Disconnect
{ PG | John/Rodney }
no spoilers, but set in a post-season 4 AU that excepts all season 5 canon; beta, title, and general awesomeness courtesy of general_jinjur
Special instruction time!: this story contains four asterisk links, which, when followed as you encounter them, will lead you from the main story to the side story and back again! \o/
*
The thing Rodney truly hates about being Earthside is the telemarketers. It’s not because they always seem to call at the worst moments, like when he’s a) eating, b) in the bathroom, c) just getting in the door/rushing out the door, d) having sex with John, or e) all of the above *. It’s not because they can’t seem to take a hint and make him repeat “Not interested, please go away!” a million times before John finally wrests the phone from him and just hangs up. It’s not even because if it weren’t for telemarketers wasting his extremely valuable time he would have a Nobel by now (or, at the very least, an Einstein Award).
No, Rodney hates telemarketers because their response to “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheppard is not available” is inevitably “Then may I speak to Mrs. Sheppard?”, and Rodney has to spend the next few minutes giving the idiot on the other end of the line a scathing lecture on the inappropriateness of asking for the opposite-gendered spouse of a man’s same-sex partner.
Usually telemarketers disconnect sometime between “I wash his clothes, walk his dog, and suffer through season tickets to the Denver Broncos ***, so I’m pretty sure I’m qualified to make decisions about our long-distance plan” and “I’d like to say this wouldn’t happen in Canada - because, unlike America, my country legalized same-sex marriage - but unfortunately it’s not true, because all telemarketers across the globe crawl out of the same primordial ooze and share a patriarchal hive mind”. No one has ever listened past “…ever asked my friend Teyla for her theoretical husband she would reach through the phone and beat you senseless with her pinky!”, but that’s probably for the best, because Rodney thinks that if he ever finished that sentence he could be criminally charged.
To Rodney’s dismay, John finds Rodney’s righteous anger amusing. He says it’s the new and interesting insults that entertain him, but Rodney has a feeling that it’s really the new and interesting shades of red he only ever turns while yelling at telemarketers that are what John enjoys.
But one night, while Rodney is elbows-deep in the dishwasher (”It’s obviously been designed by an engineer no better than a glorified monkey with a sledgehammer - so, you know, someone of Kavanagh’s caliber - because it’s wasting water at a phenomenal rate and causing us to bleed out through our wallets!”), Rodney’s cell phone rings and John answers. Rodney can vaguely hear the tinny voice on the other end of the line, mostly because John always hovers when he does home repairs (”Aw, come on Rodney, I’m trying to learn something from you -” “Just because you’re standing behind me where I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know that you’re actually here to leer at my ass, Sheppard!” “Har har har har!”), but also in part because some telemarketers are freakishly loud.
“Good evening, this is Verizon Wireless calling. Is this Mister Rodney McKay?”
“Nope, I’m sorry, it isn’t,” John drawls, and actually sounds like he is sorry for the unfortunate happenstance of not being Rodney, “and Rodney’s kinda busy right now, but if you want I can take a message for him.”
“Oh, that’s all right, we can talk to Missus McKay instead. Is she available?”
John pauses for a second and Rodney thinks, Ha! The tables have turned!, and waits for John to tell them off, but John just huffs a wry laugh and says, “Yeah, you’re speaking to him,” and the dead silence from the telemarketer is exhilarating.
“Uh…” the telemarketer eventually replies. “Oh, um -”
“Yeah,” John says again, and it takes Rodney a moment to place the tone of John’s voice, what it means, and suddenly he realizes it’s pride, and it makes Rodney feel strangely cold and hot all at once.
His internal freakout makes him miss the rest of the conversation, and the next thing he knows John is hanging up, flipping the phone closed with one hand, and palming the back of Rodney’s neck with the other. It’s the shock of John’s hand on his flushed skin that makes Rodney realize that he stopped working a while ago and that his hands are shaking a little, his heart is pounding behind his ribcage and in his throat, and he kind of feels like he’s going to be sick.
“Hey,” John says as he slides the phone onto the counter.
“Uh, h-hey,” Rodney stutters, and tries to pretend that he isn’t blushing so hard he’s actually sweating.
“Almost done?” John asks, and just like that it seems they aren’t going to talk about any of this.
“Er,” Rodney replies, and fumbles the wrench, “yes, yes I think - uh. No. Not really.”
John doesn’t laugh; he squeezes Rodney’s neck and thumbs at Rodney’s jaw and leans one of his slinky hips against the counter right in Rodney’s peripheral vision, and drawls, “Take your time,” like it’s some kind of concession, but Rodney figures it probably is. He ducks further into the dishwasher, forcing John to break contact, and says, “Twenty minutes, thirty tops. Why don’t you order pizza?”
