
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/84766.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Stargate_Atlantis
  Relationship:
      Rodney_McKay/John_Sheppard, John_Sheppard/Original_Male_Character
  Series:
      Part 8 of Getting_To_Know_You
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-05-05 Words: 2861
****** Evolution ******
by lamardeuse
Summary
     A series to accompany Season Two of SGA. Part Eight: Conversion.
Notes
     Please note: rating refers to overall series rating. Individual parts
     may carry a lower rating.
     Please see the end notes for additional warnings.
See the end of the work for more notes
In the second half of John’s senior year, a new transfer student arrived from
California.  His name was Miguel and he was tall and lean and cinnamon-skinned
and John, who’d always thought of himself as fairly level-headed, fell in love
with him almost instantly.
It wasn’t only that he was handsome, though since John was seventeen that
definitely helped.  Miguel’s eyes were the deep, rich brown of sun-warmed
chocolate, and his hands were older than the rest of him, square and
competent.  His hair was as black as John’s but close-cropped and bristly,
making no concessions to current fashion.  He was looked on with suspicion by
the guys John hung out with because he showed no interest in joining the
football team or the soccer team or—anything, really.  He was aloof and cool
and spent his time riding around on his skateboard.  The rumor swiftly spread
that he was a conceited asshole, that Arizona wasn’t good enough for him. 
Within two weeks, he was hanging out with John.  Within a month, they were
virtually inseparable.  John had no idea how it had happened; he’d never had
problems making friends, but he realized now that his friendships up to this
point had been shallow, surface attachments.  This was something new, something
deep and quietly powerful like gravity. 
Most of the Hispanic kids from Davis-Monthan were the sons and daughters of
techs and ground crew, but Miguel’s dad was an officer, so it was understood
that he was welcome at the house.  They didn’t end up spending a lot of time
there, though; after all, John was enrolled in four hundred different
extracurricular activities because it kept him the hell out of the house. 
Instead, they spent most of their days outside, soaking up the sun and driving
around Tucson in John’s third-hand Firebird.  Miguel taught him to skateboard
and laughed at his pathetic attempts at one-eighties until the day that John
managed his first one without wiping out.  The thrill of seeing the radiant
grin on that face meant more to him than staying upright. 
There were times when he was sure Miguel felt the same way, but he had no
experience with this, and besides, it was a terrible risk to even be thinking
about it.  He was headed for college in the fall, and after that he was joining
the Air Force.  He had to make a choice. 
But still, there were times when he thought it might be worth it to feel that
grin against his mouth.
And then Miguel asked out Beth Kochanski, a girl John had dated (and dumped,
gently) in junior year.  John spent the whole night thinking about the two of
them together, picturing Miguel’s square, dark hands on her winter-pale skin,
and as he drifted in and out of fitful sleep he imagined those hands splayed on
his chest and his belly, striping his skin with heat.
The following Monday John asked out Suzanne Radcliffe, who was a cheerleader
and always smiled at him when he came off the field.  John felt a twinge of
guilt when she accepted with badly concealed excitement, but he wasn’t selfless
enough to back out. 
He needed to grow up, that was all.
Late that night he heard a knock against his window.  He opened it to find
Miguel standing there, color drained from his taut, beautiful features by the
moonlight.
John went to turn on a lamp, then removed the screen and hauled him inside. 
They stood staring at one another for a long moment until Miguel’s gaze shifted
to the wall.  “Oh, man,” he said softly, the need for quiet making his voice
sound fond, “you are such a gringo.”
John blinked and turned.  Oh.  “What’s wrong with Johnny Cash?” he whispered,
turning back. 
Miguel shook his head, still smiling.  “Nothing.” 
John shifted his feet.  “Was there, um—”
“You goin’ out with that cheerleader?”  Miguel asked, sobering.
John tensed.  “Suzanne.”
“Yeah.  Suzanne.  Cheerleaders are airheads, man.  What’s the matter with you?”
Sudden rage threatening to overwhelm him, John took a step forward.  What right
did Miguel have to criticize his choice when he was the one who’d—“She’s a very
nice girl,” he gritted, clenching his fists.  “She wants to be a social
worker.”
Miguel’s chocolate eyes studied him for what seemed like hours, and then to
John’s surprise his expression shifted, shedding the cool, detached mask and
edging into something that looked astonishingly like grief.  “Yeah.  You’re
right.  Not their fault, huh?”
John’s heart stopped. 
Miguel spread his hands helplessly.  “I want to fly.  You want to fly.  We—we
can’t—”
John took another step forward, then another, because the thought that Miguel
was as unsure as he was was too much to bear.  When he cupped Miguel’s face in
his hands, his pale fingers spread across Miguel’s skin like slivers of the
moon.
 
