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Part 1: Warmth
The warmth of Rodney's skin is strange.
His breath hitches just a little when John lets his hands slide down Rodney's back. Smooth, John thinks with something like surprise, maybe even wonder.
It could be the ointment the Nelani gave both of them "to ward off the ill effects of the breath of the maw," but the paste -- handed over after stepping out of the Stargate and, inadvertently, into fumes wafting out of a crack in the side of the mountain -- is clear and odourless. It seems to leave no trace on either skin or fingers, volatile like the vapours themselves.
Or the smoothness could be Rodney's skin. Not that this is a line of thinking he's comfortable with.
Like an echo of John thoughts, Rodney begins talking, fast and a little too high-pitched. "I can't believe we've fallen victim to yet another purification ritual -- seriously, why don't any of these people ever just say, Yes, welcome, don't worry, there's absolutely nothing you have to do; we can proceed to the mutually beneficial exchange of technology and, perhaps, goods --"
"Rodney," John murmurs, leaning forward, leaning closer, just to better speak into the shell of Rodney's ear, "at least this one's for our sake, not theirs. Remember, you were the one worried enough to accept the Nelani's instructions."
"Well, yes, there might very well be a scientific reasoning behind this treatment; I, for one, am not keen on dying of poison from noxious fumes containing God-knows-what just because I refused their time-tested method of neutralisation."
John has to smile. "Yeah. They are friends of the Athosians, after all." He swipes his fingers through the substance in the clay pot and touches them to Rodney’s back again. No spot to be left untreated. It’s getting easier, each stroke a little less weird, more natural. It’s not just him: Rodney relaxes into his touch. And still....
"You’re tense here." John's thumb circles a knot on the inside of Rodney's shoulder blade. "And here."
"How utterly surprising," Rodney huffs, "considering that we're sitting in a rough wooden hut on an alien planet after nightfall and a prescribed whole-body wash that’s just the beginning of a tedious detoxification process. Not to mention the fact we're --" he breaks off abruptly.
Almost naked, John finishes in his mind, wearing nothing but our boxers, and rubbing cream into each other's skin.
The worst thing, though? John has just found out he doesn't mind. He's not a touchy-feely kind of guy, far from it, but this -- this is Rodney. John licks his lips, worries for a moment, but...this is Rodney. "Hey, want me to..?" he lets his voice trail off and his fingers take up the talking, kneading the hard knot in Rodney's back.
"Oh." Rodney nods slowly, then another time, with more force, if a little jerkily.
Okay, then. John exhales and, slowly, slowly, begins.
It ends with Rodney keeling behind him, working out knots in his shoulders John hadn't known about. Now he gets to not watch but feel these hands in action -- strength, care, something else that makes John feel light and at ease. Content, he thinks.
When Rodney's hands on him finally still, John waits for a moment before he turns his head and looks into Rodney's face. At the sleepy blue eyes, the soft, happy slant of Rodney's mouth.
Rodney doesn't flinch, doesn't babble, hasn't moved away. John is close enough to take in his scent, male, a little spicy, not unpleasant.
"Sleep?" John asks, quietly.
"Yeah." Rodney answers.
Lying in the wide, archaic bed, under crisp linen covers, they don’t touch.
But the warmth of Rodney’s skin is close. Familiar.
Part 2: Chill
Chilly air hits his naked shoulder.
John instinctively shuffles away from it, closer to the warmth he can feel just inches –
Rodney. Right. John opens his eyes, still sleepy but recalling the situation: P6B-640, volcanic fumes, detox of some sort. He’s lying under a relatively thin blanket, huddled close to and facing Rodney who looks mellow in his sleep, and much younger. For the first time, John can picture the boy he was in his mind. The image is endearing.
A snuffling sound, and Rodney blinks at him. "John," he murmurs, voice still scratchy from sleep. He smiles, the tilt of his mouth unexpectedly sweet.
John feels a bright surge of emotion. He doesn’t know if it’s his name on Rodney’s lips or the unguarded expression on his face; either way, he can’t help but grin back, stretch out his arm just a little, and thump Rodney against the shoulder. "Who else did you expect?"
