High Stress Level

TOS Seven Minutes NC-17 Spock/McCoy

2008-02-09T15:19:24Z

Fandom: ST: TOS
Pairing: Spock/McCoy, MU!Spock/McCoy
Warnings: dark? 1/?
Timeline: During "Mirror, Mirror"

Notes: Part three in a series, first two aren't written yet. This part incomplete. One or more parts to follow.

WIP

"Captain," Scotty said, a touch of panic entering his voice, "we've barely got ten minutes."

"Let's go, Bones."

"I can't let him die, Jim," McCoy said. "You get on to the transporter room. I'll be there in five minutes."

"No longer," Kirk said.

"I guarantee it. Now, go on, please."

The others hurried out of the room, and McCoy returned his attention to his patient. Once more, his heart clenched as he took in the still figure on the diagnostic table. He knew that his Spock--what he could only think of as the real Spock--was alive and safe back in their own universe, but aside from that blasted beard this man looked so very much like him.

Checking the dosage one last time, McCoy emptied the syringe into Spock's arm. If this didn't work, he would be out of options. There was no time to preform surgery; not if he had any hopes of escaping this nightmare universe.

The flood of relief he felt, as Spock's eyes opened, was short lived. Spock grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip, and McCoy immediately realised the grave mistake that he had made. This Spock was nothing like his own. This Spock was a predator.

"Why did the captain let me live?" Spock asked, his voice deadly.

The bones in McCoy's arm screamed in agony--only a little more pressure and they would snap--and it took all of his control to remain standing, as Spock pushed him back against the wall.

Spock pressed his fingertips against the familiar points on McCoy's face. "Our minds are merging, Doctor," he said, his voice echoing inside McCoy's head. "Our minds are one. I feel what you feel. I know what you know."

This was nothing like the melds that he had shared with his own Spock. This Spock's mind tore through his own like a dagger, slicing through his defenses, and embedding itself in his very core. The very feel of it made him shudder: cold, ruthless logic, which did little to temper an inner, simmering, anger. He knew suddenly that this Spock hated him very much.

"You are not the McCoy that I know," Spock said from within his mind. "A parallel universe, and your captain waits even now, to return you to it. To it, and to him..."

Spock's mind seized onto McCoy's memories of his own universe: memories of his own Spock. Through the link, McCoy could feel a sudden surge of shock and jealous rage.

"In that world, you love him!" The fierce wave of hatred caused Spock's own shields to waver, and McCoy caught a chilling, jumbled glimpse of the relationship between this universe's Spock and McCoy: a dark bond that shared only pain, resentment, and hate.

McCoy's anger flared as Spock rifled through the most intimate of his memories. This man--this cruel mockery of his Spock--had no right to see these things, to leave his foul taint on what had been some of his most cherished memories. "Get out of my head!" he raged, fighting back against the mental intruder with all his might.

He might as well have been throwing sand at a brick wall. Spock was immovable: relentless in his attack. Moments from the past months flashed through McCoy's mind, as vivid as when they had happened. With each, Spock's anger grew, and he began pushing the memories aside, forcing his own in their place.

A Spock who lashed out in fear and anger, blaming McCoy for his blindness, and driving a wedge into what had once been a formidable alliance. A McCoy who had not offered himself during Spock's Pon Farr, but who had been taken unwillingly, condemning them both to the endless torment of a corrupted mental bond. A bond that did not offer strength, but instead slowly poisoned both their minds.

McCoy clung desperately to the memories that he knew were his, but as the onslaught continued it became harder and harder to tell the difference. "Even if you erase my entire mind, it won't change anything," he said, "the past is the past, in any universe."

"Perhaps," Spock agreed, "but I will take some comfort, knowing that we are not the only ones to suffer. In any universe." Pulling away slightly, he drew back his arm and slammed McCoy's head into the wall.

Dazed from both the blow to the head, and the abruptly severed meld, McCoy fell to his knees, fighting to remain conscious. Spock's voice seemed to come from a great distance, now that he was hearing it through his ears, instead of from inside his mind.

"You will return to your universe," Spock promised, in a cold voice, "and there you will destroy him, as you destroyed me."

SGA: Untitled McDex 1/?

2007-10-08T07:00:00Z

Title: Untitled McDex 1/?
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Dex, Kolya/McKay
Timeline: Late season 4, post-Sunday, but wanders off before First Strike.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: All and sundry.
Word Count: ~2200
Series: Follows Broken
Prompt: 50 Darkfics 02: Dark Path
Summary: Rodney is the only one who can save Atlantis, but who is going to save Rodney?

Chapter One

The mess hall was unusually crowded. Most of the city's inhabitants chose to take their meals outside, on any one of Atlantis' hundreds of balconies, most of which offered far more privacy--and a better view--than the mess, with its military issue furnishings. Today, however, a late summer storm, chill with the threat of impending winter, had cast a damp pall over the city, driving its inhabitants back inside.

Ronon tried to block out the sounds of their conversations--the words that echoed and blended in the crowded room, transformed into meaningless sound--but one voice in particular came through clearly, as though his ears has been specially tuned to its frequency.

"--the amazing thing is the way it ties it with the gate technology. Any planet with a stargate--I don't know yet if it works with space gates, we'll have to check--"

Several tables away, McKay was deep in conversation with Zelenka, excitedly describing some piece of ancient technology that he had discovered. McKay's hair was sticking out in all directions, his eyes were deeply shadowed, and he was wearing the same shirt--Ronon was certain--that he had been wearing the day before; all evidence that he had spent the night in his lab, most likely without any sleep.

Ronon dragged his eyes away from the scientist, reminding himself that McKay's sleeping habits were none of his business. He tried to distract himself, by going over the training plan he and Sheppard were developing to train Atlantis' new arrivals. All too soon, however, both his thoughts, and his eyes, returned to McKay.

There were no emergencies, or urgent missions, that required the scientist's attention--the opposite, in fact; Atlantis had been unusually quiet these past weeks--yet McKay had been working non-stop, and the toll was beginning to show. Ronon could see that the man was headed towards collapse, but he was reluctant to confront him. If his concern had been that of soldier, worried that a teammate was losing his effectiveness, Ronon would not have hesitated. He knew, however, that his concern stemmed from feelings far more personal: feelings that he could not afford to foster by giving in to his protective urges.

