The One Where (alien) Chocolate (kind of) Made Them Do It

★★Nominated: McShep Fan Awards, 2008★★

Aug. 3rd, 2008 08:53 am

Fandom: SGA

Characters: John/Rodney

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Language, blowjobs, bad chocolate, angst.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Beta: mgbutterfly, for whom I have not lost that lovin' feelin'.

Summary: "Please, Major, I'm hardly a junkie looking for a fix. I just think that it's unfortunate that the expedition wasn't provided with nearly enough of many of the vital supplies to make our lives worth living. It's depressing to know that my only chance of tasting chocolate again is in a different galaxy."

Author's Note: So, a few nights ago I lurched out of bed, scribbled down the basic plot for this, and then fell back into bed. I have no idea what I was dreaming about. This is why I hate sleeping. Set early season one.

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The people of Klumbeuh are great. John's team spends a week with them, and for once nothing goes wrong. McKay fixes some system or another for the chief. Teyla makes friends with the Parliament. Ford manages to get a half-dozen propositions of marriage, and John basks in the success of not being shot at, chased by Wraith, or having to deal with any other the other ridiculous problems the Pegasus throws at them on most missions.

By the time they leave, the villagers are fond enough of them that they throw a huge feast. They even hand out gifts, and while McKay tears his open right there in front of everyone, babbling excitedly about whatever the thing they gave him is supposed to do, John manages to restrain himself until they're safely back on Atlantis.

It turns out to be tea. Bags of the stuff.

John sighs, trying not to feel bitter that he just hauled twenty pounds of dried leaves back home while McKay got some cool Ancient flashy toy. At least he didn't open it in front of the Klumbeuh. John's pretty sure that he wouldn't have been able to fake excitement to match the gleeful mess of waving hands and babbled words that had been McKay.

After staring expectantly down at the bags for a few moments, hoping that they might morph into something better, John gives up, and makes himself a cup. They're already running low on coffee, and when Teyla had offered to show him how to make the special Athosian morning drink he'd been all for it. Unfortunately, the Athosian drink turned out to be one of the most horrible things John had ever tasted, but he still has the tea service, and figures that the Klumbeuh concoction can't taste any worse.

And, amazingly, it turns out to taste damn good. John blinks in surprise, staring down at the not-exactly-appetizing green-brown liquid and finally manages to swallow. There's a faint minty taste to it, and it's insanely sweet. It makes his tongue, throat, and then stomach tingle.

Five minutes later, it also proves to give quite an impressive kick of energy. John rubs his hands together, wondering if he should go for a run or just go annoy McKay, and makes an absent note to take the tea down to the mess hall, and then to give some to the botanists to see if they can duplicate it.

By the time he steps out of the door his good intentions have been forgotten. The tea becomes part of his morning ritual.

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When John jerks off, it's usually in his shower. It's the least messy solution, and the most time efficient. But days off are rare, and John doesn't intend to get out of his bed until he absolutely has to, which means he's been blinking at his ceiling for the last five minutes, his cock hard and demanding some attention.

John sighs, rolling onto his side and sliding a hand beneath the blankets. Whatever he'd been dreaming about had apparently been quite good. He wishes, absently, that he could remember what the hell it had been. He's too sleepy to come up with any real fantasy material at this point, panting against his pillow and rocking his dick up into the circle of his fingers. It's a depressing commentary about how long he's gone without getting laid that he can't even dredge up a proper background image for his hand to work with.

John rolls his hips, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the blinking numbers on his alarm. Apparently whatever he'd been dreaming about had gotten him most of the way there, because John gasps and comes, sticky all over his own hand, only a few strokes later.

It takes John a few moments to marshal the motivation to roll back onto his back, and then to wrestle out of his boxers, wiping as much of his come off on them as he can. He tosses them over the side of the bed, resettling and wondering if he could possibly fall asleep again now that he's gotten off.

