How It's Always Worked
How It's Always Worked, by Luthien
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: ~1700
Spoilers: Set sometime after 'Quarantine'
Thanks: To somniesperus and damerel for audiencing
This poss- prob- eventuality was lurking in the back of Rodney's mind from the moment he found out that Sheppard was going back to Earth the same week Rodney was scheduled for five days at the SGC. They never said a word about it, neither of them, not before they left Atlantis or anytime these last few days, or during the fancy dinner they splurged on in the hotel restaurant for their last night before they go home. After dinner Sheppard still didn't say anything. Not in the elevator going up, not as they walked down the hallway together, not even when Rodney followed Sheppard into his room and the door snicked shut behind them. But they were never not going to end up in the same room together this last night. They both knew it. Nothing needed to be said. That's how they both like it. That's how it's always worked.
And now here they are. It's strange, just getting into bed together like this. Not curling around each other "for warmth" in a tent/inn/cell on some alien planet. Not ending up on the bed together accidentally on purpose after spending an evening playing chess in Rodney's quarters while a DVD of some scifi show/juvenile comedy/the-Hitchhiker's-Guide-to-the-Galaxy-that's-their-all-too-frequent-compromise plays in the background. Not falling into Sheppard's bed, exhausted after being up half the night saving the city, too tired to make it further down the corridor than Sheppard's room, using that feeble excuse to cleave together beneath the covers, skin against skin in a warm tangle of limbs.
No. This time they're just going to bed together, like the old married couple that they can never be because- well, for too many reasons to count. Rodney pulls back the covers and gets into bed, propping himself up against the pillows. Then it's Sheppard's turn. He flops down on his back and pulls the covers up, one sun-browned hand lying strong and capable-looking, and looking ridiculously out of place, against the crisp white linen bed sheet. They don't touch. A king-sized bed offers all sorts of options they've never had, but the option not to touch isn't one that Rodney had considered until now. It probably would have been easier if he'd pushed Sheppard up against the wall as soon as they came in the door. It probably would have been easier if they'd had a few more drinks downstairs, enough that they'd be able to take cover under the edge of drunkenness. It probably would have been easier if he'd been drunk and pushed Sheppard up against the wall and… done what? Kissed him?
They never kiss. Except in bed. When the lights are out.
This is awkward, and somehow more uncomfortable than sharing a bed that's hardly big enough to fit a single full-grown man comfortably, never mind two at once. In a bed that small you don't have any option other than to wrap yourself around your bedmate. He'd learned to do that with Sheppard first, and then, later, after they'd - okay he'd ended it, or thought he had - it had been easier to fit one full-grown man and a small-boned girl into one of those beds. A girl with white, delicate little hands that used to get lost in Rodney's. Hands that would have looked more at home here.
It would have been easier, at least, if she'd fit any way other than in the strictest physical sense.
It doesn't matter. She's gone. He doesn't regret… He really doesn't. And now there's John. John who's looking up at him from the pillow, face carefully neutral in the lamplight. The silence settles between them, and then it starts to stretch. Someone has to say something, or do something, and Rodney knows that Sheppard will never be the one to reach out.
Rodney takes a deep breath. "It's good to be in a full-sized bed for a change." He pauses a beat. Two. "And it's good to be in a full-sized bed with a full-sized person."
And then, because the words sound even more stupid when he says them out loud than they had in the privacy of his mind, he bends his head and captures Sheppard's lips in a kiss before either of them has a chance to say anything else.
It isn't a well-planned kiss, and that's probably the main factor that contributes to making it work. There's no time for thinking it through beforehand, for possibly even over-thinking it, though he's still too conscious to begin with, as always, his brain cataloguing every component part. Noses: close, but not quite bumping together, thankfully. Stubble: tickling the very corner of his mouth, but he can live with that. Tongue: not much yet, but starting to come into play. Lips: warm, firm, wet, slightly misaligned and opened just a little.
