Parce Que Je T’aime (Because I Love You) / SGA
Title: Parce Que Je T’aime (Because I Love You)
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: Write about the last night of Paris.
Summary: John and Rodney decide to spend their Earthside leave far, far away from Colorado. (McShep.)
John makes the mistake of mentioning Paris while on P4-62C, during which Rodney's taking a Ronon-sized bite of a maybe-chicken MRE and simultaneously explaining the purpose behind landmarks. Teyla, more prone to art and abstract concepts, understands certain Earth structures-the Eiffel Tower, for instance-are meant for beauty and aesthetics alone, but Ronon thinks it's stupid to build without a practical value in mind. (John can't argue, because Ronon thinks anything without practical value is stupid.)
But landmarks bring up the Eiffel, and the Eiffel brings up Paris, which is kind of a nice thought (far better than Colorado, at least), so John says, “We should go there.”
That's the mistake.
Rodney looks at him with his sharp blue eyes, one cheek slightly puffed with food, and for a moment, John is terrified he’s given himself away.
“Are you kidding?” Rodney asks (the fear worsens). “Ronon and Teyla could never get that kind of authorization. Do you remember what it took for Carson's funeral? The paperwork would scare the Wraith off!” Teyla takes a polite sip from her canteen, Ronon actually stops eating, and John's fear vanishes. Rodney is so oblivious that John could Sharpie I want you on his forehead and garner zero results.
John smiles easily, pushing the notion-along with all the other failed attempts of he and Rodney being alone-away and buries it. “It was just a thought,” he whines, knowing the familiar tone will put the mood back. Rodney harrumphs.
“Let's leave the thinking to those more qualified,” he sniffs, and starts eating again.
---
But maybe someone (“someone” being Teyla, of course) mentions it after they return to Atlantis. It's the only reason John can imagine when Rodney plops next to him during dinner and says, right out of the blue, “Your idea wasn't completely stupid.”
“Which one?” John asks, just to make Rodney splutter and flail a bit.
“The trip to Paris. Our enforced leave is next month, and spending it in Cheyenne Mountain is about as appealing as spending it at Jeannie's.”
“You'll have to stop by for a few days, or she'll never speak to you again,” John points out. Rodney looks grumpy at the thought and begins stealing fries off the plate that isn't his.
“We'll stay for a few days,” he amends, already using the word “we”, like there's a “we” to consider. John agrees to the plan by not disagreeing to it, and they share the fries as well as the same blob of ketchup, like teenagers on their first date.
---
In any event, the month passes (miraculously, one might say) without broken bones, brain damage, or alient attacks of any kind. Rodney mentions the trip once in a while, just to make sure they were still on (like John would cancel the whole thing without telling him). John gets busy booking airline tickets, hotel reservations, and rental cars. He chooses an apartment for the majority of their stay, complete with a washer and kitchen, but doesn’t go crazy with tickets for tourist sites; he’s less inclined to do any touristy stuff (being in Atlantis has spoiled his patience, making him want everything now as opposed to waiting in line for it; Rodney, he's sure, is even worse), so he figures they'll choose what they want to do when they get there.
John mentions Paris a couple times himself, only going so far as to make sure Rodney brings a scarf (“Do I have one of those?” Rodney asks, a question Teyla answers by knitting one in three days) and a clear, quart-sized Ziplock bag (which Ronon acquires by intimidating the kitchen staff). It's kind of cool knowing his two teammates are on his side, doing everything they can to make sure he and Rodney eventually get to the same page.
---
When they're ready to go (“Finally,” Rodney says, “no offense to you, Sheppard, but the sooner we leave, the better,”), Teyla rests her forehead against theirs.
“Have a wonderful trip,” she says. “Be safe.”
“Bring back food,” Ronon requests, like everyone doesn't know that's what he wants as a souvenir.
Sam suggests they visit the Lourve, something neither of them plan to do (because art-bleh), but they nod and promise to try and squeeze it into their busy itinerary of eating and sleeping. Rodney leaves Radek with some last minute instructions until Radek, fed up, practically shoves them through the gate.
...
Rodney, predictably, glees over the airplane food; John gives him most of his portion, because it's disgusting, unidentifiable garbage. He'd prefer a MRE over that stuff any day. The coffee's pretty bad as well, but they both know an airplane is no place for five-star dining, and they've had worse. (P64-0LF comes to mind. The natives refer to the world as Halako, but Rodney calls it The Planet of the Dung Waffles, a story John never talks about. Ever.)
Rodney brings his laptop. They watch three episodes of MST3K; John, in turn, brings Family Guy (“The only show your country ever got right,” Rodney sniffs), and they turn into school boys the minute the jokes get dirty. He brings snacks, too, and even has the decency to share. Between bouts of TV, Rodney shoots off a few scathing e-mails (“I have to keep my minions afraid,” he explains. John frowns. “Think I should send some, too?” he asks, to which Rodney waves his hand in the air, as though brushing the question away. “I'm not sure how to break this to you, but your men have witnessed you toss paper airplanes across the mess. Your cover as ‘scary CO’ is blown.”)
Halfway over the Atlantic Ocean, the cabin lights dim. Most everyone is going to sleep. Rodney, who brought his own pillow, is about to nod off himself, but John can't relax enough to do the same. He's never enjoyed someone else flying.
"Relax," Rodney whispers. "I'm the one who's supposed to panic about everything."
"I'm not panicking," John whispers back. "I'm just being alert."
Rodney eases into a thoughtful silence, and just as John is sure his scientist has fallen asleep, Rodney whispers, "Forty-six thousand, five hundred and eighty nine." John smiles in the dark.
"Easy," he softly answers, and that's what they do, their secret game, until John eventually closes his eyes and rests.
---
Madrid Barajas Airport is absolute hell, mainly due to its enormous size and the fact they have to make serious tracks.
"Just pretend we're getting chased by the natives," Rodney deadpans. Suddenly, the cloud of doom that's been brewing over John's head (we’re going to miss the flight, we’re going to crash, we’re going to have to stay in this hellhole for a layover I didn’t plan for) is whisked away by laughter. Rodney smiles.
They make the plane just in time, eat peanuts, and watch Hot Fuzz.
"How did I not know this movie existed?" John asks, half an hour into it and completely riveted.
"Wait until you see 'Transformers'," Rodney replies with a mouthful of Little Debbie brownie. "The science makes me want to hang myself, but there are cars. Cars that can kill you with giant canons."
That is so the movie they're watching on the way back.
---
The Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport experience is better, mostly because there's no connecting flight to make. It's them (slightly smelly) and their luggage (slightly beaten) and the shuttle that'll take them to rue Mornay, where John plans to sack out for a week. The shuttle ride, however, leaves-in Rodney's ever humble opinion-something to be desired.
"Can we go any faster?" he hisses, watching as the traffic light turns red but the driver doesn't slow down. The van slams to a halt five seconds later, and John half expects the person behind them to honk, but no one does.
"I think they're supposed to drive this way," John whispers back. Rodney answers with a I didn't survive six years in a different galaxy just so I could die in a Parisian taxi, Colonel Prick, but John pretends to have no idea what the look means.
"Stop worrying that genius head of yours," he says instead. "Normal people would be enjoying the scenery."
"No, normal people would be making peace with their gods right now," he snaps back. "I just happen to have a face-to-face treaty with mine."
John has a comeback for that, but it's interrupted when a car narrowly avoids side-swiping their shuttle. That's when the horns come in, and it's also when Rodney notices there are hardly any marked lanes on the street. ("No lanes? Lanes, John, so people know where they can and can't be!" John's been hoping Rodney wouldn't notice that.)
There's a furious (but mercifully quick) verbal war with French words racketing back and forth between drivers. The shuttle driver seems to win, so he gets behind the wheel again, apologizes in broken English, and manages to reach the apartment without further complication. John tips generously while Rodney, still smarting over the "a car nearly killed us" thing, tips him nothing.
