Title: Loose Lips
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: R
Length: 3.5k
Content notes: Medical procedures/injures. Some mild, probably less than period-typical homophobia/biphobia and slut-shaming.
Author notes: My first fic in years so go easy haha. That being said, gentle concrit much appreciated :)
Summary: Carson's heard about mills and trains and grapevines; they've got nothing on the lightning-speed cesspool of gossip that is Atlantis' infirmary.




The thing about a base like Atlantis is that everyone knows each other. And the thing about an infirmary on a base like Atlantis is that everyone on bedrest has a thousand things they'd rather be doing, are bored out of their minds, and the only entertainment left to them is to talk. Carson's heard about mills and trains and grapevines; they've got nothing on the lightning-speed cesspool of gossip that is Atlantis' infirmary.

Any doctor, on any base, is going to know way too much about the people they're working day-in, day-out with; doctors see every rash, every wart, every ingrown toenail and eat breakfast with the bearer the next day. Carson's an old hat at compartmentalising and holds doctor-patient confidentiality in near-worshipful esteem. He can even hold his professionalism with Rodney, whose hypochondria is one thing, and his unexplainable tendency to make Carson think some very unprofessional thoughts entirely another. But he can put things aside, when he's working, be they inconvenient attractions or irritation that certainly does not come with a side of endearment - but the gossip. It's worse than a colonoscopy, and he's still got no idea how to forget what he's heard about someone long enough to share a nice cup of tea with them.

Lieutenant Rosenberg tends to babble when needles are about, so Carson hears about his unfortunate failure of a one-night-stand with Lieutenant Faison during a flu shot; about Private Goode's embarrassing near-death fumble with a semiautomatic during a routine blood test; and about Hackett and Trinh's messy breakup when he's low on iron. Dr Byrne is worse; beyond nervous babbling, she seems thrilled to have a chance to spill everything she's heard, and gets mightily insulted if Carson is anything less than enthusiastic about hearing it.

Carson does suspect that Dr Byrne does a fair bit of embellishment in the telling, but he still can't help but wonder, when Dr Gilbert comes in for an upset stomach, if he really did bribe his professors to ignore his frequent plagiarism. It'd be a bit of a concern, since he handles quite a lot of the life support maintenance, if he hadn't paid very close attention when he was getting his Engineering degree.

So Carson's learned to fear Dr Byrne. He's learned that if anyone, anyone else is on shift, he should make himself scarce when Dr Byrne graces his infirmary or be cursed with knowledge he really didn't want. He's made it through seven months and four of her visits without speaking to her at length; he should have known, really, that success like that would be followed by a mighty fall.

There'd been a slight explosion in one of the labs, and all three of the scientists who'd been in that lab are now in his infirmary. Dr Singh has a face full of glass, Purcell a nasty burn on her hand, and Byrne, the old bat, tripped and fell in her surprise and landed badly on her wrist.

"It was the most terrible bang, just terrible," she says, remarkably cheerful for a woman whose wrist is red-purple and distended. "Like a roar, you know, only a fast roar, and then poor Manny was shrieking- will he be disfigured, do you think, Doctor?"

"No," Carson tells her with a quick smile, darting a look at where Dr Cole is picking shards out of the poor man's face. "It's very painful, but the wounds are quite shallow, so they'll heal up nicely. Can you move it at all, Dr Byrne?"

"Not at all," she says, as Carson gently moves her arm, checking for broken skin. "Well, it's good news for our Manny - he's such an attractive young man, don't you think? And never married, can you believe it!"

"Interested, are you?" Carson says, lifting an eyebrow. Manny Singh's pushing forty, but that's still a good two decades younger than Byrne; young man, he supposes, is a relative term. He is a bit of a looker, though, if you go in for the whole cheekbones and beard thing.

"Oh no, no," Byrne says, and tries to wave her hand in dismissal before she gasps, grimacing in pain.

"Try not to move that, love," Carson winces. A Colles fracture in the wrist, clearly; he moves his hand further up her arm, pressing in to check nothing else is injured. "You let me know if you feel any pain," he tells her.

"A great deal in that wrist," she groans. "It'll be broken, I tell you. But Manny - no, I suspect, Doctor, that I'd be barking up the wrong tree with that boy. Dr Sanchez told me," she says, leaning in all conspiratorial as Carson starts the scan, "that Lieutenant Massey swears up and down that Dr Nguyen caught him in a little-used lab, late at night, with our very own Head of Science," she says, with devilish smirk. "In a compromising position, if you catch my drift."

