The Double Coincidence of Wants (NC-17)
The Double Coincidence of Wants
By Chloe Tambell
The first time, they are alone in a forest in the middle of the night, having snuck off with some recently traded for and very good native alcohol - a true rarity. The night air is cool but not cold, and there are no one thousand pound weird-scary animals with sixteen eyes to freak Rodney out (in a very manly way of course). There are only small furry creatures that scurry out of their path in evident fear, and a few seemingly benign insects, and it’s quiet and the air is sweet with a recent rain and new growth.
So, really, there is nothing to truly distract him from this beautiful night, and really, it is a beautiful night, because he’s alone with John. True, he’s wishing (fantasizing, really) that they’d snuck off for a quick roll in the proverbial grass, but he’s willing to compromise, and good alcohol and having John to himself are both wonderful things in and of themselves.
The only problem is, neither of them realized just how strong the Very Good Alcohol is, and they’re both incredibly drunk incredibly quickly. The conversation that ensues is stupid, as stupid as either of them can get. They’re laughing, arguing about everything, as they always do. The conversation somehow ends up at some mathematical theorem and its implications for sub-light travel. The kind of thing closet geeks everywhere argue about - vociferously.
Then John makes some argument, and even though he’s slurring his speech, it’s still brilliant - at least to Rodney. The truth is, brilliant is incredibly hot. Incredibly. So Rodney surely cannot entirely be blamed for leaning in just then, his lips millimeters from John’s, their faces so close that Rodney can barely see. So he closes his eyes, waits for John to push him away, to laugh, swear, something. The moment is surreal and Rodney’s clear invitation scares the crap out of him, if he is honest with himself. But it’s an invitation he cannot resist making, and he waits to see what John will do.
But John doesn’t do anything. At all. Rodney opens his eyes again, and John is still there, and the moment still doesn’t feel real, but he knows it is all the same. John moves - to get up or get away or get closer, Rodney doesn’t know. All he knows is that their lips meet, perhaps accidentally. They both freeze, both pulling back, as if they had never expected to meet just there in just such a way, as though John hadn’t recognized Rodney’s invitation and Rodney hadn’t issued it. John stares at him. Rodney stares back. Then he does something he never thought he had the balls to do - he leans forward and kisses John, clearly, with intent, not waiting for John to make the first real move.
John, after a startled moment, kisses back. Soft at first, hesitant, and then harder, and harder still, and it feels like the kiss is filled with want and need and everything. Rodney can’t help the groan that escapes him at that. John recognizes the unintentional encouragement and responds accordingly.
They are really kissing now, open mouthed and wet and sloppy and sweet somehow, delicious. Rodney slides back, wanting more of John touching him, thinking John will follow. He’s right, and suddenly John is on top of him, grinding against him, making small panting sounds that should not be, but are, incredibly hot.
If he were sober, he would be shaking like a kid on an adult’s rollercoaster, because everything he’s wanted for the last two years is happening, and he feels like he’s won every lottery in the universe. It’s amazing but it’s also freaking scary. Part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for John to realize what he’s doing and stop, stop kissing him, stop touching him, stop talking to him altogether.
But the alcohol dulls the edges and quiets the arguments, and arousal quickly tells reason to shut the hell up until he can’t think anymore, until he can only feel, until all he knows is now, and John kissing him.
When John slides his shirt up, and fastens his mouth tight on Rodney’s nipple, John’s fingers gripping Rodney’s suddenly bucking hips, Rodney almost loses it and comes right then and there. He tries to think of mathematical equations and kiss at the same time, and that works until John gets his hands inside Rodney’s pants and wraps them around his cock. Rodney gasps and loses his train of thought and his control at the same time, his hips jerking and incoherent almost-words spilling from his lips. After an all too short amount of time he’s coming, and it’s so sweet, it’s the taste of satisfaction, of satiation. On the edge of that, need beyond this moment, hunger for more, more sensation and pleasure, more John.
He gasps, trying to catch his breath, and his mind races along, trying to keep pace. When he realizes just how quickly he came, he feels his face flush with pure embarrassment. He feels like a goddamn teenager who’s never been with anyone, and he has, really been with other people. Okay, there weren’t many others, but there were others.
