I Have No Words: My Voice Is In My Sword

by Kylie Lee

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/ask/klee/nowords.php
Summary: Carson and John can't talk

SCREW YOUR COURAGE TO THE STICKING-PLACE

"Hey, Dr. Beckett." The unfamiliar voice sounded lazy and comfortable, like they were friends, like they knew each other. Carson turned, a carton of gauze in each hand.

"Major Sheppard," he said. Every time he saw the pilot, he experienced the angst that could only come with accidentally almost killing him. While taking a test run in the control chair a few days before, he'd deployed some Ancient missiles and very nearly taken out Major Sheppard and that General O'Neill. Still, Sheppard seemed to have no hard feelings, as evidenced by the way he leaned against a handy shelf, crossed his arms, and settled in. Carson continued, "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"John," John Sheppard said. "I wish you'd call me John."

"Of course," Carson said. "John."

"Can I call you Carson?"

Carson replaced the boxes of gauze and turned his back to the gun-metal gray shelving. He strove for a professional, rather than appreciative, air as he said, "Certainly, if you like. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Nah, I just got out of a debriefing and had some time to kill before dinner." Sheppard--John--rubbed a hand through his messy hair, further rumpling it. "You know, I still can't believe this whole Stargate thing. How did they get you on board?"

"The usual. Promises of great reward."

"No, really."

Carson smiled. "Really."

John smiled back. He definitely looked Irish, Beckett thought, with his pale skin and dark hair. It reminded him of home. "Okay, fine, if you don't want to tell me--"

"It's not a very interesting story, I'm afraid. It has to do with my medical background and my particular specialty." He couldn't figure out what John wanted, but he was willing to have a chat.

"Which is?"

"Very technical. Very arcane. Not particularly interesting."

"Well, why don't you explain it to me over dinner?" John asked. "If you're free. It just occurred to me that I haven't seen you at dinner the past few days. Now, you're not avoiding me, are you? I know you tried to kill me, but I like to think it was just an accident."

Carson couldn't read John, but he got the distinct feeling that he was being propositioned. "No, of course I'm not avoiding you, and dinner sounds lovely. But I've been gone for a reason: I've been in meetings. Suppertime is the only time a few of the medical staff are available."

"Some other time, then," John said easily, and he pushed off, clearly ready to go, and it was that simple gesture, coupled with his studied ease, that convinced Carson that they weren't talking at cross-purposes. He was being propositioned.

"I'm sure I can reschedule," Carson found himself saying. John had assumed he'd been shot down, but Carson hadn't been making an excuse. He'd been telling the truth. "Come to think of it, they can't book us for every minute of every day, can they?"

"It does seem wrong," John said. "No, really, don't reschedule if it would cause problems."

It would cause problems, all kinds of problems, but Carson found he didn't care. "I'll look for you in the dining hall at seven o'clock," he said. He wanted to ask John to stay, but he couldn't figure out how, so he turned and grabbed a box of gauze. "Do save me a place. I tend to run late."

"Will do," John said. He leaned forward and caught a box of gauze as Carson knocked it off the shelf. "Do you need help with that?"

"Do you have the time?" Without waiting for an answer, Carson began handing boxes to John. "We're packing the bins over there with medical supplies. There's a manifest on each. Perhaps if I pulled the supplies and you carried them--?"

John shifted so he could take more boxes. "Sure. I've got maybe a half hour before I have my next meeting."

"It would be such a help." Carson added another box. "And we can talk."

"Yes, talk," John said, and grinned at him. "I'd like that."

WHAT SEEM'D CORPORAL MELTED AS BREATH INTO THE WIND

Did they need words? Right now, their bodies did the talking. This time, John demanded, and this time, Carson gave, but it so easily could have been the other way around. When John grabbed Carson's hair and shoved his head down, Carson let himself be shoved, until he could kneel between John's open legs, take John's cock in his mouth, and begin sucking. He lifted his mouth off when he could taste semen and licked down the shaft to John's balls, large and hairy and soft. His lips gently tugged at the slack flesh as he spread John's legs further apart. The smell drove him insane. His own cock thrust up between his legs. John had begun moaning.