The lobby, John soon discovers, is under construction. Only one out of the two elevators work, but they managed to squeeze into one and get to the fifth floor. As it moves up, John leans against the wall, smiling when Rodney smiles first.
"I bet you've been here before," John remarks, here being Paris. "In all your international, scientific travels."
"I've passed through a few times, but never with decent company. On the other hand, there was no near death experience involving myself and the European road system."
"You think I'm decent company?" John can't help it: the compliment feels good to hear, but requires the tiniest amount of friendly teasing. "Well, gee. That might be the nicest things you've ever said to me."
"Don't get too teary-eyed, Colonel," Rodney semi-snaps (a mix of irritation and exasperation). "The last time I was here, it was with a group of Russians who hadn't showered in three days. Kavanagh would've made better company."
John's eyebrows rise just as the elevator doors ping open. Rodney blinks at him.
"Did I really just say that?" he wonders, the weight of his words finally sinking in.
"Yup. But don't worry, the secret's safe with me," John solemnly promises. "Your deeply hidden adoration for Calvin Kavanagh will never pass my lips." He can't help the wide, lopsided grin that breaks out one second later just as Rodney begins to splutter. They take their luggage to their apartment door, unlocking it with a bulky key before shoving it open. The carpet is green, the curtains are blue, and the walls are whitewash-but it's theirs, along with the tiny kitchen and two terraces with mostly-alive flowers.
"It'll do," Rodney graciously allows, once the place has been inspected by his wandering eyes.
"Good. That means you won't be sleeping on the street," John retorts.
They have every intention of unpacking, stealing a shower and foraging for food, but once they unfold the Murphy-style bed from the wall, it's a matter of minutes until they're both asleep, windows still open, completely oblivious to the world.
rue Mornay.
"Hey."
Rodney shows absolutely no signs of hearing him. He slumbers on, horrifyingly unaware (does he sleep like this on missions?); John can't help but watch, morbidly fascinated, as Rodney continues to not move. "Hey," he says again, jabbing a hard poke into Rodney's side. He grunts and turns over, barely registering the fact he'd been touched.
"Celine Dion is overrated," John loudly proclaims. "Canadian football is a joke." Pause. "Zelenka is smarter than you!"
Nothing. Not even a twitch from his pinky toe. John thinks this warrants the big guns. It's fun when he gets the chance, but Teyla always wears her I'm extremely disappointed in you, young man expression when he does.
Good thing she isn't here.
"The sensors are going crazy! What the hell have you been doing? Grab your laptop, the sections are flooding, we're out of coffee, the ZPM is draining, the shield is made of tissue paper! McKay!"
It's funny (well, hilarious, and also a little sad) to watch Rodney react so quickly. He throws himself off the mattress, hair in complete disarray, groping for a radio that isn't there.
"Colonel?" he asks, but is quick on the uptake. His eyes become evil slits-an expression he's obviously learned from Radek. "You think that's funny? I didn't come here with you so I could get scared into a heart attack!"
“How else was I supposed to get you conscious? I didn't bring a bullhorn with me," and just as Rodney looks ready to commit homicide, John adds, "Anyway, aren't you hungry? I was thinking it's time to grab dinner."
The idea of food gets Rodney functioning again, but he's nowhere close to forgiving John's rouse. "Fine," Rodney says, "But you're buying."
John puts up some token resistance, kind of like when a fly gets stuck in a web. "What? Why me? I've paid for everything so far," to which Rodney huffs and answers, "You can just keep that in mind next time you try to scare me into an early grave."
John knows this. He's totally aware it’s time to grovel, but it gets the job done, and dealing with Rodney's I'm-angry-but-not-really attitude is way easier than Teyla's speech about treating others with kindness and respect.
Darkness starts falling at 10:30. John breaks out the iron while Rodney takes the first shower; they both reek of stale sweat from hopping airport to airport. It's weirdly domestic, the whole ironing-Rodney's-shirt thing: flattening the collar, rolling the cuffs, making sure all the buttons are still attached. John hangs it up once he's done and starts on his own clothes. He's halfway finished when the water shuts off, and he can hear the sounds of Rodney brushing his teeth (a glass clinking against the sink) and shaving (a definitive pop of the plastic cap coming off a new can of shaving gel). It's enough time to press the collar and fold the board back up before Rodney emerges, smelling like soap and wearing rarely-seen jeans and a t-shirt.
"You ironed," he said, surprised. "Do I owe you my first-born or something?"
"It's just my apology for waking you so… quickly," John dryly answers. Rodney glares.
"Don't think you're getting out of buying my dinner," he says, crossing his arms. "Transforming into the male version of a 1950s housewife doesn't excuse the monetary debt."
"Roger that."
"And please feel free to take your time while my hypoglycemia sets in."
"You're telling me to hurry, is that it?"
"Seriously, I'll leave without you," Rodney threatens.
John turns towards one of their open windows. "It's getting kinda dark out, Rodney, but if you want to venture out there with the muggers, feel free."
"Muggers?" Rodney echoes, arms falling. "There are muggers here?"
John closes the bathroom door and grins at his reflection in the mirror. Sometimes, it's too easy.
Since it's Friday, the Metro doesn't close until midnight, but it doesn't give them much time to lollygag around. They have about an hour, one John uses wisely by calling upon the great and mighty powers of a phone book and map. The phone book tells him (to their dismay-well, John's, since Rodney will eat just about anything) that the only reputable place still open so late is McDonalds. It also gives him an address. The map shows it's only one stop from the closest station, so theoretically, it should only take about a half-hour to get some grub.
"You up for a burger?" John asks as they lock the apartment door and head for the elevator.
"Are you telling me I came all this way so I could eat at a chain?" Rodney demands, incredulous, but pauses for a moment. "On the other hand, that actually sounds really good."
"That's the spirit," he says, and pushes the button for the ground floor.
The Metro is a series of mostly-underground tunnels with trains that run every three to seven minutes. John buys a five-day ticket for each of them, and they get on at Sully-Morland and off just one stop later. The McDonald's sign can be seen from where the station empties, but they take their time walking there, looking at shadow-heavy relief sculptures on the buildings and watching for cobblestones on the sidewalk. Somehow, John's glad they didn't really plan anything; he likes getting lost and wandering around with Rodney, finding things by chance, avoiding the tourists who are smart enough to stay in after dark.
The restaurant is surprisingly big inside. They have to speak slowly and clearly, but eventually get their orders. For Rodney, it's a quarter-pounder with cheese, fries, and a Coke; John chooses a fish fillet sandwich and ice-cream. It totals to about fifteen Euros-roughly thirty dollars. They catch one of the last trains back to Sully-Morland and eat on the terrace. It's ridiculous, this joy they find in such simple pleasures, like claiming rights on the last ketchup packet and watching Sacré-Cœur light up miles and miles away.
---
They sleep until ten the next morning. John wakes first, immediately noticing Rodney's palm resting on John's stomach, which would have been more awkward if they hadn't been on six years worth of off-world missions together. Instead, it only reminds him why he suggested this trip to begin with: seduction, or-more realistically-begging Rodney to fall in love with him.
He gets up and makes their coffee, showering while it brews, taking the time to shave and fruitlessly brush his hair. Rodney's just reaching consciousness when John exits the restroom.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asks, voice muffled in a pillow. "If I do, then my training has obviously worked."
"Training? I'm not a dog, Rodney."
Rodney sits up, sporting hair that looks like he's been sticking his fingers in electric sockets.
"Sure you are," he retorts, pointing to the kitchen where the pot of coffee is simply waiting to be poured. "Go fetch, boy."
"Woof," John says, rolling his eyes, but pours them both a mug, dropping in sugar cubes and milk until it tastes decent. When he emerges, John expects to find Rodney buried beneath blankets and cursing his jetlag, but he's standing on the terrace instead, looking out onto the city and enjoying the breeze.
"You scored us an amazing view," Rodney admits, taking the offered coffee. "It's gorgeous."
