Aftershock
As the tremors died away, John slid down the wall and took Rodney with him, landing them both in a tangled heap on the floor, distantly aware that he was clinging in a way that would have been a hell of a lot more embarrassing if it weren't for the fact that Rodney was holding onto him just as tightly. But Rodney was holding on, so John breathed, just breathed, for long minutes, nose buried in his friend's hair, smelling sweat and dirt and the faintly antiseptic tang of Rodney's shampoo.
A murmur of sound wrapped him, resolved itself eventually into a coherent whisper. Rodney swearing at him, swearing at God, and saying his name. Not his rank or his last name, but "John," over and over again, as if once he'd gotten started, he couldn't stop, and that was just so Rodney, the man who never shut up. John smiled. "Rodney." His own voice sounded odd, cracked.
The flow of words cut off abruptly. Rodney's hands clenched, unclenched, clenched again in John's shirt. His chest hitched. Then he was pulling back, shifting away and that wasn't right, so John knotted his own hands into the fabric of Rodney's jacket to make sure that he didn't go too far. But he could see Rodney's face now and good god he looked awful, blue eyes bloodshot and bruised, hair askew, too pale, like the morning after a weekend bender with no aspirin in sight. John drank him in, the sight filling up the two-day-old hollow spot in his chest with sharp, painful joy. "Hey."
Rodney swallowed, his eyes searching John's face for - what? "Hi."
"You okay?"
"Am I -- ?" Rodney did a slow blink, and when he looked at John again there was a lot more McKay in his eyes. "No, I am not," he said, and it sounded more like McKay, too. "I'm exhausted and I need to eat and I am pissed at hell at you because I've had to save your ass after I was sure that you were dead yet again and my blood pressure's sky-high which is putting far too much stress on my heart which is probably taking years off my life and can you please never ever ever do that again?"
The dust from the explosion was making John's eyes water, and McKay's snark was a sweet, sweet sound that John had thought he might never hear again. "Rodney."
"What?"
Alive. Rodney was alive. "Shut up," John breathed, helpless, and leaned in.
Rodney froze with the tiniest of sounds as their mouths touched, and John closed his eyes. So long, he'd wanted this for so long, even when he hadn't let himself know it. Rodney's lips were soft and a bit chapped and John pressed a little more, then eased back, cling and retreat, cling and retreat, trying to memorize the feel, scent, taste, the only time he'd ever have this, it would have to last him the rest of what might be a short life because if they didn't die in this crumbling wreck of a room then Rodney would probably kill him -
Rodney shoved him back; hands still knotted in his shirt, and stared, eyes wide and questioning, demanding an answer. John just looked back, drowning in blue, knowing that it had to be all over his face this time but too tired, too shattered to try and swim.
Then the hands weren't on his shirt anymore but in his hair as Rodney pulled him back and locked their mouths together.
The air stank of dust and something like cordite but John breathed deep anyway, smelling only Rodney. Warm, warm and wet; John sucked on Rodney's lower lip, nibbling, sliding his own hands up to cup Rodney's face, trace the line of his jaw. The tip of a tongue met his and want abruptly forked John in the gut. The kiss turned dirty, open mouths and tongues clashing, tangling, teasing, so good. John couldn't get enough, couldn't get close enough, couldn't stop imagining what that wide, generous, clever mouth might feel like in other places - oh. Oh, god. He pulled back finally when breathing became a necessity, dropping his hot forehead against Rodney's dirty shoulder, feeling something-like-concrete grit against his skin.
"John. Oh god. John. What is, is this - " John felt Rodney swallow. "Is this adrenaline? Just, you know, we're alive, or - " Rodney swallowed again, but he wasn't pushing away. He wasn't pushing John away.
"No," John managed. "No, it's not - I want - " He swallowed himself, now, throat dry. "Years, Rodney. I - God. Years."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"I, I thought you were straight," Rodney whispered.
John sighed. "As much as I have to be, but - bi is probably the best word, I guess."
Rodney's fingers slipped under the back of his collar, and John shivered as they traced along his nape, pressing the chain of his dogtags lightly into his skin. "As much as you have to," he repeated softly. "But - not what you want?"
John closed his eyes. His stomach felt exactly the way it had the first time he'd parachuted, stepped into empty air, freefalling. "No. No. What I want - " His arms tightened without any input from his brain.
Rodney took a breath, his chest expanding against John's. "A man?"
"Rodney."
"Okay, yes." It was Rodney's arms that were tightening now. "But you have to know, I'm a bit, I'm, if we're doing - this - look, I don't share very well, alright?"
Not falling anymore but floating, snatched into safety by the jerk of the lines. Flying. "S'okay," John murmured. "I don't share well either." He lipped the soft skin of Rodney's ear and smiled at the shiver, took a last taste to tide himself over until they got out of here and back to Atlantis and beds. "I don't share at all."