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Fic: Between Friends 1/2 (SGA)

Title: Between Friends
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, Mitchell
Warnings: No spoilers. Vaguely 3nd season-ish. Could be slotted in there somewhere.
Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly. If they were, there would be a season 6 and things would be different.
Word Count: Part 1: 3912
Notes: Thanks to the_cephalopod for cheering me on and outsideth3box for great ideas, feedback and beta reading. ALl mistakes remain my own as I always go back and tweak more after the beta fixes my mistakes....

Summary:"Aww, c'mon doc," Mitchell cajoled, giving him a friendly slap on the back. "What's a little blow job between friends?"

McKay awoke with a start. For a split second, he panicked at the unfamiliar surroundings, but then his brain jerked into gear. This was his apartment - on Earth, in Colorado.

He blinked a couple times, then lifted his face from his pillow to cast a bleary gaze around the room. He was sprawled out in his bed, still in last night's clothing with a fuzzy tongue and a mouth that tasted like something many days dead. He *hated* it when he fell asleep without brushing his teeth. A persistent ache was developing behind his right eye, and he groaned as he tried to recall just what the hell he'd been doing last night. He caught an unexpected movement at the edge of his vision, and froze.

Turning his head, he discovered a tuft of dark hair peeking out from the blanket beside him. Sheppard. McKay would have recognized that gravity-defying, non-regulation mop anywhere. It was a bit disconcerting to find the Colonel smushed right up against him, but the warmth of the other man's body along his own was disturbingly comfortable, and it was tempting to let his head drop to his pillow and go back to sleep. Instead, he tried to roll away, but was stopped by two things.

Sheppard's hand was down the back of his pants, his fingers splayed open over one ass cheek. More unsettling than that was discovering his own hand was down the *front* of Sheppard's pants, apparently getting intimately acquainted with the Colonel's morning wood.

As he stared down at his unexpected bedmate, fragmented memories from the previous night's adventures drifted before his eyes. There had been an awful lot of alcohol involved, he remembered that much. And Colonel Mitchell. McKay knew that *somehow* he was responsible. He was just having a hard time remembering exactly how.

Right about then, hell's own hangover kicked him in the head with steel toed jackboots, and all he could think about was how to prevent his brain from leaking out his ears.

**18 hours earlier**

"Hey, Sheppard."

Rodney glanced up from packing his presentation materials to see Colonel Mitchell slip into the briefing room. The last of the IOA delegates had finally wandered off after the exhausting Dog and Pony show.

"Mitchell," Sheppard replied by way of both greeting and inquiry. John had never been a man to waste words.

"I heard you guys were in town for a few days. Looks like you're done with the grilling here. You wanna go grab a beer?"

McKay closed his folder with a quiet sigh. He'd been planning to ask Sheppard if he wanted to escape the SGC and crash at his apartment for the night. Order pizza, watch crap on TV, drink beer - do guy stuff. Now that he had a better offer, that wasn't going to be happening.

He was just resigning himself to staying on base and reviewing personnel files when he heard John's reply.

"Yeah, sounds good. Rodney and I'll finish up here and meet you topside in 20."

He fumbled and almost dropped his tablet, then looked up sharply. Sheppard's attention was fixed on his own papers. Mitchell just gave Rodney the once over and then shrugged.

"Sure." With that, he was gone.

McKay cleared his throat, and Sheppard looked up inquisitively. "Do you really want me to come along?"

"Do I want...?" Sheppard looked surprised. "Oh, sorry, Rodney. I should have asked if you wanted to come." As McKay watched, the look morphed into something else, part chagrin and if he didn't know better, he'd have to call it disappointment. "I just assumed you were as sick of being stuck in the mountain as I am and you'd want to get out. You already have plans?"

"Yes. Err, no. I mean, yeah I have things I should do, but -" Rodney stumbled, trying to explain. He gave up, and smiled at Sheppard. "It's not important. Let's get out of here."


They were surrounded by flashing lights and noise, and something that passed for music was blaring through the speakers. They'd found a table far away from the dance floor and they were jostled by the press of bodies moving around them in the bar.

McKay was not impressed. "Explain to me, again, why did we had to come *here*?"

