They receive Rodney’s choppy, distorted distress call nearly three hours after his team had been due to check in. –our suits entirely, they can barely make out as they crowd around the console and strain to hear Rodney’s faint—but unmistakably urgent—voice over the line. -some kind of toxins, because- and a worryingly terrified crazy! Request for- before the signal dies with a burst of static.

The southern hemisphere of M2S-883 burns continually, polluting the entire atmosphere. Radek theorizes that there is a 70% chance the air is breathable for a short period of time, his fingers never pausing in their calculations, and those odds are good enough for Elizabeth’s consent, sufficient for Radek’s willing participation, and three times what John considers the requirement for a viable rescue mission.

***

“I know what you’re thinking,” Elizabeth says as John suits up. He ignores her until she continues, watching from a fair distance with her arms crossed over her chest. “You don’t like having gone on a diplomatic mission while another team was in harm’s way.”

Another team? John grimaces at his thigh strap until it clicks into place with a satisfying snap. Rodney isn’t another team. John doesn’t mind putting another team in harm’s way, but Rodney shouldn’t have been out there. The worst part is how much John had enjoyed it; enjoyed everything the Tessans, their new allies, had to offer, and the whole while, Rodney had been in trouble.

“Ready,” John says, and arcs his thumb through the air. Teyla and Ronon board the jumper at his signal, Radek follows, and off they go.

***

M2S-883 is a mess, smoke and ash and hard, cracked earth beneath their feet. The hazmat suits hinder every task; seeing and hearing, and especially movement. Through his headset, John hears the muffled rasp of Teyla’s breath when she spots Rodney for the first time. “Is that…?”

“Rodney!” John yells, even though he doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want the staggering, blackened form to be anyone he knows.

“It’s him,” Ronon says. “Sheppard?”

John hangs back for a second, weighing his options. It’s nothing but thick smoke where the air ought to be, and Rodney is nothing but white eyes and crouched, smoke-stained limbs before him. Before he’s even decided, Teyla is already working at the fastenings and pulling the cumbersome suit from his shoulders.

“Go,” she says firmly. “Get him. I will tend to the others.”

The others, John notices as he sprints after Rodney, are already dead.

***

Rodney is marked by more than the smoldering sky. The black is overlain with different shades that John doesn’t register until he’s up close—as though he’s been dragged through the earth itself, covered in tones of soil and clay when he’s been exposed to neither—and attempting to wrestle Rodney to the ground. For some reason, Rodney doesn’t seem to recognize him at all, wild-eyed and incoherent, every word a hoarse, unintelligible burst of noise.

“Here,” Ronon says, stunner raised, but John doesn’t want it to go down like that.

“I’ve got it,” he says just before he takes a fist to the face, a spike of black light behind his eyes, at which point he abandons the idea of gentleness. He hates being made to pin Rodney with as much force as he would use on an enemy; a knee to the crease of his hip, one hand at his throat, where every whimper of pain is trapped until John says “Okay, I give,” because he’s not going to choke Rodney into submission.

Ronon is happy to oblige. One jolt of the stunner and Rodney goes limp beneath him, one hand flung out to the side, to reveal a patch of clean skin in the center of his upturned palm that stands out like a polished silver dollar. The sight of it sends a thin trickle of relief down his spine. At least that small part of Rodney is recognizable.

John stares at it for a second, just to keep from seeing the rest of him. “Let’s get him out of here,” he says, “And try not to breathe too much of this shit.”

***

“Takový jeden hrozný zrak,” Radek says when Ronon boards, Rodney slung over his back. “Is he burned?”
John’s stomach leaps precariously; he hadn’t even considered the possibility.

“No,” Ronon says. “Just dirty.” He deposits Rodney onto the floor before heading out to help Teyla bring in the remaining bodies. When they return, they’re smudged with gray, and Teyla is visibly wilted.

“I feel strange,” she says as John brings the jumper into orbit. “It is somewhat better, now, but before we left, my mind was beginning to cloud.”

“That makes sense. Rodney was altered, too. Keep an eye on his breathing,” he tells Ronon, and doesn’t look back until they’re back on solid ground.

***

When Rodney regains consciousness, he resumes right where he left off. John doesn’t like the gritty scrape of Rodney’s wrist against his own unmarked skin when he helps wrench his hands into restraints, and he doesn’t like the way he continues to fight long after he’s been secured. Regardless, he forces himself to stay. It wouldn’t be right to leave; not with Teyla laid out on one end of the infirmary, and Rodney versus the world at the other.

 

He and Elizabeth stay to the edges of the room, hands on their hips in an identical pose of watchfulness, eyes straight ahead.

“He was like this when we found him,” John says, wincing at the way Rodney’s body arches up helplessly from the bed. “Totally out of it. Tried to take me out, too.”

“You might want to have Carson take a look at that nose, later.”

His entire face has been shot through with a dull throb ever since Rodney nailed him, and John suspects it may be broken. But Carson has more pressing things to worry about, such as administering oxygen to a patient half out of his mind, and behind that task, three autopsies to perform. “I’m okay.”

He sees Elizabeth’s nod from the corner of his eye. “Call me when we know something,” she says, and stands there for another few seconds before taking her leave.

***
Eventually, the infirmary settles down. The extra staff goes off duty for the evening, and Carson comes over to John, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into a waste bin as he walks.

“Here,” he says, his face weary and kind, pressing a cold compress into John’s hand. “And for God’s sake, sit down. Right over here, Colonel. Just put that on your face and I’ll be over shortly to give you a look.”

He’s pretty sure Carson ought to be focusing on Rodney instead of a broken nose, but John sinks down onto the chair all the same. Just the press of the cold pack hurts like hell, and he has to breathe through his mouth. Around him, the room is almost soothing. Carson seems calm, and Rodney’s monitor is beeping steadily, with a few nurses keeping watch with soft steps and hushed voices. It’s the closest thing John has been to relaxed all day.

He dreams of lush alien planets, of fine linens and immeasurable hospitality, and wakes to the sound of Rodney’s voice, a sharp reprimand that cuts through the peaceful infirmary.

“Do you mind? There’s skin under all that. What are you using; paint remover?”

It takes some effort for John to lift his head and bring the room into focus. Two nurses are at work on Rodney. They swipe efficiently at his filthy skin with an endless supply of disposable cloths while he keeps up a steady stream of protest. The nurses probably think he’s being an ass, but John knows how to listen to Rodney, and the complaints are hollow, his voice strained and thin.

That alone brings John to his feet, because it means no one has talked to Rodney about what happened.

“Hey, buddy,” he says as he approaches. “Can we have a minute?” he asks the nurses, who seem happy to oblige.

“I guess you received my distress calls, then,” Rodney says. John can’t tell whether he sounds disappointed, or if he’s just stating a fact.

“Yeah, we…” John searches Rodney for something that resembles normal, and focuses on the bare patch here and there, glimpses of pinkish skin scrubbed to tenderness. “…we got there as fast as we could.”