He’s caught up in this insecurity for about two seconds before he realizes that John is rutting against his leg, groaning, his lips mouthing Rodney’s chest, and Rodney knows John is as close as he was, and just as frantic. He pulls the other man up and closer to him. Rodney kisses him, hard and wanting, and John groans and Rodney can feel the roll of his hips and the stutter in his movements as he comes. After that, Rodney can’t help laughing at his own worries; at least, if he’s acting like a teenager, he’s not the only one.
It was short and messy and sloppy, but wonderful, and afterwards, John rolls off Rodney, onto the ground beside him. For a while, they’re both quiet, getting their breath back. Then they’re both laughing -- he doesn’t know if he started it or John did, but before he knows it they’re laughing uncontrollably and can’t stop. Maybe it’s nerves or the absurdity of it all, Rodney doesn’t know. Eventually, he and John fall asleep there, still chuckling, under the stars.
When they wake up the next morning, they are awkward and embarrassed, and they tiptoe around each other for most of the day until, given a chance alone, they both blurt out, “I’m sorry,” at the exact same time, blush and look away.
“Let’s not talk about it.” John suggests.
He’s probably hoping that Rodney will, for once, listen and not argue. Rodney lets out a slow sigh and nods. “Yeah.” He doesn’t know why that should bother him. It’s not like he planned it or that this conversation could go anywhere but there.
He finds a reason to be elsewhere soon, and avoids John for the rest of the day.
* * * *
For the next couple of days, they joke and tease, just like they always do. But it’s forced, somehow. Fake. Still, Rodney lets it pass. Because it’s easier than confronting the reason for the artificial gestures, easier than facing John and finding out for certain that it had only ever been a drunken mistake for him.
One day, Rodney finds himself out alone with John on the west pier, at their favorite spot, with real turkey sandwiches smuggled out of the mess before lunch. There is the same awkward, false ease, and eventually Rodney puts down his sandwich, having lost his appetite. He stares out at the sea, quiet for a long time, especially for him. John takes a breath, maybe about to say something, to apologize again or to tell Rodney to let it go, or something else, but before he can, Rodney blurts it out, as he does with all important things.
“I’m not sorry.” He swallows hard, and stares out at the ocean, willing it to tell him John’s reaction without Rodney having to turn around and face the other man.
It doesn’t do its part, and Rodney eventually has to turn around and look back at John, to see his face, to try and know what he’s thinking. John’s brow is furrowed with worry, his expression full of consternation.
At least he knows what Rodney meant, and Rodney doesn’t have to explain. But this sorrow isn’t exactly what Rodney wanted to see, and he turns away. He finds the words he hadn’t meant to say spilling out. “I’m not sorry it happened. I’ve wanted - to do that for a long time. I’ve tried to keep it tamped down, and I usually can. Except, I guess when I’m drunk. But it won’t happen again. I’ll just have to stay sober around you. And I will. I promise. It’s just - I don’t like lying. Not to the people I care about. So, I - I’m not sorry it happened. Even if you are.”
Now that it’s all spilled out, he feels naked, completely exposed with vultures flying overhead and he feels his face burn with it. But it was true. All of it. He doesn’t know what John will do with it, if he will hit him or leave him and not be his friend anymore. That will hurt and it will be lonely. But it’s happened before. Rodney will survive. Somehow.
Maybe he’ll have more self-control next time and be able to resist the things he wants but can’t have.
Suddenly he can’t stand to be there anymore, sitting next to John, lies or not, and he stuffs what is left of his sandwich in his bag and gets up to leave, not turning back, not even when John calls out his name.
He’s had enough truth telling for one day, and he needs to be alone with his wounds. He speed walks back to his quarters and radios Zelenka to tell him that he isn’t feeling well, that he’s taking the rest of the afternoon off. Radek wants to call Beckett, but Rodney snaps out that he’ll be fine and closes the channel, refusing to answer when Zelenka calls back. When Beckett calls ten minutes later, Rodney assures him that yes, he’s fine, and yes, he’ll be back to work tomorrow, and he finally tells the other man that he just wants to be alone.
That does the trick. Finally, it’s quiet. He’s alone, after all that.
