Tis the season to be jolly...
Title: Camera Obscura
Category: McKay/ Sheppard, holiday fic
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “Sometimes you have to try a new perspective on things. Turn the world upside down and see what it looks like.”
Author’s notes: For Maverick4oz who has been a *very* good girl all year and as such gets Christmas fic! And I'm early too! Hope you enjoy maverick4oz - Ho, ho, ho!
Beta love, thanks and vegemite sandwiches to Trinityofone and Callmerizzo who braved the comma abuse. If it’s wrong it’s mine, if it’s beautiful it’s ours.
John stretches his bare legs in the sun, snags a nearby chair with his toe and pulls it closer, resting his feet on top. He sinks down in his seat and looks out at the ocean. It’s an uncomfortably warm day in Atlantis. It’s also Christmas Day according to the Earth calendar, which for ninety-five percent of the Atlantis contingent is cruel irony.
A portion of the remaining five percent have taken it upon themselves to throw a traditional Australian Christmas which, as far as John can tell, consists of barbecued shrimp, beer and relentless complaining about the weather.
Beside John, Rodney is admirably applying himself to the latter.
“I think I’m going to expire,” Rodney says, applying sunscreen for the third time today. “I was under the impression they had air conditioning in the southern hemisphere.” He’s wearing a hat, sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt, but at least he’s dressed casual. And at least he’s here. Despite repeated promises to ‘be there in a minute’ Elizabeth has yet to leave her office. John contemplates sending Lorne for her. Again.
“They like the outdoors,” John says. He spent six months in the north of Australia practicing maneuvers. He liked the desert. He found it peaceful. And it seems he thrives in extreme environments. “No sense in wasting all that sunshine.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel like Christmas,” Rodney says. He screws up his nose as two marines walk by in patterned shorts. Rodney’s forehead is dotted with beads of sweat.
John’s had enough experience with deserts to know the key to managing the heat is to not move and not think. Rodney is halfway there. “Which part?” John says. “The heat, the shrimp or the whole ‘nother galaxy thing?”
“Exactly,” Rodney says. “And Murphy says anyone caught calling the ‘prawns’ ‘shrimp’ has to eat vegemite sandwiches for lunch next week.”
“Actually it’s ‘Macrobrachium Atlantis’.” Rodney gives John a look, eyebrows raised. John smirks, pleased to know something Rodney doesn’t. “The marine biology team caught them. They caught them, they name them.”
“The Australians cooked them,” Rodney says. “That gives them naming rights over the end product.”
“Dalton is from New Zealand,” John says.
“So?”
“So they don’t like being confused with Australians. It’s like calling Canadians ‘Americans.’”
“They have the same flag,” Rodney says.
“They do not,” John says. He reaches for his ‘beer,’ tries to remember the exact difference between the Australian and New Zealand flags and fails. On the opposite side of the table Teyla gives him her now familiar ‘you’re all very strange but at least you’re not boring’ look. Earlier he attempted to explain the concept of Christmas to her while trying to avoid a philosophical discussion about the dubious fusion of religious and pagan lore in Christian societies. He wound up faking a meeting with Elizabeth before wandering into dangerous theological territory.
“Where did you get this stuff?” Rodney holds up his beer-filled cup toward Teyla.
“Ronon traded for it,” she says. She looks at her own cup, unimpressed. “I’m not sure I understand the appeal.”
Ronon is swimming. Murphy taught Ronon and the Athosians the ‘Australian crawl’ and Ronon is now out past the end of the pier, crawling like a dreadlocked Mark Spitz.
“It’s not bad,” Rodney says. He drinks, looks into his cup thoughtfully and drinks again.
Beckett drops into the seat next to Teyla, avoiding the chair occupied by John’s feet. “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen, Colonel.” Beckett nods toward John’s bare legs. “After all you’ve been through it would be plain embarrassing to die from skin cancer.”
Out of the corner of his eye John catches Rodney smiling in typical Rodney ‘I told you so’ fashion. John looks at the sky briefly, before holding out his palm toward Rodney. Rodney hands John the sunscreen.
“At least they haven’t put anyone in a Santa suit,” Rodney says. He takes a handful of nuts from the bowl in the centre of the table, starts separating out the walnuts. “I spent a Christmas in Sydney at a particle physics conference. I walked into a mall to escape the heat, and inside there was a guy in a full Santa suit handing out candy. It had to be 110 degrees outside.” He puts the walnuts on his empty plate and eats the remaining nuts.