After an awkward pause, Rodney snorts. “Are you waiting for me to criticize your timing?”

John cracks his neck slowly, bringing the gesture into a shrug. Despite their circumstances, he can’t help the smile that twitches at his lips. “Well, I don’t mean to imply anything, Rodney, but I think it’s a safe bet you’ve got at least a few comments on our performance.”

Rodney lifts a hand to his dry, cracked mouth to cover a cough so deep John can tell it hurts. It goes on for a while, with Rodney doubled over in bed, until finally he lies back, wheezing and blinking back tears of exertion. “You’d think the sound of someone nearly dying would bring a doctor around, wouldn’t you? Or a nurse, at the very least,” he says, as soon as he’s able.

“You’re not dying, Rodney,” Carson says as he checks on Rodney for what seems like the hundredth time. He enters Rodney’s vitals into his chart and comes around to his other side. “And you’re going to be coughing like that for a long while, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to it,” he says, and there’s something about the way Carson pats the side of the bed that strikes John as being slightly off. He doesn’t object to the act, which is nothing but kind. It’s just that such a comforting gesture would be far more effective if it were delivered to Rodney, and not to a handful of rumpled linens.

John has been in Rodney’s place. He’s been injured dozens of times, has been in this very bed, each time coming away with solid memories of Carson’s warm, steady hands. In fact, John’s injuries have always been license for anyone to offer their touch; a brush across the forehead from a passing nurse, a kiss from Teyla—even Lorne and Ronon don’t hesitate to offer a gentle clap on his arm. It feels good, and it’s the perfect excuse. In the infirmary, a touch to his face can be disguised as concern for his health, and he can even pretend to be asleep, if he likes. Everyone still gets what they need—he receives affection without having to talk about it, and they go away with some peace of mind.

When he tries to remember all the other times Rodney has been here, he can’t think of one instance where anyone had reached over the bedrail. You don’t pet Rodney McKay, and you certainly don’t touch his face. John can’t imagine what Rodney would do if someone were to take his hand in their own; if he would jerk away or snap at them until they went away. Or, maybe he would like it. Maybe he would even stop complaining for as long as someone was willing to touch him.

Whatever the case, it’s not like John can order Carson to hold Rodney’s hand, so he turns from that train of thought. “Listen, Rodney. I’m going to meet with Elizabeth and Carson in a while.”

“Oh. To talk about…”

“Yeah.” Guilt shifts uneasily on his shoulders, more difficult to shrug off than usual. “We don’t have a whole lot of information yet. So if there’s anything we need to know up front, now would be a good time to tell me about it.”

It’s not the right thing to say. Even shadowed by remnants of what he’s been through, Rodney’s face is too easy to read. “I’m still very medicated,” he says tightly, and sinks further back into the mattress, his jaw set squarely against whatever rebuttal he expects.

“Sure; don’t worry about it,” John says, and there it is again, the feeling that he’s leaving something unfinished, but the thought of reaching out makes his stomach roll over uneasily, so he gives a nonchalant tap to the bedrail with his fist, inexplicably angry with Carson and Rodney and himself.


***

An hour later, John understands why Rodney hadn’t wanted to talk about it. From the lab and autopsy results, Carson is able to put together a rough sketch of what had happened—toxic fumes, dementia, and even though Carson gives a ridiculously whitewashed summary of his findings, John understands the main idea. They had turned on one another, and Rodney had been the last one standing.

“Of course it was self-defense,” Elizabeth says. Her eyes flicker up to Carson for just long enough that John can see the question in her eyes.

“Of course it was,” John says When they’d found Rodney on M2S-883, he had been marked by more than smoke and ash. Thinking back, John remembers other colors from when he’d been forced to take Rodney down; rust like red clay across his knees and an entire palette of black on his skin, wet like fresh paint at the corners of his eyes. Not clay at all, then; blood—his team’s, and possibly his own.

“Aye, his injuries suggest an attack.”

The pride that wells up in John’s chest is completely inappropriate, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s glad it had been Rodney to survive, to fight off the others and save himself. “I may have, uh, hurt him a little when I brought him in.”

Carson smiles, a small, sad twist to his mouth. “The damage you did him is minimal,” he says. “Smoke inhalation is our main concern. There are some other minor injuries, but I would worry more about his ability to cope with what happened.”

Elizabeth’s head drops into her hands. “Right,” she sighs. “Refer him to Heightmeyer.”
“I had planned on it.”

John listens with a sick feeling in his stomach. Three dead men, and a rumor mill that never stops. Rodney is going to pay for this mission a hundred times over, if they’re not careful. “He can cope just fine,” he says, feeling abruptly sullen, as though Carson and Elizabeth are plotting against Rodney instead of trying to help him.

“John.” Elizabeth’s voice is thin and tired, something she would never allow to show if it were more than just the three of them.

“I’m just saying,” he says, and shrugs at Carson. “He hasn’t even had a shower yet. How about you clean him up first, and then worry about his head?”

”A bit of good advice for you, too, Colonel,” Carson says with a tap to his own eye, and gives them each a brief nod as he rises and leaves. 

***

The next time he sees Rodney, he’s in the gate room, working three consoles at once. The only lingering signs of M2S-883 are the way he hunches slightly to protect his ribs and the smudges of ash across his knuckles and wrists.
“Still can’t get it all?” John says, sidling up in a way he knows Rodney can’t stand.

Rodney looks up in annoyance, his forehead creased with confusion. “What?” he asks, before following John’s gaze to his hands. “No,” he says, cradling one with the other and giving John a strange, suspicious glare.

“Oh,” John says. “Ouch.” Up close, he can see that the marks go deeper than skin.

“Stop that. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Rodney says, and resumes his work, fingers working at an only slightly slower pace than usual. “Is there something you need?”

“Debriefing. Don’t want to keep everyone waiting, do you?”

Rodney keeps going for a few seconds, as though he’s considering doing that very thing.

“Oh, that’s right,” he eventually says with a few quick taps to exit out of the program. “Today’s the big day; two debriefings for the price of one. And I’m sure everyone is dying to hear the gory details,” he says, with just enough bitterness to set John on edge.

“It’s not like that. It’s just going to be the four of us,” he says, and then when Rodney gives him a hard look, adds, “and Radek, Ronon and Teyla.”

“Yes, fine,” Rodney says. He draws in a deep breath, and remains unnaturally quiet as they walk to the conference room. John keeps an eye on him, thinks about saying something, but what would he say? The best thing is to get it over with as quickly as possible. He’s already seen the agenda; M2S-883 will be first, and then they can get on with planning the other mission, the one that hadn’t been a failure.

***

Elizabeth has already instructed everyone to cut Rodney a wide berth, but for once, it’s not even needed. Rodney gives a stiff, methodical account of the entire mission, and his voice only breaks once or twice. When he finishes, he raises his chin and looks immensely pleased with himself for a few seconds before it seems to wear off and his shoulders sag as he goes silent.

