aesc | So, who isn't going to Harry Potter tonight?

"It's a bit unconventional," John says, hitching one shoulder in something Rodney supposes is nonchalence. "But you looked like a guy who could use a beer." He lifts the six pack in his hand.

"I could -- yes. Yes I could."

John's decently covered up now, in indecent dark jeans that hang off his ass and a shirt that hints delicately at the long torso underneath it. It's weird, seeing him holding a pack of--Rodney squints.

"Please tell me that isn't Budweiser. Please."

"Nah," John says. "Local microbrew—it's got raspberries in it." He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Rodney can feel his face scrunch up.

"I think that's actually worse. And also, really surprisingly girly."

John looks like he's possibly slightly irritated now, or maybe he's just worn out from a long day of delivering things to people, but he sounds exceedingly bland when he says, "Well, Rodney, I can take my girly beer and go home if that's the way you – "

"No! No, I mean, I have a couch. It's a really nice couch."

(Raspberries! asdjlkf!)

One of John's eyebrows lifts. That's all it does, this speaking, silent arch that makes Rodney hear what he just said (I have a couch, and I think it would be great if the two of us could be on it together) and try to take it back.

"Well, I mean, if you want to watch TV. But if you don't I have chairs. In the kitchen."

"Whichever," John says complacently, tapping his girly microbrewery raspberry beer against one thigh and being absolutely no help at all.

And when he stands aside, stops blocking the doorway with his body, John takes it for the invitation it is, steps over the threshold, drifts naturally in the direction of Rodney's den, and all Rodney can do is follow.

John's the kind of guy who has a beer pull on his key chain - of course he is, Rodney thinks a little desperately - and he pops the caps from two beers, falls back onto Rodney's couch, kicks up his feet onto Rodney's coffee table, and all in all makes himself at home as if this is his twentieth late-night visit, not his first.

Rodney finds himself groping desperately between the couch cushions for the remote, until he realizes that he's groping awfully near John's person, at which point he snatches his hand back and holds the remote to his chest like it might somehow protect his virtue, and oh my god, what is wrong with him?

John's smiling at him - smiling almost kindly, which is so unexpected and strange that Rodney's brain goes completely offline - and all he can do is sit obediently when John pats the sofa right beside him.

John's thigh is warm all along where it's pressed to Rodney's, and John's weird raspberry beer isn't actually all that bad, and Rodney stares at John's throat when he swallows, at the hair peeking out of the vee of his shirt collar, at John's hand resting on his knee: his battered knuckles, his crooked middle finger, the black spot on the fingernail of his pinky.

"Is this a pity visit?" Rodney blurts, prepared to be mortified.

John shifts his hand to Rodney's knee and squeezes a little, sounds exasperated and maybe a little fond when he huffs, "McKay. I don't do this, okay?" John abandons his beer so that he can rub the back of his neck with his other hand. "I don't just show up at people's houses on my route unless I'm bringing them something."

You brought me beer, Rodney thinks. He says, "Then why are you here?"

John smirks, looking a little bewildered. "I just - guess I wanted to . . ." He shrugs. "Know you better."

"That's a new one," Rodney says, painfully aware that John's bewilderment is transmogrifying into annoyance, but he can't help it, and it's embarrassing to explain.

No one wants to get to know me better, unless for purposes of writing on me with lipstick and leaving me drunk and unconscious on the floor, Rodney wants to say. But the words will not come out and John's sitting there, holding his beer with one hand and playing with Rodney's Power Ranger figure with another and waiting.

"I - I just . . . I'm - not . . . " Rodney blows out a long breath, aware that pink is creeping up his throat from his chest. "Good at - at . . ."

"Yeah," John says, plainly teasing, and Rodney bristles. "I kinda got that."

"Yes, well," Rodney splutters, "I apologize for the unfortunate freak of genetics that wired my brain to be, oh, let's see, brilliant at matters of physics and rather sub-par at matters of flirting with the delivery guy." He tilts his chin in defensive defiance.

"We all have our strengths," John says, that infuriating smirk flirting with the corner of his mouth. He puts the Power Ranger back and picks up the Supreme Court pencil. Its gavel is mostly gone, and it's dented where Rodney's chewed it.

"Oral fixation, much?" John asks, and twirls the pencil between his long fingers. Rodney ducks his head and tries to order his stomach to stop with the fluttery butterly things. When he looks up, John's leaned in closer, and oh god, that's mesmerizing, the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the flecks of gold in his eyes and and and - "So we are flirting, right?" John asks.

"I--I guess?" Also mesmerizing: John's long, tan arm along the back of Rodney's couch, his shirt that gapes at the collar so Rodney can look down and imagine what John's body feels like under the fabric of it. He swallows. "Genetically deficient, remember?"

"How about I drive, then?" John says, and then he's pressing his mouth to the corner of Rodney's, soft, soft drag of his lip, and when he pulls back a little, Rodney chases the taste of him with his tongue.

[*tries to flail inconspicuously while in a public place*]

"Yeah," Rodney says, that taste elusive on his tongue and so not enough. "Okay."

"Okay," John says, and leans close again so Rodney can feel that warm, pleased smile against his mouth.

And if John's laughing into his mouth, well, Rodney doesn't mind so much, because it feels like he's in on the joke, especially when John opens to him easily, lets Rodney push inside, and this is probably the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, Rodney thinks.

Then his hand lands on John's shoulder—the hand still clutching the remote—and the TV blares to sudden life.

They both flail wildly and beer goes everywhere - down Rodney's shirt, down John's pants - and Rodney can't speak for anyone else but his heart's trying to make a mad escape out of his chest. He thumps the remote against the couch cushions until the TV shuts off again and licks his beer-covered fingers. "Shit, sorry," he says, blushing wildly as he chases the beer that's running down his wrist.

They're plunged into silence again, the smell of malt and hops and raspberries all around them (all over them), and oh god, oh god, John's pinning his arm to the back of the couch and swiping his tongue against Rodney's wrist and saying, "You can make it up to me."

Rodney blinks and makes a small, choked noise because John's licking his skin and, oh, oh god, sucking gently over the heel of his thumb and apparently he really likes beer. Or - or, outside chance, he likes Rodney, but . . . is there any beer left on his skin now? Is he licking up beer or licking up the taste of Rodney and -

Rodney's toes curl and his eyes fall closed before he can finish the thought. Oh, god.

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