He had learned, by hard truth, just how costly such attachments could be. How many lives had been lost, when he deserted his post, after the Wraith attacked Sateda? He thought then, that his disloyalty was worth it, if he could save Melena; instead, it only gave him the opportunity to watch her die. Many more of his people might have escaped, if only he had done his duty, instead of being led by the dictates of his heart. He had found his unit, and rejoined the fight, but even then he knew that he no longer fought for Sateda; he fought for revenge.

When the Wraith had made him a runner, it had seemed a fitting end; cast out, hunted, and alone. Always alone, with only his anguish, and his guilt, as company. Eventually those feelings faded, replaced by a simmering anger, and he began to turn the tables, hunting down those who pursued him, and exacting his revenge, one Wraith at a time. He had been able to forgive himself for the mistakes he had made, but he had also made a vow--on the names of all his fallen comrades--that he would never make those mistakes again.

It had not been difficult for him to keep his distance, from the others on Atlantis, as he had long since become accustomed to solitude. When those dangerous, and insidious feelings had begun to creep into his heart again, they were so subtle that he did not even notice them at first. It was not until McKay's near brush with death--courtesy of the Ancient's ascension machine--that Ronon began to realize just how deeply his feelings for McKay really went. The thought of watching him die had left a hollowness in his chest, and a sense of helplessness, that he had not felt for many years.

McKay had recovered, and Ronon had struggled to regain a sense of distance. Even now, he could not be certain, that if he was forced to make a choice between protecting Atlantis, and protecting Rodney McKay, he would be able to make the right choice. If he allowed his attachment to McKay to grow any deeper, he knew that he would become a liability to his team, and to the city itself.

Ronon surfaced from his thoughts, to find that McKay had turned away from his conversation, and was now returning his gaze with an expression that was equal parts annoyance and confusion. Ronon pulled his eyes away with some difficulty, stood--abandoning his untouched tray on the table--and left the room.

***

"It sends the signal back to the receiver, through the stargate--without even dialing the gate, which I would have sworn is impossible--and can pinpoint the location of the device to within inches." Rodney emphasized his point by waving his spoon through the air, coming dangerously close to smacking Radek in the nose with it. "I know I don't have to tell you just how useful this technology could be."

"Or how dangerous, if one of the receivers was to fall into the wrong hands," Radek said, scooting his chair back, to place himself out of range of Rodney's silverware.

"That's the beauty of it!" Rodney crowed. "You can't even use it, if you don't have the ATA gene, not even if someone activates it for you. We could send the Wraith a box of them for Christmas and it wouldn't do--" Rodney broke off mid-sentence, and slammed his spoon down on the table. "He's doing it again!"

Radek looked at him blankly, lost by the sudden shift in conversation. "Who is doing what?"

"Ronon!" he said, exasperation clear in his voice. "He's doing the creepy, staring thing, that makes me think he's wondering what my liver tastes like."

Turning slightly, Radek followed his gaze, and saw that the Satedan was indeed staring at Rodney, with a strangely intent expression on his face. "He has done this before?"

"Only recently," Rodney said, still watching Ronon. "It seems like every time I turn around, he's there, doing the creepy eyes thing," he wiggled his spoon reprovingly in Ronon's direction, "and every time I decide to go over there and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, he just--" Rodney crossed his arms and glared disapprovingly at Ronon's suddenly departing back. "Does that. Either he's bored, and has made annoying me his new favorite hobby, or he's planning to kill me."

"I rather doubt that he's planning to kill you," Radek said, amused.

"Probably not," Rodney agreed, "but if I go missing, check his knives for my blood. All his knives." He leaned back in his chair, a sudden, bone deep exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. Thinking back through the past days, he was unable to remember the last time he had slept. "Is this still Thursday?"

"Saturday," Radek said, giving Rodney a concerned glance. "Saturday morning."

"Huh," Rodney said absently, staring at his plate. "That explains why they're serving eggs for 'lunch'. What happened to Friday?"

"I believe that was the day you spent pestering Major Lorne into testing your new toy."

"I don't pester, and it's not a toy, it's--"

"--a highly sophisticated piece of equipment, that will quite possibly save all of our lives one day," Radek finished for him, rolling his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know."

"Then you also know--" Rodney's retort was broken off by a jaw-cracking yawn. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and reached for his coffee, protesting when Radek snatched the cup from his hand.

"I also know that you have been awake for far too long," he said, putting the cup of coffee out of reach. "No more caffeine, and no more shiny toys, until you get some sleep."

"Awww, Dad, but I don't wanna," Rodney said in a tone of exaggerated petulance.

"Yes, but it is a school night, and you have exams tomorrow," Radek quipped, rising from the table. "I should probably walk you back to your quarters, to be sure you don't fall asleep in some corner along the way."

"Might not be a bad idea," Rodney agreed, pushing back his chair. "I feel like I could sleep for a week." Before he could get to his feet, however, his headset squawked, and Dr. Weir's voice rang out in his ear.

"All senior staff should report to the briefing room immediately for a priority meeting."

"Looks like the nap is canceled," Rodney said in resignation. "Now hand over my coffee."

***

John leaned back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest, trying to project an air of unconcern. The atmosphere in the room was tense; everyone knew that an emergency meeting would be unlikely to bring good news, but no one wanted to speculate on just how bad the news might be. At least not out loud.

It looked like nearly everyone was here; only Rodney and Elizabeth were still missing. Across the table, Radek kept glancing from his watch to the door, a worried expression on his face. In a hurry to get started? Or did he have some place better to be? Radek had to know, as well as any of them, that any meeting on Atlantis, especially one marked emergency--or, in Elizabeth's Diplomatese, "priority"--would be likely to drag on for hours. He might as well settle back and get comfortable.

A few moments later, Elizabeth strode into the room, her face set into a neutral mask and her back ramrod straight. She glanced quickly around the room, before moving to stand behind her usual seat. "Good, most of you are here," she said. "Has anyone seen Dr. McKay?"

"He left the mess hall at the same time as I did," Radek said, glancing again at his watch. "He needed to stop by the lab, to pick up his laptop, but he should have been here by now."

"While we wait," John said, "how about you tell us what's going on."

