Work Text:
You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart
—Bruce Springsteen
They’d fucked once, in Rodney's pile of blankets in Ford’s hideout, six feet from the dismantled wraith dart, but John didn’t think about it much after. It seemed unimportant after the hive ship, after the wraith queen had slapped him around a little, after Teyla stuffed a knife into a wraith's eye and dragged John up off his knees, after Ford died and Ronon took a wraith blast to the thigh and kept running. John was bruised up pretty bad, bad enough that he was still sleeping it off in the infirmary when the others went to get Rodney.
He'd mostly forgotten about it, to tell the truth. Rodney had been so hyped up on the enzyme that it had barely been sex at all, just Rodney’s fingers inside him, Rodney's mouth on his throat, Rodney's cock sliding against his thigh, face down on the makeshift bed. He'd come pressing his face into the rough wool blanket to keep quiet, and Rodney had bitten him, which he really had forgotten until he was back in his quarters and saw the faded mark in the mirror.
The bite flared up into a thick, rashy hot spot in the next couple days, and John found himself in Rodney's room one night, not entirely sure how he’d gotten there. Rodney woke up and fucked him, pulled him down into bed by the wrists without really opening his eyes. He pushed John up on his elbows and knees, and fingered him open with something slippery enough, fucked him and muttered against his back that John could make noise if he wanted, that there was no one to hear.
The next morning, Rodney was already gone, so John left and went on an easy run with Ronon and did a round of weapons training, tried to help Simpson fix up a boat she’d found, ate lunch during an incredibly long and boring meeting with half the senior staff and set up the off-world team rotation to let some more of the scientists get their feet wet, ate dinner, watched Zelenka teach Ronon dirty Czechoslovakian army hand-fighting tricks, before swinging by Rodney’s room, and this time Rodney just pushed him up on his side and wrapped a heavy arm around his waist and fucked him, slowly, for a long, long time, until the second of Atlantis’ moons was creeping up over the horizon.
Two weeks went by, and then three, and the bed in John’s quarters was piled with dirty clothes and gear, a gun he’d taken apart to clean and then lost a piece from, stacks of personnel folders and reports; even on the nights that Rodney never came back from the lab, John slept in his bed, slept better for it, harder and deeper than he had in months, and Rodney never seemed surprised to find him hogging the only pillow. He’d stand by the bed and strip off his shirt and let John work his pants open. John learned how Rodney liked his dick sucked quickly, crouched over Rodney in bed with Rodney’s hand steering his mouth. The way Rodney kissed him, after, one palm against John’s cheek, one hand on John’s hip, riding John’s urgent thrusts against his thigh, usually made John come before the ache in his jaw faded.
Rodney talked when they fucked, got him on his back and "I know, I know," his breath hot and uneven against John’s cheek, or John split his legs around Rodney’s ribcage and said "yeah, y—" or Rodney worked his thumb inside John and said "You're really tight," while John arched and groaned and knocked the cat picture off the nightstand. "Love you," John said lazily, sometimes, just as he was drifting down slowly into sleep, sprawled wide and warm, half underneath Rodney.
Daytime, food was running low, Ronon broke his collarbone in a bad run-in with some wraith worshippers, the lower levels of the city were waist deep in water, and always, always the wraith, in the edges of every conversation, in the sharp, too-thin curve of Elizabeth’s cheekbone in debrief, in his eyes when he looked in the mirror at night. Sex seemed unimportant, and he could never seem to get worried about the small satisfied burn in his thighs or the small of his back, or, once, the fingertip bruises on his forearms. Waking in Rodney’s bed always felt like the tail end of a dream, something good where he wasn’t as lonely and horny as he’d been for the last two years. By the time he got back to his quarters and started the shower, it had usually slipped his mind that he hadn’t slept in his own bed.
Sometimes John woke up a little, on his belly in Rodney's bed, working himself against Rodney's cock, knees splayed, sucking on Rodney's thick, salty fingers, and thought maybe it was strange, what they were doing, until Rodney shoved him down against the mattress and fucked him so deep it chased any rational, careful thought out of him entirely.
Rodney wasn’t too talkative in the mornings.
"That my toothbrush?" he said once, sniffing a t-shirt, wincing, and then putting it on anyway.
"Yep," John said. Rodney nodded, and John felt good and perfect and normal.
"So now we’re worried about the water?" Elizabeth said.
"Yes, well, maybe just a little," Rodney said. "It’s six feet deep—"
"four, " Zelenka said, not looking up from his laptop.
"Yes, and navigating level 12 is like being an extra in Titanic," Rodney said, "so I would like to make the incredibly novel suggestion that we fix it before I have to wear a snorkel to work."
"Last week you said it was on a priority level somewhere between defeating the wraith for all time with a brilliant weapon of your own design and developing a holodeck," Elizabeth said mildly.
"Oh yes?" Rodney said. "Did I say that?"
"Yes," Zelenka said.
"I like that," Rodney said, pointing at Elizabeth while simultaneously pulling up a detailed schematic of the lower levels of the city on the plasma. "I like that you’re paying attention, unlike Señor Doodles over here, who has been using his very valuable time to draw a picture of, what is that? A cow in a wheelbarrow?"
"It’s a spaceship," John said.
"Very nice," Rodney said briskly. "Now. As we know, the city developed sizeable leaks within six months of our arrival—"
"What?" Elizabeth said.
"I sent you an e-mail," Rodney said. "At the time, we determined that the leaks wouldn’t develop into a serious problem for at least a year, which, by the way, was an incredibly accurate prediction—"
"by Dr. Miko," Zelenka said.
"Yes, thank you, teamwork is indeed the greatest," Rodney said. "We’ve since determined that the shell of Atlantis is self-healing semi-organic membrane, which has, regrettably, stopped working, most likely because the element that fuels the self-healing reaction—unknown except in the Pegasus Galaxy, by the way, I’m thinking we could name it McKaysium—has a half-life of 10,000 years or so. So, I propose that we go blow out a couple of airlocks, and fix it with the handy little tool I developed to reactivate the, well, McKaysium."
"What tool?" Elizabeth said.
"Oh, it’s a bomb," Rodney said. "A very safe bomb."
"Are you sure explosives are the right approach to this?"
"Absolutely," Rodney said, pounding his fist on the table.
Even once they’d blown out six of the airlocks on level 12, the water was still shin deep, loaded with algae. The corridors were dim and humid, valves jutting from the ceiling that emitted jets of lukewarm steam; before long, John’s t-shirt was wet with sweat beneath his vest. He had woken up with a raw sore throat, and it only got worse as he hauled the bag of explosives, which was both heavy and awkward, splashing down the hallways behind Rodney. Zelenka and Lorne had taken the north side of the city, and Miko and Ronon were west.
"What’s wrong with you?" Rodney said, rubbing a film of green slime off the wall and crouching to affix the last of the explosives to the wall.
"Sore throat," John said. The insides of his boots were wet, his socks were wet, he could feel the skin between his toes starting to blister up. "Can’t afford to get sick."
"Yeah, well, me either," Rodney said crabbily. He wiped his forehead with his forearm. "So thanks a lot. You could have gone with Zelenka and given it to him."
"Hey, I probably caught it from you," John said. The puddlejumper on missions might as well be a Petri dish, and Rodney liked to hover.
"Yeah," Rodney said absently, tapping the remote activation code into the bomb and pushing the trigger gently into place. "but you like it when I bite you—"
"What?" John said, but he already knew, remembered that Rodney had bent him over the couch in his quarters and kicked his feet apart, said, "I’m going to make you, I, John, you—" rubbed a warm fingertip across John’s hole, "do it," John had said.
Rodney blinked at him. "I—what did I just say?"
"We’re fucking," John breathed. Two weeks ago Rodney had pressed his forehead against John’s shoulder, rubbed his wet cock against John’s stomach—
"Shit," Rodney said, lurching to his feet. "Holy fucking shit! Are you—how did I not notice before now?"
"That’s great, McKay, right now is just a peachy time to be sarcastic," John said loudly. His ass was sore, had been sore a lot, and he had never minded, had barely noticed, had almost liked it.
