Sheppard is sort of rocking in her swivel chair when the phone rings on the edge of her desk beside her black boots. The outmoded Cheyenne Mountain model doesn’t have caller ID but she knows who’s calling without checking. It’ll be McKay. The third time since the SGC recalled them from Atlantis and had Sheppard on desk duty and bandaging offworld booboos until kingdom come.
“Kiki’s Delivery Service,” she says.
“What in the— Oh,” McKay’s voice, hollow in Sheppard’s ear, “you’re joking.” She almost sounds disappointed.
McKay’s dejected tone tugs on some shady, hidden portion of Sheppard’s heart. It’s so embarrassing, she ruffles a hand through her hair, tugs at the short ponytail at her nape to disguise the nervous habit she acquired when she was a youngster. “You sound like you’re in a tunnel.”
“I’m living in a tunnel,” McKay replies sourly.
Sheppard sighs, swivels. She touches the toe of her boot to the stack of neglected paperwork on her desktop. “I went through a phase like that, too. I wore a lot of black in freshman year.” Of college, is what she doesn’t say.
“It’s just—I just,” a huff that raises a shiver down Sheppard’s spine, “like I said before… It’s, well, I wouldn’t say this – ordinarily, I would take a more scientific, less subjective approach to-to identifying—”
Sheppard’s eyes roll but her cheeks feel hot. “McKay,” she prods.
“Lonely,” McKay says in a huff. “I feel lonely, okay?”
There’s the pang in Sheppard’s heart. She’s gotten so soft since the SGC benched her. “C’mon,” she murmurs.
“I know,” McKay says. “It’s stupid. I know. Hotshot flygirls don’t feel anything, but in case you missed it, I’m not exactly battle-hardened.” It might be Sheppard’s imagination but it sounds like a sniff over the line.
“Flygirls isn’t actually a phrase for female pilots,” Sheppard points out. She glances at the door to see that it’s firmly closed and, for a second, remembers the tons of rock piled between her and the sky. She remembers the hundreds of miles between she and McKay. It doesn’t get that much more poignant. “Why don’t you go out or something?” she asks despite herself. “Distract yourself.”
McKay snorts. An inelegant, unladylike sound that’s just perfectly her. “Forgive me if I come off as something of an egotist, but going out is hardly satisfying for the most part.”
Sheppard smirks. It’s good to know that McKay is still as sharp and smart-mouthed as she’s always been. “Hate for you to leave unsatisfied.”
There’s a thoughtful pause on the phone. They’ve had these moments before but on the phone, it’s so much clearer. Sheppard can hear the gears turning in McKay’s mind.
When McKay speaks up, her voice is a little breathless. “I’m difficult to please. But I’m not impossible to-to satisfy.” The tone is unmistakable. The embarrassed, reedy twinge of McKay’s voice on the last word.
Sheppard feels her nipples tighten, a twinge between her legs. She can feel the conversation turning around her. Like a somersault in the blue. She pauses. Her mouth is dry. When she licks her lips, she’s paranoid the wet sound carries over the line. “Uh,” she waffles. She swallows, opens and closes her mouth.
Before Sheppard can speak, McKay sweeps in, babbling so fast and so wordy about the SGC’s expectations and Area 51’s facilities that Sheppard can’t focus on the words. From hundreds of miles away, Sheppard can feel the heat in McKay’s skin and see the embarrassment written all over her.
“What’s it take?” Sheppard asks thickly.
Dead silence. It’s so abrupt it’s disconcerting. Finally, “What?”
Sheppard’s whole body is filled with the hard and heavy beat of her heart. “What’s it take to satisfy you?” she asks.
There’s a sharp intake of breath (Sheppard feels it through her body, straight down between her legs). When she speaks, Sheppard’s sure McKay’s heart is pounding, too. They might be in sync. “Not-not much,” she says. “How about you? What satisf—oh, for the love of god, what gets you off?”
That’s like McKay, too. Cutting to the chase. Sheppard darts a glance at the door. Closed but not locked. When she gets up, there’s a twinge between her legs. She’s already wet. Jesus, how old is she anyway? The cord stretches far enough, so she goes to the door and locks it. She presses her back against the door. Her hand is soft over her jacket, teasing a hard nipple through the fabric. “Guess I like, um,” – it’s a leap – “like you watching me.”
“Watching?” McKay asks.
“Yeah,” Sheppard says. She’s strengthened by the uncertainty in McKay’s voice. If McKay needs a leader, Sheppard is more than willing to step up. “Wanna unzip my jacket.” She wonders if that, too, carries over the phone, and if McKay can hear the rustling of fabric.