"Yeah," John agrees, not looking on the city at all.
"You scored us an amazing view," Rodney admits, taking the offered coffee. "It's gorgeous."
They spend the day being unpredictable, wandering around Paris like two lost boys. John likes it. They're both so used to having deadlines and missions and responsibilities that floating, straying from one place to another, is a welcome change. Rodney seems to enjoy it, too, and they spend hours on a single street, ducking in and out of stores and book shops, picking out interesting things their friends might like back home. John finds Lorne some old leather-bound sketchbooks with heavy paper, and Rodney buys a vintage ring for Jeannie. Lunch is at a café (Rodney knows just enough French to communicate his citrus allergy) and then they stroll along the River Seine on their way back to their building. Across the river is the back of Notre Dame, a sight John's never consciously wanted to see, but now that he has… well. It's humbling, It wouldn't be too far a walk to observe it up close, and evening's only just falling. He gently touches Rodney's elbow. The other man stops instantly.
"Can we?" John asks, tilting his head towards the cathedral.
Rodney blinks at him and answers, "Yes, of course," like John doesn't need Rodney's permission. It's an amazing thing once they get there. Even Rodney's a little spellbound by it, so they make their full rounds in near-silence, except when Rodney whispers bits of math, like the engineering it takes to create a buttress or the science behind arches.
He buys them ice-cream on the way back. It's amazingly good, even better under the sky of almost-night.
Very near their apartment is a tiny grocery store with blue awning. They purchase a half-gallon of warm milk, raspberry cookies, Kronenbourg1664 beer, yogurt, eggs, noodles, and Bolognaise sauce. Rodney loudly insists for paying this time, and the owner smiles widely at them, not understanding a single one of Rodney's spitfire words, but gladly accepting the forty-one Euros.
They each have one beer on the terrace and watch the city lights. Later, it's easy to leave the windows open, collapse on the mattress, and fall asleep. When John wakes up in the morning, Rodney's hand rests right above his heart; his blunt fingertips are five warms points that John stores in his head.
Across the river is the back of Notre Dame.
On their third day, John takes them La Défense, a modern business district in west Paris. The buildings are all chrome-colored and glass and tall (not nearly as tall as an Atlantis tower, but still something to write home about) and there are sculptures and fountains. There's even a two-tiered carousel at the edge of it all.
He's navigating them to La Grande Arche de la Défense, a place he researched online and thought Rodney might appreciate. La Grande Arche is the 21st century representation of the Arc de Triomphe, and when they finally get there, he's glad they made the trip. Rodney's expression isn't bored or impatient, but impressed, like he's just found a really cool Ancient doohickey.
"Can we go to the top?" he asks, a sign he's genuinely interested to see what else the Arche has to offer.
"If you can manage the stairs," John teases. Rodney rolls his eyes and takes the first step. The stairs take them to the base of the Arche, and they get to ride a clear elevator the rest of the way, watching as the ground below becomes farther, the buildings smaller.
At the top is the Ô110 restaurant where they buy some water and take a break. It's a short one, since Rodney spots one of the main reasons John brought him here. The Arche not only houses a restaurant and art gallery, but a museum; namely, an information technology museum featuring computers dating all the way to the first telephone.
Rodney's up like a shot. John finishes his water and calmly follows, but Rodney's already two rooms away, standing next to what John first thinks is a green couch.
"Do you know what this is?" Rodney demands. John looks at him as if to ask do you seriously expect me to answer that? The farthest John's computer expertise goes is differentiating between the keyboard and mouse; whenever his laptop starts acting funny, he just uses Rodney as the ultimate CTRL+ALT+DELETE to fix it.
"Unique furniture?" he guesses.
"No, guru. It's a CRAY."
"Okay." John pauses. Finally, he asks, "Is that a good thing?"
Rodney stares at him as though a second head has just popped out of John's shoulder. John can feel the lecture coming.
And it does. A typhoon of words explaining the history of computers erupts from Rodney's crooked mouth; it's not exactly theoretical physics, but it seems to make Rodney happy, and that's John's intention anyway.
That night, John semi-competently boils noodles and sauce for dinner. They eat on the terrace with their beer, and it seems like the perfect time to say okay, look, there's a reason I wanted to take this trip with you, but Rodney looks so relaxed that it seems wrong to bring it up.
La Grande Arche is the 21st century representation of the Arc de Triomphe.
On day four, John wakes Rodney early, stuffing the barely-functioning man with coffee and then pushing him towards the tub. His clothes have already been ironed and John's practically ready to go, so he occupies himself by scrambling eggs for their breakfast. When Rodney emerges ten minutes later, not at all happy with his rough treatment, he demands, "Just where do you plan on taking us? Your plotting makes me nervous."
John just slides a plate of eggs in Rodney's direction and says, "It's a surprise. Now you'd better eat or we'll be late."
Rodney doesn't ask again until, after a short Metro ride, they arrive at the Gard du Nord train station and John picks up their Eurostar tickets. They find their train car, but it's practically empty with a sleeping business man in the back and an older couple near the front.
"Seriously," Rodney says, "the suspense is killing me. Is it going to be a long ride? Should I have brought my laptop?"
"Nope. It's two hours, tops," John easily answers. "I'm sure we'll find a way to entertain ourselves. I can kick your ass at Prime, Not Prime and you can mock my hair."
"You've never beaten me at Prime, Not Prime," Rodney argues, and then demands to see the map John faithfully totes in his back pocket. "Two hours," he mutters to himself, scanning the map until he realizes they’re heading towards London.
The ride there is gorgeous, rain greening the grass into a shade of shamrock. Their ears pop a few times, but it's otherwise pleasant, and Rodney is enjoying himself judging by his lack of complaint. They both doze for a bit, lulled by the silence and movement and gray clouds; Rodney's head even dips onto John's shoulder. The rain follows them to London, naturally, where they get off at St. Pancras Station, only to find it's cold and wet. People much smarter than they have umbrellas (sturdy ones, not the cheap kind the souvenir shops are trying to pawn off), but having lived through the trials of Antarctica and Siberia respectively, they ignore it fairly well and resolve to buy sweaters only if they happen to come across a respectable looking store.
Their eggs have worn off, though, and John's feeling a need for real food, so they investigate the immediate area until he spies a hotel restaurant just opening for the morning.
"Let's grab a bite," he suggests. "Hey, the menu will be in English!" Rodney never, ever needs to be prodded into eating, but he's clearly amused by John's groundbreaking realization that Londoners speak and write in a language both of them can understand.
Their waitress is pretty and blonde, but Rodney doesn't seem to notice. In fact, he barely takes his eyes off the menu, and in return, the waitress doesn't flirt with John even once. She's also amazingly good at her job-John's sure their coffee mugs never reach the bottom, and Rodney says (around a mouthful of food), "Even if the rest of today sucks, this meal makes everything worth it." It's typical Rodney, but he has a point: the breakfast, completele with tomatoes and mushrooms (which is weird to a man who lived on PopTarts as a child), is amazing. The three cups of coffee warm them until they're ready to brave the city.
They treat it as they do Paris: hopping apple-red double-decker buses and then getting off, discovering a history book for Teyla and old, cheeky playing cards for Radek, who ranks Best Player in the cutthroat poker games of Atlantis.
"In all my 'scientific travels', I've only been to London twice. Completely rushed," Rodney admits as they board another bus.
John looks at him. "Do you like it?"
"I like that we can understand what people are saying," Rodney dryly replies, but then smiles.
Their destination is Harrod's, a famous department store on Brompton Road in Knightsbridge. John (who's never been fashion-oriented, and neither has Rodney) isn't there for clothes. It's food he's after, because Ronon isn't much interested in things unless he can eat it or shoot it.
"Are we seriously here to shop?" Rodney asks, practically scandalized by the notion. "For what, a pair of jeans via child labor that are selling for fifty Euros?"