“You took the candy, right?” John says.
Rodney looks indignant. “He was giving it away!”
John grins. Try as he might the thought of Rodney demanding to sit on Santa’s lap for candy is irresistible. Across the table he catches Beckett smirking into his beer.
“I make it two pm GMT,” Major Lorne says, joining their table. “Christmas morning at home.”
“Three pm in Prague.” Zelenka is behind Lorne, carrying a beer for himself and one for Beckett. He hands Beckett his beer and takes a seat next to Rodney. Rodney frowns at Zelenka. “Approximately,” Zelenka says, catching Rodney’s look. Constant references to relative time have resulted in Rodney explaining Einstein’s twin paradox to them no fewer than three times. Zelenka insisted the paradox had yet to be proven because they were unable to rule out gravitational interference in the energy required to effect interstellar travel. They argued about it for an hour before lunch and only stopped because Murphy told them she would make them sing the Australian national anthem if they didn’t give it a rest.
“Two o’clock in Scotland,” Beckett says. “Mum would be showing the photo albums to my nieces and nephews by now.” He looks out at the water wistfully.
“My brother’s kids would have been up since five o’clock,” Lorne says. “Last Christmas they got me out of bed before the sun came up to show me how the reindeer had eaten the carrots they left.”
“How does your family celebrate Christmas, Colonel Sheppard?” Teyla asks.
John pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. He’s worked every Christmas since he joined the Air Force. In fact, he volunteered for extra shifts so his fellow officers with families could be home with their children. It sounds like a sad story but he’s used to being alone.
“I don’t really celebrate Christmas…” John says.
“Not everyone makes a big deal out of it,” Rodney says. “Christianity is only one of several major religions on Earth. And of course a lot of people are irreligious.”
Teyla tilts her head to one side, frowns at John. “I thought you said that Christmas was a religious holiday for atheists?”
John chokes on his beer, quickly looks around to see if he’s caused offence. He catches a few raised eyebrows but no hellfire and brimstone. He makes a mental note to send Teyla to Elizabeth every time she has a question involving religious, political or sexual habits of Earthlings.
Murphy makes a timely appearance at their table, brandishing a full pitcher of beer. “More?” she says.
Rodney nods toward John. “Give some to the Colonel before he starts a crusade,” he says. “And then give some to me. I’m seriously lacking in Christmas cheer.”
“No egg nog,” Lorne sighs ruefully.
“No holly and ivy,” Beckett says. “No mistletoe either.”
“Well I guess we have something to thank the pagan gods for,” Rodney says. He reaches for the nuts again.
*
By the time the sun is setting, Rodney has one arm thrown around John’s neck and is singing “Waltzing Matilda” as John steers Rodney toward his quarters.
“Talk about getting into the Christmas spirit,” John says as he presses the door-pad. John drags Rodney inside. “You’re a cheap drunk, McKay.”
Rodney lets go of John and flops down onto the bed. He sits with his legs over the side and fumbles with his boots. “That beer was sixteen proof. Twenty even. If you don’t feel it, you have a liver the size of a basketball.”
John feels heavy headed and tired, and he’s no lightweight. Twenty proof is probably right. “I’m just glad you had a good time, Mckay. G’night.” He turns to leave.
Rodney stops him before he gets to the door. “Hey, Colonel.”
John turns around. “Yeah?”
“I usually spend Christmas in a laboratory,” Rodney says. “It’s quiet, empty - kind of peaceful, actually. I do some of my best work during the holiday season.”
John leans against the doorframe. He’d forgotten Rodney’s lack of family. His story is as pathetic as John’s. “I guess we have that in common,” John says.
“We both like beer,” Rodney says. He pulls the other boot off.
“That too.”
“You know, Colonel,” Rodney says. “If you’re ever on Earth and it’s Christmas and you have no one to spend it with - you should spend it with me.”
“I should, huh?” John tries to imagine Christmas with Rodney. Ebenezer Scrooge comes to mind. “Why?”
Rodney stands up, shrugs. “Well, because we have so much in common, of course.”
John grins. An endearing Ebenezer Scrooge, admittedly. “Okay,” he says. “You and me. Christmas - some time in the future. It’s a date.”
“It is?” Rodney looks oddly vulnerable, like he’s just been complimented without solicitation.
It obviously doesn’t happen enough. Which is a shame, John thinks, because Rodney is weirdly cute when his guard is down. “Yeah,” John says.
