment this stands alone. Remixing Work of the Devils and Wishful Thinking. Huge thanks to unamaga and torakowalski for excellent beta duties, and to newkidfan for the beautiful inspiration. “Oh, come on. Are you insane?” Rodney has given up on the autocue altogether and is just staring at him, red-faced, across their strangely angled desk.
John lets his smirk widen into an unapologetic grin; he knows how good it looks on air, knows exactly how many magazine articles it’s made its way into because the mousy marketing girl, Teer, clips everything out and won’t let him forget. That’s not why he’s doing this, though. A little of it is for Teyla, for the way her voice is still calm and relatively quiet in his ear even though he can practically see her tearing her hair out in the control room, and he knows how she gets when Rodney takes a left turn from the script. Some is, admittedly, for the audience at home, but not because of the Sexiest this, or the Hottest whatever. It’s more like he’s sharing a joke, letting them know how much fun he’s having with this.
The rest of it – most of it – is all aimed at Rodney.
“Trading Ramirez is the best decision the Sox could’ve made,” Rodney continues, just before the silence drags on too long and Teyla makes him fill with something, “and you are an idiot and a baiter and a no good person.” He turns to his camera, a decisive movement filled with enough petulance to have John ducking his head and trying to snort away from the microphone clipped to his lapel.
“Ignore the moron to my left, sports fans, and form your own conclusions, which – since you’re all no doubt intelligent people – you will inevitably share with me.” He taps his script twice against the desk, and John looks up at camera one, the one the both of them share, easing the tell-tale shake in his voice with the grace of long practice.
“That’s all from us, folks. We’ll see you here tomorrow night with all the latest sports updates, fresh off the field.” He clicks his fingers and points at the camera, a signature move that unimaginative photographers rarely deviate from. “Don’t you get left behind.”
The lights have barely dimmed before he’s reaching across the desk and yanking McKay’s mic off his lapel, just a little thing he allows himself - the kind of little thing that critics always refer to as on-screen chemistry because that’s the safest box to put it in.
“Baiter?” he asks, voice incredulous and bright with laughter, “seriously?”
“You’ve switched positions at least three times today,” Rodney tells him, his voice still snippy but calming now he’s no longer fumbling for words on air, “depending on which will be the most annoying at any given moment. Any time you’d like to make a decision before we’re live in front of a goodly chunk of the American viewing public, Sheppard, you just let me know.”
John leans back in his chair and unclips his own microphone, letting Marie unhook and unplug him from his earpiece because he knows from long experience that it’s really for the best not to tackle that one himself.
“Just keeping you on your toes, McKay.”
“You’re just lucky we both like you, Sheppard.” The familiar drawl is a surprise, and John almost strains a muscle, turning his head to look at Jack. His voice, though, he takes care to make just as relaxed.
“Thanking all the shiny little stars every day, sir.”
Jack’s wearing a suit, but reluctantly; his tie’s all pulled to one side and the collar is gaping loose. He’s the picture of an awards party survivor, down to the bottle of champagne carried loosely in one hand. McKay’s mouth opens, but John cuts in there first – Rodney and O’Neill never seem to rub each other the right way.
“Something we should know?”
Jack makes kind of a non-committal noise. “Eh, nothing much. Just took a little look at the newest ratings results.”
It feels like a bowling ball’s settled itself in his stomach. It doesn’t look – from Jack’s face – like it’s going to be bad news, but John’s the new guy around here. Sumner’d had them in a solid fourth place slot for years, but the off-air friction with McKay started transferring itself on-screen, and he slid into Sumner's place when the chair was still warm. After the problems at his old network, the crap he got for his tendency to improvise on camera, the pressure to deliver results here hasn’t exactly been easy to take. The way he’d settled into a rapport with Rodney so quickly had kinda let him forget that for a while.
“And?” McKay’s chin is tilted up, a move dreaded by every athlete he’s interviewed over the past couple of years.
Jack grins, lifts the bottle slightly.
“This one’s mine, but there’s a crate waiting in the conference room.”
“…Third?”
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows McKay’s strangled question, camera crew standing empty handed, techs pausing in coiling wires. John can see Teyla standing by the control room door, tension betrayed by how tightly she’s gripping the head set she’s just removed.
“Boys and girls,” Jack says, enjoying the hell out of his audience, “we are now officially in third place.”