He's just drifting, half back into his dreams, when he frowns and twists his head to the side. There's a sweet smell in his room. Something that his brain is insisting is chocolate, which is bullshit, because John ate his last Hershey's bar a month ago.

Impossibility aside, John finds himself sitting up, scanning his room for the candy. He bends over the side of the bed, intending to look under it, and finds himself staring at his boxers. And the source of the smell. John jerks back into his bed, staring at the far wall and considering that he might, in fact, still be dreaming.

And then he looks down at his hand, fisted in the comforter. John leans back over the bed, just to make sure the boxers are still there, and then, with a bracing breath, raises his hand to his mouth. Most of his come got wiped off, but not all of it.

John's hand smells like chocolate.

Tastes like it too.

hr

John does his best not to think about it. So his come tastes like chocolate now. That's a lot weird, but his diet has been completely changed. For all he knows everyone in this galaxy has jizz that tastes like chocolate. While that probably makes getting people to swallow easier, he's not exactly going to ask around. He doesn't know how that question would best be framed, and he really doesn't want to have to think about it.

So he puts the entire situation out of his head, and reserves jerking off for the shower, where he can tell himself that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on. It's probably not a perfect system, but it's working for him.

Of course, then he has to get stuck helping McKay repair the Jumpers, and he just knows something is going to go wrong. Things have a way of ending up weird when McKay is around, and John is spending more time aggressively not thinking about his chocolate-flavored come than he is paying attention to what they're doing or what McKay is saying.

Which is probably why the other man saying, "I know they have it hoarded, those conniving bastards. They're just waiting until I get desperate enough to try to bribe me with it, but my complacency can't be bought, even with their contraband chocolate," catches John completely by surprise.

John blinks, straightening a little in the pilot's seat. McKay is standing on the shot-gun seat, the ceiling open above him, wires hanging down around his head. John tries to remember what they're repairing and gives up after a moment. He makes himself ask, dreading that he's accidentally said something about the subject he is resolutely not thinking about, "Why are we talking about chocolate?"

McKay ducks down just long enough to flash John an incredulous look, "Because my staff has hidden it all? They think I don't know, but I'm watching them. Sooner or later one of them will slip up and their web of lies and deceit will collapse around them."

John opens his mouth, closes it, blinks down at his hands and then shakes his head.

John tries to tell himself to let it go, but it's like picking at a scab. He can't quite stop himself from asking, "Don't you have your own?"

McKay waves a hand, holding some kind of glowing stick between his fingers. His tone is scornful, "I had my own, yes. But do you know how hard it is to work with screaming children under your feet? I'm not above bribery." And John just stares at him, because he's pretty sure McKay just admitted to giving his chocolate away to the Athosian kids.

"You gave yours away and now you want more." John can't help but grin, leaning back in his chair.

McKay makes a scornful sound, complete with more hand waving, "Please, Major, I'm hardly a junkie looking for a fix. I just think that it's unfortunate that the expedition wasn't provided with nearly enough of many of the vital supplies to make our lives worth living. It's depressing to know that my only chance of tasting chocolate again is in a different galaxy." McKay's shoulders slump, just a little bit.

And John snorts on a laugh, figuring that if anyone would get a laugh out of his current problem, it would be McKay. He blurts, confession making his ears burn, "My come tastes like chocolate."

For a moment McKay just goes still, and John wonders if he just overstepped the bounds of their slowly growing friendship. Then McKay is stepping off of the seat, his head cocked to the side, brows drawn together, mouth turned down in the corner. McKay demands, "What?" and John squirms.

John squirms some more, wondering why he thought this was a good idea, "Yeah. It just started. I don't—holy fuck!"

McKay moves fast when he wants to. John finds himself hurriedly ordering the cloak up around the Jumper, because McKay is dropping to his knees and shoving John's thighs apart. John gapes, meaning to say any number of things, like wait, or I think we have a bit of a misunderstanding, or Can you at least buy me dinner first?