“What are you – is there anything underneath it?” McKay asks.
Sheppard wrinkles her nose. She’s the damned senior officer of an interplanetary mission. Like she’s naked from the waist up under her uniform. It’s just like the porn Sheppard found on McKay’s hard drive while they were watching movies one Friday. Typical. But then again, Sheppard wouldn’t be doing this if dogtag porn was great deterrent. She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure,” she says.
“Oh, god.” The sound of rustling rises on the line.
“You’re not doing this at the office, are you?” Sheppard asks.
“Of course not,” McKay says defensively. “Unlike you.” There’s a wholly unnecessary sarcastic tone in McKay’s voice when she says that.
Sheppard glances around her office. “Nah,” she says. “Just acting.”
“You’re so unprofessional.”
Sheppard smirks. “You love it.”
“You were just naked from the waist up,” McKay reminds her.
Sheppard chuckles. It sounds like a good idea. “Yeah, I was acting like I was naked from the waist up, but I’m not because I’m in my office.”
“Don’t rationalize it to me. I’m not your boss. I couldn’t care less.” The sound of rustling subsides to the smooth sound of a hand on skin. “What else?”
Sheppard smiles. The short gasp McKay makes brings her back on board. “What do I like?” Sheppard asks. “You pushing me down on my bed, straddling my hips.”
“Never mind the fact that I’ve never done that,” McKay interrupts.
“It’s the wonderful world of imagination. And you’re pushing me down and holding my wrists down.” Sheppard doffs the jacket and unbuttons her shirt. She slides a warm hand under it and into her bra. “You’re riding me – getting off on it, looking down at me while you’re just—just—”
“Dominating you?” McKay asks breathlessly.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sheppard says. “But it’s hot, you looking down at me while you’re grinding on me.”
“Are we still wearing pants at this point?” McKay asks.
Sheppard walks back to the desk, rough palm rubbing over her nipple. “Are you?” she snarks.
Well, that shuts Sheppard up. “What about you?” she asks. She leans against the rounded edge of the desk – the pressure of it pressing right between her legs. Just perfect.
“I’d want you pushing me over my workbench in the laboratory,” McKay answers effortlessly. Sheppard’s hips jerk into the pressure of the desk despite herself. “You’d have one hand up my shirt and the other between my legs.”
“Yeah,” Sheppard pants. She leans over her desk, one palm on the wood as she rolls her hips in lazy circles. “What’d I do then?”
“You’d press your mouth to my neck, right below the ear. I’d feel your dogtags against my back—”
“Even through the shirt?” Sheppard gasps.
“Even through the shirt.” McKay’s words are clipped now, coming on hard breaths. “You’d have your hand between my legs like—like I have, right now, actually—”
“Pressing my fingers hard on your clit,” Sheppard cuts in.
A moan. “Yeah.”
“Making you ride me.”
McKay gasps, cries out. “Sheppard,” she whimpers.
Sheppard closes her eyes, wishes so hard that she could imagine things into existence. That she could bring McKay there, McKay’s fingers hard and insistent between Sheppard’s thighs. “Making you ride me,” she repeats and she comes on the image of McKay bent over her workbench, shuddering her release.
Then it’s the sound of their panting. The phone dangles from Sheppard’s hand, slick from being pressed between her shoulder and ear. “I’ve got to sit down,” she murmurs.
“Me, too,” McKay mumbles. “Oh, my god. That was amazing. It was—”
“Satisfying?” Sheppard guesses, dropping with a bounce into her desk chair. She hopes for a moment that nobody listens in on these calls. But then, she’s kind of got a reputation to start with so it’s not like anything’s helping it.
“That’s exactly the word I’d use,” McKay says.
After a moment, the throbbing in Sheppard’s body ebbs away and she can bring her loose limbs to button her shirt and brush the hair from her damp face. Her heart is still racing. Maybe it’s not all the sex. “Still lonely?” she asks after a second. It’s embarrassing and too naked, but they just had phone sex and after that, Sheppard figures the cool, calm façade has slipped a little.
“A little more, if at all possible, actually,” McKay answers immediately. She cuts off Sheppard’s indignant exclamation and Sheppard knows that she’s waving both hands. “I mean, before, I didn’t know about all this fantastic, taboo sex I could be having and now…”
Sheppard snorts. “Good-bye, McKay.”
“What?” McKay babbles. “You’re going? No round two?” Sheppard pretends not to notice how charming McKay sounds when she’s panicked.
“How about I see you soon?” she asks. It’s something they can both agree on.