denyce: (SGA: Kavan-Lorne)
[personal profile] denyce
Title: Dance, Bob, Weave
Author: Denyce
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Lorne/Zelenka pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Summary: Lorne tries to work out some issues as he thinks of Radek.
Disclaimer: Not mine; no infringement on any rights is intended. This is not for profit & is intended only for enjoyment.
Note: Huge beta ♥ goes to [ profile] sublimatedangel

Evenly balanced on the balls of his feet, crouched low, a slight bounce in his step, Evan zigged to the right, then left. Punch, duck, jab, then weave to the right again.

Each step was a practiced routine of footwork and discipline as he danced and weaved in and out around the heavy punching bag. A hard right cross barely moved the weighted bag. That didn’t prevent Evan from punching it over and over again. Jab, jab, jab.

A heavy stench of sweat filled the room. Drops of it trailed down his face and neck, soaking into his tank tee.

Today the point of his physical exertion was to clear his mind of everything. Instead his focus was sharper. Jab, jab, jab, right hook.

Whether he wanted to or not…in his mind’s eyes he kept seeing Radek. Jab!

Strangely enough it was Radek’s wild unkempt hair that was killing him. His mother would have called it a rat’s nest. Evan agreed, but found it distracting - if not disturbing - that every time he saw Radek he had an impulsive need to brush wisps of it out of the man’s face. Punch, jab, push, jab, jab, jab.

Dance, bob and weave. Initially he had thought McKay held the Atlantis title of most arrogant, argumentative Head Scientist asshole, but after having Radek assigned to his team, time after time, he quickly discovered Radek was if anything more so… though his methods were deceptive, almost sneaky. It was like he reeled you in with his shy polite niceness. Not to say he wasn’t arrogant, or argumentative when he got going; he was to the tenth degree. And it was all in Czech—low, fast and sexy as hell. Punch!

The difference was, Evan took notice. Punch, jab!

Noticed the second Radek was going to lose it. It’d start with a tinge of pink creeping up Radek’s neck. His stance would straighten, shoulders square off, ready to battle geek, lips moving, Evan’s ears barely registering the sound. Like the swell of a wave, the murmur grew: the clear, curt, lyrical sounds of Radek’s mutterings starting under his breath, slowly getting louder, all in Czech, and then the glasses would slip a pinch down his nose. Automatically a finger would push them back as he stared the idiot down—even when they towered over him like Kavanagh did. Maybe he took lessons from McKay. It didn’t matter; nothing seemed to dissuade Radek once he got going. Drop, duck, pull back, follow with a left cross.

At the time, he didn’t think about the mechanics of why when he found himself purposely scheduling Radek to his team. He silently acknowledged now that he’d enjoyed the results, found Radek’s explosive outbursts entertaining. His best results came when he teamed Radek and Kavanagh together, giving Kavanagh free reign. He didn’t question his madness; instead he continued to manipulate the situation further, anything that’d set Radek off. Then he’d sit back to enjoy the show. At some point, he realized how much he enjoyed it. Enjoyed having Kavanagh around just to frustrate and pick counterpoint arguments with Radek. Jab, dance, jab.

Then Tuesday happened. During this particular confrontation, he’d stood there; Radek was flushed, finger jabbing Kavanagh in the chest, swearing in Czech. The entire time it had happened, Evan’s cock was twitching in excitement. Eventually Radek had stormed off, loudly cursing in Czech…leaving Evan to fight having a hard-on, suddenly consciously aware that maybe he was a bit attracted to Radek. And that Radek’s muttering in Czech in a state of complete disarray only heightened his desire. Jab, jab, jab, jab, right hook.

The next day, barely morning, he’d woken up, the clock blinking 4:37. Distraught, that at his age he was wet and sticky, from a wet dream, filled with memories of sharp blue eyes looking up at him, the comfort of Radek’s body under his, of Radek flush and sated beneath him. That’s when it really hit him and he knew he was in trouble. Slip, jab.

That was last week and he was no closer to solving his problem—wanting Radek nearly every moment of every day, and he feared the only way it’d end would be when he was balls deep into Radek’s tight ass. And that was the real problem—he didn’t think this was just about the sex or Radek’s body, but he refused to consider or look too closely at that, even though he knew that it made his whole day if he saw or got to be near the geeky scientist. A bitter laugh rose. Jab, jab, jab, jab, right hook.

Pausing as sweat stung his eyes, he bowed his head until his forehead was resting on the bag, nearly hugging it and trying to regain his breath and momentum. Finally he pushed away. His body was bouncing, desperate to shake off the tension —wrists to legs shook in an effort to refocus his concentration. He tapped his gloves together, reestablishing his stance, determined to continue… only to be interrupted.

“What you’re doing, it’s not going to help.”

Confused, Evan looked up, blinking as suddenly Ronon stood in front of him, steadying the bag. “What?”

“This. Working out. Trying to avoid or forget?”

It was easy to pretend he didn’t know what Ronon was talking about because he didn’t, he refused to let himself. It sure as hell couldn’t be about Radek. He didn’t even know he had a problem until last week, and it wasn’t something he’d shared with anyone here in Atlantis. If anyone had guessed, it’d be someone from his team: Cadman, Kavanagh, or Radek himself.

Evan just smiled. “Just a workout—you know, relieve some stress.”

Ronon’s smirked then nodded as he stepped up and answered knowingly, “Sexual.”

Evan almost sputtered a response before snapping his mouth closed, shrugging his shoulders like it didn’t matter. Silently arguing, ‘What difference does it make, he still doesn’t know anything…’

Staring directly at him, Ronon solemnly added, “Temporary fix. Like I said, it doesn’t work.”

Again Lorne just shrugged, then repositioned himself, adding that slight bounce, anxious for Ronon to leave so he could continue his workout.

Ronon shook his head and muttered, “Stubborn,” as he moved closer, blocking Lorne from the bag. He paused, inclining his head before adding, “You’d have better luck if you just asked him.”

This time he did sputter, “”

Eyebrow raised, Ronon barely hesitated before he answered, “I’m Satedan,” shrugging his shoulders as if that was answer enough. “Granted we had our own fucked up military policies…” Pausing a heartbeat, he glared meaningfully before continuing. “Just not that one.”

Ronon pulled away, shrugging his shoulders again as he added, “Do what you want. But here, this place…” He made a point of glancing around the room before returning his gaze at Lorne, staring intently. “Life is short. You’re not on Earth. Here—no one is asking or telling. Think about it.”

By the time Evan closed his mouth, Ronon was gone. He didn’t mean, he couldn’t… His breathing was labored, more out of shock than physical exhaustion. He didn’t move, just stood staring at the empty space where Ronon had exited, Ronon’s voice playing in his head… he wasn’t one to kid himself when faced with the truth. He had made tough decisions before, life and death decisions in a spilt second of a given moment. Decisions that had weighed on him, but he never willingly stood outside the lines, the rules and regulations, society. Now, for the first time in a really long time, he was at a crossroad and honestly didn’t know what to do.

Slowly, he lifted his hand to his mouth. Teeth gnawed at the ties of his glove; first one glove then the other fell to the floor. A hand threaded through his sweat soaked hair. Nearly trembling, Evan moved toward the door.

The door swished open, then closed. Silence descended, leaving only the heavy musk of sweat, and the abandoned gloves behind.



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January 2017

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