John wakes to the sound of the ocean, just like every other day - except it sounds wrong. The ocean makes a specific sound as it washes against the piers of Atlantis, and what he's hearing sounds different. It's the crawling, shushing sound of water on sand, of ocean lapping beach. He cautiously opens one eye, and, whoa Dorothy - so not in Kansas any more.

The room is large and airy, with big windows framed in flowing white curtains that stir on the breeze. The fresh, clean scent of the sea is everywhere, and the sunlight is too yellow for Atlantis. It's Earth. Earth. It's some kind of testament to John's jadedness that he immediately tries to change the environment with his brain. When a surfboard doesn't appear in the middle of the room, he marks "sentient mist-creature" off his mental list of suspects.

He's lying in a huge bed, and it's really comfortable - crisp cotton sheets and fluffy pillows and the mattress looks as wide as a football field. He gives himself a moment to stretch, noting that he's still wearing the striped blue boxers he went to bed in and his dog tags, which is somehow reassuring. He spreads out his arms and feels the delicious pull, just before he feels the warm, soft skin of someone else in the bed. He props himself up on one elbow and finds Rodney - face smashed into the pillow, hair fluffed out on the pillowcase, drooling just a little.

John settles back against his pillow, crossing his hands behind his head to wait for Rodney to wake up. This is going to be fun.

He has no idea what time it really is, but the moment his own internal timer clicks past six a.m., Rodney's eyes fly open. "Hey," Rodney says blankly, rolling onto his back, and then shoving himself into a seated position with a twisted arm and a stretch of the back that has to hurt like hell. No wonder he's always complaining of back problems, if that's how he treats himself. "Time's it?"

John just waits. He's not disappointed. Surprisingly, it's not John, nor the unusually wide and comfortable bed, nor the merrily billow curtains teasing the length of his forearms that make Rodney notice what's around him. It's the moment that his feet touch the floor.

"There are slippers," Rodney says. His voice is choked and painful, and his back is rigidly tense underneath a faded t-shirt that might've been yellow, once.

"Oh?" John asks. "Yeah, that's a little unusual."

Rodney's eyes grow huge and wide as they scan over the room, his cheeks red with the effort of holding back words -- but, surprisingly, he doesn't say them. He just looks around and then falls back into bed. "So. Weird VR experiment?"

"Huh," John says. "Didn't think of that one."

"Wha - what did you think of?" Rodney seems remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. Either that, or he's figured out just how comfortable the bed is.

"Sentient mist, drug-induced hallucination, stress-induced hallucination, psychotic break." John ticks off the potential answers on the fingers of one hand.

"Those all sound reasonable," Rodney says. "But if it's internally generated, why would we both pick Club Med?"

John shrugs. "So, VR?"

"I don't think so." Rodney sits up again and pushes his pillows toward the headboard before propping himself up. "Hey, there's a phone."

John looks, and there is indeed a telephone on the bedside table. He picks it up and almost drops it again when a voice says, "May I help you?" He holds it out to Rodney, who takes it gingerly.

"Yes," Rodney says slowly into the phone. "Coffee. Lots and lots of coffee." He pauses, then says "thank you" weakly.

He hands the phone back to John, who hangs it up.

"Well," Rodney says, slumping back onto his pillows. "At least there's coffee."

John just nods. He's become as much of a coffee addict as Rodney in sheer self-defense, although not so much of a coffee snob. "Hope it's the good stuff," he says, because winding Rodney up is always entertaining - and familiar; entertaining and reassuringly familiar.

But Rodney's not playing. "So, uh. Do you always sleep like that?" A forefinger flicks up and down, from John's bare feet poking up from the bunched sheets, the boxers, and the dog-tags lying on skin. "I mean, when we aren't on missions, obviously, because then you wear -- "

John's eyebrows go up. "Is there a point to this?"

"No, no, no point. Sorry. Ignore me, this is just delayed trauma from waking up in what looks to be a cabin in Maui, instead of Atlantis, and hey, I smell coconut." A look of longing sweeps over his face. "Oh, wow. Do you think I could have coconut milk in my coffee? That would be just -- perfect."

"You want me to pick up the magic phone and ask them?" John asks, mainly to distract himself from the fact that he really wants to pick up the sheet and clutch it to his chest in a maidenly manner. He didn't feel quite so naked until Rodney's sharp-eyed inspection of his sleeping attire.

"Nah," Rodney says, looking around. "Hey - bathroom." He lumbers off the bed and heads for the double doors off to one side.

John slips out of the bed to explore the ornate armoire. The large upper section houses a TV and a complete suite of electronics, including a DVD player and a compact stereo. The drawers below are full of clothes. He rummages around and finds black tee shirts and an assortment of cargo shorts in his sizes. Boxers, too. A chest of drawers holds more clothes, bigger.

Rodney comes back, smelling minty and with damp hair. "There's a jacuzzi and a shower big enough for a basketball team in there."

John watches a stray drop of water roll down Rodney's neck, and he finds he has nothing to say. Doomed, he thinks. I am so doomed.

"Oh, good, clothes." Rodney tugs the cargo pants out of John's lax grip, then frowns at them. "Figures they'd be in sizes only a skinny bastard like you could wear."

He thinks about objecting -- he's neither a skinny bastard, nor is Rodney that much bigger -- instead wordlessly pointing towards the chest of drawers. Rodney makes happy noises as he discovers not only clothes meant to fit him, but clearly in what passes for his style: t-shirts proclaiming geek genius to all and sundry.

John watches Rodney tug uncomfortably at the sleep-shirt he's wearing and makes a decision. "You said there's a shower? Dibs on the first go."