He looks terribly alone, there in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, but remains completely professional, even though John see how much it costs him. Elizabeth asks him if he wants a glass of water, which earns her a scowl, and even John can’t help squinting a little in her direction, because really.

With the M2S-883 report finished, Carson excuses himself and they turn their attention to Tessa, the city of remarkable hospitality. It’s obvious that Elizabeth is still fretting over Rodney; she starts off with the ZPMs even though everyone knows it means Rodney won’t be able to focus on anything else for the rest of the meeting.

“When do we go back?” Rodney says, sitting straight up in his seat.

Elizabeth smiles fondly, and John feels himself doing the same, even though it’s all wrong. No one is ever patient with Rodney; no one caters to his interests. “Soon,” she says. “But first, you should probably become familiar with the Tessans and their customs.”

“So long as their customs include the generous bestowing of ZPMs upon their guests, there’s nothing else I need to know.”

“Rodney,” she says, and folds her hands on the table the way she does when she’s about to broker a big deal. “The Tessan people are very eager to meet you. More specifically, they’re looking forward to your input on the problems they’re having with their transportation hub.”

“Let me guess; you’ve already told them I can fix it.”

“Only because you can,” John says. “In return, they want to put us up for a few days of R & R.”

Rodney doesn’t need any convincing. He doesn’t even look like he’s listening as Elizabeth describes the city of Tessa, their advanced technology and their legendary status throughout the galaxy.

Finally, Teyla cuts in. “I do not believe you understand the honor we are being granted. My entire life, I have heard of the Tessan people’s great hospitality, and I am the first of my people to ever stay within Tessa’s walls.”

“One man back home,” Ronon says. “Just one. He spent a week there, and talked about it for the rest of his life.”
Rodney stops fidgeting long enough to look interested. “What makes it so great?”

John exchanges a look with Ronon, and knows he’s thinking the same thing. What hadn’t been great about it?

“They have the gift of knowing,” Teyla explains, “Which enables them to give you everything you desire. They simply wish to please you.”

“Knowing?” Rodney asks.

“A form of telepathy, as far as we can tell” Elizabeth says, and when John finds himself holding his breath, he realizes that he’s known all along how Rodney would react, and isn’t a bit surprised when he looks at them all with horror and says, “Oh, oh, I don’t think so.”

***

He refuses to hear a word about it. Even when Elizabeth pulls rank, Rodney just gives her a wounded glare and goes about his work until she has no choice but to give up or force his hand.

“I just can’t believe that you all are willing to risk all the sensitive information that you carry around in your supposed brains,” he says to John over dinner about a week later. It’s late, the mess hall only half-lit, and everything set to self serve.

“Give me some credit,” John says. “We’ve checked them out; they’re legitimate allies. I promise, McKay, the only thing they care about is giving you what you want.”

“What does that even mean?” Rodney asks irritably, shaking three packets of sugar into his coffee.

“They gave me dancing girls,” Ronon says.

“Dancing girls? Why am I not surprised? So this is some kind of, of-“

“No, it’s not,” John says. “It’s not like that for everybody. It wasn’t like that for me.” He waits, and continues when Rodney settles down, refocusing on his food with an air of relief. “They gave me a flying horse, and they let me try out some of their local sports. It was fun, but it was my idea of fun, get it?”

“I get it,” Rodney says as he unwraps his sandwich from its cellophane. “But why all the intrusive mind-reading? Why don’t they just ask people what they want?”

Teyla looks from John to Rodney with surprise. “That is a very good question.”

Ronon just points his fork at Rodney. “Because people won’t tell the truth, especially people like you.” With a glance around the table, he swings his fork to include everyone in the gesture. “When you’ve got a job like ours, you don’t want to stop, or don’t feel like you deserve to stop. Half the time, people don’t even know what they want.”

John can see the truth in it. After all, he’s known Ronon for a while now, and has never seen one dancing girl, even though Ronon could have his pick of them. It occurs to him that he might not know what Rodney really wants, either, because surely there’s more to Rodney than food and science and arrogance. He could ask, but can’t seem to stop noticing the way the shadows darken Rodney’s face like soot, like they’ve never moved past that point where John ought to have just reached across the bedrail, and the memory of it traps him into an uneasy silence.

In the end, it’s Teyla who convinces Rodney—Teyla, and the prospect of ZPMs. John doesn’t know what she says to him, only that he passes by Rodney’s door one evening just as Teyla is taking leave, and that her forehead presses gratefully to Rodney’s for long, intimate moments before they part. The next day, Rodney gives his grudging consent to the mission.

***

“They do not read your mind, they merely gain impressions,” Teyla soothes quietly from the back of the jumper. Her reassurances are meant for Rodney’s ears only, but John can hear everything. “You will like it, Rodney. They wish to honor you. ”

Rodney mutters something that drifts in and out of John’s range; a sour rant about John flying them straight into an inevitable tragic end.

“Only you would have a problem with a group of people who want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” John can’t help saying, because enough is enough, already.

“And only you would actually believe that’s even possible,” Rodney retorts. “I don’t like this,” he says right before they approach the Tessan atmosphere. His hands grip his knees tightly, and he does look a little gray, as though he might be sick. “Don’t you care that they’ll have access to all your personal thoughts?”

John shrugs. Of course there are a few things he would rather remain private, but they don’t live in his head. They’re too deep, and even John doesn’t know how to access those things that only bleed through in the most restless early morning hours. So, no; the Tessans aren’t a threat to John. Rodney, on the other hand, keeps everything right on the surface, an overflow of fierce, messy emotion that he doesn’t bother to suppress. For someone like Rodney, John supposes it would be disconcerting to have to worry about the things which spill out unaccounted for, unintentional, and entirely out of his control.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” he says as he checks his readings for landing.

“Oh, excuse me if I find that a little hard to believe,” Rodney says.

John twists around to make sure he’s all right, and then starts to maneuver the jumper around the city’s spires as they descend.

“It’s true.”

“Everyone has something to hide, Colonel,” Rodney says darkly. “And these people have the means to--to do whatever they like with what they find, yet for some reason everyone is all right with this?”

“I am fine with it,” Teyla says.

“Just think of it as extreme customer service,” John says, and hopelessly off his game, swoops in for the landing a little more abruptly than necessary.

***

After the introductions are made, John is assigned a valet; the same one from before, a curvy young woman named Pensa who blinks shyly at him with heavily painted eyes. She is a good servant, as indicated by the three glittering stars she wears proudly on her breast.

“There are games,” she tells him as she pulls a rope to draw the curtains wide open. The city lies below, sleek and symmetrical, every bit as fine as Atlantis. “Oh, you will like the games. I will take you there now, and later you will dine with our finest people.”

“Sounds good. Are the others going to be there?”

“Your team,” she says with a charming little bow. “Of course.”

He usually doesn’t see it coming, but that hasn’t kept him from wondering why Pensa has never made a pass at him. She’s definitely had the opportunity, and she calls him John. Since he’s come to Atlantis, he hears Colonel and Sheppard and Sir so often that the sound of his name on a woman’s lips is enough to rouse his interest, but she remains strictly professional, even when she catches him eyeing the dip of her exposed cleavage.