"I’m not being sarcastic," Rodney shouted. "Jesus Christ. I—"
"My ass hurts," John said furiously, starting off down the nearest corridor in double-time.
"How is that my fault?" Rodney said, hustling after him, his equipment clanking and banging together. John didn’t answer. "Okay, well, technically, perhaps it’s my fault, but I didn’t know—"
"You didn’t know?" John said.
"I knew, but—you kept showing up and I—it never occurred to me that it was something out of the ordinary."
"Oh," John said.
"I’m sorry," Rodney said, insistently. "I—"
"Shut up," John said. He’d been so wiped out last night that his legs wouldn’t stop trembling, after, and Rodney had taken a shower with him and held him up and scraped his teeth along John’s throat until he broke the skin.
"John—" Rodney said.
"Why are you calling me John?"
"I—no reason, but don’t you think—"
"Here’s an idea," John said. "Let’s just not talk about it. That’s been working pretty well for the last two months."
"Right," Rodney said, and John turned away down the next corridor because he couldn’t separate regular Rodney, everyday Rodney with the ill-fitting uniform jacket and the stupid haircut, from the way Rodney’s hands had felt on his ass last night, pushing him open, the way Rodney’s cock had felt sliding wetly up the inside of his thigh, rubbing up against his balls, bumping gently against his hole until he’d dug his fingers into the couch cushions and shouted at Rodney to just, do it, fuck him, until he hadn’t been able to remember what he wanted, only that he wanted it from Rodney.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the morning, and once they were back on lab level 4, Rodney lit out from the transporter without a backward glance, his shoulders hunched and awkward and guilty. John went back to his quarters; it took him an hour to clean off his bed.
They lasted three days, the first time. Three days before John broke and went down to the lab and Rodney screwed him in his office, on the low table on top of the back issues of astrophysics periodicals Rodney always hoarded, working his cock almost tenderly, and it was so good that John thought the sound of crinkling magazines would turn him on for the rest of his life.
After, he punched Rodney in the face, and said,
"Stay the fuck away from me," and Rodney just nodded, holding the heel of his hand to his eye.
"Earth customs," Ronon said, after John had spent the morning at a briefing staring across the table at Rodney’s swollen cheekbone and big shoulders, sliding his eyes away whenever it seemed like Rodney might look back at him.
"What about them?" John panted, scrambling up the third long flight of stairs which Ronon had taken four at a time.
"Are we allowed to fuck the scientists?"
"Um. that depends," John said cautiously.
"Ryuki Miko," Ronon said, a little reverently. "She doesn’t have a boyfriend."
"Well, great," John said. He didn’t have the faintest idea who Ryuki Miko was.
"We weren’t allowed sex except on feast days," Ronon said.
"Look," John said. "Maybe ask her to dinner."
"I’ve eaten dinner with her twice," Ronon said, turning onto the longest dock and picking up the pace. "Don’t think she remembers me from one day to the next."
"That so?" John said.
"So you take girls you’re trying to fuck up to the east tower, right?" Ronon said.
"Yeah," John said. "No, wait. What?" but Ronon had taken off down the final straightaway, and John had to sprint to catch him, his chest burning.
"I want her," Ronon said when John was leaning against a wall gasping for breath, but pretending that he was just stretching his quadriceps. "She’s so—smart, and when her t-shirt gets wet, you can—"
"Right, I get it, it’s a love connection," John said. Ronon smiled shyly.
"Hope so," he said, and then dropped into a set of pushups. John slid bonelessly down the wall and watched in blank fascination—fifty, seventy, one-ten. Ronon finished the set and flopped down on his stomach, rolled over, chest heaving. "I’ve never had anyone I didn’t pay for," he said.
"I’m sure you’ll do fine," John said. "Be yourself."
"Ryuki Miko," Ronon said, softly.
"Right, I gotta—take care of. Something, " John said, and made it until after dinner, but no later. Rodney was working in his quarters, hunched over some schematics, and he caught John just inside the door, wrapped an arm around his waist and murmured, "I was almost, it was almost me—" against his neck and unbuckled his belt with the other hand, fucked him up against the wall with John’s pants and underwear tangled around his calves, and then again, slowly, in the bed, John’s cock leaking on his stomach, bed rocking against the wall with Rodney’s thrusts.
They mostly did better than that, eight days and then five, seventeen, and then six, three, two. Rodney looked jittery and miserable in the mess hall, and John tried to jerk himself off every night and couldn’t get hard enough. Twelve days and four, twenty-five and two, and then the month they forgot that it was weird again and John all but moved in to Rodney’s quarters and Rodney whispered, "I think you’re beautiful," when they were fucking and John walked around every day, happy, content.
"This isn’t working," Rodney said apologetically when John was sucking his dick six days later, and shrank back a little when John pulled off and looked up at him. "I’m sorry."
"It’s fine."
"We should go to Carson."
"No," John said.
"John—"
"I’ll be better about it."
"You don’t—" Rodney stared at him unhappily, but nodded.
"Think Teyla and Ronon are sleeping together?" Rodney said quietly, in the jumper on the way back from a mission, his feet propped on the dashboard. They were working a lot, installing the portable remote pulse-weapons arrays Zelenka and Rodney had invented on the abandoned burnt-out planets that encircled Atlantis. Rodney was all business, off-world, and John usually had a hard time remembering they were fucking, except for when Rodney finished the first installation, powered up the weapon and fired off a two gigaton pulse that seemed to shake the sky. The curve of his mouth, the triumphant electricity in his eyes, made John’s mouth go dry. Rodney talking about sex was even worse.
"I—"
"We are not sleeping together," Teyla said, from the back of the jumper.
"You have excellent hearing," Rodney said, twisting around in his chair.
"If you wished to know if Ronon and I were involved, you could have asked."
"I did ask," Rodney said levelly.
"Ronon loves Ryuki Miko," John said.
"Reyoukimi Cocoa?" Rodney said. "Is that a person? A food item?"
"She works for you, Rodney," John said. "Get with it."
"Oh, wait, Miko? Really?"
"Ryuki Miko," Ronon said, waking with a start. "There a problem?"
"No, no, no," Rodney said. "No problem."
"Great," Ronon said.
"Great," John said, just like old times.
When Rodney was close to coming, the head of his cock got swollen and hot and firm, banged up against John's soft palate, stretched the chapped corners of his mouth.
"It’s just a stupid holiday where you get your girlfriend some candy or something," John said, when Ronon asked him about the Valentine’s Day holiday Elizabeth had allowed to be planned.
"Do you think encouraging fraternizing is such a terrific idea?" John had said, in the staff meeting.
"I think it’s a good idea to encourage slightly less sneaking around," Elizabeth had said calmly. "Our people need to let off some steam, and that goes for all of you, as well." She had stared around the room at Rodney, hunched in on himself, doodling equations on a pad of paper, at Zelenka, who had looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and finally at John, who had faked a smile.
"Huh," Ronon said. "We had a holiday where a woman with an impotent husband could take a virile lover for a weekend."
"Nice."
"Husband could try to kill him after, if he wanted."
"Sounds romantic."
Ronon shrugged. "I guess."
"Look," John said. "Don’t—uh, get her a knife or anything. Or a gun—"
"Why would I do that?" Ronon said.
"I don’t—I just thought—"
"Do you think I’m dumb?"
"You did think unicorns were badass," John said.
"It's giant animal with a spike on its head that can run really fast," Ronon said. "Hello."
"Okay, sorry," John said.
"And big teeth," Ronon said.
John planned to spend Valentine’s Day getting shitfaced and napping, but when he went back to his room he found a new x-box game, a packet of dried apricots, and two chocolate bars, all tied together with length of stripped fiber optic cable, sitting on his desk chair. No card, but then, it didn’t need one.
"What’s this?" he said, barging through the door into the empty lab; there were cupcakes in the mess hall and everyone had the night off. Rodney was leaning over a console, but he straightened when he saw John, and then took a step back.
"It’s—" Rodney was wearing a dirty lab coat, and his arms hung uselessly at his sides. "I just, it was for you, because I—"
"I’m not your fucking valentine," John snarled, because the obliterating want he felt when Rodney touched him, when Rodney was in the same fucking room, when Rodney smiled his sweet goddamn smile wasn’t like anything he had ever felt before, and it wasn’t anything to do with a bar of chocolate that went for a week of KP duty or a pair of new boots in Atlantis currency.