Rodney studies John for a moment. “I’m not too drunk to kiss you, you know.”
Rodney’s still wearing a hat and sunglasses - which is perhaps why John thinks he’s not hearing right. He could have sworn Rodney just offered to kiss him. John thinks about the beer again. Twenty proof at least. “You want to say that again?” he says.
Rodney comes toward John, slowly like he’s trying not to scare John away. John is rooted to the spot. “You know what I like best about you?” Rodney says. He’s inches away from John’s face. It occurs to John that he heard the bit about kissing correctly.
“What?” John says softly.
Rodney puts his hand on John’s shoulder and John’s not sure if that’s a come on or if Rodney’s just using John to steady himself. Maybe both. Rodney is right in John’s face, eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth. “Your ability to hold your liquour,” Rodney says. And then he kisses John for real. No mistaking it.
He continues to kiss John as he closes the door and maneuvers them both toward the bed. Rodney tastes like the beer they’re been drinking all afternoon and he smells like sunscreen and salt. John divests Rodney of his hat and sunglasses and Rodney removes John’s t-shirt. They continue kissing as Rodney pulls John onto the bed and they land in a tangle, legs intertwined, Rodney’s shirt half on and half off, and John with his hand between them trying to undo Rodney’s belt.
It’s too hot to be doing this and their skin is sweaty and slick, but Rodney is making soft sounds of encouragement as John slides down his body, trailing his tongue along Rodney’s salty skin from his neck to his pelvis. It’s warm but Rodney is like cool liquid and John wants to drink Rodney down the way John’s been drinking alien beer all afternoon.
John works his way down Rodney’s body until he’s positioned between Rodney’s legs. They’re drunk, possibly heat-affected, and Christmas has been turned on its head which is unsettling to say the least. They have every reason to be suspicious of each other’s motives.
But it becomes inconsequential as Rodney looks down at John through half-lowered lids, reaches for John’s hair saying, “god, yes, please…” like his life depends on the blow job John is about to give him.
It’s even less consequential as John lowers himself to Rodney’s considerable erection and sucks Rodney all the way down his shaft and up again in one fluid stroke.
Rodney arches his hips toward John, bending his knees to lift himself off the bed. His pants hang around his thighs and his shirt is still hanging from one arm. John’s never seen Rodney so unguarded, so open. It’s a refreshingly honest look for Rodney, not to mention sexy as hell.
He sucks Rodney down until he hears Rodney breathing in short, hitching gasps. John slides his fingers around to Rodney’s ass, massages the opening a little before edging a finger in. Rodney bucks upward, voices his encouragement before resorting to unintelligible noises to make his point. John edges two more fingers inside Rodney’s ass, flexes them a little and thrusts. Rodney throws his head back against the pillows, saying, “Fuck! Fuck!” as he comes in John’s mouth.
They collapse on the bed side by side, breathing heavily. It doesn’t last long. John’s learned many suprising facts about Rodney McKay in the last fifteen minutes, but the thing that surprises him the most is how quickly Rodney goes from being completely spent and satiated to throwing John onto his back and shoving John’s pants around his ankles faster than a teenager in the back of his parents’ car.
Rodney mutters words under his breath in between sucking on the inside of John’s thigh and tonguing a line along the perineum to the base of John’s cock. It sounds like, “god,” and “fuck” and “so fucking beautiful…” but John also thinks he hears Rodney call him “Colonel” just before he sucks John down to the back of his throat so maybe John can’t believe his ears after all.
Rodney gives truly mind-blowing head and John has the kind of orgasm he really shouldn’t have while his faculties are impaired by alien alcohol. And as Rodney finishes licking John clean, he looks up John’s body and meets John’s eyes. It’s a look John is going to remember for many Christmases to come. Like Rodney is looking for salvation in John’s face, not speaking in case it isn’t there.
Afterwards John curls around Rodney’s half-naked body and tries to think of appropriate afterglow talk.
“Rodney?”
When Rodney doesn’t answer John cranes his head over Rodney’s shoulder so he can see Rodney’s face. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open slightly, breathing evenly. John sinks his head back onto the pillow.
“Merry Christmas, Rodney,” he says.
*
In the morning John wakes to an arm under his neck and a wide-awake Rodney staring down at him.
“I don’t want to alarm you,” Rodney says. “But I think we had sex last night.”
John looks down their naked bodies, still intertwined. The night was too warm for covers. “What gave it away?” John says.
