Doing This Here by Purna (Earthside Challenge)
Doing This Here by purna
McKay/Sheppard
~6,200 words
NC-17
Summary: "Busy, busy, then," Rodney says after a pause. "We'll both be busy. No time for--"
A/N: Beta thanks to lamardeuse. Spoilers through Season 2.
Doing This Here
"She so wants me. She wants me, she wants me," Rodney sings under his breath, practically dancing -- well, his hips are moving in a way that's disturbing and strangely intriguing at the same time -- as they wait to board the Daedalus. John's scheduled for two weeks of SGC meetings and a little R&R. Rodney's ditched his time off to work with Colonel Carter on a special Ori-related project.
Elizabeth figures they can afford to leave Atlantis for a little while right now; it's as close to a lull as they've had in two years. The Wraith have been quiet since John and Rodney and Ronon managed to pull off the destruction of two hive ships with stealth, cunning, an F302, and Rodney's big, beautiful brain.
A big, beautiful brain that's in high demand right now. Rodney's been insufferable about the earnest video Colonel Carter sent him when she found out about Rodney's scheduled visit.
"She specifically requested me. Just the two of us, working together in the intimate hothouse atmosphere of her lab. She's succumbed to my allure finally," Rodney had crowed, and there was a smug, triumphant look in his eyes when he looked over at John.
Thinking about it now makes John's lips tighten.
"She just wants you for your brain, Rodney. And your fancy toy." John sounds snappish as he waves at the huge crate that they're escorting.
"Highly 'gate sensitive," Rodney had told Elizabeth at the pre-trip briefing. "But perfectly safe on the Daedalus." He'd hurried to assure Caldwell, who was looking a little spooked. "I'll be there to keep an eye on it, don't worry."
Remembering saboteurs and the Goa'uld shimmer of Caldwell's eyes, John had hurriedly said, "I'll escort." He'd looked over at Caldwell pointedly, but Caldwell's eyes were cast down at the table in front of him.
"I agree. And a full Marine escort wouldn't hurt," Caldwell had said in a low voice. He'd looked up, lips set in a tight line. "To be on the safe side."
John had nodded, frowning thoughtfully.
Not only was the device 'gate sensitive, it was highly dangerous, too, judging from how Zelenka had fussed over the crating process in a fluttery, agitated way.
From what John's heard about the zealot wackjobs that are SGC's latest nemesis, it sounds like they could use something along those lines, though.
Rodney pats the side of the crate, almost strutting. "We call it a 'gate killer.' It disturbs the local time-space continuum in a way that makes gate travel impossible."
John raises his eyebrows and can't help shooting the crate a nervous look.
"A little side project Radek and I have been working on," Rodney says with a huge smirk. "Carter's dying to get her cute little manicured fingers on it."
"Put the macho swagger away," John says, his voice curt. "And stop gloating. It's not a good look for you."
Rodney's eyes are bright and a little manic, his cheeks flushed, and John's lying. It is a good look for him, but John is really, really busy trying to convince himself that it's not.
Rodney's eyes go ridiculously wide. "'Macho swagger'?" He sounds thunderstruck. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. Slouchy Too-Cool-for-the-Room," he says with a vague gesture at John's posture. John's suddenly self-conscious and stands up straight, shoulders back, which is made harder by the heavy backpack he's wearing, but he gives it his best.
"That's Colonel Slouchy to you, Romeo," John says, forcing his tone to stay light. Something must bleed through, though, because Rodney shoots him an odd look.
Not meeting John's eyes, Rodney's eyes flicker over John's face. They linger over his mouth and then dart down and to the side. "Well," he says stiffly, not looking up. "A man can dream anyway. It's not like I'll have time to do anything else. Not everyone can be spared for playtime, Colonel. At least you'll have plenty of off-duty time for..." He flaps a hand vaguely. "Whatever."
"'Whatever?'" John asks, his tone flat.
Rodney shifts his weight restlessly for a moment. "You're familiar with the concept, I assume -- rest, relaxation? And recreation, there's another 'R' for you. Which I assume for you means something reckless like mountain climbing or bungee jumping." He ignores John mouthing the words bungee jumping incredulously. "Having fun. Picking up--" Rodney's eyes flicker at the groups of personnel standing nearby, also waiting for boarding. "Chicks."
John frowns. "That's right, Rodney. 'Hot Dog' Sheppard they used to call me," he drawls and crosses his arms across his chest. "And I've got stuff to do at SGC, too, you know. Meetings. Important meetings."
"Busy, busy, then," Rodney says after a pause. "We'll both be busy. No time for--"
Cutting Rodney off with a gesture, John forces himself to relax. "Yeah. Busy. No time."
A voice comes over the radio, announcing the start of boarding. Rodney heaves his pack onto his back, and, with a significant glance over at John, starts his singsong refrain again. "She wants me. She wants me."
John sighs but doesn't say another word until they're on board the Daedalus, being shown to their quarters.
*
The Daedalus trip feels endless, claustrophobic and too little privacy, jostling elbows with everyone else on the ship. John's going stir-crazy when they arrive at SGC. By the time they've settled Rodney's device in its own locked storage room, done the infirmary and a quick debriefing, it's late, so late even most of the workaholics have gone home.
Still trying to shake off his cabin fever, he follows Rodney, who's poking his nose into things, looking for Colonel Carter's lab, which they find deserted. John's feeling restless and irritable, and sounds it, and finally Rodney rounds on him.
"All right, Colonel, what's up? You need a ride to your hotel or something?"
"Don't have one," John says in a low voice.
"You're staying at SGC?" Rodney's tone is belligerent, but there's uncertainty in the cast of his mouth.
"Nope," John says, and meets Rodney's gaze, one brow raised.
Rodney blinks for a moment. Something flickers across his face, too fast for John to interpret. "I've...I've got a couch. You know. If you want."
"Yes," John says immediately and let the heat that fills his gut reach his eyes.
Rodney glances around them, but the corridor is deserted. "But you said... I mean we don't --" Do that here, John finishes the thought for him. And they haven't; it's always been hands off whenever they're on Earth, ditto for the Daedalus, but it's just too much.
The long trip from Atlantis has John wound up tight, and there are too many strangers around him, tripping his instincts, and Rodney's right here beside him, smelling like home. John knows all too well the difference between want and need in this. He's known it for going on 20 years now, but he's fucking aching for it, he needs this.
"No, we don't," John says simply, leaving it up to Rodney.
Rodney's face is usually an open book, but not right now. His expression is shuttered, and John has no feel for what's going on behind Rodney's flat stare. Rodney's chin comes up with a jerk, and John's stomach sinks a little. He just knows what the answer's going to be and is preparing himself for a long, sleepless night in a narrow military bunk.
So he's surprised when Rodney says, "Okay. Yeah."
They drive separately to Rodney's condo, and John keeps wiping his hands on his jeans as he follows Rodney's pool car, a nondescript white Taurus, twin to John's own.
Inside, the condo is dark, but not musty, and it's cleaner than John expected.
It's the first time John's risked this, visiting Rodney's condo, so Rodney gives him the quick tour, bathroom, kitchen, fridge. "Just stocked," Rodney explains when John eyes the contents dubiously. "Part of the cleaning service."
The living room feels like Rodney. The bookshelves are packed, and a thick text on numerical modeling is shoved in the middle of a bunch of Asimov paperbacks. A book about Shostakovich lies atop a stack of records next to a turntable.
"Vinyl?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.
Rodney's chin goes up. "Oh, please. I'm not giving up my record collection, but I have all the files digitally."
And that really is Rodney, John thinks, stubborn in his likes, successfully mixing different technologies.
