Transformation

by Speranza

--couldn't. Couldn't stand-- Really, he might go mad after all, if Rod didn't stop that god-awful pounding. He braced a hand on the wall and sucked rhythmically for breath, trying to keep his mind focused. Assume e = a/b, and that a and b are both positive integers. Multiply both sides by b! Sum the other terms to c. So c < 1/b. He could see the end now; he could feel himself calming. Thus c must be positive. But c can't be positive. Therefore e can't be a rational number. Therefore e is irrational. Keeping his eyes closed, holding tight to the precise, clean clarity of it, J.R. Sheppard Jr. tapped his radio and said, in a perfectly rational voice, "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

There was another hard thump. "You can open this goddamned door, Colonel!"

J.R. managed a convincing sigh, though he was itchy again and starting to shake. "If you'd just tell me what you need, Doctor, I'd be more than happy to assist you--"

"I just want to see you," Rod said, and J.R. jerked his arm up and stifled a laugh against his sleeve; there is no positive integer less than one. He turned and pressed his scaly forehead hard against the cool wall, trying not to giggle.

"No, Doctor," he said. "You really don't."

There was another hard thump at the door; Rod must be having one of his unfortunate blood sugar surges. "All right, look," Rod said in his ear. "J.R. It could be days before it wears off. You can't keep yourself locked up all that time," but that was ridiculous; of course he could. He was of no use to anyone like this. He couldn't fly. He couldn't even think. His brain--and he slammed his palm against the wall in frustration. A network is made up of vertices connected by non-intersecting arcs.

J.R. took a breath and said, calmly, "Rod, I have my laptop. If you send me an email--"

There was a rueful laugh in his ear. "Okay, this is what we call a failure to communicate. I'm not here because I need something. Believe it or not, Sheppard," Rod said, and J.R. could hear the smile in his voice, "we can all survive without you for a couple of days."

Yeah, that's what they said, J.R. thought grimly, though he knew from long experience that when the chips were down it was, "Think of something, Sheppard!" and "You've got to do something, Sheppard!" He'd flown enough suicide missions to be skeptical.

"But you can't just lock yourself in a box," Rod was saying. "Everyone's really worried about you," and J.R. snorted. The marines would be happy to report to Major Lorne, who they preferred to him, anyway; Lorne was one of the guys, where J.R. patently wasn't. And the scientists would be thrilled to have him out of their labs: the applied mathematician parachuted into the science division under military cover. Luckily, the SGC had had the brains to appoint Dr. Meredith Rodney McKay head scientist, and Rod, at least, recognized that Lt. Colonel J.R. Sheppard Jr., Ph.D, was a full-fledged, no holds barred genius.

But that was always the way, wasn't it? It took intelligence to recognize it in others. And Rod McKay had a pretty good mind--not as good as his, of course, but still Mensa material, plus Rod had an inspired quality that seemed to make up much of the difference. Probably it was the same creative impulse that made him such a good pianist; everyone always said that musical and mathematical ability were related. J.R. sometimes wondered if he'd been shortsighted to have given up the guitar at fourteen.

Rod's voice had changed to something softer. "J.R.," he murmured. "John," he said. "Let me in, okay? I just want to lay eyes on you," and what was left of J.R.'s control slipped. Anger gripped him. Rod wanted to see him, huh? Let's just see if he did--

Hand groping for the gene-controlled keystrip, J.R. shot open the door, opening a blazing white rectangle in the dark room. J.R. rolled against the wall, hiding his face, crouching a little. There was a shadow in the doorway, and Rod came through. Behind him, the door slid shut again and locked with a click, casting the room back into darkness.

"J.R.?" Rod's voice was steady, though J.R. thought he could detect a little thrum of nervousness underneath. "Forget to pay your electric bill?" and suddenly J.R. couldn't stand it anymore, and he turned so that Rod could see what had become of him.

His own eyes--still faintly yellow, still slitted--were adapted for the dark, but Rod was squinting through the dim light, obviously struggling to see him. "Oh, hey," Rod said finally, with a soft sympathy that made J.R. want to rip his stomach open, claw out his guts. "You look better, actually," he said, coming closer. "The scales are mostly gone."

J.R. jerked a nod, still fighting for control. His skin itched; it was raw, blue tinged with paler blue, like the veins inside his arm. Rod was looking at him appraisingly, and J.R. tried to pull himself together; he wasn't an animal: he wasn't. He couldn't stand for Rod McKay, of all people, to see him as a monster. A vertex is called odd if it has an odd number of arcs leading to it, otherwise it is called even. He swallowed hard.

"You look thin," Rod said finally. "Are you eating enough?"

J.R. bobbed his head. "3,100 calories per day."

"Well, have a donut, for Christ's sake," and J.R. barked out a laugh before stifling it again, afraid he might not be able to stop. Rod smiled and added, "You're pretty skinny anyway, but right now, your metabolism must be working overtime. I mean, you're actually evolving back to your normal--"

"It itches," J.R. blurted; he hadn't meant to say that. He gritted his teeth, determined not to say anything more, but Rod was looking at him kindly, and if anyone could-- "I can't th-think," J.R. said in a low, terrified voice. "Rod, my brain; I can't focus, I can't--"

Suddenly Rod was gripping his biceps. "It's okay," Rod said in a slow, meaningful voice, holding his eyes. "J.R., it's okay not to think. You can not think every once in a while."

"I can't," J.R. said in a tortured whisper. "I can't stand this," and then he became aware of the heat of Rod's hands, raging through his shirtsleeves, the hot haze rippling from Rod's torso, just inches away. And then he realized he was cold, he was burning with cold, and some animal part of his brain was going warm warm warm warm. Rod's eyes widened and he moved his hands up, over J.R.'s shoulders, spreading his warmth. His hands slid down over J.R.'s back, leaving trails of heat. J.R. leaned into him helplessly. Rod McKay felt like a furnace.

