Rodney was standing fifteen feet away from the table, but that was no impediment to his extra-loud voice. "You, haircut!" he bellowed. "Don't eat the hero food!"

He made it to the table and gently plucked the strawberry out of the hand of a tall, thin, gorgeous man in all black. Models. Jesus. "You pick today to eat something and you decide that this strawberry..." Rodney cradled the fruit in question,"...is what you want? You're probably only going to throw it up later, anyway." He straightened the green leaves on the top of the berry, looking at it critically. "The models go over there with the bottled water and the protein bars. The already meticulously displayed food goes here, where it doesn't get touched."

"Uh, sorry?" the guy said, looking a little shell-shocked. "I didn't realize the shoot had food. I thought it was editorial."

"Yes, yes," Rodney said, deciding that the strawberry was undamaged and placing it gently against the stem of a champagne glass where it belonged. "There's a restaurant setup and a 'romantic' setup and a breakfast setup. All to show off idiotic clothes that normal people have no chance of ever wearing. So, yes - editorial. Editorial with food."

The man in front of him reached up to rub the back of his neck, ruffling his already-disheveled hair further before sticking out a hand. "I'm John."

Rodney shook his hand, noting that his fingers were long, slim, cold and a little rough. "Rodney McKay. Don't you need to get over there and get dressed?" He gestured to where the models were lined up next to a large clothes rack, being handed their gear by wardrobe stylists in severe all-black outfits and horn-rimmed glasses.

Before John could answer him, Vala, the picture editor for the high-end magazine holding the shoot, rushed up and clasped John by the shoulder.

"Oh, my god, Shep!" she said. "Thank you so much for doing this on short notice!" She gave Rodney a tight look and dragged John away.

Son of a bitch, Rodney thought. He'd just insulted, yelled at and snatched food out of the hand of Shep - John Sheppard - only one of the hottest photographers in New York. Still, Rodney watched John's tight little ass as he walked away - Shep was hot in more ways than one.

"Blowtorch," Rodney said, holding out a hand. Zelenka handed him the small torch. Rodney turned to the table, where six stalks of asparagus were laid out in a neat row. A large bowl on the table held twenty-eight stalks that had been discarded for being imperfect. Rodney turned on the torch and started carefully heating the asparagus; walking the line between making it look cooked and making it look like it had been attacked with a blowtorch. Once he had it artfully singed to his satisfaction, he put the torch down.

"Glycerine," he said. Zelenka handed over the bowl and brush, and Rodney gently began coating the stalks, making them shine; mimicking the effect of melted butter, but without the congealing factor. The cavernous studio space was freezing cold, with Rodney and his crew set up in the coldest corner to preserve the food as long as possible. The room would heat up once the huge lights were turned on anyway.

Once the asparagus was suitably shiny, Rodney used tongs and delicate touches of his fingertips to arrange it on a pristine plate. Radek handed him a bowl that held Elmer's glue, tinted a delicate yellow. Using a small spoon, Rodney draped the "Hollandaise" sauce over the stalks, using Popsicle sticks to make tiny adjustments to the flow.

He didn't even jump when John slipped up beside him. "Hey, Rodney," John said. "That looks good."

"It's glue," Rodney said, easing his hands away from the plate. "I recommend that you don't tell the models to eat it."

"Okay," John said. He pointed to the reject bowl. "Can I have one of those?"

Rodney reached for the bowl, keeping his eyes on the finished asparagus, making sure nothing happened to it. He'd had plenty of masterpieces ruined because of a bump to a table or a trailing sleeve, and the heavy-looking camera John had slung around his neck looked like it could do some damage. He held the bowl out. "Help yourself."

John crunched his way through two stalks, looking at the carefully styled food. "Oh, hey," he said. "I'm sorry I almost ate your strawberry."

"Yes, well," Rodney said with bad grace. "I'm sorry I called you 'haircut,' especially since it appears you haven't had one in a while."

John tossed the last bite of asparagus into his mouth. "What's such a big deal about that strawberry? You've got a whole crate of them over there."

Rodney sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Those are all the ones we went through to find that one." He pointed at the strawberries-and-champagne setup.

"Oh," John said. "I guess being a raging perfectionist is a prerequisite for this job?"

Rodney nodded. "Yes," he said shortly. He turned to look over his shoulder. "Simpson," he snapped. "Give me ten of the loser strawberries in one of the white bowls." When she brought them over, Rodney handed the bowl to John. "There," he said. "That should keep you off the tabletops, hm?"

"Thanks," John said, and Rodney tried not to notice the way the smile made his whole face light up or how attractive John's smile lines and the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes were.

"Wait," Rodney said. He turned back to the prep table and pulled something out of the refrigerator. He came back to John with two small ramekins, then placed them into John's free hand so he could hold on to both.

"What's this?" John asked.

"Cream cheese and turbinado sugar. Dip the strawberry in the cream cheese and then roll it in the sugar - you'll like it."

