Title: Impulsive
Pairing: John/Rodney
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: It's the stalk of grass in John's teeth that really sets Rodney off.
This was inspired by an icon I saw today of John and now I can't find it again. Anyway.
I may have absorbed a nickname from
lucitania's "One Leg At A Time,"" but it is such an apt name and sprung so easily to John's lips.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Rodney stomped back to the gate hot, irritable and sweaty, John was lounging in the sun, perfectly content, perfectly composed, nibbling on a long stalk of grass. Rodney nearly had a stroke.
There he was in all his Lieutenant Colonel glory, long body stretched out on display, the perfect picture of ease and lazy contemplation, aloof in cool and unreachable calm. Rodney’s fingers curled into fists, wanting to muss up all that perfection.
He could do it, he totally could. He knew exactly how; walk up and pluck that stupid stalk of grass from John's mouth. John would raise his chin in protest, mouth open and ready to whine and Rodney would swoop in and kiss him, dipping between John’s sinful lips to lick the green, fresh taste of grass out of his mouth. He’d do it fast, stopping before John could properly register his PDA shock and start to squirm.
Rodney would pull back and John would be red-eared and flustered, Colonel Cool protocol warring with that goofy, pleased smile John got when Rodney touched him when John didn’t expect it.
It threw Rodney in the beginning, when John never expected the simple things, a hello or goodbye kiss, Rodney touching the small of John’s back or holding his hand as they drifted off to sleep. John smiled in a way he thought was probably secret, every time. It took months - literally, months! - for the smiles to be purely content or pleased and not surprised or nervous, trying to figure out what Rodney wanted, when all Rodney wanted was to show John that he was glad to be with him.
It made Rodney want to bite someone, somewhere, perhaps starting with John’s family and clearly idiotic ex-wife, all of whom were apparently hermetically sealed robots who never hugged or held hands or showed John that affection could be communicated in other ways than self-sacrifice or a casual touch could used for anything other than manipulation. Or they hugged too much, Rodney could never figure out which.
Having reached his quarry, Rodney looked down into John’s golden boy face with exasperated, thwarted affection and snarled, “Do you think you could extract yourself, Joe Cool, to join me in the Sopwith Camel for some assistance?"
“Sure, Peppermint Crabby,” John said, twirling his stalk of grass jauntily. “I can do that.” He nodded some sort of telepathic code to Teyla, who arrived two weary, graceful steps behind Rodney and Ronon, who sprawled on a convenient rock like a part of John’s sun-worshipping pride of lazy warriors. Mind-meld accomplished, John tipped his chin toward the path and rose, all effortless cockiness and loose-limbed superiority. It annoyed Rodney to be so turned on by such classic, butchy, macho whatever.
Rodney curled his itchy, impatient fingers tighter and turned on his heel to march off to the jumper. John jogged a little to catch up with him at the first turning in the path.
“Rodney? Where’s the fire?”
"Some of us have things to do when they get back home." Growling, Rodney sped up until he breached the cool shade of the jumper. Whirling, he grabbed John by the vest, shoved him against the hull and took John’s mouth. John groaned in surprise, tasting exactly as imagined - like sunshine and green, sweet grass - and Rodney pushed against him, unsure now if he wanted to drag John into his own heat and frustration and now now now, or if he wanted to drink in John’s slow calm.
John’s P-90 dug into Rodney’s chest painfully. Reluctantly, Rodney broke the kiss. John was lit up, flaming ears and brilliant smile. “Hey Rodney,” he whispered, laughter in his voice, lingering over Rodney's name in the way he did when they were alone. He petted Rodney’s shoulders. “What was that for?”
“You are the most annoying man on Atlantis,” Rodney growled, braving chest bruises for another kiss.
“We’re not on Atlantis,” John pointed out and nipped Rodney’s lower lip.
“Exactly,” Rodney gritted out, swept the gun aside and pressed closer to kiss John’s goofy smile.
~*~*~*~~*~*~*~
A Mysterious Art Zorro (she's anonymous) sent me a picture inspired by this fic. I like Rodney's little wavy arm, personally, and continued irritability.
It's
here. Heee.