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.fic: One and All (John/Rodney) NC17
One and All (NC17) John/Rodney | ~ 6,730 words
Part of hockey!verse and written as a belated present for the birthday of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amberlynne, the great bamboozler *smoooooches* "One and All" takes place before "Playing the Body," and will (I hope) set up a bit of longer story that hashes out what, exactly, is going on with the boys.
One and All
John's vision makes like a cartoon when Ronon hits him – stars, singing birds, weird twirly patterns that bring to mind Rodney's more complicated rants about his work. The ice zooms up to smack him in the chest, kapow! and he can almost see the words, like in Batman. His breath leaves his body in an almighty rush and almost takes his lungs, diaphragm, and a few other important things along with it.
He'd be worried about his dignity, except Ronon flattens everyone sooner or later in the game, even his own teammates. It isn't that Ronon doesn't understand hockey – he's been in New Hampshire, John thinks as he struggles to uncooperative feet, for at least ten years – but just that Ronon is the immovable object, skates or no skates. Even Rodney steers clear of Ronon, circling the crease and shouting irritably about off-sides (specifically, John's penchant for forgetting, I know for a fact there's such a thing as off-sides in football), but it's just that most of the time John's body gets ahead of the rules) , despite the fact they're on the same team and Rodney's playing goalie tonight.
From his half-vertical position, John can see Radek snatch the puck out of its headlong bounce down the ice, wheel around and get under Ronon's guard and head back to the attack. Three-on-three hockey means a lot of open space, a lot of space for physics to work. Zelenka leaves Lorne and Bates to deal with slowing Ronon as best he can, which means Bates snagging Ronon's jersey to pull him up and back and Lorne curling himself up like an armadillo to ram into Ronon's exposed side.
It's sort of illegal but it works; Bates, Lorne, and Ronon go down in a heap and someone's stick ricochets off the baseboard. John shakes off dizziness and forces his breath to cooperate, gets moving, moving, one foot in front of the other, not like he's going to make it halfway down the ice in time to stop Zelenka. He can't do much other than skate and watch, and pray that Rodney can put the brakes on Radek, Rodney who's just now dropping back into a waiting crouch after standing to holler a protest about holding.
The Laconia Aerospace guys, despite the military John's sure they have in them, don't really do rules. John likes that, most times, but not now with the game still going, when Rodney starts inching back, everything happening in the space of nanoseconds that stretch out and out and out: Zelenka's stick coming back, angle, force, trajectory, back back back and snap that kicks John's heart up into his mouth when the blade of Radek's stick meets the puck.
Radek gets air on it, a lot, more than John knows he wants. The puck arcs upward, perfect, mathematical, a million miles an hour but not fast enough for Rodney's wicked left hand.
"Yeah!" Rodney shouts, and drops to his knees, glove cradling the puck close to his chest. Radek makes a high, frustrated, Czechoslovakian sound and veers away; bits of ice shower onto Rodney's right arm and blocker, even as Rodney climbs to his feet and pushes his helmet back. He's grinning madly, skating straight for John, eyes bright and brilliant and face flushed and so wholly triumphant John's heart doesn't need to be run into to go a little weird against his chest.
The racket of the elementary school hockey team breaks into John's meditation on Rodney's face, his crazy sweat-and-helmet-tousled hair. Even with the pads and sweater and bulky pants, John can sense the contours of Rodney's body shifting as he skates, the broad shoulders, unexpected strength to his torso that keeps John up late at night, thinking, body feeling and winding itself tighter until the only left to do is for John to close his eyes and fist his cock and give himself up to it.
Kavanagh shoulders past him, and John realizes he's drifted off again. He heads for the bench, trailing in Kavanagh's cloud of crankiness and accusations of lethal force.
"Yeah," Lorne says from the other end of the bench, "I know you hate goalie, suck it up," and even Kavanagh's bitching about inevitably being blamed for the loss can't dull the sweet, sharp edge of victory or the kick of want up and down John's nerves.
"When are you going to learn you can't go high on me, Radek?" Rodney's asking from underneath his towel. John stares helplessly at the damp, sweat-licked nape of Rodney's neck.
"Eventually," Radek says dryly, but with enough of a huff that Rodney straightens and grins even more widely.
That's one of the givens in their small circle: you can't run over Ronon and you can't beat Rodney with a top-shelf shot, because Rodney's hands are like Superman's, faster than the speeding bullet they pull out of the air.
"Maybe," Rodney corrects, and shoves his towel into his duffel bag. "Yes, yes, maybe, perhaps, if I am lucky," Radek says, to humor him, and Rodney snickers quietly, delightedly, and skates off to the equipment rooms. John trails after him, watching the slow and rhythmic work of Rodney's shoulders, Lorne's laughter and Kavanagh's bitching fading out, the ice disappearing unnoticed beneath John's own skates until suddenly it isn't there anymore.
He almost trips over the ledge at the gate that opens from the rink out to the corridor that leads to the locker rooms. The close space congests quickly with sweat and old paint and clammy cement, and Rodney's right there, sharp eyes and sharp voice, steadying hand on John's arm.
"I thought you learned to skate," Rodney says.
"I did," John replies fake-mildly. Rodney's too worked up about winning to tease John about his sudden clumsiness; they clump down the corridor together, pad-widened shoulders bumping together every other step, Rodney buzzing along and barely remembering not to gesture, otherwise he'd smack John in the face with his stick. "Hey," John says, "hey," when Rodney's hands become too enthusiastic, and Rodney calms down so the enthusiasm just runs electric under his skin, real and strong enough for John to touch, maybe, if John were stupid enough to reach out and do it.
He sticks close to Rodney, like maybe Rodney has his own gravitational field or something and he's been pulling John in over the course of three months, like maybe he's the first person in years, besides Ronon, John feels he can be with. He thinks back and back, to when he'd decided New Hampshire would be a good place to live because there wasn't anyone there to see him go crazy, back past the burn of Afghanistan and the thop-thop of copter blades and the world ending, back to Nancy and his father and the whole disaster of family life… and yeah, maybe Rodney is the first-ever person he doesn't mind seeing him.
The babble of voices increases, Kavanagh all nasal annoyance and Lorne politely whitebread, Ronon's bass rumble, Radek's voice darting in and out. Ford says, "sir, yes sir" with drill-team precision in response to Lorne saying something. John shakes his head, keeps his mouth shut. So what if Ford had been ROTC or something? The Laconia guys – and that's the one thing that separates them from him, they all work together, something they don't talk about – are a good bunch, and John can understand them keeping secrets.
He hasn't told anyone, even the base psychologists at Rammstein or the trauma surgeon in Kabul, his own secrets, that night, when the world ended.
Mechanically, John pulls off his sweater and pads, swaps them for his t-shirt. Next to him Rodney hustles through changing, not fast enough that John can't look sideways to see the pale stretch of his skin, flushed with exertion and the peculiar Rodney-energy that never quite stops. From the corner of his eye, John sees Rodney looking back, trying to be covert and failing. John tries to pretend he wasn't looking even as he stretches, unnecessary maybe, but Rodney swallows and goes red and looks away. John's muscles pull a little, hesitating before they give way and lengthen, and it hurts, but it's good, so suddenly pleasurable with Rodney watching he has to stop.
"Hey Sheppard," Bates says, materializing at John's left elbow. John twitches, brings himself back from the brink of a fantasy involving him stretched out in bed, Rodney watching. "Losers are buying tonight. You in?"
"I am," Rodney says immediately. "Of course you are," Radek snorts, but gives Lorne a quick look. Rodney catches it, "What? What?" he demands and an uncomfortable silence answers.
"Have trouble holding your Molsons, buddy?"
"I do not," Rodney mutters, at the same moment that Radek says, "So long as you take it easy."
"You in?" Bates asks again.
"Yup," John says, because there's no way he won't be, not after this, and on their way out, he's even quick enough to convince Rodney to ride with him. Rodney nods and goes along, a quick "I hope you drive better than you skate," to make it clear he could drive himself, if he wanted. John elbows him and Rodney elbows him back, and John's body doesn't know whether to be tired from the long week and sore from the game or elated with Rodney being close, but the confusion feels good.
