*stares* Okay, there is no disease that awesome shoes do not minister to. I actually feel like making up a list of all the things I received via Christmas and post-Christmas shopping for the purposes of raising my mood. That is just sad.
Anyway. In lieu of unleashing my rage on real people, I thought I'd make Rod's life miserable.
If I Was Writing a Snippet From Mensa-verse, And It Involved Sheppard's First Time, It Would Go Something Like This
Sheppard's first time is such an unmitigated disaster that Rod's fairly sure come morning, his life as he knows it will end. Wiping sweaty palms on the sheets, Rod stares up at the ceiling in horror, wondering how in the name of God sex could possibly, possibly be *that bad*.
Sheppard can *shoot*, he remembers miserably, and for someone who thinks manual labor is beneath him, he spends way too much time on the range. There could be all kinds of off-world accidents.
Keeping his eyes on the ceiling, Rod takes a deep breath. "It's usually better than that." It's really all he's got here. Beside him, he can hear Sheppard breathing with the calm disdain of a man who is going to make Rod's life a living hell until the end of time.
He wishes he hadn't given up alcohol.
"Well," Sheppard says thoughtfully, the fast, sharp cadence of his speech so much like the labs that Rod feels a weird sinking in his stomach, "you're not as good at this as I assumed."
Rod grits his teeth and fights back the urge to point out that Sheppard hadn't helped, what with the moving away and the questions ("Are you sure that goes there?" Sheppard had asked worriedly) shouting ("Are you trying to *kill me*?") and the nearly breaking Rod's wrist and then *reading his email* during foreplay. Rod's had bad sex--God, he's had bad sex, Carson and Cadman and that horrible night with the latex gloves and hair nets comes to mind vividly--but it pales in comparison to this.
On the other hand, he's not coming out of this with latex burns, so he's still ahead. "It was a first time," Rod says weakly, with all the patience he can muster, when mostly, he wants to go to the lab and maybe build something that makes a very large explosion. The size of a planet, perhaps. Or a solar system.
Sheppard sits up in that creepily straight way that makes Rod want to see if there's titanium covering his spinal cord and not bone, tossing the blankets aside and beginning to dress, too-stiff movements and teeth-clenched winces that make Rod stare guiltily at the ceiling, because there's no way Sheppard is going to be comfortable on his lab stool tomorrow.
It also makes him kind of scared, because he's going to *be* in a lab with Sheppard tomorrow.
"Sheppard," he starts, but his voice trickles off as Sheppard sits down with a visible twitch to put on his boots, once again the immaculate, horrifyingly color-blind scientist they all know and fear. "Sheppard?" Pushing his hair behind his ears, Sheppard stands up, reaching down to grab his laptop from a chair, and walks out without another word.
Yeah. He's so fucked.