Now Rodney’s mouth shifts into a more familiar expression. "Sam Carter, of course, although I wouldn’t complain about either Teyla or Kate Heightmeyer, or wait, why either...."
Rodney’s eyes are sleep-soft, though, the tone of his voice so pointedly pensive that John has to laugh again. His fist is still resting against Rodney’s upper arm; he uncurls it and pinches Rodney’s biceps lightly. "Stop dreaming, McKay."
"Ow." Rodney gives him a mock-glare and burrows his hand under the covers; a moment later, John feels Rodney’s thumb and forefinger pinch his bare side in turn. He – well, there’s no manly word for it: he squeaks.
Which gets him a grin. "Oh, Colonel, did that hurt?"
John doesn’t know why, but he waggles his eyebrows and nods, looking as pitiful as he can. He adds a little pout.
Rodney attempts a serious expression. He doesn’t quite succeed. "Right, a terrible blow, that. To your ego, I mean, which clearly requires medical attention, or any attention at all."
His hand, hovering over John’s side, dips down again, stroking over the soft skin he just pinched – keyboard-smoothened fingertips, and John shivers, it’s so good; the sensation of Rodney’s hand on his body again, heat radiating from the points they touch; points-plural because his own hand is gripping Rodney’s arm again, moving up and down slowly; he just needs to get a little closer for better leverage –
and their cocks touch.
Under the thin fabric of their boxers, hardness slides against hardness, the sensation hot and fierce and mingling perfectly with the overall warmth he’s feeling right now. John shudders, knows with sudden clarity that he could come from this. That he wants this. Wants Rodney.
Whose eyes are wide, and very, very blue. Who – still, again – doesn’t move away.
So John has to.
He jerks back, muttering something under his breath that’s half apology, half regret; he’s turned away, rolled off the bed and found his clothes within seconds. A few more, and he’s in gear again, keeping his head bent low, so low he doesn’t have to look Rodney in the eye. “We better get going. Negotiations with the council start early.”
For a moment, the only response is silence so unusual as to be painful. Then, Rodney’s voice, thick and a little slow: “Of course, negotiations. Always thinking about the good of Atlantis, aren’t you, Sheppard? To take proper care of all of us, each of us.”
John winces a little at the last words. “Rodney....”
“No, I get it.” Clipped tone, and now Rodney is scrabbling across the bed, looking for his own clothing on the rough wooden chair by the table, “Just a moment, meaningless, but now there are places to go, things to do, people to charm; same old, same old.”
No, John wants to say, you don’t get it, this is new. It scares me, Rodney, scares me half to death.
But all he does is lick his lips and stare at Rodney’s back, stiff with anger.
When John opens the door and steps outside, he shivers a little. The air is chilly.
Part 3: Perfection
What a perfect day.
John slouches deep into the conference room chair. He hasn't played Anywhere But Here in a long time, but if he did right now, even the Atlantis sewage system would sound pretty good. In theory, they are discussing the mission to P6B-640, in practice, Rodney is sniping at everybody who's within range and quite a few who aren't.
"…and oh, right, let's not even talk about their army of retarded baboons masquerading as scientists: The intel they offered us was a joke - insects on sticks freshly prodded out from under bark would have been preferable, would actually have been infinitely more helpful in further deciphering the Ancient database, seeing as Corrigan eats anything a big-eyed native shoves at him; might have been a much, much needed protein boost…"
Deeper.
*
"John, a word?"
He slows his step, swings around. "Elizabeth." Bland smile. "What is it?"
"That would have been my question to you." Wryly. "I wanted to ask about Rodney's behaviour. I've known him for a while now, but I haven't seen him be quite so -" She frowns.
"So Rodney?" John supplies, pointedly helpful.
She gives him a look that says, quite clearly, Don't play cute, John.
Fine. "I have no idea." When her eyebrow rises, he adds, "I mean, I've seen how he was just now but don't know what caused it." Liar. Not even a bad one, because the next sentence comes out smoothly, in an easy drawl: "Sleep deprivation, maybe; McKay does hate beds off-world. Something about the lack of a prescription mattress."
