"Sheppard," said Rodney, aware that his voice had that stupid high-pitched note of hysteria again, "are you high?"
"What?" said Sheppard. "No, McKay! I'm not high! We're on a mission, remember?"
"We were on a mission," Rodney corrected him pissily. "But by the look of it, we've ended up in your brain."
Sheppard started to protest, then scowled at Rodney and shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Cradling his P90, he turned in a slow circle, staring at their surroundings. Instead of the gloomy chamber where (after interminable tea-ceremonies, chanting and the lighting of incense that'd made Rodney sneeze) they'd been told they'd find the treasures of the Ancestors, the two of them -- no Ronon, no Teyla -- were in a large, white, circular space that looked a lot like the main bridge of the Aurora.
"What makes you so sure it's my brain?" demanded Sheppard: but clearly he knew it was a weak defense, because he wouldn't meet Rodney's eyes.
"My-- Have you seen yourself?" said Rodney indignantly, gesturing at Sheppard's billowing white shirt, the sparkling diadem that was failing to confine his hair, the dazzling whiteness of his ... were those flares? "That last shipment of PlayStation games hasn't done you any favours, Colonel. Don't think I didn't notice you making off with Guitar Hero."
"Wait, what?" said Sheppard. "What the fuck are you --"
Rodney gestured at Sheppard's P90, which had inexplicably morphed into a Fender Stratocaster. "Somehow," he said, "one of the so-called treasures of the Ancients -- and remind me to bow out the next time Teyla gets word of a new cache of 'treasure' -- where's she gotten to, anyway? Probably drinking tea with her new friends -- where was I? Ah, yes: one of the artefacts in the temple has picked up on your brain activity, or what passes for it, and dropped us both into one of your cheesy glam-rock fantasies." Rodney looked around, noting the blurriness of the control consoles, the unfamiliar starscape visible through the viewing port, the inexplicable inclusion of a large, circular bed where one might normally expect to find the captain's chair. "I'd expected more hot girls," he added.
"If this is my fantasy, McKay," said Sheppard through gritted teeth, cradling his guitar gingerly as though it might explode (or, worse, start emitting power chords), "what the hell are you doing in it?"
Rodney belatedly glanced down at himself. He was relieved to see that Sheppard's skeevy sartorial choices hadn't extended to his own garments: he was still dressed in BDUs, t-shirt, jacket. "My job," he said. "Getting you out of whatever stupid situation you've gotten yourself into."
"Right," said Sheppard distractedly, staring at something behind Rodney. "Okay."
Something touched Rodney then. Fondled him, to be more accurate. It wasn't painful or forceful, but Rodney screeched anyway, because it was stroking his ass, and that --
"Sheppard! Do something!"
Sheppard just gawked at him. Clearly the sight of Dr Rodney McKay being groped by -- Rodney looked down, and squawed again -- by tentalcles, red alien tentacles, was as good as the Superbowl for --
"You're doing this," accused Rodney.
"I am not!"
"Oh for ... Look, Lieutenant Colonel Cthulhu," said Rodney, flinching away as another tentacle slid affectionately up his thigh, "the machine is picking up on your thoughts -- or fantasies, or nightmares or that time you ate too many mushrooms in college -- and it's decided you want to molest me. Which is not okay, okay?"
"Okay," said Sheppard. He sounded stoned. He was staring at Rodney -- at an increasingly tentacle-decked Rodney -- like a starving man staring at a powerbar. He swallowed.
"Sheppard!" said Rodney, trying not to freak out completely at the oddly dry, almost silky slither of the tentacle that had found its way under the collar of his t-shirt. "I can shoot you if it'd help. If that's what it --"
"Shut up, McKay," said Sheppard.
Rodney recoiled when Sheppard lunged at him -- tried to recoil, anyway, but the tentacles held him fast. Before he could muster a protest, Sheppard was
Sheppard was kissing him, a hard claiming kiss (fuck my life, thought Rodney, I sound like one of Mom's Harlequin novels) and maybe it was some kind of a claim, because the tentacles twitched and checked and began to, to shrivel, to curl up, to get the fuck away from him.
Rodney felt pleased at this development. And yeah, Sheppard was still kissing him (and yeah, okay, it was surprisingly nice, especially now the kissing was a bit less aggressive), and Sheppard was still in those ridiculous clothes (Rodney's hand accidentally drifted over the expanse of hairy skin left exposed by Sheppard's foofy shirt), but Rodney was pretty confident of his ability to persuade Sheppard out of those clothes, and hey, look, there was a bed over there.
Sheppard was calling his name. Why was Sheppard calling his name? Hang on, how was Sheppard calling his name?
Rodney blinked, and everything rushed away, like water down a plughole, until everything was dark and blurry.
Sheppard was shaking him. "McKay! You all right?"
"Wha'?" said Rodney, struggling to focus. John was leaning over him. John was wearing BDUs and a black t-shirt, not a foofy white shirt. There was a P90 slung over his shoulder. There were no tentacles in evidence.
Rodney's mouth was suddenly dry. He felt sick. His head was pounding. His dick was ...
"Tentacles," mumbled Rodney; and even in the shadowy room he could see Sheppard blush to the tips of his ears.