Mitchell just laughed. "I already told you. College club on a Wednesday. It's cheap shooter night." He slammed back his last tequila shot. "Your turn, doc."

"Like I can't afford to pay premium prices to go somewhere with a little class," McKay grumbled.

Sheppard gave Mitchell a knowing look and leaned over as if to whisper confidentially to McKay. "It has nothing to do with the shooters. He's here for the scenery."

Mitchell flipped him off as he took a swig of his beer. "If there happens to be a little something to look at while I'm drinking my shooters, well, that's just a bonus."

McKay rolled his eyes and stared at the row of shot glasses in front of him. The ones he had somehow allowed Colonel Cameron Fucking Mitchell of all people, dare him into drinking. As if they were in grade school competing over who could eat the most hot dogs.

Well, he always *had* been the one who could eat the most hot dogs. Not that he had anything to prove, but he wasn't about to let some overly cheerful, *citrus wielding* flyboy accuse him of wussing out. And it had nothing at all to do with being shown up in front a certain other Air Force Colonel.

"You don't have to do this ya know."

Sheppard sat there, casually leaning on one elbow against the narrow table they claimed. He was the picture of nonchalance, a guy hanging out with his buddies for drinks at the bar, but Rodney knew him well enough to see beneath the facade. There was coiled tension in his body, the same tension he displayed in an unknown situation when he stood ready to leap to his team's defence at any moment. There was a hidden awareness in those half-lidded eyes that missed nothing going on around him. Sheppard wasn't one to unwind easily and in McKay's estimation, Sheppard seriously needed to get drunk. Or laid. Both if possible.

He rolled his eyes again. "It's only a couple of shots, Colonel. I'm not a total lightweight!" he snarked, not really rankled by Sheppard's overprotective streak, but arguing the point because it was what he did. What they did.

Sheppard picked up his beer and shook his head. "I'm not carrying you home, McKay," he warned as he took a swig of his Pilsner.

Rodney shifted his attention back to his shooters. Unlike the tequila shots Mitchell had knocked back, these were made mostly of liqueurs. He figured they weren't as potent as the tequila had been, but they could still be dangerous. He eyed them warily.

"None of these have any sort of citrus in them, do they?" he demanded.

"C'mon, doc," Mitchell replied, shaking his head. "I know better than that. 100% citrus free." The SG1 leader crossed his arms and cocked his head over to one side. "I drank mine. You're not wimping out on me now, are you?"

McKay scowled up at him. "I'm just taking the very reasonable precaution of insuring I'm not about to drink something that will kill me. You wouldn't be the first person who forgot."

Mitchell just smirked."Whatever. You in or out?"

"I'm warning you, Cam." Sheppard gave Mitchell a significant look. "You get him get him drunk-" he pointed McKay's direction with his beer bottle - "and *you'll* be the one dealing with the aftermath." Sheppard cocked an eyebrow, a smile playing about his lips. "I've seen what he's like after one too many mugs of the local moonshine-"

"Hey!" McKay objected. "That was totally not *my* fault. The Tellani didn't bother to tell us that stuff was alcoholic until I'd already had three mugs! I was thirsty and it was *hot*!"

Sheppard took another long pull on his beer, impervious to McKay's scowl. Rodney turned his attention back to the shooters. He could do this. As he reached out to pick up the first one, Mitchell stopped him.

"No, no, no," Mitchell admonished, batting his hand away from the shot glass."You gotta drink it the traditional way."

McKay took in the smarmy grin and his eyes narrowed. "And how does one drink a shot in the traditional way?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Not every shot," Mitchell assured him. "Just this one," he said indicating the two toned shot with the whipped cream on the top. "That one's special. No hands allowed."

"So I pick it up how, with the power of my mind?"

He caught Sheppard struggling to hide his grin and realized the Colonel knew something he didn't, and he wasn't going to like it. Then Mitchell's grin ratchet from smarmy up to fully evil.

"This," explained Mitchell, "Is a Blow Job shooter." Rodney's eyes grew wide and he felt the prickly heat crawling up his face to the tips of his ears. He knew he was glowing bright red as Mitchell continued. "First, clasp your hands behind your back. Next, you wrap your lips around the rim of the shot glass. Then you toss the whole thing back - and like any good blow job, it ends with a swallow."

