mensa_au | Fic: Sweeten My Imagination

Title: Sweeten My Imagination
Pairing or Character(s): Rod/Mensa!John, Rod/Liz (others implied)
MENSA-verse
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Uh...it's all the fault of

imagechild? And she wrote the Ronon bit. Well, mostly...

He knew that coming back would be nothing as he had made them all think, back in their Atlantis. The marvellous thing about being a quantified (hey, John, what's the equation?) sociopath was that you could fool anyone into believing you were anything most of the time. Yeah, he was Rod. He was the Man. Supreme golfer, perfect hero. Didn't like to kill people, didn't live off the screams, no sirree, Liz was gonna be proud, how he'd made 'em lose their ZPM and thought it was all in a good cause....oh yeah. He was on a roll.

Debriefed Liz - one way and another, perfect how she could talk into that earphone of hers, cool as a freakin' cucumber, giving Lorne all those directions while her face flushed and he licked the juices off his fingers, one by one, knowing how she liked to hear the joints pop as he did it. Scribbled his name at the end of the paper for the SGC with his nails still full of her, and boy, wasn't Jackson gonna get a kick when the Daedalus opened that file - and went to find John.

If John needed finding. Not that he didn't, always, but...well...maybe he hadn't noticed, this time around.

He should most probably go and find Ronon, tell him no need to follow, but he and Teyla prowl the wood at night, all dark eyes and glinting steel and Ronon's mouth never tastes like anything but blood, but Teyla doesn't care as long as it's his and not hers.

Sometimes it tastes like John and Rod, all mixed up, and those are the nights she licks slow, but there's other reasons she does that, and Rod doesn't want to come across it, even now.

See, John does the math, and Rod kills, and then John would tell him where he'd gone wrong, which was sweet, y'know? Cause ya gotta get that trajectory right, or it just ain't worth it, even if Liz is writing ya up for the next fuckin' Nobel Peace Prize, no it ain't. John can tell ya where the bullet should have gone, right to hit that spot perfectly, it's algebra, it's quantum, it's the end of the damn world, man. John knows it. Dr perfect freakin' Sheppard, he knows it, better than any of the rest of em, cool and hard in his little squirrely head, oh, Shep can plot death like he plots the stars.

John tastes like death on the tongue, too, hot and sharp and damn' near drunk-making, not like Kav, who's cold and bitter, all in his head, that boy, and all Lorne's, even when he comes to beg for it. John's citrus, if you believe the other McKay, take you close to death but never through it, need adrenaline in every pore to take you out the other side.

They've got their system, their means. They're the freakin' upward swing, you'd better believe it. Russia didn't, and look where Jackson took them. They rule the galaxy, the planets, the world if they wanted to come back, which they don't.

And when Rod found John, down in Carson's lab, cos who the hell would go there in their right minds, John was writing on a board in blood, but even though he was doing it with his fingers, it wasn't his, so they're all good, for now. Yeah, he'd missed Rod. All those equations were telling him so, right down to the last faint trail-off where he ran out of those who don't mind pain.

Rod had his death back, and damn, but if it didn't taste like lemon.