For a second John just stands there, hearing the cheers that go up as waves of noise without individual voices, completely dazed and unable to think. And then McKay’s there, pushing roughly on his shoulder to turn him into a tight hug, fist pounding painfully against John’s back. He’s solid against him, yelling something unintelligible in his ear, and John just snaps back into himself abruptly and lets out the stupid, braying laugh that he’s spent forever carefully training himself out of. Lets himself give in, and hug Rodney back.
Of course, among a crew as large as theirs even a crate of champagne doesn’t go as far as it should, not to mention the fact that at least five of the bottles have been doctored with orange juice, of all things. Rodney McKay then, white Lantea Sports mug cradled in one hand, isn’t drunk. Rodney McKay doesn’t tend to get drunk, since he has a certain celebrity and isn’t nearly pretty enough to pull off the playboy look. He’s just – buzzed. Partly the warming champagne he’s consumed, and partly the knowledge that finally America’s viewing public is starting to recognise the quality sports journalism on their screens each night between midnight and one a.m. Besides, it’s always more fun to watch this sort of thing, seeing the groupings that people settle into, the ridiculously unsubtle flirting that takes place. Unless he’s much mistaken, Carson will be taking the blonde from security back to Makeup before much more of the evening has elapsed, and there are at least five of the crew panting after Sheppard.
Rodney had been tracking his progress earlier, watching him move from group to group without lingering, easy smile and loose body language concealing the way he managed to avoid almost every congratulatory hug that was headed his way. He’d given in to Teyla, letting her pull him down until his forehead rested against hers for a moment, and the enormous camera guy with the frankly unsanitary hairstyle had managed to catch him and hoist him into the air, but he’d done better than Rodney, and really, that was saying something. With him, most people hadn’t even been trying.
It’s been a while since he’s seen Sheppard, though, and he feels it’s his duty – as co-anchor – to make sure that he’s not lost, or dead, or engaging in acts that’ll make their way into the tabloids any time soon. He pushes off the wall and ducks around the tiny redhead from Wardrobe he’d briefly and disastrously dated three months previously, heading instinctively towards his cluttered office. It’s where they do most of their writing and the couch there is almost criminally comfortable; he’s lost count of the times he’s found Sheppard napping in there, lights dimmed and shoes flung halfway across the office, where Rodney, distracted by sleep-creased skin, is most likely to fall over them and die. It’s currently empty, though, and he only pauses long enough to set the coffeemaker running; he’s seen enough of John’s evening to know it’ll come in handy later.
A moment’s thought before he considers checking John’s office – he hadn’t been sure the other man even knew where it was, so it’s something of a surprise to see John’s spiky-haired silhouette outlined against the window, his forehead resting against the glass. A coffee mug dangles loose from his long fingers, and the almost-empty wine bottle on the table explains his unnatural stillness; Casillero del Diablo, an embarrassingly cheap bottle that’s been sitting in the fridge since Sumner’s departure months before.
“John?” He only trusts himself to take a couple of steps into the room, since ambient light only does so much and this room, while not as cave-like as Rodney’s, doesn’t have the wall of windows that the main workspace offers. It’s a second before Sheppard turns, leaning back against the window (Rodney’s beginning to suspect he can’t stand unsupported) with his head tipped forward enough that the smile that shows in his voice is left in shadow.
“Hey, McKay.”
“Not up for celebrating with the masses?” Rodney edges forward a little more, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light enough that he can see the edge of the desk, the frankly odd lack of much else in the way of furniture. “Not that I can say that I blame you – the news of a shift in our status apparently has them inches from a champagne-prompted mass orgy.”
There’s a soft huff of breath from John which Rodney chooses to interpret as a laugh.
“Not your scene?”
“Not really, no. The logistics are just – “ Rodney waves a hand vaguely, and it’s entirely possible he’s had a little more champagne than he’d thought because this isn’t the kind of conversation he’d usually be quite so cavalier about engaging in. “I tend to stick to just the one partner at a time.”
“Pronoun,” John says inexplicably. He pushes away from the window and walks over to the desk – slowly, but in a surprisingly straight line – and carefully refills his mug. When he’s settled again, leaning against the edge of the desk with his legs crossed in front of him, as far as Rodney can make out, a shift in shadow suggests a tilted head. “And no potential partners out there?”
“Not all of us are swayed by the first – “ the rant sounds thin in the empty room and Rodney swallows the rest of it, prompted into honesty by the lack of accountability that shadows allow. “One offer, yes. They weren’t my type.”
“Pronoun,” John says again, his voice a little lower, a register that Rodney can feel in the base of his spine. There’s a rustle of cloth as John moves again, light from the window limning the wine bottle he holds out, and Rodney takes another step forward without thinking about it, extending his mug. It’s a surprise when John’s fingers close around his wrist instead, and he almost overbalances when John tugs him forward.