Carson licked lower, soothing the expanse of flesh between balls and asshole, tongue increasing its pressure as John responded. He used his thumb to stroke John's entrance, to pull flesh aside so he could cover it with his mouth, so he could penetrate John with his tongue. He was aware that John's hand had wandered down so he could masturbate while Carson pressed inside him. He pushed, licked, probed, using slick fingers and tongue, all to feel John moan, to feel the pulsing heaviness of his own cock as he pleasured John. The way John responded, open to him, made him hot.

"Oh, god, Carson," John said as Carson fucked him with two fingers. "Right there. I need this. Oh, god, please. I need you. I need you."

PRESENT FEARS ARE LESS THAN HORRIBLE IMAGININGS

He wasn't sure how it had happened. One moment he was innocently helping out Peter Grodin by setting up some computer equipment in an area of Atlantis that Grodin had decided to use for servers, and the next, he was hiding behind a desk as Elizabeth Weir and John Sheppard meandered through, presumably on their way somewhere else, because the room was still under construction, with boxes piled everywhere, equipment jumbled everywhere, and no place to sit.

"--like you to consider adding Carson Beckett," he heard Elizabeth Weir say as the door slid open, and reflexively, he dived under the desk upon which he'd strewn all the computer equipment he needed to assemble.

"Dr. Beckett," John Sheppard repeated in that easy voice of his, the tone that Carson, even in their short time together, had come to learn meant he was hiding something. "He's not military."

The voices came nearer, stopped. Carson held his breath.

"Neither is Dr. McKay."

"True. I like the balance the way it is: two military, two nonmilitary. No, I really don't want Dr. Beckett."

Weir's voice chided gently. "Major Sheppard."

"Dr. Weir."

Carson stared at their feet under the desk and willed them to keep walking.

"Dr. Beckett has the gene, he has particular expertise with xenobiology, he's a medical doctor, and he's collegial. I think he might make a valuable addition to the exploration team."

Collegial. Weir thought he was collegial. That was good.

"With all due respect, ma'am, no. He talks even more than Dr. McKay does. And he seems uncomfortable in new situations. I'm calling for a--a preemptive strike. I strike him. He's stricken."

Carson bit his lip. He had to, or he'd rise to his feet and demand to know John's reasoning. He'd be a valuable addition to the exploration team, no doubt about it, although he had never thought of it until right this second. His background--his experience--his skills--But of course, he didn't really like going through the Stargate, and he preferred to have control of situations. Unless someone had a heart attack or something, what would he do, exactly?

"We're not seating a jury." Weir sounded more amused than annoyed.

Carson couldn't see John, but he imagined a shrug. "If we're in a life-or-death situation, I do not have time to explain myself. I need someone to do what I say, when I say it, because lives can be on the line."

"I'm confident Dr. Beckett can appreciate that."

"Look, just--no. I feel strongly about it."

Weir didn't speak for a few seconds, and Carson watched their feet. Her feet started moving away first, and he knew John had won. Her words only confirmed it. "All right. It's your team. It was just a thought. So you, Lieutenant Ford, Dr. McKay, and Teyla."

John's feet followed. "Yes. Good. Four is the number they used at the SGC for all the offworld teams, right?"

"Right. Four it is. Okay. The only other thing we need to talk about that's urgent is accommodations for the Athosians."

"I thought I'd delegate that to--"

John's words cut off as the door closed behind them. Carson lowered himself to the floor; his legs hurt from crouching. So John thought he talked too much? Thought he didn't like new situations? Didn't want him on his exploration team?

Was this the only way to find out what John really thought of him--by eavesdropping?

THIS BLOW MIGHT BE THE BE-ALL AND THE END-ALL HERE

"Oh, god, Carson," John said as Carson fucked him with two fingers. "Right there. I need this. Oh, god, please. I need you. I need you."

"Don't," Carson said. "Shh. Don't speak." He couldn't bear it-he wanted to hear John say he needed him, even, for Christ's sake, loved him, but John's kind of need was the immediate need of the body, not the need Carson himself felt, the need that went deeper than his body, the need that they couldn't talk about. Unbreakable silence was the price of their discretion.

He used his tongue next. John alternately stroked his penis and touched Carson's head, sweet encouragement. Carson loved the way John's body felt against his, the way John responded to his touch. He stroked the hairy skin of John's legs, felt the flexible hardness of John's kneecap, tasted John's musk.

"Carson," John cried when Carson pressed his mouth against his opening, pushed his tongue in, and pulsed it in and out. "Please. You can't--it's--oh, please."

