Mensa AU Fic Exchange: "An Introductory Handbook For Co-Pilots" for <user site="livejournal.com" use

[trobadora]

Title: An Introductory Handbook For Co-Pilots
Author: trinityofone
Pairing or Character(s): Rod/Mensa!Shep, Mensa!Lorne
SGA-verse or MENSA-verse: MENSA-verse
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Landshark! Er, I mean, none.
Summary: Lorne could see Sheppard's face reflected in the computer screen; he watched him scoff. "May I remind you that this is my body, and you are a guest."
Recipient: thisissirius

An Introductory Handbook For Co-Pilots

"Okay, ground rules." Sheppard was walking swiftly, as if he might be able to outrun Evan if he just tried hard enough. "I'm going to go about my business, and you are just going to sit back there and be quiet until McKay figures this out. All right?"

Evan, shock surprise, was far from all right with this plan. He debated in his mind whether or not it was worth it to make a big stink. The Air Force had certainly bestowed on him the ability to hurry up and wait; it hadn't really prepared him to deal with a mathematician so uptight Evan was pretty sure he could currently feel the stick up Sheppard's ass poking his spleen.

And this was the guy Rod had pulled him aside to ask him to protect. When Rod had first stuck Evan with Dr. Sheppard on the (unsuccessful) mission to retrieve the AWOL Lieutenant Ford, Evan had half thought it was some sort of "Welcome to the Pegasus Galaxy!" practical joke. Like at any second Rod might jump out of the bushes and yell, "Punk'd!" Instead there was hours and hours of Sheppard whining about his bad arches and calculating (to a truly absurd number of decimal points) the probability that they were both going to die in various horrible ways. It was like an extreme version of Rod-before-he-was-Rod, that forgotten entity they both never talked about, and the strange fact that Rod should choose to associate himself with such an obvious reminder of the person he'd worked so hard to kill really made Evan wonder if the Pegasus galaxy might have had some adverse effects on his ex-teammate's mental health.

But no; other than his strange attachment to Sheppard—who, as far as Evan could tell, didn't even have the technical skill that had at least made proto-Rod somewhat useful to have around—his friend was the same as ever: smiling and confident; large and in charge. Instead, less than two weeks after disembarking the Daedalus to find Rod waiting for him with a grin and a manly hug, it was Evan whose health was suffering. Physically—in the sense that, oh, he no longer had a physical body—and, judging from the way Sheppard seemed to like humming "Dancing Queen" while scrolling through endless pages of complicated equations, his mental health would soon be following suit.

"I have things to do, too, you know," he said—reasonably, he thought. "Maybe we could take turns."

Evan could see Sheppard's face reflected in the computer screen; he watched him scoff. "May I remind you that this is my body, and you are a guest."

"My mother taught me that a good host lets the guest choose the activities." If he could have, he would have been smiling innocently.

"Well, bully for Mrs. Lorne." Sheppard went back to gleefully adding notes to a fellow scientist's paper, explaining how a mistake she had made in the first section of the first proof had ruined all her subsequent conclusions.

At some point shortly thereafter, Evan may have started singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I Am," but nobody would be able to prove it.

Luckily, before Sheppard could make good on his threat to shoot himself in the head to spite the other consciousness in his brain, Dr. Weir radioed to remind him that she wanted them both to talk to Dr. Heightmeyer. Sheppard, to his credit, did not seem pleased by this suggestion, and since he was the one who was going to have to do the actual talking, Evan actually spared a minute to feel bad for the guy. He almost brought up the fact that hey, at least Heightmeyer had nice tits. It was a basic form of male bonding, and normally, Evan was perfectly happy to go there. Sheppard didn't really seem like a "nice tits" chat kind of guy, though. Evan had never really figured out how to deal with that sort of guy.

Fortunately, he supposed, they were already about as bonded as two males could possibly be. At least in terms of physical proximity.

And, when it came to therapy sessions, in terms of mutual goals: Sheppard stayed stony-faced and monosyllabic in response to all of Heightmeyer's questions. "It's fine," he said repeatedly. "Under the circumstances, we're as good as we can be. McKay'll figure it out."

"Are you sure Major Lorne feels that way, too?" Heightmeyer asked.

"Yes," Sheppard replied, even before Evan could drop his own, "Yeah, it's a picnic," into Sheppard's cerebellum.

Unfortunately, this didn't seem to satisfy her. "Evan?" she asked, looking deep into Sheppard's eyes as if she could somehow see through to the trapped Air Force Major within. "Can you indicate if you're all right?"

And with a flash of insight, Evan realized that he could.