The taste of cheap wine is thick and too sweet in John’s mouth, and his skin is too smooth from shaving just before the show and from carefully applied makeup and that’s all Rodney can process; the feel and the taste of it, the soft slick sounds of their mouths moving against each other. It’s easier than trying to reshape this until it fits into his head. John’s fingers thread clumsily through his hair, tugging a little, and Rodney doesn’t manage to swallow his moan; his own hands bracket John’s narrow hips, thumbs hooked into belt loops and fingers spread across the small of his back.
The disadvantage of not thinking about it: somehow he’s been manoeuvred between John’s legs with no clue how he got there, one of John’s hands curled into his shirt hard enough that Wardrobe will crucify him for the wrinkles, but it’s difficult to care when he’s being insistently nudged forward. The first contact of John’s body, hot and solid against his, forces a groan from his chest; he can feel John’s smile against his mouth. It’s not all he can feel – clearly he’s not the only one enjoying this, and he can’t help (drunk as John clearly is) but thrust back against him.
He hadn’t thought about this. Self preservation hadn’t let him think about this but it never, in his imagination, would have been like - John is beautiful, sat behind the anchor desk, smirking at Rodney across the trestle catering table, (letting his head fall back so Rodney can sink his teeth into the juncture between shoulder and neck). If he’d imagined, it would have been the cool smirk on John’s face as Rodney sank to his knees. Would have been John allowing this, not – Jesus, begging for it, practically writhing as he pushes uncoordinatedly up against Rodney, movement knocking his empty mug off the edge of the desk to fall with a muffled thud onto the floor.
Fuck.
Rodney tears his mouth away from the renewed kiss, pressing John’s hips back against the desk.
“John, we can’t, we – “ The almost empty wine bottle catches the bare light from the window, mocking him. “John, you –“ John pulls forward, stronger than Rodney imagined, and he stumbles back up against him, ungainly but sending a jolt of sensation through him. “God – don’t want this,” he continues, determined, against all evidence to the contrary.
“Please,” John insists, leaning up to whisper it against his mouth. “Please, Rodney.”
And there’s a hand undoing his belt, sliding down to curl around him, and it’s unbelievably, impossibly good. Better when Rodney gives in and lets his own hand slide down from John’s waist so that the heel of it presses against John’s cock through his pants, when John starts making small cut-off whimpering noises, his hand on Rodney’s cock irregular and just this side of too tight.
He barely even registers when John’s cock jerks against his hand, when he lets out a barely-there groan, too caught up in his own orgasm. But he hears John’s voice, thready next to his ear, as he comes.
“Jesus, Rodney, I’m sorry.”
John squints against the sunlight, even through his aviators, and folds his arms against his chest as he waits for Rodney to catch up to him. This is a punishment for something, he’s pretty sure of it; normally he’d be all for covering the local colour, the small golf competition that attracts the occasional big name, but usually he’d have got more than three hours sleep. Normally he wouldn’t have woken up on the couch in his co-anchor’s office after having drunk enough to tranquilise an elephant, after –
He’s not thinking about that right now.
As soon as Rodney’s drawn even with him he starts down the other side of the ridge, through the waist-high grass that’s been setting off Rodney’s allergies until he’s sneezing every other step; Makeup are gonna have their work cut out for them. At least Rodney’s sneezing and low-level bitching excuse the lack of any other kind of communication, make the silence between them a little less awkward. Behind them, Lorne is talking to the camera guy, Ronon, about how he’s going to produce this segment, about the film already in the can. His voice is rapid and almost apologetic in tone – because it’s shit. John knows it’s shit and he can’t bring himself to care. He has a headache that’s threatening to split his skull, he threw up twice in the golf club’s restroom, and he’s pretty sure as soon as Rodney gets a chance to talk to Jack, he’s going to be out of a job.
Not his best fucking day ever.
So he’s held himself apart all day, his comebacks a little sharper than usual, leaving Rodney visibly stumbling on film. He’s refused to take his sunglasses off for any of the takes, and has tugged his tie loose and crooked each and every time he’s had it fixed. If he’s going down in flames he’s making it as spectacular as possible without entirely screwing his career for the future.
The worst of it is that he’d almost stopped expecting it. He’s almost let himself feel at home on this show, has let his guard down enough to hang out with Rodney off camera, to usurp his couch and let the easy back and forth continue through writing, through watching sports events on the couch together with their sides pressed against each other. He’d let himself want things that –
“Um, guys?”