Sheppard leans in closer, his mouth moving more forcefully and demanding against Rodney's, and starts making familiar little noises in the back of his throat. Rodney's never entirely sure if those noises are something Sheppard puts on for Rodney's benefit, or if they're real or even if Sheppard's aware of making them at all. It's almost too good to be true, that just a simple kiss from Rodney could make Sheppard-
Sheppard's hands come up to cup his face, and then the breath's catching in Rodney's throat, catching and then leaving in a shudder as everything abruptly moves up a gear. Lips, tongues, teeth, everything is irrelevant. This kiss is greater than the sum of its component parts. This kiss just is.
Warm, Rodney thinks muzzily a while later as he tries to draw back to catch his breath. Wet is his next thought as they snatch soft little kisses from each other's lips instead of letting go. And, finally, Breathing is an overrated activity as he gives in and their mouths meet again and cling.
A while later, Rodney's lying in the middle of the bed. He's not exactly sure how he ended up in this position, but Sheppard is tracing out pathways along Rodney's arm, two fingers at a time, and it's weirdly soothing.
"So," Sheppard says after a while. "You think of me as a full-size person, huh?"
He places just the slightest emphasis on the 'me'. If you didn't know him well you'd probably miss it. But Rodney does know Sheppard well, did long before they ended up in any sort of bed together, and he's hunted down and classified all of Sheppard's habitual nuances long ago. He knows what this one means. He knows it's Sheppard's way of telling him that he knows what Rodney isn't saying.
Her name lies silently between them.
"It's… easier with a full-size person," Rodney says carefully. "Everything fits." He emphasises a word, too, and looks Sheppard hard in the eyes.
Rodney will never get used to how quickly Sheppard can move when he really wants to. He's not sure how it happens, but suddenly Rodney's lying on his side and Sheppard's breath is hot against his ear. "Everything, huh?" And then all of Sheppard is pressed up hard behind all of Rodney, lips trailing warm and wet down the side of Rodney's neck as a hand slips over Rodney's hip and down, curls easily around Rodney's cock, and oh-
Rodney shudders, pushes forward helplessly into Sheppard's strong, capable grip, then back against the hard cock that fits so perfectly into the cleft of his ass, falling into sensation, letting it happen while Sheppard murmurs in his ear, saying who knows what, the words continuing in a steady stream until it breaks and all that's left is a harsh, bitten-back groan.
They lie there a long time, afterwards. Eventually Rodney comes back to himself enough to become aware of the cold, sticky wet patch by his stomach. He needs to clean up. There's nothing more disgusting than old spunk half-dried on sheets and skin. Okay, so there are many things in the universe more disgusting than that, and Rodney's encountered more than his fair share, but he makes a point of never putting up with unpleasant things when he doesn't have to. And he doesn't have to put up with this. It would be an easy thing to go to the bathroom and grab a towel. But Sheppard's still pressed up against Rodney's back, his arm is still wrapped around Rodney's waist.
Rodney stays where he is.
After a minute or so, Sheppard shifts behind him. "What?" he asks.
"What do you mean, what?" Rodney says sharply.
"Your back's gone all tense and you keep twitching."
"I do not."
"Yeah, you do," Sheppard says, and untangles himself from Rodney.
Rodney's back feels cold. He pulls the covers up to his chin and watches as Sheppard pads across the room to the bathroom, his bare skin all pale gold mixed with shadows in the lamplight.
Sheppard's efficient at cleaning up wet spots. Rodney already knows this, but somehow it's different this time, maybe just because Rodney doesn't have to get out of bed while the cleaning up is going on, though Sheppard does yank down the covers despite Rodney's protests about the cold night air, just like always.
The real moment of déjà vu comes when Sheppard gets back into bed and they wind up staring at each other across the pillows, separated by a yawning gap of inches that might as well be miles. Rodney's going to have to say something again, or make a move.
Before Rodney can do anything, Sheppard reaches out and turns off the lamp. Arms come around Rodney in the darkness, hauling him to the middle of the bed then drawing him close against Sheppard's chest. From there, limbs wrap around each other automatically, one arm sliding up under a pillow, a cheek resting against a shoulder, everything slipping effortlessly into place as their bodies re-find the familiar fit.
Rodney feels Sheppard's lips against his throat as they settle down to sleep, and if there's a smile on his face as he drifts off, well, it's not like anyone can see.