"I know," Rodney said. "I just, I wanted—"
John threw the package across the room and it slammed a central pillar, high up, and came apart. The game case cracked and fell on a work bench, and the cellophane apricot bag burst, apricots scattering across the floor. Rodney stared at him, stricken.
"Okay," he said.
"What," John said. "Just because I bend over for you—"
"Hey," Rodney said. "Excuse me for trying to make this a little less—that’s not what I think about you."
"Yeah, what do you think?" John says nastily.
"I get it," Rodney said. "I’m not, I’m obviously not your cup of tea, but I think I can be excused for getting the wrong idea, and you did let me, that first time, so I just—" He shrugged. "It’s reprogrammed with puddlejumper specs and hot flight attendants and I thought you’d like it."
"Oh."
Rodney sat down heavily on the nearest desk chair. "There’s a secret level where they take off their shirts."
"Oh," John says. That sounded pretty cool. He rubbed his face with one hand and leaned back against a support pillar. His back hurt, and he now regretted skipping the cupcakes to scream at Rodney.
"Yeah." There were apricots all over the long workspace in front of him, which was perfectly, obsessively, neat otherwise, a single powerbook, closed, two pencils, a neat stack of thick notebooks, and a heavily shellacked 12" x 18" mosaic of Ronon and Miko, made entirely of candy hearts, macaroni, and Froot Loops propped tidily on a shelf which otherwise held a bunch of thick, dull-looking reference books.
"God, what the hell is that?" John said.
"That, obviously, is Ronon’s Valentine’s Day card," Rodney said. "He took her out for a moonlit picnic, by the way. The whole nine."
"Oh."
"She digs it," Rodney said, tipping his head back against the headrest. John slid down the pillar to sit on the floor. Rodney looked great from this angle, sharp jaw, thick arms, hips and thighs and John put his head down on his knees for a minute.
"Can we fuck?" he said.
"Yes," Rodney said. They cleaned up the apricots first.
They showered together in the morning when they both woke late. Rodney brushed his teeth in the shower.
"You always do that?" John said, sluicing water over his back..
"S’efficient," Rodney muttered around a mouthful of toothpaste. "How’s your—how do you feel?"
"Fine," John said. His ass hurt; nothing serious, and the second round had been his idea anyhow.
"You ever do it with a guy before?" Rodney said, sounding hesitant. John glared at him, but Rodney was frowning at his clothes and didn’t see.
"What does that have to do with anything?" John said.
"I never did," Rodney said.
"So what?" John sniffed at his t-shirt and then yanked it over his head.
"I just wondered if it—"
"Jesus Christ, fine, I never blacked out and fucked a guy," John said.
"I’m going to Carson," Rodney said. He was pulling on his clothes, carefully not looking at John. "It’s not wearing off."
"Okay," John said.
"Well, now, you both seem to have extremely elevated levels of corti—" Carson said, flapping his hands around. John stopped listening and eventually Carson bustled out through the curtains, leaving them alone. Rodney was sitting on the bed across from him, staring dully at the floor, his hands dangling between his legs. He had been looking thin lately, tired, but John hadn't noticed until now.
"Hey," John started to say, just as Carson came back.
"Hm?" Rodney said.
"Nothing," John said.
Carson gave them both a couple injections and handed over a blister pack of pills.
"Morning and evening," he said.
"That's it?" Rodney said.
"You might have said something earlier," Carson said.
"Hey, it was private—" Rodney started.
"We didn’t remember," John said.
"Of course," Carson said. "I—I’m sorry, I understand it must have been very difficult—"
John stopped listening again.
So they stopped, like that. It was all confidential, medical—Carson was probably doing some kind of research, but he didn't bother John with it. A couple of crises—missions gone sour, sector-wide power failures—and it started to seem a little unimportant; John couldn't remember a lot about the sex anyhow; it was faded, fun-house distorted. While it had been happening, it had slipped away from him whenever he tried to really think about it; it was barely different now that it was over. It had been good, he remembered.
"Will this be a problem?" John planned to say, when he trusted himself with Rodney alone again, or "You can tell Heightmeyer if you need to." He kept track of the women on Atlantis who seemed slutty, or at least like they maybe had some father issues—not that Rodney was really old enough for that, but you couldn't be too choosy on Atlantis, and Rodney was hypercritical and didn't have quite enough hair—anyhow, if Rodney needed to sleep with some women, John had the short-list, but Rodney seemed pretty much fine. Rodney had never been the kind of person who would be able to hide not being fine, so John had to assume he was okay, and that was all he really wanted out of the whole thing.
They ate meals together, and Rodney shouted hysterically into his headset about equipment malfunction and wild animals, respectively, on the next two missions; they even went back to doing a couple of the things they'd stopped doing because they'd been fucking: watching movies, trying to get Elizabeth to let them build an ice rink, planning day trips to the mainland that always got cancelled because of shitty weather or emergencies. John's dick started working again, so he jerked off a lot.
"What’s 'into dudes' mean?" Ronon said. They were sitting around in the gym watching guys spar; John had never been a big fan of hand-to-hand before Atlantis, and he still thought it sucked, but having had to punch guys in a series of underground passageways, caves, worship chambers, labs, and space ships, he liked to make sure that everyone was at least up to speed.
"Hm?" John said. He watched one of the new marines, a big, strong as hell blond guy, demonstrate a couple tackle holds to Lorne.
"Into dudes," Ronon said patiently. He was ten times better at blending in than Teyla—half the new guys thought he was from California—but he still had language problems sometimes. "if a person's into dudes."
"It’s. if someone’s attracted—sex. Sexually, you know. To guys," John said, and then added, after a minute, "not women."
"Okay," Ronon said thoughtfully. The new guy stripped off his shirt and tucked it into the back of his workout pants.
"Where’d you hear that?" John said.
"I—Meyers said he didn’t know McKay was into dudes," Ronon said.
"What?" John said.
"Meyers," Ronon said loudly. "he said he didn’t know McKay—"
"Fine, fine, fine, I heard you," John muttered. He felt like he was about to stroke out. Someone must have seen, it was the only explanation; they hadn't exactly been careful, and now everyone knew, Ronon fucking knew.
"Are you okay?" Ronon said.
"Yup," John said, and years of practice made it come out light and even. He'd have to go to Elizabeth right away; she'd have to know everything, how many times they might have been seen, that time he sucked Rodney off in the third floor lounge, they'd have to come up with a plan to—
"Dr. Sidarov seems okay," Ronon said.
"Yeah, he's—who?" John said.
"McKay's new—the dude he's into," Ronon said carefully.
"Rodney's—what? What does that mean?"
Ronon blinked. "It means he's attracted sexually to him," he said. "Was that wrong?"
"Dr.—"
"Sidarov."
"That's the guy McKay's into?" John knew his voice had gone strange and urgent, but Ronon didn't react.
"That's what I heard," he said, lounging back against the bleachers.
Turned out Sidarov was the guy who'd been trailing around with Rodney for the last few weeks; John had assumed Rodney had had a fight with Zelenka. Okay-looking, medium height, friendly enough. Dark curly hair, heavy eyelids, big nose, crooked teeth—nothing special. John assumed the guy would find out Rodney was a fucker and dump him, but that didn’t happen. He seemed, in fact, to like Rodney. Every time John saw them together he was laughing at one of Rodney's jokes, or touching Rodney; his hand, his shoulder, nudging a companionable elbow into Rodney's ribs walking along the halls, poking his finger at Rodney's computer screen or jostled comfortably up against him next to the fire at Teyla’s birthday party on the mainland.
"So," John said, the next time they were alone in the jumper, nosing up gently against a few of the towers so Rodney could get a look at the external wiring or something.
"Can you get closer?"
"So you're dating a guy now?"
"I wouldn't say—dating, exactly; it's not that structured," Rodney said. He was squinting through binoculars out the windshield. "Or, I don't know. Close enough."
"Oh," John said; he had expected Rodney to deny it. "So—how'd you two kids meet?"
