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"Why aren't we having sex?" Rodney asks, too loud in the cramped quiet of the guest room, singular, on MX3-830.
Ronon and Teyla are both asleep, so John assumes the question is directed at him. He would figure it was directed at him regardless, but with the others asleep, he doesn't have any room to feign ignorance.
"...Right now, or in general?" he asks instead, to give himself time to think.
Rodney huffs out a breath. "In general, obviously, I wouldn't want our criminal hotness levels exposed to the insane amounts of jealousy that would—actually," he interrupts himself, looking over John's shoulder at where Ronon and Teyla are pressed together on their very small two-fourths of the bed, also singular. "Right. Never mind, obviously we're outclassed."
John grunts. "Go to sleep, McKay."
"You know you only call me that when you're trying to imply some sort of distance?" Rodney shifts, his broad shoulders digging in to the soft spot between John's shoulder blades. "Anyway, it's not working, there's no one here to impress with your linguistic loopholes."
John blows out a frustrated breath. Apparently, they're doing this the hard way. "Rodney. Will you please go to sleep."
"Maybe." There's a blessed fifteen seconds of silence—not that John's counting, not that he's braced for Rodney to—"Maybe not. Look, haven't you ever thought about it?"
John squeezes his eyes shut and tries to count backwards from ten. He gets to eight. "Yeah, Rodney, I make it a part of my daily routine to think about all the reasons I should be having sex with my coworkers."
"See, there, you're doing it again. We're friends, but people actually do think about sex with their friends and you're trying to put some distance there. Newsflash, there's no distance, there never was, why do you think I asked about it in the first place?" There's a pause, but before John can even think about what he could possibly say to that, Rodney's continuing. "Never mind, you obviously never have thought about it or you'd have come to the same conclusion I did—that we should, in fact, be having sex. Often."
Jesus Christ. Clearly, they were going to talk about this. Clearly, even though John would give his left nut to not be talking about this. Anything, actually, would be a better topic of conversation; any time, any time at all, would be a better one than now. "Fine. I'm listening. Hit me."
"First," and Rodney shifts so he can actually count out on his fingers even though it's pitch dark in this stupid excuse for a guest room, but at least it lets up some of the pressure on John's back. "We're pathetically in love with each other, that much is patently obvious."
John grunts again, which is about as much as he wants to say on that subject, ever.
"Second, I have it on good authority that neither of us is getting laid, which, in addition to being completely unnecessary, may actually be detrimental to our health and sanity, two things fairly universally recognised as being kind of important."
John would literally rather be having open-heart surgery with no anesthetic than to be lying here, listening to this.
"Third, I have it on only-somewhat-questionable authority that I'm actually extremely good at giving blowjobs, and before you say anything I'm well aware that this keeps my mouth occupied, something I've been told considerably increases the enjoyment level of everyone around me, even if it does lower the IQ of the entire room."
Getting a cavity filled. Chinese water torture. Half an hour with Heightmeyer.
"Fourth, even if you were 100% straight, which I'm at least 80% sure you're not—you can enjoy a blowjob from anyone with a mouth, jerking someone else off is no different than doing it to yourself, but research nevertheless concludes that getting another actual living person involved greatly multiplies the aforementioned benefits of orgasms. So really, sexual orientation is irrelevant."
Right. Okay. John can't actually take much more of this.
...Not without responding, anyway. "Have you ever considered that a straight guy might not be able to get it up for someone they're, you know, not actually attracted to?"
Still not having this conversation. Not.
Rodney makes a dismissive noise, and John can feel the muscles in his arm flex, as he waves a hand. Not that he's thinking about Rodney's muscles, obviously. They're just sort of there and pressed against him and keeping him from falling asleep.
"So we'll put on some porn. Whatever. Seriously, I dare you to not get hard when someone has their mouth around your dick."
John isn't thinking about this, but if he was, he would have to concede that as a fair point.
"Any more bullet points on that list?" he asks, because, what the hell. Might as well let Rodney get it out of his system. Especially if it meant he would actually let John sleep.