He couldn't stand it, the begging, the way John said his name. He withdrew, then maneuvered himself on all fours so that his cock dangled over John's face. He could think of one way to make John shut up, and that was by filling his mouth with something.

John's lips closed around the head of his cock. "Mmm," John groaned. His mouth opened wide, and Carson slid in. The warmth shocked him. He pushed, and John accepted him easily. As John started to slide his mouth along his shaft, Carson stroked John's cock with his cheek, feeling its startling heat, and tenderly took it in his mouth.

He began to suck. He didn't need to speak. He could tell John everything he needed to another way. If he said something, it would all end.

Stay with me, he told John. He pressed into John's mouth as John pushed into his. Open yourself to me.

BUT NOW I AM CABIN'D, CRIBB'D, CONFINED, BOUND IN TO SAUCY DOUBTS AND FEARS

Carson tossed down his tattered copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. Why had he brought it as a personal item? He was no particular fan of the Bard; it just seemed like the thing to do. Shakespeare was one of the most important writers in the Western canon and important to Western culture, so he'd packed Shakespeare. He should have realized that the computer geeks had the complete works on their hard drives--no need to waste precious space on a bulky hardcover. Still, the heavy book had that certain something. It was emblematic of Earth, of his culture, and even if he ended up using it as a coaster, it had been right to bring it, no matter how much he now longed for a good mystery, or one of those crime novels about forensics that got all the medical bits wrong.

He was too wound up to sleep. They were safe on Atlantis, and the sheer scope of the city, not to mention the tasks that had to be done, overwhelmed him. So he puttered around his room, feet bare, wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, arranging things, trying to organize his room if he couldn't order his lab or his life. He didn't want to think about John Sheppard, but of course he could consider nothing else. They hadn't spoken about plans, or what they wanted to do, or whether they were exclusive. They hadn't had a conversation that used the word "relationship." It shouldn't matter, Carson thought, because if all they did was what they'd been doing, which was to sneak into each other's rooms in the dead of night, strip off their clothes, and fuck, frankly, he could do that. He didn't need lingering looks or heavy sighs or proclamations of love. In fact, in the name of discretion, he preferred to avoid all those things. But he would have liked to think that John would treat him respectfully. It was his right as a colleague, if not a lover. As lovers, as two men, one in the military for whom discovery would mean the end of his career and a dishonorable discharge, they couldn't afford to owe each other anything.

He picked up his Shakespeare. As though he were divining, he closed his eyes, let the volume fall open, and moved his finger on the smooth, cool page. When he opened his eyes, he read, "But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in / To saucy doubts and fears." "Too right," he muttered. He checked the title of the work: *Macbeth.* Of course: the Scottish play, which played a bit fast and loose with the reality. By reading it, one would think Duncan ruled only a few short days before his death, when in fact, he had ruled longer than that. He remembered reading the play in school, long, long ago. Indeed, it was heavily annotated in his schoolboy handwriting. Well, the quotation was appropriate: today had been all about saucy doubts and fears, all of them having to do with John Sheppard.

He flipped back to the beginning of *Macbeth,* but as he read, he kept glancing up. He expected a knock, John with metaphorical hat in hand on his doorstep, but it never came. He finally went to bed, annoyed with John for being so soldierly and inflexible, annoyed with himself for caring, but mostly, annoyed that he thought John would come and apologize, because of course John wouldn't perceive that he had done anything wrong.

He woke when a body slid into the narrow bed next to him. He let John gather him in his arms, let John kiss his way down. He welcomed the touch of John's mouth on his penis, and as he stirred and hardened, as he thrust, as he gasped, as he arched his back and let the blinding pleasure take him, he let himself think that this was the apology, because John wouldn't say it. Carson, stunned from the quickness of it, from coming so hard and so fast, reached for John, but John kissed him on the mouth. "I can't stay," he whispered. "I just had to see you tonight."

He was gone before Carson could form a coherent thought.

I HAVE NO WORDS: MY VOICE IS IN MY SWORD

Stay with me, he told John. He pressed into John's mouth as John pushed into his. Open yourself to me.

