Fic: Leave My Wings Behind Me, for wojelah

It's still January 11 somewhere, isn't it?

Title: Leave My Wings Behind Me
By: tesserae_
For: wojelah, from her prompts "team" and "broken".
Pairing: John/Cam
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3500
A/N: written for the most recent John/Cam Thing-a-thon at sg_flyboys Early beta by idyll, and this really starts with this snippet, which I wrote long enough ago that my version of John's backstory has been pretty well jossed. The timeline corresponds to SG-1's Avalon, Part 1 and SGA's Intruder.

Summary: Sheppard's trying to give him something else he can't really use.



*

Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell shoos Push-Up Guy out of his office and stalks out after him, slamming the door behind him in the (probably vain) hope that the files on his desk will all end up on the floor. He doesn’t have any real expectation of this happening: Walter seems to be capable of stacking files so that even a Jaffa staff weapon can’t dislodge them. Plenty of practice with O’Neill, no doubt, like everybody else around here. He’s beginning to think he’s the only one who doesn’t have a graduate degree in the General, and just like all those geometry classes he skipped in high school in favor of lying on his back watching crop-dusters quarter the fields, it’s definitely come back to bite him. He’d had to take geometry *again* when he got into the Academy. Christ only knew what it was going to cost him this time. Without Carter, Jackson, Teal'c, SG-1 is an embroidered patch, not a team.

He’s still in the mood to throw things and slam doors when he gets to the locker room, but he won’t rate two tantrums a day until he hits full bird, so he drops his duffel bag onto a bench and strips off his uniform. Pitching it into the back of his locker, he resists the urge to stick his tongue out at it. His oldest pair of jeans and a soft gray t-shirt are on the top shelf where he put them two days ago, anticipating going out for a beer with his teammates after a day spent battling aliens, filthy and out of ammo and laughing about it all. (He’s read the reports. No way they didn’t go out for a beer after some of those missions. ) He’d thought about it, thought it might take a while for them to relax with him, but Sam would let him buy her a beer, he figured, and Teal’c would come along, to keep an eye on Sam, and Jackson would – Jackson would –

Jackson would be in motherfucking Atlantis, having sailed off on the Good Ship Lollipop with Elizabeth Weir and the rest of her command team. He yanks his bag closer, intending to grab his keys and get in the car and just drive. But the zipper stops dead about three inches down and when Cam peers into the bag – what the hell – there are files jammed into its teeth. Swearing, he tips the bag sideways and shakes it until his keys fall out. He throws the bag, files and all, into the back of his locker and, giving in to the urge, kicks the door closed.

There's a faint cough from the other side of the locker room and Cameron shakes his head. Lieutenant Colonel Four Years Old he thinks, and vows to have Sergeant Harriman requisition a violin for him the next day.

*

The sun is just setting when Cam pulls out of the parking lot, and as soon as he’s on the highway he shifts the Mustang into fourth and paces a Cessna until it dips its wings and turns off toward Denver. Cam heads up into the mountains, driving like his Daddy taught him, downshifting as the road climbs and accelerating out of the tight curves, the road and the trees beside it slipping through his headlights as he narrows his focus to the feel of the engine under his hands. The rest of it – Landry, the SGC, the team that's not a team – gets lost in the wash of Dickie Betts' and Duane Allman's guitars, the music as clear and sharp and intoxicating as the cold mountain air pouring in through the windows.

And it works, like he figured it would; he can usually run off a mad, but some kinds of pissed just need velocity. He thinks about driving all night, but singing along to the whole damn album with the windows rolled down did its thing, and now he's mostly just thirsty.

When he sees the battered yellow sign saying "Continental Divide 1 Mi. Ahead" he takes a deep breath and tightens his hands on the wheel. Three years ago the Divide ran to cheap well drinks and cheaper beer, outlaw country on the jukebox and the dimmest lighting of any bar Cam had ever been in. He wonders if it's changed much.

A mile later, a yellow sign that looks as if it was stolen from a yard sale at a Baptist church appears. It's listing badly, as if the concrete blocks keeping it vertical had decided to lay down their burden, and the Coors sign over the narrow front door is sputtering in sympathy.

Cam pulls into the vacant lot that holds the bar's overflow parking and guides his Mustang carefully over its deeply-rutted surface, gravel crunching under his tires. He backs the car into a space in the far corner and turns the engine off, listening to it tick over while he fights the adrenaline surge that's got his hands locked around the wheel in a grip tight enough to shatter the forty-year old plastic. Before he switches off his headlights, he sees men crossing the parking lot, singly and in pairs.