"I think it would be better to wait until Dr. McKay arrives," Elizabeth said, hands tightening on the back of the chair, turning her knuckles the color of bone. "I would rather not have to go through this twice, and we are going to need his input." She raised a hand, and tapped her headset. "Rodney?"

"I'm here!" The call came not from the headset, but from some distance down the hall. A few moments later they heard his footsteps, and then he rounded the corner, coming into view through the open door.

John immediately snapped his attention back to Elizabeth. "Ok, he's here, why don't you--"

She cut him off, her eyes fixed on Rodney, who had just taken a seat next to John. "Rodney?" she asked, concern filling her voice, "are you all right?

Every eye turned to stare at Rodney. John was so shocked, by his friend's appearance, that Elizabeth's ominous news was immediately pushed to the back of his mind. Rodney's face was pale and drawn, and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes were sunken, and deeply shadowed, and glittered far too brightly.

"I'm fine," Rodney said, flashing Elizabeth a tight, twitchy, and utterly unconvincing, smile.

John instinctively reached out to touch Rodney's forehead, checking for a fever, but his hand was batted away before he felt more than the slightest brush of damp, overheated skin.

"No touching," Rodney snapped, leaning back, out of easy reach.

"Maybe you should go to the infirmary," Elizabeth suggested cautiously.

Rodney took a deep breath, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, to wipe at his brow. "I'm fine," he repeated, "a cold, maybe. Can we assume that you called this meeting to discuss something more urgent than my runny nose?"

Elizabeth regarded him, eyes narrowed, for another long moment, then she nodded, and took her seat at the conference table. "I'm afraid that what I have to tell you now is not good," she said, looking around the table at each of them in turn. "Early this morning, our long range sensors detected a fleet of Wraith hive ships. They are at least six weeks away, but it appears that they are on a direct course for Atlantis."

"We've gotten rather good at dealing with the Wraith," Rodney said, "and we do have a fully charged ZedPM now."

"Unfortunately," Elizabeth said, "we have never faced them in these numbers."

"Just how many ships are we talking about?" John asked.

"When we first detected the fleet, this morning, there were five hive ships," Elizabeth said. "Since then, two more ships have joined them. We can only assume, that the Wraith have decided to put aside their internal conflicts, to stand against a common enemy. Us." She stared down at her folded hands for a moment, and when she looked back up, her face was grim. "I have already been in contact with the SGC, and as of now we are under direct orders to begin the evacuation of Atlantis."

highstresslevel @ 2007-02-14T13:50:00

2007-02-14T21:17:21Z

Happy Capitalize on Love Day. Isn't it wonderful how we can cheapen even the most powerful of emotions by slapping on a big marketing campaign?

The boy and I have chosen not to partake of hearts and flowers this year. Partly because it just seems wrong to use love to turn a quick buck...and partly because I don't do that squishy shit.

The pink is starting to get on my nerves. But, on the upside, there is a new Criminal Minds tonight, so...today can't be all that bad, right?

There will be new fic soon. I can't really say how soon, or which fandom, but I'm at that point where I can't read anything without my mind wandering off to how I would do it, if I had had been the one writing it, so...soon. I'll be delaying as long as possible, no doubt.

I want to write more SGA, but too much time spent with drag queens is blocking my muse. Or corrupting it, can't really tell. Regardless, Rodney keeps coming off as a raging queen in everything I try to write, and I just won't subject the fandom to that. So no SGA for a while.

There's a plot goblin for "Born Under a Bad Sign" that just won't leave me alone, so you can probably expect to see a bit of Dean torture in here soon. ... That'll be one fic I won't be making the boy read, or he'd probably never let me touch him again... I'm avoiding everyone else's BUaBS fics for now, to avoid cross contamination. And to give me motivation to actually write the darned thing.

I also have a distinct urge to play with Reid, from CM, but not until I see how they tie things up from the last two episodes. If they give him enough onscreen angst I might decide to leave the poor boy alone.

Then there's the NCIS fic I was working on, but until they finally kill off Tony's new girl, I really don't want to write anymore of it. And she's gonna die. Soon, I hope. Then I can go back to putting the characters through an emotional meatgrinder and poking at the squishy bits.

Hey...still fifteen minutes left in the newest episode. Maybe they'll kill her off tonight...nah. Probably going to make us wait for the finale. But I'm still gonna go watch, and hope.

Untitled NCIS FIC #01 1/? NCIS DiNozzo/McGee

2007-01-17T05:13:18Z

Title: Untitled NCIS FIC #01 1/?
Fandom: NCIS
Pairing: DiNozzo/McGee, McGee/Others, Past DiNozzo/Gibbs
Timeline: Unspecified future date, possible spoilers through season four
Rating: NC-17 (For future scenes.)
Warnings: Extreme Violence, Torture, Rape
Summary: ...?
Word Count: 2600

Gibbs jolted awake at the first ring of the phone. A glance at the clock confirmed sunrise was still several hours away. Good news never came at that time of night. He squinted, as he fumbled with the cell phone, trying to read the caller ID. It was McGee.

Gibbs frowned as he flipped open the phone. McGee wasn't on call that night.

"Gibbs," he snapped. There was a long pause before McGee spoke, and then the words poured out in a stuttered cascade, faster than Gibbs' sleep dulled brain could follow.

"Slow down, McGee." He sat up and flipped on the beside lamp. "Just tell me what happened."

"I don't--I'm sorry. I-I think I screwed up, Boss."

Gibbs climbed out of bed, hand tightening on the phone. "Where are you?"

"I don't know--a motel room. I don't remember..." There was a thud, followed by a crash, as though McGee had stumbled and knocked something over. "A matchbook. Forest Pines." McGee's voice was becoming more slurred and he sounded confused.

"Are you hurt?" Gibbs tucked the phone against his shoulder as he tugged on his clothes. Forest Pines. About twenty miles south. Not a very classy place.

"My head," McGee said. "I thi--It's bad."

"You'll be fine. I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He grabbed the landline and punched in DiNozzo's number. "Don't hang up," he ordered McGee. DiNozzo answered on the second ring and his voice was alert. Either he had still been awake or he was faking it well. "Call David," he snapped into the phone, not wasting time with greetings. "Gear up and meet me at Forest Pines Motel.

"Bring paramedics, we have an Agent down." He slammed the phone down and rushed for the door. "Talk to me, McGee."