John motioned with his full hands. "Help a guy out, will ya?" He held the bowls out.

Rodney's mouth went dry when he realized what John wanted. Luckily, his job depended on steady hands, so they didn't shake when he reached out for a strawberry and grasped it by the leaves. He automatically assessed it - good size, good color, crappy symmetry. He braced his hand under John's and dipped the strawberry into the whipped cream cheese, then rolled it in the large-crystal sugar. He took a quick breath and held the berry out.

John's teeth were very white. The top ones were perfectly straight, the bottom ones endearingly crooked. His lips were full, and the lower one brushed against the tip of Rodney's thumb. John pulled back and chewed, then licked the red juice from his lips.

"Oh," he moaned, his eyes closing halfway. "That's really good."

Rodney ate the rest of the strawberry in his hand and flicked the top toward one of the garbage cans placed around the food prep area. It really was good - the firm flesh of the strawberry, the rich thickness of the cream cheese, the sweet crunch of the sugar. Rodney tried not to think about the fact that this combination was one he used at the end of dates, when he really, really wanted to get laid. Despite the attempt to not think about it, he still could feel the first stirrings of a hard-on. Thank god he was wearing a heavy black canvas apron.

They stood there looking at each other for a second before one of John's assistants - the tiny girl with red-gold hair and a voice to rival Rodney's for sheer volume - called him away.

John smiled and shrugged. "Duty calls. Thanks for the food," he said, then walked off.

Rodney turned around to see Simpson staring at him. "What?" he barked.

She blushed and waved a hand around. "I...just...you and Shep," she gulped. "For a second there I found you sexy." She swallowed hard. "This must be what going mad feels like."

"Lose your mind on your own time," Rodney snapped, shouldering past her.

Rodney and the table stylist moved around each other in an intricate dance. Rodney had worked with Elizabeth Weir enough times to know her rhythm, so he easily styled the food while she arranged silverware and candlesticks and flowers. The set was crawling with assistants transforming a simple pipe-and-drape backdrop into a fancy restaurant. The carpenters had laid down a fake marble floor and pressboard tables, which Elizabeth covered with damask tablecloths. One model was dressed as a maitre'd; an impossibly beautiful man and woman were being tucked and pinned into $20,000 dollars worth of haute couture evening wear, and Rodney was working quickly to get the food placed so that the shoot could begin before the lights started wilting everything. He put the last dish in place just as Elizabeth straightened the centerpiece with a final, gentle tug.

"Perfect," she said, slowly backing away from the table. "Fantastic as always, McKay."

"You're not so bad yourself," Rodney said, turning the asparagus plate six degrees to the left before joining her at the edge of the set.

Sheppard's other assistant, an All-American-boy type named Lorne walked over with a light meter, being careful to not disturb the table while calling out levels to Shep, who messed around with the cameras. When Lorne joined him, they talked softly for a moment.

Shep walked over to the set and stood next to Rodney. "Looks good," he said. He turned to Elizabeth and held out his hand. "Hey," he said. "John Sheppard."

Rodney watched in horror as Elizabeth shook John's hand and giggled. Vala waved John over, and he flashed a brilliant grin at Rodney before loping away. After a moment, Rodney heard him call the models. "Sam, Daniel, Jack - can I speak to you a moment?"

For a moment, Rodney spared a thought for Sam Carter - tall, willowy, blonde, and actually smart - hell, for a model, she was a genius. They'd had one date, but Rodney absolutely could not deal with someone who ate two bites of his carefully prepared dinner and proclaimed herself "full," so he hadn't pursued it. Besides, he generally leaned toward the more masculine side of his bisexuality anyway.

John said something that made the models laugh, then shooed them back to the set, where they took up positions. Jack O'Neill, a distinguished-looking man in his forties, was playing the maitre'd, Sam and Daniel the happy couple. Rodney retreated back to the food prep area, and Elizabeth went to her own corner, where boxes of props waited for her.

While he nestled a bottle of champagne into a bucket of acrylic ice cubes, Rodney could hear music start up, blasting through the huge sound system that had been brought in. Photographers frequently used music to set the mood for their shoots. Usually it was loud obnoxious rock or techno, but this was classical - delicate and sweet. Rodney looked up to see Daniel and Sam dancing near the table in a flurry of camera flashes and hoped they wouldn't bump it. He had backups for all the food, but they were slightly less perfect than what was out there.

He turned back to the table, and started carving a small trough into the top and side of a slice of seven-layer chocolate cake with a dental tool. Once he was satisfied with the shape of it, he deftly cut a piece of paper towel and lined the impression. He used a syringe to fill the channel with a thick "raspberry" sauce made of corn syrup and food dye, making sure it flowed down onto the plate attractively. Once he was satisfied with it, he sprayed three layers of hairspray on it, then used pins to carefully place three raspberries on top of the slice. He then glued two more to the plate before setting it aside. Zelenka was building the identical backup plate beside him.