With breath misting and cold-red cheeks Rodney bundles into John's truck, wrapped up twice over in his orange fleece and a dark blue jacket, heavy gloves he rubs together like he's the southerner here, not John. When John points this out, Rodney rolls his eyes, burrows deeper into his coat, and says, apropos of nothing, "We kicked their asses tonight."
"Well, it was 4-2," John amends. The truck rumbles reluctantly to life, the lights shine frigid and white on the snow and the brown bulk of the arena wall, and make crevasses of the grain of the wood with the shadows they cast. Rodney makes a dismissive noise that fades into the truck's heater starting up. "Besides, they are your friends," John adds.
"Yes, they are." Rodney's voice catches on the spike of something John can't identify, and it's almost the last thing they say on the ten-minute drive down the road to Mike's. Salt and sand crunch under the tires and the heater moans, and an invisible wind comes down out of the darkness and shakes the truck. Rodney's silence isn't the tamped-down silence of wewonwewonwewon anymore, but something more… John struggles for the word. Concentrated, maybe, but John can't look away from the road to look at Rodney and see.
"You okay?" he asks instead.
"Fine," Rodney says absently.
Okay, that's weird, and Fine really is the last word until they pull up to Mike's and its flickering neon signs, first ones there, and John doesn't know whether to be worried or selfishly happy they have more time together. He opts for both, hauls Rodney into the bar with one hand on his arm and tells him to order something.
"Low blood sugar," Rodney says. "Did you know that the average human brain derives almost all its energy from glucose?"
"You mentioned it last week." Also the week before that, to justify stealing half of John's power bar and harassing seventy-five cents out of Lorne for a bag of chips.
The heat of the bar floods over him, carrying Johnny Cash and the scents smoke and old alcohol along with it. Mike's has the surreal light of a dream, or one of John's more vividly horrifying memories, brightness that can't reach shadowed faces or the spaces under the tables. John tells himself not to be stupid. Next to him, Rodney hovers and appears to be working his way back to his usual neurotic self, wrestling with his scarf and muttering about the heat and how it's highly likely Zelenka, Kavanagh, Bates, and Lorne have skived off, cheapskates that they are. His hair still stands on end in unruly clumps and spikes, and John fights the urge to smooth it back down.
"Beer?" he asks, interrupting Rodney mid-flow on how many generations of cigarette smoke have been compressed into the woodwork.
"Whatever they have that isn't American and revolting," Rodney says, blinking in surprise. "But really, I'm sure they – "
John loses the thread of Rodney's voice in the upswing of Cash's guitar, the sudden shouting over Monday Night Football in front of the plasma TV by the bar. A moose head hangs next to the TV, one eye glassy and flickering with a high-resolution reflection and a stuffed bird perches in its antlers. All around the wall Mike and his predecessors have hung old license plates, the Random Bits of Crap school of decoration, and the rest of the room is decorated with random furniture and men in fleece and flannel and jeans, with heavy boots hooked in the rungs of their chairs.
"I'll get that," and it's Lorne, managing to be polite even as he elbows John out of the way and hands Mike a wad of cash. "What's Rodney drinking?" Lorne asks, and John says "Sam Adams" on a whim. "Make sure he doesn't go over two, Stackhouse, okay?" Lorne says to Mike, who nods like it's an order-order and he wants to salute, but doesn't.
"Something up I should know about?" John asks, all casual lean and pretending he's a lot more interested in the Dolphins game on TV. Lorne glances sharply at him, probably not fooled at all, because he doesn't say anything. John adds another item onto the list of weird that he's been compiling on Rodney and his friends.
"You should order some food," is all Lorne says while he waits for Mike to fill the beer order, and John shrugs and says he'll ask Rodney to see what he likes. Lorne nods, although he gives John a look that reminds him Rodney likes and collects the mugs Mike sets on the counter, and by the time John picks up the rest, Lorne's back at the table and pushing his way in, laughing like he hadn't just weirded John out with asking a bartender to police Rodney's drinking.
Rodney eyes the glass John slides over to him but takes it anyway, fingers sliding into the clear spots on the glass where John's own fingers had rested. A sip tells him he's off the hook at least for ordering something crappy, and then Ronon gets there and is shoving his way in, which means Rodney's mashed into John's right side and John can feel the terrific heat of Rodney's body, the subtlest shift and nuance of him, all up and down his side.
He drags in a breath, tries to laugh at Rodney's complaints of claustrophobia; he's never been a fan of close contact, but this, this, it's huge and inescapable and despite Lorne on his left and all the other guys crowded close it's him and Rodney in a shadowy corner, and the long, clean line of Rodney's throat when he swallows and licks his lips and shifts because Radek's said something to annoy him, and he smells like sweat and laundry detergent: sharp, hot, comforting all at once.
Beer doesn't help much, cold down his throat and heady when it hits his stomach, spreading into warmth that can't quite challenge Rodney folded against him.
Conversation loops around him and he's content to follow it, alcohol a low and benevolent buzz that makes him slouch back and go with it. Talk runs into rapids when the topic turns college football. Ford is a pathetically misguided FSU fan, in Bates's UF-influenced opinion and Kavanagh thinks they're both morons, did you actually learn something at those schools of yours?. John interrupts Kavanagh's rant, and Rodney's atypical support, with the time he roadtripped from Stanford to Miami to see Flutie throw the Hail Mary in the Orange Bowl.
"Yeah, that was, like, ages ago," Ford says, and Bates snorts. John does some quick calculating, and figures Ford would have been two at the most when Gerard Phelan caught the pass to end all passes. Poor kid, he decides, missing a thing like that.
To see that in person he'd missed his first Thanksgiving after going to college, not that it had killed him.
"So Rodney," Zelenka shouts across all the football talk, "you are thinking of going pro?"
"Hm?" Rodney blinks slowly, looks up. This close John can see the weird distance in his eyes, glassy with being somewhere else, and this is another entry on the list of weird, or maybe the list of fucked up, because the only guys John's ever seen like that were in the psych hospital at Rammstein. "What are we talking about?"
"Your blazing glove save," Radek says, the sarcasm not quite covering something else.
"You okay?" John asks, and he would move closer, if he could.
"Fine," Rodney says, second time tonight, and frowns at his half-gone beer. He says something under his breath, left, right, triple fake, looking up, it's high and shifts, twitches, and his left hand snaps shut like a trap. He stays there a minute, frozen, then unfurls, relaxes so his left hand splays across the tabletop and John can see the lines and small scars across his knuckles, scars that really don't belong on a guy who sits in an office al day. One finger traces a path through the condensation on the tabletop, trailing over to John's wrist, where it stops; Rodney follows it along, stops and seems captivated by… by something, the cuff of John' shirt, or his hand or the grain of the wood, and eventually Rodney mutters about his sugar going.
"You want something?" Rodney straightens in response to John's question, gaze locking onto him and nothing absent in that gaze at all, but present and alert and far brighter than the lights in the bar. John swallows, fights down the urge to look away.
"Potato skins," Rodney says, and turns bright red and falls silent.
"You should have eaten first," Zelenka says reprovingly. "You know how – "
"Yes!" Rodney barks. "I know how I am. Considering that I've lived every day of my forty years in this body, and considering that I remember – " He breaks off, scowling. "Believe me, I know. Okay? Okay."
John tries to pay closer attention to Rodney and the conversation. It's hard, the day and the game dragging at him. They don't talk about work, except for generic bitching that doesn't name names or give anything away. Lorne asks Radek if he's heard from the mysterious possibly-girlfriend Elizabeth, but he hasn't, and Ford rubs Radek's shoulder consolingly.
"Hey, you never know, man. Maybe she'll come up for a visit," Ford says, and it's awkward silence after that until the potato skins come and Rodney almost takes Ronon's hand off at the wrist trying to get to them first.
The only thing John's worked out about Rodney, other than that he wants him, is that Rodney's a genius. And kind of an asshole genius, the kind of genius who wouldn't be caught dead hanging around with guys like Lorne, Ford, and Bates, who are smart but not Rodney's scary brand of smart, or even Radek's or Kavangh's. But he does, and they look out for him and go quiet and anxious when Rodney gets spacey and tries to say mysterious things.
And maybe the other thing he's worked out is that Rodney might want him. Or like him enough to get caught staring in locker rooms, or have his hand linger on John's arm too long when Rodney helps him up from the ice.