It took him a long time to answer. "Here, Boss," he said eventually.

Gibbs tossed the phone into his other hand as he cranked the car. "Tell me what you can see." He didn't expect much, but if McGee had a head injury then he needed to keep him awake and talking. The tires squealed as he pulled out onto the road.

"The carpet's blue." Almost as an afterthought he added, "There's a lot of blood."

"It better not all be yours, McGee," he cursed and pressed the accelerator further towards the floorboard. "What about the walls? They blue too?"

He made the drive in twelve minutes. McGee had been silent for the last four miles. Forest Pines was small and looked rather neglected. Fifteen rooms. Cars parked in front of half of them. McGee's Porsche was parked outside the only room with any lights visible.

The approaching sirens told him that he had not beaten the paramedics by long. Tony and Ziva wouldn't be far behind. Gibbs didn't waste time in picking the lock; he kicked the door open.

The coppery stench of blood hit him as he stepped through the doorway. The bed was covered in streaks of blood--looking nearly black in the dim light from the desk lamp--and a larger pool stained the crumpled sheets near the headboard.

Gibbs checked the bathroom and closet. Empty. He grabbed the stack of towels from the sink and steeled himself to turn back towards the room.

McGee was lying the on floor between the dresser and the bed, cell phone still clutched in his hand. His back looked like it had been flayed. Gibbs couldn't tell how much skin was left under the blood, but most of it appeared to have stopped bleeding. He was more concerned by the small but spreading pool of blood on the floor beneath McGee's head.

The source of the blood wasn't hard to find. A cut on McGee's forehead--more of a furrow really--that Gibbs would bet money was a bullet graze. It looked as though it had begun to scab over, and then had been reopened, probably when McGee fell.

Gibbs pressed a washcloth into the wound to slow the bleeding and winced at the chill of McGee's skin. Shallow breathing. Massive blood loss. He was in shock.

The paramedics arrived in a cacophony of squealing tires and wailing sirens. The noise seemed to rouse McGee. His eyelids fluttered and he tried to pull away from Gibbs' hand.

"Easy, McGee," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Gibbs?"

"Yeah. I'm here." He placed his hand on McGee's shoulder, trying to avoid the worst of the damage, and squeezed reassuringly.

"Don't let Tony--" McGee forced his eyes open and reached out to grab Gibbs' shirt. "Don't let him see this."

McGee's hand fell away as the paramedics pulled Gibbs away from him. "Watch your feet," he snapped at them, not taking his eyes off of McGee. "This is a crime scene."

Gibbs stalked outside, giving the medics room to work. He was going to catch the bastard who did this and they were going to fry. When his cell phone rang he answered it automatically. He didn't try to filter the anger from his voice.

"Been trying to call you, Boss," DiNozzo said cautiously. "I guess you were busy. Mind filling me in? I've got Ziva. We're about five minutes out."

"Get here faster, DiNozzo."

Tires squealed on the other end of the connection. "On our way. I couldn't reach McGee."

"McGee's already here." Gibbs snapped the phone shut and cursed. DiNozzo would arrive at any minute and Gibbs was not looking forward to briefing him on the situation.

In the motel room, the medics were loading McGee onto the stretcher. He appeared to have lost consciousness again. One medic started a saline drip while another secured the transport straps.

The NCIS van pulled into the parking lot. DiNozzo jumped from the driver's seat without even turning off the engine. He reached Gibbs' side in a few long strides.

DiNozzo's eyes locked on the bloody hand print on Gibbs' shirt. "Where's Tim?" He tried to step past Gibbs, towards the motel room.

Gibbs held up his arm, blocking DiNozzo's path. He watched as the blood drained from DiNozzo's face, as he looked into the motel room. "He still alive," he said, holding DiNozzo's eyes. "He's hurt."

DiNozzo's face was blank as he processed Gibbs' words, then he set his jaw and tried to push past the restraining arm. "I have to go in there."

"No," Gibbs said firmly, standing his ground. "You won't." He watched as DiNozzo visibly quavered as he resisted the urge to rush to McGee's side. Finally DiNozzo took a step back and nodded, his jaw tightly set.

"Ziva and I will take the crime scene," Gibbs said. "I want you to ride with McGee to the hospital. Don't let him out of your sight until I get there. Call Abby and Ducky and have them--"

"We're not going to need Ducky!"

"Tony! McGee isn't going to die," Gibbs said with certainty. "Ducky still needs to know."

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher out of the motel room and Tony hurried to follow them. Gibbs reached out and grabbed his arm. "When this is over, DiNozzo, we're going to have a long talk about regulations."

***

All of Tony's field reports were filed. His In Box was empty. Emails answered. Pencils sharpened. Files sorted. There was nothing more he could use to justify his presence at NCIS headquarters at three AM.

He should really go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow was Saturday but there was no guarantee that they wouldn't catch a case. If he drank any more coffee his skin would get up and crawl away. But if he went home, Tim might be there, waiting to ambush him with a continuation of their earlier discussion.

The discussion that had ended with an irate McGee pointing a finger in his direction and claiming, somewhat threateningly, "This isn't over, DiNozzo." Tim had this funny, scrunchy thing, he did with his nose when he was really mad. It was admittedly kind of cute, but never boded well for Tony. If he could just arrange for a twenty-four hour cooling off period then this whole thing would be much easier to smooth over.

Tony frowned and checked his cell phone again, making sure that it was turned on. There was also the possibility that he could go home and Tim wouldn't be there. Which would mean that he really was pissed and Tony would have a lot of sucking up to do.

Maybe he should check out the cold cases.

The phone rang as Tony stared at it, startling him so badly that he dropped it. Snatching it back up, he checked the Caller ID. Gibbs, not McGee. "DiNozzo here, Boss. We got something?"

"Call David," Gibbs snapped. "Gear up and meet me at Forest Pines Motel. Bring paramedics, we have an Agent down."

Tony's blood ran cold. "What Agent, Boss?" But Gibbs had already hung up. Tony grabbed his keys and ran for the elevator, dialing dispatch on his cell as he went. He passed on Gibbs' orders. The paramedics were on the way.

Tony tried McGee's cell phone as he climbed into the truck. It went straight to voice mail; either it was turned off, or already in use. Tony hung up and tried calling Gibbs back with the same result. Maybe they were talking to each other. Hopefully they were talking to each other.