"You're getting quicker," Rodney observed, and he had to admit that Radek's much smaller hands were good at manipulating the food. Rodney adjusted one of the raspberries on Radek's cake, then nodded for him to place it on the hero food table, just behind Rodney's own creation.

Rodney looked up to see that John had moved closer to the set, using the camera he'd had slung around his neck to take close-ups. Sheppard's pants gaped at the top when he crouched down - Rodney could see the waistband of blue-striped boxers, so incongruent with the all-black ensemble. Sam and Daniel were still dancing, looking into each others' eyes and doing a fair imitation of a couple in love. But Rodney knew that Daniel and Jack were the real couple.

Sheppard's assistant Laura came over. "They'll be ready for dessert in about ten," she said.

Rodney nodded. "Is he going to want them to eat any of it?"

"Probably," Laura said. "For a skinny guy, he sure likes his food."

Rodney deftly cut six more slices of cake, laying them out across a sheet of butcher paper on the table. He used a series of forks to spear the point of each of them, setting the filled forks on another plate. He then grabbed Zelenka's version of the prepared slice and used yet another fork to remove the point.

Laura looked hungrily at the cake. Rodney took pity on her and gave her a taste from one of the un-hairsprayed slices. "God," she moaned. "That is so good. Where did you get it?"

"I made it," Rodney said. "I'm a trained chef - cuisine and pastry."

Laura made pouty eyes at him, so he fed her another bite of cake. She swallowed and closed her eyes, licking the last of the chocolate from her lips. "Why aren't you running a restaurant somewhere?"

"Restaurant hours suck," Rodney said. "And I'm apparently very hard on staff." He could tell from the twinkle in her eyes that she was resisting replying, probably hoping for more cake. He scooped up the rest of the slice and slid it onto a plate, handing it to her with a fork. "Here," he said. "Go away. I've got breakfast to make."

He watched idly as she walked back over to the nest of cameras. She nudged Lorne, then fed him a forkful of cake. Rodney didn't miss the heated look that passed between them. A minute later, Shep joined them, and Laura fed him a bite, too. Even from a distance, Rodney could see John's eyes close and his lashes flutter with pleasure. Rodney was still staring, thanking god for his apron again, when Sheppard turned a hot, speculative look on him. Rodney met it head-on, then half-smiled before turning to yell at Zelenka about waffle batter.

Ten minutes later, Rodney and Elizabeth were back on the set, he clearing the dishes into plastic tubs, she adjusting the centerpieces. Sam and Daniel were off to one side, standing placidly as their hair and makeup were touched up. Once the dessert was set up, Rodney moved to one side with a rolling cart holding the plate with the six forks and Zelenka's set piece.

The classical music started up again, and Daniel and Sam went through their paces - he seated her at the table, she leaned across and kissed him before rubbing an invisible spot of lipstick off his lower lip with the pad of her thumb. The models easily followed Shep's quiet directions, flowing from one pose to another, careful to keep their bodies turned correctly toward the cameras, even if the positions were somewhat contorted.

"Rodney, you ready?" John was still crouched down on the floor.

"Sure," Rodney said, shaking himself a little. He'd been listening to the music. He traded out the first slice of cake for Zelenka's, and handed Daniel the first cake-laden fork. He stepped away and went back to listening to the music, not letting the snap and click of the camera intrude.

At John's direction, he switched the forks out, sometimes giving them to Sam, sometimes to Daniel and, at the end, arranging one on the table as if it had been dropped, then carefully smearing a little more frosting onto Sam's index finger so she could feed it to Daniel.

Sheppard called a break, then pulled two of the male models - Markham and Stackhouse - to the side. Rodney sent Simpson in to clear the dishes, snapping at her to hurry, that the carpenters needed to get the new floor down and redress the set. He went back to the food prep area to find Radek carefully trimming the ragged edges from waffles with a pair of narrow-pointed scissors. He went through the stack and discarded most of them, keeping five and waiting for Radek to finish.

"Finally," he said, plating the waffles. "I need confectioner's sugar and motor oil."

"Yes, yes," Radek said. "They are right here. I will go help Allison with the fruit salad."

Rodney busied himself by dusting the waffles lightly with sifted confectioner's sugar and pouring tall glasses of his own orange juice substitute. It was a vile mixture, but at least it wouldn't kill him. Simpson and Zelenka carefully loaded the breakfast food onto the rolling tray. Rodney met Elizabeth at the newly arranged kitchen set, where she was busily setting up a basket of amazingly realistic plastic fruit and other props. Rodney laid the food out, then turned to Lorne, who was again taking levels and giving instructions to the gaffers to adjust the fake sunlight streaming through the fake window.

"Let me know when he's ready," Rodney said. "I need to put the motor oil on the waffles at the last second so they don't get soggy."

Lorne blinked. "Motor oil?"