So John uses Rodney’s cell to order Chinese (the house rule is ‘whoever calls chooses the restaurant’; Rodney always uses not-so-subtle suggestion techniques in an attempt to trick John into ordering what Rodney wants instead, but thus far has been unsuccessful) and Rodney works on the dishwasher until the food arrives, and then after Rodney cleans himself up a bit they sit down to eat and watch the last few episodes of Eureka they’ve been hoarding on the DVR.
It’s only when Flutie the Terrier Terror leaps onto the couch (landing unerringly in the most sensitive spot on Rodney’s lap - a move the dog has practiced to perfection) that it really hits Rodney how nothing has really changed. Okay, so what if Rodney has definitive proof that John likes being Rodney’s boyfriend? lover?…likes being Rodney’s?; it doesn’t make their fights less stupid or their morning breath more attractive. It’s just how it is, how it’s probably been for a long time and Rodney just didn’t know, didn’t realize that was how John felt, that it was how Rodney wanted John to feel.
That maybe, even, that’s how Rodney feels about John, too.
“You know what I hate about being Earthside?” Rodney says, nudging Flutie onto the vacant couch cushion on his other side.
John cocks an eyebrow in his direction. “What?”
“How there’s never anything on television. Four hundred channels and there’s nothing worth watching, unless you count a) sports, which, with the exception of hockey or lacrosse, I emphatically don’t, b) music videos, c) reality shows, d) -”
John huffs a laugh. “I can think of plenty of other stuff to keep us busy. You know, if you’re interested,” he says, and presses his knee against Rodney’s.
“Oh?” Rodney replies, pressing back. “Like what?”
“Like this,” John says, and leans into him, palms his jaw, and everywhere they touch Rodney can translate John’s intention, skin to skin.
The End
comment?
—-
addendum 1
Rodney shoves John against the bathroom sink and whips John’s shirt over his head.
“Okay, this has to be quick,” Rodney says. “Jeanie’s plane is going to land in twenty minutes, and if we make Madison wait to see her favourite uncle any longer than it takes The English Major to locate all their luggage -”
“I’m pretty sure he prefers ‘Kaleb’, but I could be wrong.”
“- she will, and I quote, ‘be entirely unmanageable for the next foreseeable eternity’, and I won’t even speculate as to how irritable Jeanie will be, and she can hold a grudge for far longer than a six-year-old can.” Rodney licks a stripe up John’s neck, which makes John shudder and gasp. “Also, when I say ‘favourite uncle’, I mean me, not you.”
John gives him an amused, lazily affectionate smile. “Whatever, Rodney.” Hopping up on the slim edge of the counter he drags Rodney between his spread thighs. “Don’t worry, we won’t be late. I’ve got it all worked out.”
Rodney scoffs, but continues to struggle out of his button-down shirt. John pulls a powerbar from one of his back pockets and waggles it at Rodney. “If we eat on the go instead of stopping somewhere on the way, we can put the time we would have spent in the drive-through towards sex.”
“Surprisingly enough, that’s actually a really good idea.” Rodney says as he snatches the powerbar from John’s hand, rips it open, and stuffs half of it in his mouth.
“Uh, I was kind of thinking that would be for the car, but I guess whatever works for you…”
“Oh, juft fut up aweddy,” Rodney snaps, and pops open all the buttons on John’s jeans with one violent yank. With a laugh, John puts his hands up the back of Rodney’s undershirt and licks the crumbs off his mouth.
Then Rodney’s cell phone rings.
Rodney tries to dig it out of his front pocket, but due to being pressed up against John the way he is, the angle’s all wrong. He pulls away for better access, and John tries to help by taking his arms out of the back of Rodney’s shirt. It all goes awry when John’s watch catches on Rodney’s collar, and when Rodney takes a step backwards John is subsequently yanked off his perch on the sink. The next thing they know Rodney’s slipping on a towel, falling into the tub, and John is landing on top of him.
“Oh my god,” Rodney moans, and after a moment manages to wiggle the phone out of his pocket. “Jeanie?”
“You are pre-approved for a credit limit of five thousand dollars -”
“Aaargh!” Rodney replies, and tosses the phone over the edge of the tub where it lands on the tile floor and makes an ominous cracking sound. “Aaargh!” he repeats, shoving John off of him and into the water spout.
“Hey!” John whines petulantly, but Rodney is already tumbling awkwardly out of the tub and onto the floor, where he sprawls on his back defeatedly. A moment later he rolls to the side and makes a mournful noise at the broken pieces of his cell phone.
“I hate telemarketers,” he says to no one in particular. John sighs and pulls himself out of the tub using the towel bar.