"I didn’t bite his neck, if that’s what you’re implying."
"I wasn’t," John said.
"You can't get any closer than this?" Rodney said. John pressed his lips together and nudged the jumper forward a slow couple of inches.
"Seems sudden," he said. "Do you—"
"Yes," Rodney said. "We express our feelings to each other and enjoy mutually agreed upon activities—"
"Really?"
"No, not—mostly we work, and as you know, I’m quite shy about expressing my feelings due to various emotional setbacks, probably partly due to my accelerated educational schedule, which means I was never socialized to my appropriate age cohort and missed key developmental—"
"Yeah, that’s—that sounds rough," John said.
"I can be vulnerable," Rodney said. "And Elvis respects that."
"Elvis," John said.
"It's actually a relatively common name in—"
"That's great, McKay," John said. There was a heavy wind sweeping them sideways, and it was work to compensate, keep the jumper steady enough. His wrists ached.
Sidarov was actually pretty great—for starters, he took Rodney off their hands when he was sick, and if John never had to stop by Rodney's quarters and make sure he had enough water and Tylenol and snacks and work and comic books again, it was just fine by him. Rodney banged up his knee pretty bad on a mission and ended up in the infirmary, doped to the gills, knee swollen up to football size, scarred with stitches, and when John showed up, out of habit, to get Rodney back to his quarters, Sidarov was already there, scooping Rodney gently into a wheelchair and tucking a blanket across his lap. Rodney was quiet, compliant, wrapping his hands cautiously over the arms of the wheelchair and giving John a blurry nod. Sidarov looked like he had the whole thing under control, but Rodney often reacted unpredictably to drugs, so John hung around just in case. Then the nurse went off to get Rodney's meds and Sidarov straightened and made eye contact, and John realized that they were the only ones in the five by eight curtained space around Rodney's bed, and that it would be strange not to introduce himself.
"I—"
"Colonel Sheppard," Dr. Sidarov said. His handshake was firm and dry, not trying too hard.
"Nice to meet you," John said. "Dr., uh—"
"Elvis, please." Sidarov smiled. "Actually we met at the welcome breakfast," he said. "And again on the mission to P3X-621 to investigate xenobiological phenomena—"
"Oh," John said.
"I'm sure you meet quite a few people," Sidarov said, smiling. "It must be difficult to keep track of them."
"It sure is," John said.
"Yes, well. Rodney speaks very highly of your dedication."
"Right," John said. "Well. Take care of him."
"Of course," Sidarov said. His hand was on Rodney's shoulder, thumb resting quietly against Rodney's neck.
"Well," John said.
Rodney was on crutches for six days and using a cane for the following two weeks; unfailingly, Sidarov was around, carrying Rodney's lunch tray or tablet or just letting Rodney lean against him in line for the transporter after lunch. People looked at them—some of the scientists, but they were probably used to it—mostly the military, and not just the new guys, but some of the old hands, mouths tight and tired. Rodney never seemed to notice. John tried to be around more, just in case, dug out a couple of Elizabeth's e-mails about being inclusive and tolerant and stuff and posted them on the message board in the gym, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do if Rodney wouldn't just be a little careful.
He waited until they were heading back from a mission—Rodney's first, after the knee—and Ronon and Teyla were sacked out in the back of the jumper, fast asleep.
"Look, do you think you could cool it?" John said, once they'd cleared the atmosphere. The orbital gate was halfway around the planet, a solid two-hour trip.
"What?" Rodney said vaguely. He'd lost the toss for the bunk with Teyla, and refused to sleep on the floor. It was 0300 Atlantis time, but John was wide awake. He felt like his eyeballs had been rolled in sand and stuffed back inside his head.
"Sidarov," he said. "I think you should—"
"That's none of your business—"
"It's my business if you're making out in the mess hall," John said.
"We don't do that."
"You know what I mean," John said.
"Is that so?" Rodney muttered.
"Look, Sidarov seems like a great guy, and I'm sure he's very, he's—" John hesitated, trying to figure out what he'd been planning to say.
"a good listener?" Rodney said.
"You seem to like him and that's great, but maybe you've noticed that there's a heavy military presence—"
"Are we seriously talking about how someone's going to beat us up or call us fags or something?"
"Someone called you a fag?" John said. "Who?"
"No one," Rodney said irritably enough that John couldn't be sure whether to believe him. Rodney was staring at his data pad, flushed red.
"There's nothing wrong with being discreet," John said finally. "It's not really anyone's business what you—"
"So keep all the gay butt-fucking in my quarters is what you mean," Rodney said, his voice unnecessarily nasty.
"That's probably a good idea, yeah."
"If Elizabeth knew you'd said that—"
"Elizabeth isn't responsible for keeping you safe," John said.
"I can take care of myself."
"God, fuck, sorry," John said. "You'd always shown sort of an aversion towards getting your ass beat before."
"No one's going to beat me up."
"Whatever you say."
They sat in silence; John wished he had gum. He missed gum.
"Hey," Rodney said. He cleared his throat, staring nervously out the front view screen. "Just because I learned something—new about myself doesn’t mean you’re—it doesn’t have anything to do with you."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"You’re the same as you were before," Rodney said. "So I don’t know why you’re so bent out of shape, just because I’m investigating new—"
"I'm not—"
"You're not any different than you were before, just because I'm having sex with a guy," Rodney said quickly, cutting him off. "It's not about you or what we—"
"Okay."
"It doesn't have anything to do with you."
"I know," John said.
But Rodney did obviously feel awkward about the whole thing; he practically locked John in overnight with the nearest delegate with a killer rack on the next planet they visited. She was nice enough and it was kindly meant, Rodney giving him a shark grin the next morning like he'd fixed things, but John would have just preferred that Rodney actually keep his stupid gay shit quiet, and not end up snuggled up against Sidarov at movie night, right in John's line of sight. He wasn't exactly flaunting it, but it was obvious, especially since couples were rare. In spite of Valentine's Day, most people still snuck around. Rodney and Sidarov came to breakfast together most mornings, looking rumpled, laughing and talking and probably wearing each other's clothes. They seemed to have a standing double date with Ronon and Miko on Thursdays, and once John had seen them out on one of the public balconies at night, pointing at constellations, standing too close. John didn't know how Rodney could stand to have half the base knowing his business. John's parents hadn't even known who his eighth grade lab partner was.
Since Rodney wouldn't cooperate, John had to do what he could on his own.
"Everyone's going to have to get used to it sometime," he said to Lorne, determined.
"Get used to what?"
"Exactly," John said. "That's right."
"I was thinking," John said, hanging just inside Elizabeth's office to make it seem like he hadn't come up there just to see her. "If you wanted to do that tolerance thing now."
"If I, sorry—" Elizabeth said, looking up, forehead creased.
"The lecture for—sensitivity."
"The diversity workshop," Elizabeth said. Close enough.
"That's the one."
"The diversity workshop we've had every other month since you declined to have the military attend?"
"I can make it mandatory," John said. "There are some new people and all, and now everyone isn't stuck here, so maybe they aren't trying to—get along."
Elizabeth clasped her hands together and nodded towards the chairs in front of her desk. "Has there been an incident that concerns you?"
"No, no, nothing like that," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking half a step back. "I just thought. you know. It could be good."
"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt."
"You'll set it up?" John said. "If you tell me how many per session I can have signups and get you a roster—or. however you do it."
"That's how we do it," Elizabeth said. She was resting her chin on one hand, now, staring up at him in frank curiosity.
"Okay, sounds—I'll just. You can e-mail me," John said.
Signups and the roster trashed his schedule for a couple mornings in a row, and then there were the guys trying to weasel out of it because they'd done it at the SGC or had black friends, and so it was mostly a good thing that Rodney ditched him on a few meals and chess games and target practice—not a lot, not enough to feel like Rodney was avoiding him, just enough that he knew Rodney was having some trouble fitting fucking Sidarov's brains out into his schedule. John needed the extra time anyway: he'd had to start hanging around the gym more, to make sure no one said fag, and he'd he skipped a few sessions with Teyla to make it happen, stayed up late to get paperwork done. He’d stopped being able to have the perfectly quiet, companionable lunches he usually had with Ronon or Teyla, and started having to eat with a table full of marines. Everyone got a little weird and quiet when he was around, but no one said anything until the day Sidarov kissed Rodney as he got up to leave the cafeteria, on the cheek, almost on the corner of his mouth. The marine walking behind them fumbled his tray, his apple falling off and rolling under the table.