Three years ago it wasn't the beer or the jukebox that drew ranch hands and rodeo cowboys and flyboys in civvies to the Divide - every bar in the Springs had those. It was the even more dimly-lit back room, and the easy, anonymous blow jobs a guy could get, or give, or watch, even on a slow Monday night when the rest of the world was watching a game, or ordering pizza and flipping through the channels on the TV.

He lets the steering wheel go and flexes his hands. Get out of the car, Mitchell, he thinks.

*

The bouncer doesn't even pretend to check his ID, and Cam pulls open the door and lets the smell of spilled beer and aftershave smack him in the face. "Flyboy!" somebody yells, and he looks up sharply, squinting through the gloom.

It's the bartender, a bottle of tequila in one hand and three beers in the other, but he's waving them toward the pool table on the far side of the bar, at three men in flight jackets who yell back, big grins on their broad, well-scrubbed faces. He pegs them as wannabes and relaxes enough to get his feet moving again, but he heads for a spot at the bar that'll let him turn his back to them, just in case. The questions he's looking forward to tonight can mostly be answered with words like "yes" and "more" and "harder".

He slides onto the stool just as the bartender slides the bottle of tequila back into the well and looks up with a grin. "Kids. They grow up so fast these days," he says, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans. "What'll you have?" He leans forward, light glinting off the ropy muscles in his arms and the gold ring in his eyebrow, and Cam's got his mouth open to order a better tequila when he feels someone come up behind him. He tenses, trying not to look like his next move would be to reach for a gun and the man – he's assuming it's a man, he can't smell anything more than soap and cold air, and he can't imagine what a woman would want from the Divide anyways – stops just short of making contact, close enough that Cam can feel heat against his right shoulder. He's shifting slowly, ready to throw an elbow if necessary, when there's a whisper of warmth against his neck and a voice in his ear, barely audible under the sudden wail of a slide guitar from the jukebox.

"Wouldn't that be telling?"

Cam closes his eyes and sends up a quick plea for grace, although grace doesn't really cover what he wants from John Sheppard, given that he's standing here in The Divide with a smile playing around his mouth that tells Cam he knows exactly what he's doing to Cam's dick.

He adds a quick apology to his grandmother, in case Jesus doesn't normally make it to the Divide. "Two tequilas," he tells the bartender. "Something nice, not that crap with the bugs in it." Next to him, Sheppard flinches. Cam makes a mental note to pull the Atlantis mission reports. "And a couple bottles of something that's not Coors."

"You got it."

The bartender turns around, showing off worn leather chaps and a tattoo that looks like a single handcuff, the chain disappearing into the crease between ass and thigh. Cam winces at the thought of all that ink going into that patch of skin. "What was that about telling?"

"Good point," Sheppard says, leaning over his shoulder. This time Cam can feel the brush of stubble against his jaw. "How do you feel about asking?"

The bartender puts two tall bottles on the bar in front of them and follows them with a pair of Pike's Peak shot glasses. "This do?" he asks, showing Cam a bottle of Patron Silver. Sheppard lets out a low whistle, and Cam nods. The bartender flashes them a quick look. "You guys shipping out?" he says quietly, and when Cam shrugs, he fills the glasses nearly full. "I can't buy you these, but the beer's on the house." At a yell from the other side of the bar, he moves away.

Cam drops two twenties on the bar and pushes the tequila toward Sheppard. "You are shipping out," he starts, lifting his glass, but Sheppard gets a tight look on his face and doesn't say anything.

Sheppard waves a dismissive hand in the air, picks up the glass and tosses it back, his throat working smoothly as he swallows. This close, Cam can see the pulse beating in his neck, lighter hairs among the dark ones in the V of his shirt, silver against his pale skin. "Nice," he says, and Cam recognizes the change of subject for what it is. "Doesn't even need lime. You know McKay's allergic to – " His voice trails off and he thumps his glass down onto the bar. "Order me another, will you?" he says to Cam, and pushes himself upright.

Cam slides off the bar stool. So much for changing the subject. "Where are you going?" Shit, Cam thinks, and remembers what Sergeant Harriman had told him, that there was every chance Sheppard wasn't going back. Something about insubordination, he thought, and even though the sergeant hadn't gone into any detail Cam wasn't surprised. Sheppard was no one's idea of subordinate.

"Air," Sheppard says shortly, and spins away from the hand Cam puts out to catch him. He's through the crowd and out the door before Cam can signal the bartender. Cam drains his own glass and drops it onto the bills he'd pulled out earlier, and heads for the door, hoping Sheppard hasn't been stupid enough to get into a car with a full glass of Patron on his breath.

He catches the bouncer's eye as he steps out into the parking lot. "Dark-haired guy, black leather jacket?"