John's taste surrounded him. John's sweaty body, lean under his, flexed as he strove to get closer, even as Carson was careful to keep his weight from crushing John underneath him. He remembered their first time together, in Antarctica, in the storage closet, the day after they'd met for dinner. They'd been so wild for each other that they hadn't had time to undress or unbutton or unzip. Carson had pressed John against the wall and they'd rubbed against each other, firm and fast and strong, until they'd come in their trousers like teenagers, kissing desperately, orgasm inevitable and annihilating. And even then, after that, they hadn't talked about what they were going to do. There had been no "Can I see you tomorrow?" There had been no "How about it, then, just you and me?" But they'd met again, and again, and again, until it was a pattern. All that would have been fine if it hadn't been for the way John treated him when they were at work: polite, collegial, but utterly distant, with no acknowledgment of anything shared beyond their official words.

He took John in his mouth as John took him in his. He steadied John's cock by grabbing its base, and it was just the same now as it had been then: bodies that spoke. If Carson said words, it would change everything.

HE NEEDS NOT OUR MISTRUST

"Am I going to die?" Rodney McKay asked ironically.

"Give me a moment to review the results, Rodney," Carson said. "It's just a check-up. Do calm down."

"A moment? You took blood. You took *urine*."

"Aye, that I did, and those results will take longer."

Rodney indicated his shirt, which he'd tossed over a chair. "At least hand me that. I'm getting cold."

"Here."

Rodney pulled the blue Atlantis-issue shirt over his head and stuck his arms through. "And while we're having this so so intimate talk--"

"Rodney."

"Just between you and me, what did you do to piss off Major Sheppard?" Rodney tugged his shirt down and swung his sock feet.

Carson was taken aback. "Major Sheppard?" he said. "I don't understand."

"You two are so weird and distant around each other lately. Except when you're complaining about taking flying lessons and he's yelling at you because you're so bad at it."

"I hadn't noticed. And thank you for that vote of confidence in my piloting abilities." Carson affected an air of deep concentration as he studied the form. He ticked a box at random, realized it was Rodney's official medical evaluation, and scratched out the tick.

John had, in fact, been more distant since Carson had treated him after he'd been bitten by a parasite and trapped in the wormhole. He'd entered the jumper to save John's life and gone right into impervious doctor mode, which was his way of handling his feelings. Now, standing here with Rodney, he suddenly realized that maybe John affected an impervious major mode. He honestly couldn't believe he had never thought of that before, although he wanted to kick himself for attempting to explain away John's distance. Maybe John was distant to keep parity with himself, because of the fire between them when they were together--or maybe John simply liked what they did together, enjoyed how well they fit, but felt nothing beyond that.

He realized he'd been ignoring Rodney as Rodney rambled on, but just as Rodney looked at him expectantly, awaiting a response, a nurse saved him by entering and handing him Rodney's results. "Thank you. My my," he said, gazing at them. "How very interesting."

"What?" Rodney asked, turning his head to try to read. "What?"

"Is there anything you need to tell me, Rodney?"

"Tell you? Like what?"

"Drug use? Inappropriate sexual contact?"

"Okay, there is no such thing as inappropriate sexual contact."

"What about drug use?"

"No. Actually, no sexual contact, appropriate or otherwise. Why? What?"

"Slightly elevated white cell count. STDs leap to mind." As did many other explanations, but Carson didn't go into such petty details. He displayed Rodney's results, pulling the paper back as Rodney snatched at it. "Please. Some decorum. I'm not yet done reviewing the results."

"I'm not yet done reviewing the results," Rodney mimicked in a surprisingly good Scottish accent. "Carson. Why are you pulling my chain?"

"Would I do that?"

"It's not very professional of you if so. Am I going to die?"

Carson extended the results to Rodney. "Of course not. See for yourself."

Rodney took the paper, examined it, and glared at Carson. "Acronyms. You guys go in for the acronyms."

Carson agreed. "It makes us feel important."

"This is completely unintelligible."

"Do you need me to interpret it for you?"

Rodney handed the paper back. "Because I can't access the Internet to find out what everything means, yes, I need you to interpret it."

"You're fine. Put your shoes on and go home."

"Home," Rodney said gloomily as he slid off the examination table. "You know, I kind of miss my cat."

Carson filed Rodney's results. "And I miss my mother. We all suffer." He noticed that Rodney was dawdling. "I have another patient," he hinted.

"Carson."

"Yes, Rodney?"

"Is there something going on between you and Major Sheppard?"

Carson lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise even as his heart started thudding. "Such as?"

"Inappropriate sexual contact?"

"I thought no sexual contact was inappropriate," Carson evaded.

Rodney shrugged. "True enough. But inappropriate for him. You know, all military. Which I'm behind! The whole man in a uniform thing. I get that."