Framed certificates and awards are on the walls, and a few photographs. No people, though, no family photos, no vacation shots, nothing like that, which maybe shouldn't surprise him, knowing what he knows of Rodney. There's something significant here, he thinks. Something about this room, about the fact that Rodney kept his condo, his own space, even when he was leaving for a new galaxy.
John used to think it was arrogance, all the awards and diplomas that Rodney surrounded himself with in Pegasus. Now he suspects it was something else, Rodney getting comfortable, turning his new space into a home.
The tour doesn't include the bedroom. Rodney's bed is one place John's never been, at least in the literal sense.
They've fucked in storage rooms, yeah, and out-of-the-way balconies, and one time in a long-forgotten room in the bowels of the city, below the water line. The eerie watery glow from the porthole window moved over Rodney as John sank to his knees. It made him think about the stargate as he sucked Rodney off, about traveling light years in the blink of an eye.
Rodney's pulling out the sofa bed, and then digs around for sheets and blankets. They make the bed without talking, barely looking at each other. When they finish, Rodney plops down on his leather chair with a sigh, and makes yawning go-to-bed noises. John's getting a little desperate and he's trying to think of some way to keep Rodney from disappearing back into his bedroom, but he's coming up blank so far.
"So," Rodney starts to say, but John cuts him off.
"Beer?" he asks frantically. Rodney's look is searching, a little bemused, but he nods.
In the kitchen, they drink in silence, and Rodney's stifling yawns. There's an awkward moment when Rodney turns to him with a smile, and John nearly lunges at him. He's warned off at the last moment by Rodney's flinch and turns the movement into a grab for the fridge. John opens it up and stares at the contents without comprehension. He keeps his hand gripped tightly onto the door handle to hide the shaking.
Rodney doesn't seem to notice. "Stay up as long as you want. I'm for bed." He leaves the beer bottle in the sink and shoots John a nervous smile before heading off to bed.
The sofa bed is surprisingly comfortable, but John tosses and turns for an endless time before he falls asleep.
*
Rodney finally breaks the next morning, just as John's reconsidering his choice of accommodation. He steps out of the shower just as Rodney's leaving fresh towels, and their eyes meet in the mirror. Rodney's eyes go wide and dark, and John lets Rodney move first this time.
The sound of sex -- wet slap of skin against skin, wordless rhythmic grunts -- echoes in Rodney's bathroom, and the small space is way too humid and warm, steamy from the shower. A pointless shower now, the sweat's rolling off them already, greasing the slide of Rodney's chest against his back. John's feet keep doing a weird sort of Brownian motion as the mat under him tries to slide on the slippery tile floor, and his calves are cramping up as he tries to keep his footing.
Rodney has him bent over the counter, his thrusts slamming John's hips into the countertop, and the only thing that's saving him from emasculation is the wadded ball of fluffy towels that Rodney left all over the counter this morning. Rodney likes his creature comforts but he's a slob and right now, John's damn glad of it.
"Fuck. Yeah," he says, his voice hitching when Rodney pulls almost all the way out and then shoves back inside.
John tries to brace himself. His hands scrabble over the surface of the counter, knocking a comb and a can of shaving cream flying, and finally settle on the mirror's surface. His splayed fingers leave sweaty smears as his hands slide and shift. His palms are pressed against the glass, and he's looking at Rodney in the mirror, the familiar lines of his face, the wrinkle of concentration marking his forehead.
There's a rush of something then, a weird feeling that leaves him hanging between laughing and crying. For just a second, he thinks of flying, engine failure and the controlled fall of an autorotation, collective down and right foot pressing hard and his guts turning inside out.
His fingers clench uselessly on the glass, but he can't escape. The reflection is there, right there in front of him, beads of sweat dotting his own forehead, Rodney behind him.
Balls deep, Rodney's cock fills him to bursting, slamming into the sweet spot. John's ass teeters between feeling wide open and too empty to clamping down until it burns. Rodney stills suddenly against John's back, trembling and on the edge, and his grip on John's hips tightens to the point of bruising.
"Wait. Wait. Not yet." John's voice sounds raw and thick, and Rodney manages to hold on, biting down hard on the thick muscle where John's neck meets his shoulder. Rodney starts moving again, almost tentative at first, slow push in, easy glide out, and John closes his eyes for a second to concentrate on the feel of Rodney's cock in his ass, the flow and ebb of sensation like the ocean rolling in.
Rodney's moving faster again, adding a little twist of his hips that makes John shudder. "Oh," John says, and again, louder, "Oh."
He's close, God, so close, and when his eyes meet Rodney's in the mirror, he finally breaks, coming with a wordless groan. He's weak-kneed and panting, kept upright by the counter and Rodney's weight against his back.
Rodney's gasping, babbling hoarse affirmations, funny little grunts that John would normally keep in mind for teasing fodder, except that they don't tease about this, don't talk about it, barely acknowledge it.
Rodney's really getting into it, fucking John's ass expertly. John's head feels too heavy to lift, bobbing with Rodney's movements on a neck that feels limp as a noodle. He's staring down at the edge of the mirror, where the silvering has turned to black, when Rodney comes with two final, rapid thrusts, surging against him with a strangled groan.
Rodney slides out of him, and then he rests his forehead on John's shoulder for a second, just breathing, before pulling away. John hears the rustle as the condom hits the trashcan.
"I guess..." Rodney's sharp tone brings John's head up. "I guess this means we are doing this here," Rodney says and his expression looks almost angry.
"Looks like," John says, trying not to sound breathless and failing.
Rodney cleans himself off with a damp washcloth and goes to get dressed. Rodney has to leave; he's meeting with Carter at SGC early this morning. When John hears the car pull away, he flops onto the sofa bed, damp and sweaty as he is. He groans and lets his head thump back against the thin mattress. The jarring actually makes him feel better, so John does it again a few times.
The rules are unspoken but there, and they used to suit him just fine. It used to be simple, helping each other out when things got desperate. He's not sure when that changed for him, but he's not happy about it, and most days, he tries not to think about it. He'd have to speak up if he wants to change things now.
But John doesn't say anything, anything at all, because he wouldn't know where to start.
"Shit," he says finally. "Shit, shit, shit."
*
John doesn't see much of Rodney after that. Rodney's at SGC early and stays late. The rare times they're both at the condo, they watch crappy movies on TV, joking and mocking what's on the screen. It's almost like nothing's changed, and sometimes John slides to his knees in front of Rodney, sprawled in his leather chair, and sucks him off, and then Rodney returns the favor.
Most of the time, though, John lies on the sofa bed until he hears Rodney leave for the day, and then goes to the bathroom to jerk off in the shower. He leaves the shower curtain open a little and watches the mirror through half-closed eyes. He strips his cock, imagining Rodney's mouth on him, until he comes.
When he's at SGC, he manages to peek in on Rodney twice. The first time, Rodney introduces him to Colonel Carter.
"Colonel," she says with a warm smile as they shake hands. She's blonde and physically attractive, as far as John is equipped to judge that sort of thing, but it's more than that. Her eyes are alive with intelligence, and she and Rodney spark when they come together.
It's childish and he knows it, but he really can't help it: he gives her his best easy smile and cocks a hip out. This isn't Taranis, though, and Carter isn't Norina, and John doesn't succeed in diverting her interest away from Rodney. Carter seems oblivious, looking at John with only polite interest. He straightens from his calculated slouch and his lips twist into a smile that feels a little sour.
"Colonel," he replies, the greeting drawled to the point of insolence. She asks a few polite, intelligent questions about Atlantis, but John's short answers quickly grind the conversation to a halt.