"Looks better than real syrup, it's thicker."

Lorne scrunched his nose up. "Gross."

Rodney made small adjustments to the waffles. "You should do an ice cream shoot - it's all colored mashed potatoes."

"I'm glad we do editorial," Lorne said. "Usually the only fake things there are the models."

As soon as everything was ready to go, Rodney used a spouted measuring cup to carefully pour the golden motor oil onto the perfectly stacked waffles. He moved back a few steps. Whoever was running the music had a good sense of humor, because the "Spring" movement of Vivaldi's Four Seasons started up.

Stackhouse and Markham, clad only in pajama pants that rode low on their slim hips, took up places on opposite sides of the breakfast table. Rodney watched as John got a variety of shots - both men reading the newspaper; Stackhouse pretending to pour juice in his glass; Markham in the background; Stackhouse at the counter. Eventually, Shep called for a break and moved in to talk to the models again, gesturing to the table and saying something that made Stackhouse and Markham grin sheepishly at one another.

Sending the models back to the set, John huddled with his assistants for a moment before waving them off. Laura and Lorne scuttled away and returned quickly, each with a camera in hand, and split to flank Shep, stopping at different distances and crouching down. John settled himself with his camera and looked from the models to Laura and Lorne and back.

"Okay," he said. "We've only got one chance to get this, so everybody be on your game. Laura, music."

And there was the driving techno, Rodney thought. He had just enough time to recognize the song from Queer as Folk before he was utterly distracted by what was happening on the set. Stackhouse leaned across the table and crumpled up Markham's newspaper, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck to drag him into a kiss. At Sheppard's direction, Markham came around the table and resumed the hot and dirty kissing, lifting one leg to wrap it over Stackhouse's hip.

Amid the frantic strobing of flashes, Rodney watched open-mouthed as Stackhouse cleared the breakfast table with a sweep of his arm before bending Markham over it and pressing him down with a hand between his shoulder blades. Stackhouse playfully bit Markham's neck, then fisted one hand into the fabric of his pants and pulled them down enough to expose one sleek hipbone and the upper curve of a buttock. Even Rodney could see how turned-on they both were, and he knew it was going to come across in the photos. He just wondered if Vala was going to have the balls to print them. He turned to look at her and smiled at the sharp expression of naked admiration on her face.

The music stopped abruptly, and Rodney noticed Laura pointing a remote at the stereo. "Good work," Shep said, getting gracefully to his feet. "That's lunch."

Rodney watched the way John called attention to himself, giving Stackhouse and Markham the opportunity to pull themselves together. Unless Rodney was mistaken - and he almost never was - those two would be fucking in the dressing room inside of ten minutes. He walked back to the prep tables and waved Zelenka and Simpson off, telling them to go clean up the spilled food and smashed dishes.

"Hey," John said, appearing at Rodney's elbow. "What's for lunch?"

Rodney looked at him quizzically. "Lunch?"

"Yeah," John said. "I begged off going with Vala and the models to see what you had. Besides, I wasn't in the mood for lettuce and water."

Rodney looked at the prep area and nodded decisively. "How do you feel about waffles?"

"I love waffles," John said with a grin.

Rodney got John settled on a high stool at the makeshift counter and brought him a bowl, two handfuls of the rejected strawberries, a cutting board and a knife. "Slice these, then stir in a couple of spoons of sugar." He busied himself with the waffle batter and with heating and oiling the waffle iron.

"Your cake was awesome," John said, carefully watching his hands as he worked. "Laura said you're a trained chef."

"CIA," Rodney said, carefully ladling batter.

"What?" John yelped, and Rodney snickered.

"Culinary Institute of America, moron. Up in Hyde Park. I do demonstrations there sometimes." Rodney went to the fridge and came back with the cream cheese.

"What kind of demonstrations?" John asked, scraping the last of the strawberry slices into the bowl and sprinkling them with sugar.

"Advanced pastry and confectionary, ice carving." Rodney flipped the first waffle onto a plate and added more batter to the iron.

"You can do ice carving?" John sounded impressed.

"I wield a mean chainsaw," Rodney smirked. Just before the second waffle was ready, he spread the first one thickly with cream cheese, then put the hot one on top. He poured maple syrup onto the stack, then spooned on the sliced strawberries. He slid the plate in front of John and handed him a fork before reloading the waffle iron.

John looked down at the waffles, then back at Rodney.

"Well?" Rodney said, repeating the whole process. "Eat it."

John was halfway through his plate of waffles when Rodney brought his own to the counter and pulled up a stool, digging in.

John swallowed the bite in his mouth. "Good," he said thickly.

"I take reducing people to monosyllables as a compliment," Rodney said, stuffing his first bite into his mouth. He sensed a presence right at the edge of the minimum safe distance from the prep tables and looked up to see Laura and Lorne staring at them with identical puppy-dog expressions. At the same time, Simpson and Zelenka wheeled the cart full of broken dishes over and ogled the waffles.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Rodney snapped. "There's plenty more. Simpson, feed these people."

