.ficlet and art: In media nocte (PG)
Read the capslocked bold print :>
.In media nocte
.by aesc
.GREAT BIG WHACKING SPOILERS FOR 4.04 "DOPPELGANGER"
.in media nocte
Most of the time when Rodney's in Sheppard's room it's to pace and gesture his way through complaints about the world, and half-listen to advice that, in a weird, Sheppardian sort of way, makes sense. Also most times he's there during the day, with reality spilling bright through the windows; the one time he'd been there at night he'd been trying to think of blue skies instead of imminent death by mutation or else death by falling off the rickety Ferris wheel he'd kept imagining.
So this, now, the being still without fear or Ferris wheels, without anything except exhaustion, with the city dark and asleep outside... it should be weird, but Rodney's been in Sheppard's head. Sheppard's been in his head, and if he thinks about it too much Rodney can taste saltwater and terror on his lips when he licks them.
Next to him Sheppard's entire body hums with an energy Rodney recognizes, the same energy that carries him through thirty-hour days, a terrible momentum that pitches him over the cliff face of exhaustion, down and down and down into confused dreams of ZPMs and bombs and Wraith and running running, rowing, this horrible impossible task, against currents and possibility.
"Rodney," Sheppard says, and his voice is hoarse.
"Huh?" Rodney looks up, head craned awkwardly.
Sheppard's looking at him, looking, unexpectedly close even though his bed is as microscopic as Rodney's own. Close enough for laugh lines, pain lines, to see under the smooth surface of Sheppard's eyes, which are green with a little bit of brown in them.
Close enough for Sheppard's breath when Rodney leans closer, closer, for him to catch the scent of old sweat (like old sea water), the surprised brightening of Sheppard's eyes before they close, a moment before Rodney thinks, stupidly, his mouth is warm.
Slow and slow, a good dream now and a welcome darkness behind his own closed eyes, with Sheppard leaning closer, his body firm and alive under his jacket (and they haven't undressed, and Rodney doesn't know if he even has the energy for it). It's only lips and careful licking until John opens to him, a slide into something deeper made of soft-harsh breath and John's deliberate tongue, and a careful hand on Rodney's cheek to pull him in.
.In media nocte
.by aesc
.GREAT BIG WHACKING SPOILERS FOR 4.04 "DOPPELGANGER"
.in media nocte
Most of the time when Rodney's in Sheppard's room it's to pace and gesture his way through complaints about the world, and half-listen to advice that, in a weird, Sheppardian sort of way, makes sense. Also most times he's there during the day, with reality spilling bright through the windows; the one time he'd been there at night he'd been trying to think of blue skies instead of imminent death by mutation or else death by falling off the rickety Ferris wheel he'd kept imagining.
So this, now, the being still without fear or Ferris wheels, without anything except exhaustion, with the city dark and asleep outside... it should be weird, but Rodney's been in Sheppard's head. Sheppard's been in his head, and if he thinks about it too much Rodney can taste saltwater and terror on his lips when he licks them.
Next to him Sheppard's entire body hums with an energy Rodney recognizes, the same energy that carries him through thirty-hour days, a terrible momentum that pitches him over the cliff face of exhaustion, down and down and down into confused dreams of ZPMs and bombs and Wraith and running running, rowing, this horrible impossible task, against currents and possibility.
"Rodney," Sheppard says, and his voice is hoarse.
"Huh?" Rodney looks up, head craned awkwardly.
Sheppard's looking at him, looking, unexpectedly close even though his bed is as microscopic as Rodney's own. Close enough for laugh lines, pain lines, to see under the smooth surface of Sheppard's eyes, which are green with a little bit of brown in them.
Close enough for Sheppard's breath when Rodney leans closer, closer, for him to catch the scent of old sweat (like old sea water), the surprised brightening of Sheppard's eyes before they close, a moment before Rodney thinks, stupidly, his mouth is warm.
Slow and slow, a good dream now and a welcome darkness behind his own closed eyes, with Sheppard leaning closer, his body firm and alive under his jacket (and they haven't undressed, and Rodney doesn't know if he even has the energy for it). It's only lips and careful licking until John opens to him, a slide into something deeper made of soft-harsh breath and John's deliberate tongue, and a careful hand on Rodney's cheek to pull him in.