And then McKay has John's zipper down, big hands yanking at the fabric until John's exposed and still speechless. John manages, croaking, "Hey—" and groans, because McKay is settling in, and John's cock, which had already been showing a disturbing appreciation for the manhandling, goes rock hard at the first brush of McKay's mouth.

McKay pulls back just enough to blink up at John then, his eyes wide and surprised to counter the faint scorn in his voice when he grouches, "So not just your come." And then he's going back down, this time with no hesitation at all.

John blames the southward rush of all the blood in his body for the fact that instead of protesting he just kind of lets his thighs splay open and slouches down to give McKay more room. McKay moans, something loud even with John's cock in his mouth, pleased and happy and John tries to make himself concentrate long enough to close the Jumper's rear hatch, because cloak or not, someone could hear that.

Closing the hatch turns out to be an excellent decision, because McKay only gets louder, and adds in some wet slurping sounds. John's head tips back, and he's hardly managing silence himself, because McKay is sucking his dick like it's the best thing ever, one arm wrapping under John's ass, pulling him closer.

It's all so fast and desperate, and John struggles vainly to think coherently. It's kind of impossible with McKay's tongue doing filthy things against the underside of his cock and the vibrations from the man's moans dancing all up and down John's spine.

John gasps, "Fuck, McKay," and tries to pull at his hair and shoulders, because it's been a long time since someone blew him, and longer since they were so enthusiastic about it. McKay grumbles around his dick and grabs John's wrist, squeezing and sucking in a way that John can only think of as demanding.

And John sees no reason not to give in. He shouts, something wordless up to the ceiling, his hips jerking forward, McKay sucking and swallowing and humming through it. John feels boneless afterward, limp in the chair, blinking up at the ceiling while McKay waits out the aftershocks, and then licks and nuzzles until John whimpers and manages to push him away.

McKay rocks back on his heels, and John rolls his head forward. There's something obscene about the way McKay looks kneeling between this thighs, his hair messy, his mouth red and bruised. John's cock is still out, and he covers it with a hand, pretty sure that he should be embarrassed. He says, "So look—"

It's not exactly a surprise when McKay cuts him off. That's just what McKay does. "Does anyone else know?" McKay is frowning, just a little bit, his eyes sharp and calculating.

John has to think for a moment, because his brain still isn't quite working, "No. Just you. You're the only person that knows." John shifts around, managing to tuck his cock back into his pants, hissing at the brush of fabric against the sensitive skin. The zipper sounds way too loud.

McKay is nodding, "Good. Look, you don't have to tell anyone else. Just come find me when you want your dick sucked." And McKay licking his lips shouldn't make John shiver, but it does anyway. He's pretty sure he's being railroaded into some kind of relationship here, and waits for that to irritate him. The fact that he just got pretty much the best blowjob ever is doing a lot to prevent his ire from rising.

Still, he's pretty sure that he should at least make sure that McKay understands that as great as this is, it was in no way what John was trying to achieve. He clears his throat, "Look, I just think we should clear up how this is—"

Something in McKay's expression goes flat and tense, and he shoves to his feet. "I get it, Major. It's fine. Just." McKay cuts himself off, crossing his arms and huffing before continuing, "Obviously this works for you. Lets not fix what's not broken."

And then McKay is opening the rear hatch, calling over his shoulder as he walks away, "That's the last Jumper." He pauses, opening his mouth like he's going to say something, and then shakes his head and walks away.

John sits and wonders what the hell just happened.

hr

It takes John almost a day to work up the nerve to go confront Rodney about the entire thing. He's fairly certain that there was some kind of misunderstanding somewhere in the midst of his mind shattering orgasm, and he'd like to fix it so that he could have some more.

John finds McKay in his labs, working by himself for once, frowning over the device that the Klumbeuh had given him. John leans a hip against McKay's desk, clearing his throat when the scientist doesn't notice him. McKay looks up, blinking, and then his mouth twists complicatedly, like it's trying to frown and smile at the same time.

