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Three weeks after the repeal of DADT, and six days after Rodney showed up at his door, late at night, desultory flowers in his hand and a hopeful look on his face, John takes a deep breath and says, "This was a terrible idea."
Rodney nods, sweat cooling on his brow, eyes lidded, and lips swollen.
He looks hot.
John closes his eyes.
When he opens them, Rodney's expression is miserable. "It really was. And I've had a lot of terrible ideas, admittedly."
"You blew up three quarters of a solar system," John replies, in a tone that is probably just a bit too helpful. "And there was the whole Replicator code thing."
Rodney sighs, long and slow, and they decide to try – they try for four more days, and John notes that people start to leave the room when they walk in; he sees the way Teyla and Ronon tense up when he joins them for breakfast; he sees the open times in his calendar where senior staff briefings used to be, but that have been suddenly cancelled. Ordinarily, he'd be thrilled with cancelled meetings. But not for this reason.
The scientists are walking on eggshells.
The marines are consistently making themselves scarce.
Elizabeth is giving him looks.
He overhears Lorne saying, "I was rooting for them, I really thought they were meant to be, but –" to Zelenka, who merely grimaces, and then jumps a little when he sees that John has come around the corner.
Rodney shows up at his quarters on the tenth night, and they have spectacular, inventive, physically satisfying sex; the sex is definitely not the problem. And then, levering himself away from John, rolling onto his side, he mutters, mouth against John's skin, "We need to break up."
John nods. They're better as friends. "I'll take some of the marines on a one-week S&R exercise at the Alpha site," Better to give each other some space. The marines need to be let loose to run around sometimes anyway. It does everyone good.
"I keep meaning to take a team out to the north pier for some exploration," Rodney replies. "It'll take a week. At least. Probably two."
And then they lie there, pressed close, until Rodney gets up, walks to the bathroom, and showers. When he comes back to the room, John's half-dozing, lulled by the sound of the water and the pleasant warmth of his muscles. He hears Rodney sigh again. "Well. We gave it a try, anyway. And the sex was great, so thanks for that."
He nods against the pillow.
"See you in a week," Rodney adds. "Maybe longer. Radek keeps telling me he wants to –" And he's waving his hand absently, still talking as he walks out the door, and John thinks, Damn, and Too bad.
But it's definitely better this way.
John takes twelve marines. He'd take more, but he can't leave the city entirely undefended. The rest of them try not to look too disappointed, though they don't do a great job of it. He tells himself he'll make it up to them. A few days on the mainland, maybe.
The first day is great – rotating out the personnel at the site, setting up the first S&R scenario and sending Cadman out to rig fake explosives as part of it. The marines almost look fresh-faced in the sunshine, and there's a little horseplay, a bit of ribbing.
Dinner is around a fire, and the MREs are supplemented by fresh fruit, and pieces of a shared bar of chocolate, supplied by Reed.
They crash hard that night, around watches, and John figures that yeah, this is exactly what he needs to get back on track.
The next day they run the first scenario – rockfall and surrounded by hostiles, two injured, one bleeding out – and by the end of it, everyone's smiling, tired but content, and dinner? Is around a fire again.
And that's when it starts.
"Sir," Stackhouse says, pressing a bar of chocolate into John's hand, "if you need to talk about it. You know we're here for you."
There's a series of nods from around the fire. Even the two marines standing watch – Cadman and Reed – turn and nod.
He opens his mouth to reply. To say something.
But there's nothing. So he just looks straight ahead, stares at the fire, and hopes – really, really hopes – they'll get the message.
They don't press it that night.
But they don't get the message either. Over the next few days, he can ignore it. Mostly. He can ignore the sighs, the pointed comments about finding a good partner – a rebound, or something more – after a toxic relationship ends. And John doesn't know how to tell them that the thing with Rodney wasn't toxic. It just…didn't work. At all.
He can ignore the painful sincerity, the earnest looks. The admissions that they've all been there, at one point or another. He can even ignore it when Cadman says, "Sometimes you just want to be seen, right?" and Stackhouse sighs in response, looking off into the distance, wistful.
Each day, John runs them harder, comes up with more complex and gruelling scenarios, hoping to wear them out. And each day, they just get…happier, and more relaxed, and more talkative at night, and more heartfelt.
