I.

 

It’s the same as every other panel they’ve done; just an ordinary Q & A session.  It’s always the same, and sometimes David thinks he’d fall over from shock if anyone were to ask anything they haven’t heard a dozen times. 

 

“Joe!  How do you explain the chemistry between Sheppard and McKay?” someone calls out from the back, and David settles back into his seat. He’s heard this one before.  Smirking, he turns toward Joe, who is smiling with a kind of wry exasperation as he waits for the clapping to die down. 

 

“You can’t explain chemistry,” he says, going along with the question, ha ha, and David would do the same thing.  The audience wants what it wants and redirection at this point will mean a strange, disappointed silence.

 

“Only McKay could explain it,” David interjects.  “But he won’t.” 

 

“Why’s that?” Joe asks, his lower lip just skimming the curve of the microphone.  

 

“Because the true chemistry is between McKay and himself,” David replies, which neatly puts an end to the matter, because no one can argue with that. 

 

***

***

 

 

“Why do you think they say that stuff?” Joe asks a week later when they’re buckled into coach and braced against the shuddering takeoff.  They’re headed out on a short promotion tour; two weeks of low-key appearances and local morning shows.

 

“Why does anyone say anything?  You have to stop thinking our fans are some kind of intellectuals.  Believe me; they’re just as nuts as everyone else.”

 

“I guess.  And we’ll probably be asked the same thing at least ten more times in the next couple weeks.”    

 

David shrugs, watching the city get smaller and smaller through the window on the other side of Joe.  “Coincidentally, the same number of times you’ll work the phrase cultural dialogue into the conversation.” 

 

Joe laughs softly at that.  “Like I don’t have all your sound bytes about that kiss memorized by now.” 

 

“Face it: sex sells.”

 

“There was nothing sexy about it,” Joe argues, but a reluctant smile stretches across his face as he shakes his head and unfolds the newspaper on his lap. 

 

David studies him for a moment; the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the dark eyelashes that flutter nearly imperceptibly as he reads.  David knows how this will go: sports section, then the headlines, and then the crossword.  There is a certain comfort in Joe’s predictability, especially after the other day’s uneasy exchange.  He sits back in his seat with a sigh, feeling edgy, unable to settle down, while Joe sits perfectly still, eyes on his paper.

 

After a few minutes of avoiding the stare of the woman across the narrow aisle, a heavy woman in a rumpled business suit, he dips his head in toward Joe and says, “I want to know the point of being a big TV star if you still have to fly coach.” 

 

“Mmm.  I’d worry more about the hotel.” 

 

“You don’t seem worried.” 

 

“Neither do you.  You’re just bored,” Joe says.  “Didn’t you bring anything to do?” 

 

“I brought you,” he says, and stumbles on the space between the last word his next.  “I mean, that’s clearly why they sent you along—to entertain me, right?  Also, to make us look smart.  Tell me about that cultural dialogue, again?” 

 

Joe gives him a hard look, but surrenders the crossword, which between the two of them, they have mostly filled in by the time they land. 

 

***

 

Where the network had skimped on airfare, they made up for in their accommodations, because the hotel is fantastic, and there’s a gift basket in his room, an embarrassment of riches.  David is tempted to get Joe on the phone, but Joe has always been more private than the rest of them.  He’d disappeared into his room as soon as they’d arrived, and calling so soon seems like an intrusion.

 

They’re supposed to be the guests of honor at a party hosted by the local television station.  A car picks them up at eight o’clock, and they meet in the lobby beforehand, showered and dressed in slacks.  Joe is wearing a white button down shirt.  Up close, David can see flecks of pink on the buttons, but he doesn’t say anything, mainly because he gets the distinct feeling that Joe wants him to.  For such a laid back guy, Joe gets off on an awful lot on making people squirm, making them look at him twice, and then daring them to say anything. 

 

For the first couple hours they stick together.  By now, there is a sense of familiarity in having Joe at his side; they’ve been paired so often that David knows exactly how to walk, how to enjoy the easy cadence of Joe’s speech and exactly how to reply in order to get a low, disbelieving laugh.  Now, after almost two years of being pushed together like this, Joe will lean in close to inject his own muttered sarcasm without stepping immediately away. 

 

After a while, Joe points out that if they’re bored by people’s stories separately then they can cover twice as much ground and be done sooner.  It’s a solid plan, and David allows himself to be steered away by a PR rep and introduced around to a series of increasingly humorless executives.  As the liquor flows freely, the party begins to pick up.  He’s not sure whether it’s the party that actually improves, or if it’s just the way everything is beginning to blur around the edges, warming his limbs and loosening his tongue, but he is certain, as he watches from the bar, that the most interesting thing in the room is the forward blonde in a low-cut dress who can’t seem to stop touching Joe. 

 

For a while, David expects Joe to follow her out the door when she tugs on his elbow, whispering with glossy red lips against his ear.  He seems perfectly content with the attention, all slow-warming smiles and his hand on her waist, but when they disappear into the corridor and David happens to be passing by, he hears Joe’s low voice, apologetic but firm, explaining that no, she’s very attractive, he’s very flattered, but also very married.   

 

Soon after that, Joe sidles up to him at the bar and leans on the counter, calling for another drink. 