“Are you ready for the games?” she asks, then adds, “John,” with a sly smile.

He keeps forgetting. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, only a bit mortified, and follows her out.

The games, as it turns out, are awesome. They must have paid attention to John’s description of American football, because there are two teams of fully practiced players, all raw enthusiasm and just competitive enough to make it interesting. It’s even better when Ronon trots across the field wearing a jersey in John’s colors. They’ve gone all out--there’s even a fucking halftime show and cheerleaders, a delightful absurdity. This isn’t the Superbowl, after all, except that it is, because no crowd has ever been as loud and appreciative as the ones in the Tessan bleachers.

John’s team wins the game, and it doesn’t even matter if it’s been arranged that way, he doesn’t care. The other team plays as rough as John likes it, and the afternoon is spent in a flurry of frantic sprints, hard tackles and always above everything else, the ecstatic cheers of the onlookers. When he sees Ronon slam the football into a touchdown, teeth bared in a fierce, victorious grin, something swells in John’s chest so large and unexpected that he howls along with the crowd, high on exhilaration and happiness as he jumps onto Ronon’s back and rides past the waving, screaming cheerleaders, feeling more like a hero than he has in his entire life.

He remembers now why he had been so eager to get back to this place—before he’d ever felt the grind of Rodney’s hipbone against his knee—and thank God for whatever Teyla had said to get him here, because John had needed this so badly, and he hadn’t even known.

***

John eats his supper with one eye on Rodney, who is at the far side of the dining room. He’s still on edge, but John catches the tiny cues which indicate Rodney’s slow warming to his surroundings; a softening posture, the ability to concentrate on his plate. Still, John wants to make sure he’s doing all right, so after finishing off his fluffy chocolate dessert, he gets to his feet and starts toward Rodney’s side of the room.

Before he can take even a few steps, Rodney’s earnest-faced valet blocks his path, shoulders squared.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. McKay is unavailable.”

John narrows his gaze on the young man. “Unavailable?”

“That is, unavailable to you. For the duration of his stay.” McKay’s valet blushes fiercely, but stands his ground.

“That doesn’t make sense,” John says with a twinge of annoyance. He looks back over at McKay, who is just sitting alone, half-pushed away from the table and gazing contentedly around at the room, definitely beginning to relax. Of course he’s relaxed; on Tessa, everything is supposed to be--perfect.

Wait, this is their way of making things perfect for Rodney?

“Why can’t I talk to Rodney?” he asks uneasily, and sees the answer in the humble bow of the valet’s head.

“It is my duty to keep Dr. McKay content for the duration of his stay,” the young man explains, just as Pensa approaches, her hips swaying with every step.

“What are you doing, Fredrick?” she hisses at McKay’s valet.

Her fingers brush reassuringly over John’s sleeve. “My charge wishes to speak with Dr. McKay,” she says, and even John senses the vague threat behind her words.

“And Dr. McKay does not wish to--that is--”he lowers his voice, as though to spare John what he can already hear loud and clear. “Colonel Sheppard must stay away.”

“But Colonel Sheppard does wish it,” Pensa says dangerously. “What am I to do with an unsatisfied guest?”

“And what am I to do? I have just earned my second star, Pensa.”

“I have a perfect record, Fredrick; you are a novice, they will forgive you.”

“I could not forgive myself!”

“Let’s just all settle down,” John says, but has no idea what to say next. They both seem a little more wound up than the situation really calls for.

“You have greater concerns than your conscience.” With that threat, Pensa moves toward her rival and swiftly wrenches Fredrick’s arm behind his body while he twists with pain.

“No,” he gasps out, “I will offer my guest a holiday uninterrupted by-” He wheezes high in his throat, but Pensa only tightens her hold.

“Give your consent,” she orders viciously, but instead, Fredrick rallies his courage. He gropes for her hair with his other hand and finds what he is looking for.

“Look, it’s not that big a deal,” John starts to tell them, but is drowned out by Fredrick’s howl when Pensa’s teeth clamp down on his wrist. The next thing John knows, he is being ushered back to his rooms with a different valet and a hundred apologies coming at him from every direction.

This has never happened, they keep saying, and never on Tessa, so ashamed that they can barely look John in the face.

Conflicting desires, his new valet says helplessly, and he knows they’re talking about him and Rodney. John can have anything in this world that he wants, except for a conversation with Dr. Rodney McKay.

***

John may be lazy, but he’s never been passive, and it’s easy enough to sneak down through the heart of the city and into Rodney’s rooms. When he slips through the door, he finds Rodney reading on a wide sofa, a couple of fuzzy black kittens curled up at his side.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his book falling shut. “Shouldn’t you be out flying something right now?”

“What? No; I’m turning in for the night. After I talk to you, that is.”

“Ah,” Rodney says. “Then I suppose this about the brawl.”

John pauses and studies Rodney, his hands on his hips. “Not really. Did they give you a new valet?”

Rodney waves his hand toward the door. “They said it was temporary. Until Fredrick gets back from his flogging, or whatever they do around here.”

“They’re pretty advanced; I doubt he’s being flogged.”

“Oh, is that how we’re measuring advancement, these days?”

This isn’t the direction John wants the conversation to go. He’s here for a reason, but Rodney is off tonight, tightly drawn as though he’s settling in for a long, painful experience. And that makes John’s skin prickle with irritated frustration, because it doesn’t have to be that way. Not here on Tessa.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t know any other way to ask this, but why don’t you want to talk to me?”

“Why don’t I want to talk to you? What is that supposed to mean? I’m talking to you right now.” And Rodney doesn’t seem like he’s lying, exactly, but his voice is strained in new ways; ways with which John is not familiar.

“I had to sneak in here when no one was looking. Fredrick flat-out told me I’m not allowed to talk to you, and he didn’t just randomly pull my name out of a hat.”

“No, just out of my head,” Rodney says bitterly. “I told you I didn’t want to come here, Colonel, and this is exactly why.”

“This isn’t about you being right, Rodney. And I can stay here all night if that’s what it takes.”

“What am I supposed to say? I don’t have a problem with you; I’m not avoiding you; I don’t mind if we talk.”

“Fredrick says otherwise.”

“Then maybe he’s wrong, did you think of that? Don’t tell me you’re going to just blindly put your faith in the telepathic abilities of a complete stranger!” This is more familiar, the sheer disdain Rodney emits when he’s warming up for a good rant.

“Not exactly. But you’ve got to understand, I’ve had some experience with these people, and so far I’ve got to say, Rodney, they’ve been pretty damn accurate. So when they fall all over themselves to make sure I don’t upset you just by being in the same room, I have to wonder why.”

Rodney is suddenly flustered when John gives him a hard look, but damn it, John doesn’t lay himself out like this very often, and it seems like every time he does, it’s for this impossible, infuriating man.