He's not sure how the week turns into some kind of group relationship therapy talk, but it does. And he mostly avoids it, is pretty good at avoiding it, frankly, until they start offering to help John screen potential dates in the future. Until Stackhouse squares his shoulders one night, looks determinedly just beyond John's shoulder, and says, "You know who I bet knows how to treat someone right? Major Lorne."
There's a chorus of, "Oh, hell yes," and, "His momma taught him real well, that's obvious," and, "I'd ask him out myself if I thought he'd take me."
And John thinks, oh hell no. Jesus Christ, no.
By the end of the week, he knows more about what the marines think about rebounds, various people in the city, what it means to treat someone right, and Coughlin and Stackhouse in particular have looked at him too often with almost understanding expressions.
He needs to detox, and it's not from Rodney.
"How was it, sir?" Lorne asks, when they walk through the gate. The marines are smiling, energetic, and in dire need of showers. John is exhausted, a little cranky, and also in dire need of a shower.
He's rank, and he knows it.
"Fine, Major." And as Lorne falls into step with him, doubtless to talk about some mishap in the city, or maybe to update John on what Rodney's been up to, or maybe, god forbid, to make a polite inquiry about John's feelings, John says, "But I'd appreciate it if you'd take a moment to impress upon the marines that I don't need to know that you'd 'treat me right' or that 'we'd make a great power couple'."
He keeps walking, thinking about a long, hot shower, as Lorne stops and chokes a little, though he does hear, faintly, "On it, sir."
Rodney comes by John's quarters two days later. He looks relaxed, happy, and he gives John the kind of tentative smile that says, 'Hey, buddy,' and, 'No hard feelings,' and, 'Absolutely still friends here'. John's shoulders relax. Everything's going to be okay. Things will go back to normal.
He grins back. "Find anything interesting?"
Rodney nods, shoulders his way into the room, and collapses on John's couch. "So much. You wouldn't believe how much. I don't understand why we didn't go out there earlier." Something flickers across his face, and he adds. "I'm going to tell you all about it. But first," he leans forward, "I heard some of the marines think you and Lorne would make a great power couple." His mouth is twitching.
John sighs.
"Hey." The mouth twitches turn into a wide grin. "I can think of worse partners for you."
And John laughs. They both do. Because yeah.
The mission starts out quietly – it's another sunny day on another quiet planet, and sometimes, just sometimes, John can almost imagine that they're peaceful explorers of an interesting, low-key galaxy.
They're walking, Teyla and Ronon on the perimeter, John watching Rodney as he scans and frowns and bitches about the UV radiation, and as he sneezes and reaches into his tac vest for some allergy medication.
John's feeling good. Relaxed. Calm. The planet is kind of pretty, the fields around the gate full of brightly coloured flowers and the buzzing of insects.
Maybe they should have a picnic.
"Is this..." Rodney leans down to examine a cluster of red, blousy flowers, "...wait. Are these poppies?"
John shakes his head. His mouth feels a little loose around the edges. "Nope. I've seen poppy fields in Afghanistan." These flowers sure as shit aren't poppies. But whatever they are, they smell great. And, hey. Sunshine. Nice flowers. Good friends. A picnic would be kind of pleasant right about now.
"I believe," Teyla says, sneezing, "that these flowers may have a slightly narcotic effect."
Huh. Come to think of it, John is 75% sure she's right. Maybe 85%. Possibly 126%. But he still wants that picnic. He has some protein bars. A few hard candies. Teyla probably has some fruit. It'll be perfect.
"I don't know," Ronon mutters, as he sits down and starts stretching out, long and languorous, crushing flowers underneath him. "I feel fine."
John looks down at Ronon, who definitely looks fine, surrounded by red petals and maybe covered in a little red pollen. He's smiling, wide and happy, like John's never quite seen him, and also? John wants to lie down too, maybe with his head on Ronon's leg.
So he does it. Ronon huffs a little, and pats John's head, and you know what?
It's fantastic. The ground is comfy. They should all lie down. John says as much. But first, "Hey, McKay. Radio the city and tell them to send a botanist out here." He'd say Katie Brown, but no, not her, and he's not going to examine why not her, because he knows. Parrish. Parrish would be good. So he says, "Tell them to send Parrish. I hear he likes flowers." Of course, he doesn't actually know if Parrish likes flowers. But he probably does. He's a botanist.
Yeah, Parrish is going to have a field day. In the meantime, John might take a nap in the warm, warm sunshine.