"Right," Rodney says, drawing in a breath and wiggling, which somehow manages to press into John's already-nonexistent personal space even more. "Five—we were on five, right? Of course we were. Anyway, five." He pauses, and John accidentally thinks about two potential reasons before he remembers that he isn't thinking about it, this isn't a conversation, and most importantly that nothing Rodney says actually proves anything.
After a few moments—after John realizes he hasn't been counting the seconds—he nudges back with one elbow. "Five?"
"Right, five. Sorry. Thinking." He goes quiet again, but this one's just to take a breath, and John finds it incredibly weird (and completely insignificant) that he knows the difference between Rodney's silences. "Five. This is going to sound like a con rather than a pro, but hear me out."
Silence. The one that means Rodney's forgotten he's not actually speaking out loud anymore. "I'm listening."
"....Don't Ask Don't Tell," he says, and John feels his back stiffen involuntarily. "Hey, I said hear me out. Now. It's a bullshit law, sure. But the actual letter of it isn't that bad. As long as the subtext doesn't become text—but usually, what happens is up to the commanding officers, and see, that's the beautiful thing here—this far out in space, there's no one else. It's you, you're the top brass. And Elizabeth, I guess, but obviously she'd never be that asinine. So really, not only is DADT irrelevant, us having sex might actually help someone else."
"Come again?" Goddamnit. He said he was listening, so then he did. Damnit, damnit.
"Well, think about it. You have people under you who are, to some extent, gay. Maybe even involved. I'm not naming names or anything, but Lorne and Parrish."
"Those are names, Rodney."
"I coughed. You're hearing things. Anyway, if word gets around—and it will, obviously no one would ask or tell but that wouldn't make a difference—then people like certain Majors who have a thing for certain botanists will know that you're not going to strand them on an alien planet for being gay."
John's quiet for a second, because even if he's not thinking about it, he's listening now, and this is about everyone. He's not stupid; of course he knows about Lorne and Parrish. He just hasn't really thought about how it might be, having that fear hanging over your head and never really knowing how safe you are.
He makes a mental note to do something about that. Not by sleeping with McKay, obviously, but maybe he could figure out a way to let Lorne know that it was okay. It was fine. In fact, as long as no one back in the Milky Way found out, John didn't care if there was a hell of a lot more asking and telling going on. Rodney was right, it was a stupid law, and John's approach to stupid laws is to give them the finger on his way to breaking them.
"And sixth. Reason number six." Rodney takes a deep breath and John's still thinking about Lorne, which is why he doesn't brace himself, doesn't have any defenses prepared when Rodney starts talking.
"I, uh, kind of don't hate you. Which is probably pretty well noted by now but I just felt like it needed to be said, again, because you can love someone and still not like them very much, but I actually. I actually think you're worth my time. All of it, actually, and if you ever—" Rodney's voice cracks, a little, but he keeps going. "If you ever found, someone else, someone else who would actually put up with you long enough to—I don't think," and he swallows, John can hear it in the dark, a dark so quiet it's deafening. "I could actually. Deal with that. I mean, I would probably get over it but I'm pretty, no, I'm completely, 100% sure, that it would be the biggest waste in the universe. Because I don't think we'd ever be able to, have, what we have now, which is to say, saving the universe repeatedly at astronomically low odds because, despite being two of the most intimacy-allergic assholes in two galaxies, we actually can't live without each other. And that's just fact. That's not, like, predicated on us having or not having sex, it's just what we are, but the thing is if you started sleeping with someone else I'm almost positive I would be jealous, and bitter, and lonely, and no matter what you did nothing else would ever be right again. So, you should probably not do that, and anyway why would you, see items one through five, and anyway none of this is what I actually meant to say in item six, so I guess, here, have reason seven, which is—"
John has to take a breath shallow through his nose, he can't, he can't let himself think, breathe, he can't do anything to break whatever it is that's happening here.
"...Which is that, yesterday, you almost died. Today, I almost died. Last week, it was both of us, together. Next week, the forecast calls for a 90% chance of mortal peril with a few scattered chances of ending the universe. This is not the time to be like, 'hey, Rodney, thanks but no thanks, having sex with you would be weird.' There's no possible way for you to know that unless we tried it, and if we tried it, I'm willing to stake a future of excellent mutual orgasms on us being able to figure out how to make it incredible. So there. That's the list. We should be having sex, period the end."