"Nope," John cheerfully answers. "But trust me, you'll like it."
"You obviously don't know me very well," comes the muttered retort, but that's where Rodney's wrong-this is something he knows Rodney will love. Rodney's renowned for his adoration of chocolate, so it only seems appropriate that they should visit Harrod’s Food Hall to pick up goodies for Ronon and Sam. And Teyla, of course. Well, and Radek, too.
Okay, everyone, plus some for themselves. When they finally find it (John pointedly ignores Rodney's remarks about his sense of direction-he's used to navigating spaceships with maps that pop out at his mental command), Rodney ceases all complaint. It is impressive: chocolate and sweets in every corner, crammed into boxes, jumbled into precarious piles, colorful and perfectly shaped. "Oh my god," Rodney breathes. "Do you know what this is?"
"Is that a trick question?" John asks, because yes, of course he knows, but it doesn't make his mouth curl into a creepy, manic I have a brilliant idea smile.
"Maybe for those who can't see the bigger picture," comes the snippy answer. "You, Colonel, are looking at fodder for our black market, the likes of which it's never seen. Seriously, do you know how much chocolate a scientist can consume? I'm speaking in weight, not volume," so they proceed to buy one of almost everything until their bags are overflowing. Rodney agonizes over the choices, buying this and that and a box of something John can’t even pronounce, but it looks delicious.
"How will we pack all this for the flight back?" John asks, staring at their stockade of sweets.
"I'm a genius, remember? This is why you brought me with you," Rodney sniffs, and John thinks, no, it really isn't.
---
Day five passes easily, melting into the sixth, where they tour the outside of the Lourve (something Rodney grudgingly admits is beautiful, even as it drizzles for three hours straight).
They walk very slowly back to the Metro station; they're tired, in a jetlagged, I've-been-touring-a-foreign-city sort of way, but John feels awesome, and Rodney does, too. He's glad they came here.
"I can't believe we leave tomorrow," Rodney says, derailing John's thoughts from their tracks. "This week went by too fast."
"True. But I also miss our city, too."
"If it's still standing when we get back," comes the grumbling response, and John laughs, bumping his shoulder into Rodney's. The Metro ride is quick, and they make it back to the apartment within a half hour.
"I guess we're getting old if this is all it takes to wear us down," Rodney muses, flopping onto the bed. They hadn't even bothered to fold it up this morning.
"Haven't you heard? Forty is the new twenty," John says, shoving Rodney this way and that until there's room enough for both of them on the mattress. "Technically, we should be bursting with energy."
After a moment or two, John's sure Rodney's fallen asleep. His exhaustion makes sense; it's a full time job keeping Atlantis safe, and no matter how hard they try, no one can catch up on their rest-unless, of course, they're trapped in the infirmary and on the really good drugs, which only means one (or all) of them have endured serious injury. John doesn't really count that as a win.
He quickly follows Rodney into slumber, not aware he's fallen asleep until three hours later when he wakes from a dream. The room is almost completely dark. He checks his watch for the time-the hour is either very late or very early, but they don't need to be out of the apartment until eight. He stretches, ready and willing to nod off again, when Rodney interrupts the silence.
"You know," he gently says, "I've been thinking."
"That's a surprise," John drawls, but turns to look at him, studying the shadowed face that's staring back. He knows each line, angle, and expression of Rodney's face; he's sure Rodney knows the same of John's. "What about?"
"This trip," and the answer is spoken so seriously that John feels a twinge of anxiety. "And all the beautiful women you've known. But I'm still the one you brought to the city of love. Weird, isn't it?"
"Sure," John agrees. It's weird, but it's also intentional. Maybe he'll get the guts to say so one day.
"I was also thinking about how you didn't hit on a pretty Parisian woman even once," Rodney continues. John feels exposed, even in the dark, but it would be too obvious if he rolls away. Instead, he pretends he's a little chilled and pulls the blanket closer to him, covering his shoulders and arms. This, John realizes, is what a hunted tortoise must feel like.
"Parisian women aren't why I came here," he replies. "I just wanted us to get away from the SGC and aliens and world takeovers for a while. Even you can't thrive on stress all the time, Rodney."
"That's true," he quietly agrees. "I suppose I should thank you for looking out for me. Making sure we got away for a while. Alone."
And there it is: the pinnacle of their entire adventure, the reason he did this all in the first place. John squeezes his eyes closed, tremendously glad of the darkness; he's ashamed of his transparency, but then again, Rodney is bright: he would've figured it out one way or the other, but John wishes it wasn't now, at the tail end of their vacation.
"John?" Rodney whispers. "That's it, isn't it? Being alone together?"
John wills the mattress to swallow him up. "Yeah," he says, finally, like a sigh. "You aren't wrong."
"Then why are you trying to hide from me?"
John thinks about it for a second. It's a valid question. "I guess," he slowly answers, "I guess-look, I'm old. By the time Pegasus settles, it'll probably be time for me to retire. I want a shitty house on the beach, a dog, a car that rolls, and you. Is it possible for you to want any of that, too?" John asks, seriously, and Rodney clutches his hand, their joined fingers pressed tight. John's not old-not yet, but there are crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and silver hair dusting his temples.
"Probable," Rodney gently corrects. "It's highly probable, in fact."
John swallows hard. "Is it probable you’ll kiss me?” Rodney smiles, wonderfully lopsided, and leans forward, a hair's breadth away.
"I don't know," he whispers. "Aren’t heroic space flyboys supposed to make the first move?"
"Well,” John drawls, voice slightly shaky with relief, “to be honest, I can't believe you just called me a 'heroic space flyboy'."
He half expects a snappy comeback, but Rodney just pushes himself closer, his body puzzle-piece fit with John's, and says, "You are. You're a hero, and you’re my best friend, and I love you. If that's okay."
John simply untangles their hands and places one on Rodney's shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, and pulls Rodney down, unresisting. His chest can barely contain his heart: he's thrumming with happiness, completely consumed with joy. When they kiss, he thinks they could’ve done this a week ago, during their first night here, but it’s good this way, better somehow, as the sounds of the city rustle into their room and congratulate them.
...they tour the outside of the Lourve (something Rodney grudgingly admits is beautiful, even as it drizzles for three hours straight).
On their way home, they watch more MST3K and, as promised, Transformers. John's not sure how he missed this movie, either, but it's kind of sad that his geek is more tuned into pop culture than John is.
When the cabin lights dim down, John is a little less nervous about being the passenger instead of the pilot. He's still grateful when Rodney's hand finds his own, lacing their fingers until John falls asleep, a secret code of comfort.
They plane hop, landing and boarding and landing again. Rodney spends each layover nursing an exuberantly priced cup of airport coffee, navigating them from terminal to terminal until they finally, finally reach Colorado.
By the time they're inside Cheyenne Mountain, they're Atlantis-Colorado-Atlanta-Madrid-Paris jetlagged. Landry sees it, and doesn't even fake it with the pleasantries. There's no sweetening the fact John and Rodney still have a two-week Daedalus trip ahead of them. On their way to the ship, John wonders if Teyla and Ronon will know the minute they see them-they're very perceptive people, putting John to shame when it comes to emotional eloquence. Teyla does, at least, and Ronon is never one to dance around an issue.
"Ah!" Rodney says, spotting Colonel Caldwell in the Daedalus control room. "Just the man I wanted to see."
"Doctor McKay," Caldwell sighs, resigned to the conversation, whatever it might be. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, nothing. I just wanted to give you this," Rodney answers, rummaging through his bulging duffel bag and pulling out a gold box. John recognizes it as chocolate from Harrod’s. "My thanks for repeatedly saving our asses from nuclear bombs, exploding suns, Wraith hybrids, the list goes on. Have you seen Novak? I got one for her, too. Anyone who deals with naked gray aliens should be compensated with more than just aneurysms," and this John realizes, is why he loves Rodney McKay like he loves ferris wheels, flying, country songs, and Paris-things he's loved naturally, things that've made a place for themselves inside of him.
