Title: It Had Been a Mission From Hell Spoilers: vague ones for S 2 Rating: PG-13 Characters: Sheppard/McKay Rodney's chin wasn't supposed to tremble. Author's Notes: At the end, as always.
	It had been the mission from Hell -- what they'd dubbed H3L-415, another planet where the ruling caste took their religion just a little too seriously and viewed science as blasphemy. John was down with spirituality -- in others, anyway -- but there were lines not to be crossed. Natives trampling all over them in a stampede were bound to cause what Elizabeth called "an incident" and John, if only in private and only to himself, called retaliation. As Teyla had pointed out with her small hand on his arm and the softest of touches, it hadn't been tactically necessary to shoot every single one of Rodney's guards. This was true, but he hadn't exactly seen her complain when they'd stormed the cell block where they kept McKay and seen the three of them, hands still curled around clubs and a curved dagger, hulking over his still form. Of course, their return had to coincide with the arrival of the Daedalus and a Col. Jack O'Neill who turned out to be bored out of his wits and more than ready to talk shop with the flagship team of Atlantis -- not that Daniel Jackson was any less eager; even the alien, Teal'c, couldn't hide an aloof brand of fascination. As for Sam Carter -- well, under other circumstances, she wouldn't have gotten off the ship, let alone South Pier without the McKay welcome wagon, but considering the fact Ronon had had to carry him all the way from the cell to the jumper and from the jumper to the infirmary, that just hadn't been on the agenda. John had then tried his best with Carson but was sent away after only a few hours; upon returning with coffee he found he couldn't drink, the good doc told him that the injuries had been minor to moderate but that he'd sent Rodney straight to Heightmeyer's office, accompanied by Teyla. John was already on his way when official schedules and duties caught up with him -- a spark of static, and Elizabeth's voice called out to him, not over the intercom (which he had calmly de-activated for precisely that reason) but over the loudspeakers installed in the main corridors of the city. He would've kept going, but, after a moment of deliberation, did switch his personal comm back on, enabling Elizabeth to tell him, quietly, that she'd gotten word that Rodney would be fine. Would join them for dinner, even. Dinner was a semi-formal event, department leaders, high military, and various supervisors only, but while John had pulled himself together for the quick, friendly baring of teeth with the SG-1 team before they were seated, he paid little attention to the cadre because Rodney was sitting in the chair next to him and looking not a bit like himself, his eyes hollow and so red-rimmed they seemed bluer than blue. John had picked up his cutlery at some point but found it made no sense to even attempt using it; Rodney's chin wasn't supposed to tremble, if so slightly no one else would spot it, and he wasn't supposed to be quiet, so terribly quiet. Slowly, infinitely careful, he put down the fork, watched his hand bridging the gap between them, and heard the soft intake of breath. Saw Rodney's face flicker when he touched the slope of his neck, soft under John's fingertips, warm and alive. At the edge of his consciousness, John noted that the stream of conversation at the table was dwindling, dying, replaced by a low murmur, flanked by stares, but it wasn't important. They weren't. Rodney didn't speak, but when he turned his head, leaning into the hand curling around the nape of his neck, into the thumb stroking up and down and bristling the fine, fine hair, it was impossible to misread what he was saying. Yes. A/N: Written for Anna S. after she posted a list of her favourite kinks.
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