The stupid thing—the insane thing—is that Rodney is, as he has an annoying tendency to be, right. There's no reason why they shouldn't be having sex, except for the part where John has literally never thought about it until right this second, and also they're squashed into one tiny bed with Ronon and Teyla, not to mention he's exhausted.
"Go to sleep, Rodney," is what he says, and beside him, Rodney sighs.
"Also, I just really want to suck your dick," he mutters, plaintively.
"Sleep."
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"Doctor McKay's list was very compelling," Teyla starts out the conversation with, and John does a swift about-face with his tray, fully intent on marching right out of the mess hall and as far away as he can get.
Instead, he's blocked in by Ronon, who's wearing that smirk that means he knows, and no matter how fast John runs or how far away he gets, Ronon will still know. It's the smirk that pushes John out of bed every morning, no matter how crappy he feels. It's not like anyone will actually be affected if he misses a run now and then—but Ronon will know.
"God damnit," he mutters, and heads back to their table.
"I would, of course, fully support you should you choose abstinence," Teyla continues, immune to John's signature Please-Don't-Make-Me-Talk-About-This Death Glare™. "It is your body, and ultimately it is not Rodney's logic that governs what you do with it. If he attempts to coerce you..."
"Oh my god," John snaps, irritable but not actually angry. "He's not going to rape me!"
"Well, I doubt he would be able to use physical force against you..."
"You doubt??"
"But I am not so sure that he would not be able to do so with words." Teyla looks thoughtful; Ronon's face is unreadable, besides the general amusement at the whole topic of conversation. John groans.
"Look, I can take care of protecting my own virtue, okay? Trust me, McKay's not going to make me do anything I didn't already—" he stops himself short, though, because the doors to the mess hall open and he's there, looking—well, looking like crap, honestly. This is a good thing, because it means John can remind himself that Rodney McKay is at best unfortunate-looking, and at worst, downright homely. Not that he was beaten by the ugly stick or anything, but. He's on the low end of average. Not that John's been thinking about it. Obviously.
But then there's the part where the reason Rodney looks like crap is because he looks like he hasn't slept, his hair is sticking up where he's run his fingers through it over and over again, his eyes are bloodshot and sunken, and his hands shake as he fights with the coffee machine. Before John can stop himself, he's out of his chair, across the room, pushing Rodney unceremoniously aside.
"Just stop. You're embarrassing yourself. Go sit down and I'll get your damn coffee." He doesn't say that Rodney looks like hell; it would be a gross redundancy, something Rodney's undoubtedly all too aware of already.
Also, it stops being true for a second, when Rodney gives him the most pathetically grateful look that John's ever seen.
Jesus, he thinks, gritting his teeth in a surge of anger as he fills the cup. It's human fucking kindness, there's no reason for him to—god damnit, and his head isn't doing words anymore. He just, he hates it, sometimes, when people treat Rodney like he's a machine—and not a particularly well-functioning one, either. What's worse is that John's been guilty of doing it himself on a number of occasions, and will undoubtedly do so again in the future. It pisses him off, because Rodney deserves better, from everyone, he deserves better so he doesn't feel like someone getting him a cup of coffee because he's too exhausted to do it himself is a miracle nigh unto godly. He hates that it makes Rodney look vulnerable, because every other time Rodney looks like that, he's about to die. Also, he hates seeing Rodney about to die. He hates that he's seen that more often than he's seen him look grateful.
Thoroughly pissed off now, John stalks back to the table, only setting the cup down gently through supreme force of will and also, Ronon's still watching.
"Thanks," Rodney mutters, offhanded and genuine, and John's floored again because he legitimately cannot remember ever hearing Rodney say thank you with anything other than sarcasm.
Teyla's watching them closely, but she must know better than to continue their line of conversation—not when Rodney's stressed enough to be tired. Not when John looks like he wants to murder someone, if it would make Rodney feel better.
"I believe our next offworld mission is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow," she says, to John, but he knows that she knows that he already knew that.
"Yeah," he murmurs in agreement. He's fighting to keep his hands still, so he doesn't do something stupid. "Nice to have a day off once in a while."
