Why did I do that? I shouldn't have done that. I really really shouldn't have done that. I just let John Sheppard give me a blowjob . . . in my lab, no less. Not only am I going to be reminded of his hot mouth on my cock every time I look at the damn lab bench or the wall he slammed me against, or the floor where he used his body to shield mine from that alien-handball/weapon (I'm not ready to believe him until I've done a full analysis, not matter how intuitive he is), but I've just desecrated my sacred space. The lab is a place of pure thought . . . and some testing too, obviously. It is my haven away from all the beautiful people of the world . . . the annoying yet necessary and sometimes compulsory world of social interaction. And now I've let him ruin it! I knew I should have let Kavanagh post that sign 'No Grunts Allowed.' Only my intense hatred of the man held me back. If Kavanagh hates it, I have to like it . . . though that's not even a hundredth of a percentage of the reason for my attraction to Major Sheppard.

He squeezes my hand just slightly as he leads me down the empty corridor, quick to release it, should anybody be lurking around the next bend. He has a calm assurance about him . . . I can't describe it really, though I do recognize it. I've seen this all before. It crashed and burned then, and it will probably crash and burn now. But does that stop me? No. I guess that's the scientist's curse - curiosity killed the cat, whether or not it's truly alive or dead. I mean, I knew that stepping through the Stargate would greatly decrease my chances of survival, but I did it anyway. A lot of times I wish I were one of the stupid people, the blissfully ignorant. I know it's arrogant, but I'm smart, and I've long stopped trying to hide it . . . it's one of the few things I have to be proud of. I'm smart, which doesn't stop me from doing stupid things . . . it just allows me to see how truly stupid they are so I can agonize endlessly over them. Smart can't control the impulse . . . the need to do something in the very moment . . . that tangent line driving the shape of the overall function.

This is one of those stupid impulsive things. Yes, he's charming. Yes, he's a lot more intelligent than I took him for. Yes, he's understanding enough to know that I have a problem with beautiful people. And, yes, I'm sure he's a damned good fuck. But that doesn't change things, not really. I've know people just like him . . . all the charm in the world can't hide a 'user' in the end, and the better someone understands you, the better they can manipulate you.

Just looking at his confident gait, the sultry looks he gives me over his shoulder, and the devilish smile plastered on his face as he uses his psychic connection to the city to open the doors to his room and set the lights for romance, I am reminded of him.

I used to be innocent. I used to believe that someone like John Sheppard -beautiful, charismatic, and self-assured- could actually fall in love with someone like me - the opposite of all those things. I could say that if opposite charged particles could do it, we could too. But he taught me otherwise.

I had only been with two people before him. The girl I lost my virginity to -more a one-time charity thing than actual attraction- and my girlfriend throughout undergrad and a bit of grad school. We were both pretty clueless, and a lot distracted by our work. It was a proximity thing more than anything else. The ever-convenient buddy-fuck. We still do it sometimes, too, we just don't bother to pretend to be a couple the rest of the time. She's keeping Copernicus (my cat) for me while I'm gone. I've spent many a night thinking about the two of them.

Of course, he was the first man I'd slept with and he spoiled me to women. It's not that I don't still admire and desire women, it's that I know they can never be as good. Perhaps that's all this infatuation with the major is, after all, just me trying to find someone to replace him. They are both what I would consider 'male authority figures.'

He had that same commanding air about him, though he didn't command much of anything. Like John, he had just the right amount of arrogance to make you want to believe him, but not think him a pompous asshole. He was my advisor on my dissertation - tall and lanky, with silver hair that made him look distinguished, not old. I was so clueless, I didn't notice any of the signals he must have been giving me until he had me over for dinner one night while his wife was away - under the pretence of discussing research avenues for my theoretical work. He poured me red wine, and I felt frighteningly adult and classy, considering that I practically lived off cheese-wiz and peanut butter those days. Ah, the good old days. I felt so out of my league, nervously rambling, dropping things . . . by the time he kissed me, I was so scared I was screwing things up that I didn't actually notice I had my professor attached to my face for several seconds. Then I think I choked on my own tongue. But he played it all off - absorbed it into his seemingly boundless charm and made me think that it wasn't stupid or naïve, just endearing.

I think I passed out the first time he mentioned the idea of us making love, but he suffered (seemingly) through that too. I was pretty sure there was no way (at sub light speeds, anyway) that his thing was going to fit into my hole, but he brushed my concerns aside . . . made me believe. And I loved it - I believed all of it. I thought he would leave his wife for me one day. I believed he put up with all my neuroticism because he loved me. I even dared believe that he was 'the One' - he was attractive and intelligent and classy, who could ask for more?