FIN.
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: Write about the last night of Paris.
Summary: John and Rodney decide to spend their Earthside leave far, far away from Colorado. (McShep.)
John makes the mistake of mentioning Paris while on P4-62C, during which Rodney's taking a Ronon-sized bite of a maybe-chicken MRE and simultaneously explaining the purpose behind landmarks. Teyla, more prone to art and abstract concepts, understands certain Earth structures-the Eiffel Tower, for instance-are meant for beauty and aesthetics alone, but Ronon thinks it's stupid to build without a practical value in mind. (John can't argue, because Ronon thinks anything without practical value is stupid.)
But landmarks bring up the Eiffel, and the Eiffel brings up Paris, which is kind of a nice thought (far better than Colorado, at least), so John says, “We should go there.”
That's the mistake.
Rodney looks at him with his sharp blue eyes, one cheek slightly puffed with food, and for a moment, John is terrified he’s given himself away.
“Are you kidding?” Rodney asks (the fear worsens). “Ronon and Teyla could never get that kind of authorization. Do you remember what it took for Carson's funeral? The paperwork would scare the Wraith off!” Teyla takes a polite sip from her canteen, Ronon actually stops eating, and John's fear vanishes. Rodney is so oblivious that John could Sharpie I want you on his forehead and garner zero results.
John smiles easily, pushing the notion-along with all the other failed attempts of he and Rodney being alone-away and buries it. “It was just a thought,” he whines, knowing the familiar tone will put the mood back. Rodney harrumphs.
“Let's leave the thinking to those more qualified,” he sniffs, and starts eating again.
---
But maybe someone (“someone” being Teyla, of course) mentions it after they return to Atlantis. It's the only reason John can imagine when Rodney plops next to him during dinner and says, right out of the blue, “Your idea wasn't completely stupid.”
“Which one?” John asks, just to make Rodney splutter and flail a bit.
“The trip to Paris. Our enforced leave is next month, and spending it in Cheyenne Mountain is about as appealing as spending it at Jeannie's.”
“You'll have to stop by for a few days, or she'll never speak to you again,” John points out. Rodney looks grumpy at the thought and begins stealing fries off the plate that isn't his.
“We'll stay for a few days,” he amends, already using the word “we”, like there's a “we” to consider. John agrees to the plan by not disagreeing to it, and they share the fries as well as the same blob of ketchup, like teenagers on their first date.
---
In any event, the month passes (miraculously, one might say) without broken bones, brain damage, or alient attacks of any kind. Rodney mentions the trip once in a while, just to make sure they were still on (like John would cancel the whole thing without telling him). John gets busy booking airline tickets, hotel reservations, and rental cars. He chooses an apartment for the majority of their stay, complete with a washer and kitchen, but doesn’t go crazy with tickets for tourist sites; he’s less inclined to do any touristy stuff (being in Atlantis has spoiled his patience, making him want everything now as opposed to waiting in line for it; Rodney, he's sure, is even worse), so he figures they'll choose what they want to do when they get there.
John mentions Paris a couple times himself, only going so far as to make sure Rodney brings a scarf (“Do I have one of those?” Rodney asks, a question Teyla answers by knitting one in three days) and a clear, quart-sized Ziplock bag (which Ronon acquires by intimidating the kitchen staff). It's kind of cool knowing his two teammates are on his side, doing everything they can to make sure he and Rodney eventually get to the same page.
---
When they're ready to go (“Finally,” Rodney says, “no offense to you, Sheppard, but the sooner we leave, the better,”), Teyla rests her forehead against theirs.
“Have a wonderful trip,” she says. “Be safe.”
“Bring back food,” Ronon requests, like everyone doesn't know that's what he wants as a souvenir.
Sam suggests they visit the Lourve, something neither of them plan to do (because art-bleh), but they nod and promise to try and squeeze it into their busy itinerary of eating and sleeping. Rodney leaves Radek with some last minute instructions until Radek, fed up, practically shoves them through the gate.
...
Rodney, predictably, glees over the airplane food; John gives him most of his portion, because it's disgusting, unidentifiable garbage. He'd prefer a MRE over that stuff any day. The coffee's pretty bad as well, but they both know an airplane is no place for five-star dining, and they've had worse. (P64-0LF comes to mind. The natives refer to the world as Halako, but Rodney calls it The Planet of the Dung Waffles, a story John never talks about. Ever.)
Rodney brings his laptop. They watch three episodes of MST3K; John, in turn, brings Family Guy (“The only show your country ever got right,” Rodney sniffs), and they turn into school boys the minute the jokes get dirty. He brings snacks, too, and even has the decency to share. Between bouts of TV, Rodney shoots off a few scathing e-mails (“I have to keep my minions afraid,” he explains. John frowns. “Think I should send some, too?” he asks, to which Rodney waves his hand in the air, as though brushing the question away. “I'm not sure how to break this to you, but your men have witnessed you toss paper airplanes across the mess. Your cover as ‘scary CO’ is blown.”)
Halfway over the Atlantic Ocean, the cabin lights dim. Most everyone is going to sleep. Rodney, who brought his own pillow, is about to nod off himself, but John can't relax enough to do the same. He's never enjoyed someone else flying.
"Relax," Rodney whispers. "I'm the one who's supposed to panic about everything."
"I'm not panicking," John whispers back. "I'm just being alert."
Rodney eases into a thoughtful silence, and just as John is sure his scientist has fallen asleep, Rodney whispers, "Forty-six thousand, five hundred and eighty nine." John smiles in the dark.
"Easy," he softly answers, and that's what they do, their secret game, until John eventually closes his eyes and rests.
---
Madrid Barajas Airport is absolute hell, mainly due to its enormous size and the fact they have to make serious tracks.
"Just pretend we're getting chased by the natives," Rodney deadpans. Suddenly, the cloud of doom that's been brewing over John's head (we’re going to miss the flight, we’re going to crash, we’re going to have to stay in this hellhole for a layover I didn’t plan for) is whisked away by laughter. Rodney smiles.
They make the plane just in time, eat peanuts, and watch Hot Fuzz.
"How did I not know this movie existed?" John asks, half an hour into it and completely riveted.
"Wait until you see 'Transformers'," Rodney replies with a mouthful of Little Debbie brownie. "The science makes me want to hang myself, but there are cars. Cars that can kill you with giant canons."
That is so the movie they're watching on the way back.
---
The Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport experience is better, mostly because there's no connecting flight to make. It's them (slightly smelly) and their luggage (slightly beaten) and the shuttle that'll take them to rue Mornay, where John plans to sack out for a week. The shuttle ride, however, leaves-in Rodney's ever humble opinion-something to be desired.
"Can we go any faster?" he hisses, watching as the traffic light turns red but the driver doesn't slow down. The van slams to a halt five seconds later, and John half expects the person behind them to honk, but no one does.
"I think they're supposed to drive this way," John whispers back. Rodney answers with a I didn't survive six years in a different galaxy just so I could die in a Parisian taxi, Colonel Prick, but John pretends to have no idea what the look means.
"Stop worrying that genius head of yours," he says instead. "Normal people would be enjoying the scenery."
"No, normal people would be making peace with their gods right now," he snaps back. "I just happen to have a face-to-face treaty with mine."
John has a comeback for that, but it's interrupted when a car narrowly avoids side-swiping their shuttle. That's when the horns come in, and it's also when Rodney notices there are hardly any marked lanes on the street. ("No lanes? Lanes, John, so people know where they can and can't be!" John's been hoping Rodney wouldn't notice that.)
There's a furious (but mercifully quick) verbal war with French words racketing back and forth between drivers. The shuttle driver seems to win, so he gets behind the wheel again, apologizes in broken English, and manages to reach the apartment without further complication. John tips generously while Rodney, still smarting over the "a car nearly killed us" thing, tips him nothing.