Rodney shoots him a narrow-eyed, reproving look, but he's quickly distracted by something Carter says. Rodney's excited, hands waving all over the place, eyes bright. He's arguing with her about something, and they're standing too close, in each other's space. John's on the other side of the workbench, arms crossed across his chest. He's used to seeing Rodney and Zelenka do the freaky scientist mind-meld thing, but it's disconcerting as hell to see Rodney melding with the object of his wet dreams, the infamous Colonel Carter.
The flash of rage catches him by surprise, but he manages to clamp down on it before it reaches his eyes or voice. It reveals itself in other ways, and his hand grips his coffee mug so tightly his fingers nearly cramp up. He turns on his heels, throws back a muttered, "See ya, Rodney," and flees. His teeth are clenched, making his jaw ache as he makes his way to the gym.
*
That night Rodney comes home bearing pizza. They lean against the kitchen counter to eat, right out of the box. John stuffs his face with meat-lovers, and looks over at Rodney, who's got a frown of concentration on his face as he folds his pizza slice up like a taco.
"That's stupid," he says, nodding his head at Rodney's taco-pizza, to which Rodney says, "No, it's not." John's deliberately baiting the argument just to feel the easy tennis-match volley they fall into. It's comfortable and familiar, and John can forget about the thing he can't talk about, can forget about Colonel Carter, and what John feels whenever he sees Rodney with her. They're just two guys, two friends, drinking beer, and it turns into an argument over which movies they're taking back to Atlantis with them.
"Save your luggage allotment, Sheppard," Rodney is sneering. "Doctor Who was never the same after Tom Baker, and the movie sucked, and they're just going to mess it up." He punctuates his prediction with a grandiose wave of his pizza-laden hand.
"No, they won't," John says, stifling his smile, and he can't stop himself then. He leans forward and clumsily tries to capture Rodney's lips with his own, but Rodney pulls away.
"You said no kissing, Sheppard," he says, and he sounds genuinely confused, almost annoyed. And John might have started that particular rule, but it's one Rodney seems to have no problem following now.
John keeps eating, but he's lost his appetite. It's almost funny, the fact that John's been screwed over by other people plenty of times, but this time he's done it to himself.
*
John spends the next few days trapped in endless meetings. He has to stifle a snort when he's handed the agenda. Hands Across the Divide: Productive Science/Military Relations heads the page.
His reaction catches the eye of someone two seats down from John; they exchange glances and rueful shrugs. John feels the man's eyes on him a few times after that, and he breaks up the boredom by returning a few of the looks, checking out the man's narrow face, made interesting by a broken nose healed crooked, and his muscular shoulders.
They start the meeting with a round of introductions. "Dr. Sean Ballard, geologist," the man says. That's the last interesting thing that John hears for the next two hours. The droning of the too-smooth consultant in her snazzy suit and the overly warm conference room has him nodding off.
He drinks too much coffee and doodles on the meeting agenda, and thinks about what he'd be doing right now back on Atlantis, where the bureaucratic side of his job tends to get pared down to nonexistence, what with saving the galaxy and the constant threat of death.
Wincing as he hears the word facilitate for the umpteenth time, he feels strangely home sick. He longs for the sound of the sea and Elizabeth's thoughtful humor and sparring with Teyla and listening to Rodney and Ronon fight over the last piece of naiga nut pie.
During one long break, John heads down to Carter's lab. He peeks in and sees only the tops of two heads, one light, one darker, almost touching, bent over the workbench. They look in synch, companionable, and John turns away without entering the room. He stays away from Carter's lab after that.
Back in the meeting, John sprawls in his chair, loose body language belying the mix of annoyance and impatience and dissatisfaction that he can't seem to shake. The geologist keeps up the mild flirtation, giving John friendly smiles during the many coffee breaks. John amuses himself by smiling back and turning on the charm.
On the third day of meetings, the man comes over and introduces himself again during one coffee break. Dr. Ballard -- call me Sean -- looks tanned and competent, John's age or thereabouts. He's muscular and fit, his hair cut brutally short in an almost military buzz. He's attractive, but not classically handsome. He looks, in fact, just like the guys John used to fuck (before Atlantis, before Rodney).
They make small talk. Sean's been at SGC for almost five years but he's only gone offworld twice. He's earnest and eager about visiting other worlds in a way that makes John feel a little jaded. Sean seems almost innocent compared to the Atlantis scientists.
But talking shop is the last thing John is looking for, and he keeps the topics superficial, hobbies and working out, and then Sean steers the conversation towards running. Sean's easy to talk to and easy on the eyes, and he makes John forget for a little while the clusterfuck inside his head. So when Sean smiles over at him and asks if he'd like to go running the next morning, John smiles back and says yes.
*
He's not sure what to expect, a quick run in the SGC corridors and a quicker fuck afterwards maybe, but that's not on Sean's agenda. The next morning, John has to get up while it's still dark, and he tries to be quiet as he gets dressed. It's not sneaking around, he tells himself, but he lets out a sigh of relief when Rodney's door stays shut.
Sean's not just a runner; he's a trail runner, and that entails meeting up at a trailhead just outside Manitou Springs. It's early still, barely light, to beat the heat and the mountain bikers, according to his trail running companion.
"It's a bit of a drive, but it's my favorite trail," Sean had explained. "Don't worry; it's pretty short," he said, when John had given him a raised eyebrow.
John eyes the steep, wooden steps that lead up from the trailhead, and Sean hands him a water bottle. "It'll be fine," he says, in a hearty voice that raises John's hackles a little, and he swears he'll keep up if it kills him.
They head off, and it's not long before John's wondering if this jaunt really will kill him. He's used to running, but not at 7,000 fucking feet, and not straight up a fucking mountain.
To top it off, Sean's barely breathing hard, chattering on about the geological formations they run through, the view of Pikes Peak at the top, the mechanics of mountain building, and a ton of other things that John's too out of breath to respond to.
He stopped finding Rodney's science patter annoying the first time he saved their collective asses, but John's biting back the urge to tell Sean to put a sock in it. He's hot and dizzy and feeling a little queasy by the time they reach the top. They have to thread a needle's eye path through boulders, sharp and spiky enough it's like they have teeth.
"Pikes Peak granite," Sean supplies helpfully, and John gives him a sour glance. John loses his balance at one point and slams into one of the man-eating boulders. He loses about fifty layers of skin on the outside of his shin, and it bleeds like a stuck pig.
"Shit," he says, sitting down gingerly on one of the boulders.
Sean sits down right beside him, close enough that their sweaty shoulders touch. Sean's shirtless, and John stares at the taut muscles of his stomach and chest, trying to revive the mild attraction he'd felt at SGC.
He feels like cursing. Not only has Rodney gotten him all twisted up inside, he's apparently ruined John for anyone else. Great. Just great.
"Sorry, should have warned you about that," Sean mutters apologetically.
"No big deal," John shrugs it off. He straightens his leg out so that the blood doesn't flow down into his sock. Sean uncaps his water bottle, pours out some onto John's leg to rinse the blood off.
"It's no good, is it?" Sean says quietly, not looking up from John's leg. He makes a vague gesture between the two of them. It startles John so much he doesn't say anything for a while, but it's obvious what Sean is talking about. So obvious, it'd be stupid to pretend ignorance. He gets a sudden, sharp image of how he must seem to Sean, and it's not a very flattering picture.
The silence builds between them until John finally replies, "I guess not." Sean looks up, finally, and his expression is calm, kind but a little rueful.
John feels like an ass, basically leading things on when there never really was a chance. Sean seems like a nice guy, smart and attractive. But he's not Rodney, and nothing John does here will fix what's going on there.
It's not a good feeling.
*
That night, John's sprawled on the sofa bed, idly watching a rerun of Bonanza, when Rodney comes in early. He sits on the edge of the mattress, right next to John's knee.
John waits for Rodney to say something, but he stays quiet. When he looks over, Rodney looks a little poleaxed, pale. "What is it?" John asks.