John hopes his smile looks better, but with the tension in his stomach it might not. He opens his mouth, and then realizes that there are about a dozen other people in the room, and says, "Can we talk in your office?"

McKay's eyes go wide, and he looks to the side before looking back at John and nodding after a moment. Rodney says, "Right, yes, sure," before turning on his heel and marching across to his office, John trailing behind him, the tension in his stomach not easing when the door slides shut behind him.

John says, "So I was thinking you—" and that's when McKay slams him into the wall. John starts to protest, but McKay already has John's fly open, and John's cock is getting used to this with disturbing eagerness, well on the way to hard by the time McKay rubs his thumb across the head and goes to his knees. John breathes, "Oh, Jesus, yeah, okay, do that then," and McKay smirks before wrapping his mouth around John's dick.

Things are already spinning completely out of John's control again, and he'd mind, but the blowjob is kind of making it hard to care. McKay has his big hands on John's hips, pinning him against the wall and bobbing his head, sucking and licking with that same desperation from the Jumper.

John bangs his head back against the wall, praying the room is soundproofed, because he can't stop himself from gritting out, "Fuck, yeah, just like that." His hips try to jerk forward, but he's not going anywhere, and that's surprisingly hot all on its own.

McKay is making all kinds of pleased, happy sounds, sucking and swallowing John deep. John groans, words failing him as he gropes for McKay's head, fingers sliding back through soft hair. This time John doesn't even make an effort to push McKay away, raising one hand to his mouth and biting his knuckles when he comes.

When McKay moves back, John nearly collapses, and McKay raises his eyebrows, snorting and shaking his head. John slouches against the wall, his knees gone weak, his heart racing. McKay pushes slowly to his feet, one of his knees cracking, and John feels kind of like an asshole even though it's not like he asked for any of this.

And then McKay is licking his lips again, closing his eyes, expression going soft and happy. It makes John's breath catch, and he starts to shift away from the wall, reaching for McKay.

Before John can reach him McKay is straightening, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. McKay looks slightly confused, and he pats at John's shoulder, blurting, "Anytime, Major, I mean that," before darting out the door and back into the labs.

John frowns and tucks his dick back into his pants.

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That's how it goes.

John has to ask McKay to come down to his room to fix his shower, and ends with McKay pulling the towel hanging around John's hips off and blowing him there on the tile floor. The shower doesn't get fixed, but John can't bring himself to complain.

John calls McKay out to a balcony to show him the biggest goddamn rainbow John's ever seen and McKay deep throats him right out there under the sun, with people walking by not three feet away. John almost breaks the skin on his knuckles biting so hard, and there's no way to keep McKay quiet. Thankfully, no one asks.

They get back from a mission and John waits until Ford and Teyla have left the locker room to make sure McKay is okay and McKay sucks him off with John's pants caught up on his thigh holster. That time John can't stop touching the bruise high on McKay's cheek where one of the natives had thrown a stone, and when he comes he keeps his hand around the back of McKay's head, holding him there until McKay starts batting at him hard.

And somewhere along the way John gives up trying to talk about it. McKay obviously doesn't want to, and John's getting blown at least once a day out of the deal, so he can't really complain about it. It's not like he'd ever really thought McKay would be any good at relationships, though this is weirder than even John had been anticipating.

He really wishes McKay would let John kiss him. Or touch him anywhere at all, besides his face and head.

But there's never a good time to bring it up. Certainly not when John goes to check on McKay after the man spends the day trapped in a lab that was steadily running out of air. He finds McKay sitting on his bed, head in his hands, and when John sits beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, McKay's breath hitches and for just a second John thinks they might manage some normal interaction.

And then McKay is pushing John down on his back, his fingers shaking around John's zipper until John hushes him and gently does it himself. John finds himself stroking McKay's hair, the other man sucking him with his eyes squeezed shut, slow and gentle for once. John croons, his chest feeling weird and tight, "Hey, it's okay, you're okay."