Rodney snorts, softly. "Yeah, okay, but some of us have jobs outside of AR-1," he mutters. He sounds as miserable as John's ever heard him. Something in him cracks, a little bit.
"Pretty damn sure Zelenka's capable of running the joint for one day," he snaps, and Rodney glares—but his heart's not in it, he's too tired.
He opens his mouth, probably to disagree, but something in John's face must change his mind. "... Yeah, okay," he mutters, and closes his eyes as he brings the coffee John made him to his lips.
Å
They're on MK0-971 and things, as usual, have gone south in a hurry. They're under fire because someone pissed off the locals (and he's not saying it was Rodney, but it was Rodney), and Teyla and Ronon and Beckett are, hopefully, on their way to grab the jumper for a timely rescue. Until then, John and Rodney huddle down in their makeshift bunker and wait it out—firing back would only make things worse, which John has to remind himself of, repeatedly. It's just that Rodney's got that terrified look on his face, stricken, the one where he knows it's his fault and he should have known better and he did it anyway and now someone might get hurt and or dead. It makes John want to shoot everyone and bomb the planet on his way out. Yeah, okay, McKay could've been a little more tactful, but this kind of reaction just flat out isn't necessary.
Firing back will only make things worse, he repeats, over and over and over.
Rodney's looking kind of shocky, so John grabs his chin and shakes it—it's enough to snap him out of it, to jerk his head back and gripe about personal space. That much, John expects. He doesn't expect (but he should have, he should have known that this isn't something Rodney's just going to let go) the way he continues.
"...And when you do things like that, you don't even realize, do you? You don't have a clue and that pisses me off so much, John, you make me so angry. Let me tell you something," and he shifts, his butt sliding in the dirt and making the cramped space feel both more crowded and more comfortable, somehow, "if it were Ronon, or Teyla, or hell, even Beckett or Major Lorne or literally anyone else—first, I mean, they'd have to have noticed I was dissociating in the first place, which pretty much rules out everyone but Ronon and Teyla I guess—but do you know what they'd do? They would wave a hand in front of my face. Or put a hand on my shoulder, shake there a little bit. And I'd come back and be fine and hey, no panic attacks, everyone's one hundred percent better off. But you? No, casual touches are apparently for people who aren't desperately in love with you, you've got to be atrociously intimate and have I mentioned lately that you look unspeakably hot when you're saving my life? Even when I don't deserve it. Especially when I don't deserve it. Are you even listening to me?"
He is. He doesn't want to be, but he is, even though his eyes are fixed as hard as they can on the tiny strip of forest visible from the bunker, because there's no way in hell he's actually going to be able to watch McKay's face when he says shit like that. No way.
"Ugh," Rodney gripes. "You're hot even when you're pretending you can't hear me, that's disgustingly unfair."
"I think that's Teyla," John says, even though it's not.
"You are impossible," Rodney hisses.
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On MT6-948, they end up in a holding cell, waiting to be thrown into an arena, gladiator-style. Because our life has somehow become Star Trek, Rodney had snapped, and John had to step on his foot to keep him from getting in trouble.
They're in cells facing one another, across a small hallway. Ronon's been taken somewhere else—they really, really seemed to like him, not that that's a good thing—and Teyla is, well. They took her first, before any of them realized what was going on. They took her, and that was how they found out that John and Rodney and Ronon could fight.
Rodney fidgets. He's not taking this well, any of it; John feels numb all over. He doesn't think they're going to die, this isn't the kind of pressurized threat that they're used to operating under. This is uncertainty, this is waiting, this is John staring at the bars between McKay's strong, dextrous fingers and a buzzing, buzzing, buzzing in his head.
"John," Rodney hisses, then, louder, "John."
His head jerks up, he tries to focus his eyes. You're the one in shock now, he thinks to himself, and swift on the heels of that, what would Rodney do, if he could touch you?
It takes too long for John to realize that Rodney's thinking the same thing. He watches him sigh, rest his head against the bars with a hollow thunk, watches his face twist into an expression of genuine anguish.