Rodney doesn't look up, staring at the television screen, where Hop Sing is yelling at Pa Cartwright. John sits up, tugging his T-shirt down from where it's ridden up, and he's about to repeat the question when Rodney speaks.
"Did you ever go along thinking one thing, and one day, boom, in a flash you realize you really didn't have a clue?"
"Yes," John says instantly before he can stop himself, but Rodney's too lost in thought to catch it.
"Working with Sam. It wasn't what I thought it'd be."
John perks up a little. "How so?" He makes sure his voice is even and calm.
"Remember when you and Radek rescued me from the crashed jumper? I kept babbling about something, about leaving someone behind."
"You said, 'Sam,' John says slowly. "'We can't leave Sam.' And later you told Beckett you'd had hallucinations. You saw Colonel Carter down there."
Rodney laughs, a tiny whuff of breath. "I thought you'd figured it out, but you never asked."
"None of my business," John shrugs.
"Some part of me always believed she was there. Real." Rodney shifts, moves to face John directly. "Today I mentioned it to her. Said something about what happened down there, and she...didn't know what I was talking about. It was all in my head. All in my head. All this time, I've been thinking one thing...and I was fooling myself. Isn't that weird?"
"No," John says with enough feeling that Rodney glances over.
The silence drags out too long, way past the comfortable point, and Rodney's staring at him. John's acutely aware that he's in boxers and a T-shirt, and his leg is pressed against Rodney's ass. Rodney's weight is on one hand, his palm pressed into the mattress by John's thigh. His forearm is warm and muscular against John's skin.
Almost in slow motion, Rodney moves, deliberately placing his hand high on John's thigh. John sucks in a breath.
Rodney looks up at him, face unreadable. "So. What," he starts to say and has to swallow. He tries again. "What was the thing that you were fooling yourself about?"
John feels the old rush of paralysis, the little voice yammering at the base of his skull, say nothing, say nothing, but he's seen how well that worked out for him. He's tired of it.
"When I thought we could just stay friends," he says, all in a rush. Rodney makes a noise, not quite a laugh, but John rushes on. He has to say this now, all at once. "Just a little sex, you know? Get each other off, stay in the lines, nothing too serious. I was kidding myself."
Rodney's fingers move almost idly on John's thigh, and his eyes are closed. "I couldn't stay away," he says. "I've wanted to kiss you for so long, but I kept telling myself what I had was enough." His fingers dig painfully into the muscle of John's thigh, making him wince. "And I just couldn't stay away."
"I'm sorry," John says, but Rodney's fingers dig in harder. "Ow."
"I'm not done yet," Rodney says. "Seeing you jealous of Sam -- what, you thought you were being subtle?" he sneers at John's start of surprise. "I liked it," he says in a low voice. "I'm not proud of it, but I liked it." He shoots John a hard glance. "You kind of deserved it."
"Yeah, maybe I did," John says. "I didn't know." Rodney shoots him a level, deliberate stare, and John shrugs. "Maybe I didn't want to know."
Rodney's eyes stay on him for a long time, but he looks more thoughtful than anything. John looks at Rodney's wide, crooked mouth. It's unknown territory, unlike other parts of him, but they've both become explorers in the Pegasus galaxy.
"I'd like to kiss you now. If you want," John says, drawling the words to hide his nervousness. Rodney's mouth isn't the only uncharted territory for him here.
One corner of Rodney's mouth quirks up. "If I want? Don't be an idiot." He grabs John's hand and tugs on it. "How about we ditch the sofa first, though?" he says and pulls John to his feet. He follows Rodney back to his bedroom, the sound of the TV still on in the background.
Rodney's bedroom is quiet and dark, stamped with Rodney's presence: the bed covers pulled aside, the pillow dented. Rodney maneuvers him onto the bed and stands between John's spread knees. His fingers flutter nervously over John's face, hair, down onto his neck. The touch is slow, light, and exploratory, more sensual than erotic.
It's new, Rodney's hands on him this way. They've always done this fast, shaking fingers yanking on belts, impatient, the bare minimum of clothing pulled aside to do what needed to be done.
But that was before, before John knew that Rodney's ached to kiss him for who knows how long, and he never really knew that, how could he have missed it? And maybe he hadn't wanted to see it, because kissing has only ever led to trouble in his experience. Or maybe Rodney's poker face isn't as bad as John's always thought, and, jesus, yeah, they're both guys, but you'd think they could handle the communication thing just a little bit better.
John's brain is racing a mile a minute, and his heart tries to catch up when Rodney leans over, one hand on John's chest, the other cupping the back of John's neck, and brings their lips together. It's slow and sweet and totally not what John was expecting, but it's so, so, good, and fuck, Rodney can kiss.
One part of him keeps waiting to feel the old trapped feeling, waiting for the little voice in his head to start screaming Danger, Will Robinson, danger! But that's not happening; everything just keeps feeling better and better, Rodney's mouth on his, Rodney's hands moving over his chest.
Slow and easy, and Rodney's turning the act of undressing into a long, sensuous tease. No matter how many times they've fucked, John realizes they've never done it like this, completely naked, together, in a bed.
Trying to pull his T-shirt over his head, John catches his nose in the fabric. "Shit," he says, and he's struggling to free himself when he hears Rodney snort. It quickly turns into a full-fledged, contagious laugh, and John finds himself joining in helplessly. That's something else new: they've always been too frantic, too focused to kid around during sex.
"Oh, please. You're hopeless," Rodney says affectionately, and helps him, and they manage to get themselves undressed. Rodney pushes him back on the bed and settles on top of him, and John groans, because damn, it feels good, Rodney's weight pinning him down, their cocks lining up just right.
John's always thought kissing was dangerous, too intimate, but this, face to face, bodies plastered together, pushes his limits even more. But it's too good, practically crawling into each other's skin, Rodney with him the whole way, it's too good to think about stopping.
Rodney brings his mouth down on John's, his tongue strong and demanding, sweeping into John's mouth. Rodney's making sounds, really getting into it, but John realizes he's making sounds just as loud, just as desperate.
He's pushing his hips up to meet Rodney's, easily at first, and then more and more frantically. Rodney stiffens above him, his deep-throated groans filling John's ears. Rodney comes, skin flushed, eyes wide and dark, and the face he makes should look a little silly, but it doesn't. Doesn't at all.
The rush of heat between them trips John over the edge then. "Fuck," he says, and his fingers are digging into Rodney's hips so tightly they'll probably leave bruises, and he says it again, "Fuck." Rodney sags into him, draping him in heat, and sweat, and come, and John feels a laugh bubbling up that won't stop.
Once he starts laughing, he can't seem to quit. His chest moves up and down with the noise, carrying Rodney along with it, until Rodney shoots him a glare.
"What?" Rodney says. "What? What?" he repeats, his tone getting more and more annoyed.
John reaches up and pulls Rodney's mouth to his, running a hand through Rodney's fine hair, but even that doesn't stop him. Another laugh breaks out, unsealing their mouths, and John tries to muffle it against Rodney's neck, sneaking in a little tongue for good measure. Rodney pulls away slightly, enough to look John in the face, but Rodney's smiling.
"What the hell, Sheppard?" The tone is affectionate, but his expression still looks a little bemused.
John can't explain it; he's here finally, with Rodney, in Rodney's bed, in Rodney's space, and it's good. It feels right, and he wonders what the hell he was afraid of all this time.
He may not be able to explain it, but Rodney must see something in his expression. The confusion in Rodney's face clears suddenly, realization filling his eyes. Rodney's shaking then too, laughing with him, and John wraps his arms around Rodney's solid chest, grabbing on tight, almost desperately.