McKay whimpers around his cock, and John pushes up into a sitting position, trying to roll McKay off. All he gets is an angry pinch to his inner thigh and the there and gone scrape of McKay's teeth across his cock. After the gentleness of the rest of the blowjob, the sharp flare of pain is enough to push John over the edge.

Afterwards, McKay actually rests his head against John's thigh, breathing shakily when he gasps, "God, I needed that." And John just blinks up at the ceiling and doesn't understand. And then McKay kicks his ass out of the room.

The next time, when McKay has John sitting on his own desk, kneeling between John's thighs and sucking, John remembers to gasp out, "Hey, you don't need—you don't have to wait for me to say something, you know?" Because he's not sure if McKay does, can't seem to remember McKay ever actually making a move until John says something that could be loosely taken as an invitation.

McKay pauses, and then pulls his mouth off of John's cock with a dirty pop. He's still got one hand wrapped around the base, and he turns his eyes up to blink at John, his bottom lip dragging across the head of John's dick when he asks, voice so sweetly hopeful that it's jarring, "Really?"

John feels like an ass, even more for the way his hips are shifting automatically, trying to get his cock back in McKay's mouth. He manages to shake his head, and gasp out, "Oh yeah, feel free," because he can at least do that, and maybe it'll help with some of McKay's weird hang-ups.

McKay's smile is a surprise, bright and blinding and John sucks in a surprised breath, because, Jesus, he obviously should have made this clear before. And then McKay breathes, "Thank you," so achingly sincere that John can't help coming, white spots flaring behind his eyes as his cock jerks.

That gets a protesting, sharp, sound from McKay, and when John looks down the man is licking John's come off of his fingers and John's cock gives a hopeful twitch just from the sight of it.

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It's been maybe three months since the Klumbeuh when John gets invited to stay for a very special harvest festival by the Deruvians. Teyla claims that refusal to participate will render their treaty with the people null and void, which is how John finds himself waving goodbye to the rest of the team, and heading back to pluck some near-chickens.

He spends two days with the Deruvians, bored out of his skull and wondering what the rest of his team is doing. And if he wonders especially about McKay, well, that's perfectly understandable. It's the first time in three months that John's gone over twenty-four hours without feeling McKay's mouth on him.

He doesn't like it at all.

By the time John gets back he's in a foul mood. Elizabeth is frowning at him disapprovingly by the time he finishes his briefing, and John knows he'll probably pay later for pissing her off. Right at the moment he can't quite bring himself to care. He has a headache, a hard-on, and he smells like dead chicken.

John detours to his quarters first, because he's pretty sure the tea will take care of the headache problem, and he wants to shower before he goes looking for McKay. The tea is a relief when it's finally brewed, and John drinks the whole cup in two swallows, squeezing his eyes shut and sighing. He already feels better.

He hops into the shower as quickly as possible, trying to get the feathers out of his hair, his hard on showing no sign of relenting. John considers that he really should have radioed McKay to come over while he was showering, and is just cursing himself for an idiot when his shower door slams open.

McKay looks wild-eyed, still fully dressed when he steps under the spray. John blinks in surprise, and then McKay has him against the wall, water flattening his hair to his head, his blue shirt to his skin as he sinks to his knees.

McKay is shaking hard, his hands trembling where they curve around John's hips, and the sound he makes when he licks his way up the underside of John's cock is all relief. His eyes are squeezed closed in concentration and there are dark circles under his eyes, his skin sallow. He looks sick, and John has time to wonder why McKay isn't in the infirmary, and then McKay is swallowing around him, sucking hard and whimpering.

John shushes him, petting at his hair and stroking his knuckles across McKay's cheek. When John comes, it feels like it goes on forever, and McKay just swallows and swallows, some of the tension finally draining out of his expression.