Jesus, he thinks, entirely detached from the stream of consciousness. Jesus Christ, he loves me, he's in love with me, just look at him. And it's true—he's known it, maybe only in the back of his head but it's not the thought itself that's news to him. It's that he's suddenly struck with the knowledge of what Rodney McKay looks like, when he wants to do something, really wants to, but no amount of superior brainpower can help and he knows it. God, it's terrible, it's completely awful, and John wonders what's on his own face, when Rodney's hurting and he can't shoot it better.
He has to wipe that look away. Has to.
"Rodney," he whispers, and his voice is cracked and ragged, he needs water in a bad way but he's not about to ruin their moment of privacy by yelling for a guard. "Hey. Rodney."
Rodney gives him a tired, angry look; John knows the anger's not at him, but for him, for everything they go through, over and over again.
"What if it's bad," he rasps out.
It doesn't take Rodney long to realize what he's talking about—another reason you love him, his brain supplies helpfully, and John's pretty much out of excuses for that one. It's useless trying to argue with a fundamental constant of the universe.
"Oh, please," Rodney mutters, rolling his eyes, but John's talking before he can continue.
"I'm serious, Rodney. What if, despite all our best intentions, despite... despite everything." I never got to see the look on your face when you said, when you promised, that you'd find a way to make it good. "What if it's just shitty, mediocre sex."
Rodney's face twists in something akin to pain again, and John reflects that he's quite possibly the stupidest person in the galaxy, and more importantly, the worst at distracting subject changes. Rodney looks about to give another flippant answer, but after a moment he sighs, closes his eyes to actually think about it.
"If it's not worth it," and there's meaning in that, that that's how Rodney puts it, but John pushes the thought away, "then we stop. No hard feelings, obviously I'm not going to—I mean. If you're not into it you're not into it. If, if you won't let me, figure it out. Then I guess, yeah. And it's fine. It's okay. We're not having sex right now and it's fine, so."
Something in Rodney's voice tells John, explicitly, that it's not fine. It is not remotely close to fine.
"What you're saying is, there's no reason we shouldn't at least try," John says, and his voice feels slow like honey, like molasses, like he's talking through thick swathes of cotton. It's still moving faster than his brain, two steps behind and making no effort to catch up.
"Yes," Rodney whispers, and this time, he just sounds desperate.
Å
He keeps on not thinking about it, until suddenly he does.
He's at the shooting range, mindlessly blowing holes and wasting ammo and not feeling remotely guilty about it.
The thing is, John was completely okay with not having sex until someone actually pointed it out, and now he's not.
He can think of a large number of people on Atlantis that he's more attracted to than Rodney. Most of them, as far as looks are concerned. But then he remembers that most of them are either subordinates or superiors (superior, one, not that Elizabeth would ever, but that's not to say he hasn't, you know what, never mind), or, well. Teyla. Ronon. Unquestionably gorgeous, no possible way they're not incredible in bed, and yet. And yet.
He can't stop thinking about Rodney, murmuring in the dark about how he couldn't handle it if John found someone—if he let himself love someone, more than he loved Rodney.
He can't stop thinking about Rodney's dedication to problem-solving, his creativity, his fantastically brilliant mind—and the promise he made, the promise to make it good. To figure it out. To figure him out.
John has never had someone want to learn to play him like a finely-tuned instrument, but that, he realizes, is what Rodney's offered him.
He doesn't want to be celibate forever, but the thought of someone else, anyone else, coming even close to how he feels about his team—it just isn't gonna happen. So what if it's not Rodney he pictures when he jerks off—he knows Rodney likes blond and smart and female, and he's only one out of three.
Abruptly, his mind offers this: you both like girls, you can both like girls and talk about it and get hard and have sex and it's not like Rodney's going to expect you to only be interested in him, or vice versa.
This is a new and interesting thought, and John's gone still, arms still raised and gun still loaded but his brain has just checked right out.
Huh, he thinks.
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He tries to think of something to say that's subtle, oblique, but then he remembers that he's crap at it. Instead, he straight up asks Lorne to come running with him, and while they're out, at the farthest point from the city center, he silently asks Atlantis to turn the other way.
Nothing changes, but he can feel it. No radios, no record, no listening ears or watching eyes, the city itself has given them all the privacy they could need.
"I'm gonna be straight with you," John says, then makes a face at his choice of words.
Evan's brow lifts.
"Okay. I mean." Goddamnit, he thinks, this should not be this fucking difficult.