"About damn time," Rodney mutters, his voice strangely tight. "About damn time."
McKay/Sheppard
~6,200 words
NC-17
Summary: "Busy, busy, then," Rodney says after a pause. "We'll both be busy. No time for--"
A/N: Beta thanks to lamardeuse. Spoilers through Season 2.
Doing This Here
"She so wants me. She wants me, she wants me," Rodney sings under his breath, practically dancing -- well, his hips are moving in a way that's disturbing and strangely intriguing at the same time -- as they wait to board the Daedalus. John's scheduled for two weeks of SGC meetings and a little R&R. Rodney's ditched his time off to work with Colonel Carter on a special Ori-related project.
Elizabeth figures they can afford to leave Atlantis for a little while right now; it's as close to a lull as they've had in two years. The Wraith have been quiet since John and Rodney and Ronon managed to pull off the destruction of two hive ships with stealth, cunning, an F302, and Rodney's big, beautiful brain.
A big, beautiful brain that's in high demand right now. Rodney's been insufferable about the earnest video Colonel Carter sent him when she found out about Rodney's scheduled visit.
"She specifically requested me. Just the two of us, working together in the intimate hothouse atmosphere of her lab. She's succumbed to my allure finally," Rodney had crowed, and there was a smug, triumphant look in his eyes when he looked over at John.
Thinking about it now makes John's lips tighten.
"She just wants you for your brain, Rodney. And your fancy toy." John sounds snappish as he waves at the huge crate that they're escorting.
"Highly 'gate sensitive," Rodney had told Elizabeth at the pre-trip briefing. "But perfectly safe on the Daedalus." He'd hurried to assure Caldwell, who was looking a little spooked. "I'll be there to keep an eye on it, don't worry."
Remembering saboteurs and the Goa'uld shimmer of Caldwell's eyes, John had hurriedly said, "I'll escort." He'd looked over at Caldwell pointedly, but Caldwell's eyes were cast down at the table in front of him.
"I agree. And a full Marine escort wouldn't hurt," Caldwell had said in a low voice. He'd looked up, lips set in a tight line. "To be on the safe side."
John had nodded, frowning thoughtfully.
Not only was the device 'gate sensitive, it was highly dangerous, too, judging from how Zelenka had fussed over the crating process in a fluttery, agitated way.
From what John's heard about the zealot wackjobs that are SGC's latest nemesis, it sounds like they could use something along those lines, though.
Rodney pats the side of the crate, almost strutting. "We call it a 'gate killer.' It disturbs the local time-space continuum in a way that makes gate travel impossible."
John raises his eyebrows and can't help shooting the crate a nervous look.
"A little side project Radek and I have been working on," Rodney says with a huge smirk. "Carter's dying to get her cute little manicured fingers on it."
"Put the macho swagger away," John says, his voice curt. "And stop gloating. It's not a good look for you."
Rodney's eyes are bright and a little manic, his cheeks flushed, and John's lying. It is a good look for him, but John is really, really busy trying to convince himself that it's not.
Rodney's eyes go ridiculously wide. "'Macho swagger'?" He sounds thunderstruck. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. Slouchy Too-Cool-for-the-Room," he says with a vague gesture at John's posture. John's suddenly self-conscious and stands up straight, shoulders back, which is made harder by the heavy backpack he's wearing, but he gives it his best.
"That's Colonel Slouchy to you, Romeo," John says, forcing his tone to stay light. Something must bleed through, though, because Rodney shoots him an odd look.
Not meeting John's eyes, Rodney's eyes flicker over John's face. They linger over his mouth and then dart down and to the side. "Well," he says stiffly, not looking up. "A man can dream anyway. It's not like I'll have time to do anything else. Not everyone can be spared for playtime, Colonel. At least you'll have plenty of off-duty time for..." He flaps a hand vaguely. "Whatever."
"'Whatever?'" John asks, his tone flat.
Rodney shifts his weight restlessly for a moment. "You're familiar with the concept, I assume -- rest, relaxation? And recreation, there's another 'R' for you. Which I assume for you means something reckless like mountain climbing or bungee jumping." He ignores John mouthing the words bungee jumping incredulously. "Having fun. Picking up--" Rodney's eyes flicker at the groups of personnel standing nearby, also waiting for boarding. "Chicks."
John frowns. "That's right, Rodney. 'Hot Dog' Sheppard they used to call me," he drawls and crosses his arms across his chest. "And I've got stuff to do at SGC, too, you know. Meetings. Important meetings."
"Busy, busy, then," Rodney says after a pause. "We'll both be busy. No time for--"
Cutting Rodney off with a gesture, John forces himself to relax. "Yeah. Busy. No time."
A voice comes over the radio, announcing the start of boarding. Rodney heaves his pack onto his back, and, with a significant glance over at John, starts his singsong refrain again. "She wants me. She wants me."
John sighs but doesn't say another word until they're on board the Daedalus, being shown to their quarters.
*
The Daedalus trip feels endless, claustrophobic and too little privacy, jostling elbows with everyone else on the ship. John's going stir-crazy when they arrive at SGC. By the time they've settled Rodney's device in its own locked storage room, done the infirmary and a quick debriefing, it's late, so late even most of the workaholics have gone home.
Still trying to shake off his cabin fever, he follows Rodney, who's poking his nose into things, looking for Colonel Carter's lab, which they find deserted. John's feeling restless and irritable, and sounds it, and finally Rodney rounds on him.
"All right, Colonel, what's up? You need a ride to your hotel or something?"
"Don't have one," John says in a low voice.
"You're staying at SGC?" Rodney's tone is belligerent, but there's uncertainty in the cast of his mouth.
"Nope," John says, and meets Rodney's gaze, one brow raised.
Rodney blinks for a moment. Something flickers across his face, too fast for John to interpret. "I've...I've got a couch. You know. If you want."
"Yes," John says immediately and let the heat that fills his gut reach his eyes.
Rodney glances around them, but the corridor is deserted. "But you said... I mean we don't --" Do that here, John finishes the thought for him. And they haven't; it's always been hands off whenever they're on Earth, ditto for the Daedalus, but it's just too much.
The long trip from Atlantis has John wound up tight, and there are too many strangers around him, tripping his instincts, and Rodney's right here beside him, smelling like home. John knows all too well the difference between want and need in this. He's known it for going on 20 years now, but he's fucking aching for it, he needs this.
"No, we don't," John says simply, leaving it up to Rodney.
Rodney's face is usually an open book, but not right now. His expression is shuttered, and John has no feel for what's going on behind Rodney's flat stare. Rodney's chin comes up with a jerk, and John's stomach sinks a little. He just knows what the answer's going to be and is preparing himself for a long, sleepless night in a narrow military bunk.
So he's surprised when Rodney says, "Okay. Yeah."
They drive separately to Rodney's condo, and John keeps wiping his hands on his jeans as he follows Rodney's pool car, a nondescript white Taurus, twin to John's own.
Inside, the condo is dark, but not musty, and it's cleaner than John expected.
It's the first time John's risked this, visiting Rodney's condo, so Rodney gives him the quick tour, bathroom, kitchen, fridge. "Just stocked," Rodney explains when John eyes the contents dubiously. "Part of the cleaning service."
The living room feels like Rodney. The bookshelves are packed, and a thick text on numerical modeling is shoved in the middle of a bunch of Asimov paperbacks. A book about Shostakovich lies atop a stack of records next to a turntable.
"Vinyl?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.
Rodney's chin goes up. "Oh, please. I'm not giving up my record collection, but I have all the files digitally."
And that really is Rodney, John thinks, stubborn in his likes, successfully mixing different technologies.