"Here, if you're going to be like that," Rodney grunts, and John finds a greasy half of potato skin, dripping cheesy cholesterol and bacon, shoved into his hand. He stares at it a moment, until Rodney says, "If you're not going to eat it, I'll just take it back."
"No, that's cool." The potato skin is hot and drippy and John has to lick his lips and his fingers to take care of the grease, has to be aware of Rodney watching him intently, the soft outrush of breath that means the body's shuddering down into the acceptance of wanting something. He can understand that, with every hormone and thump of his blood in his body, John can understand that, three months of lying in bed and having his body shake and go tense because it's been a long time since he's felt that way about anyone, and he hasn't been used to it.
He makes himself listen to the conversation, even though the rest of his body listens to how Rodney's presence shouts and drowns out the rest of the room. The beer, his third and last, doesn't do much to dull it. He picks at the cheese glued to the plate of potato skins; Rodney's already polished off everything else.
"Doing anything this weekend?" Lorne's asking.
A chorus: Thank fuck it's Friday. Seriously man, thank fuck. Ronon's working, extreme ski tours up in Franconia Notch. Bates has to go to Vermont on an undisclosed mission. Lorne's going snowmobiling, which makes Rodney snort derisively. "And Radek's gonna sit next to the phone all weekend," Ford says, snickering, and Radek says, "Perhaps I will."
"Teyla wants to go to some craft fair," Rodney says dejectedly, gazing down at his hands, and wins a collection of sympathetic winces.
"What're you doing, Sheppard?" Ronon asks. He knows John has the weekend off.
"Don't know yet," John says, and sprawls out as best he can so his arm goes around behind Rodney's shoulder, and Rodney shivers. Their feet tangle together under the table, scrape of Rodney's boot on the cuff of John's denims.
"Well have fun doing it," Ford says, and tips his beer at John, who tips his back.
They wind through more words and more beer, Rodney on his second and not quite done with it when Ford mentions he has to get moving, then Kavanagh and Bates. Ronon leaves but looks at John with the non-expression that could mean he knows exactly what John wants to get up to or could mean it's John's turn to open the ski shop on Monday.
"You okay to get home?" Lorne asks. He and Radek are… are hovering, John thinks with distant, beery indignation. Next to him Rodney seems okay, although he hasn't moved despite the room he now has. John's happy for it.
"I'll take him," John promises, and gives Lorne his sincerest smile. Rodney seems to interpret it as something else and stares intently at his now-empty beer mug. "See you later."
Lorne and Zelenka wander out through the thinning crowd, and something deep down goes tight when John realizes it's just the two of them, and the silence fills up with the terrible, overwhelming knowledge of the contour lines of Rodney's chest and hip and knee, and the clothing that doesn't do anything to muffle how Rodney's body speaks to him, or how his body tries to answer back.
"You want to get out of here?" His voice is too rough, too bare, but Rodney doesn't pause so maybe he feels it too. He gets to his feet, sliding away from John and leaving coolness in his place, and a certain emptiness, and John wants him back, wants through yanking his coat back on and not bothering with his scarf. Rodney doesn't bother either, only zips his fleece up and shoves his hat in a pocket, and they're out the door into cold that stings.
Only it doesn't sting long because John's truck is right here and they're in, and he has half-numb fingers tangled in the collar of Rodney's jacket, pulling him in, pulling him close and Rodney comes with a breathing of finally finally finally and cool hands on John's face, shocking almost but not as shocking as Rodney's mouth.
Rodney's mouth slants wide and sweet and salty over his, a bit alcoholic and a bit fucking perfect. His tongue does something wicked along John's lower lip, catching on the stubble he's cultivated over the day, scrape of Rodney's chin then and his breath once more, hands careful on the side of John's to keep him close. No problem with that, John thinks hazily, no problem at all to stay, even though his back doesn't like the angle and the gearshift is in the way, because Rodney's making these sounds, or maybe he is, desperate, choked-off and lost. He can't remember kissing ever being like this, because it's never been like this, not with Nancy and not the few times since he's let another woman or man come close enough, not like how Rodney maps John's mouth with his and his fingers plot impossible, hot coordinates on John's cheekbones and shift through his hair.
And, John decides distantly -- hell, the decision's made for him, made by Rodney's shoulders under his forearms and how Rodney holds up his weight -- there's no doing without this, not anymore.
"Come home with me," John says, when Rodney lets him pull away.
"Okay."Rodney swallows around the word, eyes bright and mouth wet so John has to lick at him again. "I just... Teyla." He fumbles in a back pocket. "I need to call her." He pushes John back. "Usually I find it easier to talk without an incredibly hot man's tongue in my mouth." John ducks his head down under Rodney's guard, nips his neck, too pleased not to, exhilarated by someone else for the first time in far too long.
"Usually," Rodney adds, tries to twist away and can't because of the seat back.
Rodney's fingers, which are good at typing and making saves and describing the idiocy of the world, need three tries to hit speed dial. John prays to all the gods of filthy sex and the gods of getting what you want that Teyla isn't home, or if she is, won't ask questions. She won't need to, he thinks hazily, pushing Rodney's collar aside as Rodney whines quietly and hisses for him to stop, for god's sake, she sees things most people don't see, she'll see what he's done to Rodney. And that turns him on a bit, and makes him fierce kick of pleasure.
"I'm going – I'm going to crash at John's," Rodney says unsteadily, the good kind of unsteady, John knows, tasting it in the flickering pulse in Rodney's neck. "Are you – is that good?"
Teyla must have answered in the affirmative, because Rodney chokes off okay, see you later and flips the phone shut, tries to put it back but the phone falls from his hand and lands somewhere in the anonymous shadows of the floor. Another kiss, deep and hot, and a pause that has them swapping breath and Rodney's fingers still restless on John's cheek. Rodney's saying something John can't make out, but he thinks it might be perfect, perfect, remember this.
"We fogged up the windows," Rodney says, louder this time.
"Haven't done that since I was eighteen." John makes himself lean back, look at the condensation beading on the windshield. "We should..."
"We should," Rodney agrees. "As fast as possible, while being careful."
"What's the fun in that?" John asks, and grins, the grin that Rodney has no idea what to do with most of the time, that's flirting and teasing and far more than suggestion for Rodney to handle. He wants to reach out one more time, pull Rodney back to him, reaches instead for the ignition.
The drive stretches on and on. John's brain divides up into an awareness of time, the crawling minutes, awareness of the road unspooling beneath his headlights and the faint worry about suicidal moose, most of it saved, though, for Rodney, who sits tight and fidgety in the passenger seat, glancing at John every few seconds.
Soon, soon, John tells himself, even though soon comes close to forever by the time he reaches his turnoff, with its decoration of tumbledown boulders and the river running silent under its coating of ice. Only a half-mile to go, soon, soon, he knows each tree by heart, the up-and-down folds as the road runs along. The river plunges sharply downward, vanishing into the darkness, and the road follows it for a while before twisting back up, soon, soon, up to the light and the ridgeline of a series of gentler hills.
His house keeps close to the lee of a long-running ridge, so when the north wind howls down over the mountains it twists through the tops of the trees and makes them moan, but leaves him in peace. The truck crunches up onto the gravel drive, sighs to silence when John turns off the engine. They sit there a moment, and John tells himself to move, he wants to move, but can't, this curious stasis, because the second he does somehow this -- the two of them -- becomes real, it's really happening, they're really going to do this.
He's really, once he gets moving, shepherding Rodney through the dark and up the front step, really doing this, shoving the door open, pushing through, turning on the light, turning to see Rodney right there with his face flushed and his hair crazy, mouth a red reminder of what they've done and what John wants to do. He means to ask if Rodney wants coffee or anything, but Rodney shakes his head and his mouth goes thin with determination, and okay, John can go with that. So he does, curves himself against Rodney's body, the soft-hard cradle of his chest, and Rodney's mouth opens to him, perfect again, how Rodney's already figured him out, even with eyes closed. Hands on his hips and he rocks up into them, and god Rodney's hard and Rodney moans when John gets a hand between them.
"You do have a bed, right?" Rodney asks the question of John's neck, lips shaping it against a pulse that suddenly can't keep time. "Or a pile of skins or something?"