Elizabeth is far from satisfied. "Rodney may be a little - sensitive at times, but somehow I don't think this was just because he slept less than ideally; that's really common enough." Another questioning stare. "Are you sure nothing else happened on P6B-640?"
John gifts her with a careless shrug. "Just what we went over - fumes now identified as harmless close to the Stargate, a ritual shower and some lotion to be slapped on, negotiations the following day; pretty disappointing ones."
"Fair enough." She nods slowly. "But you're well aware that we need Rodney at his full capacity and with his full cooperation; this can't go on. If you don't know what's wrong with Rodney -- there's no one closer. He trusts you, John."
"Geez, you're making it sound like we're -" he hesitates, "brothers."
Her gaze is bird-like, eagle, not dove. "No, that wasn't my impression."
What was your impression, then? he wants to ask - and doesn't, despite the fact he knows her answer. Two days ago, he would have smiled, secure in this knowledge: buddies and team-mates and occasional rivals. But now….
"I'll see what I can do."
Elizabeth looks relieved. "Thanks, John. It seems too early for a suggestion of a special session with Kate Heightmeyer; it's probably nothing."
Nothing. Yeah. If he had a say, she'd be spot on.
*
When it's late enough - well past midnight - that he knows Rodney is in, he knocks on Rodney's door, finds himself toying with it again: Anywhere but here. But this needs to be straightened out.
Great choice of words, there, John.
He frowns, just when the door opens.
Rodney's wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, his hair mussed and spiky, dark droplets collecting at the ends and sliding down his neck to pool around his collarbone. John's gaze flicks back to Rodney's mouth twisting into an expression of mock gratitude. "Oh, look, His Sheppardness himself. Has he come to tease the scientist some more?"
So much for a nice way of easing into the conversation. This is Rodney, who doesn't carry grudges as much as mountains of recrimination. "And a very good evening to you, too, Rodney."
"Yes, well, what you quite incorrectly call evening is not exactly looking up from where I stand."
John holds onto his smile but crosses his arms in front of his chest. "C'mon, Rodney, cut the crap."
"Cut the crap?" Sharp huff of a laugh. "Funny, really; you're such a comedian, Sheppard. All the while I thought you were the one bullshitting me."
John's a laid-back guy. All of Atlantis knows that. What all of Atlantis doesn't know that it hasn't always been like that, and that there are moments when the past is just a little too close for comfort. Yeah, he's good at deflecting all kinds of behaviour directed at him - romantic interest, aggression, curiosity - by merely keeping his cool, but he's not flawless. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
Maybe things have looked a little strange from Rodney's side; John realises he hasn't been too keen on talking to Rodney since the - morning on P6B-640. Or even on looking at him directly. Now he can't help staring down the corridor. "Do we have to do this in the hallway?"
Rodney snorts at that, but a grandiose After You gesture ushers John into his room. The door shuts without so much as a click; for a moment, John feels trapped, feels a lot like backing out again. But, no. "Rodney, look, I'm sorry for - well, for whatever happened off-world, okay? Let's just forget about it."
"Uh-huh." Rodney's posture is belligerent. "Not even you can be quite that daft, Sheppard."
The temperature in the room has risen; John isn't sure if it's his own growing sense of frustration or yet another weird Atlantis feedback loop - could even be Rodney causing it. "Drop it, McKay. I apologised, what else do you want?"
"Perhaps I want to talk about," he makes exaggerated air quotes, "whatever happened!"
"Nothing happened, McKay." John spits out the words.
Rodney's mouth opens, then closes; opens again. There's a new, different note in his voice, below the fierce exasperation. "You're not trying to tell me that was nothing? You are? Oh, I can't believe it; can't believe you're trying to deny this."
"There is no this." John narrows his eyes, anger and something too much like fear washing over the ground at his feet, tugging. Damn Rodney; John should have known. But he couldn't. Really couldn't.
