| |
Mail Day was always a good day. Granted, sometimes letters brought bad news, but at least there was news to be heard. The old crew still hadn't shaken the memory of those first few months in Atlantis when they'd thought they'd been cut off from home forever. Now Rodney looked forward to tearing through the latest stack of journals and whatever letters or pictures Jeannie sent that she hadn't already shared over email.
The store room was buzzing with anticipation and delight as usual. Rodney glanced around as he signed for his parcel. Looked like Sheppard had gotten a new batch of golf magazines and comics to read to death before next month. Zelenka had tucked most of his mail under one arm and was grinning at a book called Superdove whose cover featured a terrifying drawing of a pigeon with a muscled male torso. Even Ronon had a piece of mail from God knew where.
Rodney retreated to a quieter corner and tugged open the string around his own pile. A thick stack of astrophysics and engineering journals, junk mail (he'd moved to another galaxy and still couldn't escape credit card offers), a new ThinkGeek catalog, and—wait, what was this? He didn't remember ordering any books.
He sputtered as he read the title on the glossy jacket. The Pluto Files by that bastard Tyson. He flipped it open: signed by the man himself. "To the eminent Rodney McKay," it said in silver pen. "This has a lot of pictures and letters from third graders, so it's right on your level. Looking forward to hearing from you in another twenty years. Yours, Neil D. Tyson." And then, underneath, "P.S. Let me guess: the eight-year-olds stole your ideas too. Do me a favor and don't write any more letters to the editor. That's just sad."
Rodney could feel his blood pressure rising. That smug, arrogant, idea-stealing, camera-mugging hack.
"What's up?" Sheppard asked, having wandered over.
"What's up? Kiss My Ass Tyson still has to have the last word, even after I saved him from becoming a freeze-lightning Popsicle. Can he just be grateful? No no, he has to drag his schoolyard bickering into another galaxy. Look at this. Look at this." He shoved the back cover in Sheppard's face, where Tyson sat astride a suggestively angled six-inch telescope, touching it and smirking. "Could he be any more obvious?"
He became aware that others in the room were staring at him, and let Sheppard steer him out of the room into the hall. Sheppard took him by the upper arms and urged him into a shadowed alcove. Rodney shut up as his back met the wall. John didn't let go. On the contrary, his thumbs stroked Rodney's tense shoulders until Rodney relaxed a little.
"Look at it this way," John said. "He may be able to publish his work, and sit on important committees, and write bestselling books. And host a TV show. And curate the planetarium at one of the most respected museums in the world. And—"
"Excuse me," said Rodney.
John leaned in close. "My point is," he said, giving Rodney a hot once-over that sent a thrill of anticipation through him, "there's one very important thing he doesn't have that you do."
It was hard to concentrate with John's mouth right there, his lips all red and creased, slightly parted. But when Rodney raised his gaze, there were John's eyes, too, green and brown and warm and fascinating.
Right. Focus. "My brain?"
John slid impossibly closer. "Aside from that." His breath brushed Rodney's mouth when he spoke.
"Oh," said Rodney, right before John kissed him. Warm, dry lips pressed to his, and he closed his eyes and pressed back. It got him in the knees the way John's kisses always did; he held on to John's shoulder blade for support with his free hand. John slipped one of his own hands behind Rodney's neck. The kiss was short but intense, ending too soon with a sweet, sticky smack.
"Right," he said, dazed. "Yes. I—mm." This time tongues got involved, and then hands, and then things that required them to pause, gasping, and stumble to Rodney's room, where kisses were bestowed on decidedly unpublic places, and somewhere along the way, Tyson's stupid book fell to the floor.
* * *
Later, in bed, with John tucked up along his side with an arm across Rodney's chest, Rodney said quietly, "It used to bug me, you know? I've seen things he's barely dreamed of. I've skirted the edge of a black hole and seen people travel through time. I almost flew into a sun. I walk through wormholes every week."
"You've blown up stuff way bigger than Pluto," John murmured agreeably without opening his eyes.
"But there he is, comfy cozy on Earth, getting all the attention."
John lifted his head. He looked amused. "Used to bug you, huh?"
"Shut up," Rodney said with great affection. "I'm being emotionally wounded and vulnerable here."
John settled back down and pressed a soft kiss to his neck. "Maybe he's just jealous he's not as smart as you."
Rodney blinked up at the ceiling. "Oh, hey, that's probably true. And now I've saved his life, too. He totally owes me."
"So maybe you should cut the guy a break. Not everyone can be Rodney McKay."
The man had a point. And as Rodney McKay, he had his brains, and an alien city, and wormholes, and his team, and John Sheppard. Not necessarily in that order.
"I could forgive a little petty jealousy over that," he conceded, and dropped a kiss to Sheppard's sticky-uppy hair before closing his eyes for a nap.
* * *
THE END
P.S.
John decided to never let Rodney find out about Tyson's Facebook page.
P.P.S. Superdove.
|
|
