I've always had this theory about beautiful people. I know I have a lot of theories about a lot of things, but I think this one might actually be the one that's stayed with me the longest. That's almost a terrifying thought, come to think about it . . . Am I so pathetic that the only things I can cling to are teenaged musings infused with way too much self-loathing for a man my age?

Then again, I wasn't expecting to end up in New Mexico desert, finding out that all the theories of alien abduction and the mysterious builders of the great pyramids that all my overly-paranoid friends used to talk about were actually true. I used to be convinced that aliens, like God, were not necessarily an impossibility, but an improbability so unlikely as to approach the border of the impossible. I used to wonder why any greater beings would care about such messed-up, abusive, ugly, creatures such as us. So, those theories went down the tubes, along with a lot of my preconceived notions about the laws of physics.

I could trash my Harvard courses in quantum mechanics, but not my theory of beautiful people . . . how sad is that? I guess social norms -while sometimes volatile- can be more permanent that so-called scientific truths. Because social norms are at least verifiably true in the moment they are conceived - being here in a far-off galaxy doing things I never imagined has shown me that science only holds true until the scientist knows more.

But I guess I'm distracting myself again . . . My theory of beautiful people: Beautiful people are not born meaner or greedier or snobbier than anybody else. There is no scientific trade-off between brain cells and the pleasing nature of face and body. Beautiful people, however, tend to be more successful.

Science can define beauty. I once heard a mathematician speak of the almighty number phi and its use in the ancient Masonic arts - back when there was no separation between science and religion and philosophy. He told me it was a magic ratio - Da Vinci used it in the Mona Lisa as the ratio from eyes to hairline to face, in the distance between the eyes. He said that was what gave her beauty, not her smile. Incidentally, even the Goa'uld picked up on this magic ratio - the sides of the pyramid to the hight - the perfect pitch of resonance in the so-called 'King's Chamber.'

I'm not a philosopher, in fact, I know too much of the bad things in the universe to come up with a philosophy that wouldn't make me suicidal or more paranoid and nihilistic than I already am - so I don't. I do know, however, that this magical rule of phi, does have sway over people. People react differently to the beautiful - as though they could see their clarity of character in the subtle mathematical interpretations of what is aesthetically pleasing. People trust them more. Back in the Victorian ages they used to call this physionogomy. It was considered a science. We don't dare do it anymore - it's not politically correct. But I'd rather have all the variables properly identified and out in the open than pretend that we don't do things we really do.

As one of those not blessed with natural beauty and grace, I guess I have the reverse. I am automatically distrustful of beautiful people, especially beautiful women. Major Carter was a problem for me - I just couldn't believe someone like her would turn to science - that anyone would bother to check over her scientific findings if they could check over her legs instead. And while I was proven wrong about her intelligence - they still trusted her over me.

Because, while they might not be born meaner or greedier or snobbier, they become that way. Everyone always gives them what they want, because everyone believes them. They look trustworthy. They are too used to getting what they want, and when they don't, they lash out. Beautiful people, like spoiled children, never have to work for anything. And they get away with everything.

It's not that nerds suddenly become unattractive through lack of physical activity or sunlight (we're not vampires, after all) - it's just that 'ugly' people don't have things handed to them on a silver platter. We can't trade on our looks, so we're forced to come up with other forms of currency - we use logic and reason to gain trust.

I don't really blame them, but beautiful people will use you. They're used to having people there to support them, and they expect you to jump in the queue. Nothing good can ever come of a relationship of any kind with a beautiful person. That's why I refuse to let myself get close to him - or at least that's what I tell myself.

The first thing I thought when I met Major John Sheppard was 'this guy is probably here as the general's boy-toy.' Of course, the rumors I later heard about the general and Dr. Jackson put that theory to rest, but the initial impression remained. John Sheppard looked like the kind of guy who would simultaneously sleep his way up the chain of command and get himself shipped out to a frozen hell-hole like Antarctica because he was just too damn good at it and became a threat. If other people got even a tenth the bisexual vibe I did, then they would know enough to persecute him for it. I certainly don't envy him that, though he seems to have developed a shield of nonchalance and sarcasm a kilometer thick. Things just roll of the guy - unless something he really cares about is at stake.

I guess that's how I started to fall for him. Normally, I don't let myself go for the beautiful ones, because I've long learned that it doesn't benefit to want what you can't have. But he's committed to his ideals and morals in a way that continually impresses me. I never would have thought about risking my life to save a teammate until I met John. He has this fire about him - this way of making everyone feel as though he'd walk through hell and back for them. He practically did. I knew he and Colonel Sumner didn't get along, but that didn't stop him from going back to save him, and almost getting himself killed in the process.