Simpson made waffles while Radek rapidly sliced strawberries and assembled the plates. Just before he led the others to a side table, Radek slid a plate onto the counter. "That's the last of it," he said. "You will have to share." He leaned toward John and stage-whispered, "Watch your fingers."

"Very funny," Rodney said to Zelenka's retreating back.

When he turned back, John was stuffing a huge bite of waffle into his mouth. "You probably have a great metabolism, too," Rodney groused, taking a smaller bite for himself as John shrugged. Rodney chewed and swallowed. "You think that breakfast table stuff is going to make it into the magazine?"

John shrugged. "I don't really care. I shoot what I like; they can always opt not to use it. I get paid either way."

Rodney laughed. "I can see why you're famous in this town - you're an egomaniac."

"Just about my work," John said. "I'm actually a very nice guy."

The "romantic" setup proved to be an enormous pain in the ass. Sheppard wanted to cycle through several combinations of the models, which kept the wardrobe stylists hopping and had Rodney, Radek and Simpson hurriedly sifting through yet another crate of strawberries to find several that met Rodney's standards.

By the time John was satisfied, the sun was setting and everyone was exhausted. Rodney's hands were stained with strawberry juice, Simpson and Zelenka were moving at about quarter-speed packing up their gear, and the models looked wilted as they struggled into their street clothes and stumbled out of the studio.

Laura and Lorne seemed to be a little tired, but they still bantered while packing up the cameras and lights. John had pulled out a sleek titanium Powerbook and was frowning at the screen. He messed around with it some more, then carried it over to the food prep area, setting it on the counter where they'd eaten, hopping up on the stool to frown at the screen some more.

"Do they suck?" Rodney asked, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and taking off his apron, throwing it toward one of the bins Simpson and Zelenka were packing equipment into.

"Huh?" John looked up.

"Well, the way you're scowling at the screen leads me to believe you're unhappy with the photos," Rodney said slowly.

"No, they're good," John said. "I'm just trying to decide which ones to print. Want to see?"

Rodney shrugged and came around the counter to look over John's shoulder. The monitor on the laptop was big enough to display four photos at a time. Rodney flicked his finger over them without touching the screen.

"Bad composition; bad angle; bad lighting - oh, that one's got too much subtext, Jack and Daniel are eyefucking." He waited while Sheppard scrolled to the next page. "Sam's eyes are closed; they're looking in opposite directions; number seven looks good; eight sucks."

John dragged number seven to an already-prepared folder and kept scrolling. He occasionally argued with Rodney, a couple of times he blatantly disagreed and Rodney berated him, but by the time they'd flicked through the last of the first setup, Rodney was leaning in, his hand resting on John's shoulder. At a polite cough, Rodney looked up to see Zelenka and Simpson, each carrying a crate.

"This is the last of it, McKay," Radek said. "Are you going with us?"

Rodney thought for a moment. The truth was, he actually wasn't ready to go yet, despite the late hour and long day. "I'll get a cab," he said. "Don't wreck the van. Six a.m. on Monday -- we have to prep for the Food Network shoot."

"Yes, yes," Zelenka said over his shoulder as he walked out. "You have a nice weekend also."

Rodney turned back to John, who had closed the laptop. He looked up at Rodney. "You want to have dinner with me?"

"How about takeout at my place," Rodney said. "I can set that up so we can look at the photos on my plasma widescreen. Uh, if you want to, that is."

John laughed, a real dirty-old-man chuckle. "You had me at 'plasma widescreen,' Rodney." John had walked back across the room to put his laptop into its case before Rodney realized what had happened. He'd just invited the hottest man he'd ever seen back to his apartment. He really, really hoped that the DVD currently residing in the player wasn't hardcore gay porn.

Friday night traffic was abysmal, but there was nothing to be done about it, so Rodney figured it was as good a time as any for "getting to know you" talk, no matter how much he despised it.

"Why food styling?" John beat him to the punch.

"I'm a raging perfectionist and I like food," Rodney said. "Match made in heaven."

"And a trained chef, and you've had some sort of art training, too, judging by the way you assessed the photos." John looked smug.

"Media Arts at the Pratt Institute," Rodney admitted. "Two BA's from the CIA: Culinary Arts and Baking and Pastry."

"What else?" John asked.

Rodney sighed. He usually wasn't reticent in bragging about his academic accomplishments, but he found that he didn't actually want to beat John over the head with his credentials. "MA in Food Studies and Food Management from NYU."

"And how many years did it take you to amass all of that?" It was getting dark, but Rodney could still see John's mischievous smile.

"Seven or so," Rodney said. "What about you - why the exciting world of high fashion?"

The smile faded from John's face. "I was an embedded photojournalist in Afghanistan. After that, models and photo editors suddenly aren't all that scary."

"And?" Rodney prompted.