As he does his jeans back up, John pokes Rodney in the back with his foot. “We’ve got to get going,” he points out, and scouts around for his shirt.
“No time for hot bathroom sex?” Rodney asks, making it sound like the end of the world.
John shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy. Not today.” He grabs his shirt from on top of the door where it had been flung and holds out a hand to help Rodney to his feet. “Tomorrow we’ll get you a new phone, okay?”
“I hate telemarketers,” Rodney hisses, but John is half-in, half-out of his shirt and already at the bottom of the stairs, while Rodney still hasn’t located his button down shirt. “Aaargh!” he says again, and is assaulted by John’s braying laugh until it’s muffled by the front door closing between them.
**
addendum 2
“What is that?” Rodney asks, pointing at the suspiciously wiggling box next to the front door.
John freezes at the sink, bowl in hand, and carefully avoids Rodney’s gaze. “Um,” he replies, and fills the bowl with water.
“Tell me that’s not a dog, Sheppard,” Rodney demands. “Tell me you did not buy a dog to go with the two-storey house and white picket fence!”
“I didn’t buy a dog,” John says reassuringly. He puts the bowl on the floor, taking care not to spill any of the water, and lifts the lid off the box. A tiny bundle of grey and black fur explodes upward and outward, sending the bowl flying and Rodney staggering into the wall.
“Oh my god!” he yells, at the same time John says, “Hey, Flutie, come back here!” and Rodney has to yell “Oh my god!” again, this time simply to express his horror at hearing the name.
“You just said you didn’t buy a dog!” Rodney cries, then yelps as the urchin tries to scramble up his pantleg. “Ow! Jesus!”
John calmly bends down and rescues Rodney’s pants from certain death. “I didn’t buy him, he was given to me. You know Patty and Mark from down the street?”
“No,” Rodney replies, and it isn’t even a lie, he doesn’t know any of their neighbours’ names. John gives him a look of mild reproach.
“We’ve been to their house for dinner? Twice?”
He vaguely remembers canapes and roasted duck… “Oh,” Rodney says, “of course. Patsy and Mike.”
John rolls his eyes. “Anyway, their dog had a litter, and they found homes for everyone but this little guy,” he explains, and waggles the dog in Rodney’s face. “He’s the runt, no one else wanted him.”
“So you had to take him, is that it?” Rodney snaps. The puppy looks up at the sharp tone and gives a teeny tiny bark.
A grin lights John’s face and he tucks Flutie under his arm like a football. “They offered him to me - it would’ve been rude not to, don’t you think?” he asks.
Rodney scoffs and crosses his arms. “Rude or not, we can’t keep him. The SGC will never let us bring him back to Atlantis with us, and we can’t leave him here when we go home.”
“I already cleared it with Sam,” John retorts smugly. “She thinks it’s a great idea; good for morale. She’s getting a cat.”
Rodney glares at John, then at Flutie, then at John again. Flutie’s tongue lolls out and drips doggy spit all over John’s wristband. “Isn’t he awesome?” John asks.
“You’ve corrupted me,” Rodney realizes, dumbstruck. “First you coaxed me into an extended leave, then you mentioned that it would coincide with the NFL season, then you bought season tickets and tricked me into going with you -”
“Only after you tricked me into going to the symphony.”
“- and now there’s a dog and I actually think it’s…” Rodney’s voice cracks as it rises. “…kind of cute.”
Flutie gives another infinitesimal bark, wriggles out of John’s hold, and plops onto the floor, where he discovers Rodney’s bare feet and licks his toes. Rodney hops away from him and scowls. “No licking! Licking is disgusting!”
John laughs and scoops Flutie up again. “So you’re okay with the dog?” he asks, and leans in, just close enough that Rodney can feel the heat from his body.
“You’re taking care of it all by yourself, Sheppard,” Rodney warns, and pokes John in the chest with his finger. “You. I am not feeding, watering, walking, or otherwise giving it any sort of care, do you understand?”
“Sure,” John agrees, but his look is skeptical and amused.
“I mean it!” Rodney insists. “You will not trick me into walking your dog. I’m on to you, you know!”
With a wicked grin John sets Flutie on the floor, then pushes Rodney against the wall. “Not even if I ask nicely?” He presses his thigh against Rodney’s crotch and bites at Rodney’s neck.
“Uh,” Rodney replies intelligently.
The next day, John and Rodney take Flutie for a nice long walk around the neighbourhood.
“I hate you,” Rodney sniffs. Flutie, for the millionth time, tries to eat a cigarette butt off the ground, and Rodney drags him out of range. “And also, your dog is a heathen.”
John just smiles, and Rodney can’t tell what his eyes are saying behind his aviator glasses, but he decides it’s nothing flattering.
****