I'm not saying I'm in love with him. I'm not even sure what love is. It's not scientifically definable. And if it's one of those things you 'just *know*' as so many people keep telling me, then I obviously haven't felt it, because I don't *know.* But that doesn't stop me from developing a mild case of hero worship . . . and a large case of unrestrained lust. John is a good-looking guy, there's no doubt about that. He's both tough and almost boyishly sweet at the same time. He's well muscled and confident. And his smile is mesmerizing, as though he could make you forget all your worries - and, trust me, I have a lot of them. So I'm infatuated, even though I know nothing good can come of it.

I know he's a slut . . . well I don't *know,* but this base is like a small town - everyone knows everyone else's business and I have personal experience to back up the rumors.

He and Teyla have this thing . . . the chemistry between them makes me want to just scream 'get it over with and get a room' at them on most of our missions. He does his best disarming childish looks for her in a routine that should make any woman -or man, for that matter- swoon. He makes sure he's always kind and a gentleman, while slipping in the slick playboy mix of the 'nice-guy'/'bad-boy.' She might not be of our culture, but I can tell it's working.

And he and Elizabeth - they don't always agree, but she's way too concerned about him for an unbiased leader. And if I'm right about his previous activities - screwing his superior is probably force of habit, if nothing else.

As for Lieutenant Ford . . . I catch them checking each other out in the locker room on a regular basis. And they spend way too much time together in their downtime. Shouldn't they want to get away from the people they have to work with day-in day-out? I'm the least sure about that one, though, because, as much sexual tension as there might be, Ford is a soldier directly under his command. And, while John might be the type to follow a commanding officer into a 'life of sin' or bend the regulations he doesn't see as being justified, he seems like the type that might actually believe what the military says about bias in combat situations and fraternization. So even if his is boinking every civilian on the goddamn base, he is dedicated to fairness. He's even fair enough to spread the sexual tension to me.

So we flirt, under the guise of bickering. He'll slip in the occasional sexual innuendo - just to let me know he knows I want him. He's so damn overconfident. He thinks everyone wants him - though I wouldn't be surprised if they do. Beautiful people will do that too - they'll flirt when they have absolutely no intention of doing anything about it, just because they like toying with you - feeling powerful. If there's no one around they'd rather have, they'll sink low . . . so they never have to feel unwanted.

It wouldn't be so bad if he weren't around all the time running through the corridors and laughing in that way the lights his entire face . . . if he'd just stop doing heroic things like risking his life for me. Sometimes I like to think he does it because he wants to protect *me* not a key scientist, not a member of his team. And it wouldn't be so bad if I weren't so goddamn horny. Leaving Earth means leaving strip joints and Playboy and Hustler and the internet and those nice friends you can call upon every once and while to ease the tension. It's even far away from mindless distractions like video games or physics conferences.

Sure, I've got plenty of completely unknown and utterly fascinating pieces of alien technology to keep me occupied, but, as much as it pains me to admit it, physics isn't life. It can only sustain me about 87 percent of the time. And that last 13 percent is me and my right hand doing the old knuckle shuffle.

And then I can't think about the Starbucks girl in Colorado Springs, or that hot alien babe on Star Trek, or the Russian scientist that once fucked my brains out right on top of the lab bench for no reason other than the fact we had both secretly fantasized about it. We're too far away from all that now, as though the sex-waves can't cross so much empty space to reach this galaxy.

But that theory's bunk as well. There are plenty of fantasy-ripe figures right herr on Atlantis. I could think of Teyla and the way her tits giggle like the girls on Baywatch when she runs. I could imagine Elizabeth wearing black leather and holding a whip, using that deep and commanding voice to force me to pleasure her. I could dredge up memories of Carson's feather light touches as he tends to me in the infirmary - his sexy accent and his brilliant eyes.

But I only see him, looking at me with that collected yet passionate intensity he seems to find in the midst of battle. I imagine him laid out on his back whimpering and begging for me to complete him. I see him in the tough-commander mode, pounding into me from behind with a feral growl that I'm sure comes easy to him.

I close my eyes and feel my arousal stirring, even though I'm sitting in a lab surround by Ancient technology.

"You look like shit." I stare into intense green eyes and drop the file I've been holding in shock. The military trained him to be stealthy . . . but he seems to use it more to sneak up on me than on missions.