"Hey," John said, already on his feet. "You."
"Yes, sir, I—"
"You're done here," John said.
"But I—"
"I said you're done." John pulled the tray out of the guy's unresisting fingers and put it on the table behind him. "Report to supply 8 and start stacking crates."
The guy mumbled apologies, but went. John turned around; everyone at the table was studiously avoiding his eyes. On the other side of the room, Rodney was tucking into rice pudding, happily oblivious.
Luckily Ronon was too obsessed with Dr. Miko to feel like he was being ditched, because it turned out that trying to change entrenched homophobic attitudes was time consuming and not a lot of fun; the good thing about the workshops was that they covered a lot of material so they knocked off a bunch of racism and sexism stuff at the same time. And Teyla learned she was a person of color, which you'd think someone would have explained to her before. No one had.
John made it a point to track Ronon down the first time he got some downtime, and found him sitting in the east lounge, nearest to the labs, and sewing up a tear in a tiny red and pink t-shirt.
"What," Ronon said, when John crashed down on the couch next to him and smirked, but only a little, enough to be friendly. "I ripped it. It’s her favorite shirt."
"I didn’t say anything."
"There’s not a lot of nice stuff I can do for her here," Ronon said. "Except for sex."
"Okay," John said. Ronon stitches were tiny, precise, creating a thin jagged line up the back of the t-shirt.
"Can I move in with her?" Ronon asked.
"Why are you asking me?"
"I'm not asking permission," Ronon said. "I was just—"
"For god's sake, be my guest," John said. "No one will care, no one will think it’s gross or look at you funny—"
"People look at me funny all the time."
"No they don't," John said. "Everyone thinks you're the nicest young couple on Atlantis."
"Ryuki is 36."
"Ronon," John said. "I'm happy for you. Move in with her. Be yourself. Just—"
"Right, leave you alone about it."
"That's not what I said."
"It's different here," Ronon said. He finished the seam and bit at the thread to break it. "I'm not—usually I don't know if I'm doing the wrong thing."
"I know what you mean," John said.
"Sir," Lorne said.
"Yeah."
"I—" Lorne hesitated, then crossed his arms over his chest, stared past John's shoulder.
"Spit it out," John said. "I don’t have all day."
"I think you should stop putting people on KP duty for calling things gay," Lorne said firmly.
"What?"
"Well—"
"People need to learn to watch their mouths," John said. "For starters, this is a diplomatic mission—"
"But none of the Pegasus folks seem to even have the faintest idea what it means."
"Is this a free speech issue?" John said. "Do you object to someone trying to promote some tolerance around here?"
"Hey, nobody cares about McKay’s boyfriend—"
"Lorne—"
"The guy just said Ben Affleck was a homo," Lorne said.
"You think that's appropriate?"
"I think it's—I think he was expressing his frustration at having seen Reindeer Games in excess of seventeen times due to our limited recreational—facilities," Lorne said. "Sir."
"There's nothing wrong with Reindeer Games," John said. "In Antarctica all we had was a shitty VHS of Fresh Prince of—"
"Bel-Air reruns," Lorne said. "Right."
"And I managed to get through it without any inappropriate comments," John continued, raising his voice slightly, a highly effective technique he'd learned from Rodney. Sure enough, Lorne deflated slightly.
"I'll speak to him," he said. "But in the meantime—"
"Right," John said. "Maybe we can take a few preventative steps."
"Sorry, sir—what?"
John stared at Lorne, who blinked back at him, all bland competence. "I’d like to take a few steps to avoid having the first gay bashing incident in the SGC," John said. "Could be a little embarrassing, for starters."
"You want to take preventative steps?" Lorne said.
"Yes, that's right," John said. Lorne was a good guy, but he could be on the slow side, John had found.
"Sorry," Lorne said. "Just. You want to come up with a contingency plan? For—contingencies?"
"Right."
"For—I meant. Okay," Lorne said.
No one came out or anything; John had assumed people would, after the sensitivity training and all. Maybe not anyone in the US military, but they had international military guys, too, guys with nice haircuts and great abs and sharp-looking civvies—John had learned from sensitivity training that making assumptions about peoples' sexuality based on the way they dressed or talked was wrong, but he'd thought at least maybe one of the scientist chicks was a lesbian or something. It was almost disappointing. There was no gay bashing, though, at least, no weird looks when Rodney and Sidarov were in the cafeteria; everyone kept their heads down and their thoughts to themselves.
Rodney did a bunch of PT and they started going out on real missions again, except that Ronon and Rodney always zipped off, post-mission, like they couldn't wait the five minutes it took to stow gear before they got laid. Off-planet, Ronon and Rodney had discussions about their relationships, talking about their feelings, and the way Miko snored and it was cute, or Sidarov said funny things in his sleep and knew reflexology, until Teyla finally told them to shut the hell up, but politely, and with more words.
"So how's it—going with Sidarov," John said, just to make conversation, when they were sitting on the puddlejumper ramp, waiting for Ronon and Teyla to get the rendezvous point. It seemed like that was what Rodney wanted to talk about lately; John couldn’t blame him, exactly. People didn’t get laid on Atlantis all that often with someone they could admit to having fucked without universal scorn or the potential for disciplinary action.
"It’s fine," Rodney said.
"Reflexology—"
"Complete pseudoscience for imbeciles," Rodney said. "Also, obviously, the most amazing thing to ever happen to me."
"Yeah."
Rodney grinned. "There's a place on my heel where he digs his thumb in and I swear to god, my entire body—"
"Whoah, that’s plenty of detail," John said. "Thanks."
"Right," Rodney said slowly. "Sorry."
"No, sorry," John said. "Reflexology. That sounds cool." He had a lot of experience with apologies, years of cramped offices and red-faced superiors; this one wasn't so good, as they went: not enough—something. Rodney looked uncomfortable, annoyed, maybe a little bit hungry.
"It's fine," Rodney said.
"Guess everyone's paired up but us," John said to Teyla after stick fighting one day. She finished wiping her face with her towel and then smiled, a little tense curve of lips.
"Yes."
"Yeah—"
"John," Teyla said. "You are one of my closest friends; you must know how dear you are to me, but I do not think we can become romantically involv—"
"What?" John said. "I wasn't—I didn't—"
"Of course not," Teyla said, her forehead creasing. "Of course you did not. We will say no more of this."
"Right," John said. "I really wasn't hitting on you."
"Of course you were not," Teyla said, looking confused but resolute. "I did not believe that was the case at all."
The Daedalus was in Atlantis so John bit the bullet and had a few meals with Caldwell; he felt a vague kinship with the guy since they'd both been infected with alien parasites, but he mostly did it to be polite, and to remind Caldwell how shitty the food was. Two trips ago, he'd brought Elizabeth a Harry and David’s pyramid thing and she'd been too polite not to share. Caldwell usually left after choking down dessert, but on the last night before the Daedalus left, he put his spoon down with finality and said,
"I'd like to speak with you privately, if you have a moment."
"Sure," John said. "Absolutely."
"Wonderful," Caldwell said.
They went back to John's office. John dug out some tea bags and made tea in the electric kettle Rodney had fixed up for him last Christmas. Caldwell lounged against the file cabinet, looking like the corner was digging uncomfortably into his shoulder.
"Colonel Sheppard," he said finally. "I know you're—comparatively new to the SGC."
"I guess," John said.
Caldwell took a sip of his tea, grimaced, and put the cup down on the edge of John's desk and folded himself into the single chair. "There's a perception," he said, "that you're cracking down on anyone who might be in violation of the uniform code."
"A perception," John said. The tea was hot and tasted strongly of gravy. "I'm not sure I—"
"I don't want to use the word witch hunt," Caldwell said delicately. "But—"
"I'm not—"
"It's perfectly understandable given your traditional family background," Caldwell said. "No one could fault you for it, but there are certain cultural differences in the SGC you might not have been made fully aware of—"
"Since I was in the SGC for a week and a half before shipping out to Atlantis?" John said.