“All right, all right; fine,” Rodney backtracks, kneading one hand with the other. “There may be the slightest possibility that Fredrick could conceivably have gotten the idea from me. From my subconscious, of course.”

“Oh.” He honestly hadn’t expected Rodney to admit to it. “But, why? Why me? Is it because of what happened on MX-433? What I had to do?”

“No!”

“Then, what? Is it the way things were after the Arcturus thing? Or that thing with Colonel Mitchell? Because, that’s not fair. I was just playing around!”

Probably not the right thing to say, judging by Rodney’s dangerous glower. “You’re giving me a lot of reasons to hate you.”

“Look,” he backtracks. “I know we’re not…” Best friends seems too lame to say, so he waves his hand in a vague motion that could only represent friendship if Rodney were the psychic one. “-Whatever. But I’d like to think that at some point, I would’ve noticed if you had a problem with me.”

At this, Rodney gets up and paces a few steps toward the window, then back toward John. “I don’t,” he says shortly. “That’s the whole idea of the subconscious; it’s beyond your intentions.”

And that--doesn’t help. John blinks at Rodney with an expression of disbelief that he has to work at, because his insides are twisting with something that feels like failure. Rodney is part of his team, and Rodney can’t stand to be around him.

“Would it help if I said it’s not you; it’s me?”

John studies him for a moment, uncertain. Rodney is usually the one dragging him from one topic to another, barely waiting to see if John is keeping up. Now, he seems as though he’s waiting for something. For John to leave, probably.

“Maybe,” John replies slowly, “If I thought that was it. Hell, Rodney, maybe it is. You’re so tense, I don’t get it. It’s perfect here; we’re getting everything we want.”

“Are we actually having this argument again?” Rodney asks, his voice pitched high and incredulous. “Of course we are; it’s you. And it’s probably fortunate for you that you don’t understand, but that doesn’t change the fact that no one can give us everything we want. No one.”

“Judging by the look of this place, I’d say they’re doing a pretty good job trying.”

Rodney’s rooms are ornately luxurious, with high ceilings and enormous gilded furniture that John likens to an Egyptian temple. Fabric gleams from nearly every surface, a wealth interesting textures: tapestry, silk, and velvet. John begins to walk around the room, taking it in while keeping one eye on Rodney.

“I never knew you liked this stuff.”

“Yes, well, just another piece of information unwillingly extracted from my brain,” Rodney says, trailing behind John as he goes. “Although, I suppose you’re not entirely wrong. Atlantis is the ideal in a lot of ways, but it can be rather all-consuming, I suppose. I’ve forgotten how nice it can be to just stop.”

“Exactly,” John says. “So try and enjoy it, all right?”

“Mm. They’re taking me down to the ZPM reserve tomorrow,” Rodney says, and bounces on his heels. “Enjoyment seems inevitable, don’t you think?”

“For you? Yeah. In fact, you might want to think about wearing some kind of paper bib.”

“Yes, very amusing, I’m excited by the ability to extract vacuum energy from subspace and consequently power our shields; how simple-minded of me. We can’t all get excited over things that go boom.”

“The ZPMs excite you,” John says, smiling at Rodney’s insinuation. “Admit it.”

Rodney huffs his annoyance loudly. “If I admit it, will you leave?”

“I’m gone,” John says, satisfied. “See you tomorrow.”

***

The next morning, Pensa brings John breakfast with downcast eyes and one solitary star on her chest. Fredrick, when John sees him, has none. Good, he thinks with a stab of guilty satisfaction, because he’d come here for a few days of bliss, not for more tension with Rodney. They’ve had their share of awkward moments since M2S-883, with John startling at every imagined smudge of ash on Rodney’s skin and trying to talk around the apology that has made its home at the back of his throat. Rodney is bound to have noticed, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t want John near him.

“I guess you take your job pretty seriously,” he says cautiously.

“I cannot apologize enough,” she says, her mouth like a small, trembling animal. “You should have Doctor McKay, and I swear to you that if I had my way, he would have been before you when you wished it so.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He’s always been cool with Pensa, but after seeing her go after Fredrick with such unrestrained ferocity, he’s wary in the same way he’s been with ex-girlfriends who’ve taken the breakup just a little too hard.

“I share your worries,” she says with a curious sideways glance in his direction, which doesn’t seem fair or even true. He wouldn’t say he’s worried about talking to Rodney, it’s just something he thinks he ought to be able to do if he wants. Back on Atlantis, Rodney is an inescapable force. John doesn’t need to pursue him; he just shows up. Until now.

“Thanks. Now, what’s on the agenda for today?” he grates out, and watches her face turn to stone.

***

Pensa has run a bath when he returns from the day’s activities—more games, this time a Tessan sport similar to volleyball—a deep, fragrant bath that is so appealing he strips off his sweaty, grass-stained clothes and climbs in without any protest. The hot water is exactly what he’d needed, so he allows what he might otherwise question; the way his attendants work on his sore muscles in a way that wouldn’t be considered completely appropriate on Earth. But they’re Tessan just like Pensa, so they know the exact coordinates of his comfort zones, and by the time they help him out of the bath, he’s warm and loose with contented gratitude.

Pensa’s mood is completely changed from earlier. Not only is she able to meet his eyes with ease, but she smiles widely as she pats him down with a towel and drapes him in soft, heavy cotton pajamas. Before he knows it, he has been led over to his wide bed, Pensa is bowing repeatedly as she takes her leave, and a new valet is leading Rodney into the room.

”You’re talking to me now?  You don’t seem like the fickle type.”

“So it would seem,” Rodney says, taking an inquiring look around John’s rooms. He’s barefoot, in slacks and his dark gray t-shirt, and there is a noticeable difference in his posture, more relaxed than John has ever seen him. When he finally looks at John, it’s obvious why.

“Won’t you join the Colonel?” Rodney’s unfamiliar valet gestures down toward John’s bed.

Rodney sighs and gives his collar a few absent tugs before sitting down with John. As soon as Rodney is settled, the valet hurries off in the same direction Pensa had gone, leaving them alone.

“So Rodney, try anything new?” he asks, intrigued by this contented, subdued version of Rodney.

“You wouldn’t believe the things they’ve done to me tonight,” Rodney says. He’s a little breathless, but not at all bothered.

John raises an eyebrow. “I might.”

“Right. Right,” Rodney repeats, sliding his hands all over the slick fabric of John’s bedspread. “At first it wasn’t all that great. They must have some kind of hangup about germs, because they scrubbed me like I haven’t been since—well, you know.” He goes away for a second, the drift apparent in his eyes, but then he’s back with a shake of his head. “It took them over an hour to give me a manicure.” And just like that, John’s eyes are drawn to Rodney’s hands, which trace wide, complicated patterns on the bed. “And I think I’m a little, uh, I mean, I drank some…”

“Special tea?”

“Yes.” Rodney gives a high, nervous chuckle. “More like a spicy cocoa. They made me stop, though. I wanted more.” He wipes at his mouth as though the taste is still there on his lips.

