It didn't seem like there was any time for anything. The scientists weren't exactly panicking, but the edges in McKay's voice when he told them, in the tones of someone talking to the terminally stupid, that no there wasn't anything he could do that he wasn't already, weren't going to make anyone feel warm and fuzzy about their life expectancy.
It hit him then, he didn't really have anything to do. The city had switched on; there didn't seem to be anything the scientists wanted from him except to get out from under their feet. Weir was focused on keeping the geeks from freaking completely. And Sumner...
Sumner was watching him.
He'd given up flying for this. He'd given up pizza and football, and Antarctica, and for all he knew, his career, such as it was. All on one toss of the coin. Fifty-fifty, Major.
Sumner couldn't stand him. He didn't much care. Pushing his commanding officers had become a game: how far will they go to control him? How much will they take? When will someone notice?
He straightened into a mockery of attention and Sumner just looked at him, like he'd seen his sort and knew, better than any man alive, how to tear that attitude apart. When Sumner turned on his heel and stalked away into the side room that he'd designated his office, John followed.
Sumner didn't sit down. He stood, looking out the windows into the depths, the dark water stained green and blue by the lights of Atlantis. Sheppard knew this game, and waited at parade rest.
"I'm not going to repeat myself, Sheppard," Sumner said softly. John had years of practice of not letting the thoughts in his head out: the ones that said: yeah, right; and care to take odds on that, sir? and Oh, I don't think so.... "I get you. I do. You think I don't, but it's all about power and control, right?"
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"You've not yet met a man smarter than you are, for all you hide it. Yes, I read your file, I like to know what I'm dealing with when I get a maverick with your kind of rep dumped on my back. So here's the thing." He turned and looked at John, "You're mine. Your head, your attitude, your ass. You live if I let you, you die if I let you."
He breathed in, opened his mouth--
"I don't give a fuck about Weir, you understand me? She's in charge, but she's my commanding officer. Not yours. I'm yours." Sumner wasn't angry, he didn't seem to think this was any more than a casual chat. There was no menace, no threat, no shouting.
"And one other thing."
"Sir?" He hadn't meant to--
"Here." His eyes held John's as he tapped the edge of the desk, and John got it. Oh thank god, Sumner got it.
He stood, thighs against the cool metal of the desk, hands on it. Brisk hands pulled open his pants, shoved them down -- they caught on the thigh holster, but that really didn't matter, because Sumner was palming him open, rubbing hard cock against his crease.
The first one to get it right, he thought, shocked and hungry, and pushing back. It hurt; more than he'd expected, less than he wanted. Dry and wide and hard, dragging heavily out of him, back up him. It got easier, and Sumner moved faster, shoving harder, deeper, gripping his hips hard enough that John didn't move at all, the moment all forced into Sumner's wrists, and the way his own cock bobbed as he stared at it.
Just him, his hands, the desk; Sumner's hands, fingers white against his skin. No sounds beyond the scrape of fabric on fabric, flesh on flesh, air scraping though his throat, dry and raw.
And then, Sumner stopped, pulled out, and John heard him adjusting his clothing. Guess he came, he thought, vaguely, still breathing hard, still staring at the desk.
John straightened up, as best he could with his ass hanging out, and sore with his commanding officer's cock. "Sir?"
"Sir. Yes, sir," he agreed.
"Good. Don't forget it."
John nodded once, then paused. "And if I -- need reminding?"
Sumner met his eyes for the first time, and he found pure arctic there, tempered with amusement. "I'll let you know."