[New] Fic: all plans fail [Stargate Atlantis; Beckett/McKay]

all plans fail
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Beckett/McKay
Rating: R/NC-17
A/N: Thank you, delgaserasca, for betaing!
Summary: PWP? This is perfectly simple. Just a dim room, a bed, and two friends.

Rodney only has sex with Carson once. Just once. It happens when they are still at Antarctica; the winter has been dragging on for ever and ever and they're stuck in sluggishness because they're making no progress in their research. In that state of mind, when even the normally exciting work provides no distraction on the miserable spit of ice and earth, the missing of other things only gnaws at the walls of their heads all the more. Those months at Antarctica are cold and lonely, and no matter which way he twists it, Rodney is just a man, just as Carson is another, and men, they have needs; the penis is not just a silent partner in the corporative union of body, mind and soul.

So they make a deal. An arrangement. Just for this once because sometimes a bit of intimacy is all you need to keep you sane, and hooking up with someone you barely know would be far too complicated and end ugly. Carson and he, however, they are friends, and so they can reach an understanding.

It isn't that they couldn't get it otherwise (at least not Carson; Rodney has noticed how some of his patients, both female and male, flirt with him, and who is he to blame them – Carson is a doctor and not even all that bad looking one of that). It's just that... understanding. They can do this without it turning into something complex and dramatic. The rules are clear to them both -- well, at least they are after Rodney explains them thoroughly and then explains them once more, just in case. And that's another thing he could do with Carson that he couldn't have done with some random chick from the base: he could come up with the craziest of ideas and have time to explain it before he got a knee in the groin or a black eye, and somewhere in the middle there, he even had a chance of making Carson understand because Carson is good at understanding the rambling complexity of Rodney's thoughts.

So they reach an understanding. And it's not complicated and it's not going to end ugly because this? This is perfectly simple. Just a dim room, a bed, and two friends. Nothing more. It really is a brilliant idea.

Except ideas are always ideas. Then you come to the implementation of said idea and you find yourself fumbling. It is simple, it is very simple, but no matter how well Rodney had this planned, knows the rules and knows the game, he still stands there, in the small space that looks more like a broom closet than a bedroom, and wonders what to do next. He's not nervous, he's just, just... not quite sure where to put his hands and which way to turn and where to look and where to touch, and oh.

Touch.

He had been prepared for this, but now that it's concrete reality, he suddenly feels very unsure. He's not going to back away, though. It's not like they could re-schedule; it was hard enough this time to find a night when both of them had time off and enough energy to do something with it. So, he's not going to back away and run. He needs this. Frustration levels are climbing and he needs a way to unload. Wants this because it's been too long.

Rodney clears his throat.

Carson is standing there, on the other side of the room (which means not all that far away), looking at him with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. They haven't even touched each other yet, haven't done anything at all, really, but Rodney already feels like he should be... should be naked and horizontal and it's like riding a bicycle, isn't it? Right? Doesn't matter if he hasn't done this like this in such a long time or if he's scrambling to remember how this one-night-stand business goes; after all, there must be some kind of etiquette to it, and all he'll have to do is find the right track of memory and the rest will come naturally. Still, he's almost desperately browsing through every inch of his brain because there are so many ways he could get this wrong and if he gets this wrong-- should there be wine and dine first, or should he just chuck his clothes off and jump? And is he supposed to be gentle or hard -- well, hard, obviously hard, ha-ha-ha, oh god.

"You think too much, Rodney," Carson says. That's not his line; Carson should be the responsible one, the one who goes through the what-ifs and are-you-sures. However, he's merely peeling off his jacket and lays it on the back of the chair that stands by the wall. (If he only knew what Rodney is thinking about, though. On second thought, he probably does, actually, and the thought makes Rodney's skin heat up.)

Rodney looks up at Carson's face. Carson has laughing wrinkles, and Rodney knew that, but it seems different to notice it now, when the lights are low and the scent of arousal lingers like a cheap perfume.

He laughs, and he's surprised at how not hysterical it sounds. "Do I? I didn't think there was such a thing as 'too much thinking'."

Carson gives a soft laugh at that. It's unfair, it really is unfair how relaxed he looks. There's laziness and liquid, all long tones and swaying rhythms in his voice when he says, "It's not all there is," and it really, really is unbelievably unfair. This shouldn't be that easy for him. It was Rodney's idea after all; he should be the one who's confident about this. ("What do you think? I'm brilliant, aren't I?" he'd said and nearly bounced on the balls of his feet; Carson had looked at him like he'd gone stark raving mad. He supposes he ended up giving Carson enough time to get comfortable with the idea.)