The lobby, John soon discovers, is under construction. Only one out of the two elevators work, but they managed to squeeze into one and get to the fifth floor. As it moves up, John leans against the wall, smiling when Rodney smiles first.
"I bet you've been here before," John remarks, here being Paris. "In all your international, scientific travels."
"I've passed through a few times, but never with decent company. On the other hand, there was no near death experience involving myself and the European road system."
"You think I'm decent company?" John can't help it: the compliment feels good to hear, but requires the tiniest amount of friendly teasing. "Well, gee. That might be the nicest things you've ever said to me."
"Don't get too teary-eyed, Colonel," Rodney semi-snaps (a mix of irritation and exasperation). "The last time I was here, it was with a group of Russians who hadn't showered in three days. Kavanagh would've made better company."
John's eyebrows rise just as the elevator doors ping open. Rodney blinks at him.
"Did I really just say that?" he wonders, the weight of his words finally sinking in.
"Yup. But don't worry, the secret's safe with me," John solemnly promises. "Your deeply hidden adoration for Calvin Kavanagh will never pass my lips." He can't help the wide, lopsided grin that breaks out one second later just as Rodney begins to splutter. They take their luggage to their apartment door, unlocking it with a bulky key before shoving it open. The carpet is green, the curtains are blue, and the walls are whitewash-but it's theirs, along with the tiny kitchen and two terraces with mostly-alive flowers.
"It'll do," Rodney graciously allows, once the place has been inspected by his wandering eyes.
"Good. That means you won't be sleeping on the street," John retorts.
They have every intention of unpacking, stealing a shower and foraging for food, but once they unfold the Murphy-style bed from the wall, it's a matter of minutes until they're both asleep, windows still open, completely oblivious to the world.
rue Mornay.
"Hey."
Rodney shows absolutely no signs of hearing him. He slumbers on, horrifyingly unaware (does he sleep like this on missions?); John can't help but watch, morbidly fascinated, as Rodney continues to not move. "Hey," he says again, jabbing a hard poke into Rodney's side. He grunts and turns over, barely registering the fact he'd been touched.
"Celine Dion is overrated," John loudly proclaims. "Canadian football is a joke." Pause. "Zelenka is smarter than you!"
Nothing. Not even a twitch from his pinky toe. John thinks this warrants the big guns. It's fun when he gets the chance, but Teyla always wears her I'm extremely disappointed in you, young man expression when he does.
Good thing she isn't here.
"The sensors are going crazy! What the hell have you been doing? Grab your laptop, the sections are flooding, we're out of coffee, the ZPM is draining, the shield is made of tissue paper! McKay!"
It's funny (well, hilarious, and also a little sad) to watch Rodney react so quickly. He throws himself off the mattress, hair in complete disarray, groping for a radio that isn't there.
"Colonel?" he asks, but is quick on the uptake. His eyes become evil slits-an expression he's obviously learned from Radek. "You think that's funny? I didn't come here with you so I could get scared into a heart attack!"
“How else was I supposed to get you conscious? I didn't bring a bullhorn with me," and just as Rodney looks ready to commit homicide, John adds, "Anyway, aren't you hungry? I was thinking it's time to grab dinner."
The idea of food gets Rodney functioning again, but he's nowhere close to forgiving John's rouse. "Fine," Rodney says, "But you're buying."
John puts up some token resistance, kind of like when a fly gets stuck in a web. "What? Why me? I've paid for everything so far," to which Rodney huffs and answers, "You can just keep that in mind next time you try to scare me into an early grave."
John knows this. He's totally aware it’s time to grovel, but it gets the job done, and dealing with Rodney's I'm-angry-but-not-really attitude is way easier than Teyla's speech about treating others with kindness and respect.
Darkness starts falling at 10:30. John breaks out the iron while Rodney takes the first shower; they both reek of stale sweat from hopping airport to airport. It's weirdly domestic, the whole ironing-Rodney's-shirt thing: flattening the collar, rolling the cuffs, making sure all the buttons are still attached. John hangs it up once he's done and starts on his own clothes. He's halfway finished when the water shuts off, and he can hear the sounds of Rodney brushing his teeth (a glass clinking against the sink) and shaving (a definitive pop of the plastic cap coming off a new can of shaving gel). It's enough time to press the collar and fold the board back up before Rodney emerges, smelling like soap and wearing rarely-seen jeans and a t-shirt.
"You ironed," he said, surprised. "Do I owe you my first-born or something?"
"It's just my apology for waking you so… quickly," John dryly answers. Rodney glares.
"Don't think you're getting out of buying my dinner," he says, crossing his arms. "Transforming into the male version of a 1950s housewife doesn't excuse the monetary debt."
"Roger that."
"And please feel free to take your time while my hypoglycemia sets in."
"You're telling me to hurry, is that it?"
"Seriously, I'll leave without you," Rodney threatens.
John turns towards one of their open windows. "It's getting kinda dark out, Rodney, but if you want to venture out there with the muggers, feel free."
"Muggers?" Rodney echoes, arms falling. "There are muggers here?"
John closes the bathroom door and grins at his reflection in the mirror. Sometimes, it's too easy.
Since it's Friday, the Metro doesn't close until midnight, but it doesn't give them much time to lollygag around. They have about an hour, one John uses wisely by calling upon the great and mighty powers of a phone book and map. The phone book tells him (to their dismay-well, John's, since Rodney will eat just about anything) that the only reputable place still open so late is McDonalds. It also gives him an address. The map shows it's only one stop from the closest station, so theoretically, it should only take about a half-hour to get some grub.
"You up for a burger?" John asks as they lock the apartment door and head for the elevator.
"Are you telling me I came all this way so I could eat at a chain?" Rodney demands, incredulous, but pauses for a moment. "On the other hand, that actually sounds really good."
"That's the spirit," he says, and pushes the button for the ground floor.
The Metro is a series of mostly-underground tunnels with trains that run every three to seven minutes. John buys a five-day ticket for each of them, and they get on at Sully-Morland and off just one stop later. The McDonald's sign can be seen from where the station empties, but they take their time walking there, looking at shadow-heavy relief sculptures on the buildings and watching for cobblestones on the sidewalk. Somehow, John's glad they didn't really plan anything; he likes getting lost and wandering around with Rodney, finding things by chance, avoiding the tourists who are smart enough to stay in after dark.
The restaurant is surprisingly big inside. They have to speak slowly and clearly, but eventually get their orders. For Rodney, it's a quarter-pounder with cheese, fries, and a Coke; John chooses a fish fillet sandwich and ice-cream. It totals to about fifteen Euros-roughly thirty dollars. They catch one of the last trains back to Sully-Morland and eat on the terrace. It's ridiculous, this joy they find in such simple pleasures, like claiming rights on the last ketchup packet and watching Sacré-Cœur light up miles and miles away.
---
They sleep until ten the next morning. John wakes first, immediately noticing Rodney's palm resting on John's stomach, which would have been more awkward if they hadn't been on six years worth of off-world missions together. Instead, it only reminds him why he suggested this trip to begin with: seduction, or-more realistically-begging Rodney to fall in love with him.
He gets up and makes their coffee, showering while it brews, taking the time to shave and fruitlessly brush his hair. Rodney's just reaching consciousness when John exits the restroom.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asks, voice muffled in a pillow. "If I do, then my training has obviously worked."
"Training? I'm not a dog, Rodney."
Rodney sits up, sporting hair that looks like he's been sticking his fingers in electric sockets.
"Sure you are," he retorts, pointing to the kitchen where the pot of coffee is simply waiting to be poured. "Go fetch, boy."
"Woof," John says, rolling his eyes, but pours them both a mug, dropping in sugar cubes and milk until it tastes decent. When he emerges, John expects to find Rodney buried beneath blankets and cursing his jetlag, but he's standing on the terrace instead, looking out onto the city and enjoying the breeze.
"You scored us an amazing view," Rodney admits, taking the offered coffee. "It's gorgeous."