"Exactly," Caldwell said, looking almost relieved.
"Maybe you guys need a handbook," John said. Caldwell managed a mirthless smirk before pressing on.
"As you know, Atlantis is an international endeavor; there's actually quite a bit of leeway to be progressive. In fact, the top secret nature of the project and the years of training and expertise that go into developing a successful gate team has required the SGC eschew—let's call them—inefficiencies of the system."
"Let me get this straight," John said. "I send a few guys to sensitivity training—"
"A sudden overall change in policy raised some concerns about your motives," Caldwell said.
"I can assure you—" John began.
"No one is accusing you of any misconduct," Caldwell said. "The opposite, in fact. But it's necessary for you to grant your men some flexibility." He leaned back in his chair, studying his tea mug with great interest.
"Understood."
"I'd be happy to discuss any concerns you—"
"Nope, no concerns," John said. "Flexibility. check."
"As you know, not everyone can come up to the standard you set as a by-the-book soldier."
"Right," John said cautiously.
"That was a joke," Caldwell said.
"Oh," John said. "Well, it was. funny."
Caldwell smiled some more. John reminded himself that Caldwell wasn't a bad guy, not really, and forced a smile onto his face.
"Hey, way to tell Caldwell I was persecuting gay guys," John said, the next time he saw Lorne.
"I didn't."
"I got Elizabeth to do the—that workshop thing. Diversity," John said.
"Yeah, I know," Lorne said, rummaging through the drawers in the corner of the office, the kettle already hissing. "Did you drink all the tea from earth?"
"You're damn right I did," John said, turning back to his paperwork.
Sidarov left on the Daedalus two months later. His grant funding was up or his government needed him back or he'd never been supposed to be around for more than six months in the first place—something like that. John didn't check into it, and tried not to notice that Rodney had a massive hickey on his neck the morning after ship out.
"That's rough, dude," Ronon said. "You should come over tonight and watch a movie with me and Miko." He wrapped one hand over Rodney's shoulder and squeezed, and Rodney ducked his head and smiled sadly.
"I know you will miss him a great deal," Teyla said.
"Yeah, you know," John said. "Maybe he could come back sometime. He was great."
"Great."
"Yeah, great."
"Great," Rodney said again.
"Great," John said. "He was great."
"Uh huh," Rodney said. Then he got up and stomped off.
"He's pretty broken up about it," John said.
"Mm," Teyla said thinly.
Rodney was fucked up about it, though; John had always found Rodney easy to read, and he was grouchy for a couple weeks, off having private conversations with Ronon and coming to breakfast obviously having worked all night, his eyes tired and bloodshot. John kind of wondered if he’d been crying.
"Are you okay?" John said the third morning it happened.
"Yup," Rodney said, squeezing a couple maple syrup packets over a plate of tater tots and then licking the space between his thumb and forefinger.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive," Rodney said, stuffing about six tater tots in his mouth. John figured he didn't want to talk about it.
"What do you and Ronon talk about?"
"I don’t know," Rodney said. "He wants to have some babies, that kind of thing. Girl stuff."
"I guess you know all about that," John said. Ronon had never mentioned it to him. "Yeah, I guess," Rodney snapped.
"Hey, I didn't mean—" John said. "You're all buddy buddy with Ronon, is all."
"Okay," Rodney said, but he tucked his head down and started eating more quickly.
John didn't remember that they'd talked all that much before, talked about their feelings or told each other important stories about their childhoods—they never did any of that shit; John had never thought they had to, but now Rodney just wasn't around. They went on missions and Rodney worked million-hour days and it was exactly like it was before except that it wasn't. Guy went through a crappy breakup, John thought. Give it some time, he thought, and Rodney would settle back down. While he was waiting, he acted perfectly normal, just in case Rodney wanted to stop being a jackass someday.
"Checking out the new talent?" John said. He sat down next to Rodney on the narrow balcony that overlooked an open-air training area, where a dozen scientists and marines had gotten together some kind of rugby game on the dodecahedral quad.
"What’s that?" Rodney said.
Rodney had been avoiding him all week, eating dinner safely on the other side of Ronon, disappearing from the lab whenever John came by, making plans with Teyla to see Reindeer Games for the third time, and now here he was, eating lunch alone, a cluster of crumpled plastic cups and crumbs next to his hip.
"What?" Rodney said again, irritably. John shrugged; he'd only been making conversation.
"Just. Now that Sidarov's gone, maybe you're looking for a replacement."
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut; John wondered if he had a headache. Below, guys were shouting and shoving happily at each other; it looked like fun. John hung his ankles over the edge of the balcony.
"Can you just tell me," Rodney said finally. "What is going on?"
"I don't—they're playing rugby," John said. "I think."
"Can you knock it off for five seconds?" Rodney said. "We were fine after the—the wraith thing, and you didn't even, you didn't start acting like this until I started dating Elvis, and I told you, that wasn't about you—"
"Yeah, I got the message," John said, abruptly wishing he was down below, having a medicine ball fired at his face, and not dealing with Rodney's histrionics for the tenth time that month.
"It doesn't make you gay," Rodney said, the condescension in his voice edged with scorn.
"Yeah, thanks, I'm not stupid," John said.
"I probably always had some repressed tendencies that—"
"Because I was gay before," John said.
"just were brought to—I. What?"
"I was gay before," John said. "I'm the gay one. Not you."
"But," Rodney was looking almost painfully dumbfounded; it was an unusual look for him.
"Yeah." John said.
"Wait a minute," Rodney said, snapping to, jabbing at the air with his forefinger, "you said you hadn't done—that—before."
"I said I'd never blacked out and fucked a guy," John said.
"That wasn't what I was asking and you know it," Rodney said.
"What did it matter?"
Rodney pressed his face into his hands, his forehead crumpled against his fingertips, and then looked at John, his eyes weary. "You knew what I meant," he said, "but you just let me think—"
"Like you said," John said evenly. "It wasn't about me."
"I can't—you're gay?" Rodney said. "Since—"
"Since, yeah," John said.
"Since it's none of my business, right?" Rodney said.
"Something like that."
"You sleep with a lot of chicks for a gay guy," Rodney said, after a minute.
"No I don't," John said.
John fucked women when he had to; sometimes it was impossible to get out of it. He'd go so far as to say he was pretty good at it; just like flying a 15-year-old chopper which needed a half dozen tricks to keep it running smoothly: a careful jiggle to the throttle to keep it from closing or an extra ten minutes on the warm-up; you picked up the knack as you went along. He didn't have a lot of sympathy for guys who got outed by refusing to fuck women; any idiot could do it if he paid attention. Women weren't so bad—they usually smelled okay and if they didn't come, they always blamed themselves.
"I’d like to tell a story," Teyla said, smiling out over the lantern lit square on PX3-526. "But I think you have heard our Athosian stories many times, and not yet heard a story that belongs to the Lanteans."
There was a low agreeable mumble from the crowd, people settling in with full glasses, leaning into each other’s shoulders.
"This is a story about a prince," Teyla said, "In his native land, in his childhood, he was not a prince, but a young man of great promise—quick-witted and handsome, known for his wit and bravery. But such a man often has enemies, and fear grew in his mother, until she begged for his asylum in another land. Thus, at the cusp of his adulthood, he came to live with his uncle's family—"
Rodney was frowning down at his laptop, so John nudged him.
"What," Rodney muttered.
"You could pretend to be paying attention," John said. Ronon was rapt, leaning forward, the fire illuminating his face. John pasted on a bland, interested smile and elbowed Rodney again.
"No one's even looking at me," Rodney said.
"Someone's always looking," John said.
"Carlton was often foolish," Teyla said, "but he had a kind and generous heart; it was for that reason that it was difficult for him to understand why anyone would conceal a weapon in his locker at Bel-Air Academy—"
"What the fuck am I listening to?" Rodney said, lifting his head suddenly.
"Sh," Ronon said sharply. "This one's good."