He lets himself doze while Rodney talks dreamily about Ancient technology and the frequency of black holes that can be converted into sounds, the cosmic music of the stars; while Teyla recounts a story about being left to fend for herself in the woods for ten days when she was young, her voice a soothing sing-song.
Ronon snores.
After a while, John opens his eyes to see…uniforms. Familiar uniforms, and hands on hips, and there are words too, kind of muffled, and maybe a little angry, but he can't quite bring himself to care. Someone is touching his neck, and then looking into his eyes, and it's…fine. He decides not to push the hands away.
"…I have samples," he hears someone else say, and the person touching him stands up and moves to Rodney's side and says, "Let's get them back to Atlantis." And that's good, Atlantis is nice, but so is lying in the sunshine, Ronon's thigh warm under John's head, Rodney's talk about the music of the cosmos still washing around him.
"Come on then, Colonel," he hears, and someone is pulling him up, someone strong, with big, warm hands, and that's nice too. So he smiles and says, "Hi there."
"Hello," he gets back, and he wishes he could see the person's face, but it's covered with something, and it's kind of creepy. "It's Dr. Parrish," the creepy-face, warm-handed person says. "You look very relaxed."
John smiles a little wider, because he is relaxed, which is new. He can't remember the last time he felt this relaxed. And then he nods as Parrish hooks his arm around John's waist and wraps John's arm over his shoulders, holding John's wrist tightly.
And they're walking, and John is still thinking about a picnic, and Parrish is saying things like, "Yes, it is a nice day for a picnic, Colonel, but let's focus on walking now, yes, one foot in front of the other, very well done," and, "The flowers are very pretty, and I agree, nothing like poppies, but certainly pretty," and, "I haven't ever been to Afghanistan, no, but I did once go to Pakistan. It was winter though, so I didn't see any poppies. Yes, you're doing very well with the walking still, we're almost there now."
Parrish, it turns out, is really friendly. John likes it.
So John stops thinking about the picnic and Afghanistan in the spring, and instead thinks about warm hands, big hands, one against his waist, the other holding his hand, and tightening a little when John twines their fingers together.
But he doesn't like what Parrish has done to his face. Granted, John doesn't know a lot about Parrish's face normally, because…well, John doesn't know why. But anyway, this just looks weird. "I don't like what you've done to your face," he says, as Parrish helps him walk up the stairs to the gate, which is nice, very nice of Parrish, because John's feet feel strange, and the wormhole kind of looks like water, and John wonders if he could swim through it instead of walking, if his feet stopped working. But he doesn't have to swim, because Parrish is there. "It doesn't suit you."
Parrish is laughing a little, as they step into Atlantis, and he says, "It's a respirator, Colonel, it's not permanent." And he's peeling something away from his face, and – gross, that's just disgusting – but oh. Underneath it he's smiling.
It's a great smile.
"See?"
Right, right. John does see. He sees that great smile, and also, he sees the light of Atlantis around them, and he sees the floor move closer as he slides down to his knees. "That's a relief," John says, and lets himself be hoisted up again, and walked to the infirmary.
After that, Parrish disappears with a pat to John's arm, and some words about samples that John doesn't quite follow, and doesn't care about, because he's hungry, and he never got the picnic, and that just feels…sad.
Suddenly Parrish is everywhere. It's not that John had never seen him before, he's sure. He'd just never bothered to…take notice. Not really.
But now Parrish is in the mess hall when John runs in to grab a sandwich, smiling absently. He's invited to a senior staff meeting to talk about…whatever is going on down in the botany labs, and the effects of the pollen on the flower planet, and while he talks he always looks slightly bemused and very enthusiastic. But his smile is wide, his words are focussed.
Or, he's sitting down across from John at lunch, on one of a string of surprisingly quiet days, talking about root systems and mild euphorics and other things that John doesn't quite understand, but that apparently are very interesting to Parrish, completely engaging. John doesn't get it, but he appreciates the enthusiasm.
It's nice to work with people who love what they do.
But then people start making comments.
"I saw you eating dinner with Parrish yesterday," Lorne says to him one morning.
Eating dinner was overstating it. Parrish had sat down at the table, in a crowded mess, minutes before John got up, but they'd exchanged a few words, a question-and-answer about the food, Parrish asking if he was going to regret offering to try the purple nut-like stew.