Oh, no, Carson thinks, a little hysterical. Hackett and Trinh are one thing; Carson is friends with Rodney. Good friends. Carson's done quite a fine job, so far, of blocking out the solidness of Rodney's arms and how his nipples poke out in the cold and how good he looks after a hard-won victory, exhausted and relieved and proud of himself - and Dr Byrne's going to ruin it all by putting this kind of thing in his head. Compromising positions, good grief. "Aye, well," he starts, desperate to change the topic, but the old bat carries on, pleased as punch.

"You know, Dr Luong was at university with Dr McKay - a different department, of course, but still, things get around. And he says Dr McKay got around quite a bit himself, only - here's the thing - only with the boys! And it's all confirmed, because Dr Hayward went there too, and she says he was known for it, says he had all kinds of wild parties where he got up to all kinds of mischief. Quite good at it, too, I hear-"

"Your wrist is broken," Carson cuts in desperately. "Quite broken, I'm afraid, Dr Byrne - I'll get Dr Cole to do you a cast, shall I?"

"Oh, thank you, Doctor Beckett," Byrne beams at him, and he nods once, gives her a stiff smile, and flees.

*

Embellishment, Carson reminds himself. Compartmentalisation. Doctor-patient confidentiality.

It can't be true, he thinks to himself, filling out paperwork after his shift. No one who's ever met Rodney would believe he's thrown any wild sex parties. Just the thought of it, the mental image of neurotic, tactless Rodney managing an orgy of science postgrads, barking directions with his usual bluntness from within a writhing mass of sweaty nerds - it makes Carson bark a surprised laugh. Of course Byrne had been making it up.

But, he thinks, on the walk back to his quarters, there's a grain of truth to these things, isn't there? Carson certainly doesn't believe the sex party stuff, but he remembers his own uni days. Exams don't leave a lot of time for going out and flirting with girls, and they're stressful besides - lots of his classmates had gone in for a quid-pro-quo sort of thing, just to take the edge off, gay or not. Mostly not, actually. Carson had learned the hard way that there's a difference between going with a fella for convenience's sake and actually liking it, wanting it.

So, alright, maybe Rodney's been caught in some compromising positions, but that doesn't mean he's gay.

But he could be, some small part of his mind whispers, as he's settling down to sleep, and his eyes fly open. She'd said only with boys, after all. Only. And Atlantis is a small base, a base where everyone knows everyone and they're all prone to gossip - it's not like Carson's running around telling everyone he's into fellas. He has, even if just by instinct, made a secret of it. Is it so hard to believe Rodney's done the same thing? That Rodney had been learning the very same lessons Carson had, on the other side of the Atlantic?

It keeps Carson up, going around and around in his head, and by half-twelve he's cursing his morning shift and cursing himself and cursing Dr bloody Byrne. He can't stay up forever, so there's only one thing to do; he wraps his hand around his cock and tries not to think about Rodney, on his knees with his mouth full in a little-used science lab. He tries not to think about Rodney flushed with arousal, tries not to picture him looking all intent and analytical, tries not to imagine what Rodney's tongue would feel like tracing the length of him.

He fails in spectacular fashion.

*

As luck would have it, Sheppard's team leave in the morning for another far-off planet, and arrive late in the evening with the news that they've all ingested experimental alien medicine. Carson informs them, at great length and high volume, exactly what he thinks of that decision, only for Sheppard to raise an amused little eyebrow and say, "Well, I wish you'd been there to explain the risk to them, cause they didn't exactly give us much choice about the whole thing."

"Well," Carson says, with what dignity he has left. "Still."

He takes John's blood and his teasing too, and then Teyla's, as she very helpfully recalls all the aliens said about their "magical cure", and then Ronon's, which is perfectly peaceful as he says nothing at all and has never so much as winced at a blood test. They filter out one by one, and then Carson is alone in the infirmary with Rodney.

He feels the sudden urge to check that he hasn't stuck some sort of sign on his head that says I had sexual thoughts about Rodney McKay last night. You know, accidentally. Or in a fit of subconscious guilt.

"Rodney," Carson says, hoping his smile is welcoming and calming and not agonised. "Lucky last, eh?"

"I was the last to take their wonder-drug, too, if you can believe it," he says morosely.

Carson snorts. "That I can believe. I trust you're not feeling anything unusual?"

"Not yet," Rodney says. "I mean, I have a bit of a headache, but I might have had that before?"

"I'll bear it mind," Carson says kindly. He lifts Rodney's arm as he slides the tourniquet on, and hears Rodney's breath hitch as Carson pulls it taut, fingers careful and steadying on the inside of his elbow. Carson puts it down to a sensory sensitivity, probably exacerbated by the hypochondria, but Rodney's always a little twitchy during the more hands-on parts of medical treatment.