It’s not exactly what he wanted, really, but it’s better than being out there, alone with John and the truth on the west pier.
* * * *
Rodney wakes up to pounding on his door, and he rolls over in bed, peering blearily at the clock. It’s close to three am, Zulu time. What the hell could anybody want from him this early in the morning that they couldn’t bloody well radio him for?
He staggers out of bed, knowing he looks like hell and not caring. When the door slides open at his thought, John is standing there, and he just knows that his face falls.
He’s not ready to deal with this yet.
John tries to smile, an expression more fear than anything that convincingly resembles a smile. Rodney doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this scared before.
Rodney catches sight of the bottle in John’s hands, and he frowns, the purpose of the visit dawning on him. He pokes his head out the door, looking up and down the corridor, before yanking the other man inside. Rodney doesn’t know why he still cares about John’s reputation, but he does. John is still a military man, and he shouldn’t be seen sneaking into other men’s quarters at three in the morning.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rodney snaps out the moment the door closes. He stares hard at John’s face and then at the bottle of alcohol. His eyes narrow and he’s suddenly furious. He’s been here before, with the purportedly straight soldier who wants to fuck him on the side and flirt with all of the beautiful women in public, mocking Rodney all the time. Once he’d thought he could handle it, that he could do it, but he now he knows he can’t, and what’s more, he won’t.
If John thinks that, after that night in the forest, he can just waltz in here with more booze, and Rodney will let John fuck him and walk away again tomorrow like it never happened, he’s wrong. He spits out the words with undisguised venom. “I’m not going to be your drunk fuck, someone you can forget about in the morning. I’m not that easy. Or that desperate.”
John’s face falls, and Rodney feels sick, knowing that it was cruel to say, but true. He won’t do that. He has more self-respect than that. Not much more some days, but enough.
“That’s not what I-“
That’s not what he what - expected Rodney to say? Rodney doesn’t even want to hear it. He turns sharply away, to go sit on his bed, arms still folded, not looking at John. “Go away, Colonel.” His lips curl around the title, the imposed formality and its implied distance. He waits for John to walk away again. He’s been here before, and he knows how this goes.
But he feels the bed dip, so John must have sat down, and he folds his arms a little tighter around himself, his chin automatically jerking up in defiance. He won’t be persuaded or cajoled into doing what John wants. He won’t be someone’s shameful piece of ass on the side. Not again.
John tries once more - “That’s not what I meant,” he says at the exact time that Rodney says “Don’t even try to talk me into it.”
They’re both silent for a minute, as though trying to think around what they both want. Rodney swallows hard as he wonders for a moment if John wants more, wants what he wants, and a faint thread of hope rises in him, but he squashes it down. That isn’t the way his life works. The people who he wants don’t want him, not the way he wants them. Things just don’t happen that way. Not to him.
John tries again, and Rodney finds that small thread of hope has suddenly expanded to fill his chest, choking his attempts to cut John off and keep him quiet. He screws his eyes shut and tries not to hear what he can’t stop the other man from saying.
“That’s not what I meant,” John tries again, and this time Rodney can’t get anything out, he can only listen. This seems to only encourage John, and Rodney wishes he could say something scathing that would get the other man the hell out of his quarters, but he can’t seem to speak around the pressure of pointless hope inside of him. “I just - “ John stops, clears his throat loudly, tries again. “I just - Christ, Rodney, this is not exactly easy.”
Rodney turns to look at him, to ask what the hell in life thus far has led him to believe that things can or even should be easy - but John is going on before he can say it. “I just wanted you to know that you could - uh - “ John gesticulates vaguely, and something in Rodney’s face must have communicated his great impatience, because John finally spits it out. “I just wanted you to know that you could relax around me. Drunk or sober, you don’t have to worry about the things you do when you’re with me.”
Great. Just great. Now John is being understanding. He understands that he is hot, and that Rodney wants him, and he isn’t pissed off, because even though he doesn’t want Rodney, he’s used to people drooling after him. Great. Just bloody great.