 

“Hey,” David says, his eyes drawn in again by the ridiculous pink buttons.  The top two are undone, a dark triangle of hair exposed for everyone to see. 

 

“This party is better with beer,” Joe says.  On cue, another bottle appears in front of him and he raises it to David, then takes a long drink. 

 

“Beware parties you’re being paid to attend,” David agrees.  “Think we’ve been here long enough?” 

 

“I think we passed long enough a while ago.  Back when my virtue was still intact.” 

 

“You’re a real trooper,” David says, automatically looking around the room for the blonde.  “I’ll call a cab.” 

 

***

 

In the car, Joe slumps drowsily into the back seat, and they talk about the party while the nighttime city streaks past, fleeting bursts of light against the windows.    

 

“So, that woman,” David says pointedly. 

 

Joe shakes his head.  “She was just…you know.” 

 

“Yeah.”  David knows.  He supposes it must get old for someone like Joe, the way people want to touch him all the time, but that doesn’t make it any less real.  Any less understandable.  “She took it pretty well,” he offers. 

 

“Mm.”  Joe shifts on the seat and tips his head back on the seat, his eyes falling shut, his face unreadable.  “I told her…well, you heard.” 

 

“You told her you were married,” David says cautiously.  He knows as well as anyone else that Joe hasn’t worn his ring in months.  “That’s good.” 

 

“It was kind of a lie,” Joe says, the most he’s ever said about the subject.  “Technically true.  It’s complicated.” 

 

“Oh.”  David has no idea what to say to that, so he says everything instead; a messy, convoluted ramble about relationships, about which he happens to know very little—certainly not more than a married man.  By the time the cab drops them off at the hotel, he is desperately wishing he knew how to just stop, and Joe is looking at him strangely. 

 

“So,” David says as they walk through the gleaming lobby to the elevator.  “It’s still early.  You want to hang out a while?”  It’s hard to tell what Joe is thinking, but he arches his eyebrow but says yes, and shows up at David’s door in a frayed pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a t-shirt.  He prowls around the room, checking out the view from the window and stretching his arms above his head to expose the shy dip of his lower back. 

 

David averts his eyes, feeling exactly like he had in the cab, as though he’s just seen something he isn’t entitled to see. 

 

“Sweet basket,” Joe says, turning from the window, his dark head bent over the table.  “What’s this, an MP3 player?” 

 

David looks over Joe’s shoulder and watches while he presses random buttons and rifles through the rest of the contents.  “You didn’t get one?  Seriously, take whatever you want.  There’s some gift certificates in that yellow envelope.” 

 

“Thanks.  Hey, fancy nuts.  Nice.”  Joe rattles the container and takes it to the bed, where he settles against the pillows and pops it open.   “Pay per view?” he asks, his mouth full. 

 

David checks the listings and snorts at the selection, which consists solely of porn.  Something tells him that Joe isn’t the kind of guy who’ll provide a mocking commentary with one hand casually inside the front of his pants. 

 

“No, nothing,” he says, and flips through the channels until he gets to something that makes Joe wave him to a halt. 

 

“Stop, stop.  Saturday Night Live,” he says.  “This okay?”

 

“Sure.”  David tosses the remote onto the bed between them. 

 

“See, everyone always thinks the best years of SNL are the years when they were growing up,” Joe explains.  “But I can tell you for a fact it was ’95 to 2001.  Molly Shannon,” he says mournfully.  “Now, she was funny.” 

 

“Superstar!” David says as he rolls off the bed and lunges into position, arms raised above his head.  He’s pretty sure the pain that knifes through his thigh means he won’t be able to walk tomorrow, but it’s worth it when Joe looks utterly horrified and says, “You should never, ever do that again.” 

 

***

 

They’ve done five cities in five days, so it’s a relief when they get to Denver, where they’re scheduled to stay for three days.  The first day is a morning television show, a radio contest appearance, and then a meeting with the local newspaper.  By the time they’re finished, it’s dinnertime, and they find a steakhouse with high, unfinished log ceiling beams and various wild animals mounted on the walls. 

 

“Do you want to go out tonight?” David asks over the menu.  “You know the area, right?  I don’t know how many nights in a row I can lie around in a hotel room watching television.” 

 

Joe winces, as though David has just reminded him of something unpleasant.  “I can’t,” he sighs, folding his menu and putting it on the table.  “I’ve got to write something for tomorrow.  I said I’d give a talk at my alma mater.” 

 

“A talk?  Like, a speech?” 

 

“More or less.  It seemed like this big honor when they asked me, but then I realized I have no idea what to say.” 

 

“Just tell them the secrets of your success: stay in school, don’t do drugs, remember to vote.”   

 

The waitress arrives with their drinks, and when she’s gone, Joe continues.  “I had some stuff written about education, but it seemed kind of hypocritical, seeing how what I’m doing has absolutely nothing to do with my degree.  Then again, it’s all part of the journey, right?  So I’m thinking I might talk about choices, and how different paths can have the same destination.”   Joe idly stirs his Coke with his straw, and then looks up with a self-deprecating smile.  “And if that tanks, I’ll just talk about the pyro.”

 

David nods, immensely relieved.  “That would probably work.”   