"Right," Rod muttered. "Fuck. You're cold-blooded," except that wasn't funny; J.R. Sheppard Jr. had heard it all before: he was a robot, he was a calculator, he was a replicant. But Rod's arms were tightening around him, and J.R. felt his body temperature rising with the sustained contact. "You must be ectothermic," Rod said softly, pulling him closer, and that seemed to knock J.R. to his senses; his brain seized upon the word.

"No," he managed. "Not ectothermic. Poikilothermic and bradymetabolic, poikilos meaning varied and brady meaning slow, in Greek, which is to say a highly active metabolism which slows or shuts down when conditions are--"

"You don't have to think all the time," Rod said in a low, reproving voice, and then he turned J.R.'s head and kissed him, on the mouth.

It was shocking, the wet warmth of Rod's mouth almost obscene, but J.R. couldn't help wanting it, pushing his mouth hard against it. Heat flared down his spine, making the muscles in his thighs tingle, his cock go heavy and hard in his pants. He wanted to shove Rod against the wall, wanted to coax his mouth open and suck his tongue, but then suddenly Rod was pushing him against the wall and giving him the hottest, dirtiest kiss of his life. When he broke off, Rod was flushed and panting and exuberant.

"See?" Rod said, breathlessly, knocking J.R.'s shoulders against the wall for emphasis. "I knew you could do this; I knew you'd be-- Look, it's okay to let go, to lose control; you're not just a brain in a bottle! It's okay to feel things, even to want things--"

J.R. realized he was breathing hard, close to hyperventilating. His cock was throbbing in his pants. "I'm hungry," he whispered, feeling it as a bone-deep ache. "Rod. I'm so--"

Rod leaned in to lick his mouth, a slow, teasing kiss. "Tell me you want it," he murmured, smiling darkly. "You can have it if you can say it. Say--'suck me.' Say 'suck it, suck my cock,' or here, this is easier--say: 'put my dick in your mouth.' I will, you know," Rod said, seriously, blue eyes meeting his. "I want to."

J.R. felt a growing heat that had nothing to do with his metabolism. He reached out blindly and made fists in the soft, warm fabric of Rod's shirt. His raw knuckles brushed the hard points of Rod's nipples, and J.R. shivered. "Put--put your mouth on me."

Rod's hand was already sliding up his fly and cupping his hard-on. "On your cock?" he said, leaning in close. "Do you want me to suck your--"

"Yes. Yes," J.R. said, closing his eyes; he was very close to begging for it.

"C'mon, then," Rod said, hot breath in his ear, and then a wet lick of tongue. It made J.R. feel--crazy. "C'mon, c'mon, " Rod murmured, feeling him up through his pants, groping and squeezing. "J.R.," and what the fuck did Rod want from him? "John--" and then J.R. was lurching forward blindly to kiss him, suck his throat, eat his mouth, and Rod was gasping and laughing and muttering, "Oh, fuck, yes." They stumbled together and crashed down onto J.R.'s bed, except maybe it wasn't them stumbling so much as Rod steering them, because now Rod was on top of him, thighs straddling his hips.

J.R. groaned helplessly. Rod was making short work of his clothes, yanking his shirt out of his pants and unbuckling, unzipping, bending down. Rod's mouth touched his belly, licking gently and slurping downwards, and J.R. closed his eyes and heard--oh, God, was that him making those noises? Rod curled his hand around J.R.'s cock, tipping it up and swallowing it down, sliding his mouth down over it in one smooth stroke. J.R.'s hips jerked as Rod slid back up, almost but not quite pulling off, mouth tightening on the head of his dick--and then it was happening, Rod was blowing him, fast and messy, hand gripping the base of his cock and mouth sliding slickly up and down.

It was over before J.R. wanted it to be, pleasure gathering in the base of his spine and exploding outward. He convulsed and jerked in Rod's mouth, and Rod moaned and swallowed and rubbed reassuring circles on the pale blue skin of his hip.

"Rod," J.R. managed, feeling dizzy and unfocused and--God, so good. "Rodney?"

"Mm," Rod said, somewhere below him, and then Rod was there, sprawled heavily on J.R.'s heaving chest and kissing him. "How was that?" he asked.

J.R. blinked up at him. "Good," he said stupidly. "Real, real--"

Rod's grin was wicked. "Monosyllables," he said. "I like it," and then he was kissing J.R. again, cock sliding wetly up his belly. "I want you," Rod mumbled against his mouth. "I want to come all over you," and then it was happening, Rod was humping him, rubbing the underside of his dick against J.R.'s skin with short and frantic strokes. He came with a low animal cry, cock jerking wetly between them. J.R. watched pleasure take him, make his fine features contort and twist--and then he clutched him tightly and pulled him close, closer. Rod made a satisfied noise and collapsed against his shoulder. They lay there, breathing together, and J.R.'s mind was silent.

Rod burrowed closer, sliding a warm arm around J.R.'s neck and idly fingering the small, scaly patch under his ear. J.R. shuddered. "How are you--not repulsed?" he asked, and maybe he was talking about his yellow eyes and blue scales, and maybe he was talking about being a guy who liked other guys, and maybe he was just talking about being skinny, geeky John Robert Sheppard Jr. with his buzz cut and his pocket protector and his total lack of social skills.

Rod lifted his head to look at him, and J.R. thought that if you could bottle a smile that relaxed and open, you could probably sell it somewhere. "Uh, excuse me; you're not repulsive," Rod said with an amused roll of his eyes. "And besides," he added, putting his head down again and settling in, "you're my best friend, even if you are kind of an idiot," and J.R. Sheppard closed his eyes and just lay there, smiling and smiling.

The End

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