Except it seems that John isn’t done. “I - I wanted you to know that I, that I thought you were uncomfortable with it, that you regretted it, but I, I’m not, I - “
“Goddammit it, John, what?” he snaps out, almost snarling. He’s had enough of this tonight, and he’s millimeters from hitting John, even if the bastard will manage to stop him before the blow ever hits home.
“I’m not sorry,” John says abruptly, just as vehemently as Rodney. He seems shocked by what he said, or maybe just that he managed to say it. John closes his eyes and draws a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. It seems like a long moment, far too long, but somehow not long enough for Rodney to process what John has said. It’s so different, both wrong and right at the same time, and so far out of his framework that he barely knows what to do with it.
“I’m not sorry.” John says it again, more slowly, more evenly this time. More certain. “I’m not sorry it happened. Actually, until you got all awkward afterwards, I kinda thought that - that maybe it could happen again.” This last part is uncertain, slow, and almost shy and Rodney watches as the flush fills John’s face. Rodney doesn’t know, for the first time in a long time, what to say.
John seems to take his silence as an invitation to keep talking. “And then you said you were sorry, and I thought it was just me, until today, and the thing is - I’m not sorry either.” He says it again, as though hoping the admission will explain everything else, will answer all of the questions running through Rodney’s head and express all of the things John has such a hard time saying. Rodney realizes then how hard it was for John to come here, to admit this, how badly he must have wanted - God, how badly he must have wanted Rodney - to push down his fear and embarrassment and push past Rodney’s resistance and anger and get the words out, to give them at least a chance.
Then John leans forward, tentative this time, waiting for approval, so close to Rodney but still not touching him. This time it’s a conscious decision to move forward, to make that connection, and Rodney touches John’s lips with his own, at first just a feather light touch. Then again, with less restraint, the gesture a question. John answers it by parting his lips and letting Rodney in, by groaning, making them both jump. Rodney reaches for him, puts his hands on John’s shoulders, pulls him closer, and then they are kissing with more enthusiasm and less doubt. They sink back into the bed, into Rodney’s prescription mattress which he is suddenly grateful for, because it is big enough for two.
As they twist closer to each other, clothes being pushed aside, bodies moving together in mutual want, Rodney finds himself increasing grateful, increasingly hopeful, and not at all sorry.
By Chloe Tambell
The first time, they are alone in a forest in the middle of the night, having snuck off with some recently traded for and very good native alcohol - a true rarity. The night air is cool but not cold, and there are no one thousand pound weird-scary animals with sixteen eyes to freak Rodney out (in a very manly way of course). There are only small furry creatures that scurry out of their path in evident fear, and a few seemingly benign insects, and it’s quiet and the air is sweet with a recent rain and new growth.
So, really, there is nothing to truly distract him from this beautiful night, and really, it is a beautiful night, because he’s alone with John. True, he’s wishing (fantasizing, really) that they’d snuck off for a quick roll in the proverbial grass, but he’s willing to compromise, and good alcohol and having John to himself are both wonderful things in and of themselves.
The only problem is, neither of them realized just how strong the Very Good Alcohol is, and they’re both incredibly drunk incredibly quickly. The conversation that ensues is stupid, as stupid as either of them can get. They’re laughing, arguing about everything, as they always do. The conversation somehow ends up at some mathematical theorem and its implications for sub-light travel. The kind of thing closet geeks everywhere argue about - vociferously.
Then John makes some argument, and even though he’s slurring his speech, it’s still brilliant - at least to Rodney. The truth is, brilliant is incredibly hot. Incredibly. So Rodney surely cannot entirely be blamed for leaning in just then, his lips millimeters from John’s, their faces so close that Rodney can barely see. So he closes his eyes, waits for John to push him away, to laugh, swear, something. The moment is surreal and Rodney’s clear invitation scares the crap out of him, if he is honest with himself. But it’s an invitation he cannot resist making, and he waits to see what John will do.
But John doesn’t do anything. At all. Rodney opens his eyes again, and John is still there, and the moment still doesn’t feel real, but he knows it is all the same. John moves - to get up or get away or get closer, Rodney doesn’t know. All he knows is that their lips meet, perhaps accidentally. They both freeze, both pulling back, as if they had never expected to meet just there in just such a way, as though John hadn’t recognized Rodney’s invitation and Rodney hadn’t issued it. John stares at him. Rodney stares back. Then he does something he never thought he had the balls to do - he leans forward and kisses John, clearly, with intent, not waiting for John to make the first real move.