Carson walks over to him. Stops right in front of Rodney and smiles, this time a bit smaller, almost as if out of habit. "Just relax. You still want to do this, don't you?" he says, and there's a flicker of something that almost resembles nervousness on his face. As sadistic as it might seem, it makes Rodney feel better; the knowledge that he's not alone in his doubts is a cheap consolation but a consolation nonetheless.

Rodney merely nods and draws a long breath of fresh air into his lungs. It calms him down a little, to note the steady beat of his heart and the way his chest expands as the air rushes in.

And then Carson is even closer. And then Carson is kissing him. Stubble hard against his skin, lips soft, and the contrast makes a startling yet warm wave of lust rush down Rodney's spine. It's strange; he hadn't taken kissing under account when he'd thought of this, but now it seems like the most natural thing to do. He hadn't realised how much he's missed this, the simple act of moving his lips against another's, but there it is, rushing back to him, the desire like an ache in his bones. These things tend to creep up on you, he imagines. He lets his eyes flutter closed and his lips slide open. It becomes easy after that. It's like stage-fright, Rodney supposes; all jitters before the curtain rises but smooth sailing from there forward. Not that Rodney has ever known anything about acting.

Carson's fingers are cold as they slip under Rodney's shirt, but they warm up quickly, just as Rodney's skin under them does. Carson has doctor's hands, a touch that's trained to soothe; Rodney's surprised he hasn't noticed it before. He leans into it now, though, because touching is good. Touching is the right direction.

Shirt. Pants. Boxers. A nice pile in the middle of the floor (there'll be wrinkles and dust and a stuffy smell come morning, which is a shame since he'd only worn that shirt for a couple of hours). Socks. Socks are important. Off. Offoffoffoff.

Then skin on skin, a thud as they fall onto the bed, and he really doesn't care about the state of his clothes anyway.

It's going to be quick and slow at the same time, Rodney can tell, in that awkward, fumbling kind of way, but it's going to be good. Carson's breath is hot and moist, and his tongue is clever, determined; Rodney's sure his lips will burn a mark, right there, three inches left of Rodney's navel, and he tries to resist squirming under the touch. Carson shifts, just barely, and then there's red hot heat, wet, around the tip of Rodney's cock. Rodney pulls in a sharp breath of air.

Closing his eyes now would be criminal, he decides and keeps them open even when the rest of his body slowly slips out of control.

It's not complicated. It's extremely simple in all its strangeness, exactly the way Rodney planned it. It's certainly better than yet another date with his own hand. He idly wonders where Carson got so good at this, so okay with this, wonders if he's expected to return the favour as is or do something else entirely, and then— can't wonder about anything any more. (He's vaguely aware that there are sounds, breathy sounds, moaning sounds, and when he comes down from the wave of euphoria, he realises they came from him.)

He lies there, breathless, listless, feeling like he's morphed together with the bed and couldn't move even if he had any desire to. He watches from the side of his eye as Carson crawls up the bed to the bedside drawer, pulls out a tissue from somewhere within and spits. Rodney wonders what he should think about that. There's a certain kind of calm residing in his spine now, so he decides on not thinking anything at all.

Carson settles back down next to Rodney, lying on his side, propped up against one bent arm, peering down at Rodney. He waits until Rodney has caught his breath. "My turn," he points out with a small, almost coy smile, and Rodney laughs.

Carson leans over and kisses him again, hard. Apparently Carson simply likes kissing; Rodney has no objections to that, so he opens his mouth and slips his fingers into Carson's hair. Rodney can still taste himself in Carson's mouth or so he thinks at least, and Carson hums against his tongue like he knows exactly what Rodney's thinking, the sound suspiciously close to chuckling. Rodney feels like thwacking him but he rolls him over and pins him to the mattress with the weight of his body instead.

A one-night-stand, the normal kind, and definitely very uncomplicated. They never mention it again, never speak about it and never do it again. Yet even months, years later, Rodney can still taste the rush of power that came from being able to make Carson moan and shiver and, finally, come; even after all the time that passes, Rodney could never call it casual, that night when he'd focused all the attention he could muster on finding the soft depths and rough edges of Carson's body. No, not casual (not making love, either: Rodney refuses to even think that, even if it were only quietly, just in the most secluded corner of his mind, because that'd be ridiculous). Not casual, but still just a one-night-stand. It was that simple – exactly the way he'd planned it.

Just a one-night-stand; and that's why he never closes his eyes in bed at night to remember.

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