"Um, bed." The word is somewhere between aroused and annoyed, because John can never decide between the two when it comes to Rodney. "Come on," he says, stepping back, elated when Rodney comes along and stays close even without John tugging at his jacket. Rodney's eyes glitter blue-black, brilliance on top and shadow underneath, and Rodney's as obvious about wanting this, wanting him now as he is about victory, his own genius, telegraphing things that are too much for John to think about right now.
"Come on," John says instead, hitching his chin over his shoulder to say this way, and Rodney follows, keeping close as John starts down the hard-learned path to his bedroom. Like most old New England houses, his rambles, sprawls, comfortable with its haphazard growth. Not much has come his way in two years here to fill up unpainted wooden walls, only thrift-store furniture and the few things he'd brought with him from before: guitar in the corner, Johnny Cash poster, his skis in a corner by the TV.
Rodney a new thing, noisy with impatience.
"Where the hell's your bedroom?" Rodney grunts, creak of old wood floors underfoot. "Do we need sherpas?"
"No," John says. They're here, his spare white-washed bedroom with windows that front the slope spilling downhill and the horizon that opens up to the crests of mountains in the distance. Now, though, night presses againt the glass and it's just a small room, the two of them, Rodney awkward in the doorway and staring at John with a hunger that tugs at John's gut.
"You don't..." Rodney licks his lips, hand half-raised in a gesture John can't interpret. He doesn't bother, only reaches for Rodney's hand and Rodney lets himself be pulled in, lets himself be kissed again so John can lick and bite at the odd slant of his lower lip. I get it, John says against Rodney's mouth, he gets Rodney, knows him, even if he doesn't know him at all.
Undressing him happens all at once, impatient fingers mangling the buttons of John's plaid shirt, pushy when they tug his t-shirt up over his head, undo his jeans and shove them down his hips. And Rodney's mouth is right there a second later, closing hot and perfect over the ridge of his collar bone, trailing damp down to one nipple. A bite, shocking and sharp so John twists half to get away and half to encourage.
Whining, he tugs at Rodney, tugs him backward until his own knees hit the edge of his bed and he has to sit or fall down, keeping Rodney safe between his spread knees. Rodney's own attempts on his shirt fail, elbows tangled up so John has time to tug Rodney close and bend his head and nip at Rodney's belly, the fine trail of hair leading to his navel.
Rodney yelps, muffled by his t-shirt. At last he fights it off, chest stained pink and his eyes dark and glazed, so disheveled and surprised John has to laugh.
"Fuck, Rodney, you look – " John means what he can't bring himself to say, fucking amazing, belonging right here in the tiny, plain space of his room, between John's legs. Rodney's cock pushes at his jeans, even a finger tracing along the zipper pulls a stuttering breath and full-body shiver, a helpless push of Rodney's hips that asks for more.
John offers him his most wicked grin, another slow run of his index finger down the denimed contour of Rodney's cock, difficult considering he only wants to fall backward and get Rodney's dick in his hand or his mouth and get both of them off right the fuck now. And maybe Rodney senses that because he growls and moans both at once and reaches for the button of his jeans. John beats him there, undoes the snap and the zipper and shoves Rodney's boxers down.
A quick test, awkward bending down to lick the head of Rodney's cock. Rodney makes a hoarse, desperate sound, hands on John's shoulders, his neck, cheekbones. He's salt and heat, flushed, so hard he makes John hurt.
"John," Rodney says, voice breaking around John's name. "Yeah, okay, come on," John says, and lets go and leans back, pushes himself up the bed and tries to work his jeans and boxers off at the same time. It works, sort of, completely unsexy, but he's naked and now Rodney is too and Rodney's bending over him and touching him and whispering for John not to come, to wait, this is – this is... important, he thinks Rodney says, and Rodney starts to touch him.
Constellations on John's chest, they really are ; Rodney says the names, Draco with its serpentine loop cupping John's left knee, tail-tip at the v of his stomach muscles, Orion's torso echoing his own, Scorpio angling from his elbow to shoulder, and the weirdness of that jolts cold through the heat of Rodney's thighs bracketing him.
Not much to do except take it, and he wants it, is fucking greedy for Rodney's hands and wants it so bad his head tips back, mouth spilling out a moan when Rodney's hand closes around his cock. The world blurs: white wall, black behind eyes that fall suddenly shut, red and electric patterns sparking in time with Rodney stroking him. More, he shouts it with everything in him, Rodney's shoulders under his hands -- good, he can pull Rodney close, closer so Rodney's damp belly slides along his and their legs tangle together and John can hook one heel over Rodney's calf, closer, they can drag it out later, the slow and lazy sex John likes best. Now is now, and now is want, Rodney's cock sliding slick and sweet along his own and Rodney's hips marking a rough path between John's thighs. Muscle curves tightly under skin John can't touch enough, softer along Rodney's belly, hard again up along shoulders that hold Rodney's weight enough so Rodney can look down at him while he moves.
And it's not just looking, Christ, it's recording, with his eyes and his hands on John's body and the faint terror on his face.
"Come on," John mutters, hitching his hips up once, hard, so Rodney's head drops down and sweat drops from the damp ends of his hair, and he shudders. Again, and a moan breaks from somewhere deep in Rodney's chest, twisted out of him, once more and Rodney holds onto John's shoulders like it's either that or come apart, strong line of his biceps suddenly fragile despite the assertion of the rest of Rodney's body, powerful hips Johns thighs can't quite contain, rib cage flexing into him with each quaking breath Rodney drags in.
Orgasm is coming apart, drawing tight and then being dismantled by heat and being picked apart, everything uncertain except for Rodney and the spill of heat against his belly. It's too much to be just pleasure, to be just anything, past John's inability with words, months of seeing Rodney and wanting him, imagining him and the two of them, washed out now into a fierce wave of too much that leaves him breathless, stunned, lying there and grateful for Rodney on top of him.
Rodney's entire body loosens and his hand comes to rest on John's flank. Tremors work up and down his frame, echoed in John's own bones and muscles, nerves that can't quite believe it, still. When Rodney lifts his head, he looks down at John with eyes that are lidded and hazy and hold way too much for John to process: delight, fondness, disbelief. His head falls back again, cradled along John's chest, and it's perilously easy for John to reach up, trail fingers down the sweep of Rodney's shoulders.
He could, John thinks, stay here like this, legs sticky and tangled together, the blankets crowded down at the foot of the bed. The room holds only the two of them, Rodney's drowsy breath, so simple and uncomplicated John is pretty sure there's no going anywhere after tonight.
"Bathroom?" Rodney asks blurrily. He shifts against John, damp and thrilling skin.
"Other end of the hall," John says to the ceiling. He can almost taste his voice, that thick and dazedly satisfied. Rodney sighs, because it's a long, twisting hallway, and like a lot of things in New England, you really can't get there from here. "You need a map?"
"I think," Rodney says, his snap at odds with the sloppy sprawl of his body across the sheets, "I can remember the way back."
Rodney somehow collects himself and gets up, slick sheen across his shoulders where the bedside lamp catches the sweat patterned on his skin. New stretch and arc of body for John's hands to work out, and his blood stutter-steps at the hope of that, figuring out what he hasn't yet and what memory can't comprehend. He rubs at his stomach, sweat-come-spit, he'll regret it in the morning, but moving would break bones gone liquid and useless, muscles far too content to be here, sprawled out with a hand curved carelessly in the cup of his thigh. Probably he's grinning like an idiot.
"You're grinning like an idiot," Rodney says when he reappears, disheveled, bruises on his chest and marks on his neck he'll need a scarf to hide. He rubs at his cheekbone, eyes half-shut, but when he opens them again he pauses, looking down. The pause turns into a full stop and John stays still, splayed out and frozen on the edge of being aroused again. Rodney's fingers move, unconscious loops and lines, and then he shakes his head, snaps out of whatever it was. The kiwi boxers come off again and rejoin the tangle on the floor, and Rodney rejoins John in bed.
"You made it," John mumbles. He turns into the warm hollow under Rodney's chin, half-drugged by heat and the night, Rodney tucked up close to him and the covers settling over them both.
"Told you," Rodney says. He shifts, reaches over John for the light, face clearly legible in the last second of light before the lamp clicks off and John pulls Rodney back down to him. The house settles into its dark silence, and what's important contracts to the vital kick of Rodney's heart, his mouth, the fingers plotting star maps on John's hip, Rodney's voice. "I remember everything."