 

“I could use some help,” Joe says, and David suddenly doesn’t feel nearly as stir crazy as he had thirty seconds ago.  Besides, Joe is always up for hanging out, but it’s not often that he extends an invitation of any type.  Not into his private space. 

 

“Sure, sure.  Is this what you were working on last night?”  When they’d gotten to the hotel, Joe had disappeared into his room with a wave and not emerged until this morning.  David had spent two hours on the phone and then watched a documentary on body piercing until he’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, fully clothed.

 

“Yeah, but I trashed most of it.  I’m kind of a last-minute kind of guy.” 

 

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” David says, and smiles widely at Joe for no good reason whatsoever. 

 

***

 

They stay for a brief reception after the speech, Joe’s exhilaration so bright that David can feel it on his own skin when Joe thanks him, the warmth of pride and relief and gratitude all at once.  It’s just sandwiches and punch on a few tables with paper tablecloths, but David likes the way they work the room together.  There’s an unspoken competition between them over which parts of the speech were the most successful, and whenever someone mentions David’s contributions, he turns his head and Joe is right there, his eyes crinkled with amusement, lips wet with drink.   

 

Just as they’re about to leave, a girl of about twenty taps Joe’s arm and then steps back, clasping her hands behind her back.  The position accentuates her breasts even though she is modestly dressed in a sweet sweater and knee-length skirt.  Her three-inch heels are decidedly not sweet, David notices, right as he catches Joe noticing the same thing.  “Hi,” she says.  “Sorry to bother you, but I really enjoyed your speech.  I’m a history major, too.” 

 

“Oh yeah?” Joe asks, and glances at David, who fights the urge to roll his eyes.  Typical.  She probably wants to be an actress, too.  With her long, dark hair and straight-cut bangs, she has the look of a fifties pinup in an appealing sort of way.  She and Joe make small talk for a while, while David becomes more and more certain that she hasn’t even noticed him standing there, until she proves him right by bumping Joe’s hip with her own and saying, “I’d love to talk some more, if you want to get out of here…” 

 

It isn’t as though Joe has done anything other than stand there politely, but it’s still awkward for David to watch him turn her down with an easy smile and helpless if only my schedule allowed it shrug.  It’s not until later that he realizes he doesn’t even know if Joe had wanted to turn her down. 

 

***

 

“Do people ever not try to sleep with you?” David asks on the way back to the hotel.  It’s supposed to be a joke, but the smile goes out of Joe’s eyes. 

 

“No one’s trying to sleep with me right now,” he says sharply.

 

David has to look away, suffused with guilt that leaves him uncomfortably exposed, as though the slightest word could sear some damning proof into his skin. 

 

***

 

When David lets himself into Joe’s room, he finds him leaning over the minibar with one hand braced on the open door.  He’s frowning at the rows of bottles, studying them as though they’re the most important thing in the world, and doesn’t even look up when David comes in. 

 

“Wow, you’re serious about that decision,” David says after a minute.  “I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got one.”   When Joe continues to stand there, shoulders hunched tightly, David comes around and peers at him from the other side. 

 

What he sees is enough to raise a flutter of unease, the distinct sense of something being wrong.  Joe is a talented actor, but right now he can’t cloak his expression; one of shock, as though he’s just been slapped, or discovered a dreadful secret. 

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, reaching out for Joe, who jerks out of his reach. 

 

“Nothing,” he says dully, but he takes an armful of booze from the fridge before letting it swing shut.  “I mean, nothing much,” he says as he sits down on the bed with his bottles. 

 

“Uh huh.”  David stands between the two queen sized beds and watches Joe untwist the top from a small bottle of whiskey. 

 

“Just.”  Joe shrugs, his eyes on the busy work he makes of pouring a drink.  “Family stuff.” 

 

Just the sound of it makes David’s stomach draw into a tight knot.  “Are the boys-“

 

“No, no, they’re fine.  But I’m gonna have to fly out tomorrow morning.  You’ll have to do the New York thing yourself, unless they can get Torri.  They said they were going to try, so…”  He takes a long drink, his eyes squeezed shut until he comes up for air, and half the glass is gone. 

 

“No problem,” David says.  “Family stuff; I get it.  But are you…” 

 

“I’m okay,” Joe says quickly.  “Really.”  He doesn’t look okay.  He looks like he’s getting drunk, and the expression on his face is pinched, not at all bored or smart-alecky or any of the things Joe is supposed to be.    “C’mon, sit down.” 

 

David sits, crawls up to the other side of the bed and points the remote at the television.  The channels click by at a steady pace, but Joe doesn’t offer any suggestions.  Sci-Fi is playing an old SG-1 episode, where David pauses briefly, just long enough to feel smug over the special effects. 

 

Joe perks up a bit.  “Damn, that laser looks fake.” 

 

That’s the last thing they say for a very long time, going through an episode of Dr. Who and then a truly terrible movie with some sort of rampaging mutant bugs.  David isn’t sure why he’s even there, but every time he makes noises about leaving, Joe straightens and says, “What’s the hurry?  Stay a while,” even though he’s been there for hours.