McKay finally shifts back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's breathing hard, sitting on the floor of John's shower, and John sinks down because McKay is still shaking, trembling under his hands when John curls around him.

There is no conceivable way this is a good thing. John finds himself rocking McKay back and forth, pulling the man's shirt up and rubbing his back, McKay babbling against John's neck, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I did wrong, but I'm so sorry, please don't leave me again, please don't."

John presses absent kisses against the top of McKay's head, wrapping his hand around the back of the other man's neck, shushing McKay as best he can. The shaking is getting a little better, at least John thinks it is, and John makes himself ask, "What's wrong? What's going on?"

McKay shakes his head, clinging to John, his voice gone thin and tight, "I don't know. I don't—John," and the last word is a wail, a plea and a demand all rolled into one.

"I'm right here, buddy. I'm right here. It's okay." That doesn't stop McKay's shaking, or the little whimpers he's making in the back of his throat. John finally has to try to pull him up, trying to keep his voice calm and even when he says, "C'mon, you need to sleep, okay?"

McKay blinks up at him, all trusting blue eyes, "And you won't be gone again when I wake up?"

John curses, bending down to kiss McKay, just once, because he has a sinking feeling this is it, all he's ever going to get, brief and hard before doing his best to wrestle McKay out of the shower, "I promise I'll be right here." And McKay nods shakily, not protesting when John strips him of his soaking clothes, curling up in a tight ball when John puts him in bed.

For a long moment John stands beside the bed, dripping on the floor, knowing what he has to do and trying to pretend that he doesn't. And then he sighs, dragging a hand back through his hair and going back to the bathroom. It's almost impossible to get hard again, after all of that, but John manages, catching his come in a container for a urine test he never took and hurriedly dressing.

He has a feeling his day is about to get a lot worse.

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John tells Carson he'll wait for the test results, and then sits on one of the uncomfortable infirmary beds until doctor returns. Carson is frowning, arms crossed and mouth pressed tight when he asks, "Would you like to explain to me why you've given me this very strange semen sample, Major?"

There had been a second, on his way down to the infirmary, when John had thought this might be easy. Sometimes he's an idiot. John sighs, balling his hands up into fists, "I promise I'll explain everything. Can you just—can you tell me what's strange about it?"

Carson gives him a hard look, but then pulls up a stool and explains. John might not understand all the medical jargon, but he understands that 'habit forming' means 'addictive' and that it turns out he's a far bigger asshole than he ever realized.

When Carson finishes, John hisses, "Fuck," and rubs one hand up over his face. Guilt is making him feel nauseous and dizzy, and even thinking about Rodney, curled up in his bed, is making his chest feel far too tight.

After a moment Carson sighs, reaching out and patting John's shoulder when he says, "We'll take good care of you, John. You're in for a rough couple of days to be sure, but you don't need to worry, everything will be fine."

For a beat all John can do is stare at him, and then John laughs hoarsely, shaking his head. Carson looks startled, and then angry when John makes himself explain. By the time John's done Carson is just staring at him, expression tight and flat.

John hangs his head, because he deserves that. He mumbles, sliding off of the table, "I'll go get—"

And Carson interrupts, "You've done quite enough, I think," and John winces, but doesn't argue.

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They put McKay in a private room, and the official story is that he was infected with an alien contagion off-world and is in quarantine for a week. John isn't supposed to see him, but Carson can't be there twenty four hours a day, and one of the night nurses is sympathetic.

When John finally gets in to see him, John almost wishes she hadn't been.

They have McKay in restraints, and he's shaking again. John feels his stomach turn, bile rising up in the back of his throat, his legs feeling like they're made of lead when he slowly crosses the room. McKay's eyes are closed, moving beneath his eyelids. He's pale as the sheets he's lying in, his hair and scrubs plastered to his skin with sweat, hands balled up into fists. John breathes, "Jesus Christ, McKay."