“I’ll bet you did.”

“Hm. And the manicure wasn’t that bad, actually. My hands feel all tingly. Sensitive.” He holds them in his lap, admiring the job, and John does the same. Rodney is right; his nails gleam pink like the inside of a seashell, and there isn’t a trace of dirt on any part of him, real or imagined. “See?” He turns his immaculate hands up for John’s inspection, and he’s so soft around the edges that it seems okay, for once, to touch.

“Yeah. I see,” John says as he catches Rodney’s hand in his own. Slowly, he strokes his fingertips over the fleshy curve of Rodney’s palm.

And there’s something about the way this feels, so compelling and elusive, like a whisper of recognition, that John chases it up to the bend of Rodney’s elbow. Then, like a skipped frame of film, his hands are on Rodney’s face in precisely the way he’d thought no one was allowed.

“This is new,” Rodney says, not accusing; just honest curiosity in his heavy-lidded eyes and an alertness behind them that says this is okay. Rodney’s acceptance is a good thing, because John has enough panic galloping through his body for the both of them.

Rodney is right: this is new, and long overdue, John thinks as he fits his hand to the curve of Rodney’s cheek. He ought to have been more careful with Rodney on M2S-883; could have found some way other than his hands at Rodney’s gasping throat. He shouldn’t have ever let him go there on his own, and God, he should have just reached over that fucking bedrail.

There’s nothing he can do to change any of that, but the Tessans know their business. With Rodney so pliant and unaware, John can take as close a look as he wants without being cut down by Rodney’s sharp, defensive tongue.

“You look okay,” he says after a long, satisfying look, and lets his hand drop back into his own lap. “You’re okay, right?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Rodney says, his mouth curving downward as if in thought, and then upward at one corner. “Good, really good. You must have been right about this place.”

“How’s that?” John asks, right before Rodney slides right into John’s space, hands on John’s thighs like a tropical tide rolling in, crawling over him in waves of undeterred warmth.

“A ZPM,” he says vaguely, and lifts his face to John’s in a move that John recognizes as the thing he never sees coming.

“McKay,” John says, “Wait.” What had they given him to make him want this? But Rodney’s lips are already dragging across his face, tiny flashes of breath on John’s newly shaven skin until their mouths are aligned, and when John had made the decision to touch Rodney, this doesn’t remotely resemble what he’d had in mind.

He hadn’t even known you could get this close to Rodney McKay, who tastes as clean as rainwater when he uses his tongue to open John up to him, careful licks against John’s upper lip, the edge of his teeth, and finally, John’s own hesitant tongue.

He starts to push at Rodney’s shoulders, but can’t go through with it. The memory of Rodney struggling against his grasp is too fresh, and this isn’t hurting anything, not really. In fact, it’s nice; the gentle movement of Rodney’s mouth against his own, like giving an apology and receiving absolution all in this easy, wordless exchange.

But kissing is like surfing, like flying, like any thrilling sport that begins as simple coasting. John can feel the rising crest of Rodney’s urgency in his kisses—the way he goes deeper with each pass, searching John out, barely pausing for breath, and in the way his hands plunge beneath John’s shirt like an unexpected rip current. It’s an effort not to get caught up in it, in Rodney’s unexpectedly flattering display of affection. “Wait, wait,” he says, untangling himself from Rodney’s arms. “Hold on a second.”

“Fine,” Rodney sighs, just another sign of how stoned he is. In his right mind, Rodney doesn’t concede even the smallest thing. Now, he just nods slowly and lets his fingers dance over his own wet mouth with nervous energy, his eyes on John’s the whole time, holding him somehow accountable even as he withdraws.

“Is everybody being okay to you?” John asks, a terrible segue, but Rodney isn’t likely to notice.

For a second Rodney blinks at him, not understanding, but the he makes a frustrated clicking sound in the back of his throat and falls back onto the bed. “They’re fine, really. You think I wouldn’t tell you if they weren’t?”

Relief is like a sledgehammer to the chest. “Just making sure. Listen, can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” Rodney says, at the same time adjusting himself in his pants, his hips shifting restlessly on the bed. Because of their kiss, John realizes.

“What changed your mind about coming here? You’re usually a little more stubborn, once you’ve made up your mind. Did Teyla say something?”

“Teyla,” Rodney says, his voice light and mellow, as though his thoughts might drift off on that one word. “Yes. She wanted to come back. They put her with this medium who had the ability to connect with Charin. It’s remarkably hard to say no to Teyla, even for me.”

“Good to know,” John says, uncertain of why he’s relieved all over again. “I’m glad you came. We all need a vacation every now and then, especially after…” He trails off meaningfully, leaning over Rodney a little bit just to make sure he’s paying attention. Aside from looking a bit tired around the eyes, Rodney is all there.

“After?”

“After M2S-883. It’s hard when shit like that goes down, but it was them or you, Rodney, and you did good.”

“Oh.” Rodney rolls away from John just as the door swings open with a violent thump, and two of the Tessan elders sweep in with Fredrick at their heels.

“There has been a breach of confidence,” one of them declares, while the other bustles Rodney out of the room.

“I am terribly sorry,” the remaining elder says, bowing repeatedly in John’s direction. “First the altercation with Fredrick, and now this.”

John stands uneasily near his bed, hands on his hips, conscious of his bare feet and the disheveled covers where he and Rodney had been lying. “What’s going on?”

The elder strokes his beard for several moments before he speaks. “It is through forbidden means that one guest’s wishes were fulfilled at the expense of the other.”

John thinks about Rodney’s slow, sweet kisses and the contented sounds he had made; soft, charming sounds that had come from deep within his chest. “Look, I don’t mind,” he says, because he doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble; not for something so insignificant as this.

“Yes,” the elder says, slightly less agitated. “I must attend to the matter. There will be a hearing in the morning, and we will go from there. Good night, and again, my apologies.”

***
***

He really hadn’t minded. After all Rodney has been through, he’s entitled to some physical comfort--hell, maybe even more. For as long as John has known Rodney, Rodney has found a way to worm his way through the twisted bends that John uses in order to keep people at bay. He does so with a complete lack of fear, as though it hasn’t crossed his mind that he might find something he doesn’t like, so it hadn’t been a complete surprise when he’d pushed his way into John’s mouth in the same manner.

So no, he hadn’t minded. If anything, John is beginning to wish he had given him just a little bit more.

***
***

The hearing takes place in a room with one long table, nothing more. John and Rodney both arrive at approximately the same time. They exchange a silent greeting, their hands lifted in a discreet wave, before they’re escorted to opposite sides of the narrow table. Rodney sits near Fredrick, John at Pensa’s side.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning in so her long, straight ponytail nearly brushes his face. “Do you know what’s going on?” It doesn’t bode well when she gives a stiff shake of her head without looking at him. Her chest is completely devoid of stars.