McKay slowly turned his head to look at Sheppard, who had given up all pretence of hiding and was actively snickering. "Shut up. Asshole."

"Aww, c'mon doc," Mitchell cajoled, giving him a friendly slap on the back. "What's a little blow job between friends?"

He spluttered incoherently for a moment while Sheppard completely lost it, bracing both hands against the table, his whole body shaking with glee as he brayed his stupid donkey laugh.

He thought about saying something. Ripping a strip off both of them. But he would still have the shooters sitting there at the end of it, so he contented himself with knowing that he was going to make them pay at some future point - oh yes, they would pay dearly for this - and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Now just wrap your lips around-"

"Yes, yes, I think I can grasp the basic dynamics of a blow job, thank you very much, Colonel," he snapped, cutting Mitchell off. "I've been on the receiving end before and I am quite capable of extrapolation. Scientist and all that."

He leaned over and took the glass in his lips. Carefully straightening back up, McKay tossed his head back with a quick flip and swallowed. Mitchell gave him a "Woot!" as Rodney grabbed the glass from his mouth. "Way to go, McKay!"

He studied the other man for a moment and abruptly realized that Mitchell was not mocking him or playing 'torment the geeky scientist'. He was treating him like he was just one of the guys. And the Guy Code demanded that guys occasionally publicly humiliate each other in front of their friends.

A little bit of the liqueur and cream had dribbled from the corner of his mouth down his chin, and he wiped it away with his fingers. He brought them to his mouth to suck the whip cream off when he caught Sheppard's eyes. The other man was watching him, and the intensity of the stare stopped him in his tracks, fingers still in his mouth, frozen like a deer in headlights. A few moments later, Sheppard's gaze flicked away.

It wasn't the first time he'd caught Sheppard staring at him like that, but usually it happened when they were off world in a potentially hostile situation. He expected it then, it was even reassuring. He didn't know what to make of it now. Did Sheppard think he had to watch him like a hawk, that he couldn't be trusted to have a few drinks in a bar on Earth without doing something stupid? It was one thing on a mission when he was distracted with fixing ancient tech or looking for energy readings, but this was a little ridiculous. To his surprise, he realized he felt hurt that his best friend didn't trust him *not* to act like an idiot. And that Mitchell, who didn't know him at all, did.

He turned back to Mitchell. "So," he challenged. "What's now?"

The other man grinned as he pushed the next shot toward McKay. "Well, after a Blow Job, I think it only makes sense to have an Orgasm, don't you?"

He sighed. It figured. "Any rules about how this must be consumed? Jumping on one foot? Standing on my head?"

"Nope," Mitchell replied with a smile. "Just toss it back and enjoy."

"Fine." He picked up the glass and sniffed it, then downed it in one swallow. The sweet liqueurs burned a little going down, making him cough, but he'd like it.

"Is there coffee liqueur in that?" he inquired.

"Yeah, among other things. Here's the next one."

McKay accepted the drink, then gave Mitchell a questioning look while pointing to the glass with his other hand. "And now I'm drinking...?"

"That is a Cowboy Cocksucker ."

He let out a huff. "There seems to be a theme going on here."

"Maybe," Mitchell agreed with a smirk.

"Are there any shooters on the menu that *don't* have sexual connotations?"

"Aww, where's the fun in that, Doc?" Mitchell teased. He looked over at Sheppard, waiting till he tipped his bottle back to take a drink. "C'mon, You'll like it - everyone likes a good Cocksucker, right Sheppard?"

Timing was everything. Sheppard made a choking noise and just barely held back from spraying beer all over the table. McKay had to respect a man who could embarrass two people at once with such finesse.

Speaking of embarrassment, Sheppard was going to haze him over this for weeks. And then Ronon would ask, and then his life would turn into a new and unique ring of hell. Wonderful. "Don't you think this one should have come before the blow job?" he quipped as he tossed the shooter back. Mmm, butterscotch.

He slammed the glass back on the bar, a little harder than he meant to, then looked up to discover Mitchell staring at him. After a moment, Cam burst into laughter, and McKay found himself drawn in, chuckling at the display.