Rodney extracts his arm from under John’s neck and rolls off the bed. He puts his pants on, foregoing underwear and causing John to wonder how often Rodney goes commando on missions.
“Just so we’re clear,” Rodney says. “You seduced me.”
“Okay.” John rolls onto his back, puts his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. “But I gotta tell you, Rodney - you’re easy.”
Rodney’s eyes trail down John’s body and up again. He reaches John’s face and looks away guiltily. “I was drunk,” Rodney says defensively. “And really, really horny. God knows what they put in that beer. I thought I was… wait, what are you doing?”
John blinks. “Sleeping in?”
“This is my room,” Rodney says. “You’re supposed to be shamefacedly slinking out of here hoping no one will see you.”
“Slinking?”
“Isn’t that how it works? I’m sure you’ve had more experience than I have.” He looks about the room, finds a towel on the back of a chair and throws it over his shoulder. “I’m taking a shower. If it helps, you can leave while I’m gone.”
John looks at the ceiling. He waits a beat or two until he hears the sound of water running and gets out of bed, finds his t-shirt and shorts on the floor and gets dressed. He searches under a pile of sheets for his sunglasses, finds them under the bed next to Rodney’s shirt.
He doesn’t feel guilty about leaving. ‘Post-one-night-stand’ Rodney is probably on a par neurosis-wise with ‘we’re all going to die’ Rodney. And this is ‘hungover one-night-stand’ Rodney. Men less sane than John would have left by now. They got a little drunk, got a little crazy and behaved like college frat boys. No reason to feel ashamed at all.
This is not what he signed on for. He spends Christmas alone for a reason. No ties, no obligations, no regrets.
John stops at the door, puts a hand on the doorframe, holding himself in place. The truth is, he liked sitting on the balcony in the soupy-hot summer air, listening to Rodney complain while the others wistfully remembered Christmases past. He liked being with Rodney, feeling strangely comforted by Rodney’s neuroses and unflappable arrogance and the way he braved humiliation and sunstroke so the rest of the science team would come out of the labs for some seasonal fun.
And maybe they were both drunk and horny and a little out of control, but in a lot of ways it was the perfect end to the perfect day because hadn’t they promised to forego their usual sad, holiday stories and spend Christmas together rather than alone?
John figures he should have known he’d end up in bed with Rodney one day. Different packaging, different attitude, same loner underneath. They have a lot more in common than beer and a lack of familial ties.
John turns around, marches toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” Rodney says, as the door opens. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and there’s shampoo running down the side of his face. “What are you doing?”
John pulls his t-shirt over his head with one hand, undoes his pants with the other, discarding both on the wet floor. He slides open the shower door, nudges Rodney to the side to make room for both of them and stands under the jets with his eyes closed, feeling the salt, sweat and semen run off him in rivulets.
When he opens his eyes again, Rodney is staring at him. “You couldn’t just wait your turn?” he says, but it’s more surprise than annoyance, like he was hoping John would join him but never expected it to happen.
“I’ve been thinking,” John says. He reaches for the soap and lathers it up between his hands. “That whole traditional Christmas thing with the snow and the sleighs and the turkey dinner? It’s totally overrated.”
Rodney watches John soap himself down, his mouth slightly open. “Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” John says. “Sometimes you have to try a new perspective on things. Turn the world upside down and see what it looks like.”
“Huh,” Rodney says. “You mean like going extreme skiing in the summer, taking up meditation or veganism? That sort of thing.”
“Sure,” John says, shrugging. He hands Rodney the soap, turns around and gestures over his shoulder. “Back?”
There’s a moment of nothing and then John feels the soap gliding over his back, Rodney’s fingers drawing circles in the suds. He covers John’s back and then he puts his hands on John’s shoulders, pulls him close.
“You must be crazy,” Rodney says, near John’s ear. “Or possibly you’re still drunk. You know this - you and me - it can only end in disaster.”
“You always say that,” John says. “And we’re still here.”
“Hmmm…” Rodney says. He sucks on John’s neck just below his ear. And then he stops. “You know,” he says. “I would kill for a turkey dinner.”
John feels Rodney’s hand at his throat, tilting his neck back so he can glide his tongue along John’s throat. “Yeah,” John says, leaning back against Rodney’s body. “Me too.”
“Next Christmas,” Rodney says.
John turns his head, leans in to Rodney’s kiss. “Or the one after.”