"Yeah," he said, feeling the odd sensation of moving Sheppard's lips—like puppetry, but not. "I'm fine. Sheppard's vision is kinda screwy, though."

He felt himself plucked abruptly out of the pilot's chair and shoved to the back of the cabin. "I'm colorblind, you numbskull! Are we done?"

Mercifully, they were pronounced done.

Sheppard immediately scurried to see how Rod was getting on. For once, Evan agreed with him: offering Rod a little encouragement, a little incentive to hurry the fuck up, did not seem like a bad idea.

When they reached the lab, Rod was all confidence and reassuring smiles. "Don't worry, we're going to have it all straightened out in no time."

At that moment, a loud argument, seemingly half in German and half in Czech, broke out at the other end of the lab amidst the scattered remains of the downed Wraith dart. Rod's smile never faltered.

Evan almost made Sheppard's lips say, "You better not be fucking with me, Roddo," but he manfully restrained himself. What it came down to was: he trusted Rod. Evan was one of the few people who had some sort of inkling of what that easy smile hid, but he'd keep that confidence because he knew he could count on Rod to do the same for him. His grins may have been fake, but Evan knew from experience that the underlying core of him was not. Rod would come through for them.

Sheppard—again to his credit—seemed to know it, too. He folded his arms and harumphed a lot, but he nodded. "Hey," Rod said brightly as they were heading for the door, "John, why don't you challenge Evan to a game of chess? You might have some pretty good competition there."

Sheppard snorted. "I doubt it."

"Come on." There was a decided twinkle in Rod's eye, which Evan always thought made him look disturbingly like the kind of mad scientist prone to rubbing his hands together and cackling. "You've always said that you wished it were possible to play against yourself."

Evan could feel Sheppard rolling his eyes. "Fine." Then something else—a brush of fingertips against his arm. But Evan must have been imagining it; he knew how much Rod disliked anything beyond the most casual, backslappy type of physical contact.

"You're going down," Evan told Sheppard as they headed back to his quarters.

"Oh, please. Who's the Mensa member here? Oh, right: me."

"We'll see," Evan said.

In fact, Sheppard did win, although thanks to Rod's training during lots of boring afternoons stuck on call at SGC, Evan didn't do too badly. He was also surprised to note that Sheppard was a rather staid and rigid player; he wondered if Rod, with his devil-may-care, impulsive strategy, had ever beaten him.

They played a couple more games, and by the third Evan found he was able to assert himself enough to actually force Sheppard's body to its feet and move it around to the other side of the board so Evan could play, rather than just instructing Sheppard to move his queen. This seemed to fluster Mr. Mensa quite a bit, and the last game was a close call. "I have work to do," Sheppard announced huffily when it was over. "Why don't you just...take a nap."

"Not tired," Evan said, a little ashamed by his petulance. "I can't sleep unless I go for a run or work out for a while."

Sheppard vetoed these ideas rather vehemently. Evan didn't get it: from what he had seen (in spite of Sheppard's strict instructions that he close his eyes! every time they used the bathroom and when Sheppard had changed out of his hospital gown into his uniform) Sheppard had the wiry body of a natural athlete, but he seemed determined not to do anything with it. Not that he was horribly out of shape or anything, but to Evan his limbs were disturbingly scrawny and he had the small curving belly of a man who was nearing forty and yet stubbornly refused to do sit-ups. No wonder Rod had thought he needed extra protection in the field—and that, of course, was what had gotten them into this stupid mess in the first place: Evan's attempt to push Sheppard out of the way of the dart's culling beam having merely served to get them both sucked up into it. Yup. No good deed goes unpunished, indeed.

"Well, I'm not watching you do any more math," Evan said—using Sheppard's mouth, folding Sheppard's arms to make his point. He felt himself pushed back almost immediately, but Sheppard only gnawed at his lip, thinking.

"We could take one of the gateships out," he said finally. He sounded oddly hopeful.

Evan was...totally fine with that suggestion, actually. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"All right," Sheppard said, and Evan could feel his chin lift. "But I'm flying."

In the pilot's seat, up in the air, Sheppard was an entirely different person. Of all the truly bizarre things that had happened in the last few days, this was the one that disturbed Evan the most.

It was late when they got back, earning them a disparaging look from Sergeant Campbell. Back in his room, Sheppard tossed the com from his ear, rucked a hand through his hair, and collapsed on the bed beneath a picture of himself holding one of his surely numerous degrees and decidedly not smiling. "Um..." Evan started to say, but he realized that Sheppard was out like a light.

Evan was still not tired.