Somehow, he hadn't expected that to wake McKay up, but the man startles, jerking against his restraints. At first McKay doesn't focus on him, pupils huge, and then finally he does. John wonders if McKay knows he's making that little whimpering sound in the back of his throat, and then flinches when McKay gasps and tries to reach for him.

McKay babbles, words spilling out, tumbling over each other in a mess that's almost impossible to decipher, "John! John, please, you have to let me, I-I-I need you. I'm going crazy and they won't let me go. Please, you have to help me, please."

There's nothing but pleading in his expression, and somehow John had been expected recriminations and anger. He'd been steeling himself for that, not for the fear in McKay's expression, the way he's trying to squirm closer to John. John croaks out, "Oh, God, what did I do to you?" and barely makes it out of the room before he can't stop himself from throwing up.

He doesn't go back to visit again.

hr

The tea that's left gets tossed through the 'gate to an address that has only empty space on the other side. John isn't kidding himself, he knows that it's way too little, too late. But at least it's something. And when he looks up at Elizabeth's office afterward she nods at him, arms crossed tight over her chest, and John almost forgives her for refusing to accept his resignation.

John wracks his brain for other ways to make this right, which is like some kind of bad joke. There are some situations where the only legitimate response to an apology is laughter. John thinks this is one of those times. But he has to try anyway.

Getting the hoarded chocolate from the other scientists and soldiers would have probably been an impossible task without Teyla and Ford. John doesn't ask about their methods, just tells them that he needs it and by the end of two days there are backpacks full of the stuff by his door.

John stares at them for a long time before taking a bracing breath, gathering them up, and taking them to McKay's room. The man isn't due to be released from the infirmary for another two days, so John lingers, compulsively rearranging the packs on McKay's desk before he makes himself stop.

McKay's room is almost bare. John fiddles around for longer than he should before finally sliding the note he'd written into place half-beneath one of the backpacks. He hadn't known what to write, and the 'sorry' in the corner looks small and swallowed by the white expanse around it.

John leaves the room and goes to let Teyla beat the shit out of him.

hr

A week later, John nearly jumps out of his skin when he steps into his room and finds McKay standing by his window. When John gets his breathing under control enough to look up, McKay is staring at him, head cocked to the side. John manages, taking a step towards the door incase this is some kind of weird relapse, "Are you okay?"

McKay stares at him for another moment before shrugging and looking back out of the window. He sounds distant, distracted, "No. Not really. I have this headache that won't go away. Carson says I just have to give it time but it's driving me crazy."

John stares at him. It's the first time he's really seen McKay since the other man was released from the infirmary. John knows that avoiding the other man isn't exactly the most mature thing to do, but he wants to give McKay enough space, and doesn't know what else to do.

Just like he doesn't know what to say. John shifts his weight from foot to foot, crossing his arms and then straightening them.

McKay finally breaks the silence, "You brought me the chocolate?" John nods jerkily, leaning his hip against his desk and then straightening, grabbing his chair and pulling it in front of his body. McKay sighs, "I can't eat it, you know. It's, uh, Heightmeyer claims it's a psychological side effect."

John winces, staring down at the floor, managing to grit out, "Shit. I'm sorry, I wasn't even thinking and I—"

"It's okay," McKay cuts him off with a shrug, still staring out across the water, "I mean. No, it's not okay. But the chocolate was. I'm saving some of it, because there's no way in hell that I'm letting this ruin chocolate for me for the rest of my life, and the rest of it just got a lot more valuable on the black market now that I'm the only one that has any. So. You know." He waves a hand.

John flinches again, his grip on the back of the chair going white knuckled. He wishes that McKay would just hit him, yell at him, something. But McKay is apparently just going to keep staring out the window, and John finally clears his throat, "I am so sorry."

McKay nods absently, "I know. Everyone tells me you've been acting like a complete psycho since you figured out what was going on. You can probably stop letting random Marines beat you to a pulp now." McKay finally turns to face him, though his gaze stays somewhere over John's shoulder.

