Fear Struck

by Rentgirl 2

January 2008

Three years in Atlantis had whirled by before he discovered what real fear, in all her sparkling, sharp-toothed glory, could mean to a man, what she could do to a man.

As a child, Rodney McKay had been taught to fear white whales, honeybees, Christmas tangerines and the horrible shouting that came from his parents bedroom at night. As a teenager, he’d added failure, girls and physical education to his portfolio of terror; although, in retrospect, maybe those three fears were one in the same. As an adult, Rodney first feared that his genius couldn’t be appreciated. Then, that he’d never publish and finally, that he’d have to share credit.

Heading into his thirties, the list grew to include a fear of alien invaders, a fear of being banished to Siberia and a fear of being outshone (or at least underappreciated) by a certain blonde scientist who made his brain and the back of his knees sweat every time she growled, “McKay!” in his direction.

Strangely enough, it hadn’t been any of the things that he would have expected that finally drove home how little he knew about fear. It wasn’t the life sucking-hands of the Wraith, or the flaw-filled technology of the ascension-crazy Ancients or the semi-savage antics of the power hungry Genii. It wasn’t the threat of losing Atlantis or the worry of never finding a viable ZedPM or even the nightmare of being left to die in a leaking puddle jumper at the bottom of the Lantean Ocean.

Not that any of those were good things, of course. No, they were bad, very bad, frighteningly bad things. They were, however, rather typical, run-of-the-mill type fears in as much as Rodney knew exactly what to do: get scared, get flustered and get running or get problem solving. (Although, in reality, since coming to the Pegasus galaxy, he’d become rather adept at doing the last two simultaneously.)

The night true fear found Rodney McKay, he discovered his previous theories on the subject had been wrong, wrong, completely wrong. True fear, contrary to his past experiences, paralyzed a man where he stood. It robbed him of coherent speech and, while rendering the brain useless for more important functions such as problem solving, left it wide open for seeing dire consequences and questioning self perception.

It was Sheppard (of course it was Sheppard) who shed light on the beast that was true fear.

Looking over a stunner that Rodney had been re-engineering, he and Sheppard had been alone in one of Rodney’s lab. “I believe you’ll find it much more efficient, Colonel, as well as a bit lighter. Also, the hand-grip is now more suited to someone who is normal, rather than say Ronon, sized.”

Stroking the grip of the stunner with the tip of his right forefinger, Sheppard graced Rodney with a lazy smile. “Wow.”

“Right. Wow.” Rodney smiled back. He was actually quite pleased with how the stunner had turned out.

Lifting the weapon and assuming a firing stance, Sheppard aimed at the far doorway. “The grip is perfect, Rodney.” Keeping his arms extended, he gracefully pivoted left, then right. “The balance is perfect. It’s like it was designed just for me.”

“Essentially, it was,” Rodney said smugly. “For the redesign, I took your handgun preferences and the weight you’re accustomed to carrying with the P-90 into account.” Occasionally, he exceeded even his own high expectations.

Sheppard carefully placed the stunner back on the work station. “My preferences, huh?” he asked deliberately.

“Naturally,” Rodney said.

Sheppard nodded, as though Rodney had just solved a previously impossible puzzle for him. Then, without warning, he backed Rodney up against the wall. “I wonder why you spend so much time doing amazing things for me.”

“I... Not just you, Colonel,” Rodney managed to squeak out. “Everyone. I do amazing things for everyone.”

Sheppard shook his head slowly and growled, “For me, McKay. You do amazing things for me.”

“I...”

“Come on, Rodney, admit it. What’s there to be afraid of?”

Rodney would have dearly loved to explain it to Sheppard in excruciatingly minute detail if only he wasn’t paralyzed and suffering from a suddenly stupid, sweaty brain and equally sweaty knees.

“Rodney?” Sheppard coaxed, bracing his hands on either side of Rodney’s head and leaning almost close enough to touch him. Oh, if only Rodney had some control of his higher functions (speech, perhaps?) he would certainly let Lieutenant Colonel Of-Course-You-Want-Me-Everybody-Wants-Me know just how much the leaning and the smelling incredible and the looking hot were so not helping to ease his terror.

Instead, Rodney’s brain could only spew out worst case scenarios. What if he didn’t like Sheppard’s kiss? What if he liked it too much? What if Sheppard meant this to be a one night stand? What if he was looking for a casual thing? What if, heaven help them, Sheppard thought this was the beginning of a relationship?

What if he sucked at the secret boyfriend thing? God, what if he thought things were going great and Sheppard dumped him? If Sheppard was a vindictive ex, then what? What if Sheppard was a fabulous ex? The kind who shot sympathetic looks across the mess hall and found private moments to ask how he was holding up?

Worse yet, what if Sheppard was the kind of ex who acted as if there’d never been a “them” at all? As if the relationship had never happened and they defaulted back to being friends? Rodney was pretty sure he could stand that for about as long it took to get a transfer back to Russia.

“God, McKay,” Sheppard said, rocking forward just enough that his breath fanned against Rodney’s ear, “you’re making me crazy.”

And still fear robbed Rodney of the ability to say anything more intellectually stimulating than, “Guh!”

Apparently, intellectual wasn’t the type of stimulation that the Colonel had been seeking as he took Rodney’s open mouth as an invitation to press a surprisingly soft kiss against his lips. “I knew you wanted this,” Sheppard murmured, then slid his tongue along Rodney’s jawline.