"Okay?" Poor Lorne. John wants to jump off a pier.
"...Look, I dragged you out here to talk about Don't Ask Don't Tell," and that, too, is the absolute wrong thing to say. Evan goes white, his eyes widen, and every muscle in his body tenses, braces itself, prepares to fight.
Damnit, damnit.
"I'm doing this all wrong," John grinds out. "I'm sorry. I—no, that's." He takes a deep breath and shoves it back out, frustrated. "What I wanted to say is that it's fine. It's okay. I know, and Elizabeth knows, and we don't care. That's, well, we do. Care. About you. And that's why it's okay."
He is the best at communication, the absolute best, it is him.
Evan's still looking at him like he's a captive tiger, wary and hesitant, not sure if he's understanding correctly. No, that's not right at all, John wants him—needs him—to be sure.
"No one's going to out you, but even if—you're not going anywhere. Not because of that. I don't give a damn who you love as long as they're not treating you like shit. That goes for you, Parrish, and everyone else in this city, gay or straight or human or... not." He looks thoughtful for a second. "Okay, if it was a Wraith you were dating, I'd judge you a little bit. Just a little." Evan's face has relaxed, it's hitting him, enough that that makes him smile. "But that's it. That's the deal-breaker, evil alien with a telepathic connection to its race that, oh, by the way, trying to take over the universe. That's what I'd care about." He swallows, shakes his head. "Not... guys versus girls. Not that."
They stand around in silence for a few moments, both of them clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable and totally unwilling to be the first to move on. Finally, though, Major Lorne takes a deep breath and lets it out slow.
"Thank you, sir," he says, deep and heartfelt. "It means... it means a lot to me. To a lot of people. You don't have any idea how terrifying it is," he adds, and John doesn't think, doesn't hesitate, just—
"I might," he says, and Lorne's eyes go wide.
They run back to the city in silence, but he can feel the Major watching him—wondering, perhaps, what exactly he meant.
John wishes he had the slightest goddamn idea.
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The change this makes is, frankly, startling. People smile at him in the hallways, people he thought genuinely disliked him (and he knows their names, he knows everyone's names, but for the most part they've never spoken) and, slowly, like a gate rusty from misuse, he smiles back. Lorne's team makes some incredible discoveries in the field; he sees them, in the mess hall, sees that Parrish has pulled his chair right up to Lorne's and they're—they're holding hands.
John's chest feels two sizes too small.
He becomes a little bit obsessed with watching them. Holding hands in the mess, walking back to their quarters with one arm slung casual as anything around Parrish's waist, a swift kiss on the cheek in the botany labs, and then—Lorne's with them for a mission, a bad one, and when they explode out into the gate room, rushing for safety behind the squadron of soldiers with guns pointed at the rippling blue, Elizabeth shouting to raise the shield, raise the shield—someone breaks free of the civilian bystanders, rushes forward. Dr. Parrish grabs Major Lorne, elbow cocked around the back of his neck, eyes wide and panicked as they hang on, hang on.
They slide out of focus, and Rodney, standing on their other side, slides in. He looks lost, and John wants nothing more than to grab him, too; to press their foreheads together, feel the slamming of Rodney's heart through his chest, to ride this wave of adrenaline and fear and relief and gratitude.
Lorne and Parrish are kissing. Desperately, a wince in each of their eyes, and Lorne's got his hand fisted in Parrish's hair, which should look sexy but it doesn't, not here, not like this. It just looks like he'd do anything to hold on.
It's three seconds longer than appropriate. Three seconds that Rodney lets them have, and everyone knows it, because he's the one they're waiting for, he's the one everyone expects to have objections.
"Hey, PDA," he finally snaps, but there's no heat in it, none at all. Lorne breaks away with a gasp, and most of the gate room is cheering, whistling, the outpouring of support is incredible. But he looks up at Rodney. Then over at John.
John feels something in his chest freeze, panicked. He knows.
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Not that it's not common knowledge or anything. That night, poking around online, he finds a poll in the crew forums that's been running for over a week now. It says, quite plainly: "Should Lt. Colonel John Sheppard and Dr. Rodney McKay be having sex? (and lots of it)".
