Swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired
Swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired (John/Rodney) PG
A wee sort-of floofy ficlet set in tardis-land and written for tardis80 and her amazing, lovely postcards of whales, robots, mer!Rodneys, and joy ♥ The title is from Jack Kerouac.
Swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired
"I'm never doing that again," Rodney mumbles hazily. "Just so you know."
"You weren't complaining last night," John says, and Rodney can feel the leer against his forearm.
"Yes, well, last night I was too busy saving our lives and trying to keep your sorry carcass from being splattered all over the gate shield." It's a better heat, Rodney decides, than the heat of an overloading stardrive and the slide of sweat down his back.
John's a warm, solid tangle of arms and legs and torso, and weighs him down like the day's heat does. He's a John-shaped furnace in t-shirt and cargo shorts, his bare legs and bare feet hairy and kind of bony, with stringy muscle and tendon, against Rodney's. Everywhere where his shirt and shorts aren't he's tanned almost bronze, a surfer bum who happens to be in the Air Force.
"Nice of you." John does something lazy and twisty that has his forehead tucked against Rodney's arm. This close, Rodney can see the silver-shot details of John's beard (neglected during two days of discussion with the Wraith over who gets to keep the city), freckles, the lines around John's eyes. There's more silver these days, more flaws, and John's kind of more amazing every time Rodney looks at him.
John stretches, like he knows Rodney's looking, the bastard. Rodney elbows him, and John grunts. Rodney orders him to shut up, and John does, and goes boneless next to him.
The wind toys with the corner of their towel, flipping it up and down, and it brushes cool and heavy with salt across Rodney's skin. Under him, the city is a gigantic humming solar panel, soaking up the sun and giving back a heat that radiates up through Rodney's shoulders, down his spine, insinuates itself into his brain. Thought and speech don't work so well, like the day is the best kind of alcohol that takes things and slows them down and smooths them out.
"Good work yesterday," John says, his voice blurry and all soft at the edges. Sincere, the way John still has a hard time being. One hand is on Rodney's stomach now, playing idly with the hem of his t-shirt. Rodney takes a moment to try to remember if he'd put on sunblock there, and if not, if he can persuade John into it. "The generators... that was, that was sharp."
"Let's not talk about that." Rodney swallows back the memory of having to wire three naquadah generators to the gate to force it to stay open long enough for John to get through. He can't tell when he's stopped wanting to relive each and every time he's twisted the laws of physics and made them save the day. Maybe it started when they got this place, down at the outskirts of the city, and got a cat that has figured out how to escape no matter what they do to the doors. Or maybe it started before that, and there's no guessing when it was, precisely.
"Sounds good." John's looking down at him now, braced up on one elbow. His face is all in shadows with the sun behind him, and he looks serious and kind of frightening and shit shit shit, it hits Rodney like he's gone from zero to Warp 3 that this is real, that they're doing this.
"McKay," John says, rough and too aware for a slow summer day spent pierside. It's Rodney's old name, from back in the day when they were Colonel and McKay and sometimes Sheppard and Rodney.
"Let's keep doing this," Rodney suggests, squinting up into the sun and the shadowy brilliance of John's face. He can't offer anything else, because he's only just now realized that this is huge, bigger than the book that's his life's work, than saving galaxies, even.
"Yeah," John says.
When he kisses Rodney, it's slow and hot and familiar, rough around the edges with John's stubble and smooth with his lips. It melts into John straddling him, his shirt riding up so Rodney can trace sweaty skin, sleek except where his fingers catch on the edges of scars. And all of that, John's steady, huffing breath the slow, meditative way he works his way into Rodney's mouth and underneath his skin... it's good, Rodney thinks, shifting to indicate John can press closer if he wants.
It's good, it's easy like tides, like the sun riding down to the horizon, or going zero to Warp 3.
A wee sort-of floofy ficlet set in tardis-land and written for tardis80 and her amazing, lovely postcards of whales, robots, mer!Rodneys, and joy ♥ The title is from Jack Kerouac.
Swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired
"I'm never doing that again," Rodney mumbles hazily. "Just so you know."
"You weren't complaining last night," John says, and Rodney can feel the leer against his forearm.
"Yes, well, last night I was too busy saving our lives and trying to keep your sorry carcass from being splattered all over the gate shield." It's a better heat, Rodney decides, than the heat of an overloading stardrive and the slide of sweat down his back.
John's a warm, solid tangle of arms and legs and torso, and weighs him down like the day's heat does. He's a John-shaped furnace in t-shirt and cargo shorts, his bare legs and bare feet hairy and kind of bony, with stringy muscle and tendon, against Rodney's. Everywhere where his shirt and shorts aren't he's tanned almost bronze, a surfer bum who happens to be in the Air Force.
"Nice of you." John does something lazy and twisty that has his forehead tucked against Rodney's arm. This close, Rodney can see the silver-shot details of John's beard (neglected during two days of discussion with the Wraith over who gets to keep the city), freckles, the lines around John's eyes. There's more silver these days, more flaws, and John's kind of more amazing every time Rodney looks at him.
John stretches, like he knows Rodney's looking, the bastard. Rodney elbows him, and John grunts. Rodney orders him to shut up, and John does, and goes boneless next to him.
The wind toys with the corner of their towel, flipping it up and down, and it brushes cool and heavy with salt across Rodney's skin. Under him, the city is a gigantic humming solar panel, soaking up the sun and giving back a heat that radiates up through Rodney's shoulders, down his spine, insinuates itself into his brain. Thought and speech don't work so well, like the day is the best kind of alcohol that takes things and slows them down and smooths them out.
"Good work yesterday," John says, his voice blurry and all soft at the edges. Sincere, the way John still has a hard time being. One hand is on Rodney's stomach now, playing idly with the hem of his t-shirt. Rodney takes a moment to try to remember if he'd put on sunblock there, and if not, if he can persuade John into it. "The generators... that was, that was sharp."
"Let's not talk about that." Rodney swallows back the memory of having to wire three naquadah generators to the gate to force it to stay open long enough for John to get through. He can't tell when he's stopped wanting to relive each and every time he's twisted the laws of physics and made them save the day. Maybe it started when they got this place, down at the outskirts of the city, and got a cat that has figured out how to escape no matter what they do to the doors. Or maybe it started before that, and there's no guessing when it was, precisely.
"Sounds good." John's looking down at him now, braced up on one elbow. His face is all in shadows with the sun behind him, and he looks serious and kind of frightening and shit shit shit, it hits Rodney like he's gone from zero to Warp 3 that this is real, that they're doing this.
"McKay," John says, rough and too aware for a slow summer day spent pierside. It's Rodney's old name, from back in the day when they were Colonel and McKay and sometimes Sheppard and Rodney.
"Let's keep doing this," Rodney suggests, squinting up into the sun and the shadowy brilliance of John's face. He can't offer anything else, because he's only just now realized that this is huge, bigger than the book that's his life's work, than saving galaxies, even.
"Yeah," John says.
When he kisses Rodney, it's slow and hot and familiar, rough around the edges with John's stubble and smooth with his lips. It melts into John straddling him, his shirt riding up so Rodney can trace sweaty skin, sleek except where his fingers catch on the edges of scars. And all of that, John's steady, huffing breath the slow, meditative way he works his way into Rodney's mouth and underneath his skin... it's good, Rodney thinks, shifting to indicate John can press closer if he wants.
It's good, it's easy like tides, like the sun riding down to the horizon, or going zero to Warp 3.