 

They don’t talk.  Instead, David pretends to watch tv while beside him, he can feel Joe’s slow reaction to whatever is going on; the way he turns inward and lets it subdue him until he’s tense all over with a grim trepidation that makes it impossible for David to ignore. 

 

“I know it’s none of my business,” he begins, but Joe shakes his head and reaches for another drink, this time drinking straight from the tiny bottle. 

 

“No,” he says when he finishes and licks the remaining moisture from his lips.  “I just want to…”  He waves his hand at the television, and possibly toward David, which would be flattering if he knew for certain. 

 

He’s willing to remain there on Joe’s terms, but then in the middle of an infomercial for designer slipcovers, Joe mutters, “Fuck,” with a world of frustration injected into that one word, his fists balled up and pressed into the bedspread.  “Fuck,” he repeats fiercely, completely unlike his usual detached manner. 

 

David hesitates, unsure of what exactly might be welcome.  With anyone else it would be easy, but with Joe, there’s always the feeling that David is welcome so far and no further—which is further than he allows most, for which David is grateful, but he still finds himself hanging back.  It’s late.  The room is warm and dark, with heavy curtains drawn to eclipse the streetlights and only the television casting its unpredictable flickers of light and shadow about the room.  Here, everything feels removed from reality, as though what they do here doesn’t count, and with that logic in mind, David reaches for him. 

 

When nothing happens, he spreads his hand over the back of Joe’s neck and pulls him in, and after that, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know what has Joe so shaken.  All that matters is the way he actually holds on, like nothing David had ever expected from the guy who kicks his skateboard up underneath his arm as though he’s never needed a thing from anyone.  It seems impossible now, that Joe would have resisted; not this late-night Joe, who is pliant with liquor, so much that he doesn't do anything but breathe a bit louder when David makes slow, random circles across the nape of his neck. 

 

“You should take it easy with that stuff,” he says, dragging his thumb higher into Joe’s hairline, as soft and thick as David had expected.  The words mean so much more than that; things like don’t do anything you don’t want to and let me help you.  “Flying is hell enough without a hangover.” 

 

“Too late,” Joe mumbles into his shoulder, his breath hot and damp through the fabric of David’s t-shirt.           

 

David doesn’t know what to say to that.  From his position, he can see the line of Joe’s back down to the place where his sweatpants hug the tiny curve of his ass.  He wonders how the two of them would look to an outsider, folded together in a dark room, heads pressed together so closely that he can smell the woodsy pine of Joe’s hair products; like every department store David has ever walked through, like a night spent in bed, and beneath that, like booze and sadness and Joe. 

 

Joe sighs against his shirt again, and then they both go still, with David abruptly aware of every place where he and Joe are touching, his heart galloping along in a rushed, uneven rhythm that leaves him panicked and vaguely sick.  It’s not that he would ever take advantage, but there’s no way for him to not notice all the things about Joe that make him so appealing to everyone he meets.  There’s no way for him not to notice that Joe’s back is just muscled enough to give it firm, interesting curves which are barely noticeable beneath David’s hands.  “I have to go,” he says, with one quick squeeze around Joe’s torso before he lets him go.  “Early morning tomorrow.  For you, too,” he adds.

 

Joe’s cheek is shadowed with dark stubble that scrapes David’s face when they separate.  “Yeah,” he says, sounding sleepily reluctant.  He doesn’t want David to leave, and that in itself is dangerous enough that David rushes to his feet so quickly it dizzies him, and he staggers to the door, fumbling for the doorknob. 

 

“Let me know what happens,” he says on his way out the door, already well aware that Joe won’t do any such thing.  

***
 

II.

 

 

It’s the same as every other panel they’ve done; just an ordinary Q & A session.  It’s always the same, and sometimes David thinks he’d fall over from shock if anyone ever asked anything they haven’t heard a dozen times. 

 

“Joe!  How do you explain the chemistry between Sheppard and McKay?” someone calls out from the back, and David settles back into his seat. He’s heard this one before.  Barely suppressing a smirk, he turns toward Joe, expecting the same, but there isn’t a trace of humor on Joe’s face. 

 

David waits a beat while Joe scans the audience, his shoulders hunched defensively, until too much time has passed, too much to be normal, and David leans in toward his microphone. 

 

“The communal showers probably have a lot to do with it,” he offers the crowd, and over their appreciative racket, adds, “but they cut most of those scenes.” 

 

Joe is the only one not laughing along.  Instead, he looks perplexed as his long fingers curve around his neck to scratch at the back of his neck, and David is only peripherally engaged by the words coming out of his own mouth—“-a tasteful, yet soapy montage-“, he’s saying, which makes Rachel cover her pink face with her hands and the crowd shriek with approval, but doesn’t draw any response from Joe other than a robotic nod and an utterly phony smile.  So David keeps talking, all the while thinking of the questions he wants to ask, like what the hell is wrong? and since when do you take yourself so seriously?

 

When they’ve moved on and Rachel is giving an earnest take on Teyla’s character, David shoots Joe a look loaded with all those questions, and receives a dismissive shrug in return. 

 

 

***

 

Jason likes the clubs, which is a blessing on days like these, when David needs to get out and forget that he’s pushing forty and should really be in bed by midnight if he wants to feel human the next day.  It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he keeps moving through the crowd, brushing past bare midriffs and sweat-slicked shoulders until the blurred neon begins to make sense and he can recognize the shape of Jason on the dance floor, a full head taller than everyone else.   