With a few choice words about the usefulness of Call Waiting, Tony punched in Ziva's number. When she picked up, sounding groggy, he said, "Be dressed and outside in five minutes David. We've got a live one." Taking a page from Gibbs' book he snapped the phone closed without waiting for a reply.

Ziva was waiting by the curb when Tony skidded to a stop in front of her apartment building a few minutes later. He tossed her his cell phone as soon as she climbed into the truck.

"Keep trying Gibbs and McGee," he said as he threw the truck back into drive. The roads were practically empty so he didn't hold back as he sped towards the motel. The truck rattled ominously and tilted as he took the curves.

"Slow down!" Ziva yelled as she was thrown into the door.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that, Ziva," he said, flashing her a tight grin.

"I can't dial the phone if I'm being thrown around like a salad!"

"Tossed, Ziva. It's tossed salad."

"Whatever! They're not answering," Ziva said. "What has happened?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "All Gibbs told me was that we have an Agent down. Keep trying. He has to answer eventually."

"What Agent?"

"I don't know, Ziva," Tony growled. "That's why you're calling Gibbs."

"Right," Ziva said, returning her attention to the phone.

Tony concentrated on the road. He tried not to think about what waited at Forest Pines but his mind was offering up all flavors of unpleasant possibilities. Tim hadn't called. Yeah, Tony had been relieved. He didn't want to go another round about the Johansen case. Especially since he knew he was wrong. Not that he would admit it under pain of death.

But it didn't make sense. Tim always called. When he was mad he wouldn't stop calling. He could never maintain the silent treatment for more than five minutes running.

"It's ringing," Ziva said, dragging him out of his thoughts.

"McGee?"

"Gibbs."

Tony grabbed the phone, swerving across the road in the process. When Gibbs answered, his voice was the sound of dark, polished steel: dangerous and cold. He'd only heard Gibbs sound like that twice in the past, and neither had turned out happy endings.

"Been trying to call you, Boss," Tony said carefully. "I guess you were busy. Mind filling me in? I've got Ziva. We're about five minutes out."

"Get here faster, DiNozzo."

Tony pressed down the accelerator and the tires squealed on the wet pavement. "On our way," he said, struggling to control the truck. "I couldn't reach McGee."

"McGee's already here."

Tony heard the click as Gibbs ended the call. Tim was the Agent down. Tony could hear it in everything Gibbs hadn't said. What the hell happened? He hadn't been working a case. Not at this time of night and off the books.

"What did he say?" Ziva asked.

"He didn't tell me anything," Tony said. "He didn't have to."

***

Gibbs lingered outside the waiting room, covertly watching as Tony paced the cramped space. A neat pyramid of Styrofoam cups from the vending machine gave mute testament to the Agent's current state of over-caffination. The knuckles on Tony's right hand were freshly bandaged. There was probably a recently bleached wall nearby.

Gibbs had seen the growing relationship between DiNozzo and McGee and had tried to turn a blind eye. He was all too well aware of the dangers of getting involved with a teammate, but he also knew how damned hard it could be to resist. When you worked that closely with someone for long, it could become difficult to keep things separate.

So far it hadn't caused any problems on the team. DiNozzo no longer made himself a nuisance every time a beautiful woman walked by. McGee was starting to grow a backbone. An Agent shouldn't look like a kicked puppy every time someone raised their voice. Unfortunately, it was also obvious that Tony was systematically redesigning McGee's wardrobe, and it wasn't necessarily an improvement.

But now, now it was a problem. Tony couldn't be anywhere near this case. Gibbs knew what would happen if Tony was the one to find the perp. He didn't blame him. Gibbs wasn't even sure he would be able to let him live, when he finally had his gun pointed at the bastard's head.

Tony froze when Gibbs stepped into the room. "Tell me you have something, Boss."

Gibbs shook his head. "Not yet. Abby has the evidence we collected from the motel; she's running it now. Ziva is still there, conducting interviews. If anyone knows anything, she'll find it. Ducky was reminded," he cracked a grim smile, "of something he read back in college and is trying to dig it back up. What have the doctors said?"

"He's still in surgery." Tony's voice was tight and he was having trouble maintaining his usual mask. "The bullet cracked his skull. Someone should be back with an update soon."

Tony dropped into a chair and rubbed at his temples with both hands. "He crashed on the way here," Tony said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I didn't think they were going to bring him back."

Gibbs sighed and sank down into a nearby chair. "McGee's stronger than he looks."

"Well he'd have to be, 'cause--" the joke died on Tony lips. He suddenly looked like he needed to find another wall to punch.

"Tony," Gibbs said, "I want you to listen to me. McGee's strong. He's going to pull through. We're going to find out who did this."

"I know, Boss."

"But until we find them, you're on leave. I can't let you work this case, Tony."

Tony stared at him in disbelief. "You can't do that," he said quietly.

"The Director has already signed off on it," Gibbs said. "She didn't question my decision."

"Is this what you meant with that crack about regulations?" Tony asked in outrage. "Is this some kind of punishment? If so, that's pretty fucking hypocritical, Boss. Or do regulations only matter when you're not the one breaking them?"

"Why do you want this case, DiNozzo?"

"To find the bastard who did this!"

"And then what?"

"And then I'm going to kill them! Slowly!"

"And that's why you're on leave. Starting now." Gibbs reached out and gripped Tony's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "You can't help him if you're behind bars. This won't be over just because the bad guy's dead."

Sometimes 1/1 SGA Sheppard/McKay "R"

2006-12-31T15:02:18Z

Title: Sometimes
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Timeline: Post “The Tao of Rodney” (no spoilers)
Rating: R
Prompt: for 50_darkfics #24 Power
Warnings: Angst
Summary: “Sometimes it felt like Rodney would let him do anything.”

It was late. The lights, in the corridors, had dimmed to match the setting sun, and most of the city had taken to their beds hours earlier.

The team had returned, two days earlier, from their last mission; nearly two weeks spent on a planet with the exact opposite day/night cycle from Atlantis. Teyla and Ronon—veteran gate-travelers—had reacclimated almost immediately upon their return, but John still found himself wandering the city, in the dead of night, restless and all too alert. He was drawn to the one person that he knew would be suffering from a similar state of insomnia.