"Good evening to you too," I reply with a sneer.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to get a little sleep. The toys will be here tomorrow." He tries to sound casual, but, even when he's looking at some ancient device he's playing with and not me, I can tell by the crease in his brow that he really is concerned. My heart flutters.

"I don't need sleep. I need to figure out these devices." I need some chocolate . . . some coffee . . . chocolate coffee . . . God, I miss my venti double espresso mocachinos. Too bad the nearest Starbucks is a few billion light-years away. "Who knows, one of them could be the key to stopping the Wraith, or at least give us an advantage . . . I hate being vulnerable . . ."

He turns to face me, green eyes serious for once. "And you think I enjoy it?" He turns back to the device, tossing it up and down as if to gauge its weight.

I reach out for it, irritated. "Maybe it would be best you didn't touch anything in here." If I had it my way, he wouldn't even be allowed in the lab. Not only is he a major distraction, but he lights up Ancient technology like Christmas lights . . . another reason why I'm both jealous and infatuated. I wonder if the *technology* knows he's one of the beautiful people . . . if he has phi written into the very make-up of his genetic code. That would explain the inescapable attraction, like the gravity of a black hole. It would explain the charisma that's both irritating and charming at the same time - the perfect mix of the two.

His reflexes are quicker than mine and he snatches the small metallic ball away from my outstretched hand. "You didn't say the magic word."

I give a melodramatic and exasperated sigh. I really don't need him here reminding me how much I want him . . . not when I have work to do. "I still don't know what that does . . . it might be a bomb . . . you might set it off and kill us both if you think the wrong thoughts . . . why don't you just take your magic ATA gene elsewhere and . . . play football or something." Or screw one of your bimbos . . .

I see a brief flash of hurt in his eyes before he holds the device still, letting his lip curl to match the sarcasm in his words. "I'll try not to think about how much I want to blow you up then."

I hold my hand out again, impatiently, but the second he goes to drop the ball into my palm, it takes off, ricocheting around the room like in racquetball, only with way more breakable objects in its path and nobody actually hitting it. I hear glass shatter, then I feel a hard force bowling into mine. He's pinned me to the floor, protecting my body with his, and I can feel his muscles tense through the soft, tight fabric of his shirt. His face is inches from mine. I can feel the warmth of his breath - it smells like coffee with a tinge of mint. And I can see the light sparkling in his eyes. My heartbeat takes off as though I've just run a marathon. It would be so easy to just close the centimeters between us and kiss him right now. His features are suspended for a second, as though he's considering doing something, but they soon melt into a boyish grin as he rolls off me directly into a protective crouch.

The device -whatever it is- goes straight for him, and I cringe, hoping I'm not going to end up dragging him off to the hospital wing - or being left alone to deal with this thing. Before it can hit him, however, he reaches out and grabs it. I hear a harsh slap as it smacks against the flesh of his palm, but he puts in down on the table completely turned off. He pulls me to my feet with a smile as I eye it warily.

"It's off." He sits down on a stool and spins it around, as though some alien weapon didn't just try to kill him.

"You're sure?"

He gives me a sideways look, as if to say, 'You question the master?' I gulp and approach it cautiously, putting it in a metal storage box for safekeeping.

He's massaging his palm where he caught it, but, if he's in pain, he won't let it show. "It's a game."

I look around the lab-turned-disaster-area. "A game?! That thing was trying to take our heads off, and you're telling me it's just a game!"

"Like handball, only the device has it's own randomness factor built in."

"And you know this, how?"

He shrugs, a grin on his face that’s both smug and enigmatic. He looks both ways as though checking for eavesdroppers and uses a stage-whisper, "The voices in my head told me."

I roll my eyes. As much as I'd like to, I refuse to indulge him. "Do you think you could possibly be any less helpful?"

Wrong question. "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Take one down and pass it around . . . ninety-eight bottles . . ."

"Ah, ah, ah . . . I get it. Why are you doing this to me?" I'm not sure if I'm asking the major or God.

"Because I can. And because I think you need to loosen up. You're so high strung, Rodney. Just try to relax a little." I try not to notice that he's used my first name. I like the way he says it - like there's more about it he's not saying.

"I can't relax . . . there's so much to be done . . . we still haven't explored the entire city . . . we need to find another ZPM . . . we're cut off from life as we know it . . . I need to figure out this technology . . . we have a bunch of alien vampires trying to kill us . . . and I haven't gotten laid in months." Did I say that last part out loud?