Lorne leans down, over the desk, and grabs a pen. "He's winsome. Sir." John is smart enough to hear the threat underneath the words. "Maybe a little shy. So if you're interested, you're probably going to have to make the first move."
John allows himself to sigh aloud. "Major, I am not interested in Dr. Parrish."
Lorne nods, but he looks a combination of doubtful and protective.
A week later, John is stuck in the infirmary overnight, and he doesn't really understand why. It's not like he hasn't had head wounds before. But Beckett had insisted, and Elizabeth had given him a look, and so here he is. Staring up at the ceiling. Banned from any screens.
And then Parrish is there. "Colonel. Major Lorne mentioned that you were in the infirmary and forbidden from looking at screens, and are, I quote, 'probably going out of your mind'. So thought I'd bring you this," he holds out a book, a little tattered around the edges. "It's one of my favourite illustrated botanical guides. I find the images very soothing."
John reaches out to take it without really thinking about it. The cover is peeling slightly, and it's smooth and well-worn against his hand. "Uh. Thanks?"
Parrish beams at him. "You're very welcome."
Then he's gone, and John is looking down at the cover, which reads wilde planten, deel 2.
He falls asleep with the book in his hands, not even a few pages into it.
Stackhouse corners John in the armoury a few days later and asks, diffidently, "Have you considered Dr. Parrish, sir? He's very cheerful. And he's pretty good off-world. Better than some of the scientists." He looks momentarily doubtful. "Though. Maybe not that much better. But still, he's really very –"
Stackhouse keeps talking, but John stops listening. He's thinking of the one-on-one report Parrish had given him a while back, an initial follow-up on the hallucinogenic pollen. His expression had been serious and the report extremely detailed, enough that John had said, "Do I need to know this? For security reasons?"
Parrish had shaken his head, leaned forward across John's desk, and said, "No, no. There aren't any security issues. I noted that in the report I emailed. But isn't it fascinating?"
It hadn't been particularly fascinating.
"—and, as I'm sure you've noticed," Stackhouse is saying, "he has a great set of –"
"No." John says, and wonders if it was a little too brusque when Stackhouse's expression shifts from animated to disappointed.
"He's winsome, sir," Stackhouse says, his tone matter-of-fact, maybe even cajoling. "Like a summer rain."
God save him from marines who apparently – without asking for John's permission – have started to think poetically. "That doesn't even make sense, Sergeant." And he determinedly ignores Stackhouse's hurt, disappointed frown.
Who knew he'd been assigned a bunch of marines who were not-so-secret romantic matchmakers? Sometimes he wonders if hallucinogenic pollen had accidentally been released into the city's air circulation system.
"Oh, I don't think so, sir," Stackhouse says, because apparently John has been speaking his thoughts and not just thinking them. "But you know who I'd bet would know for sure? Dr. Parrish."
"So," Rodney says, "Parrish, eh?"
Rodney's back is warm against John's, and he's so, so grateful for it. "I'm not interested in Parrish," he says, trying not to shiver.
"Why not? He's – what's the word?" Rodney shifts slightly, tugging at the ropes that bind them together, back to back.
"Don't say winsome, McKay." He shifts as well, and the bindings maybe loosen a little.
"What? Why would I say winsome, what am I, a romance novelist? No. I was going to say, he's surprisingly not incompetent."
"Look. Can we just focus here?" He wriggles a little bit more, and wonders why, of all of them, he was the only one who didn't get to keep his shirt.
"Oh, sure, of course we can, Colonel 'Once again, they took my shirt'. No problem. Excuse me for trying to distract you from freezing to death while we're all tied up here. Frankly, I thought maybe thinking about your paramour might warm you up, but I guess I was wrong."
"Paramour? You sure you're not a romance novelist?"
"John," Teyla says, and John looks over, notices that the ropes around her and Ronon look looser. He grins.
"We merely feel it would be nice if you had someone to care about you."
He has people to care about him. They're in this room.
"Intimately," she adds.
For fuck's sake.
"Just do him, Sheppard," Ronon says, and then he's standing, ropes falling around him, and that's great, it's a relief, because John is freezing and he needs to move.
"Once again," Rodney mutters, "we lose the 'who's getting loose first' contest. And all because you can't stop thinking about a botanist. Distractions, Colonel. They're not healthy."
"Dr. Parrish seems very kind," Teyla says, moving to Rodney's side and using a small knife to cut through the ropes. It's a matter of moments before he and Rodney are free, before Teyla is pulling Rodney to his feet.