Fini
Category: McKay/ Sheppard, holiday fic
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “Sometimes you have to try a new perspective on things. Turn the world upside down and see what it looks like.”
Author’s notes: For Maverick4oz who has been a *very* good girl all year and as such gets Christmas fic! And I'm early too! Hope you enjoy maverick4oz - Ho, ho, ho!
Beta love, thanks and vegemite sandwiches to Trinityofone and Callmerizzo who braved the comma abuse. If it’s wrong it’s mine, if it’s beautiful it’s ours.
John stretches his bare legs in the sun, snags a nearby chair with his toe and pulls it closer, resting his feet on top. He sinks down in his seat and looks out at the ocean. It’s an uncomfortably warm day in Atlantis. It’s also Christmas Day according to the Earth calendar, which for ninety-five percent of the Atlantis contingent is cruel irony.
A portion of the remaining five percent have taken it upon themselves to throw a traditional Australian Christmas which, as far as John can tell, consists of barbecued shrimp, beer and relentless complaining about the weather.
Beside John, Rodney is admirably applying himself to the latter.
“I think I’m going to expire,” Rodney says, applying sunscreen for the third time today. “I was under the impression they had air conditioning in the southern hemisphere.” He’s wearing a hat, sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt, but at least he’s dressed casual. And at least he’s here. Despite repeated promises to ‘be there in a minute’ Elizabeth has yet to leave her office. John contemplates sending Lorne for her. Again.
“They like the outdoors,” John says. He spent six months in the north of Australia practicing maneuvers. He liked the desert. He found it peaceful. And it seems he thrives in extreme environments. “No sense in wasting all that sunshine.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel like Christmas,” Rodney says. He screws up his nose as two marines walk by in patterned shorts. Rodney’s forehead is dotted with beads of sweat.
John’s had enough experience with deserts to know the key to managing the heat is to not move and not think. Rodney is halfway there. “Which part?” John says. “The heat, the shrimp or the whole ‘nother galaxy thing?”
“Exactly,” Rodney says. “And Murphy says anyone caught calling the ‘prawns’ ‘shrimp’ has to eat vegemite sandwiches for lunch next week.”
“Actually it’s ‘Macrobrachium Atlantis’.” Rodney gives John a look, eyebrows raised. John smirks, pleased to know something Rodney doesn’t. “The marine biology team caught them. They caught them, they name them.”
“The Australians cooked them,” Rodney says. “That gives them naming rights over the end product.”
“Dalton is from New Zealand,” John says.
“So?”
“So they don’t like being confused with Australians. It’s like calling Canadians ‘Americans.’”
“They have the same flag,” Rodney says.
“They do not,” John says. He reaches for his ‘beer,’ tries to remember the exact difference between the Australian and New Zealand flags and fails. On the opposite side of the table Teyla gives him her now familiar ‘you’re all very strange but at least you’re not boring’ look. Earlier he attempted to explain the concept of Christmas to her while trying to avoid a philosophical discussion about the dubious fusion of religious and pagan lore in Christian societies. He wound up faking a meeting with Elizabeth before wandering into dangerous theological territory.
“Where did you get this stuff?” Rodney holds up his beer-filled cup toward Teyla.
“Ronon traded for it,” she says. She looks at her own cup, unimpressed. “I’m not sure I understand the appeal.”
Ronon is swimming. Murphy taught Ronon and the Athosians the ‘Australian crawl’ and Ronon is now out past the end of the pier, crawling like a dreadlocked Mark Spitz.
“It’s not bad,” Rodney says. He drinks, looks into his cup thoughtfully and drinks again.
Beckett drops into the seat next to Teyla, avoiding the chair occupied by John’s feet. “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen, Colonel.” Beckett nods toward John’s bare legs. “After all you’ve been through it would be plain embarrassing to die from skin cancer.”
Out of the corner of his eye John catches Rodney smiling in typical Rodney ‘I told you so’ fashion. John looks at the sky briefly, before holding out his palm toward Rodney. Rodney hands John the sunscreen.
“At least they haven’t put anyone in a Santa suit,” Rodney says. He takes a handful of nuts from the bowl in the centre of the table, starts separating out the walnuts. “I spent a Christmas in Sydney at a particle physics conference. I walked into a mall to escape the heat, and inside there was a guy in a full Santa suit handing out candy. It had to be 110 degrees outside.” He puts the walnuts on his empty plate and eats the remaining nuts.