-end-
.notes: Title and some of the thoughts behind the story and series are from Beck's "Ramshackle".
Part of hockey!verse and written as a belated present for the birthday of
amberlynne, the great bamboozler *smoooooches* "One and All" takes place before "Playing the Body," and will (I hope) set up a bit of longer story that hashes out what, exactly, is going on with the boys.One and All
John's vision makes like a cartoon when Ronon hits him – stars, singing birds, weird twirly patterns that bring to mind Rodney's more complicated rants about his work. The ice zooms up to smack him in the chest, kapow! and he can almost see the words, like in Batman. His breath leaves his body in an almighty rush and almost takes his lungs, diaphragm, and a few other important things along with it.
He'd be worried about his dignity, except Ronon flattens everyone sooner or later in the game, even his own teammates. It isn't that Ronon doesn't understand hockey – he's been in New Hampshire, John thinks as he struggles to uncooperative feet, for at least ten years – but just that Ronon is the immovable object, skates or no skates. Even Rodney steers clear of Ronon, circling the crease and shouting irritably about off-sides (specifically, John's penchant for forgetting, I know for a fact there's such a thing as off-sides in football), but it's just that most of the time John's body gets ahead of the rules) , despite the fact they're on the same team and Rodney's playing goalie tonight.
From his half-vertical position, John can see Radek snatch the puck out of its headlong bounce down the ice, wheel around and get under Ronon's guard and head back to the attack. Three-on-three hockey means a lot of open space, a lot of space for physics to work. Zelenka leaves Lorne and Bates to deal with slowing Ronon as best he can, which means Bates snagging Ronon's jersey to pull him up and back and Lorne curling himself up like an armadillo to ram into Ronon's exposed side.
It's sort of illegal but it works; Bates, Lorne, and Ronon go down in a heap and someone's stick ricochets off the baseboard. John shakes off dizziness and forces his breath to cooperate, gets moving, moving, one foot in front of the other, not like he's going to make it halfway down the ice in time to stop Zelenka. He can't do much other than skate and watch, and pray that Rodney can put the brakes on Radek, Rodney who's just now dropping back into a waiting crouch after standing to holler a protest about holding.
The Laconia Aerospace guys, despite the military John's sure they have in them, don't really do rules. John likes that, most times, but not now with the game still going, when Rodney starts inching back, everything happening in the space of nanoseconds that stretch out and out and out: Zelenka's stick coming back, angle, force, trajectory, back back back and snap that kicks John's heart up into his mouth when the blade of Radek's stick meets the puck.
Radek gets air on it, a lot, more than John knows he wants. The puck arcs upward, perfect, mathematical, a million miles an hour but not fast enough for Rodney's wicked left hand.
"Yeah!" Rodney shouts, and drops to his knees, glove cradling the puck close to his chest. Radek makes a high, frustrated, Czechoslovakian sound and veers away; bits of ice shower onto Rodney's right arm and blocker, even as Rodney climbs to his feet and pushes his helmet back. He's grinning madly, skating straight for John, eyes bright and brilliant and face flushed and so wholly triumphant John's heart doesn't need to be run into to go a little weird against his chest.
The racket of the elementary school hockey team breaks into John's meditation on Rodney's face, his crazy sweat-and-helmet-tousled hair. Even with the pads and sweater and bulky pants, John can sense the contours of Rodney's body shifting as he skates, the broad shoulders, unexpected strength to his torso that keeps John up late at night, thinking, body feeling and winding itself tighter until the only left to do is for John to close his eyes and fist his cock and give himself up to it.
Kavanagh shoulders past him, and John realizes he's drifted off again. He heads for the bench, trailing in Kavanagh's cloud of crankiness and accusations of lethal force.
"Yeah," Lorne says from the other end of the bench, "I know you hate goalie, suck it up," and even Kavanagh's bitching about inevitably being blamed for the loss can't dull the sweet, sharp edge of victory or the kick of want up and down John's nerves.
"When are you going to learn you can't go high on me, Radek?" Rodney's asking from underneath his towel. John stares helplessly at the damp, sweat-licked nape of Rodney's neck.
"Eventually," Radek says dryly, but with enough of a huff that Rodney straightens and grins even more widely.
That's one of the givens in their small circle: you can't run over Ronon and you can't beat Rodney with a top-shelf shot, because Rodney's hands are like Superman's, faster than the speeding bullet they pull out of the air.
"Maybe," Rodney corrects, and shoves his towel into his duffel bag. "Yes, yes, maybe, perhaps, if I am lucky," Radek says, to humor him, and Rodney snickers quietly, delightedly, and skates off to the equipment rooms. John trails after him, watching the slow and rhythmic work of Rodney's shoulders, Lorne's laughter and Kavanagh's bitching fading out, the ice disappearing unnoticed beneath John's own skates until suddenly it isn't there anymore.
He almost trips over the ledge at the gate that opens from the rink out to the corridor that leads to the locker rooms. The close space congests quickly with sweat and old paint and clammy cement, and Rodney's right there, sharp eyes and sharp voice, steadying hand on John's arm.
"I thought you learned to skate," Rodney says.
"I did," John replies fake-mildly. Rodney's too worked up about winning to tease John about his sudden clumsiness; they clump down the corridor together, pad-widened shoulders bumping together every other step, Rodney buzzing along and barely remembering not to gesture, otherwise he'd smack John in the face with his stick. "Hey," John says, "hey," when Rodney's hands become too enthusiastic, and Rodney calms down so the enthusiasm just runs electric under his skin, real and strong enough for John to touch, maybe, if John were stupid enough to reach out and do it.
He sticks close to Rodney, like maybe Rodney has his own gravitational field or something and he's been pulling John in over the course of three months, like maybe he's the first person in years, besides Ronon, John feels he can be with. He thinks back and back, to when he'd decided New Hampshire would be a good place to live because there wasn't anyone there to see him go crazy, back past the burn of Afghanistan and the thop-thop of copter blades and the world ending, back to Nancy and his father and the whole disaster of family life… and yeah, maybe Rodney is the first-ever person he doesn't mind seeing him.
The babble of voices increases, Kavanagh all nasal annoyance and Lorne politely whitebread, Ronon's bass rumble, Radek's voice darting in and out. Ford says, "sir, yes sir" with drill-team precision in response to Lorne saying something. John shakes his head, keeps his mouth shut. So what if Ford had been ROTC or something? The Laconia guys – and that's the one thing that separates them from him, they all work together, something they don't talk about – are a good bunch, and John can understand them keeping secrets.
He hasn't told anyone, even the base psychologists at Rammstein or the trauma surgeon in Kabul, his own secrets, that night, when the world ended.
Mechanically, John pulls off his sweater and pads, swaps them for his t-shirt. Next to him Rodney hustles through changing, not fast enough that John can't look sideways to see the pale stretch of his skin, flushed with exertion and the peculiar Rodney-energy that never quite stops. From the corner of his eye, John sees Rodney looking back, trying to be covert and failing. John tries to pretend he wasn't looking even as he stretches, unnecessary maybe, but Rodney swallows and goes red and looks away. John's muscles pull a little, hesitating before they give way and lengthen, and it hurts, but it's good, so suddenly pleasurable with Rodney watching he has to stop.
"Hey Sheppard," Bates says, materializing at John's left elbow. John twitches, brings himself back from the brink of a fantasy involving him stretched out in bed, Rodney watching. "Losers are buying tonight. You in?"
"I am," Rodney says immediately. "Of course you are," Radek snorts, but gives Lorne a quick look. Rodney catches it, "What? What?" he demands and an uncomfortable silence answers.
"Have trouble holding your Molsons, buddy?"
"I do not," Rodney mutters, at the same moment that Radek says, "So long as you take it easy."
"You in?" Bates asks again.
"Yup," John says, because there's no way he won't be, not after this, and on their way out, he's even quick enough to convince Rodney to ride with him. Rodney nods and goes along, a quick "I hope you drive better than you skate," to make it clear he could drive himself, if he wanted. John elbows him and Rodney elbows him back, and John's body doesn't know whether to be tired from the long week and sore from the game or elated with Rodney being close, but the confusion feels good.
With breath misting and cold-red cheeks Rodney bundles into John's truck, wrapped up twice over in his orange fleece and a dark blue jacket, heavy gloves he rubs together like he's the southerner here, not John. When John points this out, Rodney rolls his eyes, burrows deeper into his coat, and says, apropos of nothing, "We kicked their asses tonight."