"He's got a nice ass," Ronon adds, reaching a hand down to John. John takes it, stands, and immediately shoves his freezing hands into his pockets.
"And," Rodney says, brushing off his pants, and shucking out of his uniform jacket, "I hear he's…what's the word?"
"Winsome," Teyla and Ronon say at the same time.
"Exactly." Rodney holds his jacket out to John and frowns until John takes it.
The jacket is warm around John, and he's grateful for it. His team is great. They care for him. They think about his best interests. Even if they have no fucking clue what they're talking about sometimes. Then there's scraping outside the cell door, and they're all turning towards it, ready, and John stops thinking about Parrish.
The next time he goes running with Ronon, they pass by the botany labs and John is 100% certain it's not a coincidence. Especially when they run by Parrish, whose arms are full of potted plants. He grins happily at both of them, nods, and continues on his way.
Ronon turns, running backwards slowly, and says, "See? Nice ass."
John doesn't mean to look. He honestly doesn't.
But he does, turning, watching Parrish walk away, back straight, shoulders surprisingly broad, arms encumbered, and yeah.
It is a nice ass.
He finds the note on his desk. He doesn't recognize the careful, precise handwriting. It reads:
Things that Dr. Parrish likes:
- Plants
- Trying new foods
- Deserts (not desserts)
- But he does like sweet things, actually
- Documentaries about lichen
- Saving Earth from climate change disasters
- Running (not just for his life)
- Hiking
- Probably cuddling, he seems like the type
- Botanical illustration booksThings that Dr. Parrish doesn't like:
- People who play games with his heart
- Plastic contamination of pristine ecosystems
- Invasive plants
John sighs, folds the note up, and resolves to leave it on Lorne's desk.
"Oh, Colonel," Parrish says, walking into John's office, arms around a box, "I'm surprised to see you here! I was just going to leave this for you." He puts the box down, and pushes it across the desk, closer to John.
"Dr. Parrish. Thanks?"
Parrish nods, smiling absently, and looking around John's office. "You need something living in here. To brighten it up. Some plants would do the space a world of good. Anyway, I understand you enjoy a round or two of golf."
Well, that's hardly a secret, so it's not like Parrish would have had to ask around about it. "Yeah. You play?"
"Oh, no! Golf courses are ecological wastelands. All I can think when I see them is why aren't there more plants? Tall grasses? Wildflower pollinator gardens? Indigenous trees that provide food and nesting spaces for birds? There's so much you could do with golf courses to break the monotony. And wouldn't it be more challenging to play around those things?"
"Uh. I've never really thought about it?" He really hadn't.
"Of course, of course. And it's not like there are golf courses on Atlantis, anyway. But," and Parrish leans forward a little, hands on John's desk, smile focussing on John, "I understand you like to play off the end of a pier."
John finds himself grinning back a little, because Parrish's smile is…intense. Almost sweet. Even fetching. "Yeah?"
"Well," he steps back and waves at the box, "we wouldn't want to contaminate this planet's oceans with plastic, would we? We've done enough of that with our own planet. So we did a little brainstorming down in the labs, and some of us came up with an alternative for you. We used a kind of rubber harvested from the mangroves that edge parts of the mainland, Colonel. A botany-chemistry collaboration. Rodney was naturally delighted!" Parrish's smile is sunny now. "I'm pleased to say that the balls perfectly match the weight and density of the average golf ball, and," he reaches into the box and pulls one out, "we even molded the little indentations into them." He lowered his voice a little, almost conspiratorially. "To be honest, none of us were certain if they were there for aesthetic reasons, or if they had a purpose. So we erred on the side of caution."
John feels slightly stunned. Maybe even flummoxed. And a little…uncomfortable. He swallows. "Uh. Wow. That's – a lot of work, doctor."
"Work that's worth it! A little side project for fun and the environment. They're completely biodegradable in saltwater in 32 days, releasing nutrients that will be useful to the underwater plant life." He passes the ball over to John, grinning happily.
His fingers are a warm brush against John's palm.
John swallows again, and just stares at the ball in his hand.
"Speechless, Colonel? I understand! It must be a great surprise – and rest assured, we can make more. So you'll never run out!"
And with that, Parrish waves cheerfully, turns around, and walks out the office.