This was news to Carson. "You do?"

"Okay, no, I don't. I'm trying to be supportive. Open-minded and supportive." Rodney leaned down and grabbed his backpack. "Forget I said anything, okay? Because whatever it is you're doing or not doing, it's none of my business. Especially the gay thing. Wait! Forget I said that. My inferences are leaping ahead of my evidence. It's just--the whole trust issue. We're all in this together and we need to trust each other implicitly. Major Sheppard needs to trust you, and you need to trust him. You know?"

"I know."

"Okay. Good. Fine." Rodney headed for the door, but right before he reached it, he turned around. "Just a hint. Are you--?"

"Rodney."

Rodney put his hands up. "Fine! Fine. Forget I said anything."

THE LOVE THAT FOLLOWS US SOMETIME IS OUR TROUBLE, WHICH STILL WE THANK AS LOVE

He took John in his mouth as John took him in his. He steadied John's cock by grabbing its base, and it was just the same now as it had been then: bodies that spoke. If Carson used words, it would change everything.

But he couldn't speak, not with John in his mouth, not with himself in John's mouth. The thought of what John looked like with his mouth around Carson's cock--he could imagine it, just as he could imagine John's eyes closing when Carson's mouth descended, and suddenly, he wasn't aware of John or John's pleasure, but of his own, of John seeking to arouse. He stopped thinking of John's cock, although his mouth still traveled its length, instead feeling himself being taken into John's mouth again and again, letting the frisson of pleasure travel from his penis to his heart. When he began to thrust, John took him in, moaning. It might have been words, but John's mouth was full. John's flesh filled his mouth, his sweat-slicked body stroked John's, and it was like the first time, when they had frantically pushed against each other, when they had come in their clothes.

And it didn't matter; he understood now that it didn't matter. What their bodies did was wholly separate from their dances during the working day. Now, each was the focus of the other. He began to thrust into John's mouth, John squeezed his balls, and that was it, that was it, he could no longer pretend, and the heat and pressure and John, all John, and just as he dissolved into incandescence, he tasted John, and they pushed and shouted and came and came.

"Heavy," John said after a while, and Carson said, "I'm sorry," and moved off. He managed to turn himself around and lie next to John, and John put an arm around him and pulled him close. "I'm usually better at this," John said, lips in Carson's hair.

"Better at what?" Carson asked sleepily.

"Talking. I'm just --I'm afraid if I say what I think, you'll go away. So I don't. I try to--I try to show it. Show you how I feel. Do you get that?"

Carson pulled back enough to look into John's anxious face. "No," he said. "No, I don't."

"Oh." John processed this, and Carson stroked his chest while he did so. "I'm, um, very concerned about your safety, for one."

"That's kind of you."

"Not so much. Elizabeth wanted me to put you on the exploration team. I shot it down, because I didn't want to have to be put in a position where what I felt for you would conflict with my job. What if you got attacked on a mission? What if you died on my watch? And you know? That's actually pretty cowardly."

Carson put his hand on John's neck. "You did what you thought was best," he said, the platitude falling from his lips even as he realized that John had finally told him what he'd found out clandestinely. He realized that he liked John's explanation: he hadn't wanted Carson on the team because he was worried about Carson's safety.

"I did what I thought was best for me. Not for you. All of it, in fact. I'm worried people will find out about us, and I think that comes through when we have to work together, and then I get mad at myself for thinking that, and then I consider the whole military thing, and--and--you know? I should just shut up."

Carson continued stroking John's chest while he contemplated what John had just said. For someone who felt like he couldn't speak, like he had to show, John had done pretty well. "I have the same fears," Carson said after a while. "When I treated you for the parasite. Whenever I have to do your screening."

"Okay, good. I mean, not good. I mean--you know what I mean."

Carson kissed the palm of John's hand. "I know what you mean," he said. "Thank you for saying it. You don't have to say anything else right now."

John looked relieved. "Good."

"You could show me how you feel," Carson suggested after a second.

"Right! Yes." John leaned in and kissed Carson. "Do you need me to explain this?"

"No. I understand. Do you understand this?" Carson pushed John's head back and licked his neck, trailing down to his collarbone.

"Oh. Yes. I understand that. That's--you shouldn't stop."

Carson continued licking. Little by little, they would speak, but for now, he understood enough: they shouldn't stop.

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