senket

Rodney McKay is a fantastic lover. It’s a well-known fact. First, it had been the science division’s little secret, but Cadman is a gossip queen.

In college, nobody wanted to sleep with him. He’d been brusque, but at the time he hadn’t been saved by his brilliance, because nobody believed he could think the way he said he could. He came off as arrogant and ungrateful, and he wasn’t all that attractive. Treating sex like a science to perfect had been the only thing getting him laid regularly, so he got good at it. More than good. Phenomenal.

So now he’s known for reducing his lovers (or whatever) to a single word loop.

In his head, he keeps them in four categories. There are the people who can’t deal with it; they swear, ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’ or ‘christ’ or ‘god,’ over and over. He knows they enjoy it, but he never touches them more than once, because he always feels a little guilty about it, somehow. There are the people who can’t get enough, ‘please’ or ‘yes’ or ‘more.’ He knows they enjoy it, but he never touches them more than once, because he’s not someone they should depend on. There are those that don’t call anything, faces slack with ecstasy, either moans or sobs or groans or screams or nothing at all, sinking into their animal selves. He knows they enjoy it, but he never touches them more than once; they’re dangerous.

And then there are people who mumble names, over and over, ‘Rodney’ sometimes because he’s the one in bed with them; sometimes they call for past lovers or others they wish were their lovers, and Rodney’s absolutely fine with that. Hell, he doesn’t love them either. Sometimes they keep silent in deferral to him, but you can still see their lips shaping the names. He enjoys them the most, because it feels like they’re giving a little piece of themselves back. He knows they enjoy it, but he never touches them more than once, because they belong to someone else, and that someone deserves to know. Sometimes he surreptitiously starts rumours; if he can, he throws them together on missions or projects, just to make things better for everyone.

Sheppard is an open, adventurous man; Atlantis is a small, isolated community. He’s been waiting for this to happen. When John Sheppard asks him for a go, Rodney casually refuses, shrugs apologetically and goes on his way. John snorts a joke about how Rodney must be worried that he’s going to be reduced to a one-word orgasm; the head of science rolls his eyes and grumbles a lazy, irritated reply, gliding past.

The truth is he can’t touch John because he can’t know. He can’t look at John in the face the next day (week month year decade) and know what he sounds like when his brain is down to one thought.

If John is category one, and a relationship with Rodney would drown him, if he’s two and he’d wear them through until Rodney was dried out and he’d just move on, if he’s three and a union would kill them- worse, if he’s four and it’s any other name, any name at all aside from ‘Rodney, Rodney, Rodney.’

There’s only one possibility he can live with and he’s scared to death of spinning that wheel. He’s always had bad luck with relationships and worse luck with the colonel, and he can’t stand to take the extra step in the dark that will drop him over the cliff.

Never trying to fly at all is better than finding out you can’t.