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A set of six drabbles for sga_flashfic's "5 things" challenge. So I've been watching various sources of Hewlett-y goodness and it's occurred to me that I might have a wee little crush on David Hewlett. But that's okay, because John Sheppard has a huge massive one on Rodney McKay.
The thing is, noses aren't anything special; to call a nose unnoticeable is about the best compliment you can expect. But Rodney's is so neatly shaped, the bridge so sharply narrow, that occasionally, when John's tired, he struggles not to reach out and stroke one finger down its length, swoop down the ski-jump slope of it to launch off the pointed tip.
He always stops himself in time, but when the winds of the latest snow planet have reddened Rodney's ears and that quick point, John has to stick his hands in his pockets, pretending it's to keep them warm.
Rodney's eyes aren't as blue as Carson's, electric and striking; but they're clear like the seas around Atlantis, and when he's panicked they're huge enough to swallow his whole face entire, big as a billboard advertising every skipped beat of his heart.
More than that, though, it's the lashes. John doesn't remember when he first noticed them—not for a while, somehow, astonishingly; and then one day Rodney blinked and whoa. It's good they're pale, brown like his hair, because if they were darker he'd be mistaken for wearing mascara. Even so, when they catch the light, John's caught breathless.
It's the snap of his fingers, click click click, and the whole city jumps to attention—no, it's the 127 wpm he boasts of, and if you watch him type he backspaces once in twenty minutes—no, it's the way he can't find enough words no matter how fast his tongue moves, so his hands have to paint his extra thoughts in the air—no, it's the fidget and twitch when he's thinking, and snap-clap-bounce off his fists when he's got the answer—no, it's him placing the ZPM, rock-steady, wonder in his face but it never trembles—no, it's—
One time in the showers, for reasons John never deduced or asked about, Ronon casually dropped his hand and smacked McKay's ass, not to hurt, but hard enough that the slap echoed off the tiles. "What?" Rodney shrieked, and wrapped a protective towel around his pinkened posterior as he glared and muttered dire threats of harassment and lawsuits, and Ronon just grinned.
Not like John never noticed before, hard to miss in the showers, that it's full and heart-shaped and really kind of perfect, but it's the sound, that round ample smack, that John can't get out of his mind.
Rodney's mouth is a down-slanting slash, when he's upset and his lips press flat; when he's worried both sides drag down. When he's yelling—shouting or screaming, both are memorable—his mouth opens wide and dark, square teeth showing blunt behind.
John doesn't see Rodney smile much. Partly because Rodney doesn't, nervous chuckles but never a laugh, and rarely a real grin. Mostly because John has to look away, those prized moments when Rodney's eternal excitement transmutes to joy—nothing would give John away faster than the way when Rodney really smiles, he has no choice but to return it.
Another day, another planet, another death-defying mission. Ronon's gun saved their lives and Teyla's words brokered the peace, but Rodney's the one who got the villagers' Ancient agriculture machine working again, in time to keep a local feud from boiling over into open war. John did his part, kibitzing to keep Rodney on track, but in the end the day is McKay's.
"Good job, Rodney," John tells him on the walk back to the gate.
"Yes, yes," Rodney replies, sarcastic, though he bounces a bit on his toes, "I know, you only love me for my brain."
"Right," John says.
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