Framed certificates and awards are on the walls, and a few photographs. No people, though, no family photos, no vacation shots, nothing like that, which maybe shouldn't surprise him, knowing what he knows of Rodney. There's something significant here, he thinks. Something about this room, about the fact that Rodney kept his condo, his own space, even when he was leaving for a new galaxy.
John used to think it was arrogance, all the awards and diplomas that Rodney surrounded himself with in Pegasus. Now he suspects it was something else, Rodney getting comfortable, turning his new space into a home.
The tour doesn't include the bedroom. Rodney's bed is one place John's never been, at least in the literal sense.
They've fucked in storage rooms, yeah, and out-of-the-way balconies, and one time in a long-forgotten room in the bowels of the city, below the water line. The eerie watery glow from the porthole window moved over Rodney as John sank to his knees. It made him think about the stargate as he sucked Rodney off, about traveling light years in the blink of an eye.
Rodney's pulling out the sofa bed, and then digs around for sheets and blankets. They make the bed without talking, barely looking at each other. When they finish, Rodney plops down on his leather chair with a sigh, and makes yawning go-to-bed noises. John's getting a little desperate and he's trying to think of some way to keep Rodney from disappearing back into his bedroom, but he's coming up blank so far.
"So," Rodney starts to say, but John cuts him off.
"Beer?" he asks frantically. Rodney's look is searching, a little bemused, but he nods.
In the kitchen, they drink in silence, and Rodney's stifling yawns. There's an awkward moment when Rodney turns to him with a smile, and John nearly lunges at him. He's warned off at the last moment by Rodney's flinch and turns the movement into a grab for the fridge. John opens it up and stares at the contents without comprehension. He keeps his hand gripped tightly onto the door handle to hide the shaking.
Rodney doesn't seem to notice. "Stay up as long as you want. I'm for bed." He leaves the beer bottle in the sink and shoots John a nervous smile before heading off to bed.
The sofa bed is surprisingly comfortable, but John tosses and turns for an endless time before he falls asleep.
*
Rodney finally breaks the next morning, just as John's reconsidering his choice of accommodation. He steps out of the shower just as Rodney's leaving fresh towels, and their eyes meet in the mirror. Rodney's eyes go wide and dark, and John lets Rodney move first this time.
The sound of sex -- wet slap of skin against skin, wordless rhythmic grunts -- echoes in Rodney's bathroom, and the small space is way too humid and warm, steamy from the shower. A pointless shower now, the sweat's rolling off them already, greasing the slide of Rodney's chest against his back. John's feet keep doing a weird sort of Brownian motion as the mat under him tries to slide on the slippery tile floor, and his calves are cramping up as he tries to keep his footing.
Rodney has him bent over the counter, his thrusts slamming John's hips into the countertop, and the only thing that's saving him from emasculation is the wadded ball of fluffy towels that Rodney left all over the counter this morning. Rodney likes his creature comforts but he's a slob and right now, John's damn glad of it.
"Fuck. Yeah," he says, his voice hitching when Rodney pulls almost all the way out and then shoves back inside.
John tries to brace himself. His hands scrabble over the surface of the counter, knocking a comb and a can of shaving cream flying, and finally settle on the mirror's surface. His splayed fingers leave sweaty smears as his hands slide and shift. His palms are pressed against the glass, and he's looking at Rodney in the mirror, the familiar lines of his face, the wrinkle of concentration marking his forehead.
There's a rush of something then, a weird feeling that leaves him hanging between laughing and crying. For just a second, he thinks of flying, engine failure and the controlled fall of an autorotation, collective down and right foot pressing hard and his guts turning inside out.
His fingers clench uselessly on the glass, but he can't escape. The reflection is there, right there in front of him, beads of sweat dotting his own forehead, Rodney behind him.
Balls deep, Rodney's cock fills him to bursting, slamming into the sweet spot. John's ass teeters between feeling wide open and too empty to clamping down until it burns. Rodney stills suddenly against John's back, trembling and on the edge, and his grip on John's hips tightens to the point of bruising.
"Wait. Wait. Not yet." John's voice sounds raw and thick, and Rodney manages to hold on, biting down hard on the thick muscle where John's neck meets his shoulder. Rodney starts moving again, almost tentative at first, slow push in, easy glide out, and John closes his eyes for a second to concentrate on the feel of Rodney's cock in his ass, the flow and ebb of sensation like the ocean rolling in.
Rodney's moving faster again, adding a little twist of his hips that makes John shudder. "Oh," John says, and again, louder, "Oh."
He's close, God, so close, and when his eyes meet Rodney's in the mirror, he finally breaks, coming with a wordless groan. He's weak-kneed and panting, kept upright by the counter and Rodney's weight against his back.
Rodney's gasping, babbling hoarse affirmations, funny little grunts that John would normally keep in mind for teasing fodder, except that they don't tease about this, don't talk about it, barely acknowledge it.
Rodney's really getting into it, fucking John's ass expertly. John's head feels too heavy to lift, bobbing with Rodney's movements on a neck that feels limp as a noodle. He's staring down at the edge of the mirror, where the silvering has turned to black, when Rodney comes with two final, rapid thrusts, surging against him with a strangled groan.
Rodney slides out of him, and then he rests his forehead on John's shoulder for a second, just breathing, before pulling away. John hears the rustle as the condom hits the trashcan.
"I guess..." Rodney's sharp tone brings John's head up. "I guess this means we are doing this here," Rodney says and his expression looks almost angry.
"Looks like," John says, trying not to sound breathless and failing.
Rodney cleans himself off with a damp washcloth and goes to get dressed. Rodney has to leave; he's meeting with Carter at SGC early this morning. When John hears the car pull away, he flops onto the sofa bed, damp and sweaty as he is. He groans and lets his head thump back against the thin mattress. The jarring actually makes him feel better, so John does it again a few times.
The rules are unspoken but there, and they used to suit him just fine. It used to be simple, helping each other out when things got desperate. He's not sure when that changed for him, but he's not happy about it, and most days, he tries not to think about it. He'd have to speak up if he wants to change things now.
But John doesn't say anything, anything at all, because he wouldn't know where to start.
"Shit," he says finally. "Shit, shit, shit."
*
John doesn't see much of Rodney after that. Rodney's at SGC early and stays late. The rare times they're both at the condo, they watch crappy movies on TV, joking and mocking what's on the screen. It's almost like nothing's changed, and sometimes John slides to his knees in front of Rodney, sprawled in his leather chair, and sucks him off, and then Rodney returns the favor.
Most of the time, though, John lies on the sofa bed until he hears Rodney leave for the day, and then goes to the bathroom to jerk off in the shower. He leaves the shower curtain open a little and watches the mirror through half-closed eyes. He strips his cock, imagining Rodney's mouth on him, until he comes.
When he's at SGC, he manages to peek in on Rodney twice. The first time, Rodney introduces him to Colonel Carter.
"Colonel," she says with a warm smile as they shake hands. She's blonde and physically attractive, as far as John is equipped to judge that sort of thing, but it's more than that. Her eyes are alive with intelligence, and she and Rodney spark when they come together.
It's childish and he knows it, but he really can't help it: he gives her his best easy smile and cocks a hip out. This isn't Taranis, though, and Carter isn't Norina, and John doesn't succeed in diverting her interest away from Rodney. Carter seems oblivious, looking at John with only polite interest. He straightens from his calculated slouch and his lips twist into a smile that feels a little sour.
"Colonel," he replies, the greeting drawled to the point of insolence. She asks a few polite, intelligent questions about Atlantis, but John's short answers quickly grind the conversation to a halt.
Rodney shoots him a narrow-eyed, reproving look, but he's quickly distracted by something Carter says. Rodney's excited, hands waving all over the place, eyes bright. He's arguing with her about something, and they're standing too close, in each other's space. John's on the other side of the workbench, arms crossed across his chest. He's used to seeing Rodney and Zelenka do the freaky scientist mind-meld thing, but it's disconcerting as hell to see Rodney melding with the object of his wet dreams, the infamous Colonel Carter.