"You're alright, McKay," Mitchell informed him with a hearty slap on the shoulder, and whoa, he found himself staggered, nearly knocked off his chair. He had to stifle a giggle.

"Yes. Yes, I am actually." He was more relaxed than he'd been in a while, and okay, maybe the shooters in conjunction with the 2 beer s were affecting him a little more than he wanted to admit, which was the only explanation he had for the next thing that came out of his mouth. "It seems like a night for sacrificing brain cells. So what do you think, Mitchell? You up for three more?" he dared, feeling inordinately pleased within himself over the jaw-drop response he elicited. Mitchell and Sheppard shared a look. When they turned back to McKay, Cam was grinning, but John looked a little perturbed.

"You're on, doc," Mitchell declared. "I'll go grab us another round." He was over at the bar in a flash, yelling his order at the bartender, and wow, it was loud in here, and it occurred to McKay that he should have told Mitchell no more Blow Job shooters, but it was too late now-

"Hey Rodney," Sheppard piped in. "Do you want me to get you a coffee?"

McKay blinked. "Um." He thought about it. "Huh. That's not a bad idea."

"Aww, Sheppard!" Mitchell was back, a waitress in tow with a tray full of shooters. "That just defeats the whole purpose!" he protested as the shooter girl lined up three tequila shots in front of him and three more liqueur shooters in front of McKay. "He's gotta drink the shooters first. *Then* he can have coffee."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Cam. We don't really drink a lot on... where we're stationed, so, you know, our alcohol tolerance isn't what it was."

Meaning that John thought a couple of shooters were going to knock him on his ass. McKay's face screwed up into a scowl of deep displeasure.

"I'm *fine*, Colonel," he snapped, ignoring the niggling feeling that maybe he really should have that coffee. "I haven't needed babysitting since I was 8 years old, thank you very much." He pointed a finger at Mitchell. "We're drinking these ones at the same time." He nodded and McKay reached out to pick up his first shooter. "Okay, what's this?"

Cam's eyes were dancing with mirth. "What you have here, doc, is a sweet little shooter called Throw Me Down and Fuck me."

McKay studied the innocuous looking drink for a moment. "What I really need," he spoke slowly, "is for a woman to buy this shooter for me. Or, hey, I could totally send one of these to someone. Like, uhm..." he glanced around, trying to spot a likely candidate. There were a lot of girls around. Girls in little scraps of dresses with curves in all the right places. Really hot girls who were slightly out of focus and probably 19 years old and no doubt in the bar with fake ID and just thinking about that made him feel like a dirty old man.

"Oh, whatever," he griped as he picked up his shooter. "This bar is full of people half my age, it's not like I really want to try to score with some ditzy college co-ed who doesn't even know what differential calculus is."

Mitchell sprinkled some salt on the side of his hand and licked it off, then picked up one of his shots and clinked it against McKay's. "Bottoms up," he said with a grin, and the two of them tossed their drinks back.

McKay carefully set the glass down. He grimaced with distaste as the Colonel followed his shot with a wedge of lime. They both picked up the next drink.


"Yup," he replied, popping the 'p', then going on to making the popping sound a few more times.

"Your next shot," intoned Mitchell, and McKay could tell by the way the other man was carefully enunciating every syllable he was totally *not* the only one getting inebriated here, "is a something they like to call Finger Me Good. "

McKay considered that. "Huh. I s'pose it logically follows."

Rodney ran his tongue over his lips as he looked at his shooter. They felt a little funny, a little numb, and there was still a hint of sweetness on them from the previous shooter. He glanced up to find Sheppard staring at him again. The stare was positively incendiary, and what the *hell* was Sheppard's problem anyway? He locked eyes with him and stared right back.

"Is there something you want, Colonel?" he asked, aiming for a steely voice, but he missed the mark by a long shot. Even he could hear the plaintive, confused quality of the question. Dammit! He was trying to have a good time here, and Sheppard was pissing him off.

Sheppard just took a pull of his beer and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He lifted his bottle in a toast. "No, I'm good. Just keeping an eye on you, McKay. As your team leader and friend."