"Yeah," John agrees, not looking on the city at all.
"You scored us an amazing view," Rodney admits, taking the offered coffee. "It's gorgeous."
They spend the day being unpredictable, wandering around Paris like two lost boys. John likes it. They're both so used to having deadlines and missions and responsibilities that floating, straying from one place to another, is a welcome change. Rodney seems to enjoy it, too, and they spend hours on a single street, ducking in and out of stores and book shops, picking out interesting things their friends might like back home. John finds Lorne some old leather-bound sketchbooks with heavy paper, and Rodney buys a vintage ring for Jeannie. Lunch is at a café (Rodney knows just enough French to communicate his citrus allergy) and then they stroll along the River Seine on their way back to their building. Across the river is the back of Notre Dame, a sight John's never consciously wanted to see, but now that he has… well. It's humbling, It wouldn't be too far a walk to observe it up close, and evening's only just falling. He gently touches Rodney's elbow. The other man stops instantly.
"Can we?" John asks, tilting his head towards the cathedral.
Rodney blinks at him and answers, "Yes, of course," like John doesn't need Rodney's permission. It's an amazing thing once they get there. Even Rodney's a little spellbound by it, so they make their full rounds in near-silence, except when Rodney whispers bits of math, like the engineering it takes to create a buttress or the science behind arches.
He buys them ice-cream on the way back. It's amazingly good, even better under the sky of almost-night.
Very near their apartment is a tiny grocery store with blue awning. They purchase a half-gallon of warm milk, raspberry cookies, Kronenbourg1664 beer, yogurt, eggs, noodles, and Bolognaise sauce. Rodney loudly insists for paying this time, and the owner smiles widely at them, not understanding a single one of Rodney's spitfire words, but gladly accepting the forty-one Euros.
They each have one beer on the terrace and watch the city lights. Later, it's easy to leave the windows open, collapse on the mattress, and fall asleep. When John wakes up in the morning, Rodney's hand rests right above his heart; his blunt fingertips are five warms points that John stores in his head.
Across the river is the back of Notre Dame.
On their third day, John takes them La Défense, a modern business district in west Paris. The buildings are all chrome-colored and glass and tall (not nearly as tall as an Atlantis tower, but still something to write home about) and there are sculptures and fountains. There's even a two-tiered carousel at the edge of it all.
He's navigating them to La Grande Arche de la Défense, a place he researched online and thought Rodney might appreciate. La Grande Arche is the 21st century representation of the Arc de Triomphe, and when they finally get there, he's glad they made the trip. Rodney's expression isn't bored or impatient, but impressed, like he's just found a really cool Ancient doohickey.
"Can we go to the top?" he asks, a sign he's genuinely interested to see what else the Arche has to offer.
"If you can manage the stairs," John teases. Rodney rolls his eyes and takes the first step. The stairs take them to the base of the Arche, and they get to ride a clear elevator the rest of the way, watching as the ground below becomes farther, the buildings smaller.
At the top is the Ô110 restaurant where they buy some water and take a break. It's a short one, since Rodney spots one of the main reasons John brought him here. The Arche not only houses a restaurant and art gallery, but a museum; namely, an information technology museum featuring computers dating all the way to the first telephone.
Rodney's up like a shot. John finishes his water and calmly follows, but Rodney's already two rooms away, standing next to what John first thinks is a green couch.
"Do you know what this is?" Rodney demands. John looks at him as if to ask do you seriously expect me to answer that? The farthest John's computer expertise goes is differentiating between the keyboard and mouse; whenever his laptop starts acting funny, he just uses Rodney as the ultimate CTRL+ALT+DELETE to fix it.
"Unique furniture?" he guesses.
"No, guru. It's a CRAY."
"Okay." John pauses. Finally, he asks, "Is that a good thing?"
Rodney stares at him as though a second head has just popped out of John's shoulder. John can feel the lecture coming.
And it does. A typhoon of words explaining the history of computers erupts from Rodney's crooked mouth; it's not exactly theoretical physics, but it seems to make Rodney happy, and that's John's intention anyway.
That night, John semi-competently boils noodles and sauce for dinner. They eat on the terrace with their beer, and it seems like the perfect time to say okay, look, there's a reason I wanted to take this trip with you, but Rodney looks so relaxed that it seems wrong to bring it up.
La Grande Arche is the 21st century representation of the Arc de Triomphe.
On day four, John wakes Rodney early, stuffing the barely-functioning man with coffee and then pushing him towards the tub. His clothes have already been ironed and John's practically ready to go, so he occupies himself by scrambling eggs for their breakfast. When Rodney emerges ten minutes later, not at all happy with his rough treatment, he demands, "Just where do you plan on taking us? Your plotting makes me nervous."
John just slides a plate of eggs in Rodney's direction and says, "It's a surprise. Now you'd better eat or we'll be late."
Rodney doesn't ask again until, after a short Metro ride, they arrive at the Gard du Nord train station and John picks up their Eurostar tickets. They find their train car, but it's practically empty with a sleeping business man in the back and an older couple near the front.
"Seriously," Rodney says, "the suspense is killing me. Is it going to be a long ride? Should I have brought my laptop?"
"Nope. It's two hours, tops," John easily answers. "I'm sure we'll find a way to entertain ourselves. I can kick your ass at Prime, Not Prime and you can mock my hair."
"You've never beaten me at Prime, Not Prime," Rodney argues, and then demands to see the map John faithfully totes in his back pocket. "Two hours," he mutters to himself, scanning the map until he realizes they’re heading towards London.
The ride there is gorgeous, rain greening the grass into a shade of shamrock. Their ears pop a few times, but it's otherwise pleasant, and Rodney is enjoying himself judging by his lack of complaint. They both doze for a bit, lulled by the silence and movement and gray clouds; Rodney's head even dips onto John's shoulder. The rain follows them to London, naturally, where they get off at St. Pancras Station, only to find it's cold and wet. People much smarter than they have umbrellas (sturdy ones, not the cheap kind the souvenir shops are trying to pawn off), but having lived through the trials of Antarctica and Siberia respectively, they ignore it fairly well and resolve to buy sweaters only if they happen to come across a respectable looking store.
Their eggs have worn off, though, and John's feeling a need for real food, so they investigate the immediate area until he spies a hotel restaurant just opening for the morning.
"Let's grab a bite," he suggests. "Hey, the menu will be in English!" Rodney never, ever needs to be prodded into eating, but he's clearly amused by John's groundbreaking realization that Londoners speak and write in a language both of them can understand.
Their waitress is pretty and blonde, but Rodney doesn't seem to notice. In fact, he barely takes his eyes off the menu, and in return, the waitress doesn't flirt with John even once. She's also amazingly good at her job-John's sure their coffee mugs never reach the bottom, and Rodney says (around a mouthful of food), "Even if the rest of today sucks, this meal makes everything worth it." It's typical Rodney, but he has a point: the breakfast, completele with tomatoes and mushrooms (which is weird to a man who lived on PopTarts as a child), is amazing. The three cups of coffee warm them until they're ready to brave the city.
They treat it as they do Paris: hopping apple-red double-decker buses and then getting off, discovering a history book for Teyla and old, cheeky playing cards for Radek, who ranks Best Player in the cutthroat poker games of Atlantis.
"In all my 'scientific travels', I've only been to London twice. Completely rushed," Rodney admits as they board another bus.
John looks at him. "Do you like it?"
"I like that we can understand what people are saying," Rodney dryly replies, but then smiles.
Their destination is Harrod's, a famous department store on Brompton Road in Knightsbridge. John (who's never been fashion-oriented, and neither has Rodney) isn't there for clothes. It's food he's after, because Ronon isn't much interested in things unless he can eat it or shoot it.
"Are we seriously here to shop?" Rodney asks, practically scandalized by the notion. "For what, a pair of jeans via child labor that are selling for fifty Euros?"
"Nope," John cheerfully answers. "But trust me, you'll like it."
