Rating: Very adult
Author's Notes: thank you to my wonderful beta!
Summary: Fourteen days apart; one reunion.
It's been two weeks - fourteen days - and John's so goddamn glad to see Rodney's stupid face again he can't understand why he isn't moving, why he's staring at him helplessly as though four feet of hotel-room carpet is the most challenging terrain he's ever had to cross.
"Miss me?" Rodney asks, chin tilting up, and god, John thinks, yes, I fucking missed you, but he's still standing frozen like a pillar of salt, fixed and silent, and the best he can manage is a twitch of fingers on his right, injured hand. Rodney shakes his head, huffs a breath, and he's stepping closer, closer, close and shit, John thinks, body heat, that's body heat, and he's half-surprised he doesn't jerk away when Rodney lifts a hand to cup his jaw. "It's okay," Rodney whispers, and John risks a glance at Rodney's lips, chapped by wind and bitten raw.
"Yeah?" he asks, because he's never been good at any of this.
"Hmm," Rodney murmurs, and his lips brush John's, and John finds the locus of movement in his body, sways into the touch, winds his fingers in the sleeves of Rodney's shirt and kisses him back, thinks yes, this.
It's been two weeks - fourteen days of briefings, of doctors and a shrink intent upon the things he carries; viruses, a parasite, intel, regret. He can feel the weight of a dozen arguments inside him, lodged behind his breastbone where anger always sits, and he fought, he refused, he yelled, he punched a guy, and he's earned - fuck the lot of them - a ticket home, back through the 'gate to Team and Pegasus, and pretty soon his hand will heal.
"You should have told me," Rodney says, breath against John's lips. "What they were thinking, that they'd even dare . . ."
"I won," John says, and tilts his head to press their mouths together again, to feel the vital, living heat of what's no longer secret. "I won, so long as I stay - "
"In Pegasus. Bigots," Rodney says, and his hands are unsteady against John's jean-clad hips "As if it matters one whit who you sleep with at night, as if it changes how you hold a gun or train Marines or has the slightest impact on your refusal to leave people behind, you jerk, and if I find out who told them, if I find out who said, I will . . ."
"Rodney," John pleads, and he's not ashamed for bucking this argument, for wanting Rodney's hands pressed warm against his skin - it's done, he has his dispensation, and if Pegasus is where this change begins, if the men and women under his command are the ones who get to be with whomever the fuck they want, then he'll take that beginning, just, "please - " Need.
"Yeah," Rodney says, and swallows hard, betraying the cost of his own fourteen days. "Yeah, I - later, when we've . . ." and he's kissing John again, edging him slowly back toward the bed. When John hits the mattress, sits awkwardly, breathing hard, Rodney sinks to his knees, rests his hands on John's thighs. "How do you - I mean . . . what are we?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, leans in to nip at John's swollen mouth, hums his satisfaction when John grabs great handfuls of his wrinkled shirt, pulls it out of his pants. John wants more - wants Rodney flush against him, naked and panting, heat flaring bright across the breadth of his skin - but doesn't know the mechanics of getting there right now, not with Rodney's mouth against his temple, not with Rodney's fingers tangled in his hair. "Sorry," John whispers, and shudders when Rodney grazes a kiss against his throat.
Rodney laughs - soft and rueful. "First time for everything," he murmurs, and John fumbles with his own buttons now, tugs at his shirt, gasps in frustration when Rodney won't move his mouth and fingers out of the way.
"Touch," John hisses, and he knows he's contradictory, batting at Rodney's hands, arcing his torso away from Rodney's lips, but he means more skin, thinks goddamn clothes, and when Rodney's mouth closes soft against a nipple he grits his teeth and bites back a moan. "Oh, Jesus," he manages, rests a hand at the nape of Rodney's neck, shirt trailing haplessly from his wrist, and he's hard now, uncomfortable, says, "Get me out of these . . ." shivers head to toe.
"Yeah," Rodney says, pulling back just enough that he can hold John's gaze. "Yeah, I'm going to . . ." His expression's sharp with wanton hunger and his agile fingers shift to John's fly. "Smart man. Don't need telling twice." And John thuds back against the bed, spread out helplessly as Rodney frees him from his boxer shorts, bends his head and takes just the tip of him into his mouth.
"Fuck," John manages, and he barely has control over the shaking in his voice, reaches out his hands to fill one with a pillow, another with the comforter, cants his hips upward, closer to Rodney's mouth. Rodney hums a soft nu-uh that vibrates the length of John's cock to his balls, and he presses John's hips down into the mattress, broad hands cupping bone and flesh, holding him firm.
John gets lost in the mix of Rodney's touch and mouth. The pleasure lasts until he's mumbling helplessly - or thinks he is - words made shock-sharp by everything he's never said. They're electric now, sentences turned into racing tremors running collarbone to thigh, apology and promises, wishes and needs, and when he comes he turns himself inside out, holds nothing back, trusts enough that Rodney will pick up the pieces, that Rodney can fix him because Rodney can shake him apart.
"Okay?" Rodney says when he climbs up beside him, gentling him through each aftershock, nosing the skin above his ear.
"Didn't think," John confesses, turning his head, and impulsively he glances a kiss to the jut of Rodney's jaw. "Didn't think - wasn't thinking . . ." And he shifts to his side, still trailing his shirt, presses a leg between Rodney's knees and winces when his jeans catch and pull. "Hold on," he mutters "fucking - shit, goddamn things," and kicks them off, boxer shorts as well, rolls back and presses Rodney down, deep into the mattress, kisses him dirty, slow, a four-year memory.
"My turn," Rodney says, rocking his hips against John's bare thigh. "Linger after, c'mon, John, please . . ."
And John wants to tease him, to savor the begging, to kiss and touch every inch of Rodney's skin, but he understands - it's been fourteen days - and he frees Rodney quickly, licks his palm, reaches down and twists his wrist. It doesn't take long, not with Rodney pleading and John so amenable, not close like this, fused head to toe. Rodney whimpers when his hips snap, when his breath snags and stutters, and John coaxes him through it to the sudden, boneless sag of his body, to his feeble protests as John cleans them both, to the safe, bundled aftermath of a new-made yes.
"If they'd said no," Rodney murmurs when they're burrowed beneath the covers, his fingertips teasing the nape of John's neck. "If they'd told you no, I wouldn't have - you left without - "
John grimaces as his stomach twists, thinks of his flight, of Woolsey's caution, of the flare of the gate and the panic in his throat. "Needed to - " he offers, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. "Couldn't give it up." And "it" means a thousand things - Atlantis, family, ocean, home - but it means just one person when push comes to shove, one grumbling, fractious soul sprawled out beside him, night after night.
"I get it," Rodney yawns. "Just saying - you're a jackass. Asshole." And his fingers still though his hand remains, a soft warm pressure at the top of John's spine.
"Stuck with me now," John mumbles, and it takes all he has to look at Rodney's face.
Rodney stirs just enough to peer at him blankly. "Duh," he says with well-meant sarcasm, and John risks a smile, spreads his fingers wide across Rodney's belly, thinks of Atlantis, closes his eyes.