Then he published the paper he's still famous for - composed almost entirely out of my post-coital moments of brilliance, borrowed from the scribbled equations I left on the notepad he left next to the bed right beside the lube, especially so I could get my thoughts written out before I fell asleep or snippets of conversation lying in each others arms. I used to stay up late at night (when his wife was home) thinking of clever things to say to him, just so that he wouldn't get bored with me, so he'd be impressed - I was a bit too clever.

I didn't tell anyone - I was too embarrassed. Besides, who was going to believe that I, the bumbling student who could barely keep the bills paid and his hair from sticking up, came up with those ideas? Who was going to believe that a classy man like him, with a wife and a picture perfect family, was screwing someone like me? They'd say I was desperate, hell, I was almost bankrupt . . . trying to blackmail him.

I don't know how the Air Force found me, really. I guess it was because I was forced into the realms of the truly theoretical by the stuff he stole from what would have been my dissertation. In the end, I suppose I wound up with the better deal. He's probably screwing ideas out of some other maladjusted nerd, and I'm out here, living the things we used to just speculate about.

But that doesn't make up for it. That doesn't make up for the fact that I was seduced by his security, his confidence, the idea that he would make everything all right. John has that about him too. It's a relativistic idea - that when approaching the speed of light, things only appear different from a place outside the frame reference. John has his own frame of reference - what might look like pipe dreams and pure insanity to an outsider, are very believable the second he pulls you along with him.

He's pulling me now, across the room with the low lighting, a single beam following us, casting his face half in shadow and half in darkness, so I can see every perfect curve of it. He has a slightly wicked smile on his lips - smug. He's finally vanquished me. In the lab, I suppose it was the spur of the moment, but I've had the entire winding journey back to his room to protest. We haven't had sex . . . we released tension. I could stop now, play it off as too many months spent with nothing by busy hands to keep me company . . . but this . . . the impulse is too strong.

He pushes me back onto the bed, a feral glint in his eyes. He drops his pants and boxers first - unusual, considering that it's either just unzipping for a quick fuck or the T-shirt coming off, at least in my experience. He's just as beautiful as I imagined he would be - narrow hips, a light fuzz of dark hair running up his toned thighs, a proud and already straining cock. I want to do to him what he did to me - I'm almost hungry for it.

I sit back up, reaching for him, but he doesn't let me, evading me easily, a playful grin on his face. He pulls off my shirt and undoes my belt buckle again. It's not the same fervent passion of the lab area - he's slow, almost tender, and this time he kisses me. His kisses are like the man himself: lazy in a way, but powerful and sometimes desperate. He takes his time exploring the inside of my mouth, trailing kisses down my neck and to my nipples. I'm ashamed at my meager dusting of chest hair, the way my nipples come to a point instead or settling along the curve of toned pecks. I try to suck in my jellyrolls to look like all the svelte military men I'm sure he's used to.

By the time he's made it down to my belly button, I'm moaning and writhing again, all self-consciousness forgotten. I can barely remember that I have a body. His kisses are delicate, and his rough hands roam around every piece of flab, every birthmark, every imperfection. He makes me feel like I am the center of his universe . . . and that's dangerous, because there's no way I could be. I know he's attracted to me (even if I can't really understand it) . . . but why pretend it's anything more than that? Why kid ourselves?

I reach down and halt John's ministrations with a hand on his head. "Stop."

"Why?" He looks kind of timid, but covers it up with an irreverent chuckle.

"I . . ." I can't tell him that he's being too attentive . . . too wonderful. I can't say that he reminds me of a married academic twice his age.

"This feels good, doesn't it?" His sparkling green eyes look up at mine and I see a hint of sadness lurking there. Perhaps it's just the lighting, but that look stops me . . . it reminds me of the look he gave to me, when I finally had the courage to confront him about the ideas for his paper. He looked apologetic and almost resigned, as though he had no other choice. But there are always other choices, parallel universes splitting off at each one.

I laugh, voice cracking to almost a squeak. "It feels great, but . . ."

"Then what's the problem?" His voice is almost too casual. He returns to his work, producing a tube of lubricant seemingly out of thin air with a grin like a magician performing at a child's birthday party. Unfortunately, I've seen way too much to believe in magic.

"I want to please you," I choke. Why won't he let me attend to him? Am I that disgusting? No . . . he says I'm beautiful . . . he's attracted to me, or else he wouldn't be here.

"You are." He brings his head back up directly into a tender kiss. I can't help it . . . even as my mind wants to continue to argue, my arms fold around him of their own accord. His body is lean and muscular, but there's also the thinnest layer of supple flesh around him - like baby fat, almost. He's soft in my arms, though I can feel the strength lurking just beneath, and so hot. I feel like I'm holding a piece of burning coal . . . dangerous, yet thawing, comfortable, as irresistible as a warm hearth.