The sweet, wet heat of Sheppard’s mouth drove all thoughts of dire consequences from Rodney’s mind, making room for the parade of questions about his self perception. While Sheppard suckled at the strip of flesh just under his left ear, Rodney quickly went through his personal checklist. Still a genius? Check. Still a potent man? If the hard on he was currently sporting (and doing his damnedest not to hump against Sheppard’s thigh) was an indicator, then, yes, he was still a virile man in his prime. Which brought him to the next and new item on his checklist–was he still a mostly straight genius, potent man?

At some point Sheppard must have noticed that Rodney, while pliant, was not participating because he stopped nibbling at the ridge of Rodney’s collar bone and tilted his head just enough to meet Rodney’s eyes. “You do want this, don’t you, Rodney?”

Ah, and that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Did he want this? Did he want to be a brilliant cantankerous, middle-aged queer? Best case scenario, did he want to walk across the stage to pick up his Nobel Prize with a handsome boyfriend rather than a lovely wife sitting in the audience? Worst case scenario, did he want to be viewed as the latest of Sheppard’s discarded conquests?

“You don’t want this,” Sheppard said slowly, disbelief and embarrassment etched on his pretty face.

This, Rodney knew, was his chance to escape. He could let Sheppard back away and everything about this late night encounter would cease to exist. His life would reboot to the previous thirty minutes, to before he’d learned how lush Sheppard’s lips were and how right it felt to have Sheppard’s lean, hard body move toward him with sexual intent.

He could stand here, fear struck, and his life would go on as it had, this surreal interlude ignored. It was astonishingly simple, really. All he had to do was nothing.

“Don’t be stupid,” Rodney blurted, not quite sure if he was admonishing Sheppard or himself. “Of course I want this.” He grabbed Sheppard’s shoulders and closed the last few inches between them.

To hell with idiotic what-ifs and asinine consequence and fucked up self perceptions. If he only had tonight with John Sheppard, if every person in Atlantis pitied him later, so what? Since when had the opinion of morons (or anyone else, for that matter) been of any importance to him anyway?

And if his self perception was shattered, then chances were good that he’d been wrong to start with. In the past, he’d gladly thrown out a pet hypothesis when his proofs had shown it to be erroneous. Perhaps his so-called heterosexuality was just another formerly favored and ill-advised theory.

Sheppard relaxed against him, deepening their kiss. With a no doubt practiced move, he sighed into Rodney’s mouth and settled into the cradle of his thighs. Rodney slid his hand beneath Sheppard’s tee-shirt, using his fingertips to calculate trajectories from the bumps of Sheppard’s spine to the ridge of his slim hips.

“God, Rodney.” Sheppard looked up, his eyes bright with joy. He speared his fingers into Rodney’s hair and cleverly licked his way back into his mouth.

And for the first time, Rodney’s epiphany did not strike him like a satisfying bolt from the blue.

Instead, it seeped slowly into his flesh then slipped into his heart. Here in his arms was something–was someone-- worth being utterly brave for. And the clean scent of Sheppard’s hair, the spicy slickness of Sheppard’s mouth, the silky grain of Sheppard’s skin, were merely bonus round material. The real prize was the total John Sheppard package–the calculated recklessness, the boyish bravado, the carefully doled loyalty, the sharp cynicism, the sharper brain, the hardened soldier, the courageous friend.

Sheppard was hip and cool and together and completely fucked up and Rodney knew he was incredibly lucky to have ever met the man, let alone been given the opportunity to love him.

“Let’s move this some place more private,” Sheppard whispered into his neck..

“This . . . More private?” Rodney managed.

“Yeah, Rodney,” he chuckled. “More private.” Sheppard’s chuckle morphed into a groan as Rodney bucked his hips forward. Taking a step back, Sheppard tangled his fingers in Rodney’s belt loops. “Look, Rodney, nobody’s ever going to accuse me of being the world’s most romantic guy,” Rodney snorted and Sheppard shot him a rueful smile, then continued. “Okay, of being a romantic guy at all, but, Jesus, even I get that our first time shouldn’t be up against some table in your lab.”

Something painfully sweet pierced Rodney’s chest and he was certain he’d never heard anything so unbelievably romantic, or ridiculously hot, in his entire life.

“Right. No lab sex.”

“Well,” Sheppard said, using Rodney’s belt loops to reel him close again, “I’m not excluding lab sex in the future. I’m just saying,” and Rodney shivered at the dark promise in Sheppard’s eyes, “the first time around, I’d like to be able to take our time.” He briefly sucked on Rodney’s bottom lip. “You know, without the possibility of Zelenka and the science posse catching us bare-assed on the floor.”

Rodney’s head swam with possibilities. “But you’re not excluding semipublic, almost getting caught sex in the future, correct?”

“Rodney,” Sheppard said, slowly rubbing his erection against Rodney’s hip, “I’m excluding nothing from our future repertoire.”

Rodney couldn’t help it; he moaned as Sheppard nipped at his shoulder. “Nothing?”

“Nothing we both want,” he amended solemnly.

“Oh. Right. Starting now?”

“Absolutely. Right now.”

Panic gripped him momentarily. “Look, Sheppard... If I start to fuck this up... You know, start acting like some puling, insane coward–“

“Rodney, you’ve never been a coward–“

“Ha! That just goes to show–“

“Although I’m pretty sure you’re puling and insane a lot of the time–“

“I’m serious here–“

“Me, too.” Sheppard kissed him hard. “You’re okay, Rodney. We’re going to be okay.”

His fear receded as quickly as it had resurfaced. He couldn’t believe he’d ever been even remotely afraid of this–of John, of himself, of what they could be together.

“Okay, then,” Rodney said on a burst of relieved laughter. He grabbed John's hand and tugged him toward the door.

~fin~