The numbers clearly suggest that either the Athosians have a lot more internet access than John's aware of, or people have been voting more than once.
It's not like multiple accounts are banned or anything. Everyone John knows has at least two—one for official purposes, another for when they want to be anonymous. Rodney, he knows, has three. It's just the principle of it, that apparently people felt passionate enough about this to actually log in and vote multiple times.
He's not surprised at all to see that the poll was posted by 'criticalopalescence', and he knows without a doubt that he's the only one who recognises it as Rodney's third login. It sounds pretty, not at all like the perfunctory 'dr.mckay' or the unimaginative 'youarewrong'. But John knows Rodney, and he knows that the Theory of Critical Opalescence was one of Einstein's lesser-known breakthroughs.
Most votes are in favor, which, considering the volume of teenage melodrama that the forums are rife with, he's not surprised by. What surprises him is that people actually discussed it—pages and pages of actual, real discussion about—holy shit, that's 'e.weir'. And right under it, 'radzelenka'. They're not even trying.
John snaps his computer shut and rubs his thumbs into his eyeballs, wondering when, exactly, his life had become a soap opera, and when having sex with his—coworker, teammate, friend—best friend, had started looking like a foregone conclusion.
He spends the evening attempting to beat the shit out of Ronon, try to chase away the feeling that he's somehow been betrayed.
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But, he realizes, they've moved on. The last post in the thread was two days ago now, and everyone's talking about Lorne and Parrish instead. No one's acted any differently to him throughout this; they don't act any different now, even though John's straining for a hint of some kind of reaction. He's not going to get it, he finally tells himself. John and Rodney are simply old news.
Three days later, John goes to check the poll and sees that it's been quietly removed.
He doesn't know what to think of that. He still doesn't know what to think, when suddenly they're on a mission off-world and things go tits-up (surprise surprise) and John looks into Rodney's face and he thinks, with perfect clarity, We've wasted so much time.
Time, he knows, is relative. Sometimes moments literally do stretch on forever; sometimes you blink and you've missed everything. John looks Rodney in the face and the thought isn't I love him, it isn't I want this—it's much more simple than that.
If he dies today, nothing else in the universe will matter.
That's it. That's the one that sticks. Reason seven—life is short and ours, shorter.
John can't lose him, not before they've found a hundred ways to love each other. A thousand. A triptillion. A parabolic arc, reaching for infinity and always growing.
Rodney would love that analogy, and no one John's ever slept with has understood how numbers could be beautiful.
"Seven's a good number," he rasps, right before he falls unconscious, and Rodney just stares, uncomprehending, because they pretty much have the worst timing in the world.
Å
They knocked out the planet's Stargate, so they're looking at a good twelve hours in the puddlejumper until they hit the next nearest one. Ronon doesn't even spare a glance for the front compartment—he throws himself down on the floor in the back, shoves his jacket under his face for a pillow and passes out. Rodney hovers, unsure, as always, what to do with himself after the crisis is over. He's not good at stillness, patience; he's not all that good with peace, either.
Teyla squeezes his shoulder and gives him a tired smile. "If you wish to sleep, now is the time," she says, but Rodney doesn't want to sleep. He's never felt less like sleeping.
(That's a lie, there are a hundred other times, but what he lacks in keeping quiet he apparently makes up for in hyperbole.)
"I'll just," and he cocks a thumb over his shoulder, towards the front of the jumper, where John—thankfully unconcussed—is manning the controls.
Teyla's face softens into something knowing, and perhaps a little sad. "Rodney," she begins, but he doesn't want to hear it and he's about to say as much but she just keeps talking and he's rude but not that kind of rude.
"Rodney," she says. "I know how you feel about him."
In an instant, Rodney just... deflates. He lets out a breath that he's possibly been holding forever, or at least since he ran into the chair room at McMurdo and saw what this total nobody could do.
"I swear to god it was supposed to be a joke," he says, but Teyla face tells him she isn't buying it. Not for a second. He huffs.
"Okay, it's not like I hadn't thought about it or anything, but I figured he'd just tell me to shut up and I'd get over it. Maybe it would take me another three lifetimes, but I'd get over it."
"Rodney," Teyla begins, but this time Rodney doesn't let her have the upper hand.