From the mischievous grin that appears on his, I deduce I have. I bury my head in my hands, grunting in frustration.

When I look up, I see him studying me. If he makes some sarcastic comment I don't think I can take it. But he just looks up at me through long lashes and smiles. "Well, I don't know about the others, but I know how we can fix that last one."

Before I know it, he's used the grace I so admire out in the field to vault across the room to press me up against the wall. I feel his stubble rough against my cheek, but he doesn't kiss me on the lips, choosing to attack my neck instead.

Even though my knees are practically buckling, my mind goes into overdrive. Why is he doing this? He couldn't possibly want me. Does he just want me to be more efficient? Is he going to get me all worked up and then leave? "Wait."

He stops, looking at me, eyes clouded. He looks surprised. "Didn't you just say . . ."

"Why are you doing this?"

He shrugs casually. "Because I want to." He goes back to attacking my neck, grinding his groin against mine. I can feel his hardness through the rough material of his fatigues.

It feels so good, but I won't accept it. It's too good to be true. "The door's unlocked," I squeak. Anyone could walk in on us!

"I don't care." He's so confident. I've only had that one experience with public places, and I was checking the door too often to fully enjoy it. Something in his flippancy makes me believe him, however. So what if someone finds us? It's not the end of the world. He's kneading my ass possessively now. I'm desperately trying not to melt into his arms, already painfully hard.

It's been so long . . . . I know he's one of the beautiful people, doing this on a whim, because he wants me to feel indebted to him . . . because he wants another devoted admirer . . . because I'm the only one here . . . because he wants me to be more efficient . . . because he can. Still, I deserve this, don't I? I don't have to let him use me. I can use him right back, because . . . God, I need this.

He traps my arms above my head, knowing that even with a weight advantage, I'm no match for his strength. I don't struggle as he pulls my shirt up and laves my already hardening nipples or when he uses just one talented hand to undo my pants. He won't let me touch him . . . and I wonder if that's a power thing too. He's in charge, in control. I'm not allowed to please him - undo him the way he is me.

I never thought I would find the commanding officer on this base, and my team leader, on his knees, sucking me off for all his worth. I try to restrain myself, but I can't help but thrust into him. That just makes him fiercer and more determined. He swallows me to the root, and does something with his tongue that makes me see stars - though the constellations of which galaxy, I couldn't tell you.

I sag against the wall, weak-kneed and holding onto his shoulders for support, as he swallows every drop, milking me until I feel both empty and completely full. I pant, speechless.

He stands, wiping a drop of fluid from the side of his mouth on the back of hand, eyes wild and with a smug grin on his face. He seems satisfied, but I can see that he's still rock hard. I suppose he'll want me to reciprocate and make it several times more degrading, because I won't be able to fulfill him the way he has me . . . because he has others for that.

I reach out for him, but he stops me. Maybe he thinks I'm so far below him that he would rather please himself then give me even that much power over him. "I was hoping you would want to relax somewhere more private," he says softly, almost ashamed.

I don't know what to say. So he just stands there while I zip up my pants, taking deep breaths and seeming to get himself under control. The flush is fading from his cheeks and when I look down, I notice his erection is waning. When he next opens his eyes, they're troubled and all trace of command has gone from his voice. "I thought we could continue this in my room. I don't really see anything here we could use . . ." So that's what he wants. He wants to play butt-jockey . . . get me to submit. But I've spent my life hating and resisting the charms of beautiful people. I refused to be used by him now.

"No." I'm surprised in the confidence in my own voice, considering the fact that my body thinks going back to John's room would be an excellent idea.

He looks even more concerned than before. I can see his deeply-ingrained morality kicking into gear, the doubts playing across his face. "You wanted this, right?"

If were to speak I would probably admit how I want so much more, so I just nod.

"Then why . . ."

I can't tell him about beautiful people. I can't tell him that I don't trust him. I might trust him with my life, but I refuse to be vulnerable before him when I know that people like him can only hurt me. "Phi," I whisper.

He stares at me for a long moment, head quirking to the side in the most endearing lost-little-boy way. I feel a brief pang of superiority, before he responds, speaking slowly and clearly, as though saying it that way will make him right. "But, Rodney, I think you're beautiful too." He smiles the first timid smile I've seen on his usually confident, if not belligerent, face, and gives me a soft kiss on the lips, allowing me to taste my own cum. It is only now that I realize John Sheppard has disproved yet another rule I took to be sacred - that I was far too quick to judge him.