Cautiously he pushed himself—Sheppard—up onto his hands and knees. Sheppard—Sheppard's consciousness—didn't stir; it was now snugly back behind Evan's, snoring soundly. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) Evan thought. He could go for that run now, he supposed; he could even see if anyone was up for a late night spar. But no: he felt a need for a more targeted kind of violence. He'd go to the firing range.

It was late; Evan knew the place would be lightly populated and figured he might even have it to himself. As it turned out, there was one other person there. Rod, he realized with a start: mouth a thin, determined line as he fired repeatedly into the target. Just as Evan himself had taught him.

His clip empty, he turned to Evan and grinned. Until that moment, Evan had had no intention of being anything but one hundred percent honest, but then something in Rod's face shifted, became a shade more open, more honest himself. "John! What are you doing here?" he said, and Evan heard himself say, in Sheppard's voice, with Sheppard's mouth, "Couldn't sleep."

"And you thought you'd get some target practice in?" Rod looked both incredulous and bemused. "Usually I have to drag you here by your hair." He paused, seeming to remember the crucial detail. "Did Lorne talk you into this?" He, like Heightmeyer, spent a moment seeming to search for Evan in Sheppard's eyes.

"Naw, he's asleep," Evan said casually, and then, realizing that didn't sound much like Sheppard, added a scowl. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be trying to figure out how to fix us?"

"I'm running a simulation. It should finish in about," he checked his watch, "twenty minutes." A slow smile spread across his face. "Plenty of time for a lesson."

As good as Rod had gotten, the idea of him giving Evan a lesson was still fairly hilarious. With effort, Evan managed not to blow his cover by making a Darth Vader joke and affected a Sheppard-like pout. Rod reloaded the Beretta he'd been using and passed it to Evan, who tried not to laugh as Rod very seriously guided Sheppard's body into the correct stance. Evan almost wanted to speak up on Sheppard's behalf: there was no way he could be in the field all the time and be this hopeless, not even knowing how to stand, how to position his arms. But he let Rod move him into alignment like a doll—this body that Evan was already moving around like a living puppet. And suddenly it was creepy and awful; Evan had to suppress a shudder.

He opened his mouth to say something, confess, but before he could Rod was sliding in behind him: face pressed close to his neck, hand placed possessively on his hip. On Sheppard's hip—Evan was pretty darn sure that his lessons with Rod had never been like this. He certainly had never breathed warm against Rod's ear, or caressed the inside of Rod's wrist as he guided his fingers into position, or—Jesus Christ!—ground his dick into Rod's—

"Fuck! Stop!" Evan spluttered. "Rod, I—"

He backed away almost immediately, his face going cold and dispassionate. "Evan," he stated. Not a question.

"I—" Evan knew he should apologize for his deception, but for Christ's sake— "Rod, are you out of your mind?"

"No more than you're out of body." Rod's mouth did not quirk, did not show a single spark of humor. "This was none of your business."

"Apparently!" Evan realized he was angry—furious—for reasons he couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around. "Jesus, how could you..." Not tell me, he meant to say, but the vicious, sneering expression on Rod's face stopped him cold.

"None. Of. Your. Business," Rod hissed.

Evan wanted to punch him. "I thought we were teammates," he said, and now the petulant Sheppard pout was not hard to achieve at all. "I thought we were friends."

Rod laughed unpleasantly. "Funny. I guess sometimes it can turn out that you don't really know someone at all."

He pushed past, knocking Evan's shoulder deliberately. Evan reeled, from a lot more than just the blow.

The next day, Rod killed a bunch of mice and figured out how to put Evan back in his own body. "This is completely safe, right?" Sheppard said as Dr. Zelenka directed him for the fourth time to where he was supposed to stand. "I mean, you're absolutely sure that it's going to work and I'm not going to end up—"

"If we don't do something soon, Carson predicts you're going to start having seizures," Rod said, much more snappish than usual. Sheppard's jaw clicked shut. Evan, who hadn't felt like saying much of anything since last night, didn't feel newly inspired now.

Except—as Rod pointed at him something which bore a rather uncomfortable resemblance to a Dr. Evil-constructed laser, Evan did feel like he should say...something. Even just, "I'm sorry." But before he could open his mouth, Sheppard did. "Rod, I—" Sheppard said, and Rod said, "Do it," to Zelenka, sharply; and the last thing Evan saw through Sheppard's eyes was Rod standing there, frowning, as the world went white.