The lab was as deserted as the rest of the city: lights dimmed, computer terminals dark, only Rodney remained, his face lit with an eerie wash of color from three glowing monitors. John could have been a wraith, hungry to feed, and Rodney would have merely held up a finger for silence, at his interruption, so intent was he on his work.

The computer screens were filled with equations: digital snapshots of white boards, covered in Rodney's unmistakable scrawl. Those numbers had become Rodney's obsession; sometimes, even on missions, John would see his eyes grow distant, and his lips would move, as he studied the equations hovering before his mind's eye.

A small part of John wanted to delete the pictures. Overwrite the files, and destroy the numbers forever, just so Rodney would move on. But even if he did, even if they were gone, Rodney would never look at him with the same intensity that he gave to the equations.

John reached out, wrapping his fingers around Rodney's shoulder. He could feel the press of muscle and bone, shifting beneath his touch. His grip tightened, clamping down, trying to drag Rodney back to the real world, away from theoretical models and hypothetical principles.

Rodney's head whipped around, protest dying on his lips, as he saw the look in John's eyes. Their gazes locked, challenge hovering between them, until Rodney finally nodded, and rose to his feet. Always, it was the same: a touch, a look, a nod; there were never any words.

The silence was the worst part. Rodney was always talking. Even with a gun in his face, he couldn't shut up. But that part of Rodney—the part John desperately needed to touch—always vanished with the nod; the person left was a stranger.

Rodney's eyes were closed when John kissed him, hard and hungry, with as much teeth as tongue. It was an eternity before Rodney began to respond, bringing his hands up to tangle in John's hair, and returning the kiss with a ferocity that felt more like battle, than passion.

A stack of DVDs went flying, as John pushed Rodney back into the desk. They skidded across the floor, catching the light, and sending flashes of rainbow dancing through the room. Rodney didn't resist, and John almost wished that he would.

Buttons parted, and fabric slipped away, and finally there was more skin beneath John's lips. He sank his teeth into Rodney's shoulder, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to draw out a low moan. He clung to the sound, proof that Rodney was actually there.

He wished Rodney would say something. He wished that Rodney would tell him no, so he could finally see the line in the sand. Sometimes it felt like Rodney would let him do anything.

He sank to his knees, and Rodney was hard, even before John took him in his mouth. Rodney's knuckles were white, where he gripped the edge of the desk, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths. John wished Rodney would open his eyes, that he would look at him, because sometimes John didn't think Rodney even knew he was there.

Even as his body shook with orgasm, John wondered if Rodney wanted this at all. If he would tell him if he didn't. He wondered if hearing him say yes would make him feel any less guilty.

John didn't want this much control over Rodney. He didn't want this silent submission: permission to take, and hurt, and destroy, because sometimes John really did want to hurt Rodney. He wanted to hit him, and bite him, and bruise him, and make him open his eyes and actually look at him. He wanted Rodney to just say something, even if it was to tell him to stop. Especially if it was to tell him to stop.

He needed something more: more than those near silent grunts, as John fucked him across the desk. But there wasn't anything more. When it was over, they straightened their clothes, and Rodney finally opened his eyes, turning almost immediately back to his work. If he didn't have the taste Rodney, lingering on his lips, John would believe they had never touched.

FIN

Broken 1/1 SGA Kolya/McKay NC-17

2006-12-24T09:37:08Z

Title: Broken
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Kolya/McKay
Timeline: Set during: “Irresponsible”
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: For 50_darkfics prompt #34 Broken
Warnings: Graphic Non-Con
Summary: During “Irresponsible,” Kolya takes the opportunity to renew his acquaintance with Rodney.

“Doctor McKay,” Kolya drawled, an unpleasant smile creasing his face. “It's been far too long.”

“Not nearly long enough,” Rodney blurted, before reason reasserted itself, and he remembered just how spectacularly bad an idea it was, to try and converse with the former Genii commander.

“I'm crushed,” Kolya said sardonically. “I have always found our meetings to be most...rewarding.” He moved forward slowly, backing Rodney up against the wall.

“Really?” Rodney said. “Because I've always found them to be somewhat nauseating, myself.” He flinched, as soon as the words were out, expecting to receive a blow, or worse, for his insolence, but Kolya only laughed, low and cold.

“I see that you still have not learned the value of silence,” Kolya said, reaching out to drag his thumb roughly across Rodney's lower lip. “Luckily, I remember how to shut you up.”

Rodney jerked away from Kolya's touch, cracking his head against the wall in the process. His eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for a way—any way—out of this situation, but he saw none. This would be an absolutely fantastic time for John to come riding in to the rescue. Hell, right now, he would even welcome Lucius' help.

Kolya slowly slid his hand up Rodney's chest, until it came to rest at the base of the scientist's neck, his fingers pressing against the windpipe, just hard enough to make breathing difficult. With his other hand, he began unfastening Rodney's belt.

Rodney felt his panic rising, but any attempt to struggle made Kolya's hand tighten around his neck. He clenched his jaw, and raised his chin, determined to keep the fear from showing in his face, but when Kolya whipped his belt free from its loops, his resolve crumbled. “Please don't,” he begged, hating himself for his weakness.

Kolya held his gaze for a long moment, his eyes coldly calculating, and then, to Rodney's shock, he released his neck and stepped back. “Fine,” Kolya said mildly.

Rodney remained frozen against the wall, staring at Kolya in disbelief. “Um, really?” he asked doubtfully. “You'll just...not?”

“I am not an unreasonable man,” Kolya said. “If you have lost interest in our little games, then I am more than happy to turn my attentions elsewhere.” His smile grew even colder. “Doctor Beckett, perhaps,” he said musingly. “I imagine that his tears taste simply delightful.”

Rodney's blood ran cold at the thought of Carson in Kolya's hands. Carson had, only recently, begun to work past his fear of going off world. It was bad enough that they had gotten captured; if Carson was subjected to Kolya's personal brand of sadism, Rodney wasn't sure he would survive it.

“No,” Rodney protested. “You can't do that.”

“I assure you that I can,” Kolya said.

“Please,” Rodney said brokenly. “I'll do it. I want--” he squeezed his eyes shut, and choked back the disgust he felt at his next words. “I want you to fuck me.”