John stares at the open door – the door that had been closed before Parrish walked it, the door that normally doesn't open unless he asks it to – then looks back down at the ball in his hand. And he thinks, oh shit.
Maybe Parrish is winsome.
John hears them before he rounded the corner, on his way to the main meeting room.
" – and short of locking them in a room together, Sergeant, I am afraid I am out of further suggestions."
Chuck sighs, noisily. "I know, I know, but this is taking too long, I think we can all agree –"
"That yes, we really do need to figure out a better schedule that allows Chuck some time in the field, of course, oh, good afternoon, Colonel," Cadman says too loudly, elbowing Chuck in the ribs. "We were just talking about what a great idea it would be for gate technicians to go on some off-world missions, see the gate from the other side, you know? But Zelenka here," she jerks her head in Zelenka's direction, "feels that's asking for trouble. Like he doesn't trust us to keep Chuck safe. What do you think, sir?"
"I think," John says, carefully, "that you all need to get back to work."
"I do not report to you," Zelenka says, as Cadman and Chuck both nod and say, "Yes, sir."
He ignores the wink – not at all subtle – that Cadman gives him before she turns and walks away.
Two days later, he and Ronon run past Parrish, who's also running.
His green shorts are short. And a little tight. His legs are long and lean, corded muscle and lightly hairy. His shirt is damp around the edges, is too tight around the shoulders, and is clinging in all the right places. He's wearing a terrycloth headband for fuck's sake.
He looks like someone's 1980s exercise fantasy.
He looks like John's 1980s exercise fantasy.
He's got the long-distance running look on his face, focussed and a little zoned out. But not so zoned out that he doesn't look over and smile at them, one hand swiping across his eyes and then across his shirt, pulling the collar down a little.
John's mouth goes dry.
He stumbles.
He catches himself against the wall, and ignores Ronon's smirk. Instead he looks at the floor for some kind of imperfection, for a crack or a split, or a piece of tech left inconveniently lying around.
There's nothing there.
"Oh screw you," he says to Ronon, who's still smirking, and gets back to his run.
They see Parrish again the next morning. And then three mornings later. Then there's a week when there's no time to run. Not for exercise anyway. There's a minor crisis in one of the medical experimentation labs, then John's team is ambushed at what was supposed to be a friendly meet-and-greet with a group of farmers – why is it always fucking farmers – and then there's a slightly-more-than-minor crisis on the kid planet. After that, Lorne's team gets captured, and there are some unsuccessful negotiations, followed by some very successful explosions, and then, everything just gets messy.
When they see Parrish again – almost two weeks later, and John is taking it easy on the run, giving himself a little breather, and Ronon isn't even pushing it either – there's a healing cut across Parrish's cheek, and his arm is wrapped in a bandage, and he's in uniform and not so much running as he is limping. John knows he's been told to lightly exercise, and don't ask him why he knows that, because he doesn't usually keep that close a tab on the condition of individual scientists, not unless they're in the infirmary.
But somehow, he knows about Parrish.
And as they pass by, John slowing down even more, Parrish looks up. He looks tired. And if he doesn't smile, it's probably because the cut across his cheek hurts and he doesn't want to pull at the scab.
But he does wave – with the uninjured arm – and something loosens in John's chest, just a little. Something he didn't really know was tight.
He nods in acknowledgement, and runs a little faster.
That afternoon he retrieves the note from Major Lorne's desk. It's suspiciously still exactly where he'd left it.
He sits at his desk and stares at the note for a while. Then, sighing, he writes an email to be sent with the next databurst to the SGC.
Three weeks later, when a visiting anthropology team arrives on the Daedalus, one of them hands him a small package before being whisked away by a group of Atlantis scientists.
He waits until he's in his quarters to open it. There's a short note that reads, "Thought you were a math nerd. You owe me. Mitchell," and 3 DVDs: You're lichen me crazy: The untold story of when algae and fungi got together; Lichenthrope: The powerhouse 'wolf' of the tundra; and Don't step on the lichen (it is the moss of you).
Jesus Christ.
Maybe this was a terrible idea.
He doesn't quite get around to bringing up the documentaries. He tells himself he's busy, he can't be chasing after a scientist, that Parrish is busy too. He reminds himself that he's the military commander of the city, and he can't play favourites.
The documentaries sit on a shelf in his quarters, quietly accusing him of…something.