 

Jason points him toward a table in the back, where he recognizes an overly pierced girl from makeup—Gwen?—guzzling beer from a bottle, and next to her, Joe doing the same, only much more slowly. 

 

“Hi,” Gwen says over the noise.  She barely acknowledges him, her attention fixed on Joe, whose face is in shadow save for the brief moment he lifts his eyes to David’s.

 

David raises his hand in greeting and wraps his fingers around his glass, cool and wet against his palm.  The uneasiness is back, and David still has no explanation.

 

“Torri!  Torri!” Joe calls suddenly, and right on cue, Torri appears and slides gracefully into David’s intended seat, all loose limbs and a surprised giggle when she wobbles on her chair.  Joe steadies her arm with one hand, a sideways smirk on his lips.  She’s been out dancing; David had seen her when he’d walked in, moving to the frantic beat with her breasts swaying beneath the slip of a top that ties between her shoulder blades with a frighteningly tiny knot. 

 

“Hi!” she says, then gives a low laugh for no reason, flipping her long hair behind her shoulders like some kind of tipsy clubgirl.  “You haven’t danced with me once,” she scolds Joe.  If she were any closer, she’d be on his lap.  David frowns around the rim of his glass.  Joe hasn’t even spoken to him since Denver, but there seem to be some complicated rules in place which prohibit him from even asking what’s going on, much less draping himself over Joe and accusing him of not paying enough attention. 

 

“Soon,” Joe promises Torri.  His close-mouthed smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and David is willing to bet she doesn’t even notice.  It serves Joe right when she flits up and onto the dance floor with Gwen before he can object.  Out of sheer determination—and a little spite—David takes her seat. 

 

“Hello.  Remember me?” he asks.  “David Hewlett.” 

 

Joe glances at him briefly before turning his attention back to the dance floor, his fingers drumming out the beat onto the table.  “Hi.” 

 

Frustration surges up into his chest, because this isn’t how he imagined things would be when they returned home.  He doesn’t have patience for this, the time for this; there are a dozen more interesting people—more eager people—he could be with right now, but still, he stays put.  “Did everything turn out okay with…”  He leaves it open-ended for Joe’s benefit, but the reference still makes Joe duck his head and rub self-consciously at his chin.

 

“Everything’s fine,” he says curtly.  “Thanks for asking.”

 

David looks at the side of Joe’s face, apparently all he’s going to get.  “Glad to hear it,” he says as he gets to his feet.  “I’ll see you out there.” 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

***

 

“We still need a fourth for the ski chalet,” Paul says on the way off the lot. He bumps David with his shoulder and gives him a sidelong glance, opening a bag of potato chips as he walks. “Guess Flanigan is out of the question, eh?”

David shuffles sideways and shakes his keys restlessly. He knows where this is going, and it’s somewhere he’s not terribly anxious to venture.

“What’d you do to him, anyway?”

“I dunno.”  He hates that other people are noticing, too.  It had been hard to miss last weekend when he’d snagged a sip from Joe’s water bottle mid-interview and when he’d attempted to return it, had received a glower and low mutter for him to just keep it, Hewlett, sheesh, as though he’d done something he hadn’t a hundred times before.

“You did something to piss him off.”

“Can we just drop this?” David says, which is entirely the wrong thing because it makes Paul laugh and say “Oooooh, now I really want to know,” as they get into the car.

”You’re a woman; you know that, right?  And I don’t want to talk about it.”  And he doesn’t, except that two minutes later he can’t keep from blurting, “I wouldn’t want him to be our fourth, anyway.  He’s so L.A.; it’s sickening.” 

 

“Yes, I’m sickened,” Paul says, and pours the remaining potato chips into his mouth straight from the bag.  “What does that mean, anyway?  He’s L.A.?  Isn’t that just another way of saying he’s hot?” 

 

“Hot and slutty,” David says darkly. 

 

At least, that’s what he wishes it meant.

 

***

 

 

“What, are you actually angry with me?  Because--why?”  There’s a degree of dramatic satisfaction in bursting into Joe’s trailer this way, in Joe’s startled expression, not to mention the satisfying crash of the door as it swings shut behind him.   “Is it because we shared a brief moment of physical contact?  I’m so sorry if that offended your macho sensibilities, but it was you who instigated the whole thing, so if you’re going to give me the continued cold shoulder, would you mind explaining it to everyone who notices?  Because I’m frankly sick of it.”   

 

Joe returns immediately to his script, every indication reflecting boredom.  “Not angry, and not giving you the cold shoulder.  I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

 

David stands in the doorway helplessly, which makes him even angrier because after the way Joe has been flinching away from him for the past couple weeks, there’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but what can he say?  You won’t let me touch your arm, or worse, that smile is like the one you give fans, and with that thought, a slow trickle of understanding begins to work its way into his consciousness.  He’s not certain until Joe puts his script aside and leans forward with an amiable mask that clearly says hey, it’s not my fault, a look that David has seen too many times not to know exactly what it means.  It had been amusing to see it aimed at the various women Joe has attempted to let down easily, but looking at it from this side seems intolerably unfair. 