“You took the candy, right?” John says.
Rodney looks indignant. “He was giving it away!”
John grins. Try as he might the thought of Rodney demanding to sit on Santa’s lap for candy is irresistible. Across the table he catches Beckett smirking into his beer.
“I make it two pm GMT,” Major Lorne says, joining their table. “Christmas morning at home.”
“Three pm in Prague.” Zelenka is behind Lorne, carrying a beer for himself and one for Beckett. He hands Beckett his beer and takes a seat next to Rodney. Rodney frowns at Zelenka. “Approximately,” Zelenka says, catching Rodney’s look. Constant references to relative time have resulted in Rodney explaining Einstein’s twin paradox to them no fewer than three times. Zelenka insisted the paradox had yet to be proven because they were unable to rule out gravitational interference in the energy required to effect interstellar travel. They argued about it for an hour before lunch and only stopped because Murphy told them she would make them sing the Australian national anthem if they didn’t give it a rest.
“Two o’clock in Scotland,” Beckett says. “Mum would be showing the photo albums to my nieces and nephews by now.” He looks out at the water wistfully.
“My brother’s kids would have been up since five o’clock,” Lorne says. “Last Christmas they got me out of bed before the sun came up to show me how the reindeer had eaten the carrots they left.”
“How does your family celebrate Christmas, Colonel Sheppard?” Teyla asks.
John pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. He’s worked every Christmas since he joined the Air Force. In fact, he volunteered for extra shifts so his fellow officers with families could be home with their children. It sounds like a sad story but he’s used to being alone.
“I don’t really celebrate Christmas…” John says.
“Not everyone makes a big deal out of it,” Rodney says. “Christianity is only one of several major religions on Earth. And of course a lot of people are irreligious.”
Teyla tilts her head to one side, frowns at John. “I thought you said that Christmas was a religious holiday for atheists?”
John chokes on his beer, quickly looks around to see if he’s caused offence. He catches a few raised eyebrows but no hellfire and brimstone. He makes a mental note to send Teyla to Elizabeth every time she has a question involving religious, political or sexual habits of Earthlings.
Murphy makes a timely appearance at their table, brandishing a full pitcher of beer. “More?” she says.
Rodney nods toward John. “Give some to the Colonel before he starts a crusade,” he says. “And then give some to me. I’m seriously lacking in Christmas cheer.”
“No egg nog,” Lorne sighs ruefully.
“No holly and ivy,” Beckett says. “No mistletoe either.”
“Well I guess we have something to thank the pagan gods for,” Rodney says. He reaches for the nuts again.
*
By the time the sun is setting, Rodney has one arm thrown around John’s neck and is singing “Waltzing Matilda” as John steers Rodney toward his quarters.
“Talk about getting into the Christmas spirit,” John says as he presses the door-pad. John drags Rodney inside. “You’re a cheap drunk, McKay.”
Rodney lets go of John and flops down onto the bed. He sits with his legs over the side and fumbles with his boots. “That beer was sixteen proof. Twenty even. If you don’t feel it, you have a liver the size of a basketball.”
John feels heavy headed and tired, and he’s no lightweight. Twenty proof is probably right. “I’m just glad you had a good time, Mckay. G’night.” He turns to leave.
Rodney stops him before he gets to the door. “Hey, Colonel.”
John turns around. “Yeah?”
“I usually spend Christmas in a laboratory,” Rodney says. “It’s quiet, empty - kind of peaceful, actually. I do some of my best work during the holiday season.”
John leans against the doorframe. He’d forgotten Rodney’s lack of family. His story is as pathetic as John’s. “I guess we have that in common,” John says.
“We both like beer,” Rodney says. He pulls the other boot off.
“That too.”
“You know, Colonel,” Rodney says. “If you’re ever on Earth and it’s Christmas and you have no one to spend it with - you should spend it with me.”
“I should, huh?” John tries to imagine Christmas with Rodney. Ebenezer Scrooge comes to mind. “Why?”
Rodney stands up, shrugs. “Well, because we have so much in common, of course.”
John grins. An endearing Ebenezer Scrooge, admittedly. “Okay,” he says. “You and me. Christmas - some time in the future. It’s a date.”
“It is?” Rodney looks oddly vulnerable, like he’s just been complimented without solicitation.
It obviously doesn’t happen enough. Which is a shame, John thinks, because Rodney is weirdly cute when his guard is down. “Yeah,” John says.