"Oh, of course!" Rodney presses his lips together, then stares at him again without flinching. "I just hallucinated you and me rubbing...lube all over each other, not to mention the snuggling with a hard-on in the morning!" Righteousness is pouring off him in waves. "You are such a hypocrite, Sheppard!"
Fuck. John's skin is tight, tingling, as if he wanted to shed it right here. "What the hell are you trying to do to me, McKay? I have a career -"
"In Atlantis! Where one half doesn't care, and the other screws anyone in sight!"
"If you're a civilian!" Why doesn't Rodney get it, get that John can't do - that John isn't -
"Oh, please." Rodney's voice runs roughshod over his, and there's a sneer on his face that doesn't look attractive at all. "Even if you don't ask, someone must have told you that your precious grunts aren't exactly choirboys, unless we are talking about rather sexually flexible choirboys."
"But they are not me, Rodney!" John wants, suddenly and badly, to grab him, shake him, "Christ, don't you understand that Elizabeth can't offer any protection in the military chain of command; I may be the commander here, but Caldwell is always sniffing after my chair, and I don't need to tell you he's not my biggest fan - or yours!"
Strange enough, Rodney goes still, looking at John with an expression he can't quite place. And then Rodney moves, across the small space between them. Broad hands grab John's shoulders, haul him closer so fast that John can't think, can't think about moving away. Rodney's mouth, Rodney's lips against his own, soft in comparison to the stubble of his chin; the scratchiness makes John shiver. He can feel Rodney's fingers dig into the muscles of his upper arms, but Rodney's mouth - Rodney's mouth - doesn't hurt, the pressure slight, so slight, asking not demanding, and John exhales. He must open his mouth for that, and Rodney's there, lips and, God, tongue, sweeping in, stroking into his mouth, insistent and stubborn and skilled, and John can feel heat race down his spine, pool low, lower, and -
He pushes Rodney off, with enough force to make him stumble, stare. Rodney's mouth is red, wet, his eyes blue and wide and undoing something John has always thought was tied away safely. "Not happening, McKay."
Rodney licks his lips, the stunned-soft expression shifting into hurt. Bitterness. "Right. Because you're not gay, not really, and I just made you that way with my Big Giant Super Gay Ray."
John winces. "What the hell? Stop it." He knows it's silly, ridiculous; his own mouth probably looks like Rodney's, moist and - kissed, but he cannot be…
"Gay, gay, gay, gay! John Sheppard is gay! Deal with it, Colonel."
Jesus, fuck, he won't, can't; he's gonna leave, now. "Shut up, McKay!" John's hands - he balls them into fists and begins to back away, eyes still on Rodney, and yeah, that's a mistake, right there, because Rodney flaps his hands, very limp-wristed, and lisps and minces around the room. "Gay. Pansy. Faggot."
John flinches with each word - memories, too clear all of a sudden; too pretty, hair too tousled, too Air Force. He's heard these words before, hated them, was glad to leave every time, to start anew: once more with apple pie.
Back stiff, he turns away from Rodney, from the pressure, from the nausea clenching his gut, to the door in two long strides - only to bump into Rodney again, Rodney who has not walked but run, tripping over his feet but catching himself in the doorframe and, worse, catching John, putting a light hand on his arm that shouldn't feel as if it weighed a thousand pounds. "Do - do you think that way about me?"
John jerks his shoulder away from Rodney's touch, doesn't meet his eyes, and why doesn't the goddamn door open?
"Oh, God, you do."
No, no, no. He's too - angry and scared, that's all, that's it: heat in his chest, his belly, fanning out. Rodney's standing too close, the shape of his fingers burning him beneath the clothing, and John recalls them on bare skin, strong and sure and leaving trails of warmth.
"Leave me alone, McKay." He tries to turn away, aware of the fact he could deck Rodney, hit him before he could either duck or cover, but the thought of the shock, the pain in Rodney's face - no, no.
No.
The hands on his shoulders slide lower, cup his elbow, his wrist with infinite care. Rodney's voice is even closer now, his breath warm against John's ear, making the fine hairs at his temple tremble. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John; fuck, I'm not - you don't need to tell anyone, I don't care about that, I just want - John, you, you don't have to worry, no one's gonna know…" Rodney's voice is rough, now, so fucking brittle all of a sudden.