 

“Do I really have to explain that I’m not some overly forward groupie out for a good time?” 

 

Joe snorts softly.  “I thought David Hewlett was always out for a good time.” 

 

And it’s true, but not like that.  So far, this thing between them has been just a wisp of a notion; an impression of heat that only lasts for a moment of eye contact, which Joe is suddenly unwilling to give him. 

 

“Seriously,” he says, “You’ve been an asshole since Denver.  Is it because…I mean, it was just a hug.”  The words taste false in his mouth.  “Right?”

 

“We are not talking about this,” Joe warns.  “David…”  And finally he’s given David something other than a chilly acknowledgement, but this isn’t the way he wanted it.   He doesn’t want Joe pleading with him, as though he’s about to do something to ruin them both. 

 

“I’m not asking for anything.  This is—I know it’s weird, but that’s no reason to act like I don’t exist.  People are noticing, okay?” 

 

“No, people are noticing us!  All those questions, you think they’re really about Sheppard and McKay?” 

 

David can’t even find it in himself to be angry, with the way Joe is rubbing anxiously at the faded denim on his knees, rocking skittishly where he sits.  “Of course they are.  Regardless of what you may have felt when—“ Joe’s warm, sweet-smelling neck in a dark room “Whenever,” he finishes breathlessly, his arms coming to cross over his middle, some involuntary gesture of self-protection. 

 

“Thanks for that,” Joe says, muffled through his hands, which are covering his face completely.  “Please go.  Just go,” he says, and David doesn’t even think about arguing.

 

***

 

After that, things go from awkward to unbearable, to the point where there are days when the only time Joe interacts with David face-to-face is during scenes.  It can’t go on like this forever, because David had been right—people are noticing.  Then, David is given a neatly bound stack of papers with nothing but Sheppard McKay Sheppard McKay, every page branded with Sheppard McKay, and he has to start over again when he sees wraith dart in a paragraph of exposition.  After that, there’s nothing to do but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. 

 

A Wraith dart is barely big enough to hold one man, much less two.  But it’s right there on paper, a whole frantic scene where Sheppard and McKay squeeze themselves into a dart as a last resort, lost in space and struggling to survive.  David reads through the lines, imagining Joe’s reaction to the discovery that he would probably spend hours of taping on David’s lap, the last place he wants to be.

 

“It’s like couples therapy,” Paul says when they talk about it later.  “I think I saw this on a movie, once.” 

 

“That never works,” David says, but the morning of the shoot, he flosses and uses the guaranteed-sexy body spray he’d gotten for Christmas.

 

As with everything, it’s more complicated than it seems.  After they get Joe and David squeezed into the dart, it takes forever because the enclosure’s lights keep flickering out, and the technician’s attempt at fixing them only proceeds to blow a circuit which means even more waiting, with Joe’s bony ass shifting from David’s left thigh to his right, never quite settling in one place.  

 

The uniform doesn’t breathe—not the science uniforms, at least.  Joe gets to wear a cotton t-shirt under his jacket, which David envies—so it’s too warm, in addition to the first stirrings of claustrophobia.  There’s nowhere to go, and because the entire cockpit is wired for sound, no way for either of them to say what’s really on their minds. 

 

“Could you just settle down?” he mutters, when Joe shifts back against him and then restlessly forward for the hundredth time. 

 

“Not if you don’t want your legs to go numb by the time we finish this.  If we ever finish,” Joe says, but he finally sags into David with his entire weight and sighs, his hands braced on the control panel. 

 

“I can take it,” David says. What he can’t seem to do, however, is find a good resting place for his hands. 

 

“Here,” Joe says, a bit strained for being the one resting his weight entirely on another person, and then grabs David’s restless hands to press them onto his lap.  “Here, okay?  Just relax.  I’m sure they’ll be done soon.”

 

“I’m sure they will,” he repeats, and he doesn’t mean to do it, but once his fingers flex into the firm resistance of Joe’s thighs, he can’t help but do it again, just out of the thrill of going somewhere he’s never gone, would never be allowed to go.  Then again, Joe’s hands remain where they are on top of his own, exerting just enough pressure to keep them in place.

 

Joe is constantly being asked about his exercise regimen; David has heard him talk about all the cardio and weight training enough times that he can recite it from memory, but all that has a new meaning with the proof of those workouts beneath his hands.  It doesn’t seem vain and pointless at all, now that David can press his thumbs inward and feel the strength there in Joe’s lean thighs.  Another flex of his hands and Joe shifts backward on David’s lap. “Sorry, I-“

 

The whole place is wired for sound. 

 

“No problem.” 

 

It begins innocuously, nothing but a gesture of reassurance.  But once David pats the solid curve of Joe’s thigh, it’s impossible to stop, to keep from dipping into the warm space between Joe’s legs and going higher, until there’s no more thigh, and David’s thumb is resting against—

 

“David,” Joe says softly, just steadily enough that David knows he hasn’t forgotten they’re not truly alone.  There is no warning in his tone; he doesn’t even move away.