Rodney went on a couple—five—halfhearted dates with some woman in operations. John felt quietly vindicated; he’d known Rodney wasn’t gay. All in all, it was a good outcome. Rodney had stopped being angry at him and hadn’t tried to apologize or gotten weird even once. John got back to his normal sex life, which was pretty much jerking off and checking out guys in the locker room. He was low-maintenance that way and he was good at it; no one ever noticed. He’d worried a lot about it when he was first starting out, all the naked guys he’d looked at purely by accident, working to keep his eyes front and center, his stomach hot and queasy. After a while, he began to realize that no one was paying much attention to him. Everything got easier after that, but he had still never taken risks with it—going a safe distance off base, keeping things short and simple. Before Rodney, he’d never fucked a guy he knew more than a few superficial details about.
He'd assumed Rodney would bring up the gay thing—want to ask questions or get weird about touching him or try to get a blowjob or something; straight guys were all alike. Rodney didn't act like he didn't know, but the only time he brought it up was when they went to P3X-529 and John got flirted with by some kind of corn princess or homecoming queen.
"Sorry I set you up with that lady," Rodney said, watching her walk away, twitching her ass in tight shorts. "On Kreschtal."
"It's okay."
"I thought you'd like it," Rodney said. "She was pretty."
"Yup."
"Nice tits," Rodney said.
"Maybe you should've fucked her," John muttered. They'd done it three times, once on a low bureau and twice on the bed. Her tits had been fine. John had gotten about four hours of sleep and spent the next day gritty-eyed and exhausted.
"Hey, no one forced you," Rodney said.
"Yeah," John said.
On PX3-563, the puddlejumper dropped like a stone three hundred yards past the gate. They were only twenty-five feet in the air, so no one was badly hurt, but the ground was muddy, and the puddlejumper sank down six feet and got stuck. They had to scramble almost vertically out of the hatch, Rodney grumbling about getting stepped on the whole time. Ronon had hit his head on impact and blacked out for a few minutes and Teyla had a bloody nose and split lip from slamming her face into the wall, so John sent them back to Atlantis. It took half the morning for a team of marines and scientists to dig the puddlejumper out. Halfway through, Rodney picked up his laptop and started walking away, towards the hills that ringed the plain where the Stargate sat.
"Hey," John said, jogging after him. "Hi, are you planning on a daring single-handed mission here?"
"Do you know how difficult it is to knock a puddlejumper out of the sky?" Rodney said. His face was smeared with mud.
"Not that hard?" John said, glancing back over his shoulder, where Zelenka was waving his arms and shouting and half a dozen guys with ropes and winches weren't helping much.
"Wrong," Rodney said. "A device did this—"
"You don't know that—"
"I'd say it's about there," Rodney said, jabbing his finger at one of the lower hills.
"What could you possibly do with a device that—okay, never mind, let's check it out," John said.
It was further away than it looked, and the terrain was rough and muddy; they sank in up to their ankles scrambling uphill. When they stopped for a break, forty-five minutes in, Rodney's shirt was sticking to his chest.
"I should have made Zelenka come up here," he said, squinting down at the plane, where they appeared to have broken out the shovels.
"Fresh air and exercise, McKay," John said. "It's stress relief."
"I miss reflexology," Rodney said wistfully.
"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd sucked whatsisname’s dick, he'd've stuck around," John said, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt, not really paying attention. When he saw the expression on Rodney's face, he knew it had come out mean, which he hadn't meant.
"What?" Rodney said. His fingers were tight on the scanner.
"I—sorry," John said. "I don't—"
"What business is it of yours what we did?" Rodney said.
"Sorry," John said. "It isn't, I—"
"And, for the record, I sucked his dick."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really," Rodney said. "I'm told that's what gay dudes do. You should know, since you're—"
"You never sucked my dick," John said.
"What?" Rodney said incredulously. "You wouldn’t let me," he said.
"Yeah, that’s why," John said, turning away and starting to climb again. The mud had turned into steep shifting dirt and shale; John's face was burning after five minutes of scrambling up the embankment. Rodney was breathing hard behind him, climbing doggedly.
The device was the size of a lunchbox, grey, utterly non-descript. Rodney crouched in the dirt and pried open the rusted housing, and then wrapped it in his jacket and slid it carefully into his backpack.
"I can carry it," John said.
"That's okay."
"Let me—"
"I'll carry it," Rodney said. He didn't say anything else until they were nearly back to the gate. Zelenka's team had the puddlejumper nearly excavated; the whole place was crawling with personnel, marines shouting and hauling at ropes, rolling the jumper slowly towards the gate on the huge pipes they'd found out on the east dock the week before last.
"I thought you didn't want to do anything gay," Rodney said, quickly, before they got too close.
"What?"
"You used to get—you didn't like it if I touched you too much, so—"
"So you just fucked me, because of my phobia of doing something gay?" They were still walking; John couldn't decide whether to speed up and end it, or slow down before someone heard.
"I—"
"Never mind," John said.
"I don't even believe you're gay," Rodney said peevishly.
"You're breaking my heart," John said. "Also, perhaps you could just announce it to the world and get me fired a little."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney said. "They'd probably have some kind of group hug event. Every hard-ass on Atlantis has been politely inquiring about my partner since you made them take that asinine sensitivity workshop—"
"That was for you," John said.
Rodney snapped his mouth shut. John shrugged and turned away.
"Oh," Rodney said.
The first time Rodney had started to slide down his body toward his dick, he’d turned over, almost instinctively, almost as though the only thing he wanted was Rodney’s heavy, clumsy fingers inside him; with some effort he could remember how it had felt to have Rodney’s heavy cock in his mouth, every time he’d knocked Rodney’s hands gently away from his dick, or jerked himself until he came while Rodney was still gasping with his orgasm, to keep Rodney from trying to go down on him, always the perfect clarity of knowing that Rodney couldn’t really want this; how careful he had been, every time, clearing a little of the hot haze in his mind to remember not to let Rodney do anything he’d be disgusted by after, because he was supposed to protect Rodney; he could remember that much.
If John were still fucking Rodney, he'd rub his fucking feet, probably. He sure as hell wouldn't go back to Earth.
Rodney came by his room a couple days later, late. He'd spent the last week cleaning mud out of the works of the puddlejumper and hovering reverently over the device they'd dug out of the hill and telling everyone exactly what he thought about both experiences. He looked the same as usual—tired, but alert, the skin below his eyes faintly shadowed. He was clean-shaven.
"What," John said.
"I, um—" Rodney elbowed his way inside the door but didn’t come much further into the room. "If you wanted to fuck me, you can. I'm sorry I wasn't—I didn't know about—I couldn't tell you were gay, before, but if you want, I'll blow you, or—you should say something."
"Like what?" Rodney's clothes were wrinkled and mismatched—a button-down shirt with a frayed hem, BDU pants, science jacket--but clean; he smelled like soap. Up close, John could see that his hair was still damp.
"You can fuck me," Rodney said, shrugging. "That's all."
"Yes," John said. He sat down in his desk chair and started to unlace his boots.
"It's just that it seemed to bother you, and I didn't want you to think—what are you doing?"
"I'm—you said I could fuck you," John said.
"Oh, you meant—yes," Rodney said.
"Yeah."
"Oh, I—I see, well—"
"Is there a problem?"
"No."
"Look, no one's forcing you," John said, jamming his foot back down into his boot and turning toward his laptop. "You can take off if—"
"Wait, now, wait, I didn't think you'd actually say yes," Rodney said. "I thought I'd just offer, because you were obviously irritated that you never fucked me or got a blowjob and all that, not that it was my fault, as we've established before, and although I'm not the best at personal relationships, I'm actually quite a generous—um—lover, and I can't have people going about their business thinking otherwise, but my point is, I thought I'd offer and you'd say no, no thanks, please fuck off, and I thought it wasn't an outside possibility that you'd punch me or have a good-looking boyfriend lurking around to laugh at me for using the word lover, which I suddenly realize was a mistake, I just meant that I'm a jerk most of the time, but I generally try not to be when I'm having sex, so—yes, you said?"
"Right."
"Right now?"
John sighed. "When did you have in mind, exactly?"
"I didn't bring anything—any lube," Rodney said.
"Okay," John said.
