skidmo_fic: (smiling tesla)
[personal profile] skidmo_fic
Title: The Comedy of Errors
Rating: R
Pairing: Lorne/Tesla, hints of Lorne/Parrish
Word Count: 2036
Warning: light bondage
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me...sadly.
Feedback: yes, please.
Summary: Weird shit happens to Lorne. SGA/Sanctuary crossover.
A/N: Birthday fic for [ profile] oparu, who requested this lovely, cracky, crossover pairing. Title comes by that play by that one English guy.

Weird shit happens to Lorne. That’s kind of a given.

Even before he joined the Stargate program it was true. He’d get sent out on a routine mission to the Arizona desert, collecting soil samples, and the next thing he knew, he’d run across a freak nest of rattlesnakes exactly where he was supposed to be taking samples.

Rattlesnakes don’t even have nests.

It was so bad that he’d felt obligated to warn Colonel Edwards about it before he left on his first off-world mission. Edwards had scoffed at him, told Lorne he didn’t believe in that superstitious bull. But after the incident with the Unas, he’d looked warily at Lorne. Lorne’s pretty sure that was a major reason behind him not kicking up a fuss when Lorne put in for a transfer to Atlantis.

It’s less notable in Atlantis, of course, because even if weird shit does happen to Lorne, it happens to Sheppard on a much more frequent basis. Four years in, Lorne’s never been turned into a bug, after all. Or had any sort of foreign consciousness downloaded into his head. Or kissed his boss. Or a teammate.

Still, weird shit happens to him.

So he’s not terribly surprised when he sees a familiar face down the bar from him in when he’s in Boston on leave, even though he knows Parrish isn’t scheduled to go earthside for at least another month.

Only…since when does Parrish carry himself like that? All…confident. Almost cocky.

And since when does he favor a three-piece suit in a sports bar?

Granted, Lorne’s only seen him out of uniform for team movie night, and there’s no way the Marines would let him live down dressing like that. And maybe he only spazzes out over alien botany. Maybe this is what Parrish is really like when he’s not in another galaxy, trying to cure cancer with space ferns.

Whatever the explanation, Lorne is not the sort to see a teammate in a bar somewhere and not say hello, so he orders another beer for himself and a pint of Parrish’s favorite (because he may not know what the guy’s really like off the clock, but he does keep track of the important things about his team), and heads over to him.

“Hey, doc,” he says, sliding the beer over. “Didn’t know you were on leave.”

Parrish glances over at him, and smiles in a way that sends a shiver down Lorne’s spine. It’s definitely not the smile of the guy who spilled hot jeran tea all over the priestess on M3G-319 just because she smiled at him.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” Parrish says, and whatever’s wrong with his smile, there’s no mistaking that ridiculously perfect enunciation. Only this time, Lorne is struck by how Parrish’s mouth seems to actively caress each word, and he’s pretty damn sure Parrish has never done that before. He’s also pretty damn sure he shouldn’t be thinking about Parrish’s mouth caressing anything.

“Family emergency?” It’s a possibility, of course, but Parrish’s family isn’t from Boston. They’re from…Wisconsin or Minnesota or something.

Parrish looks at him curiously, and Lorne feels the dynamic in his head shift, because even through the confusion, there’s something predatory in Parrish’s eyes, something that makes Lorne realize he’s not in the position of protector here. Whatever’s changed about Parrish, he’s no longer the man Lorne has to drag away from a particularly interesting pine tree because the Wraith are on their way. In fact, he gets the feeling this Parrish would deck him for trying and take out the Wraith singlehandedly if they so much as thought about keeping him from his work.

“Have we met?” Parrish asks, and Lorne just stares at him for a moment. “Because I have a particularly good memory for faces, and even if I didn’t, I’m sure yours would stick with me.”

And that just makes Lorne gape at him for a moment. Parrish is flirting with him. Parrish, who can’t choke out more than monosyllabic answers any time an attractive woman smiles at him, is flirting. With Lorne.

“Pity,” Parrish says after a moment. “The stupid ones are always so pretty.”

Lorne shakes his head, and comes back to himself. “Sorry, doc, just…how drunk are you?” He quickly goes over all the personal info he can remember from Parrish’s file and determines that no, he does not have a twin.

“I never get drunk,” Parrish says, and he leans on the bar, all long limbed and graceful in a way Parrish could never pull off. “High metabolism. Not worth the effort.”

Another shake of Lorne’s head, and he tries again. “You’re not David Parrish, are you?” Because weird shit happens to Lorne, and this is far from the weirdest.

Parrish, or not-Parrish, laughs. “Sorry, no. I’m guessing he’s a friend of yours?”

Lorne finds himself chuckling as well, though not-Parrish’s smile still has the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Coworker, actually. Sorry for the confusion.” He gives not-Parrish his patented ‘make nice with the locals’ grin (not quite as good as Sheppard’s, but close) and offers his hand. “I’m Lorne,” he says.

Not-Parrish takes it with a responding grin, though it has far too many teeth for Lorne to be entirely comfortable with it. “Nick. It’s very good to meet you, Lorne.”

There’s something completely incongruous about seeing Parrish’s face and hearing that blatantly leering tone of voice, seeing that smile that promises wicked things, feeling those long fingers all but stroking his hand as it’s let go. It makes Lorne feel…unbalanced. Unsteady on his feet. And he leans against the bar to cover his sudden wobbliness.