I can't get enough of him - the taste of him, bitter but rich like a good cup of coffee; the feel of his body encircling mine, like he's holding me even though I've got my arms around him; the gentle rocking of his hips, playing against mine . . . exciting every atom, every subatomic particle, to motion. I want to be closer to him . . . I want all of this tender and dangerous man; I don't care if it will blow up in my face. Perhaps this is how those atoms feel the moment before nuclear fusion.

That's the only place in this world where anyone can truly touch. Even the strongest man could not get the atoms of his own cells to come into contact with the atoms of someone else's, those tiny forces are so strong, but in the center of a sun, atoms come together in a nuclear reaction . . . exploding out in waves of light . . . but then they have changed their atomic composition . . . they are no longer the same at all - they become a new more complex thing, and that is how greater and greater molecules are formed.

Sometimes I think people are like that . . . that we try and try to get close to each other, but it's ultimately impossible - not because of some great tidal wave sweeping us to opposite ends of the earth, but because of the most minuscule of things. And if two people truly to managed to come together . . . it's as dangerous as the violence of the sun . . . and in the end, they must shed their old selves to become something more. I've seen it happen . . . not just in the movies . . . my grandparents were that way: everything together and nothing apart . . . when gramps died, grams was soon to follow. I don't think I'm ready for that . . . I don't think I can even begin to shed my inherent identity (molecular or otherwise). It's so much easier to take refuge in your identity if people persecute you for it.

Then I feel it driving me - the impulse. Something about him makes me long for that nuclear fusion . . . that all-powerful coming together. I reach for the hem of his shirt . . . longing for at least the illusion of touch - if we can't share atoms, at least we can share heat. His lips leave mine feeling empty as he pulls back to meet my eyes, hands clasping tight around my wrists.

"No." Now, I've heard John Sheppard say 'no' a thousand times in a variety of different ways: 'When pigs fly,' 'Go to hell,' 'Over my dead body.' But I've never heard him say it this way - it's an order, but more a plea. His gaze is stern . . . with as much conviction in them as he does anything - John will not budge. I wonder if this is it . . . I've done wrong yet again, broken some social protocol I'm unaware of. I try to look away in shame, but he won't let me, shifting to maintain eye contact. His fingers intertwine with mine, guiding them away from the dangerous ridge that marks the transition between cloth and bare skin and toward the silky hotness between us.

It's been a while since I touched another man's cock, but this is somehow different than any time before. It's as though I already know what he likes - there's no testing of hypothesis . . . I push the buttons right the first time. His lips are on mine again and he growls and moans in my mouth . . . sound can travel between us - waves can break down the barrier of touch . . . I wonder if the same goes for waves of pleasure.

He rolls us over so I'm on top. I brace my elbows on either side of his head as I deepen the kiss - I know he's strong enough to hold me, but there's something fragile about him that I don't want to crush. His hips thrust up to meet mine - I love the force of friction - what would we do without it? Well, we wouldn’t have needed the wheel, for starters.

Then I gasp as I feel something silky and cool between my cheeks. I don't know how he's managed to uncap the lube and aim it so perfectly, when, in my mind, his hands have been all over me, never leaving. He's coordinated . . . I'll give him that. He laughs wickedly at my surprise, his smile radiant as he kisses me yet again, handing me the lube . . . which I drop. I am such an idiot.

"Damnit," he says, but he doesn't sound annoyed or angry. He leaps off me and bends over the side of the bed. My cock twinges painfully when I see his pale white ass (he did live in Antarctica, after all) displayed in all its naked glory as he looks under the bed, coming up victorious. "Aha!" He puts it firmly in my palm this time, allowing me to stroke him in wonder . . . my movements are so awed and slow that I can see him clench his fists in frustration, his lip curling into a growl. But he's letting me please him . . . letting me have some of that power . . . share his radiance.

The second he's thoroughly slicked he pounces on me . . . in battle he's a tiger but in the bedroom he can fool you into believing he's a kitten, playful yet just hinting at a wild untamed streak. And I am definitely a cat person . . . . Then his fingers are inside me . . . stretching me out. I almost forgot how good this feels. "John," I gasp incoherently. Normally I have so much to say.

"Like that, do you?" He arches his eyebrow, then lowers his head down to make little love nips down my chest, picking that sensitive spot above my collarbone as his main area of focus - it's been a long time since I've had a hickey.

"John!" God, he's torturing me . . . the bastard. Maybe this is all about revenge.

"You didn't say the magic word." It can't be as light and playful and seductive as he makes it sound . . . he just wants me to submit. I will not . . .

"Please, John, ohmygod, please!" Okay, so maybe I will. As usual, I prove that the neurons controlling my mouth have formed some sort of resistance against the rest of my brain . . . and I know where their leader is . . . damn the little head and his throbbin impulses.

His smile widens. I wish he would use that one more, the wide boyish grin instead of the sarcastic scowl. It makes him look as young and innocent as he should be. John is too good a man to be as jaded as he is. "If you say so."