Once they begin, the proceedings don’t seem to involve John and Rodney in any way. There is a long, boring lecture that seems directed at all the valets present at the table, and then a questioning process that leads to Fredrick giving a detailed account of how Pensa and her cohorts had ambushed him, tied him up, and then done as they pleased with his charge.

“Wait,” John interrupts. At least Rodney, at his side of the table, appears as shocked as John. “You don’t mean last night was for me? That it was against Rodney’s wishes?”

“It was for you,” Pensa says quietly, tapping her pink fingernails on the table. “And I am punished for my work.”

“You broke the laws,” one of the elders says. “And by doing so, you kept Fredrick from his duties.”

“That can’t be right,” John says, clenched with a surge of anger that springs up out of nowhere. “I didn’t, it wasn’t me.”

“You are not to blame,” they say, while John gets ungracefully to his feet, his chair scraping noisily on the stone floor.

“No, no. I mean it wasn’t me whose idea of a good time was an evening in bed with Rodney,” he says, because hadn’t it been Rodney who had made those first warm, eager advances?

“Hush,” Pensa says, tugging gently at his sleeve. “We do not speak of our guests’ wishes.”

Across the table, Rodney has turned to ice, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Hey, I had nothing to do with it,” John says.

“Of course not,” Rodney snaps, and turns to the highest elder. “Do we really need to be present for these hearings? I want to lie down; I’ve got a bit of a headache this morning.” At the mention of the headache, he glowers at Pensa, who dips her head in shame for the first time.

Rodney is allowed to leave, but John takes his seat again, armed with a grim, revenge-colored determination to see this through to the end.

 

***

His new valet isn’t nearly as pretty as Pensa, and she keeps him at a distance, as though he had somehow forced his will upon Pensa and brought about the entire debacle. She circles him restlessly for a while, brings him some lunch, and eventually leaves him on his own, which proves that she has the same gift as the others. He can’t think of anything he wants more than to be alone.

He spends the afternoon on the sofa playing video games and skips dinner, feeling listless and vaguely worried. It reminds him of every time he’d been sent to his room as a child, an endless sulking exile while everyone else went about their golden, laughing lives without him. As hard as it is to imagine the cheerful conversation in the dining hall, it’s even harder to imagine that wherever he is, Rodney is hung over and stung by betrayal.

Well past dinnertime, he’s still slouched on the sofa, punching methodically at the video game controls. Some holiday. Pensa may have been a scheming criminal, but at least she’d lived up to the Tessan reputation and taken care of John’s every need.

“You know, your rooms don’t seem nearly as nice now that I’m sober.”

His thumb slips and his planet crashes into three others, a spectacular explosion before the screen goes blank.

“I think they’ve decided we’re beyond help,” Rodney says from the edge of the living area. “We’ve reset the standard for hospitality on a planet with centuries of experience in the matter.”

“Maybe they’re the ones who need a vacation.”

“I wouldn’t blame it entirely on them.” Rodney approaches as warily as John’s new valet, his jaw set with stubborn resolve, and eventually takes a seat at the other end of the sofa.

The game control slides from John’s hand to the floor with a hollow clatter. “Look, I didn’t ask for last night. I didn’t even know you were coming until you showed up.”

“No, but you knew I’d been drugged and you used my compromised state to pump me about information on a very private matter.”

“It’s not that private, Rodney; I was there!”

“That doesn’t mean…” Rodney breaks off and frowns as though John has just said something remarkably brilliant and unforgivably stupid all at once. “I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I was taken—completely against my will, might I add—to the last place I wanted to be.”

“I get it,” John says. He’s beginning to understand. Yes, Rodney had wanted the kiss, but he had never intended to be in the position where anyone would know. In fact, his only desperate wish since coming to Tessa had been to stay far from John in order to protect what he wished to remain private. “And I’m sorry. But don’t forget I was pretty damn forgiving when I thought last night was for your benefit.”

“It wasn’t,” Rodney throws back.

“I know. But you can’t blame me for thinking it was.” He attempts a smile, ready for it to be shot down by Rodney’s glare, but something eases on Rodney’s face.

“I suppose not. But since it was you, I can’t quite figure out why you wanted me.” bathed and drugged and delivered to your bedroom, Rodney doesn’t say, for which John is grateful. For a second, he thinks maybe it’s hypothetical, that Rodney doesn’t want an answer at all, but then Rodney’s fingers snap impatiently, followed by a pointed “Well?”

“It’s nothing, Rodney; I just wanted to know you were all right. To see for myself.”

Rodney nods to himself, his attention grazing sharp, barely discernable paths over John’s skin. “And in order to accomplish that, you had to hold my hand?”

“No! I was, I was just checking, okay? Why do you have to make such big deal out of everything?” And he can’t help raising his voice the way he always seems to when push comes to shove with Rodney, but then, Rodney always comes right back at him, just like he does now with an insistent, half-furious-

“Because it was a big deal to me.”

John pauses, caught between Rodney’s honesty and his own instinct to run, run, run.

“Don’t tell me it’s a surprise that I like you touching me.”

No; not after last night. He just hadn’t expected Rodney to admit it.

The abandoned video console gives a series of rapid warning beeps before fading into black. He could get up and turn on the lights; it would be a legitimate excuse, but the skittish new valet had spent several minutes lighting a series of wall sconces that provide plenty of light for their conversation.

“You’re just so untouchable,” he blurts. “I only wanted to-” He cuts off when Rodney’s eyes flicker to a shade of satisfaction, as though he has somehow gained the upper hand.

“I’m anything but. See for yourself,” Rodney says, almost angrily—but no, that’s just how Rodney gives direction: with cross impatience, as though he knows his orders are going to be carried out incorrectly.

John eyes him carefully, unsure of where to begin. Last night had happened so naturally, one thing leading to another with no demands other than the one that lurks, undefined, beneath his own skin. The first place he’s drawn to seems like a bad idea; the place where Rodney’s jeans crease in symmetrical folds out from his groin, just above where the denim stretches smoothly over his thigh. It looks warm and curved and perfect for John to cup, but it’s such an intimate place, and John is embarrassed to even think about it.

“Oh, God,” Rodney says abruptly, and John knows he’s been too obvious. He’s about to apologize, but there’s a flash of red across Rodney’s cheeks as though he’s been screaming or running, but he’s been doing neither, just sitting here, and “Are you-?”

“If you want,” John says. Because he certainly does.

Rodney swallows hard, choking a little on his answer. “Of course I want.” He doesn’t really believe it, John can tell, not even when John crawls over and feeling like a complete tool, slides his hands up to the place he’d been watching.

He’d been right; Rodney’s thighs feel great, the way they jerk apart like he isn’t quite in control and heat seeping from between them like a furnace. Once he’s there, he realizes how far into Rodney’s personal space he’s just gone, and that there’s nothing to do but lift his eyes to Rodney’s and say “Hi,” into the few inches of space between them.

“Hi,” Rodney says back, and John can actually feel Rodney’s thighs tremble beneath his hands when he says “I’m, I’m- John,” and kisses John as though they’re exactly where they left off last night.