"You obviously don't know me very well," comes the muttered retort, but that's where Rodney's wrong-this is something he knows Rodney will love. Rodney's renowned for his adoration of chocolate, so it only seems appropriate that they should visit Harrod’s Food Hall to pick up goodies for Ronon and Sam. And Teyla, of course. Well, and Radek, too.
Okay, everyone, plus some for themselves. When they finally find it (John pointedly ignores Rodney's remarks about his sense of direction-he's used to navigating spaceships with maps that pop out at his mental command), Rodney ceases all complaint. It is impressive: chocolate and sweets in every corner, crammed into boxes, jumbled into precarious piles, colorful and perfectly shaped. "Oh my god," Rodney breathes. "Do you know what this is?"
"Is that a trick question?" John asks, because yes, of course he knows, but it doesn't make his mouth curl into a creepy, manic I have a brilliant idea smile.
"Maybe for those who can't see the bigger picture," comes the snippy answer. "You, Colonel, are looking at fodder for our black market, the likes of which it's never seen. Seriously, do you know how much chocolate a scientist can consume? I'm speaking in weight, not volume," so they proceed to buy one of almost everything until their bags are overflowing. Rodney agonizes over the choices, buying this and that and a box of something John can’t even pronounce, but it looks delicious.
"How will we pack all this for the flight back?" John asks, staring at their stockade of sweets.
"I'm a genius, remember? This is why you brought me with you," Rodney sniffs, and John thinks, no, it really isn't.
---
Day five passes easily, melting into the sixth, where they tour the outside of the Lourve (something Rodney grudgingly admits is beautiful, even as it drizzles for three hours straight).
They walk very slowly back to the Metro station; they're tired, in a jetlagged, I've-been-touring-a-foreign-city sort of way, but John feels awesome, and Rodney does, too. He's glad they came here.
"I can't believe we leave tomorrow," Rodney says, derailing John's thoughts from their tracks. "This week went by too fast."
"True. But I also miss our city, too."
"If it's still standing when we get back," comes the grumbling response, and John laughs, bumping his shoulder into Rodney's. The Metro ride is quick, and they make it back to the apartment within a half hour.
"I guess we're getting old if this is all it takes to wear us down," Rodney muses, flopping onto the bed. They hadn't even bothered to fold it up this morning.
"Haven't you heard? Forty is the new twenty," John says, shoving Rodney this way and that until there's room enough for both of them on the mattress. "Technically, we should be bursting with energy."
After a moment or two, John's sure Rodney's fallen asleep. His exhaustion makes sense; it's a full time job keeping Atlantis safe, and no matter how hard they try, no one can catch up on their rest-unless, of course, they're trapped in the infirmary and on the really good drugs, which only means one (or all) of them have endured serious injury. John doesn't really count that as a win.
He quickly follows Rodney into slumber, not aware he's fallen asleep until three hours later when he wakes from a dream. The room is almost completely dark. He checks his watch for the time-the hour is either very late or very early, but they don't need to be out of the apartment until eight. He stretches, ready and willing to nod off again, when Rodney interrupts the silence.
"You know," he gently says, "I've been thinking."
"That's a surprise," John drawls, but turns to look at him, studying the shadowed face that's staring back. He knows each line, angle, and expression of Rodney's face; he's sure Rodney knows the same of John's. "What about?"
"This trip," and the answer is spoken so seriously that John feels a twinge of anxiety. "And all the beautiful women you've known. But I'm still the one you brought to the city of love. Weird, isn't it?"
"Sure," John agrees. It's weird, but it's also intentional. Maybe he'll get the guts to say so one day.
"I was also thinking about how you didn't hit on a pretty Parisian woman even once," Rodney continues. John feels exposed, even in the dark, but it would be too obvious if he rolls away. Instead, he pretends he's a little chilled and pulls the blanket closer to him, covering his shoulders and arms. This, John realizes, is what a hunted tortoise must feel like.
"Parisian women aren't why I came here," he replies. "I just wanted us to get away from the SGC and aliens and world takeovers for a while. Even you can't thrive on stress all the time, Rodney."
"That's true," he quietly agrees. "I suppose I should thank you for looking out for me. Making sure we got away for a while. Alone."
And there it is: the pinnacle of their entire adventure, the reason he did this all in the first place. John squeezes his eyes closed, tremendously glad of the darkness; he's ashamed of his transparency, but then again, Rodney is bright: he would've figured it out one way or the other, but John wishes it wasn't now, at the tail end of their vacation.
"John?" Rodney whispers. "That's it, isn't it? Being alone together?"
John wills the mattress to swallow him up. "Yeah," he says, finally, like a sigh. "You aren't wrong."
"Then why are you trying to hide from me?"
John thinks about it for a second. It's a valid question. "I guess," he slowly answers, "I guess-look, I'm old. By the time Pegasus settles, it'll probably be time for me to retire. I want a shitty house on the beach, a dog, a car that rolls, and you. Is it possible for you to want any of that, too?" John asks, seriously, and Rodney clutches his hand, their joined fingers pressed tight. John's not old-not yet, but there are crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and silver hair dusting his temples.
"Probable," Rodney gently corrects. "It's highly probable, in fact."
John swallows hard. "Is it probable you’ll kiss me?” Rodney smiles, wonderfully lopsided, and leans forward, a hair's breadth away.
"I don't know," he whispers. "Aren’t heroic space flyboys supposed to make the first move?"
"Well,” John drawls, voice slightly shaky with relief, “to be honest, I can't believe you just called me a 'heroic space flyboy'."
He half expects a snappy comeback, but Rodney just pushes himself closer, his body puzzle-piece fit with John's, and says, "You are. You're a hero, and you’re my best friend, and I love you. If that's okay."
John simply untangles their hands and places one on Rodney's shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, and pulls Rodney down, unresisting. His chest can barely contain his heart: he's thrumming with happiness, completely consumed with joy. When they kiss, he thinks they could’ve done this a week ago, during their first night here, but it’s good this way, better somehow, as the sounds of the city rustle into their room and congratulate them.
...they tour the outside of the Lourve (something Rodney grudgingly admits is beautiful, even as it drizzles for three hours straight).
On their way home, they watch more MST3K and, as promised, Transformers. John's not sure how he missed this movie, either, but it's kind of sad that his geek is more tuned into pop culture than John is.
When the cabin lights dim down, John is a little less nervous about being the passenger instead of the pilot. He's still grateful when Rodney's hand finds his own, lacing their fingers until John falls asleep, a secret code of comfort.
They plane hop, landing and boarding and landing again. Rodney spends each layover nursing an exuberantly priced cup of airport coffee, navigating them from terminal to terminal until they finally, finally reach Colorado.
By the time they're inside Cheyenne Mountain, they're Atlantis-Colorado-Atlanta-Madrid-Paris jetlagged. Landry sees it, and doesn't even fake it with the pleasantries. There's no sweetening the fact John and Rodney still have a two-week Daedalus trip ahead of them. On their way to the ship, John wonders if Teyla and Ronon will know the minute they see them-they're very perceptive people, putting John to shame when it comes to emotional eloquence. Teyla does, at least, and Ronon is never one to dance around an issue.
"Ah!" Rodney says, spotting Colonel Caldwell in the Daedalus control room. "Just the man I wanted to see."
"Doctor McKay," Caldwell sighs, resigned to the conversation, whatever it might be. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, nothing. I just wanted to give you this," Rodney answers, rummaging through his bulging duffel bag and pulling out a gold box. John recognizes it as chocolate from Harrod’s. "My thanks for repeatedly saving our asses from nuclear bombs, exploding suns, Wraith hybrids, the list goes on. Have you seen Novak? I got one for her, too. Anyone who deals with naked gray aliens should be compensated with more than just aneurysms," and this John realizes, is why he loves Rodney McKay like he loves ferris wheels, flying, country songs, and Paris-things he's loved naturally, things that've made a place for themselves inside of him.
FIN.