I feel his cock pushing at my entrance, searching, questing, edging itself a little deeper in tentative but precise strokes . . . the same way one plans an invasion. I was expecting violent . . . hard and fast . . . a quick fuck like that blow-job in the lab, but he's amazingly tender, looking into my eyes and searching for even the slightest discomfort instead of taking me from behind, where he could deny that it was me he was fucking. It's too gentle . . . this isn't him . . . some alien parasite has taken over John Sheppard and made him act this way. He doesn't even like me! He's not allowed to care about me this much.

When he's finally buried within me, he stops, panting and laying his forehead against my shoulder. I want nothing more than for him to move within me . . . I'm dying for it. "Move, goddamnit!" But he lingers there, holding us on the brink of something wonderful.

I guess I'll just have to take matters into my own hands. It feels strange, running my fingers down his back and only feeling the cloth of his T-shirt, but these are the conditions he's set, and he's the only one in position to set any. I need him more than he needs me. I let my fingers trail down to his firm buttocks. I give them a squeeze, teasing a finger down the crack. He moans and bites down on my shoulder - just shy of drawing blood. I can feel him twitch within me. Though I want nothing more than for him to move, I can't even make myself voice it.

I rock up against him, pushing him up off the bed - with what strength, I don't know. He can't hold back any longer . . . I've finally gotten him to submit. He thrusts within me, hitting the prostate every time and I know that those brain cells really are waging war because I can see explosions . . . fireworks like the ones I used to make in my best friend's garage as a child . . . until we blew it up. That's when I got into more theoretical physics.

Then I realize it's not just my mind . . . the lights are actually pulsing with each thrust . . . tied somehow to his brain. They're pulsing faster and faster, and I can't help but think of that movie . . . Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Communication with no words. He doesn't say anything as he increases the pace . . . building our momentum until there's nothing stopping us . . . momentum equals mass times velocity. It's all about speed, the rush . . . the thrust . . . impulse is the derivative of momentum . . . funny, I always thought it was impulse that drove action, or maybe it does . . . chicken and eggs, no one exists without the other.

The more the momentum builds the more the impulse . . . the more the desire to be with him . . . here in this much-needed moment, consequences be damned. I don't think anything can stop this . . . despite all the fireworks, I still feel as though there's more to be had . . . that I don't want it to end. "Fuck . . . " he says. It's not 'I love you' or 'I need you' or 'I care about you,' but it's a break in his armor . . . his control. I've made him lose control, and that pushes me screaming over the edge . . . he's not far behind. "Rodney!" He said my name.

I come so hard I think I'm going to faint. The explosions in my brain have reached nuclear proportions, and the resulting mushroom cloud envelopes all my perceptions until I emerge from the murk of sated pleasure to find him still lying on top of me, panting, hair sticking up all over the place with a contented grin on his face. I remember how he looked in the midst of a blinding orgasm . . . just a glimpse in the fog of my own climax - he looked so utterly vulnerable. I feel honored to have seen him that way.

He rolls off me, but lays his head on my shoulder. I should move, but I seemed to have left all my muscles and bones back with the rest of my brain before my dick preformed its little coup d'etat. I really should have eaten something before we did all this. I've sprayed a jet of come all over his clean military issue sheets, and I realize that he didn't even have to touch me once to do it . . . no one has ever been able to do that before. Maybe we don't need friction after all . . .

"God, that was awesome," he pants.

"Awesome." Too awesome. He can't mean that. He's just saying it. He doesn't need me, couldn't want me. I was just another check on his list, something else to try in the boredom between missions. He couldn't possibly have enjoyed that as much as I did. He must have had so much better. Liar.

The big head has taken control again . . . my muscles (what little there are of them) have regained the ability to move. I step out of the bed. "I should . . . we left the lab unattended . . . I . . . well, I had a good time."

"So did I." He smiles, but I can see a tinge of disappointment in his eyes. He stands and helps me gather my clothes. I trying to bat his helping hands away, but he ignores me, looking disapproving when I fumble with my socks and in my haste to get out of here before I do anything dangerous -like believe that he actually cares-, finally stuffing them in my pocket and standing to go. He even chuckles to himself as he walks me to the door, despite the fact that he could have used the damn gene to open and close it.

He looks down at the floor, unsure what to do. I open my mouth, not know what I'm going to say, when he interrupts me. "Well, this is awkward." As though saying it will downplay the awkwardness. I'm tempted to roll my eyes.

"I have to . . ."

"You told me already." He give a slightly pained half-smile. "Maybe we could do this again sometime?" Why is he looking so goddamn timid? Am I supposed to believe that John Sheppard is worried that I won't be back in his bed the second he says the word? I may not trust him, and I may know that I'm setting myself up for disappointment, but impulse is a powerful thing. He's using me . . . I know it . . . I just can't figure out what he stands to gain by it.

"Maybe."