"I got a little too involved with the squadron I was covering," he said. "I went with a crazy pilot against direct orders to try and save a couple of guys who got shot down. After that, I was given a choice - go to Antarctica and photograph penguins, or get fired."

Rodney stayed quiet for a minute. "What happened to the guys who got shot down?" he asked gently.

"Dead when we got there," John said. "The pilot got court-martialed and I got pulled out of there fast enough to make my head ring. I declined to go to Antarctica, and no other news agency would touch me."

"And fashion..." Rodney let his voice trail off.

"It's easy. It's lucrative. And it's about as far from war as you can get."

"Says a man who's never seen two starving models fight over the last cupcake." Rodney deliberately tried to lighten the atmosphere - Sheppard looked like a guy who could work himself up into a righteous brood if given the opportunity.

John laughed. "That's why I make Laura and Lorne do all the model-wrangling."

"They're both really attractive," Rodney said. "Why aren't they models?"

"Well," John drawled, "Laura is five foot two and Lorne is five foot nine. What about Simpson? She's tall enough."

"She's too smart," Rodney said. "The boredom would kill her."

They arrived at Rodney's building, and John followed him to the elevator. Rodney let him in and John walked around the living room, obviously checking out the place. Rodney looked around and saw the broken-in leather couch, the thick rugs over the hardwoods, the blank walls and the overflowing desk and bookshelves, just like usual. He watched John drop his laptop bag on the sofa and shrug out of his coat.

"Let me take that," he said, and John handed the leather jacket over. Rodney hung it in the hall closet. "Make yourself at home," he called back over his shoulder. He went into his bedroom and hung up his own coat and kicked his shoes off, checking to see if he'd gotten any food on his clothes. His shirt had strawberry juice on it, and there was waffle batter on one knee of his pants. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face, then changed into a sweatshirt and jeans.

When he walked back into the living room, John looked up and raised an eyebrow. "I had lunch all over me," Rodney explained. "I see you met Sumner." He gestured toward the large gray tabby cat that had taken up residence in John's lap. "Let me have your laptop."

John handed it over, and Rodney opened a built-in cabinet to reveal the plasma widescreen TV and a host of high-end electronics. "Nice," John said, watching Rodney connect cables.

"Takeout menus are on the fridge," Rodney said. "Whatever you want is fine." When John wandered into the kitchen, Sumner on his heels, Rodney noticed that he'd also kicked off his shoes, revealing long, narrow feet in black socks.

"How about sushi?" John called from the kitchen. "Since we had waffles for lunch and all."

"Sure, Rodney said, finishing up the last cable. "Call Ichiban and tell them chef's choice for two. Remind them no eel and no citrus of any kind."

"Why not?" John asked.

"I hate eel and I'm allergic to citrus."

"Well, okay then," John said, and made the call. Rodney heard him hang up the phone and then pad back to the living room. "They know you," he said, crouching down beside Rodney and staring at the jumble of cables attached to his laptop. "The lady who answered the phone wanted to know who I was."

"That'd be Angela," Rodney said. "She's a little protective. Her dad's the chef and I've known her since she was seven. What did you tell her?"

John put his hand on Rodney's shoulder to lever himself up, then pulled Rodney to his feet. "I used the old standby," he said. "I told her I was a friend."

Rodney noticed that when John had helped him to his feet, he'd dropped Rodney's hand, but he hadn't moved out of his personal space. He was a little surprised when John put a hand on his shoulder and leaned their foreheads together, his eyes closing. Rodney found it oddly relaxing, so he stayed there, watching John, looking at the way his eyelashes made dark sweeps on his cheeks. John's eyes blinked open, and he smiled, then he stepped back, his hand falling from Rodney's shoulder.

"Ready to look at those photos?" John asked.

"Sure," Rodney said. He reached one hand up to cup John's elbow. "You look a little tired. Coffee?"

"That'd be great," John said, and Rodney went to the kitchen to start up the espresso machine.

"Open your picture folder," Rodney called from the kitchen. "Switch the control to the TV, and then you can do everything with the silver remote."

"Cool," John said.

When Rodney returned with two cups of coffee, John was kicked back on the couch, his feet up and Sumner in his lap, flicking idly through the photos they'd looked at already. "Look at this one," John said, gesturing with the remote. "It looks better on the big screen."

Rodney took a sip of his coffee. "You'd have to crop it here," he said, pointing to a specific area of the screen. "Then it would look like Daniel was giving Sam the 'come fuck me look' and not Jack. Those two really need to get their shit together; the honeymoon has got to be over by now."

John sipped his coffee, then dragged the photo into the folder. He closed the restaurant photos, and opened the breakfast table set. Rodney eased down onto the couch beside him, slightly gratified when Sumner moved from John's lap to his.

"That one," Rodney said, pointing to one of the photos with Markham in the background and Stackhouse casually slumped with his newspaper in hand and his foot up on one of the chairs. "Nice depth of field, and the poses show off the pants."