Lorne’s voice. John almost feels sorry for him; he’s not had much experience with segment producing, and this one’s fucked six ways through Sunday.
Maybe he’ll have better luck with John’s replacement.
“We’re just gonna – we’ll go with what we have. Get back to the studio, maybe pick up some antihistamines for the Chief.”
“Sygophand,” Rodney mutters, but he heads towards the van readily enough, trailing tissues, and John loses a second or two watching him go. Might as well look while he’s got the opportunity, right?
It takes him entirely by surprise when Rodney’s waiting for him by the side of the van, sun glaring off the white metal and right into his eyes. He’d expected him to be already settled inside, taking advantage of the air conditioning, so he doesn’t even think to defend himself when Rodney is suddenly in front of him and roughly shoving him backwards.
“What the hell,” Rodney says, rough and loud and angry, “what the hell, Sheppard?”
“Fuck off, McKay,” he all but snarls, sidestepping, but Rodney cuts him off again.
“What, you’re the big man, now? You don’t have to worry about how you look on my fucking show?”
“I don’t care how I look to you right now. Replacements are a dime a dozen, right?”
He doesn’t expect the punch. It’s not even that hard, but he genuinely never thought that Rodney would hit him and it knocks him sideways, sprawling on the tarmac at his feet. Rodney’s knees click as he crouches down, lowering his voice so that it’s clear the anger is only for him.
“You’ve had me now, yes, and I get that that’s a boost for your oversized ego. I’ve been the universe’s whipping boy long enough not to care about how you make me feel, Sheppard, and frankly I refuse to give you the satisfaction of getting upset about it. But wreck my show and I will use every resource at my disposal to take you down, is that clear?”
He pushes himself slowly to his feet and marches over to the van, shoulders hunched and defensive, and John just watches him go, mouth open.
Apparently they weren’t having the conversation he thought they were, at all.
Rodney knows better. He knows better, and he can’t believe he let John Sheppard – with his smirks and ridiculous catchphrases and untameable hair – let John Sheppard get the better of his longstanding rule not to sleep with anyone he’s working so closely with.
He’d had misgivings, last night. He’d even tried to say no – not hard, admittedly, but the effort had been made. And then after he’d managed to clean them both up, after he’d carefully buttoned and tucked and smoothed them presentable again, he’d manhandled John through to the couch in Rodney’s office and settled him under the ugly throw Jeannie had knitted when she was pregnant. John had smiled, sleepy and slow, and leaned up just far enough to press a gentle kiss against Rodney’s lips, and he’d almost let himself hope that –
He knows better.
On his way to Wardrobe, he stalls unexpectedly when he catches sight of an open door, a Pegasus Corp mug butted up against the leg of a desk. Apart from that and the wine bottle on the desk, there’s no other sign of what happened; it would be so easy to pretend it never did, if John would stop being such an ass. Rodney pushes the door a little wider, takes a step into the room, and it’s exactly as bare as he’d thought it was. It’s almost – months, John’s been here, and there’s not a sign of life to the room. The only hint of personality is the battered duffel tossed carelessly into a corner, the one John always takes for field reporting; blank khaki green and a battered luggage tag with just his name.
And – shit. He gets it, and he curses under his breath.
“Stupid – you moron.”
“Me?”
He lets out an undignified squeak, spinning on his heel to find John leaning against the doorframe, easy posture belied entirely by the tension around his eyes.
“Yes, you, you – “ Rodney flails inarticulately. “How could you think – God, John, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He bites his lip, feeling the flush spreading over his face, and hurries on. “To us, to the show. You haven’t relaxed for a second since you got here, have you?”
John shrugs, awkward.
“With – with you, yeah.” He says it quickly, like that’ll make it mean less. “Didn’t mean to.”
Rodney makes a frustrated noise, almost a growl, and stomps forward until he’s almost nose to nose with him.
“I don’t care how many other shows have been idiotic enough to waste you, understand? I – SGC can go suck a lemon because they had you and they let you go. You’re in Pegasus now, you idiot, and we’re not going to fire you just because you take things into your own hands.”
John’s smile has been reluctant but growing, and Rodney curls his hand into the front of his shirt. Wardrobe can go to hell.
“I would have even – I’d have kept working with you even with the – “ he waves a hand between them, an awkward gesture. “But - but if you still wanted - you don’t have to be drunk, if you want to, if you –“
And apparently Rodney isn’t the only one who’s been wanting this, because John mercifully leans forward and stops his babble in the best way possible.