 
 
 
 
                            *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 
 
 
 
 

There were days when John thought it would have been better if they got caught,
but they were smart and careful and no one ever suspected a damned thing.  They
dated girls.  John never went past second base with any of them; he tried not
to think about what Miguel was doing on his dates.  On the weekends they
skateboarded around the base or played Atari at Miguel’s, and when the snow had
melted in the mountains they went camping in Coronado National Forest.
Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing at first, but they learned
quickly enough.  Miguel seemed to like pretty much anything, but John really
liked it when Miguel spooned up behind him, chest hard against John’s back, one
hand jacking him sweet and slow while his cock slid between the cheeks of
John’s ass.  John tried to be sensible about it, tried to decide rationally
whether he’d regret it more if they did or if they didn’t.  But on their last
weekend together, Miguel touched him and for once he couldn’t be rational or
smart or careful about it, because Miguel was holding him tight, tight, like he
wanted to break him, and God, John wantedto be broken.
Miguel might have been young, but his hands were old, and somehow they knew
when to push and when to retreat, until John was sobbing, his fists clenching
in the sleeping bag, his body begging for something he would never speak of
aloud.  And in the morning when he awoke alone, John lay in the tent for hours,
trapped against the earth by the force of this new, indescribable gravity.
 
 
 
 
 
                            *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 
 
 
 
 

Six years later Miguel was killed during a routine exercise, his F-15 bursting
into flame in the middle of the California sky.   John flew to Edwards for the
funeral even though they hadn’t kept in touch, figuring he’d be lost in the sea
of blue.  He was right about one thing: there was always a big turnout for a
fallen comrade, and Miguel Rodriguez’ funeral was no exception.  When he
approached Miguel’s parents to pay his respects, however, he was surprised to
find they recognized him instantly.  He’d only known their son for a handful of
months, but he supposed in a life that only comprised twenty-three years, that
short span of time was significant.
Mr. Rodriguez’ eyes were brimming, but Mrs. Rodriguez was oddly calm, as though
she’d already shed every tear in her body and been left with a desiccated shell
to animate.  John watched her turn slowly and beckon to a young woman he’d
noticed earlier.  She looked numb rather than grief-stricken, and she held a
small baby in her arms.
John didn’t need to be told who she was; the chocolate-brown eyes of her child
were introduction enough.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” John heard himself say to Miguel’s widow.  “He
was a good man,” he added, although John had never known him as a man and never
would.  Unable to stop himself, he reached up and brushed two gentle fingers
over the baby’s soft, black hair.  Then, nodding to the adults in farewell, he
left them to be haunted by their own memories.
 