The bouncer nods. "Came outta here like he'd seen his boss working the head?" Cam shudders. The bouncer jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the side of the building. "That way. I don't think he went very far."

"Thanks."

It's quiet once he gets away from the bar's front door, and the sky is clear enough that the light streaming down onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot is coming from the Milky Way and not the moon. Soon. He'd put a hand on the Stargate earlier that day, telling himself he was imagining the thrum of energy cycling through it, but his hand is still tingling, the way it had the first time he laid a hand on the wing of an old biplane at an air show. The 302s were cool, but the Gate, the chance to walk through it with SG-1 – he didn't think he'd ever have words for that.

"McKay said you'd need a telescope to see Pegasus." Sheppard is slouched against the far corner, staring up into the sky. He sounds nearly sober.

Cam has a brief moment of regret, but it's probably better this way, as small as the SGC actually is. "I guess so. Sam would know." He walks along the side of the building and props himself against the wall, and looks back up. "When are you gonna find out if they've voted you off the island?"

Sheppard honks out a laugh. "Tomorrow. Or, you know, maybe it'll be like the movie about that kid, and I'll find out tomorrow they already left."

"Nah, Jackson's not done packing, they can't go anywhere yet." And there it is, the thing that sent him slamming out of the Mountain. His team. His nonexistent team, to be precise.

"Cam…" There's more sympathy in Sheppard's voice than Cam's prepared to deal with before he really starts feeling like he's four years old. He may not have a team, but Sheppard does.

"It's okay," he says quickly, and turns his head. Sheppard puts a careful hand on his shoulder and steps out from the wall, into Cam's line of sight. Cam looks up, and he doesn't think he's ever seen anyone more beautiful than John Sheppard, tired and a little bit drunk, dark circles under his eyes and the light from the stars in his hair. Sheppard meets his gaze and holds it, and Cam can feel his own pulse beating when Sheppard's hand comes to rest against the side of his neck.

"Cam…" Sheppard says again, making it a question, curling his fingers around the back of Cam's neck and up into his hair, and Cam nods, leaning forward to brush his lips against Sheppard's.

So much for the hard questions in life.

Sheppard gasps and opens his mouth, letting him in, letting Cam's tongue sweep against his, and that's maybe the sexiest fucking thing Cam knows, John Sheppard under his hands and asking for more, so he drops a hand to Sheppard's waist to pull him even closer.

Sheppard's skin is warm through his shirt, and the muscles of his belly are trembling where Cam's touching him. Cam slides his hand around to Sheppard's back and urges him forward, and Sheppard gasps again, muttering Fuck into Cam's mouth and shifting his weight so that he's got one long lean thigh pressed between Cam's. When he starts to move it's Cam's turn to say Fuck and he does, biting the word off as Sheppard surges up against Cam's now-hard cock. "We can," Sheppard murmurs, pulling back to slide a hand between their bodies and wrap it around Cam's erection. "But… not here, maybe?"

Cam reaches for Sheppard's mouth, takes Sheppard's lower lip between his teeth and bites gently, and reaches for Sheppard's fly. "Here's good," he says, because he doesn't have an apartment yet, and there's something sordid about the motels that ring Colorado Springs, full of people who aren't supposed to be sleeping together. And he doesn't know what Sheppard's driving but he's twenty years and one plane crash past being able to fuck in the Mustang's back seat. Sheppard murmurs assent and then pulls back to watch Cam unbutton his jeans.

Cam slides the button loose and eases the zipper over the bulge of Sheppard's erection, moving slowly enough that Sheppard is breathing hard by the time he's done, his hips moving restlessly under Cam's hands. Cam moves in to kiss him again and slips one hand inside his boxers, pulls out his cock and drags his palm down the underside, just as slowly. Sheppard drops his head onto Cam's shoulder and reaches for the buttons on his jeans with shaking hands, and pulls Cam free and wraps his long fingers around both their cocks. "Let me," he whispers, and Cam puts both hands into Sheppard's hair and drags his mouth up for a kiss that lasts until Sheppard gasps into his mouth, and then he lets them both go and watches as Sheppard starts to come, his hips jerking and hot fluid spilling over onto Cam's cock, and he grabs Sheppard's hand and tightens it around them both, and comes hard. Letting his head fall forward until he's leaning into Sheppard, he closes his eyes.

The sound of a car pulling around the bar thumps them both back down to earth. He hears a wolf whistle and the car reverses, the sound of its wheels on the gravel receding, and he lifts his head. Sheppard wipes his hand on the hem of his shirt and tucks himself back in, zipping up his jeans with easy efficiency before tipping his head up to take Cam's mouth in another scorching kiss.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to –" he starts, and Cam frowns at him.