*

Rod was there in the infirmary when Evan woke up, but he might as well have been one of the nurses: a dark blur in the background. Evan remembered the first time he (they) had woken up after the dart tried to snatch them away: Rod had been right there, standing sentry at the side of the bed, just like they had been there for each other, so many times, at SGC. Except no: it had only looked that way; really, the person who Rod had been waiting for was Sheppard.

At least this time Evan had his own body to inspect for damage, the world to see through his own two fully functional eyes. Sheppard lay in the bed next to him, looking a bit drawn but otherwise no worse for wear. He scowled at Evan, so it seemed some things really did never change.

After a preliminary inspection, Beckett wasn't willing to put them back on active duty, but he did agree to release them to their own rooms. ("I know I need to be far away from him if I'm going to have any chance of recovering," Sheppard had said, scowling some more.) Evan slunk back to his quarters, likewise relieved to be alone.

Within fifteen minutes, the silence had become deafening.

Evan paced. He had screwed up; he knew that, and it meant that he was responsible for putting things right. But part of him still felt hurt, felt like staying in his room in a huff until Rod came to apologize for...what? For making new friends? For not immediately assuming that his old military buddy would be super eager to meet his new boyfriend? For doing well here in Pegasus, for succeeding long before Evan had been able to make it here to join him? "Who here is not a Mensa member?" Evan said to himself. "Oh, right: me."

He went to go see Sheppard.

The reunion did not seem to please Sheppard at all. He stood in the doorway, scrawny arms folded across skinny chest. "Didn't I just get rid of you?"

Evan pushed past him into the room. "What can I say, I missed you desperately."

Sheppard plucked at the fabric of his wrinkled shirt, watching Evan warily. "What do you want?"

Ah. Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Evan licked his lips. "You, uh. You and Rod, you're—" At the last second he wussed out. "—You're seeing each other?"

Still, this alone seemed to freak Sheppard out as much as—as whatever else Evan had been about to say. ("You're lovers"? "Fuckbuddies"? What?) "You—you can't ask me that! You're not allowed to ask me that!"

Evan rolled his eyes. "You're not in the military. Hell, Rod isn't even in the military." Evan forgot sometimes. How odd.

"So, what, you can just come in here and—okay, fine." Sheppard seemed to draw himself up. "Go ahead and get on with your stupid, homophobic display so Elizabeth can fire you and send you back to Earth already." He braced himself, apparently waiting for the first punch.

As much as Evan would have liked to give Dr. Sheppard a smack rather a lot of the time (like, say, whenever he jumped to a completely and insultingly wrong conclusion) this was an impulse he was perfectly capable of controlling. "Sheppard," he said, "I'm not going to—I just wanted to talk to you."

Sheppard allowed one eye to flutter open and peered at him warily. "You—oh my God, are you gay? Is this your way of coming out to me? Of...of hitting on me? Not that I'm not flattered, Major, but I'm afraid I'm already..."

"I'm sure Rod will be pleased to hear that," Evan said, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. He found he missed the ability to step in and clamp Sheppard's jaw closed when necessary.

Case in point: "Wait, how did you figure it out?" Sheppard's eyes narrowed. "Did you...do something with my body?"

"Er," Evan said.

He credited getting out of the ensuing discussion alive to the fact that Sheppard was really rather embarrassed to have the shooting range revealed as a favorite trysting zone.

"So, um," Evan tried, once Sheppard had calmed down and stopped twitching. "Rod...he seems okay? You're both, um, happy?"

Sheppard rolled his eyes. "We're in another galaxy, warding off space vampires and fighting for our lives. It's not exactly the prom."

Evan did not blush. "Right. Sorry. Well, anyway." He started edging toward the door. "If you see Rod, tell him—"

"Major," Sheppard interrupted. "You—you've known McKay for a long time. What was he...do you know what..."

Evan owed him, he knew that; but not this. "I think you're going to have to ask Rod that yourself."

Sheppard bit his lip, but nodded. "All right, and you—you tell him what you need to tell him, too."

"Sure," Evan said, thinking: I'd rather face down a few of those space vampires first.

Since Beckett still hadn't cleared him for active duty, Evan retired to his room and did paperwork for a few hours. He was really not looking forward to making his report to Colonel Caldwell; getting stuck in a mathematician's body his second week out did not speak well of his abilities as second in command. Writing, he chose his words carefully, which was more than he could say for the way his mouth had been behaving lately.

Eventually his growling stomach reminded him that his current strategy of "hide" wasn't really the best one; he got up and went to the mess, hating himself for wasting a second glancing around for his old SGC team when he came in the door. That era is over, he told himself as he grabbed a tray and got in line. The band isn't getting back together for one last reunion tour. Get over it.