John, after a startled moment, kisses back. Soft at first, hesitant, and then harder, and harder still, and it feels like the kiss is filled with want and need and everything. Rodney can’t help the groan that escapes him at that. John recognizes the unintentional encouragement and responds accordingly.
They are really kissing now, open mouthed and wet and sloppy and sweet somehow, delicious. Rodney slides back, wanting more of John touching him, thinking John will follow. He’s right, and suddenly John is on top of him, grinding against him, making small panting sounds that should not be, but are, incredibly hot.
If he were sober, he would be shaking like a kid on an adult’s rollercoaster, because everything he’s wanted for the last two years is happening, and he feels like he’s won every lottery in the universe. It’s amazing but it’s also freaking scary. Part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for John to realize what he’s doing and stop, stop kissing him, stop touching him, stop talking to him altogether.
But the alcohol dulls the edges and quiets the arguments, and arousal quickly tells reason to shut the hell up until he can’t think anymore, until he can only feel, until all he knows is now, and John kissing him.
When John slides his shirt up, and fastens his mouth tight on Rodney’s nipple, John’s fingers gripping Rodney’s suddenly bucking hips, Rodney almost loses it and comes right then and there. He tries to think of mathematical equations and kiss at the same time, and that works until John gets his hands inside Rodney’s pants and wraps them around his cock. Rodney gasps and loses his train of thought and his control at the same time, his hips jerking and incoherent almost-words spilling from his lips. After an all too short amount of time he’s coming, and it’s so sweet, it’s the taste of satisfaction, of satiation. On the edge of that, need beyond this moment, hunger for more, more sensation and pleasure, more John.
He gasps, trying to catch his breath, and his mind races along, trying to keep pace. When he realizes just how quickly he came, he feels his face flush with pure embarrassment. He feels like a goddamn teenager who’s never been with anyone, and he has, really been with other people. Okay, there weren’t many others, but there were others.
He’s caught up in this insecurity for about two seconds before he realizes that John is rutting against his leg, groaning, his lips mouthing Rodney’s chest, and Rodney knows John is as close as he was, and just as frantic. He pulls the other man up and closer to him. Rodney kisses him, hard and wanting, and John groans and Rodney can feel the roll of his hips and the stutter in his movements as he comes. After that, Rodney can’t help laughing at his own worries; at least, if he’s acting like a teenager, he’s not the only one.
It was short and messy and sloppy, but wonderful, and afterwards, John rolls off Rodney, onto the ground beside him. For a while, they’re both quiet, getting their breath back. Then they’re both laughing -- he doesn’t know if he started it or John did, but before he knows it they’re laughing uncontrollably and can’t stop. Maybe it’s nerves or the absurdity of it all, Rodney doesn’t know. Eventually, he and John fall asleep there, still chuckling, under the stars.
When they wake up the next morning, they are awkward and embarrassed, and they tiptoe around each other for most of the day until, given a chance alone, they both blurt out, “I’m sorry,” at the exact same time, blush and look away.
“Let’s not talk about it.” John suggests.
He’s probably hoping that Rodney will, for once, listen and not argue. Rodney lets out a slow sigh and nods. “Yeah.” He doesn’t know why that should bother him. It’s not like he planned it or that this conversation could go anywhere but there.
He finds a reason to be elsewhere soon, and avoids John for the rest of the day.
* * * *
For the next couple of days, they joke and tease, just like they always do. But it’s forced, somehow. Fake. Still, Rodney lets it pass. Because it’s easier than confronting the reason for the artificial gestures, easier than facing John and finding out for certain that it had only ever been a drunken mistake for him.
One day, Rodney finds himself out alone with John on the west pier, at their favorite spot, with real turkey sandwiches smuggled out of the mess before lunch. There is the same awkward, false ease, and eventually Rodney puts down his sandwich, having lost his appetite. He stares out at the sea, quiet for a long time, especially for him. John takes a breath, maybe about to say something, to apologize again or to tell Rodney to let it go, or something else, but before he can, Rodney blurts it out, as he does with all important things.