Kolya's face was a mask of dark delight, but he forced his expression into one of disinterest, before Rodney reopened his eyes. “I don't know,” he said doubtfully. “I find myself growing weary of your presence. You would have to be very...persuasive.”

“I—Okay. Yes,” Rodney said, swallowing hard. He took two unsteady steps towards Kolya, then sank to his knees in front of him. He could do this, he told himself firmly. He had to. His hands trembled violently, as he fumbled with the fastenings on Kolya's trousers. This close, he could smell the sour stench of the other man's sweat, and he had to fight to suppress the bile rising in his throat.

Kolya's erection was already hard and leaking, when Rodney freed it from his trousers. Somehow, it seemed even larger than he remembered. As soon as Rodney wrapped his lips around it, grimacing at the familiar salty taste, Kolya gripped his head firmly and thrust all the way in, unmindful of the teeth that scraped across his flesh.

Rodney gagged, as the head of Kolya's cock forced its way down his throat. Fisting his hands in the fabric of Kolya's trousers, Rodney tried to steady himself as Kolya set a brutal pace. His jaws ached, and his lungs burned from lack of air. Above him, he could hear Kolya's ragged groans of pleasure, and he knew that those sounds would be burned into his mind permanently.

Soon, Kolya's thrusts began to grow erratic, and Rodney knew that he was nearing orgasm. He increased his suction, and pressed his tongue more firmly against the underside of Kolya's cock, hoping to end this quickly. Just as Rodney sensed that the other man was close, Kolya pushed him away violently, sending him sprawling across the floor.

Kolya stood, staring down at the man on the floor, his chest heaving. His erection still stood out proudly, almost visibly throbbing. “That was very persuasive, Doctor McKay,” he said, sounding somewhat out of breath. “I believe I'll take you up on your offer now.”

Rodney groaned, his chest clenching painfully; he had really hoped to avoid that part. Kolya dropped to the floor beside him, and made quick work of Rodney's trousers, jerking them down past his hips. In one smooth motion, he flipped Rodney over, and pulled him up onto his hands and knees.

Rodney hung his head, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to block out what was happening. Behind him, he heard Kolya spit, and then he felt two slick fingers probing at his entrance. He forced himself not to resist, as the fingers breached him, knowing from hard won experience that would only make it more painful.

Kolya scissored his fingers, opening him roughly, impatiently. Withdrawing his fingers, Kolya positioned himself at Rodney's entrance and began to push forward. Rodney sobbed brokenly at the intrusion, and, panic taking over, tried to pull away.

“It's too late to change your mind now, Doctor,” Kolya said with a laugh. Gripping Rodney's hips with bruising strength, he thrust forward, sheathing his cock in Rodney's ass. He began thrusting slowly, adjusting his angle until Rodney let out a gasp that was definitely not pain. Reaching around, he grabbed Rodney's cock and began stroking it in time to his thrusts.

Rodney moaned in horror as his body began to respond to Kolya's attentions. Before, it had always been about pain and humiliation; Kolya had never tried to make him respond. The unwanted pleasure only made it that much worse. Rodney didn't know what the hell was wrong with him: first he begs Kolya to fuck him, then he gets off on it. Against his will, he found himself pushing back against Kolya's thrusts.

Kolya laughed as Rodney began to move with him, and increased the pace, driving them both towards completion. A few moments later, Rodney cried out and spilled over Kolya's hand. Kolya made one last deep thrust, and allowed the spasms of Rodney's body to carry him to his own orgasm. Drained, he collapsed across the scientist's back, his weight bearing them both to the floor.

Once he had caught his breath, Kolya pulled his softening cock from Rodney's body and stood. Rodney lay on the floor, tears leaking from between his tightly closed lids, his body shaking with silent sobs. Kolya smiled down at him, savoring the sight of the arrogant man, so broken. After adjusting his uniform, he strode to the door, pausing only to call out, “A pleasure, as always, Doctor.”

On the other side of the door, he spoke to the two Genii standing guard. “Clean him up, and put him back in the cell with the others. Then bring me one of their radios. I think it's time for another chat with Sheppard.”

FIN

Table for 50_darkfics Prompts

2006-12-24T01:18:36Z

001.	Ravished.	002.	Dark Path.	003.	Rule/Ruler.	004.	Blood.	005.	Lost Haven.
006.	Claws.	007.	Awakening.	008.	Animal.	009.	Branded.	010.	Torture.
011.	Weapon.	012.	Bound.	013.	Nails.	014.	Coffin/ Buried.	015.	Angry.
016.	Evil.	017.	Fear.	018.	Conquer.	019.	Slave.	020.	Master.
021.	Brutal .	022.	Leash.	023.	Unholy.	024.	Power.	025.	Destiny.
026.	Ancient.	027.	Narcissus .	028.	Innocence.	029.	Guilt.	030.	Chains.
031.	Flame.	032.	Past.	033.	Present.	034.	Broken.	035.	Oath.
036.	Never.	037.	Forever.	038.	Outcast.	039.	Eternal.	040.	Dance.
041.	Fixation.	042.	Dirty.	043.	Candle.	044.	Hunger.	045.	Lust.
046.	Wicked.	047.	Stake.	048.	Leather.	049.	Razor.	050.	Eruption .
051.	Yes.	052.	Forced.	053.	Light.	054.	Gleam.	055.	Never.
056.	Madness.	057.	Please.	058.	Mask.	059.	Destruction.	060.	Poisonous.
061.	Feral.	062.	Shadow.	063.	Masterpiece.	064.	Ghost.	065.	Match.
066.	Midnight.	067.	Mighty.	068.	Coven.	069.	Forsaken.	070.	Unbound.
071.	Pain.	072.	Sorrow.	073.	Cry/Tears.	074.	Darkness.	075.	Non-con.
076.	Anonymous.	077.	Unforgiving.	078.	Different.	079.	Rain.	080.	Restraints.
081.	Clamps.	082.	Metal.	083.	Love.	084.	Hate.	085.	Indifference.
086.	Bite.	087.	Phoenix.	088.	Rope.	089.	Ball.	090.	Tight.
091.	Hot.	092.	Wax.	093.	Voice.	094.	Lick.	095.	Need.
096.	Writer's Choice.	097.	Writer's Choice.	098.	Writer's Choice.	099.	Writer's Choice.	100.	Writer's Choice.