He tells himself he should watch them all first, and pick the best one to suggest to Parrish.
He remembers that he barely has time to catch his breath, much less to sit around and watch three documentaries about lichen.
"You're avoiding the whole situation," Rodney says to him, one evening, after he'd stared at the three documentaries in mild horror. "Also, what is wrong with botanists? These titles are appalling."
John can't disagree.
And yet somehow they're growing on him.
One afternoon, he wanders into the mess hall, thinking about muffins, or something approximating muffins, or maybe a cookie, or hell, even an apple-like thing, and Parrish is there. He's there, and he's standing next to a table filled with botanists, and he's laughing at something, and one of the visiting anthropologists – he has red hair, and a wide smile, and he's taller than Parrish – leans in close, his hand on Parrish's bicep, and they're laughing together, eyes focussed on each other.
John stops thinking about muffins, cookies, and apple-like things. Instead, he thinks about turning and walking away, about going to find Teyla to see if she wants to spar.
He thinks about swinging by the labs and dragging Rodney away so they can tinker together on one of the jumpers that's a bit glitchy. Or seeing if Ronon is up for a run, long and grueling, even though they've already gone once today.
Hell, he even thinks about finding Lorne and going over something like shift rosters.
But he finds himself walking towards the table of scientists, grinning, all teeth, when people greet him and when the visiting anthropologist looks over at him. His hand is still on Parrish.
"Afternoon," he says, and turns to Parrish. "Hey, Parrish. Have you see the documentary Lichenthrope?"
The table goes quiet. John is pretty sure the whole mess does.
Parrish's eyes light up. "'The powerhouse 'wolf' of the tundra'? I haven't. I made a request for it weeks ago, and it hasn't arrived yet." He looks at the anthropologist, and says, "Lichens are so interesting, so mysterious, so captivating. And such an ecological backbone! Wouldn't you agree?"
The anthropologist looks doubtful.
John puts his hands in his pockets, flashes his best casual smile, and says, "I might have a copy of it that I'm going to watch. Tonight. If you're interested."
A tray drops somewhere behind John. The sound echoes a little, overlapping with someone's sudden fit of coughing.
Parrish looks delighted, his cheeks a little flushed. He bites the corner of his lip briefly, just before he says, "I'm very interested, Colonel!"
His smile is blinding and focussed, enough that John's knees suddenly feel a little weak. But he covers it by smirking at the visiting anthropologist, who frowns back.
Yeah. That's how you do it, asshole. None of this subtle laughing and touching shit.
John has never been called winsome in his life. Not once.
But he does know how to win.
"…and he finally got a clue," he hears one of the medical staff saying as he passes by the infirmary. "Let's just hope he doesn't screw it up. Parrish is so –" She stops talking when she sees him.
He keeps walking and pretends he didn't hear a thing.
"—played the long game, I guess," Chuck is saying to one of the other gate room techs when John strolls up, ready for his regular weekly logistics and check-in meeting with Elizabeth.
"No, no," she replies. "It was totally unplanned. Come on. We're talking about –"
"Oh, Colonel," Chuck says as he spots John. His expression is carefully neutral. "Dr. Weir just went down to the mess for some tea. She said she'd be right back."
John manfully suppresses the urge to glare. News travels fast on Atlantis.
John sets up his quarters carefully. Quasi-beer, and a bowl of the crunchy puffed almost-rice that's just a little sweet, but not too much, and the laptop sitting on the table in front of his couch.
He fluffs his single decorative pillow, and throws it on his bed.
He puts on his softest t-shirt and takes off his thigh holster.
And when the door chimes, unobtrusive and polite, he opens it, a smile on his face, and ushers Parrish inside.
Parrish, who's dressed in a loose sweater, neckline appealingly stretched out. Parrish, who immediately spots the quasi-beer and exclaims about how much he loves it, and then tells John all about how the puffed almost-rice is grown, dried, and cooked to make it just right and, "Isn't it interesting to think about the convergence of food preparation practices, Colonel –"
"Call me John," John says.
" – of course, John, please call me David, and isn't it interesting to think about how humans can take completely different plants with totally different evolutionary histories and make similar foods? If I didn't know better, I'd think this was puffed rice from India, but of course it isn't."
"Sure isn't," John says, sitting down on his couch and watching Parrish's – David's – mouth and hands move. He remembers those hands, wrapped around his waist and holding him up.