"But then I started thinking, actually thinking, about all the reasons—it's basic math, risk assessment, it's literally the easiest thing to compute here, and guess what? The pros massively outweigh the cons. Massively. And actually, I can't think of a single con that isn't completely stupid in light of everything we've been through."
Teyla's face is sad; she's waiting for him to finish, so he stops talking, even though he doesn't really want to. He just wants someone to hear him out - and obviously John's done with it, obviously he doesn't. Obviously.
Obviously, he said something to Major Lorne, but he didn't respond to the poll, and that look in his eyes that day in the gate room—the day of The Kiss, as everyone (read: Cadman) likes to call it. Sure, he'd been surprised, happy, yadda yadda yadda. But when he looked at Rodney, he'd gotten scared. Backed off. And Rodney had stared, heart literally aching in his chest as he watched John spin on his heel and practically fling himself from the room (not that anyone else noticed, thank god).
"Rodney," Teyla murmurs. He lets her.
"Rodney, I think that.... I do not wish to upset you, but."
"Because telling me that is obviously going to help," Rodney snaps, and for a second he's appalled at himself—this is Teyla—but the next second he has to snap his eyes up to the door between the cabins, irrationally worried that John somehow heard that.
"...I do not doubt that John loves you," she says, her smooth, practical voice altogether too unsteady and placating to do Rodney any favors. He's braced for it, shoulders hunched and jaw set, when she continues. "But I am afraid to say I do not know if he is in love with you, and that may end up making all the difference."
He knew that. God, of course he knew that, but knowing it in his head and hearing someone else say it, it's. It's.
It's horrible. He wants to throw up, he wants to cry, he wants to punch something (and isn't that insane, he'd only end up hurting himself).
Teyla isn't done. "...However," she continues. "I also do not think you should... what's that expression? Count your chickens?"
"Yeah, close enough," Rodney mutters. Wait. What did she—
"You should talk to him," she says, one of his least favorite phrases in the history of the entire language. Maybe all languages. "You cannot mourn until you know if someone's dead."
That's an Athosian proverb, he knows that much. Insane, because you absolutely could and should know when to let the fuck go, but in this case...
He stares at the door to the front cab, where at this moment John is probably not having a crisis at all whatsoever. If he goes in there, and they have this conversation... it's going to change things, whether he likes it or not.
...Fuck it. He can't live like this. Staying still is going to kill him all the same, if not quite as quickly.
He lets himself in, then just... stands there, not sitting in the copilot's seat because then he'd be trapped if he had to make a quick escape—relatively speaking. God, this was the worst time to do this. Twelve hours, and nowhere to run.
"John," he starts, just as the man blinks sleepy green eyes up at him, and this guy should have come with a warning label, a hazard sign, 'DANGER: CUMULATIVE HOTNESS. FALL AT YOUR OWN RISK.'
"Yeah?" His voice is soft and fuzzy at the edges, either from the nap or the come-down after the adrenaline rush, who the fuck knows. Who cares. Rodney's so fucking gone on this man it's insane.
He opens his mouth to say something. Anything. What he doesn't expect, though, is for one of John's hands to reach up—unbidden—and just. Hook itself in one of Rodney's, all casual and easy, like this do this every day and it isn't systematically destroying every one of Rodney's defenses. "Um."
He tugs, and Rodney stumbles, bending down until John's other hand comes up and holds him by the back of the neck and pulling and they're kissing? They're kissing! On the lips! He's stunned enough that for a long moment he can't even move, and John lets out this impossibly sexy grunt and tries again, more demanding this time.
And Rodney just. Melts. Putty in his hands. Teyla's worries? Gone. His panic over the gate room shit? Gone, dead, disintegrated. Didn't matter. None of it mattered. Head empty, clear skies.
Seven's a good number, he'd said, and suddenly Rodney realizes he's been kind of slow on the uptake.
"So that's a yes?" he gets out, when John lets him breathe. He gets an eyeroll for that one, but another kiss, too, so he can't exactly complain.
"We have twelve hours," John growls against his lips. "Is that enough time to get it right?"
Rodney laughs, eyes creasing and heart light. "Please. I'm a genius. I think we can do better than that."