"Well, it was 4-2," John amends. The truck rumbles reluctantly to life, the lights shine frigid and white on the snow and the brown bulk of the arena wall, and make crevasses of the grain of the wood with the shadows they cast. Rodney makes a dismissive noise that fades into the truck's heater starting up. "Besides, they are your friends," John adds.
"Yes, they are." Rodney's voice catches on the spike of something John can't identify, and it's almost the last thing they say on the ten-minute drive down the road to Mike's. Salt and sand crunch under the tires and the heater moans, and an invisible wind comes down out of the darkness and shakes the truck. Rodney's silence isn't the tamped-down silence of wewonwewonwewon anymore, but something more… John struggles for the word. Concentrated, maybe, but John can't look away from the road to look at Rodney and see.
"You okay?" he asks instead.
"Fine," Rodney says absently.
Okay, that's weird, and Fine really is the last word until they pull up to Mike's and its flickering neon signs, first ones there, and John doesn't know whether to be worried or selfishly happy they have more time together. He opts for both, hauls Rodney into the bar with one hand on his arm and tells him to order something.
"Low blood sugar," Rodney says. "Did you know that the average human brain derives almost all its energy from glucose?"
"You mentioned it last week." Also the week before that, to justify stealing half of John's power bar and harassing seventy-five cents out of Lorne for a bag of chips.
The heat of the bar floods over him, carrying Johnny Cash and the scents smoke and old alcohol along with it. Mike's has the surreal light of a dream, or one of John's more vividly horrifying memories, brightness that can't reach shadowed faces or the spaces under the tables. John tells himself not to be stupid. Next to him, Rodney hovers and appears to be working his way back to his usual neurotic self, wrestling with his scarf and muttering about the heat and how it's highly likely Zelenka, Kavanagh, Bates, and Lorne have skived off, cheapskates that they are. His hair still stands on end in unruly clumps and spikes, and John fights the urge to smooth it back down.
"Beer?" he asks, interrupting Rodney mid-flow on how many generations of cigarette smoke have been compressed into the woodwork.
"Whatever they have that isn't American and revolting," Rodney says, blinking in surprise. "But really, I'm sure they – "
John loses the thread of Rodney's voice in the upswing of Cash's guitar, the sudden shouting over Monday Night Football in front of the plasma TV by the bar. A moose head hangs next to the TV, one eye glassy and flickering with a high-resolution reflection and a stuffed bird perches in its antlers. All around the wall Mike and his predecessors have hung old license plates, the Random Bits of Crap school of decoration, and the rest of the room is decorated with random furniture and men in fleece and flannel and jeans, with heavy boots hooked in the rungs of their chairs.
"I'll get that," and it's Lorne, managing to be polite even as he elbows John out of the way and hands Mike a wad of cash. "What's Rodney drinking?" Lorne asks, and John says "Sam Adams" on a whim. "Make sure he doesn't go over two, Stackhouse, okay?" Lorne says to Mike, who nods like it's an order-order and he wants to salute, but doesn't.
"Something up I should know about?" John asks, all casual lean and pretending he's a lot more interested in the Dolphins game on TV. Lorne glances sharply at him, probably not fooled at all, because he doesn't say anything. John adds another item onto the list of weird that he's been compiling on Rodney and his friends.
"You should order some food," is all Lorne says while he waits for Mike to fill the beer order, and John shrugs and says he'll ask Rodney to see what he likes. Lorne nods, although he gives John a look that reminds him Rodney likes and collects the mugs Mike sets on the counter, and by the time John picks up the rest, Lorne's back at the table and pushing his way in, laughing like he hadn't just weirded John out with asking a bartender to police Rodney's drinking.
Rodney eyes the glass John slides over to him but takes it anyway, fingers sliding into the clear spots on the glass where John's own fingers had rested. A sip tells him he's off the hook at least for ordering something crappy, and then Ronon gets there and is shoving his way in, which means Rodney's mashed into John's right side and John can feel the terrific heat of Rodney's body, the subtlest shift and nuance of him, all up and down his side.
He drags in a breath, tries to laugh at Rodney's complaints of claustrophobia; he's never been a fan of close contact, but this, this, it's huge and inescapable and despite Lorne on his left and all the other guys crowded close it's him and Rodney in a shadowy corner, and the long, clean line of Rodney's throat when he swallows and licks his lips and shifts because Radek's said something to annoy him, and he smells like sweat and laundry detergent: sharp, hot, comforting all at once.
Beer doesn't help much, cold down his throat and heady when it hits his stomach, spreading into warmth that can't quite challenge Rodney folded against him.
Conversation loops around him and he's content to follow it, alcohol a low and benevolent buzz that makes him slouch back and go with it. Talk runs into rapids when the topic turns college football. Ford is a pathetically misguided FSU fan, in Bates's UF-influenced opinion and Kavanagh thinks they're both morons, did you actually learn something at those schools of yours?. John interrupts Kavanagh's rant, and Rodney's atypical support, with the time he roadtripped from Stanford to Miami to see Flutie throw the Hail Mary in the Orange Bowl.
"Yeah, that was, like, ages ago," Ford says, and Bates snorts. John does some quick calculating, and figures Ford would have been two at the most when Gerard Phelan caught the pass to end all passes. Poor kid, he decides, missing a thing like that.
To see that in person he'd missed his first Thanksgiving after going to college, not that it had killed him.
"So Rodney," Zelenka shouts across all the football talk, "you are thinking of going pro?"
"Hm?" Rodney blinks slowly, looks up. This close John can see the weird distance in his eyes, glassy with being somewhere else, and this is another entry on the list of weird, or maybe the list of fucked up, because the only guys John's ever seen like that were in the psych hospital at Rammstein. "What are we talking about?"
"Your blazing glove save," Radek says, the sarcasm not quite covering something else.
"You okay?" John asks, and he would move closer, if he could.
"Fine," Rodney says, second time tonight, and frowns at his half-gone beer. He says something under his breath, left, right, triple fake, looking up, it's high and shifts, twitches, and his left hand snaps shut like a trap. He stays there a minute, frozen, then unfurls, relaxes so his left hand splays across the tabletop and John can see the lines and small scars across his knuckles, scars that really don't belong on a guy who sits in an office al day. One finger traces a path through the condensation on the tabletop, trailing over to John's wrist, where it stops; Rodney follows it along, stops and seems captivated by… by something, the cuff of John' shirt, or his hand or the grain of the wood, and eventually Rodney mutters about his sugar going.
"You want something?" Rodney straightens in response to John's question, gaze locking onto him and nothing absent in that gaze at all, but present and alert and far brighter than the lights in the bar. John swallows, fights down the urge to look away.
"Potato skins," Rodney says, and turns bright red and falls silent.
"You should have eaten first," Zelenka says reprovingly. "You know how – "
"Yes!" Rodney barks. "I know how I am. Considering that I've lived every day of my forty years in this body, and considering that I remember – " He breaks off, scowling. "Believe me, I know. Okay? Okay."
John tries to pay closer attention to Rodney and the conversation. It's hard, the day and the game dragging at him. They don't talk about work, except for generic bitching that doesn't name names or give anything away. Lorne asks Radek if he's heard from the mysterious possibly-girlfriend Elizabeth, but he hasn't, and Ford rubs Radek's shoulder consolingly.
"Hey, you never know, man. Maybe she'll come up for a visit," Ford says, and it's awkward silence after that until the potato skins come and Rodney almost takes Ronon's hand off at the wrist trying to get to them first.
The only thing John's worked out about Rodney, other than that he wants him, is that Rodney's a genius. And kind of an asshole genius, the kind of genius who wouldn't be caught dead hanging around with guys like Lorne, Ford, and Bates, who are smart but not Rodney's scary brand of smart, or even Radek's or Kavangh's. But he does, and they look out for him and go quiet and anxious when Rodney gets spacey and tries to say mysterious things.
And maybe the other thing he's worked out is that Rodney might want him. Or like him enough to get caught staring in locker rooms, or have his hand linger on John's arm too long when Rodney helps him up from the ice.
"Here, if you're going to be like that," Rodney grunts, and John finds a greasy half of potato skin, dripping cheesy cholesterol and bacon, shoved into his hand. He stares at it a moment, until Rodney says, "If you're not going to eat it, I'll just take it back."