 
 
 
 
                            *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 
 
 
 
 

For someone who was familiar with dichotomies, it took him far too long to
realize that there was something else living inside him.  Maybe it was because
at first it kept pace with his desires, his unvoiced wish since coming to this
place to be faster, stronger, better.  Oddly enough, it was a shock of
recognition—his pale fingers spread across Teyla’s cinnamon skin, her coiled
strength underlying the softness of her lips—that made him aware something was
horribly wrong.
He felt it tugging at him as he jogged toward the medlab, felt its incoherent
frustration as he fought it.  You fucked up, he told it, consciously slowing
his pace, through he could still tell it was faster than he could usually
manage for long.  I wanted that a long time ago.  Not any more.
And goddammit, couldn’t he feelit start rooting around in his brain, feel a
sick, honeyed warmth spreading through him as it found what it was looking
for. 
No, he thought, trying to suppress the fear he knew would give him away.  You
can’t have that.  That’s mine. 
He concentrated as hard as he could on projecting an aura of calm indifference
both internally and externally as he walked into the medlab.  At least he could
be sure that was something the real John Sheppard was good at.
 
 
 
 
 
                            *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 
 
 
 
 

He knew Rodney was standing outside his door because the steady chorus of want
want want that sang constantly in his veins suddenly rose to a piercing wail. 
It took everything he had to remain motionless on the bed and not leap to the
door (he was sure he could manage it in one leap now), tear it open and drag
Rodney inside like an unsuspecting mouse.  If John was lucky—and if Rodney was
smart—he’d turn around and leave.
The door slid open and John sighed; he’d forgotten that Rodney was actually
incredibly stupid about some things.  John concentrated on the ceiling,
deliberately focusing his senses on that instead of on Rodney.  He could see
into the infrared now, because the tracery of water pipes that kept the city’s
temperature regulated were glowing faintly under the surface. 
“Colonel?”
John tucked his hands behind his head. 
Don’t look at him, don’t—
—want want want—
“What can I do for you, Rodney?”
“I, ah, I just thought I’d let you know we’re about to head out,” Rodney said. 
John could hear the trace of fear in his voice, and the thought of it
simultaneously sickened and excited him.
Christ, the ceiling, concentrate—“Don’t forget to send me a postcard.”
John heard Rodney come closer, boots clicking faintly on the floor.  “John, I—”
“You’d better get going,” John rasped.  Words were starting to feel unfamiliar
in his throat.
“In a minute.  I want to—”
You want.  John almost laughed aloud.  Rodney didn’t have a clue what the word
meant.  “Rodney,” he said, more firmly this time.  “I’m kind of busy trying not
to have a psychotic episode.  Could you maybe speed up the goodbye?”
John felt the bed dip, felt Rodney’s heat right beside him.  He tried to open
his mouth to object, but the thing inside him silenced him, constricting his
vocal cords as it rushed to the surface.  When Rodney put his hand on John’s
shoulder, he was ready.
Want want need want take havewanthavehaveHAVE —
“Jesus Christ,” Rodney breathed.  John blinked and stared down at him, because
somehow Rodney had ended up flat on the bed with John poised over him, muscles
straining with the effort of holding him still.  His right hand—god, the
fucking claw—reached up without his conscious consent and trailed through
Rodney’s hair in a macabre imitation of a lover’s caress. 
Rodney shivered, eyes wide.
John got hard.
“Okay,” Rodney said, voice high-pitched and tremulous, “you win.”  He raised a
hand and wiggled the fingers in front of John’s face.  “‘Bye, see you soon.”
John lost the battle for control over his arm muscles.  Slowly, slowly he
descended until his nose was pressed against Rodney’s hair.  He sucked in a
deep breath, inhaling the distinctive scent of Rodney’s terror. 
A soft gasp from the man beneath him startled him back to lucidity.  John drew
back and saw that Rodney’s eyes were squeezed shut; his chest was rising and
falling rapidly, but overlying the fear scent was something earthier, something
astonishingly like—
“You know,” Rodney panted, eyes still closed, “it’s a measure of the colossal
unfairness of this galaxy that I have been dreaming about you touching me like
this for, for weeks, and when it finally does happen you’re mutating, I mean,
think about it, this is going to severely rewrite my psychosexual mental map—”
“Rodney,” John said as calmly as he could, “please shut up.”
Rodney blinked.  “Oh, God, are you back?  Is that you?”
“It’s me,” John sighed, pushing himself off Rodney, who immediately scrambled
off the bed and onto his feet.  “But not for much longer.”
To John’s surprise, Rodney sat back down beside him and laid a hand on his left
shoulder.  “Don’t talk like that.  We’re going to get what you need and you’re,
you’re going to be fine, do you hear me?”
John felt a smile tug at his lips for the first time in days.  “I hear you.” 
He risked a glance at Rodney.  “And thanks.”
“Don’t thank me.  I’m just going along for the ride.”  And with one final
squeeze of John’s shoulder, he rose.  “See you soon, okay?”
“Yeah.  See you.” 
Fifteen minutes later he could feel it when the Stargate swallowed Rodney up.
 