John slumps against the door, catching his breath; he's surprised he can still manage words, laugh a breathless laugh. "Rodney, you can't hide anything for shit."
Rodney shakes his head, rapidly; John can feel the shift in air currents. "I have - I've been working on classified projects since before I was old enough to vote; I mean, I'm a genius, I can…some things I can keep hidden, I really can, believe me, you have to believe me."
Christ, he wants to - Rodney must've done something right, or the military would never have kept him, especially not for so long, but John, John's lost in the no man's land between tired and wired, wants this to be over yesterday. It's not worth it, worth risking everything he never knew he might want one day; why doesn't Rodney get it?
Of course, not like he gets it, either, because John makes the mistake look at Rodney again, at the tremulous mouth and the wide eyes and the naked expression on Rodney's face, the one that tells John that only his stubborn, stubborn sense pride is holding him back from begging -
and he's wrong again, or maybe he's been wrong all along and just didn't realise; wouldn't be the first time. Rodney slides down, agile for someone who complains about his knees, John thinks, disconnectedly, and then Rodney's fingers are hooking into his belt, working the the button-flies of his uniform, popping them one by one, fingers a blur, and Christ, Rodney's fingers -
touching him way too expertly - fuck, touching him, and John's hard, has been for a while; difficult to keep in an involuntary moan when Rodney tightens a fist around him, more difficult when Rodney strokes up and down, impossible when he bends forward and wraps his lips around the head, wet-hot suction making John groan out loud, far too loud. He presses his shoulder blades against the frame, digs his heels into the floor, and Christ, the thing Rodney is doing with his tongue to the underside -
John breaks, shatters, comes - apart at the seams, it feels like; he's helpless, awed. If Rodney's hands weren't there, he thinks he might fall, he might still. But they tug at him, then, and although the floor is unsteady under his feet, John lets himself be dragged over to the bed, shivery, newly numb.
Rodney's talking: words, a litany of them, meaningless except for what they mean, what they really mean - John hears "thanks" and "please" and "kiss me". So he does; stretches out his hand to cup the back of Rodney's neck, and it's easy after that, easy to open his mouth and taste himself on Rodney's clever tongue, sharp and bitter and sending another spike of heat through him. Easy to fall back onto the mattress, Rodney tumbling half-onto him, weighty but not a burden, an anchor. Sensation is returning to John's body at each long, deep stroke of their tongues, even more so at each touch, Rodney's hands fast but methodical, removing each piece of clothing - John's first, making zippers dig into skin and uniform folds leave imprints, but they fade quicker than it takes for Rodney to get undressed, too. Rodney's - right there now, hard against John's thigh, and he makes low, desperate noises when he shoves forward, down; John can't help but nod and shudder and move. Move with Rodney, whose words are fewer and still faint until John listens to the "touch me" and does that, too, finally - finally - letting his hands wander over the planes and angles and wide expanses of Rodney's body, over Rodney who arches into his touch and moans and comes, messily, hotly, on the skin just below John's navel, soft beneath the hair; John knows it is because he runs his fingers through it, and so does Rodney.
Their hands touch, and it's still good.
Again.
*
They lie next to each other on the narrow bed afterwards, catching their breath.
"Is this -" a tentative note in Rodney's voice, as if he expected him to slip out and run; not without reason, "-okay with you?"
John doesn't answer, mostly because he thinks he would end up sounding weird, speaking through the lump in his throat. But he does turn his head to brush his lips across the spot he'd noticed earlier, where Rodney's neck meets his shoulder. Where the skin is impossibly tender. And Rodney sighs, strained muscles softening and molding into the curve of John's arm, his leg.
Yeah, John thinks. This is okay.
Not perfect, maybe, but worth a try.
*Author's Notes: Much love to eretria, who's not an alien but definitely made me do it -- with initial prompts and progressive harassment of the sweetest kind -- and to auburnnothenna, who gives a mean Rodney. Literally: Thanks for helping me out with their argument in the third part!
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