And like that, all the pissiness evaporated as McKay felt a rush of warm and fuzzy feelings toward Sheppard, because hey, he really wasn't trying to be a dick, even if he had been acting like he didn't trust Rodney to tie his own shoelaces, he was just trying to be a friend, and hey, friends don't let friends drive Puddlejumpers drunk-

Rodney snickered. It suddenly seemed really important to tell Sheppard about this new revelation. He leaned across the table toward Sheppard, motioning him to come closer. "Y'know, you're not an asshole after all!" he announced, reaching over to pat Sheppard's arm.

"Gee, thanks Rodney," came the sardonic rejoinder.

"Erm. That didn't quite come out right," Rodney waved his hand as he backpedaled. "It's just, well, what I mean to say is-" he groaned. "Look. I know you're just watching my six." He nodded decisively. "So. Thanks."

He couldn't quite decipher the look Sheppard gave him. "Anytime, buddy."

"Even if you are acting like a mother hen."

Sheppard casually reached out and smacked him upside the head.


Mitchell rolled his eyes. "If the two of you are finished with the best friends forever declarations, could we get back to the drinking here?"

McKay nodded in agreement, then abruptly gripped the table with both hands. Whoa, spinning room. He gingerly picked up his second shooter. He watched Cam do the salt thing and then they both tipped back and drank. He went to put the shot glass back on the table and missed, almost pitching sideways off his barstool as he over balanced. Sheppard's arm shot out across the table, caught him before he hit the floor, dragging him back into his seat.

Rodney beamed across the table at him. "Thanks, Sheppard."

Mitchell chuckled, but Sheppard let out a sigh.

"Okay, buddy, that's it. You're cut off," he announced, pushing the final shot away.

"Hey!" McKay objected, and reached out to snag it off the table. All he succeeded in doing was almost falling off his stool again. This time, he caught himself, and settled back onto his seat. He looked across the table at Sheppard who was giving him the completely blank 'evil-hordes-of-Genii-can't-break-me' look. "Holy shit!" McKay burst out. "Is that O'Neill?" he demanded, pointing over Sheppard's shoulder.

Sheppard and Mitchell both paled, casting glances over their respective shoulders while McKay swooped in (carefully, slowly, don't fall over now) and snatched victory from under Sheppard's watchful eye.

"HA!" he crowed gleefully. "Fooled ya!" He continued to cackle as they turned back to him, an undignified snort slipping out, which left him laughing even harder.

"What are you, 12?" demanded Sheppard, reaching out to try and snag the shooter away. McKay managed to hold onto it by virtue of grabbing it and holding it back away from the table, out of the other man's reach.

"S'my drink. Getcher own!"

Mitchell completely cracked up, then lifted his last tequila shot to toast McKay. "Sheppard, why didn't you let on McKay had a crazy streak under that arrogant, uptight, overbearing persona?"

McKay clicked his shooter against Cam's and then leaned forward. "Hey! Thasnot a persona. I'm arrogant. S'true. But I'm smart, an'm usually right, so s'okay. I can afford ta be arrogant." He was the very essence of smug.

"Don't forget uptight," muttered Sheppard darkly, glaring at him.

McKay shrugged. "Yeah, kay. Sometimes. Not ri' now." He focused on his drink, slightly cross eyed as he tried to bring it in to focus. "Kay. Last one. What'm I drinkin' now?"

"That's a Screamin' Orgasm . Figure ya kinda deserve it after the throw down and fingerin'."

As McKay downed his shot, he spared an idle thought to wonder if all the sex themed shooters ever really worked in getting a person laid. It might bear further investigation - sometime in the future, when he wasn't drunk off his ass.

Part Two


( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
Dec. 1st, 2008 11:29 am (UTC)
psst: typo in the 2nd paragraph "He *hated* it was he fell asleep without brushing his teeth."
Dec. 2nd, 2008 01:06 am (UTC)
Eep! Thanks! Fixed!
Dec. 1st, 2008 07:30 pm (UTC)
and another typo -- during the fifth drink,
"The stare was positively incendiary, and what the *hell* was Sheppard's problem anyway? He looked eyes with him and stared right back."
should be "locked" not "looked".
Real comment after part two.
Dec. 2nd, 2008 01:06 am (UTC)
Gah! Thank you! Fixed!
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )


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