Rodney studies John for a moment. “I’m not too drunk to kiss you, you know.”
Rodney’s still wearing a hat and sunglasses - which is perhaps why John thinks he’s not hearing right. He could have sworn Rodney just offered to kiss him. John thinks about the beer again. Twenty proof at least. “You want to say that again?” he says.
Rodney comes toward John, slowly like he’s trying not to scare John away. John is rooted to the spot. “You know what I like best about you?” Rodney says. He’s inches away from John’s face. It occurs to John that he heard the bit about kissing correctly.
“What?” John says softly.
Rodney puts his hand on John’s shoulder and John’s not sure if that’s a come on or if Rodney’s just using John to steady himself. Maybe both. Rodney is right in John’s face, eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth. “Your ability to hold your liquour,” Rodney says. And then he kisses John for real. No mistaking it.
He continues to kiss John as he closes the door and maneuvers them both toward the bed. Rodney tastes like the beer they’re been drinking all afternoon and he smells like sunscreen and salt. John divests Rodney of his hat and sunglasses and Rodney removes John’s t-shirt. They continue kissing as Rodney pulls John onto the bed and they land in a tangle, legs intertwined, Rodney’s shirt half on and half off, and John with his hand between them trying to undo Rodney’s belt.
It’s too hot to be doing this and their skin is sweaty and slick, but Rodney is making soft sounds of encouragement as John slides down his body, trailing his tongue along Rodney’s salty skin from his neck to his pelvis. It’s warm but Rodney is like cool liquid and John wants to drink Rodney down the way John’s been drinking alien beer all afternoon.
John works his way down Rodney’s body until he’s positioned between Rodney’s legs. They’re drunk, possibly heat-affected, and Christmas has been turned on its head which is unsettling to say the least. They have every reason to be suspicious of each other’s motives.
But it becomes inconsequential as Rodney looks down at John through half-lowered lids, reaches for John’s hair saying, “god, yes, please…” like his life depends on the blow job John is about to give him.
It’s even less consequential as John lowers himself to Rodney’s considerable erection and sucks Rodney all the way down his shaft and up again in one fluid stroke.
Rodney arches his hips toward John, bending his knees to lift himself off the bed. His pants hang around his thighs and his shirt is still hanging from one arm. John’s never seen Rodney so unguarded, so open. It’s a refreshingly honest look for Rodney, not to mention sexy as hell.
He sucks Rodney down until he hears Rodney breathing in short, hitching gasps. John slides his fingers around to Rodney’s ass, massages the opening a little before edging a finger in. Rodney bucks upward, voices his encouragement before resorting to unintelligible noises to make his point. John edges two more fingers inside Rodney’s ass, flexes them a little and thrusts. Rodney throws his head back against the pillows, saying, “Fuck! Fuck!” as he comes in John’s mouth.
They collapse on the bed side by side, breathing heavily. It doesn’t last long. John’s learned many suprising facts about Rodney McKay in the last fifteen minutes, but the thing that surprises him the most is how quickly Rodney goes from being completely spent and satiated to throwing John onto his back and shoving John’s pants around his ankles faster than a teenager in the back of his parents’ car.
Rodney mutters words under his breath in between sucking on the inside of John’s thigh and tonguing a line along the perineum to the base of John’s cock. It sounds like, “god,” and “fuck” and “so fucking beautiful…” but John also thinks he hears Rodney call him “Colonel” just before he sucks John down to the back of his throat so maybe John can’t believe his ears after all.
Rodney gives truly mind-blowing head and John has the kind of orgasm he really shouldn’t have while his faculties are impaired by alien alcohol. And as Rodney finishes licking John clean, he looks up John’s body and meets John’s eyes. It’s a look John is going to remember for many Christmases to come. Like Rodney is looking for salvation in John’s face, not speaking in case it isn’t there.
Afterwards John curls around Rodney’s half-naked body and tries to think of appropriate afterglow talk.
“Rodney?”
When Rodney doesn’t answer John cranes his head over Rodney’s shoulder so he can see Rodney’s face. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open slightly, breathing evenly. John sinks his head back onto the pillow.
“Merry Christmas, Rodney,” he says.
*
In the morning John wakes to an arm under his neck and a wide-awake Rodney staring down at him.
“I don’t want to alarm you,” Rodney says. “But I think we had sex last night.”
John looks down their naked bodies, still intertwined. The night was too warm for covers. “What gave it away?” John says.