 

“Joe,” David says against the fabric of Joe’s uniform jacket.  If he really wanted David to stop, his hands would be doing something other than staying glued to David’s, following every dangerous movement with unusual compliance, even when David discovers the bulge between Joe’s legs, tracing with slow, languid passes until it swells against the pads of his fingers, hot and damp, like everything David had known Joe could be, but had never thought he would reveal. 

 

“Not here,” Joe hisses, twisting around despite the lack of room, enough pressure on David’s lap that he gasps into Joe’s back; the coarse material rough against his face.  Before Joe turns back around, David catches a glimpse of his face, bright eyes beneath dark, worried brows.  Turned on, this is what he looks like turned on, and his hands still in obedience, but mostly because he knows he can’t go any further.  Not here, not here, not here. 

 

They get through the scene with a clumsiness that Martin seems to accept as good acting, with David’s hands clenched into Joe’s pants and suffering through every fidget and jostle, which he is convinced are only half-accidental.  It takes David twice as long as Joe to extricate himself from the dart when it’s over, Joe launching himself out of the cockpit in one limber leap while David slowly unfolds himself from the tiny seat. 

 

When he gets to his trailer, Joe is already there, slumped on David’s small sofa and looking worryingly defeated. 

 

“So, I guess your whole brilliant cold shoulder scheme doesn’t work so well when you have to spend three hours on my lap.” 

 

“It was never really working,” Joe admits with a grimace.  “You’re kind of impossible to ignore.”   

 

Feeling insurmountably generous, David takes that as a full apology and doesn’t offer to open Joe’s pants and finish what they’d started even though he is in knots with the dull ache of being left unsatisfied.  At this point, he is accustomed to the feeling.

 

 

 

 

III.

 

It’s the same as every other panel they’ve done; just an ordinary Q & A session.  It’s always the same, and sometimes David thinks he’d fall over from shock if anyone ever asked anything they haven’t heard a dozen times. 

 

“Joe!  How do you explain the chemistry between Sheppard and McKay?” someone calls out from the back, and David settles back into his seat. He’s heard this one before.  This time, there’s nothing funny about it.  This time, David knows very well where the chemistry comes from, and he is also so tired of this that he could happily punch the source of the question squarely in the face.  

 

“It…”   Joe stops, and then gives David a bemused once-over.  “I think it’s because they know how to push each other into doing what needs to be done,” Joe says into his microphone.  “And the way McKay has gotten under Sheppard’s skin,” he adds, looking straight at David.  “He complains about it, but he likes him there.  He doesn’t want McKay to stop pushing him, because if he does, then they’ll never get there.” 

 

Get where? David dimly hears someone ask, and it doesn’t matter what Joe tells them about the future of Atlantis and the defeat of the Wraith, because the direction of the show would never make Joe red to the tip of his ears, and David has a finely tuned sense about when he’s being handed a proposition. 

 

***

 

When it’s over, he follows Joe down the hallway to an empty conference room and shuts the door behind them. 

 

“I can push as much as you want,” he says earnestly as he advances toward Joe, who is leaning against a table with his arms hanging loosely at his sides.  “Believe me, you’ve never met anyone pushier.”  And he means it, God, he means it.  Everyone is always pushing Joe; David had just been trying to finesse him for a change, but if this is what he wants, then David is perfectly willing to forgo explicit permission and lick his way into Joe’s mouth, fast and messy.  Their arms tangle clumsily as they find the best way to come together.  When they finally do, Joe’s gasp is nearly a moan against David’s mouth, and he opens so easily for David’s tongue that it’s impossible to remember any preliminary niceties, to do anything but stroke Joe’s tongue with his own and feel the eager response as Joe pushes back, so deep and wet that it’s like the hottest blow job he’s ever gotten. 

 

And maybe it’s not the most appropriate kiss—more like he would kiss mid-fuck, but he’s already frantic for it, so wound up that it’s more like mid-fuck than the last few times he’d actually gotten laid—and Joe is holding his face with both hands, making soft, pained sounds in the back of his throat that would be funny under any other circumstances, but now they just make David crazy with wanting more. 

 

“Come home with me,” Joe says, his voice rough, his mouth so red and used-looking that there’s no discreet way to walk out of this room.  “We can’t do this here, but I’m going to if we don’t stop now.” 

 

“I suppose now would be a bad time to push the issue?”  David can’t seem to move away from the press of Joe’s hips against his own. 

 

“You should probably pick your battles,” Joe says dryly.  “My car, come on.”  

 

Joe has an inordinate amount of love for anything with wheels and speed, so it makes sense that he would drive fast and loose, and just laugh delightedly when David clutches the safety handle over a near-miss that Joe insists was yards away.  But then they’re there, in Joe’s dark garage, which when he turns off the ignition, is jarringly silent. 

 

From the corner of his eye, David can see the dark silhouette of Joe beside him.  There are disheveled pieces of hair fanning out in every direction, and since David feels like he can go slow from here, he reaches over and fingers them lightly, the soft dark sections that angle every which way over his forehead.  

 

“I thought you couldn’t wait,” Joe says, his voice a startling spike of sound in the quiet car. 

 

“I don’t want to,” David admits.  To prove his point, he slides his hand down over the front of Joe’s torso and feels Joe’s belly contract at the unexpected touch.  His own stomach tightens at the reaction and at the thought of going down further, beneath all those layers of clothes.