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: ~1700
Spoilers: Set sometime after 'Quarantine'
Thanks: To somniesperus and damerel for audiencing
This poss- prob- eventuality was lurking in the back of Rodney's mind from the moment he found out that Sheppard was going back to Earth the same week Rodney was scheduled for five days at the SGC. They never said a word about it, neither of them, not before they left Atlantis or anytime these last few days, or during the fancy dinner they splurged on in the hotel restaurant for their last night before they go home. After dinner Sheppard still didn't say anything. Not in the elevator going up, not as they walked down the hallway together, not even when Rodney followed Sheppard into his room and the door snicked shut behind them. But they were never not going to end up in the same room together this last night. They both knew it. Nothing needed to be said. That's how they both like it. That's how it's always worked.
And now here they are. It's strange, just getting into bed together like this. Not curling around each other "for warmth" in a tent/inn/cell on some alien planet. Not ending up on the bed together accidentally on purpose after spending an evening playing chess in Rodney's quarters while a DVD of some scifi show/juvenile comedy/the-Hitchhiker's-Guide-to-the-Galaxy-that's-their-all-too-frequent-compromise plays in the background. Not falling into Sheppard's bed, exhausted after being up half the night saving the city, too tired to make it further down the corridor than Sheppard's room, using that feeble excuse to cleave together beneath the covers, skin against skin in a warm tangle of limbs.
No. This time they're just going to bed together, like the old married couple that they can never be because- well, for too many reasons to count. Rodney pulls back the covers and gets into bed, propping himself up against the pillows. Then it's Sheppard's turn. He flops down on his back and pulls the covers up, one sun-browned hand lying strong and capable-looking, and looking ridiculously out of place, against the crisp white linen bed sheet. They don't touch. A king-sized bed offers all sorts of options they've never had, but the option not to touch isn't one that Rodney had considered until now. It probably would have been easier if he'd pushed Sheppard up against the wall as soon as they came in the door. It probably would have been easier if they'd had a few more drinks downstairs, enough that they'd be able to take cover under the edge of drunkenness. It probably would have been easier if he'd been drunk and pushed Sheppard up against the wall and… done what? Kissed him?
They never kiss. Except in bed. When the lights are out.
This is awkward, and somehow more uncomfortable than sharing a bed that's hardly big enough to fit a single full-grown man comfortably, never mind two at once. In a bed that small you don't have any option other than to wrap yourself around your bedmate. He'd learned to do that with Sheppard first, and then, later, after they'd - okay he'd ended it, or thought he had - it had been easier to fit one full-grown man and a small-boned girl into one of those beds. A girl with white, delicate little hands that used to get lost in Rodney's. Hands that would have looked more at home here.
It would have been easier, at least, if she'd fit any way other than in the strictest physical sense.
It doesn't matter. She's gone. He doesn't regret… He really doesn't. And now there's John. John who's looking up at him from the pillow, face carefully neutral in the lamplight. The silence settles between them, and then it starts to stretch. Someone has to say something, or do something, and Rodney knows that Sheppard will never be the one to reach out.
Rodney takes a deep breath. "It's good to be in a full-sized bed for a change." He pauses a beat. Two. "And it's good to be in a full-sized bed with a full-sized person."
And then, because the words sound even more stupid when he says them out loud than they had in the privacy of his mind, he bends his head and captures Sheppard's lips in a kiss before either of them has a chance to say anything else.
It isn't a well-planned kiss, and that's probably the main factor that contributes to making it work. There's no time for thinking it through beforehand, for possibly even over-thinking it, though he's still too conscious to begin with, as always, his brain cataloguing every component part. Noses: close, but not quite bumping together, thankfully. Stubble: tickling the very corner of his mouth, but he can live with that. Tongue: not much yet, but starting to come into play. Lips: warm, firm, wet, slightly misaligned and opened just a little.