Today is no different, Rodney looking firmly at the floor while Carson pats at his veins, and suddenly he has this bizarre, horrifying urge to ask Rodney about what Dr Byrne said, or at least to tell Rodney that he'd heard it. It's... Carson feels like he's hiding something, is all, and he hates it. Surely Rodney has a right to know what people are saying about him? Surely he'd prefer the chance to correct them, if they're wrong, or deal with it however he will if they're... not? Sometimes it's better to be informed.

But then, sometimes it isn't, Carson thinks, slipping the needle into Rodney's elbow. Sometimes, it's better not to be interrogated about university sex parties by your doctor, or even your friend. And if it is true, Rodney might feel betrayed, hurt - intruded upon, even.

No, it's none of Carson's business, and he shouldn't even know, so there's absolutely no way he'll be bringing it up.

"I heard you were gay at uni," Carson blurts out, and he'd smack himself in the bloody head if he wasn't currently halfway through drawing blood from Rodney's arm. Because the only thing worse then saying anything at all about it was saying it when Rodney had no hope of a quick escape.

"What?" Rodney says, forehead creasing in profound confusion.

"Um," Carson says, swapping out the first vial for the second and avoiding Rodney's eyes. "Well, you know, sometimes patients... talk. And maybe sometimes I overhear. And, well, obviously most of it's rubbish, but sometimes there's a bit of truth to it, isn't there? So I just thought I'd-"

"Oh my god," Rodney says blankly. "People are in here telling you I-"

"It's inappropriate, isn't it," Carson says firmly. "Never mind, forget I asked-"

"It was college," Rodney says, exasperated. "I was the boy genius with no social skills; girls weren't exactly lining up around the block, Carson. And, anyway, everyone experiments at that age," he adds, a touch defensively.

"Oh, aye, that makes perfect sense," Carson nods, face burning and rather glad to put the conversation behind them. Then, "Are you still gay?"

Rodney looks at him in perplexed horror, you're actually prolonging this conversation? and Carson thinks miserably, yeah, I know.

"Dr Byrne says you were gay last week, is all," he mumbles. "Just, you know, clarifying."

"What, Singh? That wasn't- All I did was-"

"She seemed to think you blew him," Carson says apologetically.

"I did not!" Rodney says, scarlet, and then he cuts his eyes to the ceiling and squeezes them shut. "Okay, I did," he groans, and Carson nods and mumbles an acknowledgement and pays very close attention to the labels on the vials of Rodney's blood. Very important that they're correct, those labels.

Much more important than picturing Rodney on his knees for such an attractive young man, as Dr Byrne had put it.

Carson stripes tape onto a cotton bud and applies it to Rodney's arm, slides off the tourniquet regardless of Rodney's answering shiver and disposes of the needles. "I'll let you know the results when I have them," he says, trying for cheery, and Rodney just glares at him.

Rodney walks to the door, but then pauses, hand on the doorframe, and looks back. "If I start feeling weird," he starts, looking queasy.

"I'm on call all night," Carson says, relaxing. This he can handle - Rodney's health anxiety is a well-worn path between them.

"I know, you're a workaholic," Rodney says, with something like his usual scorn, but his mouth is still downturned. He hovers at the door.

Carson sighs inwardly. This is the whole problem, he thinks, with gossip - before he'd heard anything about Rodney's college exploits, he'd have sat him in a bed, or hassled him away with reassurance masked as scolding. It would have been easy as breathing, his roles as Rodney's doctor and his friend having long bled together and overpowered the desire by now, after two and a half years in the Pegasus galaxy. But now there's this, dropped into the middle of their comfortable routine like a bucket of sand on a campfire, their easy working friendship squashed and spluttering under the knowledge that Rodney sucks cock sometimes. The knowledge that maybe, if Carson asked, Rodney would suck his.

"Had dinner yet?" Carson suggests, and Rodney brightens.

*

It occurs to Carson, watching Rodney inhale his dinner plate, that their very own Head of Science isn't all that subtle about satisfying his base urges. It's pretty easy, watching Rodney have his indelicate way with meat and potatoes, to see how he'd go in for the sort of mutual arrangement he apparently does; like solving a problem, like fixing a bug.

Rodney's happy while he's eating, but goes tense again while they're putting their trays away and leaving the mess; Carson sighs, tells him again, firmly, that he's on call tonight and might need to go back to work at any minute, then follows Rodney back to his quarters in the guise of accepting his invitation to a bit of light TV. Well, a bit of light computer; they watch Murder, She Wrote on Rodney's laptop, the season 10 DVD having recently arrived from Earth, propped up on a few books on his coffee table while the two of them sink into the couch.