“I’m not sorry.” He swallows hard, and stares out at the ocean, willing it to tell him John’s reaction without Rodney having to turn around and face the other man.
It doesn’t do its part, and Rodney eventually has to turn around and look back at John, to see his face, to try and know what he’s thinking. John’s brow is furrowed with worry, his expression full of consternation.
At least he knows what Rodney meant, and Rodney doesn’t have to explain. But this sorrow isn’t exactly what Rodney wanted to see, and he turns away. He finds the words he hadn’t meant to say spilling out. “I’m not sorry it happened. I’ve wanted - to do that for a long time. I’ve tried to keep it tamped down, and I usually can. Except, I guess when I’m drunk. But it won’t happen again. I’ll just have to stay sober around you. And I will. I promise. It’s just - I don’t like lying. Not to the people I care about. So, I - I’m not sorry it happened. Even if you are.”
Now that it’s all spilled out, he feels naked, completely exposed with vultures flying overhead and he feels his face burn with it. But it was true. All of it. He doesn’t know what John will do with it, if he will hit him or leave him and not be his friend anymore. That will hurt and it will be lonely. But it’s happened before. Rodney will survive. Somehow.
Maybe he’ll have more self-control next time and be able to resist the things he wants but can’t have.
Suddenly he can’t stand to be there anymore, sitting next to John, lies or not, and he stuffs what is left of his sandwich in his bag and gets up to leave, not turning back, not even when John calls out his name.
He’s had enough truth telling for one day, and he needs to be alone with his wounds. He speed walks back to his quarters and radios Zelenka to tell him that he isn’t feeling well, that he’s taking the rest of the afternoon off. Radek wants to call Beckett, but Rodney snaps out that he’ll be fine and closes the channel, refusing to answer when Zelenka calls back. When Beckett calls ten minutes later, Rodney assures him that yes, he’s fine, and yes, he’ll be back to work tomorrow, and he finally tells the other man that he just wants to be alone.
That does the trick. Finally, it’s quiet. He’s alone, after all that.
It’s not exactly what he wanted, really, but it’s better than being out there, alone with John and the truth on the west pier.
* * * *
Rodney wakes up to pounding on his door, and he rolls over in bed, peering blearily at the clock. It’s close to three am, Zulu time. What the hell could anybody want from him this early in the morning that they couldn’t bloody well radio him for?
He staggers out of bed, knowing he looks like hell and not caring. When the door slides open at his thought, John is standing there, and he just knows that his face falls.
He’s not ready to deal with this yet.
John tries to smile, an expression more fear than anything that convincingly resembles a smile. Rodney doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this scared before.
Rodney catches sight of the bottle in John’s hands, and he frowns, the purpose of the visit dawning on him. He pokes his head out the door, looking up and down the corridor, before yanking the other man inside. Rodney doesn’t know why he still cares about John’s reputation, but he does. John is still a military man, and he shouldn’t be seen sneaking into other men’s quarters at three in the morning.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rodney snaps out the moment the door closes. He stares hard at John’s face and then at the bottle of alcohol. His eyes narrow and he’s suddenly furious. He’s been here before, with the purportedly straight soldier who wants to fuck him on the side and flirt with all of the beautiful women in public, mocking Rodney all the time. Once he’d thought he could handle it, that he could do it, but he now he knows he can’t, and what’s more, he won’t.
If John thinks that, after that night in the forest, he can just waltz in here with more booze, and Rodney will let John fuck him and walk away again tomorrow like it never happened, he’s wrong. He spits out the words with undisguised venom. “I’m not going to be your drunk fuck, someone you can forget about in the morning. I’m not that easy. Or that desperate.”
John’s face falls, and Rodney feels sick, knowing that it was cruel to say, but true. He won’t do that. He has more self-respect than that. Not much more some days, but enough.
“That’s not what I-“
That’s not what he what - expected Rodney to say? Rodney doesn’t even want to hear it. He turns sharply away, to go sit on his bed, arms still folded, not looking at John. “Go away, Colonel.” His lips curl around the title, the imposed formality and its implied distance. He waits for John to walk away again. He’s been here before, and he knows how this goes.