"Why the fuck didn't you ever say anything?"

"Me?" Sheppard gives him a wide-eyed look that turns hot as he glances down at Cam's cock. Cam blushes and puts himself back together, and wipes his own hands on Sheppard's shirttails.

"Hey!"

"Hey yourself. Don't change the subject."

Sheppard shrugs and settles back against the wall, bumping Cam's shoulder companionably. "Odds were ten to one in Kabul that you were engaged to marry the girl next door."

"Back then I still planned to. Before Antarctica." Cam lifts his eyes to Sheppard's mouth, watches Sheppard's lips curl into a smile that hints at the smirk he'd first seen all those years ago in Germany.

"The crash. You –"

"I decided life was too short to make other people miserable. Now I mostly just –" He waved a hand back at the bar, and Sheppard nodded. There were risks, and then there were risks. "You gave me a skateboard once, do you remember?" He's trying to keep his tone conversational but something wary crosses Sheppard's face.

"That was you?"

"Yep." He'd rewritten the end to that scene a thousand times. In most of them, Sheppard followed him home and taught him how to ride it.

"We left the next day," Sheppard says, sounding faintly apologetic.

"Yeah, I know."

"You ever ride the thing?"

Cam shakes his head. "Mom threw it into storage the minute I got home. My dad woulda flipped out… same deal, you know. No broken bones. He wanted me to get into the Academy, be a pilot." He drops his hands to his sides. He hadn't meant to tell Sheppard he'd never ridden the skateboard. "Your wrist musta healed up okay."

Sheppard lifts the wrist in question up, waggling his fingers. "No complaints," he says, and there's a note in his voice that abruptly reminds Cam of where that hand just was.

"Oh," he says intelligently. "That's good."

"Yep." Sheppard leans in and brushes a kiss across Cam's mouth and then steps back, tilting his head to look at Cam through his lashes. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow," he says, his voice serious. "Chances are I'm going back to Atlantis, even if all I do there is flip light switches for McKay." He grimaces, and Cam's got a sudden sense of what these last few days have cost him. "But Elizabeth said there'll be more leave for all of us, back on Earth…" His voice trails off and he glances down, as if the cracked asphalt under their feet would pick up the thread of his words and finish talking for him.

Cam waits, but Sheppard has his lips pressed together as if he's finished saying his piece. "Sheppard."

"Mitchell". Cam gives in to the urge to smack his shoulder, and Sheppard snorts. "Asshole." A long pause, and then: "We can do this now, you know? If you want."

Cam stares at him. So that's where Sheppard was going with all this, and it's the last place Cam would have guessed. He pushes himself off the wall and drops a fast hard kiss on Sheppard's lips. "No," he says. "It's not that I don't want to be made an honest man, but…." He's seen these things end before, either foundering under the weight of lies and cheap motels or in disgrace, and neither of them are cut out for flying the kind of planes that require pointing out the sights through the cabin's windows. "I can't, Sheppard." He reaches up and brushes a hand over Sheppard's kiss-swollen mouth. "As it is, you're gonna have to fake a bar fight, or tell everyone you went out for Mexican and thought the jalapenos were cucumbers, or something."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Look…" First the skateboard, now this. Good thing Sheppard's up for commander of Atlantis, not Santa Claus. "Next time you're in town, if I'm around, we'll get a beer." It's all he can offer, and it's a relief when Sheppard nods, even if his eyes slip away from Cam's.

"Beer's good."

"Yeah. Beer's good." He reaches out to touch Sheppard, but closes his hand into a fist before it can settle on Sheppard's shoulder, and jams it into his pocket. "Can you get back to the Mountain okay?"

"Left out of the parking lot? Yeah, I'm good." He scuffs his boot against the ground and looks up. "Damn it, Mitchell –"

"No." Cam wraps a hand around Sheppard's arm and starts towing him toward the parking lot. "Get on the Daedalus tomorrow, go back to your team, email me next time you've got leave. Trust me on this one, Sheppard." He points Sheppard toward the main parking lot and gives him a shove that sends him forward a few steps. "Go."

This time Sheppard doesn't look back, and once he's sure Sheppard's headed toward his car, Cam walks back toward the front door of the Divide. He hands the bouncer another ten on general principle, and pulls the front door open. The music's even louder, and when he gets up to the bar there's another face behind it.

"Patron," he says. "Silver. No lime, but I'll take whatever you've got on draft." The beer when it comes is cold and slightly bitter, but the tequila is as smooth as he remembers it. He settles back on the stool to enjoy the burn, and thinks about what he's going to say to Jackson in the morning. If he can get Jackson to stay, he can get the band back together, he knows it.


*
end