This conversation is not going the way John had pictured it. He wishes that there was more screaming. This strange calmness is making him uncomfortable, "I'll, look, I'll quit the team if you want. I mean. I still have to have a team, but I won't separate you, Teyla and Ford."

McKay is shaking his head, arms crossed tight over his chest. John wishes the other man would look at him, but McKay keeps focusing on that spot over John's right shoulder, "No. No, I'm counting on your guilt complex to keep me alive in the field for the foreseeable future. That said, I can't be around you. Here. I just—I can't. It's the same as the chocolate. Heightmeyer calls it traumatic bleed over."

John nods jerkily, "Right, I understand, I get that."

McKay manages a smile, tight and crooked, still aimed not directly at John. He says, "Right. Well. I'm going to, you know," and he gestures at the door. John trips over his feet sidestepping, so McKay doesn't have to come too close to him.

McKay pauses in the doorway, twisting his hands together when he says to the floor, "You should talk to her too, you know. She's, uh, she might help." And then the door is closing. John slumps against the wall, hands up over his face, and breathes through the sting in his chest.

hr

The next few months are a mess of panicking and one disaster after another, all of it somehow culminating with them regaining contact with Earth. John still doesn't quite believe it, not even beaming back down to Atlantis from the Daedalus, the time spent away making Atlantis look even better.

John resists the urge to drop to his hands and knees and kiss the floor, but only barely. It's such a relief to be back, and knowing that they have a steady supply route set up with Earth now is even better. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in months, and almost manages to come somewhere close to relaxing.

McKay is looking him in the eye again. John is still having issues with jerking off, because he keeps imagining McKay every time he tries, which just doesn't seem right, but he's managing. Cold showers are not a gift to be taken lightly, and lately his body is handling its sexual frustration with lots of dirty dreams. He's dealing with it.

Still, John jumps, again, when he finds McKay waiting for him in his room, again. This time McKay is sitting at John's desk, but he stands up when John steps into the room. For a moment they just stare at each other, and then McKay clears his throat and blurts, "So I think I should probably remind you that the first time I blew you in the Jumper I wasn't under any kind of compulsion and actually thought the chocolate thing was some kind of bizarre proposition."

John gapes at him, and then closes his mouth. He tries to speak a few more times before managing in a squeak, "What?"

McKay waves his hands, gesturing between the two of them and looking impatient when he says, "I thought it was you letting me know you wouldn't be adverse to gay sex and then I got distracted by the fact that you weren't lying about the chocolate and, well, you know what that led to." McKay looks uncomfortable, shuffling his feet.

John finally remembers to shut his door, still boggling when he asks, "And why are you telling me this now?" John really, really wants to move past this. And for McKay to stop showing up in his room. It's sending his dick some severely mixed messages.

McKay shrugs, "Because I thought that maybe you did actually want to have sex with me and figured you should know that I wasn't in it for the chocolate." He pauses, "That I wasn't just in it for the chocolate, anyway."

John stares. McKay stares back. The room suddenly feels a lot smaller than it had, and John can feel all the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He tilts his head to the side, taking a half-step towards McKay, "Are you serious?"

That gets a snort and an eye roll, "It certainly looks that way," and McKay takes a small step forward as well, until they're just outside each other's space. John's heart is banging up against his ribcage, and his hands twitch, reaching for McKay and pulling back, because he wants to be sure, needs this to be McKay coming to him, not the other way around this time.

McKay eases a little closer, gaze fixed on John's expression, licking across his bottom lip when he says, "I actually give even better head when I'm not a crackwhore."

John winces, unable to stop himself from reaching out, rubbing his thumb across the short stubble on McKay's cheek. His voice is a low rasp, "Don't say that."

McKay blinks at him, one side of his mouth curving up just a little bit. And then McKay says, "Hi," and leans in, one hand wrapped around John's shoulder to pull him closer. John shivers, and allows himself to fall into it.

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