"Headache any better?" Carson says idly, watching a detective dig a bullet out of the spine of a book, carefully unaware of Rodney's proximity or the open spread of his legs.

"Oh," Rodney says, surprised. "Yeah, actually." He shifts, jostling Carson in the process, and it goes up his arm and down his spine, fizzling.

"Good," Carson says faintly. "That's great news, Rodney."

Carson tries to return his attention to the show - Jessica's explaining something about office chairs and carpets - but his mind's in some American college dorm room in the 80s. Experimenting, Carson thinks, and knows from experience, doesn't take all that long. He'd tried it out, and tried it out, and tried it a few more times after that; in truth he'd known from the first time, and all the rest had just been a convenient excuse to keep doing it.

"Wait, if she shot him in the other room, wouldn't there blood every-"

"Wild sex parties?" Carson says helplessly.

Rodney frowns. "Excuse me?"

"She said you were, um, hosting wild sex parties."

Rodney stares at him in disbelief. "Oh my god, can you stop talking about this," he cries, and Carson sees his cheeks going red, sees the embarrassment in the furrow of his brow, but-

"No, Rodney," Carson says, shifting himself to sit higher and getting properly mad, now. "No, apparently I bloody can't! Toenails are one thing, Rodney, a colonoscopy is one thing, but apparently my absolute limit, the thing that makes me lose all trace of appropriate, professional behaviour, is for Doctor bloody Byrne - who, by the way, will just have to wait for someone else to be available the next time she needs medical attention - to come in and tell me all kinds of rumours about- about-"

"Carson," Rodney tries, but Carson is nowhere near finished.

"-about how many knobs you've sucked and how many sex parties you've thrown and how much of a flamer you are! And now I can't be normal about it, Rodney, I can't go to dinner with you, I can't even give you a bloody blood test without picturing you- God, I can't be professional about it, and I can't stop thinking about it, because I've wanted you since we bloody well met!"

The room goes silent, then. Rodney just gapes at him, plainly astonished, and Carson stares back, horrified with himself.

"Oh my god, you are kidding me," Rodney says, exasperated, his voice sounding too loud after all that quiet. Carson swallows, not sure if... "That's why you've been so obsessed with this?"

"Maybe," Carson says meekly.

"Carson, I will absolutely have sex with you," Rodney says seriously. "I will suck your, um, knob, or whatever."

Carson lets out a choked laugh. It's maybe a little hysterical. "You're having me on," he manages.

Rodney makes a face, exaggerated insult. "Come on, you didn't notice me freaking out every time you put your hands all over me doing checkups?"

"You're a hypochondriac!" Carson cries.

"Yeah, and you're a good doctor," Rodney says, leaning in and rolling his eyes like he can't believe Carson needs this explained to him. "You have no idea how hot it is that you're the one person who could save me from a mid-coital heart attack."

"Oh," Carson says faintly. Rodney hasn't pulled back; Carson looks at his mouth, at the faint, lopsided smile there, and thinks, god, can I really? "Well, when you put it like that."

On screen, Angela Lansbury's raising her eyebrows in polite judgement.

Carson leans in, and Rodney meets him halfway; his face is scratchy with stubble, his lips beautifully soft, and when Carson bites at them gently Rodney makes that exact same noise, that hitched breath Carson's heard in every physical exam.

"Sure you wouldn't rather be doing this with Manny Singh?" Carson breathes, after what could be minutes or hours of just kissing, just touching at each other's necks and shoulders and chests and no further, like they're trying to tease each other. Or themselves, Carson thinks idly, watching his own fingers graze over Rodney's throat, or maybe just revelling in the thrill of knowing that they will have sex, they can have sex, that they're on the same page and there's no rush at all.

"What, him?" Rodney rolls his eyes, and Carson can't help but grin at it - no one but Rodney could make derisiveness look cute. "He's attractive, whatever, he's not y-" He stops, suddenly looking almost shy.

Carson blinks, astonished.

"Shut up," Rodney mutters, and, like he's decided the teasing's over, starts working down the line of buttons on Carson's shirt. He slides his hands around Carson's waist, warm and dry and electric, bends to mouth at Carson's neck, and Carson beams at the ceiling, a glow in his chest and a tent in his pants that'll be seen to soon enough - this whole thing has worked out quite nicely indeed.

Forget medical neglect - Carson's going to send Dr Byrne flowers.