The flash of rage catches him by surprise, but he manages to clamp down on it before it reaches his eyes or voice. It reveals itself in other ways, and his hand grips his coffee mug so tightly his fingers nearly cramp up. He turns on his heels, throws back a muttered, "See ya, Rodney," and flees. His teeth are clenched, making his jaw ache as he makes his way to the gym.
*
That night Rodney comes home bearing pizza. They lean against the kitchen counter to eat, right out of the box. John stuffs his face with meat-lovers, and looks over at Rodney, who's got a frown of concentration on his face as he folds his pizza slice up like a taco.
"That's stupid," he says, nodding his head at Rodney's taco-pizza, to which Rodney says, "No, it's not." John's deliberately baiting the argument just to feel the easy tennis-match volley they fall into. It's comfortable and familiar, and John can forget about the thing he can't talk about, can forget about Colonel Carter, and what John feels whenever he sees Rodney with her. They're just two guys, two friends, drinking beer, and it turns into an argument over which movies they're taking back to Atlantis with them.
"Save your luggage allotment, Sheppard," Rodney is sneering. "Doctor Who was never the same after Tom Baker, and the movie sucked, and they're just going to mess it up." He punctuates his prediction with a grandiose wave of his pizza-laden hand.
"No, they won't," John says, stifling his smile, and he can't stop himself then. He leans forward and clumsily tries to capture Rodney's lips with his own, but Rodney pulls away.
"You said no kissing, Sheppard," he says, and he sounds genuinely confused, almost annoyed. And John might have started that particular rule, but it's one Rodney seems to have no problem following now.
John keeps eating, but he's lost his appetite. It's almost funny, the fact that John's been screwed over by other people plenty of times, but this time he's done it to himself.
*
John spends the next few days trapped in endless meetings. He has to stifle a snort when he's handed the agenda. Hands Across the Divide: Productive Science/Military Relations heads the page.
His reaction catches the eye of someone two seats down from John; they exchange glances and rueful shrugs. John feels the man's eyes on him a few times after that, and he breaks up the boredom by returning a few of the looks, checking out the man's narrow face, made interesting by a broken nose healed crooked, and his muscular shoulders.
They start the meeting with a round of introductions. "Dr. Sean Ballard, geologist," the man says. That's the last interesting thing that John hears for the next two hours. The droning of the too-smooth consultant in her snazzy suit and the overly warm conference room has him nodding off.
He drinks too much coffee and doodles on the meeting agenda, and thinks about what he'd be doing right now back on Atlantis, where the bureaucratic side of his job tends to get pared down to nonexistence, what with saving the galaxy and the constant threat of death.
Wincing as he hears the word facilitate for the umpteenth time, he feels strangely home sick. He longs for the sound of the sea and Elizabeth's thoughtful humor and sparring with Teyla and listening to Rodney and Ronon fight over the last piece of naiga nut pie.
During one long break, John heads down to Carter's lab. He peeks in and sees only the tops of two heads, one light, one darker, almost touching, bent over the workbench. They look in synch, companionable, and John turns away without entering the room. He stays away from Carter's lab after that.
Back in the meeting, John sprawls in his chair, loose body language belying the mix of annoyance and impatience and dissatisfaction that he can't seem to shake. The geologist keeps up the mild flirtation, giving John friendly smiles during the many coffee breaks. John amuses himself by smiling back and turning on the charm.
On the third day of meetings, the man comes over and introduces himself again during one coffee break. Dr. Ballard -- call me Sean -- looks tanned and competent, John's age or thereabouts. He's muscular and fit, his hair cut brutally short in an almost military buzz. He's attractive, but not classically handsome. He looks, in fact, just like the guys John used to fuck (before Atlantis, before Rodney).
They make small talk. Sean's been at SGC for almost five years but he's only gone offworld twice. He's earnest and eager about visiting other worlds in a way that makes John feel a little jaded. Sean seems almost innocent compared to the Atlantis scientists.
But talking shop is the last thing John is looking for, and he keeps the topics superficial, hobbies and working out, and then Sean steers the conversation towards running. Sean's easy to talk to and easy on the eyes, and he makes John forget for a little while the clusterfuck inside his head. So when Sean smiles over at him and asks if he'd like to go running the next morning, John smiles back and says yes.
*
He's not sure what to expect, a quick run in the SGC corridors and a quicker fuck afterwards maybe, but that's not on Sean's agenda. The next morning, John has to get up while it's still dark, and he tries to be quiet as he gets dressed. It's not sneaking around, he tells himself, but he lets out a sigh of relief when Rodney's door stays shut.
Sean's not just a runner; he's a trail runner, and that entails meeting up at a trailhead just outside Manitou Springs. It's early still, barely light, to beat the heat and the mountain bikers, according to his trail running companion.
"It's a bit of a drive, but it's my favorite trail," Sean had explained. "Don't worry; it's pretty short," he said, when John had given him a raised eyebrow.
John eyes the steep, wooden steps that lead up from the trailhead, and Sean hands him a water bottle. "It'll be fine," he says, in a hearty voice that raises John's hackles a little, and he swears he'll keep up if it kills him.
They head off, and it's not long before John's wondering if this jaunt really will kill him. He's used to running, but not at 7,000 fucking feet, and not straight up a fucking mountain.
To top it off, Sean's barely breathing hard, chattering on about the geological formations they run through, the view of Pikes Peak at the top, the mechanics of mountain building, and a ton of other things that John's too out of breath to respond to.
He stopped finding Rodney's science patter annoying the first time he saved their collective asses, but John's biting back the urge to tell Sean to put a sock in it. He's hot and dizzy and feeling a little queasy by the time they reach the top. They have to thread a needle's eye path through boulders, sharp and spiky enough it's like they have teeth.
"Pikes Peak granite," Sean supplies helpfully, and John gives him a sour glance. John loses his balance at one point and slams into one of the man-eating boulders. He loses about fifty layers of skin on the outside of his shin, and it bleeds like a stuck pig.
"Shit," he says, sitting down gingerly on one of the boulders.
Sean sits down right beside him, close enough that their sweaty shoulders touch. Sean's shirtless, and John stares at the taut muscles of his stomach and chest, trying to revive the mild attraction he'd felt at SGC.
He feels like cursing. Not only has Rodney gotten him all twisted up inside, he's apparently ruined John for anyone else. Great. Just great.
"Sorry, should have warned you about that," Sean mutters apologetically.
"No big deal," John shrugs it off. He straightens his leg out so that the blood doesn't flow down into his sock. Sean uncaps his water bottle, pours out some onto John's leg to rinse the blood off.
"It's no good, is it?" Sean says quietly, not looking up from John's leg. He makes a vague gesture between the two of them. It startles John so much he doesn't say anything for a while, but it's obvious what Sean is talking about. So obvious, it'd be stupid to pretend ignorance. He gets a sudden, sharp image of how he must seem to Sean, and it's not a very flattering picture.
The silence builds between them until John finally replies, "I guess not." Sean looks up, finally, and his expression is calm, kind but a little rueful.
John feels like an ass, basically leading things on when there never really was a chance. Sean seems like a nice guy, smart and attractive. But he's not Rodney, and nothing John does here will fix what's going on there.
It's not a good feeling.
*
That night, John's sprawled on the sofa bed, idly watching a rerun of Bonanza, when Rodney comes in early. He sits on the edge of the mattress, right next to John's knee.
John waits for Rodney to say something, but he stays quiet. When he looks over, Rodney looks a little poleaxed, pale. "What is it?" John asks.