Sheppard leans in closer, his mouth moving more forcefully and demanding against Rodney's, and starts making familiar little noises in the back of his throat. Rodney's never entirely sure if those noises are something Sheppard puts on for Rodney's benefit, or if they're real or even if Sheppard's aware of making them at all. It's almost too good to be true, that just a simple kiss from Rodney could make Sheppard-
Sheppard's hands come up to cup his face, and then the breath's catching in Rodney's throat, catching and then leaving in a shudder as everything abruptly moves up a gear. Lips, tongues, teeth, everything is irrelevant. This kiss is greater than the sum of its component parts. This kiss just is.
Warm, Rodney thinks muzzily a while later as he tries to draw back to catch his breath. Wet is his next thought as they snatch soft little kisses from each other's lips instead of letting go. And, finally, Breathing is an overrated activity as he gives in and their mouths meet again and cling.
A while later, Rodney's lying in the middle of the bed. He's not exactly sure how he ended up in this position, but Sheppard is tracing out pathways along Rodney's arm, two fingers at a time, and it's weirdly soothing.
"So," Sheppard says after a while. "You think of me as a full-size person, huh?"
He places just the slightest emphasis on the 'me'. If you didn't know him well you'd probably miss it. But Rodney does know Sheppard well, did long before they ended up in any sort of bed together, and he's hunted down and classified all of Sheppard's habitual nuances long ago. He knows what this one means. He knows it's Sheppard's way of telling him that he knows what Rodney isn't saying.
Her name lies silently between them.
"It's… easier with a full-size person," Rodney says carefully. "Everything fits." He emphasises a word, too, and looks Sheppard hard in the eyes.
Rodney will never get used to how quickly Sheppard can move when he really wants to. He's not sure how it happens, but suddenly Rodney's lying on his side and Sheppard's breath is hot against his ear. "Everything, huh?" And then all of Sheppard is pressed up hard behind all of Rodney, lips trailing warm and wet down the side of Rodney's neck as a hand slips over Rodney's hip and down, curls easily around Rodney's cock, and oh-
Rodney shudders, pushes forward helplessly into Sheppard's strong, capable grip, then back against the hard cock that fits so perfectly into the cleft of his ass, falling into sensation, letting it happen while Sheppard murmurs in his ear, saying who knows what, the words continuing in a steady stream until it breaks and all that's left is a harsh, bitten-back groan.
They lie there a long time, afterwards. Eventually Rodney comes back to himself enough to become aware of the cold, sticky wet patch by his stomach. He needs to clean up. There's nothing more disgusting than old spunk half-dried on sheets and skin. Okay, so there are many things in the universe more disgusting than that, and Rodney's encountered more than his fair share, but he makes a point of never putting up with unpleasant things when he doesn't have to. And he doesn't have to put up with this. It would be an easy thing to go to the bathroom and grab a towel. But Sheppard's still pressed up against Rodney's back, his arm is still wrapped around Rodney's waist.
Rodney stays where he is.
After a minute or so, Sheppard shifts behind him. "What?" he asks.
"What do you mean, what?" Rodney says sharply.
"Your back's gone all tense and you keep twitching."
"I do not."
"Yeah, you do," Sheppard says, and untangles himself from Rodney.
Rodney's back feels cold. He pulls the covers up to his chin and watches as Sheppard pads across the room to the bathroom, his bare skin all pale gold mixed with shadows in the lamplight.
Sheppard's efficient at cleaning up wet spots. Rodney already knows this, but somehow it's different this time, maybe just because Rodney doesn't have to get out of bed while the cleaning up is going on, though Sheppard does yank down the covers despite Rodney's protests about the cold night air, just like always.
The real moment of déjà vu comes when Sheppard gets back into bed and they wind up staring at each other across the pillows, separated by a yawning gap of inches that might as well be miles. Rodney's going to have to say something again, or make a move.
Before Rodney can do anything, Sheppard reaches out and turns off the lamp. Arms come around Rodney in the darkness, hauling him to the middle of the bed then drawing him close against Sheppard's chest. From there, limbs wrap around each other automatically, one arm sliding up under a pillow, a cheek resting against a shoulder, everything slipping effortlessly into place as their bodies re-find the familiar fit.
Rodney feels Sheppard's lips against his throat as they settle down to sleep, and if there's a smile on his face as he drifts off, well, it's not like anyone can see.