"No, that's cool." The potato skin is hot and drippy and John has to lick his lips and his fingers to take care of the grease, has to be aware of Rodney watching him intently, the soft outrush of breath that means the body's shuddering down into the acceptance of wanting something. He can understand that, with every hormone and thump of his blood in his body, John can understand that, three months of lying in bed and having his body shake and go tense because it's been a long time since he's felt that way about anyone, and he hasn't been used to it.
He makes himself listen to the conversation, even though the rest of his body listens to how Rodney's presence shouts and drowns out the rest of the room. The beer, his third and last, doesn't do much to dull it. He picks at the cheese glued to the plate of potato skins; Rodney's already polished off everything else.
"Doing anything this weekend?" Lorne's asking.
A chorus: Thank fuck it's Friday. Seriously man, thank fuck. Ronon's working, extreme ski tours up in Franconia Notch. Bates has to go to Vermont on an undisclosed mission. Lorne's going snowmobiling, which makes Rodney snort derisively. "And Radek's gonna sit next to the phone all weekend," Ford says, snickering, and Radek says, "Perhaps I will."
"Teyla wants to go to some craft fair," Rodney says dejectedly, gazing down at his hands, and wins a collection of sympathetic winces.
"What're you doing, Sheppard?" Ronon asks. He knows John has the weekend off.
"Don't know yet," John says, and sprawls out as best he can so his arm goes around behind Rodney's shoulder, and Rodney shivers. Their feet tangle together under the table, scrape of Rodney's boot on the cuff of John's denims.
"Well have fun doing it," Ford says, and tips his beer at John, who tips his back.
They wind through more words and more beer, Rodney on his second and not quite done with it when Ford mentions he has to get moving, then Kavanagh and Bates. Ronon leaves but looks at John with the non-expression that could mean he knows exactly what John wants to get up to or could mean it's John's turn to open the ski shop on Monday.
"You okay to get home?" Lorne asks. He and Radek are… are hovering, John thinks with distant, beery indignation. Next to him Rodney seems okay, although he hasn't moved despite the room he now has. John's happy for it.
"I'll take him," John promises, and gives Lorne his sincerest smile. Rodney seems to interpret it as something else and stares intently at his now-empty beer mug. "See you later."
Lorne and Zelenka wander out through the thinning crowd, and something deep down goes tight when John realizes it's just the two of them, and the silence fills up with the terrible, overwhelming knowledge of the contour lines of Rodney's chest and hip and knee, and the clothing that doesn't do anything to muffle how Rodney's body speaks to him, or how his body tries to answer back.
"You want to get out of here?" His voice is too rough, too bare, but Rodney doesn't pause so maybe he feels it too. He gets to his feet, sliding away from John and leaving coolness in his place, and a certain emptiness, and John wants him back, wants through yanking his coat back on and not bothering with his scarf. Rodney doesn't bother either, only zips his fleece up and shoves his hat in a pocket, and they're out the door into cold that stings.
Only it doesn't sting long because John's truck is right here and they're in, and he has half-numb fingers tangled in the collar of Rodney's jacket, pulling him in, pulling him close and Rodney comes with a breathing of finally finally finally and cool hands on John's face, shocking almost but not as shocking as Rodney's mouth.
Rodney's mouth slants wide and sweet and salty over his, a bit alcoholic and a bit fucking perfect. His tongue does something wicked along John's lower lip, catching on the stubble he's cultivated over the day, scrape of Rodney's chin then and his breath once more, hands careful on the side of John's to keep him close. No problem with that, John thinks hazily, no problem at all to stay, even though his back doesn't like the angle and the gearshift is in the way, because Rodney's making these sounds, or maybe he is, desperate, choked-off and lost. He can't remember kissing ever being like this, because it's never been like this, not with Nancy and not the few times since he's let another woman or man come close enough, not like how Rodney maps John's mouth with his and his fingers plot impossible, hot coordinates on John's cheekbones and shift through his hair.
And, John decides distantly -- hell, the decision's made for him, made by Rodney's shoulders under his forearms and how Rodney holds up his weight -- there's no doing without this, not anymore.
"Come home with me," John says, when Rodney lets him pull away.
"Okay."Rodney swallows around the word, eyes bright and mouth wet so John has to lick at him again. "I just... Teyla." He fumbles in a back pocket. "I need to call her." He pushes John back. "Usually I find it easier to talk without an incredibly hot man's tongue in my mouth." John ducks his head down under Rodney's guard, nips his neck, too pleased not to, exhilarated by someone else for the first time in far too long.
"Usually," Rodney adds, tries to twist away and can't because of the seat back.
Rodney's fingers, which are good at typing and making saves and describing the idiocy of the world, need three tries to hit speed dial. John prays to all the gods of filthy sex and the gods of getting what you want that Teyla isn't home, or if she is, won't ask questions. She won't need to, he thinks hazily, pushing Rodney's collar aside as Rodney whines quietly and hisses for him to stop, for god's sake, she sees things most people don't see, she'll see what he's done to Rodney. And that turns him on a bit, and makes him fierce kick of pleasure.
"I'm going – I'm going to crash at John's," Rodney says unsteadily, the good kind of unsteady, John knows, tasting it in the flickering pulse in Rodney's neck. "Are you – is that good?"
Teyla must have answered in the affirmative, because Rodney chokes off okay, see you later and flips the phone shut, tries to put it back but the phone falls from his hand and lands somewhere in the anonymous shadows of the floor. Another kiss, deep and hot, and a pause that has them swapping breath and Rodney's fingers still restless on John's cheek. Rodney's saying something John can't make out, but he thinks it might be perfect, perfect, remember this.
"We fogged up the windows," Rodney says, louder this time.
"Haven't done that since I was eighteen." John makes himself lean back, look at the condensation beading on the windshield. "We should..."
"We should," Rodney agrees. "As fast as possible, while being careful."
"What's the fun in that?" John asks, and grins, the grin that Rodney has no idea what to do with most of the time, that's flirting and teasing and far more than suggestion for Rodney to handle. He wants to reach out one more time, pull Rodney back to him, reaches instead for the ignition.
The drive stretches on and on. John's brain divides up into an awareness of time, the crawling minutes, awareness of the road unspooling beneath his headlights and the faint worry about suicidal moose, most of it saved, though, for Rodney, who sits tight and fidgety in the passenger seat, glancing at John every few seconds.
Soon, soon, John tells himself, even though soon comes close to forever by the time he reaches his turnoff, with its decoration of tumbledown boulders and the river running silent under its coating of ice. Only a half-mile to go, soon, soon, he knows each tree by heart, the up-and-down folds as the road runs along. The river plunges sharply downward, vanishing into the darkness, and the road follows it for a while before twisting back up, soon, soon, up to the light and the ridgeline of a series of gentler hills.
His house keeps close to the lee of a long-running ridge, so when the north wind howls down over the mountains it twists through the tops of the trees and makes them moan, but leaves him in peace. The truck crunches up onto the gravel drive, sighs to silence when John turns off the engine. They sit there a moment, and John tells himself to move, he wants to move, but can't, this curious stasis, because the second he does somehow this -- the two of them -- becomes real, it's really happening, they're really going to do this.
He's really, once he gets moving, shepherding Rodney through the dark and up the front step, really doing this, shoving the door open, pushing through, turning on the light, turning to see Rodney right there with his face flushed and his hair crazy, mouth a red reminder of what they've done and what John wants to do. He means to ask if Rodney wants coffee or anything, but Rodney shakes his head and his mouth goes thin with determination, and okay, John can go with that. So he does, curves himself against Rodney's body, the soft-hard cradle of his chest, and Rodney's mouth opens to him, perfect again, how Rodney's already figured him out, even with eyes closed. Hands on his hips and he rocks up into them, and god Rodney's hard and Rodney moans when John gets a hand between them.
"You do have a bed, right?" Rodney asks the question of John's neck, lips shaping it against a pulse that suddenly can't keep time. "Or a pile of skins or something?"
"Um, bed." The word is somewhere between aroused and annoyed, because John can never decide between the two when it comes to Rodney. "Come on," he says, stepping back, elated when Rodney comes along and stays close even without John tugging at his jacket. Rodney's eyes glitter blue-black, brilliance on top and shadow underneath, and Rodney's as obvious about wanting this, wanting him now as he is about victory, his own genius, telegraphing things that are too much for John to think about right now.