Rodney doesn't look up, staring at the television screen, where Hop Sing is yelling at Pa Cartwright. John sits up, tugging his T-shirt down from where it's ridden up, and he's about to repeat the question when Rodney speaks.
"Did you ever go along thinking one thing, and one day, boom, in a flash you realize you really didn't have a clue?"
"Yes," John says instantly before he can stop himself, but Rodney's too lost in thought to catch it.
"Working with Sam. It wasn't what I thought it'd be."
John perks up a little. "How so?" He makes sure his voice is even and calm.
"Remember when you and Radek rescued me from the crashed jumper? I kept babbling about something, about leaving someone behind."
"You said, 'Sam,' John says slowly. "'We can't leave Sam.' And later you told Beckett you'd had hallucinations. You saw Colonel Carter down there."
Rodney laughs, a tiny whuff of breath. "I thought you'd figured it out, but you never asked."
"None of my business," John shrugs.
"Some part of me always believed she was there. Real." Rodney shifts, moves to face John directly. "Today I mentioned it to her. Said something about what happened down there, and she...didn't know what I was talking about. It was all in my head. All in my head. All this time, I've been thinking one thing...and I was fooling myself. Isn't that weird?"
"No," John says with enough feeling that Rodney glances over.
The silence drags out too long, way past the comfortable point, and Rodney's staring at him. John's acutely aware that he's in boxers and a T-shirt, and his leg is pressed against Rodney's ass. Rodney's weight is on one hand, his palm pressed into the mattress by John's thigh. His forearm is warm and muscular against John's skin.
Almost in slow motion, Rodney moves, deliberately placing his hand high on John's thigh. John sucks in a breath.
Rodney looks up at him, face unreadable. "So. What," he starts to say and has to swallow. He tries again. "What was the thing that you were fooling yourself about?"
John feels the old rush of paralysis, the little voice yammering at the base of his skull, say nothing, say nothing, but he's seen how well that worked out for him. He's tired of it.
"When I thought we could just stay friends," he says, all in a rush. Rodney makes a noise, not quite a laugh, but John rushes on. He has to say this now, all at once. "Just a little sex, you know? Get each other off, stay in the lines, nothing too serious. I was kidding myself."
Rodney's fingers move almost idly on John's thigh, and his eyes are closed. "I couldn't stay away," he says. "I've wanted to kiss you for so long, but I kept telling myself what I had was enough." His fingers dig painfully into the muscle of John's thigh, making him wince. "And I just couldn't stay away."
"I'm sorry," John says, but Rodney's fingers dig in harder. "Ow."
"I'm not done yet," Rodney says. "Seeing you jealous of Sam -- what, you thought you were being subtle?" he sneers at John's start of surprise. "I liked it," he says in a low voice. "I'm not proud of it, but I liked it." He shoots John a hard glance. "You kind of deserved it."
"Yeah, maybe I did," John says. "I didn't know." Rodney shoots him a level, deliberate stare, and John shrugs. "Maybe I didn't want to know."
Rodney's eyes stay on him for a long time, but he looks more thoughtful than anything. John looks at Rodney's wide, crooked mouth. It's unknown territory, unlike other parts of him, but they've both become explorers in the Pegasus galaxy.
"I'd like to kiss you now. If you want," John says, drawling the words to hide his nervousness. Rodney's mouth isn't the only uncharted territory for him here.
One corner of Rodney's mouth quirks up. "If I want? Don't be an idiot." He grabs John's hand and tugs on it. "How about we ditch the sofa first, though?" he says and pulls John to his feet. He follows Rodney back to his bedroom, the sound of the TV still on in the background.
Rodney's bedroom is quiet and dark, stamped with Rodney's presence: the bed covers pulled aside, the pillow dented. Rodney maneuvers him onto the bed and stands between John's spread knees. His fingers flutter nervously over John's face, hair, down onto his neck. The touch is slow, light, and exploratory, more sensual than erotic.
It's new, Rodney's hands on him this way. They've always done this fast, shaking fingers yanking on belts, impatient, the bare minimum of clothing pulled aside to do what needed to be done.
But that was before, before John knew that Rodney's ached to kiss him for who knows how long, and he never really knew that, how could he have missed it? And maybe he hadn't wanted to see it, because kissing has only ever led to trouble in his experience. Or maybe Rodney's poker face isn't as bad as John's always thought, and, jesus, yeah, they're both guys, but you'd think they could handle the communication thing just a little bit better.
John's brain is racing a mile a minute, and his heart tries to catch up when Rodney leans over, one hand on John's chest, the other cupping the back of John's neck, and brings their lips together. It's slow and sweet and totally not what John was expecting, but it's so, so, good, and fuck, Rodney can kiss.
One part of him keeps waiting to feel the old trapped feeling, waiting for the little voice in his head to start screaming Danger, Will Robinson, danger! But that's not happening; everything just keeps feeling better and better, Rodney's mouth on his, Rodney's hands moving over his chest.
Slow and easy, and Rodney's turning the act of undressing into a long, sensuous tease. No matter how many times they've fucked, John realizes they've never done it like this, completely naked, together, in a bed.
Trying to pull his T-shirt over his head, John catches his nose in the fabric. "Shit," he says, and he's struggling to free himself when he hears Rodney snort. It quickly turns into a full-fledged, contagious laugh, and John finds himself joining in helplessly. That's something else new: they've always been too frantic, too focused to kid around during sex.
"Oh, please. You're hopeless," Rodney says affectionately, and helps him, and they manage to get themselves undressed. Rodney pushes him back on the bed and settles on top of him, and John groans, because damn, it feels good, Rodney's weight pinning him down, their cocks lining up just right.
John's always thought kissing was dangerous, too intimate, but this, face to face, bodies plastered together, pushes his limits even more. But it's too good, practically crawling into each other's skin, Rodney with him the whole way, it's too good to think about stopping.
Rodney brings his mouth down on John's, his tongue strong and demanding, sweeping into John's mouth. Rodney's making sounds, really getting into it, but John realizes he's making sounds just as loud, just as desperate.
He's pushing his hips up to meet Rodney's, easily at first, and then more and more frantically. Rodney stiffens above him, his deep-throated groans filling John's ears. Rodney comes, skin flushed, eyes wide and dark, and the face he makes should look a little silly, but it doesn't. Doesn't at all.
The rush of heat between them trips John over the edge then. "Fuck," he says, and his fingers are digging into Rodney's hips so tightly they'll probably leave bruises, and he says it again, "Fuck." Rodney sags into him, draping him in heat, and sweat, and come, and John feels a laugh bubbling up that won't stop.
Once he starts laughing, he can't seem to quit. His chest moves up and down with the noise, carrying Rodney along with it, until Rodney shoots him a glare.
"What?" Rodney says. "What? What?" he repeats, his tone getting more and more annoyed.
John reaches up and pulls Rodney's mouth to his, running a hand through Rodney's fine hair, but even that doesn't stop him. Another laugh breaks out, unsealing their mouths, and John tries to muffle it against Rodney's neck, sneaking in a little tongue for good measure. Rodney pulls away slightly, enough to look John in the face, but Rodney's smiling.
"What the hell, Sheppard?" The tone is affectionate, but his expression still looks a little bemused.
John can't explain it; he's here finally, with Rodney, in Rodney's bed, in Rodney's space, and it's good. It feels right, and he wonders what the hell he was afraid of all this time.
He may not be able to explain it, but Rodney must see something in his expression. The confusion in Rodney's face clears suddenly, realization filling his eyes. Rodney's shaking then too, laughing with him, and John wraps his arms around Rodney's solid chest, grabbing on tight, almost desperately.
"About damn time," Rodney mutters, his voice strangely tight. "About damn time."