John/Rodney, PG, Béseleladycat777January 19 2007, 18:12:50 UTC
“Hey. What’s this?”
Rodney didn’t open his eyes as his arm was lifted, gently turned this way and that while careful fingers probed the edge of the bruise that rose like lace, latticing around his bicep. “Mm. Got caught in the door.”
Slow, palpable silence. “What?”
Rolling your eyes behind closed lids defeated the purpose. Dammit. Didn’t John know that it was sleepy time now? Hero-ing took a lot out of people. “When the alarm went off,” he mumbled, burying his face deeper in the pillow. It stretched his arm awkwardly, but even before he could wince a warm hand caught him on the arch above his armpit, kneading the tense muscles out of spasm. “Got caught in the door. Zel’nka got me out.”
“I thought you said you didn’t need to go see Carson?”
He was far too exhausted to huff a sigh. Expecting that John, who wasn’t self-absorbed so much as entirely oblivious, would figure out the logic to Rodney’s hypochondria was foolish. Even if there was logic to it, complete with levels he’d once detailed out a frantic, Mt. Dew inspired Sunday back in grad school. Things with potentially irreversible damage like, oh, the radiation they got exposed to all the time? He bitched about. Injuries that slowed him down or could also lead to irreversible damage? He also bitched about.
A bruise that ached, but didn’t limit his range of motion and didn’t have any burst blood-vessels or other contusions? To quote his sister: eh.
“Don’t need to see Carson.” Mm. Soft pillow. Nice, warm pillow that smelled like salt and musk and all the things Rodney refused to label ‘John’, even if they were. “S’just a bruise. S’fine. G’sleep now.”
A warm, solid body shifted behind him, moving close so that they were flush together. It wasn’t Rodney’s favorite position-he’d rather be on the outside, John flattened underneath him, and why a combat veteran preferred that, too, Rodney’d never once asked-but his sighed and let an arm creep over his waist because sleep. He didn’t want to indulge John’s paranoia when Rodney somehow acted ‘out of character’ or reassure him that yes, really, he was fine, he just wanted to-
Oh.
So delicate they were barely noticeable, tiny kisses, the kind you graced children and their too-fragile skin with, just a brush of dry, soft lips, were placed on his arm. They followed up the slope of the muscle, a hint of wetness right where the bruise was worst, hot and dark with useless blood, the barest flicker of tongue.
John didn’t do this kind of thing. Not normally. It wasn’t that he was rough or uncaring-he wasn’t. But playful, or sweet wasn’t something John ever exhibited and, truthfully, wasn’t something Rodney had ever looked for. It hadn’t been of interest to him.
Now. Now it fascinated him.
John kissed over every inch of the bruise, visible even in pale, washed out starlight, dark head bobbing so that the familiar fringe of hair brushed silken and cool, a contrast to the harder, less giving rub of his too-big nose. He didn’t say anything. Rodney didn’t say anything-the slightest noise would break them back to reality.
He just brought his free hand up, cupping the back of John’s neck while shorter, rougher hair rained over his fingers.
Rodney didn’t open his eyes as his arm was lifted, gently turned this way and that while careful fingers probed the edge of the bruise that rose like lace, latticing around his bicep. “Mm. Got caught in the door.”
Slow, palpable silence. “What?”
Rolling your eyes behind closed lids defeated the purpose. Dammit. Didn’t John know that it was sleepy time now? Hero-ing took a lot out of people. “When the alarm went off,” he mumbled, burying his face deeper in the pillow. It stretched his arm awkwardly, but even before he could wince a warm hand caught him on the arch above his armpit, kneading the tense muscles out of spasm. “Got caught in the door. Zel’nka got me out.”
“I thought you said you didn’t need to go see Carson?”
He was far too exhausted to huff a sigh. Expecting that John, who wasn’t self-absorbed so much as entirely oblivious, would figure out the logic to Rodney’s hypochondria was foolish. Even if there was logic to it, complete with levels he’d once detailed out a frantic, Mt. Dew inspired Sunday back in grad school. Things with potentially irreversible damage like, oh, the radiation they got exposed to all the time? He bitched about. Injuries that slowed him down or could also lead to irreversible damage? He also bitched about.
A bruise that ached, but didn’t limit his range of motion and didn’t have any burst blood-vessels or other contusions? To quote his sister: eh.
“Don’t need to see Carson.” Mm. Soft pillow. Nice, warm pillow that smelled like salt and musk and all the things Rodney refused to label ‘John’, even if they were. “S’just a bruise. S’fine. G’sleep now.”
A warm, solid body shifted behind him, moving close so that they were flush together. It wasn’t Rodney’s favorite position-he’d rather be on the outside, John flattened underneath him, and why a combat veteran preferred that, too, Rodney’d never once asked-but his sighed and let an arm creep over his waist because sleep. He didn’t want to indulge John’s paranoia when Rodney somehow acted ‘out of character’ or reassure him that yes, really, he was fine, he just wanted to-
Oh.
So delicate they were barely noticeable, tiny kisses, the kind you graced children and their too-fragile skin with, just a brush of dry, soft lips, were placed on his arm. They followed up the slope of the muscle, a hint of wetness right where the bruise was worst, hot and dark with useless blood, the barest flicker of tongue.
John didn’t do this kind of thing. Not normally. It wasn’t that he was rough or uncaring-he wasn’t. But playful, or sweet wasn’t something John ever exhibited and, truthfully, wasn’t something Rodney had ever looked for. It hadn’t been of interest to him.
Now. Now it fascinated him.
John kissed over every inch of the bruise, visible even in pale, washed out starlight, dark head bobbing so that the familiar fringe of hair brushed silken and cool, a contrast to the harder, less giving rub of his too-big nose. He didn’t say anything. Rodney didn’t say anything-the slightest noise would break them back to reality.
He just brought his free hand up, cupping the back of John’s neck while shorter, rougher hair rained over his fingers.
John kept kissing.
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*is a PUDDLE*
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Rolling your eyes behind closed lids defeated the purpose. Dammit. Didn’t John know that it was sleepy time now? Hero-ing took a lot out of people.
Hee! I say again - adorable. :D
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So adorable! And I love the observation about the combat veteran liking to be smushed. Oh John
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Thanks for sharing! :)
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