Rodney extracts his arm from under John’s neck and rolls off the bed. He puts his pants on, foregoing underwear and causing John to wonder how often Rodney goes commando on missions.
“Just so we’re clear,” Rodney says. “You seduced me.”
“Okay.” John rolls onto his back, puts his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. “But I gotta tell you, Rodney - you’re easy.”
Rodney’s eyes trail down John’s body and up again. He reaches John’s face and looks away guiltily. “I was drunk,” Rodney says defensively. “And really, really horny. God knows what they put in that beer. I thought I was… wait, what are you doing?”
John blinks. “Sleeping in?”
“This is my room,” Rodney says. “You’re supposed to be shamefacedly slinking out of here hoping no one will see you.”
“Slinking?”
“Isn’t that how it works? I’m sure you’ve had more experience than I have.” He looks about the room, finds a towel on the back of a chair and throws it over his shoulder. “I’m taking a shower. If it helps, you can leave while I’m gone.”
John looks at the ceiling. He waits a beat or two until he hears the sound of water running and gets out of bed, finds his t-shirt and shorts on the floor and gets dressed. He searches under a pile of sheets for his sunglasses, finds them under the bed next to Rodney’s shirt.
He doesn’t feel guilty about leaving. ‘Post-one-night-stand’ Rodney is probably on a par neurosis-wise with ‘we’re all going to die’ Rodney. And this is ‘hungover one-night-stand’ Rodney. Men less sane than John would have left by now. They got a little drunk, got a little crazy and behaved like college frat boys. No reason to feel ashamed at all.
This is not what he signed on for. He spends Christmas alone for a reason. No ties, no obligations, no regrets.
John stops at the door, puts a hand on the doorframe, holding himself in place. The truth is, he liked sitting on the balcony in the soupy-hot summer air, listening to Rodney complain while the others wistfully remembered Christmases past. He liked being with Rodney, feeling strangely comforted by Rodney’s neuroses and unflappable arrogance and the way he braved humiliation and sunstroke so the rest of the science team would come out of the labs for some seasonal fun.
And maybe they were both drunk and horny and a little out of control, but in a lot of ways it was the perfect end to the perfect day because hadn’t they promised to forego their usual sad, holiday stories and spend Christmas together rather than alone?
John figures he should have known he’d end up in bed with Rodney one day. Different packaging, different attitude, same loner underneath. They have a lot more in common than beer and a lack of familial ties.
John turns around, marches toward the bathroom.
“Hey!” Rodney says, as the door opens. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and there’s shampoo running down the side of his face. “What are you doing?”
John pulls his t-shirt over his head with one hand, undoes his pants with the other, discarding both on the wet floor. He slides open the shower door, nudges Rodney to the side to make room for both of them and stands under the jets with his eyes closed, feeling the salt, sweat and semen run off him in rivulets.
When he opens his eyes again, Rodney is staring at him. “You couldn’t just wait your turn?” he says, but it’s more surprise than annoyance, like he was hoping John would join him but never expected it to happen.
“I’ve been thinking,” John says. He reaches for the soap and lathers it up between his hands. “That whole traditional Christmas thing with the snow and the sleighs and the turkey dinner? It’s totally overrated.”
Rodney watches John soap himself down, his mouth slightly open. “Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” John says. “Sometimes you have to try a new perspective on things. Turn the world upside down and see what it looks like.”
“Huh,” Rodney says. “You mean like going extreme skiing in the summer, taking up meditation or veganism? That sort of thing.”
“Sure,” John says, shrugging. He hands Rodney the soap, turns around and gestures over his shoulder. “Back?”
There’s a moment of nothing and then John feels the soap gliding over his back, Rodney’s fingers drawing circles in the suds. He covers John’s back and then he puts his hands on John’s shoulders, pulls him close.
“You must be crazy,” Rodney says, near John’s ear. “Or possibly you’re still drunk. You know this - you and me - it can only end in disaster.”
“You always say that,” John says. “And we’re still here.”
“Hmmm…” Rodney says. He sucks on John’s neck just below his ear. And then he stops. “You know,” he says. “I would kill for a turkey dinner.”
John feels Rodney’s hand at his throat, tilting his neck back so he can glide his tongue along John’s throat. “Yeah,” John says, leaning back against Rodney’s body. “Me too.”
“Next Christmas,” Rodney says.
John turns his head, leans in to Rodney’s kiss. “Or the one after.”
Fini