Untitled Fic 1/?: SGA McKay/Dex NC-17

2006-12-21T01:34:00Z

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Dex
Timeline: Following "The Tao of Rodney"
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None this chapter.

Ronon practically threw Rodney onto the bench, in the back of the jumper. Rodney protested indignantly at the rough treatment, but froze—mid-diatribe—when he saw the furious look on Ronon's face.

“What were you thinking?” Ronon yelled. “You could have been killed!”

“We all could have been killed,” John added, unhelpfully, from the cockpit, as he prepared to take off.

“I was thinking,” Rodney said sharply, “that we might be able to get another ZedPM. One that we wouldn't have to share with our greedy cousins back home!”

“So you insult their gods?” Ronon asked. “Great plan!” His shoulders were squared, and his fingers twitched spasmodically, as though he desperately needed to shoot something.

“They were primitive morons, using one of the galaxy's most sophisticated power sources to create a pretty light show!” Rodney said. “They deserved to have their gods insulted!”

“Primitive morons, with giant, mutant, attack dogs,” John added.

“Could you please concentrate on flying?” Rodney snapped.

At the mention of the dogs, Ronon's attention snapped fully back onto Rodney. One of the dogs had taken him down, before they had made it back to the safety of the jumper, and it had been a very tense moment, before Ronon had managed to get a clear shot at it. “Are you hurt?” he demanded, as he began manhandling the scientist, looking for any sign of injury.

“Get off me!” Rodney yelled, slapping ineffectually at Ronon's hands. “If I was hurt you'd know about it! I'm fine!”

Ronon grabbed Rodney's flailing left wrist, immobilizing it. The hand, and the portion of arm extending from the jacket, was streaked with blood. “You are hurt,” he said accusingly. With a quick twist of his wrist, Ronon ripped the sleeve off Rodney's jacket, exposing several deep gashes and punctures on his forearm.

Rodney's eyes widened at the sight of the wounds, and the blood drained from his face. “Not fine,” Rodney amended, his voice rising sharply in pitch. “I'm definitely not fine.”

In the front of the jumper, John cursed. “How bad is it?” he asked, twisting his neck to try and get a look at the damage.

“He'll be fine,” Ronon said shortly, reaching for the first aid kid, which saw all too frequent use on their missions. A few of the wounds looked deep, but the bleeding had already slowed. “One of the dogs got its teeth in him.”

“Fine?” Rodney shrieked. “How is this fine? My arm got mauled by a giant wolf—god knows what diseases it was carrying!” He wrenched his arm away from Ronon's grasp and clutched it to his chest. “This could have been my neck! It was going for my neck! I could be dead right now!”

“You're right,” John said, rolling his eyes. “He'll be fine.”

***

John leaned against the infirmary wall, arms crossed, trying his best to remain unobtrusive. He had come through their recent misadventure relatively unscathed, but was in no hurry to fall under Beckett's control. There was one cut, on his knee, that would probably require stitches, and he just knew Carson would be pulling out his biggest needles when it came time to sew him up; a sort of medical reprimand, for having gotten injured.

Around the corner—out of sight, but still very much within hearing range—McKay was loudly, and unfavorably, critiquing Carson's treatment of his wounds. The insults were becoming less vehement, and rather less eloquent, as the painkillers Carson administered took effect.

John had gotten a good look at the bite, and it was nasty, but probably wouldn't leave any lasting damage. Rodney had been lucky; he'd seen the size of those teeth. Carson would probably have him doped up for a few days, which was always good for entertainment value. John knew it probably wasn't right to laugh at an injured friend, but a dreamy eyed, giggling Rodney was just too good to pass up.

Maybe this time he could get video.

Eventually, Rodney fell quiet and John turned his attention to Ronon. Usually Ronon was the epitome of cool after a crisis had passed, but now he paced the infirmary restlessly, his face set in a scowl, muttering darkly under his breath.

As far as flubbed missions went, this one had been a cakewalk. Yeah, there had been running, and screaming, and general fearing for their lives, but they'd walked away; no lives had been lost, no wars started, no solar systems destroyed; all in all, not bad. There was no reason for Ronon to still be that worked up over it, so whatever was bothering him, John didn't think it was attack dogs or ZPM hoarding natives.

When he thought about it, John realized that Ronon had been acting strangely for several weeks now; sticking close to Rodney on missions, and looming menacingly whenever the scientist spoke with the natives. It was as though he had appointed himself as Rodney's personal bodyguard.

His ruminations were interrupted when Teyla rushed into the room. “Is everyone alright?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly. “I was told there were injuries.”

Ronon growled, and stalked in the opposite direction, his hands clenched into fists. Teyla stared after him, her expression concerned. “What happened?” she asked John.

“McKay got bit by a wolf.” John offered.

“A wolf?” Teyla repeated, eyes widening.

“More of a mutant wolf, really,” he said. “Really big teeth.” Curling his fingers into fangs, he made what he felt was a fairly accurate representation of the wolves' gaping jaws.

“How badly was he injured?”

“He'll be fine,” John said dismissively.

“I see,” she said blandly. “Perhaps I was mistaken, when I assumed you could survive one mission without my assistance.”

“We angered the locals, they set their dogs on us, and we escaped,” John said. “I'm sure it would have happened, even if you were there.”

“Undoubtedly,” she said, with a heavenward glance. “And what of Ronon?”

“Him, I'm not so sure about,” John said. “He's been like that since we got back. I thought about talking to him, but then, you know, I decided I wanted to live. Might be better if we let him cool down first.”

“Has he given any indication, as to the cause of his distress?” Teyla asked.

“Not a word,” John said, “unless you count profanities. Though, he did seem pretty pissed at McKay. Even more than usual.”

“Ah,” Teyla said, as though all had been explained.

“Ah?” he repeated incredulously. “Keeping secrets isn't nice, Teyla.”

“It is not my place to say,” she said firmly. “But I do not feel that you need to worry.”

“Look around you!” he said, waving his arms to indicate the almost empty infirmary. “It's the middle of the afternoon, and no one's here. He scared them all off! Someone should worry.”

“I will speak to him,” Teyla promised. She eyed Ronon cautiously for a few moments, and then added, “Though, perhaps not right now.”

TBC