"Shows off Markham's ass, too."

They got through the first half of the photos - selecting ten or so for the "print" folder - before the door buzzer sounded. "Why don't you get us some drinks and I'll take care of this," Rodney said, watching John's ass as he went into the kitchen.

John came back as Rodney was finishing up a quiet conversation with the delivery guy and set two glasses on the table. "Now I see why you wanted take-out," he said. "There's nothing in your refrigerator except ginger ale and five kinds of mustard."

Rodney closed and locked the door. "Yeah, well," he said. "I haven't been to the grocery store in a few...months?"

"Were you speaking Japanese to the delivery guy?" John asked.

Rodney nodded. "Pleasantries and whatnot - greeting to the family. Gotta stay on their good side, that way I get the really good sushi."

They cracked open the Styrofoam boxes and busied themselves mixing soy sauce and wasabi. Rodney looked over the selection and chose a piece of yellowtail sashimi, picking it up with his fingers and dragging it through the soy sauce before popping it into his mouth.

"God, this is good," he moaned, before picking up another piece, dipping it, and holding it out to John, who took it without hesitation and made happy noises around it.

John took a sip of his drink, then snagged a piece of spider roll, added a couple of slices of pickled ginger and dragged it through the spiced mayonnaise. He put the whole piece in his mouth and chewed it noisily, making muffled sex noises.

"You are so gross," Rodney said, shoving salmon nigiri into his mouth, making John nearly spray bits of soft-shell crab onto the table.

"Shut up," John said, swallowing. "You're at least as gross as me, possibly grosser. Is that hiramasa? Give it!"

Within twenty minutes, the large pile of sushi was decimated, and they'd had a half-hearted fight over the last of the Philadelphia roll. Rodney had bogarted more than his share of the fatty tuna, so he had to go into the kitchen to dispose of the boxes and bring John a warm, damp towel to wipe the soy sauce off his hands. Rodney fed the last couple of slices of toro to Sumner, then took the towel from John to wipe his own hands. He dropped it on the floor and flopped back onto the couch.

"Okay," Rodney said. "You want to go over those pictures?"

John rolled his head to look at Rodney. "Nah," he said, "I think I just want to make out with you."

"Yes," Rodney said immediately. John looked like eight kinds of sin sprawled out on his couch with his sleeves pushed up and his hair a mess. Rodney pretty much wanted to lick him all over. "Absolutely. Good plan. Come up here."

Rodney laid down against the back of the couch and John stretched out in front of him. It took them a minute to get settled, then they looked at each other kind of awkwardly. Finally Rodney snorted and put his hand on John's jaw, drawing him into a slow, deep kiss. John's lips were incredibly soft under Rodney's, moving easily and slowly - as if they had nothing better to do than taste each other. Rodney slipped his tongue into John's mouth, and John welcomed it, gliding his tongue-tip along the side.

"Fish mouth," Rodney said as they moved apart.

John leaned forward just enough to bite Rodney's bottom lip. "You are so gross," he said.

Rodney ran a hand into John's hair and tipped his head back, exposing his long, pale throat. He ran the tip of his tongue up the side from collarbone to earlobe, making John shudder and squirm against him. Just for fun, he did it again, this time sucking John's earlobe into his mouth.

"Ears," John squeaked, trying to pull away.

Rodney let him go and opened his eyes. "Yes, and they're very nice ones. Come back here."

John leaned in, then pulled back as soon as Rodney went for his ear again.

"Tease," Rodney complained. "You're lucky I'm too tired to chase you." When John leaned his forehead against his sternum, Rodney kissed the top of his head and ran a hand through unruly hair. "Want to stay?" he asked. "We can take this up in the morning."

John leaned back to look at him, eyebrows drawing together. "You don't want...you want me to stay?"

"Well, yeah," Rodney said, then had a sudden thought. "There's not anyone waiting..."

"God, no! I wouldn't... John's eyes went wide. "There's not someone...you..."

Rodney raised one eyebrow. "Oh, right. Like I'm in the habit of bringing hot guys home when I'm involved with someone else." He stopped talking when he saw the look on John's face. "So, okay," he said quietly. "I guess that's happened to you before. Huh."

John's face flushed. "I just..."

"I get it," Rodney said, cutting him off. "I'm just thrown a bit. I didn't think really hot people got insecure. Is it everybody, or just you?" Rodney let a little bit of his grin break through.

"You're such a dick, McKay," John said.

"What's your point? Get up now," Rodney said. "This couch murders my back after a while."

As they walked into the bedroom, Rodney gave into the urge and reached for John's hand. With a tiny smile, John held on, too. He let Rodney lead him into the bathroom, where he dug around in a drawer, coming up with a toothbrush, still in its box.

"Have a lot of overnight guests?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Rodney said. "I have an over-cautious dentist."