"Just to reiterate, I didn't think you were going to say yes, I—"
"I have lube," John said, yanking open his desk drawer and smacking the half empty tube down on his desk, the lube everyone stole from the infirmary that was restocked without comment. John had had it in his desk drawer since Rodney.
"Okay," Rodney said, shifting on his feet nervously, and John was just about to let him off the hook and ask if he just wanted to go get a late night snack instead when Rodney crossed the room in two quick steps, as though he thought he might wimp out, and wrapped both hands over the arms of John's desk chair, leaning down towards John so quickly that John took a breath and lurched back, almost startled. He hadn't expected Rodney to want to kiss him, and then Rodney gave him a tired, toothless smirk, and kept going, levering himself down between John's thighs, his bad knee popping, enough to make John feel guilty.
"You don't—"
"Stop it," Rodney said. He put his hands on John’s hips, heavy and tight, and pressed him slowly back into the chair. He struggled with John's belt and had to use both hands to get it open. John watched, pressed his heels into the floor to keep his legs from shaking while Rodney pulled his zipper down and worked one hand inside his pants, twisting John's boxers until one of the legs was digging into his thigh, but then Rodney had his dick out and John slid down in the chair and spread his legs, watching still. Rodney jerked him hard in about five seconds—efficient, without being rough or impersonal. He was frowning a little, in thought or memory, and he'd lost the nervousness; given it wholly to John, maybe, whose heart was shuddering in his throat watching Rodney's hands on him.
Then Rodney knelt up and fit his mouth slowly over John's dick, a series of wet sucks, his mouth loose but precise, his tongue smacking softly against the head of John's dick on every upstroke.
He didn’t suck hard, didn’t get John’s cock in very deep—none of the things John had always done out of habit—just worked his mouth on John in some idiosyncratic pattern of his own choosing. John touched Rodney’s hair, his face, slid his fingers down to Rodney’s lips, his thumb on the soft, stretched corner of Rodney’s mouth, his hand grazing his own dick. Rodney licked the tips of his fingers. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a blowjob that hadn’t been a hurried up, desperate face-fuck.
"I thought," Rodney said, quite some time later, when John was clutching the edge of the desk and moving in Rodney's mouth as much as Rodney would let him.
"Uh," John said, intelligently.
"That I could blow you for a little while longer, and then you could fuck me," Rodney said, his hand still moving on John's dick, his palm smudging over the top; John's hips jerked up against him, and Rodney smiled and stroked up with his thumb.
"That's not really a blowjob," John said, licking his lower lip. "technically."
"You want to come in my mouth?"
"God," John said. "Yeah. Or, wait. You don't have to."
"No, that's fine," Rodney said, and bent down again.
"Wait," John said.
"Feel free to make up your mind any time now—" Rodney said, and John kissed him, curling down to catch his mouth, and Rodney's hands fell away from his dick and slid up to his waist, his thumbs soft and steady against the ticklish edge of John's ribs.
Rodney's mouth was carefully ardent under his, holding back, and John kissed him clumsily, bent nearly double, until Rodney pulled John forward out of the chair and into his lap—Rodney rose up to catch him but it was still awkward, John's left knee jammed into the floor, one of Rodney's arms tight around his waist, the other groping his ass. John held onto Rodney's collar with both hands and kissed him and let himself slip backwards down Rodney's knees until he was on the floor and Rodney was sliding up over him, shoving the desk chair out of the way with one hand, his hands all over John, shoving his shirt up above his nipples, fitting his hips down against John's for a few shuddery thrusts, John's bare dick hanging out of his pants, rubbing up against Rodney's hard cock inside his pants while they kissed. Rodney lifted one hand to cup his face, but his touch was light, almost delicate, callused fingers on John's temple and jaw, a sharp counterpoint to the filthy grind of Rodney's hips between John's legs and John's tongue in his mouth. John dug his heels into the floor and got one hand between them, grazing his knuckles on Rodney's belt; getting his hand on his dick made his thighs watery with anticipation. He didn't have a lot of room to move his hand, but he was still wet from Rodney's mouth, wet enough to jerk himself while Rodney fisted a hand in his hair and kissed him hard, shoving him backwards across the floor, the rug Teyla had given him crumpling up under his shoulders and a hickey on his neck and this close to hitting his head on his desk—it had never been like this when they'd fucked before. Everything had always unfolded neatly as frozen pie crust, methodically, without any discussion or work or rug burn or Rodney ever nudging John's frantic hand off his dick and pinning it gently against the floor.
"I thought you wanted to fuck me," Rodney said.
"Oh," John said. "I, yeah—"
"So we should—on the bed—" Rodney looked around a little frantically, like he didn't know where the bed was, exactly, or didn't want to stop looking at his hand circled around John's wrist, John's wet fingers.
"No."
"Oh," Rodney said. "Well, we can. Whatever you want—"
"You should screw me," John said.
"But you said—"
"Never mind that," John said. "Later." He pulled his hand free and popped half a dozen buttons on Rodney's shirt getting it open, but Rodney pulled back, out of his reach. It was dark enough under the edge of the desk that John couldn't make out the expression on his face.
"No," Rodney said, breathing sharply. "No, come on."
"Fuck off," John said, and rolled up and over, catching Rodney's hip and shoving his shoulders hard against the floor before flicking the button on Rodney's pants and pressing a bite against his throat that made Rodney grab at his thighs and buck up underneath him.
It happened quickly after that, John's mouth on Rodney's, Rodney's hands peeling his pants and underwear down his hips, thumb sliding into the cleft of his ass, their fingers together, tearing at John's bootlaces, Rodney tossing the second boot across the room and flipping John onto his back in one motion. His pants were already falling down, and John thought vaguely about the still-angry scarring on Rodney's knee, and then Rodney hooked his underwear down and made a wild grab for the lube before pushing his stiff, wet cock up against John's ass.
They'd done it a dozen times before, twice a dozen, a hundred, John had tried to remember and couldn’t, so he knew how it could go down, Rodney holding him open like he might press inside, just like that, John squirming against Rodney's dick and knowing he wouldn't, because Rodney had always been more careful with John than he had to be.
"You’re sure," Rodney said hesitantly, even though he already had two fingers in John’s ass, twisting him open.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah—come on, yeah," John said. He wanted Rodney's shoulders holding his knees open, wanted Rodney’s fingers inside him, wanted—before, he’d never had to convince Rodney, but Rodney had liked it when John made noise, or asked—or maybe it was John who had liked it, and Rodney had let it happen for John's sake. Rodney's face was quiet and flushed, his shirt hanging loose on his chest, his fucking jacket still on. Once he buttoned up to go back to his room, he'd just look like he'd had a rough day in the lab.
"Fine," Rodney said.
"If you don’t want to—"
"Of course I fucking want to," Rodney said harshly. He yanked John's hips closer and stuffed a third finger inside and John arched up to take it, gasping; he could only just occasionally feel Rodney’s cock brushing the backs of his legs, his dick was dripping, Atlantis beneath him was a spreading, tingling pool of heat, it was unbearable. John closed his eyes and then thought better of it and forced them back open; Rodney was waiting for him. Rodney moved his fingers again, wider, and John must have made some noise because Rodney flinched, and leaned forward to put one hand flat on John's stomach, almost affectionate, his hand ruffling through the hair.
"Wait," John said thickly. "Wait. No one can know about—if we."
"Right."
"We can't—not like you were with Sidarov," John said. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his body twisting into a curve circumscribed by the floor, by the crook of Rodney’s elbow.
"That's fine," Rodney said. He'd pulled out of John and was lubing up his dick, head bent.
"Not that we're going to be like, like that," John said.
"Like what—"
"I meant, we can just screw around," John said, his throat aching a little. Best to get it clear before they started. "Or—this doesn't have to happen again."
"Sorry, what?" Rodney said, his face changing. He took his hand off John's ass and, after an uncertain moment, put it down on the floor.
"A one off," John said. "If—"
"Will you just—" Rodney faltered, his mouth tightening. "Just tell me what you want," he said. "for once."
John lunged up and barely caught Rodney's collar, pulled, and Rodney overbalanced and slammed his hand against the floor next to John's head. It wasn't far, so John lifted his head to press his mouth against Rodney's throat and for once—for the first time—told.