But he feels the bed dip, so John must have sat down, and he folds his arms a little tighter around himself, his chin automatically jerking up in defiance. He won’t be persuaded or cajoled into doing what John wants. He won’t be someone’s shameful piece of ass on the side. Not again.
John tries once more - “That’s not what I meant,” he says at the exact time that Rodney says “Don’t even try to talk me into it.”
They’re both silent for a minute, as though trying to think around what they both want. Rodney swallows hard as he wonders for a moment if John wants more, wants what he wants, and a faint thread of hope rises in him, but he squashes it down. That isn’t the way his life works. The people who he wants don’t want him, not the way he wants them. Things just don’t happen that way. Not to him.
John tries again, and Rodney finds that small thread of hope has suddenly expanded to fill his chest, choking his attempts to cut John off and keep him quiet. He screws his eyes shut and tries not to hear what he can’t stop the other man from saying.
“That’s not what I meant,” John tries again, and this time Rodney can’t get anything out, he can only listen. This seems to only encourage John, and Rodney wishes he could say something scathing that would get the other man the hell out of his quarters, but he can’t seem to speak around the pressure of pointless hope inside of him. “I just - “ John stops, clears his throat loudly, tries again. “I just - Christ, Rodney, this is not exactly easy.”
Rodney turns to look at him, to ask what the hell in life thus far has led him to believe that things can or even should be easy - but John is going on before he can say it. “I just wanted you to know that you could - uh - “ John gesticulates vaguely, and something in Rodney’s face must have communicated his great impatience, because John finally spits it out. “I just wanted you to know that you could relax around me. Drunk or sober, you don’t have to worry about the things you do when you’re with me.”
Great. Just great. Now John is being understanding. He understands that he is hot, and that Rodney wants him, and he isn’t pissed off, because even though he doesn’t want Rodney, he’s used to people drooling after him. Great. Just bloody great.
Except it seems that John isn’t done. “I - I wanted you to know that I, that I thought you were uncomfortable with it, that you regretted it, but I, I’m not, I - “
“Goddammit it, John, what?” he snaps out, almost snarling. He’s had enough of this tonight, and he’s millimeters from hitting John, even if the bastard will manage to stop him before the blow ever hits home.
“I’m not sorry,” John says abruptly, just as vehemently as Rodney. He seems shocked by what he said, or maybe just that he managed to say it. John closes his eyes and draws a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. It seems like a long moment, far too long, but somehow not long enough for Rodney to process what John has said. It’s so different, both wrong and right at the same time, and so far out of his framework that he barely knows what to do with it.
“I’m not sorry.” John says it again, more slowly, more evenly this time. More certain. “I’m not sorry it happened. Actually, until you got all awkward afterwards, I kinda thought that - that maybe it could happen again.” This last part is uncertain, slow, and almost shy and Rodney watches as the flush fills John’s face. Rodney doesn’t know, for the first time in a long time, what to say.
John seems to take his silence as an invitation to keep talking. “And then you said you were sorry, and I thought it was just me, until today, and the thing is - I’m not sorry either.” He says it again, as though hoping the admission will explain everything else, will answer all of the questions running through Rodney’s head and express all of the things John has such a hard time saying. Rodney realizes then how hard it was for John to come here, to admit this, how badly he must have wanted - God, how badly he must have wanted Rodney - to push down his fear and embarrassment and push past Rodney’s resistance and anger and get the words out, to give them at least a chance.
Then John leans forward, tentative this time, waiting for approval, so close to Rodney but still not touching him. This time it’s a conscious decision to move forward, to make that connection, and Rodney touches John’s lips with his own, at first just a feather light touch. Then again, with less restraint, the gesture a question. John answers it by parting his lips and letting Rodney in, by groaning, making them both jump. Rodney reaches for him, puts his hands on John’s shoulders, pulls him closer, and then they are kissing with more enthusiasm and less doubt. They sink back into the bed, into Rodney’s prescription mattress which he is suddenly grateful for, because it is big enough for two.
As they twist closer to each other, clothes being pushed aside, bodies moving together in mutual want, Rodney finds himself increasing grateful, increasingly hopeful, and not at all sorry.