"Come on," John says instead, hitching his chin over his shoulder to say this way, and Rodney follows, keeping close as John starts down the hard-learned path to his bedroom. Like most old New England houses, his rambles, sprawls, comfortable with its haphazard growth. Not much has come his way in two years here to fill up unpainted wooden walls, only thrift-store furniture and the few things he'd brought with him from before: guitar in the corner, Johnny Cash poster, his skis in a corner by the TV.
Rodney a new thing, noisy with impatience.
"Where the hell's your bedroom?" Rodney grunts, creak of old wood floors underfoot. "Do we need sherpas?"
"No," John says. They're here, his spare white-washed bedroom with windows that front the slope spilling downhill and the horizon that opens up to the crests of mountains in the distance. Now, though, night presses againt the glass and it's just a small room, the two of them, Rodney awkward in the doorway and staring at John with a hunger that tugs at John's gut.
"You don't..." Rodney licks his lips, hand half-raised in a gesture John can't interpret. He doesn't bother, only reaches for Rodney's hand and Rodney lets himself be pulled in, lets himself be kissed again so John can lick and bite at the odd slant of his lower lip. I get it, John says against Rodney's mouth, he gets Rodney, knows him, even if he doesn't know him at all.
Undressing him happens all at once, impatient fingers mangling the buttons of John's plaid shirt, pushy when they tug his t-shirt up over his head, undo his jeans and shove them down his hips. And Rodney's mouth is right there a second later, closing hot and perfect over the ridge of his collar bone, trailing damp down to one nipple. A bite, shocking and sharp so John twists half to get away and half to encourage.
Whining, he tugs at Rodney, tugs him backward until his own knees hit the edge of his bed and he has to sit or fall down, keeping Rodney safe between his spread knees. Rodney's own attempts on his shirt fail, elbows tangled up so John has time to tug Rodney close and bend his head and nip at Rodney's belly, the fine trail of hair leading to his navel.
Rodney yelps, muffled by his t-shirt. At last he fights it off, chest stained pink and his eyes dark and glazed, so disheveled and surprised John has to laugh.
"Fuck, Rodney, you look – " John means what he can't bring himself to say, fucking amazing, belonging right here in the tiny, plain space of his room, between John's legs. Rodney's cock pushes at his jeans, even a finger tracing along the zipper pulls a stuttering breath and full-body shiver, a helpless push of Rodney's hips that asks for more.
John offers him his most wicked grin, another slow run of his index finger down the denimed contour of Rodney's cock, difficult considering he only wants to fall backward and get Rodney's dick in his hand or his mouth and get both of them off right the fuck now. And maybe Rodney senses that because he growls and moans both at once and reaches for the button of his jeans. John beats him there, undoes the snap and the zipper and shoves Rodney's boxers down.
A quick test, awkward bending down to lick the head of Rodney's cock. Rodney makes a hoarse, desperate sound, hands on John's shoulders, his neck, cheekbones. He's salt and heat, flushed, so hard he makes John hurt.
"John," Rodney says, voice breaking around John's name. "Yeah, okay, come on," John says, and lets go and leans back, pushes himself up the bed and tries to work his jeans and boxers off at the same time. It works, sort of, completely unsexy, but he's naked and now Rodney is too and Rodney's bending over him and touching him and whispering for John not to come, to wait, this is – this is... important, he thinks Rodney says, and Rodney starts to touch him.
Constellations on John's chest, they really are ; Rodney says the names, Draco with its serpentine loop cupping John's left knee, tail-tip at the v of his stomach muscles, Orion's torso echoing his own, Scorpio angling from his elbow to shoulder, and the weirdness of that jolts cold through the heat of Rodney's thighs bracketing him.
Not much to do except take it, and he wants it, is fucking greedy for Rodney's hands and wants it so bad his head tips back, mouth spilling out a moan when Rodney's hand closes around his cock. The world blurs: white wall, black behind eyes that fall suddenly shut, red and electric patterns sparking in time with Rodney stroking him. More, he shouts it with everything in him, Rodney's shoulders under his hands -- good, he can pull Rodney close, closer so Rodney's damp belly slides along his and their legs tangle together and John can hook one heel over Rodney's calf, closer, they can drag it out later, the slow and lazy sex John likes best. Now is now, and now is want, Rodney's cock sliding slick and sweet along his own and Rodney's hips marking a rough path between John's thighs. Muscle curves tightly under skin John can't touch enough, softer along Rodney's belly, hard again up along shoulders that hold Rodney's weight enough so Rodney can look down at him while he moves.
And it's not just looking, Christ, it's recording, with his eyes and his hands on John's body and the faint terror on his face.
"Come on," John mutters, hitching his hips up once, hard, so Rodney's head drops down and sweat drops from the damp ends of his hair, and he shudders. Again, and a moan breaks from somewhere deep in Rodney's chest, twisted out of him, once more and Rodney holds onto John's shoulders like it's either that or come apart, strong line of his biceps suddenly fragile despite the assertion of the rest of Rodney's body, powerful hips Johns thighs can't quite contain, rib cage flexing into him with each quaking breath Rodney drags in.
Orgasm is coming apart, drawing tight and then being dismantled by heat and being picked apart, everything uncertain except for Rodney and the spill of heat against his belly. It's too much to be just pleasure, to be just anything, past John's inability with words, months of seeing Rodney and wanting him, imagining him and the two of them, washed out now into a fierce wave of too much that leaves him breathless, stunned, lying there and grateful for Rodney on top of him.
Rodney's entire body loosens and his hand comes to rest on John's flank. Tremors work up and down his frame, echoed in John's own bones and muscles, nerves that can't quite believe it, still. When Rodney lifts his head, he looks down at John with eyes that are lidded and hazy and hold way too much for John to process: delight, fondness, disbelief. His head falls back again, cradled along John's chest, and it's perilously easy for John to reach up, trail fingers down the sweep of Rodney's shoulders.
He could, John thinks, stay here like this, legs sticky and tangled together, the blankets crowded down at the foot of the bed. The room holds only the two of them, Rodney's drowsy breath, so simple and uncomplicated John is pretty sure there's no going anywhere after tonight.
"Bathroom?" Rodney asks blurrily. He shifts against John, damp and thrilling skin.
"Other end of the hall," John says to the ceiling. He can almost taste his voice, that thick and dazedly satisfied. Rodney sighs, because it's a long, twisting hallway, and like a lot of things in New England, you really can't get there from here. "You need a map?"
"I think," Rodney says, his snap at odds with the sloppy sprawl of his body across the sheets, "I can remember the way back."
Rodney somehow collects himself and gets up, slick sheen across his shoulders where the bedside lamp catches the sweat patterned on his skin. New stretch and arc of body for John's hands to work out, and his blood stutter-steps at the hope of that, figuring out what he hasn't yet and what memory can't comprehend. He rubs at his stomach, sweat-come-spit, he'll regret it in the morning, but moving would break bones gone liquid and useless, muscles far too content to be here, sprawled out with a hand curved carelessly in the cup of his thigh. Probably he's grinning like an idiot.
"You're grinning like an idiot," Rodney says when he reappears, disheveled, bruises on his chest and marks on his neck he'll need a scarf to hide. He rubs at his cheekbone, eyes half-shut, but when he opens them again he pauses, looking down. The pause turns into a full stop and John stays still, splayed out and frozen on the edge of being aroused again. Rodney's fingers move, unconscious loops and lines, and then he shakes his head, snaps out of whatever it was. The kiwi boxers come off again and rejoin the tangle on the floor, and Rodney rejoins John in bed.
"You made it," John mumbles. He turns into the warm hollow under Rodney's chin, half-drugged by heat and the night, Rodney tucked up close to him and the covers settling over them both.
"Told you," Rodney says. He shifts, reaches over John for the light, face clearly legible in the last second of light before the lamp clicks off and John pulls Rodney back down to him. The house settles into its dark silence, and what's important contracts to the vital kick of Rodney's heart, his mouth, the fingers plotting star maps on John's hip, Rodney's voice. "I remember everything."
-end-
.notes: Title and some of the thoughts behind the story and series are from Beck's "Ramshackle".