"So," said a familiar voice behind him, "John says you should stop by one of his Mensa meetings sometime. Challenge him to a rematch."

Evan turned. Rod was smiling: his careful, public smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Uh, no," Evan said, putting a lot of concentration into his selection of a carton of milk. "All evidence to the contrary, I don't actually have a self-destructive streak."

"Well, that makes one of us," Rod said cheerfully. He paused. "We—"

"I'm sorry," Evan said quickly. Rod raised an eyebrow, then guided them, both still carrying their trays, over to the corner, behind an Ancient plant.

Evan didn't really think this was the best place to have a manly chat, but he also didn't trust his ability to stop this conversation and then start it up again. "I was way out of line," he continued in a hushed whisper. "It really is none of my business. Except, well—" You're my friend sounded too stupid and girly, and it wasn't like it was something they had ever said anyway. It was just there, assumed: You watch my back. I'll watch yours.

"—I thought we were on the same team," Evan finished lamely.

Rod looked like he'd just been presented with a particularly implausible scientific theory and was trying to think of a way to politely say so. "Well, I guess you could say I switch hit."

The Pegasus Galaxy really had it out for his dignity, didn't it? "No, um, I meant—"

Rod laughed. Evan stopped freaking out long enough to look up, to really look. "You asshole," he said. "You're fucking with me."

"Yes, well." Rod put on another mad scientist grin. "You really deserve it."

"Fuck you," Evan said, grinning too.

Rod shrugged. "Hey, if I'd known you were interested—"

"Oh, Jesus," Evan rubbed his forehead, "it's a good thing I'm not actually going to be on your team; I'd have to watch you and Sheppard flirt all the time—"

Rod's face grew more serious, and Evan was immediately sorry. "Are you upset?" Rod asked. "Because you know you could go over my head. Under the new order, I think you have discretion over gate team assignments."

"You better not seriously think I would do that."

Rod's expression was steady. "I don't."

A few seconds passed. Evan shifted his tray awkwardly. "You do," Rod said, "you do understand why it would be hard now. For us to be on the same team. We'd both try to lead."

Evan felt like reminding Rod that there was only one person here with an actual military rank, and that was him. Then he realized he sounded like Sheppard.

"Anyway," Rod continued. "I'll feel safer knowing your team is out there, ready to bail us out when we inevitably get into whatever ridiculous scrape is waiting for us this week."

Evan nodded; that meant something to him, maybe even more than it should. "Actually, about that," he said. "I haven't really had a chance to look through the personnel files yet. You know, what with being stuck in your boyfriend's brain—"

"Asshole," Rod said, affectionately. He nudged Evan's shoulder, nearly causing his Jell-O cup to topple over. "Come on, I have an idea, follow me."

Rod wove his way through the tables. As they passed the large Satedan they had brought back instead of Lieutenant Ford, he paused. "Hey, buddy," Rod said, discreetly passing him his knife and fork, "try these, okay?"

The newcomer grunted. "Thanks."

"He has the coolest gun I have ever seen," Rod whispered as they walked away.

"I knew there was a reason you were dumping me," Evan said, but he was smiling.

They reached a table where three people, two men and a woman, were sitting. As they approached, the woman finished sniffing at what one of the others was saying and sat back haughtily in her chair. "Am I interrupting something?" Rod asked.

"Yes," said the woman. "No, sir," said the other two.

Sir? Evan mouthed at Rod. Rod made a poor attempt at looking innocent.

"Major Lorne," he said, "I'd like to introduce Sergeant Stackhouse, Lieutenant Parrish, and Doctor Cadman. Everyone, this is Major Lorne."

"Hi," said Evan, feeling easy as ever at Rod's side.

"Major," Rod continued, "Stackhouse here has been with us from the beginning. The Lieutenant I'm told is an expert sharpshooter—" The skinnier, less assertive-looking of the two men blushed and waved away the distinction, revealing long-fingered hands that Evan could very well see lining up and pulling the trigger on a perfect shot. "—And Cadman is a medical doctor with an impressive amount of field experience."

"I'm so happy to have your approval," Cadman said coldly, reaching around to tighten her bun.

Rod leaned closer to Evan's ear. Evan remembered the feel of Rod's hot breath on his—on Sheppard's neck; but that was theirs, totally separate from this: his own friendship with Rod, cycling through yet another one of the changes it had experienced over the years, but still there, still strong.

"She also has really nice tits," Rod whispered.

Evan looked from his old teammate to his new, and he couldn't help it: he laughed.

[Poll #976094]

Comments

[tharaist.livejournal.com]

Very cool twist on Duet!