“Are you a doctor, then, Lorne?”

Not-Parrish (Nick, Lorne reminds himself.) is talking again, and Lorne forces himself to respond.

“Huh? Oh, no. I’m an airman, actually. A major.”

“A man in uniform. How…”

“Cliché?” Lorne supplies.

“I was going to go for ‘classic,’ but that works, I suppose.”

“Classic’s better. I’ll take classic.”

Nick smiles again and finally takes a drink of the beer Lorne brought him, making a thoughtful face as he sips before apparently deciding he likes it well enough. “So tell me, Major,” he says, and the way he drags out Lorne’s rank makes him shiver a little, “are you stationed here in Boston, or is this shore leave for you?”

“Vacation,” Lorne answers, though he’s not sure how he manages to keep a coherent thought with the way his eyes almost unconsciously track Nick’s finger as it slides over the rim of his glass. “I’m…uh…” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “I’m visiting my sister and her kids.”

“Are you a family man yourself?”

This is a dance Lorne is all too familiar with. Questions that don’t ask what they seem to ask, that poke at something deeper. But there’s something about Nick that adds a whole other element of danger to it. Lorne is by no means a blushing virgin, but he finds himself nervous and aroused just sitting here next to this man who looks so much like his bumbling botanist.

“Nope,” he finally manages, and takes a long sip from his bottle to disguise the quaver in his voice.

“Never found the right girl?”

That’s it, of course. The signal question. The one that means everything. And Lorne knows how to answer to get what he wants.

And he does want, and that’s as surprising to him as anything.

“Never wanted the right girl.”

Nick grins, and Lorne’s stomach gives a weird little flip, and in a few seconds, they’ve both drained their beers and slid off their stools. Nick radiates impatience as Lorne pays his tab, and a broad hand is splayed insistently, and a little possessively, across the small of Lorne’s back, and he finds himself led down the street to a hotel that is fancier than any Lorne’s ever stayed in, and Nick ushers him into the elevator and the operator greets him with a smile and a blush and the next thing Lorne knows, he’s stepping off the elevator at the penthouse suite, and before the elevator door even closes, Lorne is pressed against the wall, and this man who looks so much like Parrish but clearly couldn’t be more different if he tried is kissing him, hard and insistent.

When he’s finally let up for air, all he can do is breathe out a soft, “Christ,” to which Nick smiles and answers, “Not quite.”

Lorne feels small and vulnerable in a way he hasn’t since he hit puberty and started filling out, shoulders broadening, arms thickening, changing him from the awkward, short, skinny boy into a stocky, compact, young man. He knows, intellectually, that Parrish is every bit as tall as Nick, but he’s never felt so short around him. Never felt like Parrish towered over him, dominated him, the way Nick does.

Nick grins, and the flash of teeth is dangerous and predatory, and it should make Lorne run, but he’s never been very good at heeding those warnings, so when Nick turns and opens the door to his suite, Lorne follows easily.

What follows happens in a blur. Lorne is easily and quickly stripped, and almost before he can register what’s happening, he finds himself strapped to the enormous bed, arms and legs splayed. He’s completely exposed and helpless, and this is nothing he’s ever wanted before, but when Nick touches him, he doesn’t mind. It’s not a weakness to give up to someone like this. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It can’t be. Not when it feels this good.

And it does feel good.

Nick draws sounds and sensations out of Lorne that Lorne has never known. And though he can’t quite bring himself to trust Nick not to hurt him, that underlying fear just sharpens each feeling, making them that much more intense.

Amid the touches and kisses, added to the tongue and teeth and lips, Lorne feels the occasional trill of electricity running over his skin, and squirm as he might, he can’t discover the source, and Nick just laughs when he tries. Eventually Lorne gives up on trying, because, like everything else Nick is doing to him, there’s nothing the least bit unpleasant about it. It makes his skin prickle and goosebump, makes him shiver and gasp, and it just adds to the overwhelming experience, until Lorne thinks he’s going to come apart at the seams, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Nick doesn’t put him back together again.

Eventually, of course, he does come apart, Nick buried inside him, hands and lips still moving over Lorne’s body, until at last he comes as well, a rough, guttural yell almost torn from his throat.

They lay there for a long moment, Nick’s body strangely cool against his, both of them slowly catching their breath until at last Nick moves enough to undo Lorne’s bonds.

He expects to be asked, told really, to leave. Nick seems the sort to do so. Instead, he’s…studied. Nick lays on his side, propping his head on his hand and watches Lorne curiously, cool fingers mapping his skin. Neither of them speaks, and eventually, Lorne gives in to exhaustion, his body loose and relaxed as he slips into sleep.

In the morning, he finds a table spread with the sort of breakfast Lorne dreams about in Atlantis, eggs and sausage and bacon and waffles and fruit and pastries and juice and the best coffee he’s ever tasted. There’s a note propped amongst the bounty telling him to feel free to shower and to please be gone by noon.

He smiles and eats and showers and tucks the note into his pocket before he leaves.


A few weeks later, he’s back in Atlantis, and he runs into Parrish outside the mess. He grins when he sees the botanist, and Parrish blushes bright red.

“H-have a good vacation, Major?”

“Sure did, doc,” Lorne answers, and he can almost feel his grin sliding into something much more predatory than usual. “Why don’t you stop by my quarters tonight, and I’ll tell you about it.”

He turns to leave, grinning, Parrish’s stammering response following him down the corridor.

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July 2012

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