This time it’s familiar enough that he can focus on things like the entreating stroke of Rodney’s tongue and the strength behind it, which leads John to the realization that Rodney is as fit as he’s ever been, and that maybe Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is the one who isn’t doing so great. And maybe Rodney is fine, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be even better. John proves this with a hard squeeze to Rodney’s thighs with both hands, which makes Rodney fall backwards into the side of the sofa.

It’s like a massage, nothing wrong with that, except that when John glances down between them, he sees that Rodney had been telling the truth; he really, really likes John touching him. It’s impossible not to notice the solid shape that lies along the crease of Rodney’s thigh, wide and firm and hot against John’s palm, which has somehow drifted upward and is frozen in a loose grip on Rodney, on Rodney’s cock, and John is dizzied with it, with the deafening rush of blood in his head, mostly panic but also something John recognizes deep down as pulse-quickening, gut-tightening arousal.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, partly as a way to buy time and partly because he really doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“That’s all right; don’t stop,” Rodney pleads, his hips shifting up and down like he just can’t help it, pushing him farther into John’s hand. “Here, here,” he says breathily, reaching for John’s pants, and before John can find a way to articulate that it’s too fast, whoa, too fast, it’s done and they’re in each other’s hands, grasping and kissing like this is the link that’s been missing for weeks now, ever since John had gone against his every instinct and walked away from Rodney in the infirmary.

Rodney’s cock is smooth and damp and swollen in John’s fist, and leaks from the tip each time John rubs just there with his thumb. It’s so far from untouchable that John thinks he must have been crazy to ever think so, or maybe they had scrubbed off all Rodney’s invisible boundaries along with the rest of it, leaving nothing but a longing for John’s hands and a hungry approach to kissing, taking and taking until John can’t taste anything but Rodney all over his tongue, in his mouth, and across his lips.

Their kiss turns frantic when Rodney reaches down low into John’s jeans to cup John’s balls with gentle pressure and back further, to nudge with the tips of his fingers at the place where everything throbs through with a hidden aching heat.

Somehow, John manages to tear himself away from Rodney long enough to see him, eyes wide with shocked lust. He looks confused when he’s turned on; confused and bothered, and so wanting that John relaxes himself enough for Rodney’s hand to nestle in even further, a sign of how much he wants it, too.

Rodney draws in a sharp breath and rubs at John’s balls with his palm.

“You feel so good,” Rodney says fiercely, and works his fingers until John can barely see, until his eyelids go heavy and he presses himself down into Rodney’s body to rides the sharp spike of pleasure that ripples outward until he’s pulsing wet and sensitive against Rodney’s warm skin, Rodney’s hand trapped in his pants, snug around his balls the entire time.

He moans quietly into Rodney’s neck, breathing in the faint scent of herbal soap and the heavier, vaguely familiar scent of his skin, a few seconds of bliss before Rodney says “Lift up,” and slides his hand out of John’s pants.

“I wanted to do this last night,” he says, petting the back of John’s neck repeatedly, surprisingly gentle. “You have no idea how badly. I was so—well, you saw me. Horny,” he murmurs as an afterthought, just in case John doesn’t remember.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John says, with a luxurious stretch, suffused with affection for Rodney and the way he's just lying there with his erection neglected between them, even though it's got to be killing him. “I still think it was the ZPM.”

“What? No,” Rodney insists.

“Uh huh. You were all wound up even before they brought you to me,” John says into the soft skin beneath Rodney’s ear, only half-kidding. “They let you touch it, right?”

“Yes, but…” He trails off when John moves suggestively against him. “Oh, oh, yes,” he says eagerly, his head rolling to the side, his hips rising to meet John’s.

“They probably even gave you one, didn’t they?” John asks, and can feel Rodney throb against him like the hum of a newly activated ZPM. He’s right; he knows it; they fucking gave him one. “Did they?” he says again, and picks up a steady rhythm with his hips.

“It’s, uh, it’s in my room,” Rodney gasps.

John lets Rodney guide him with hard gripping hands on his hips that push and pull in time to Rodney’s ragged breathing. “Charged?”

“Fully charged.”

“I knew it,” John says, just as Rodney’s cock shifts to the place where John just came, a sudden slippery glide that feels fantastic. “It got you hot, didn’t it?”

“No,” Rodney moans, holding John’s hips fast to his own and moving frantically in the slick pocket of warmth between them. “You, you get me- can we talk about this later?”

***

Later takes place in Rodney’s rooms. After they clean up—a process that takes a long time because once they’re naked Rodney seems as interested in John’s body as John is in Rodney’s—Rodney can hardly sit still because of the restless anxiety over his unattended ZPM. It’s flattering that he doesn’t just say something and leave, so John takes pity on him and suggests they spend the night in Rodney’s room.

“I’m certain they weren’t going to give me one,” he says, kneeling before the chest that he opens with a key brought out from his pocket. “Not until you made your valet lose her mind. How do you do that, anyhow?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. John can’t give one anyway, not with Rodney capably lifting his prize from its packing and rubbing his thumb across a gleaming golden prism that seems to reflect the great value of the object.

“Nice.”

One side of Rodney’s mouth lifts in a sad, pleased smile. “Yes. Not as good as actual ZPM technology,” he says thoughtfully, “But extraordinary. Enough to make up for-“ He glances up at John and swallows nervously, the ZPM in a loose hold against his chest. “For other things that may have gone wrong as of late.”

Not this. Even though he’d known it was there, buried deep in Rodney’s complex paths of equations and grudges and unexpected pleasures, John had allowed himself to hope that since Rodney couldn’t remember, he would get off easy; not like John, who still feels as though he hasn’t quite scrubbed clean of the whole ordeal. The floor is cold when he drops to his knees next to Rodney and traces red to gold as he thinks, leaving a trail of appreciative fingerprints across the smooth surface.

“You don’t have to make up for anything,” he tells Rodney.

“Nevertheless,” Rodney says, gaining an edge of annoyance to his tone. “This helps.”

Thinking of the rumors and fear, the series of memorials which Rodney had stoically attended, John concedes the point. “It helps,” he says. “This helps.” It seems risky to turn his face for a kiss, to ask for something for which he’s not used to asking, but Rodney meets him halfway in a one-armed embrace, the other tightly protecting his ZPM.

“Let’s get this put away,” John says, when the kiss turns into something more than comfort. “I’d hate to have to explain why we needed a replacement before we even got it back to Atlantis.”

“They’ve got plenty,” Rodney says, already easing the ZPM back into its box. “In fact, if you tripped and broke your head open on their stairs, we could probably get a second one.”

“Glad to know you’ve been thinking about it.”

Rodney smirks and gets to his feet, then offers his hand to John, who takes it and lets Rodney pull him up. “I’m always thinking,” Rodney says, not letting go. “And now I think we should get some rest.”

“Go tell Fredrick not to bother us. And hey, tell him they should go easy on Pensa.” John says, already stripping, and wanders happily toward the bed of Rodney’s dreams.

*