Title: Adrenaline
Author: danceswithgary (danceswithgary@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1260
Archive: Fine, just let me know
Summary: He says your name and it sounds like he's broken to pieces inside, glass, fragile precious crystal that should never have been used, except it was used and you want to put him back together and make him shine again.


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Adrenaline

You never kiss because it's just adrenaline and a body's natural response, just the need to relieve the stress after battle, nothing real, never fucking means anything but a quick handjob between buddies. You never talk about it, it isn't planned or discussed, it just happens, zippers and buttons no barrier, your hand shaking and fumbling behind cotton for the rigid heat that jerks under your fingers, slick across the head when you slide your thumb, twisting hard and fast and feeling the same done to you. The goddamned vests, the guns get in the way, but you never take the time to pull them off because all you're looking for is something to take that wobbly crumbling edge away and let you breathe again.

It always takes too fucking long for the medical release, too many minutes spent waiting against a cold wall for words...a sign...something to prove that you both survived again, and the blood smells argue with disinfectant until your stomach is ready to add its own vote to the debate. Finally, there's a kindly pat and the instructions you don't hear anymore after so many times...too fucking many times...and you nod it all away and follow him out into the blank corridors, shuffling slowly beside him because your boots carry the weight of pain and death unspoken, too fucking heavy to lift more than just enough to keep moving.

You think that maybe he forgot you were there because he makes a sort of surprised gasping sound that tears at you a little, makes you wonder as you shove him up against the wall of his quarters. He doesn't fight it, he never does because he wants it just as much as you, he just smirks at you with his crooked mouth and pretends he doesn't know what it's all about and calls you by your fucking rank, mocking you with the 'Colonel' as if he doesn't think you deserve it. That just makes you pissed off again and the adrenaline surges through you when you remember how close it was and that it could have been more than a few stitches and a bandage because he doesn't fucking listen to orders and managed to put himself between you and the rest of the fucking mess like it was his fucking job instead of yours.

Your hands are shaking, shaking him and your fucking words won't come out right, they burn behind your teeth and your eyes and his head hits the wall and his fucking words stop, they stop because he knows it's too fucking much right now and that's not why you're here. He licks his lips and you let one of your hands open and let go so you can wipe away the smudge at the corner that looks like a bruise and it is a bruise and he hisses, his eyes closing at the sudden pain on top of the rest. You mutter something that might be an apology and you can see the surprise in his eyes as they flutter back open and they're soft, too soft and you turn your head so that his mouth lands somewhere near your ear because that's not why you're here, that's not what you are together.

You pull back but not far, just far enough and now it's time for the zippers and buttons, time to get rid of the adrenaline that's tearing you apart inside because he wants more than you're ever going to give and you're not going to admit to anything, it's never been what you need. You want him in your hand as hard as you, but he's not...not until you have him out and in the circle of your fingers still gritty with the sand. You can feel the rasp against tender skin and you wince a little, but you like hearing the whimper as much as the groan when you twist just right and his hand is around you now. His hand is smoother, wiped clean of the blood that slid down drop by drop and it moves stiffly because that's the same arm that's making your kidneys ache from the adrenaline kicking at them, twisting in your gut because a few inches difference....

You press him against the wall, holding him where you want him, where no one else can get to him, and you shove his hand out of the way and you take both of you together so you can share the grit and the rough yanking, hot against each other, a sticky patch at the top of your fist between your thumb and finger where you're both leaking. You can feel him shaking and he's so impossibly hard inside your hand next to you and you feel him swell and you feel him arching against you and you feel the warm sweet wet sliding over your hand and against your belly, and then yours is there, part of the mess, too.

You say his name and the 'r' tears at the back of your throat feels like you're choking and it all ends in a whine and you're ashamed at how it shakes, but then you remember it's just adrenaline, just fucking human biology and everyone knows that sometimes it pretends to be something like emotion. There's a moan and a word you almost can't hear, but you can and it's your name...not your fucking rank...your real name, the one that he never uses where someone else can hear. He says your name and it sounds like he's broken to pieces inside, glass, fragile precious crystal that should never have been used, except it was used and you want to put him back together and make him shine again.

Your hands brush against each other, once, twice, as you tuck everything away...not neat and tidy, sticky and smelling of the ocean and earth, but at least you're not hanging out there, everything outside, exposed, vulnerable. You can breathe now, although it's still a little shaky and each breath brings you close together with a touch and away again. You can't look away from his eyes, they're so lost and wide and sad and asking questions you don't have an answer to because you're only here because of the adrenaline. Nothing else, you don't want anything else, don't need the complications that making this something more would bring, but his blue eyes offer silent promises to you about what might be worth the sky and the future and you know what he wants.

Somehow, you figure out that it's way past the acceptable time for adrenaline and you need to leave and you put your hands on the wall to push yourself away and leave him standing there, his hands braced against the wall as if waiting for the next body blow. Now his eyes are telling you that he understands how it is, but his mouth's not saying any words that make it easy to turn away, his face so filled with defeat, his tired acceptance of this...that this hard, fast jerk-off was just adrenaline and...just like the last time and the time before...it means nothing more to you. His rapid-fire mouth is strangely silent, no words of complaint, just that sad droop to one side, and he closes his eyes and you know it's so that he doesn't have to watch you leave him behind...again...and you tell yourself one last time that it's just adrenaline.

And then you kiss him.


fin


***


Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein. The characters of Rodney McKay and John Sheppard as well as any supporting characters are the property of their creators and MGM Television/Sony Pictures Television/Associated Production Companies. Any deviation (or deviant behavior) from the originals, however, is mine.

Feedback is both welcome and appreciated.