 

“Then come on.”  Joe pops his seat belt and gets out, and then leads David inside, through an immaculate kitchen and living room, down a short hallway and into a large room, where he turns on a lamp. 

 

They’re in the bedroom, David realizes; forget the pretense of hanging out, or coming in for a drink—they’re here for one reason.  Joe is ahead of him, already unbuttoning his shirt and laying his watch on the night stand.  It’s ridiculous, the effect it has on David, who is already hard just from the glimpse of chest through his halfway open shirt. 

 

“You don’t look like you need much pushing, right now,” David says as he wanders over to Joe’s side of the room, where he’s settled onto the edge of the bed. 

 

“No?”  Joe asks, and then tugs at the fly of his jeans.  “How about a pull, then?” he asks suggestively, and then laughs.

 

“Charming,” David snorts, but he sucks in a stunned breath at the way Joe looks there, his thighs wide open and unfastening his pants with both hands.   And he’s all capable confidence and dark-eyed lust until David actually kneels between his legs, and then he pauses, one hand wrapped protectively around his cock. 

 

“Do you, uh-“ he gestures from David’s mouth to his own lap.  “-do you do that?” 

 

David fights the urge to bat Joe’s hand away and take over, because for all his willingness to bring David into his bedroom, he doesn’t seem quite ready to surrender his cock.  “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks slowly, as realization sets in.  “Oh, no.  No, no, no.  You’ve—you haven’t done this before?” he squeaks, wanting to sound angry, but figuring he sounds more like the idea of taking Joe Flanigan: straight boy to bed makes him incoherent with excitement.   

 

Joe’s mouth twists with embarrassment, and that’s not where David wants this to go, so he goes slowly when he bends his head to Joe’s fist, where the smooth head of his cock pokes out just far enough for David to suck it between his lips and tease the tip with his tongue.

 

“Yeah,” Joe groans, the dirtiest sound David has ever heard in his life, and as Joe’s fist begins to inch down his cock, he’s able to take more inside his mouth, until Joe’s hand falls away entirely, his entire cock arching to meet David, leaking onto the back of his tongue, so hard that David can feel the pulse of it in his mouth. 

 

Joe lies back on the bed, panting up at the ceiling while David pulls off and begins scrabbling at his clothes, pulling off Joe’s jeans and then his own.  When he’s naked and ready to climb onto the bed, he pauses at the neatly creased black satin sheets and sleek black velour bedspread.

 

“Even your bed is hot,” he says incredulously.   

 

“Come on,” Joe says, and reaches for him, his eyes intent on David’s mouth.  This time, they kiss like they had before, only David doesn’t have to mind the surge of arousal between his legs, because this time all he has to do is rub himself on Joe’s belly—good enough, more than good enough, every pass trailing sparks of pleasure, but even better when Joe picks up the rhythm with his own hips, and then they’re off and running.   

 

“You sure you haven’t done this before?” he asks, with one hand on Joe’s small, pale ass, his fingers drifting thoughtfully toward the crease. 

 

“I’ve gotten off,” Joe says harshly, his mouth working at David’s ear, all hot ragged breath and quick drags of teeth.  “Just not with you--what are you doing, there?” he asks, suddenly stilling.  David’s middle finger has traveled from the soft skin behind Joe’s balls and come to rest just at the edge of a place that makes Joe’s cock throb between them, wet and sticky on David’s skin. 

 

“You like it, right?” David asks.  Maybe this is one of the things Joe wants to be pushed on.  It seems to be, because when he rubs his finger in small, experimental circles, there’s a moment where Joe’s ass rises to meet him, and then he’s being crushed into the bed as Joe writhes mindlessly, making barely audible yet utterly obscene sex sounds in David’s ear the whole while. 

 

“Oh my God,” David says, thrusting up against Joe at a frenzied pace, but Joe is coming down from it, heavy and pliant against him, so he rolls until he’s sitting on Joe’s thighs, one hand stroking the mess of slick, wet hair on Joe’s belly—he’s always wanted to touch this hidden spot, to bury his face there and taste him all over—and the other whipping along his own erection until the heat and pressure bubbles over into something sharp and inescapable.  He comes with Joe watching him through dazed, half-lidded eyes, his cheeks bright with color, hair damp and matted at his hairline.  His lips move in indecipherable words, urging him on, David realizes as he comes in hard bursts of pleasure, all over that place he’s thought about touching so often.

 

“I could’ve done that,” Joe says.  David is still holding his softening cock, waiting for his vision to clear when Joe’s hand drifts down and streaks through David’s mess; David’s come on Joe’s skin.  He stares down at them, breathless all over again over what they’ve done.

 

“Next time,” he promises, and wipes his hand on Joe’s porn star sheets. 

 

***

***

 

It’s the same as every other panel they’ve done; just an ordinary Q & A session.  It’s always the same, and sometimes David thinks he’d fall over from shock if anyone ever asked anything they haven’t heard a dozen times. 

 

“Joe!  How do you explain the chemistry between Sheppard and McKay?” someone calls out from the back, and David settles back into his seat. He’s heard this one before.  This time, he coughs and smirks down at the table. 

 

This time, neither of them will explain it, but that doesn’t mean they can’t.