"And did you know that there's a kind of pseudo lichen on the planet with all the children? Of course, it only looks like lichen, but it appears to be a merging of three different species into one symbiotic organism, which, as I'm sure you know, is not unlike our own lichen. Though of course with some exciting differences."
"I don't actually know anything about lichen," John admits, and watches as David's eyes widen slightly.
"Well," he says happily, "prepare to have your mind blown, Col – er, John." And he settles down next to John, bowl of almost-rice on his lap, his feet up on John's table.
John leans forward and presses play.
Documentaries about lichen, it turns out, are surprisingly interesting. And David's face while he's watching the documentary – animated, excited, totally rapt – is even more interesting.
Though John will never, ever admit to the whole lichen documentary thing. Not even under threat of torture or Teyla's special meditation tea.
Beside him, David sighs happily and stretches, their shoulders briefly knocking together, his thigh a welcome press along John's. "That was great. Everything I'd hoped it would be."
John hmmms and wonders if he should bring out another of the documentaries. Or if he should save that for another night. "Do you want to –"
"Oh, Colonel. I mean John. Yes. I very much would like to," David says, putting the mostly empty bowl of sort-of rice on the floor. He moves, slow and easily, until he's in John's space, saying, "I'm just going to –" and he's straddling John's lap, and all John can think is hands, warm hands, hands, hands, because David's hand is sliding inside John's shirt, and the other is curving around the back of his neck, fingers scratching up into his hair in a way that sends shivers down his spine. David beams at him, in the same way that made John's knees feel a little weak, back in the mess hall. And then he leans in and kisses John, focussed and hot and intent, and not winsome.
Not at all.
Parrish's ass feels fantastic against John's palms, and his tongue is sweet in John's mouth. When he pulls back, his skin flushed and eyes dark, he asks, his voice a little rough, "John. What did the algae say to the fungi?" He grinds his hips down slightly as he speaks.
John shrugs, and he's so fucking hard, and David feels fantastic against him, and he just. He wants.
David leans closer, mouth brushing against John's jaw, and whispers, "I've taken a real lichen to you." He starts laughing, face pressed against John's neck, body shaking with it.
John feels…incredulous. A little horrified. And really, really turned on.
And when the laughs turn to kisses along John's neck, and David starts muttering that holy shit, this is the hottest date he's had in years, John just leans into it.
It might just be for him, too.
In the morning, Teyla sits down next to him, breakfast tray in hand, and a tranquil smile on her face. Ronon, grinning broadly, joins them, kicking out a chair for Rodney, who plunks down into it ungracefully. They all look at him, expectantly.
John eats his toast. It's pretty good. In fact, everything tastes good. Great, even.
"Will Dr. Parrish be joining us this morning?" Teyla asks, eventually.
It feels like the entire mess hall is holding its breath, waiting for John's answer. Of course, he's probably imagining things.
"Dr. Parrish," John says, "has a mission this morning and ate early. Not that it's anyone's business."
Around them, the mess is suddenly a hive of sound, the clatter of cutlery, and scraping of chairs, the murmur of soft voices.
"Of course," Teyla says smoothly, sipping at her tea. "Naturally, it is entirely none of our business."
She doesn't look smug at all.
"So," Evan says, handing Parrish a tac vest, and shrugging into his own. "It finally worked, huh? The whole winsome thing?" He adds extra P90 rounds to his tac vest and maybe a little more C4 than is strictly necessary. Just in case.
Because this is a botany mission.
"Pretty sure it was the list that helped it along, sir," Stackhouse replies. "It was a great list. Plus the golf balls. That was inspired."
Cadman laughs, and it sounds a little evil. Evan's noticed that about Cadman. She's a little bit devious, more often than not. In a friendly, persistent kind of way. "I heard it was the running. That your little exercise outfit made Colonel Sheppard run straight into a wall."
Parrish just does his tac vest up while looking dreamily into the distance. Eventually, he asks,"Does anyone want to know some exciting new details about the ways that lichens underpin Arctic and sub-Arctic ecosystems?" His tone is distracted, a bit unfocussed, a little less enthusiastic about sharing plant knowledge than usual. He doesn't even seem to notice Cadman and Stackhouse's answering groans.
Not that he usually does anyway.
Evan can't help but grin. Because Parrish's expression? Can only be described as smitten. And Evan's pretty sure that for once, it's not thanks to plants.
End