Rodney was surprised at how easy it was. They brushed their teeth side by side, then went out to the bedroom, stripping down to boxer shorts before sliding under the covers. Rodney turned out the lamp and rolled over, happy to find John close, waiting for him. One sweet kiss and they wrapped their arms around each other, drifting quietly to sleep.

Rodney woke up alone, sitting up abruptly. John's clothes were gone from the chair. Rodney fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Son of a bitch, he thought. He'd thought this was going to be something. Something good. He was still lying there, working himself up to a good pity party when he heard the front door open.

"Hey, lazybones," John called. "You up? I've got bagels."

Rodney couldn't help the rush of relief that swept through him, and if he hadn't already been flat on the bed, he would have sagged back onto it anyway. "Give me a minute," he called back, letting out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

He got up and stumbled to the bathroom. He came out a few minutes later looking a little more alive, with minty-fresh breath and a plan. He shrugged into his bathrobe and made a quick stop by the bedside table.

In the kitchen, John had figured out how to start the espresso machine and was unpacking bagels and cream cheese onto the worktop. "Toasted?" he asked, digging in a drawer for a knife.

Rodney walked up and slid his arms around John's waist. "Since you brought bagels, I'll forgive you for stealing my keys. And, yes, toasted."

"You sleep like the dead," John said, leaning back against him for a second before going back to preparing breakfast.

They ate standing up, leaning against the cabinets. Halfway through his bagel Rodney looked up to see that John had a little bit of cream cheese smeared at the corner of his mouth. He put down his own bagel and took John's out of his hand, placing it on the counter.

"Eat later," Rodney said, catching John around the waist and pulling him in. He licked the cream cheese away and kissed John hungrily. John kissed him back, and -- as often happened in kitchens - things heated up.

Rodney stepped back to pull John's shirt off, ruffling his hair even further. John hooked his fingers in the waistband of Rodney's boxers, tugging them down and letting them fall to the floor. Rodney got John's pants undone just enough to see that he'd gone commando when his patience ran out.

"Get these clothes off," he said, and watched while John stripped. When John reached for the lapels of his robe, Rodney pulled a condom and lube out of the pocket and placed them on the table before shrugging out of the robe. "You okay with that?" he asked, pointing at the supplies.

John ran a hand down Rodney's chest and said, "Oh, yeah."

"Cool." Rodney kissed John for a few more minutes, then turned him around and shoved him over the table, hearing John's sharp inhalation. "You like this?"

John pushed up against his hands, then relaxed back onto the table, his arms stretching out so he could grip the edges, his hips arching up.

"I'm taking that as a yes," Rodney said. He kissed every inch of skin that he could reach on John's neck and back, tracing the lean muscles under winter-pale skin, biting softly at the curve of John's shoulder. When John started pushing back against him in earnest, Rodney opened the lube and wet his fingers.

John moaned when the first finger slipped inside, and he dropped his head down, resting the side of his face against the table. His breath started hitching when Rodney worked a second finger into him.

"This is what I thought about when you had the models do this," Rodney said. "I wondered what you'd look like, spread out under me."

John made an incoherent gasping noise, and Rodney pulled his fingers out. He reached for the condom, rolling it on and slicking it quickly. "Ready?" he asked.

John arched his shoulders up. "God, yes. Come on, Rodney, fuck me."

Rodney guided the head of his cock to John's ass and pushed in a couple of inches. John was ungodly tight, so he pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in another inch. He kept it up, letting his cock stretch John little by little, until he was all the way in.

"Bony ass," Rodney said, taking and releasing deep breaths, fighting for control.

"Bite me," John said, breathless, and he yelped when Rodney did just that, closing his teeth on John's shoulder and starting to rock in and out at the same time. "Harder," John said.

Rodney pulled himself upright and closed his hands on John's hips, stroking his thumbs across sleek, smooth skin.

John pressed up from beneath him, and Rodney couldn't hold out any longer. He pushed John's legs further apart with his own and started to speed his strokes little by little until he was slamming into John with enough force to push the table forward and John's knuckles were white from holding on. He knew he couldn't last at that pace, but did everything in his power to keep going just a little bit longer. John was moaning sharply under him when he came, the orgasm rolling through him from heels to head.

Rodney kept fucking through it, slowing down to prolong the sensations. As soon as he was confident in his ability to not fall over, he pulled out. He pried John's fingers off the edges of the table and pushed him over on his back, pulling him to the center of the table by his hips.

John's face was flushed and sweaty, his eyes huge and pleading. Rodney braced one knee on a handy chair and bent to suck John's cock into his mouth, his hands going to John's hips. Within seconds, John was coming, and Rodney rode out the uncoordinated thrusts, swallowing hard before pulling away and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

John laid there across the table, panting and with his eyes closed. He raised a shaky hand to Rodney's shoulder and shook him slightly. "Good," he said.

Rodney smirked at him. "I take reducing people to monosyllables as a compliment."