 
 
 
 
                            *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
 
 
 
 
 

Whispers of sound created vibrations that pressed at the surface of John’s
skin, alerting him to potential danger.  His eyes popped open, pupils dilating
in the darkness as the rest of his body responded to the threat.
Before the primitive fear response could kick in completely, he recognized the
sound.  Turning his head, he confirmed his suspicions.  He couldn’t quite
remember how to smile, but he would have if he could.
Rodney McKay sat slumped in a chair beside his bed, his head thrown back at an
unnatural angle.  He was snoring softly, his hand twitching occasionally as
though swatting at nightmarish flies.
John opened his mouth, though it took him a full minute of hard, frustrating
concentration before he could speak.  Somehow it seemed appropriate that his
first laborious word was Rodney’s name. 
Hey, great.  Give him an hour, he’d whip up a soliloquy.
Rodney’s entire body twitched this time, and his head made it about halfway to
vertical before freezing in place.  “Ow,” Rodney gasped.  “Ow, jeez, ow.”  He
placed a hand on the back of his skull and used it to push his head the rest of
the way up.
John licked dry lips that didn’t seem as thick as they had the last time he’d
been conscious.  “Rodney,” he said again, enjoying the way his body obeyed his
brain.  It was a refreshing change from the past few days.
“Oh my God,” Rodney murmured, springing from his chair and staggering to the
bed, “you’re awake.”
“How—look?”  There, that had almost been coherent.  He wasn’t surprised when
Rodney understood him, though.
“How do you look?” Rodney chuckled softly, the sound tinged with hysteria and
exhaustion.  “You’re a little blue around the gills, but your hair is still
fabulous, if that’s any consolation.  God, John,” and his voice broke
completely, sounding as rusty as John’s, “I thought the Wraith had cornered the
market on terror, but that was a whole new level, and—”
He trailed off and grabbed at John’s hand, picking it up off the bed and
cradling it between both of his.  John’s eyes widened when he saw that his
fingers were still largely claws.  He tried to pull away, but Rodney’s grip
held fast, surprisingly strong.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Rodney growled, meeting his gaze fearlessly.  “I
don’t care if you’ve got tentacles, you moron.  We almost lostyou, and now
you’re here and you’re getting better and if I want to hold your hand, nobody,
not you or Caldwell or the entire U.S. Marine marching band is going to stop
me, you got that?”
John meant to say, “I love it when you get all alpha male,” which of course was
way too ambitious; all that made it past his disused lips was, “love…you.”
Rodney blinked at him.  John blinked back.
Well.  That worked, too.
Rodney broke into a blinding grin, and John felt that familiar, planetary
pull.  This time, though, instead of dragging him down it buoyed him, lifting
him skyward.  “Well.  That’s, that’s good,” Rodney said simply.  Then he
paused, sobering slightly.  “I’d better go and tell Teyla and Ronon the good
news.  Um, that you woke up, I mean.  We promised we’d tell one another as soon
as—well.”  Standing, Rodney leaned down and kissed John softly on the
forehead.  “Get some more sleep.”
Yes, Mom, John thought, feeling Rodney’s solid hands offering his warmth and
humanity, feeling Rodney’s gaze watching him in wonder even after he’d closed
his eyes.
End Notes
     Warnings: death of original character, dubcon situation (not
     consummated)
     First published September 2005.
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