He's already half-way to the bathroom when he hears Rodney snort and say, "This is clearly some sort of fantasy, it's hardly going to run out of hot-water. I mean, what's the good of a fantasy if there aren't long, hot showers to be taken?"

The bathroom really is something out of a fantasy, with blindingly white tile and semi-transparent glass block construction. The shower has multiple heads and everything is adjustable, even if John stands there like a dummy at first, thinking "on" at it.

Once he gets it going, John finds his favorite kind of shampoo and the soap that he likes arranged on recessed steel shelves. Once he finishes, he finds thick, fluffy towels on a warming rack and white cotton robes hanging on the back of the door. The bathroom is appointed with every grooming amenity he could think of, so he brushes his teeth and puts gel in his hair and turns his nose up at the razor.

When he returns to the bedroom, Rodney is back in the bed, this time with an enormous mug of coffee. He points to the wheeled tray next to the bed. "Coconut milk," he chirps happily.

John thinks about voicing just how bizarre this is, everything appointed perfectly for the two of them, catering to their preferences as obliquely as only a good fantasy could do, except this doesn't feel like a fantasy. Despite the fact that Rodney's gleefully sipping his coconut infused coffee like a child given the perfect Christmas present, John can see the tension around his eyes and the way he searches the room after each slow swallow. So instead of speaking, he gets dressed and fixes his coffee, tucking a leg underneath him as he settles back next to Rodney. "So."

"So, I don't think this is a VR. Not really. There are things that you can do to check and I've been trying them all and so far, nothing."

He still sounds way too calm. "Rodney. This isn't Star Trek, and looking for the shimmers isn't going to help us."

Rodney rolls his eyes and lightly elbows him. "And I'm supposed to be the geek? Anyway, it was requesting a reality that wasn't there. Or something like that, it's been a long time since I've seen that episode."

"What? That was a great episode, with Data and - " John stops, only barely maintaining his grin when Rodney gives him a pleading look that edges into hysteria. Rodney's been way too calm about this, which is probably because he needs a break as badly as John does and isn't looking any kind of gift horse in its mouth - there might be teeth there, big, sharp, and dripping with some kind of ichor, after all. "All right. Go get showered, get dressed, and we'll start looking around."

John drinks his coffee and waits, but he can't help taking a peek outside the window. Only it's not a window; it's a set of French doors leading out to a small patio, which leads out to the beach, which leads out to a crystal blue ocean. He just leans in the doorway, because it seems wrong to step outside without Rodney, not if this is for both of them.

The coffee is rich and good, and the breeze feels wonderful - soft and relaxing and cool. John lets the action of the waves hypnotize him a little, so he jumps when a hand falls on his arm.

"Ready to go check this out?" Rodney asks. His hair is wet and combed back, and he smells great, even if he looks a little nervous. He's wearing a pair of loose khaki pants, leather flip-flops and a navy blue tee shirt that proclaims "I see dead pixels."

John steps back and puts his coffee cup on the room-service tray and lets Rodney lead the way through the suite's living room.

"Whoa," John says.

"Oh, yeah - you haven't seen this part," Rodney says, and he stops to let John take in the hardwood floor, thick rugs and oversized couches, not to mention the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the beach.

"Nice," John says. "We need to figure out who made our reservations and thank them."

"I was thinking that perhaps this was Zelenka's idea of a subtle hint. He's been after me for weeks to take some time off, or at least delegate or something ridiculous like that." Rodney's shoulders slump as he speaks, the light shimmering through the open window to highlight hollows beneath his eyes. It's not like any of them are exactly well rested, but there have been a rash of malfunctions in the city, the past few weeks, and Rodney takes each new problem personally. "As if the city would stand for that."

"You were thinking?" Actually, some forced downtime in a virtual reality might be the best thing for Rodney. Except he and Radek hadn't thought of it, when they'd put their heads together to try.

"Please don't make the obvious joke, I don't belittle your intelligence any longer. Well, much. And yes, I was thinking about that but..." Rodney's voice trails off as he approaches a part of the wall that folds back, revealing a small stereo system and a floor-to-ceiling cubby full of cd's. "We've discussed musical selections often enough to guess my tastes, but other than the obligatory Johnny Cash, I'm fairly certain he doesn't know of your fondness for the Ramones." He indicates a selection of every Ramones album, ever, stacked chronologically among the others.

John lets his fingers trail over the spine of the Rocket to Russia case. "Cool."

"Okay," Rodney says, turning to the door. "Let's quit with the conjecture and go investigate."

On a small table by the door, John finds two pairs of sunglasses. He slips the Serengetis on and holds the Ray-Bans out to Rodney before opening the door. Rodney slips the shades on before stepping out into the bright morning sun. There's no lock on the door.

Quiet music drifts from somewhere off to the left, so John leads the way. They walk along a sandy path lined with flowering bushes and palm trees, and they pass a couple of other thatch-roofed huts that look just like theirs. The music gets gradually louder until they step through an archway into an open courtyard.

Several tables surround a fountain, and one corner holds a tremendous buffet, complete with a bar. A steel-drum trio plays in a shady spot. There are several people enjoying breakfast, and a tall guy in a lime-green shirt is pouring juices and champagne. He gestures them over.

"Welcome to the Cabana Club," he says. "You must be John and Rodney. My name is Lorne. Drink?"

"Does that have citrus in it?" Rodney immediately demands, eying the drink suspiciously. "You'd be amazed how few cocktails don't, which is just so wonderful for those of us who don't want a little anaphylaxis with our drunken debauchery. So? Citrus? Even just a squirt of deadly, deadly lime?"

John wants to argue that this has been completely catered to their whims and needs so far and this shouldn't be any different, but instead he takes the drink and sniffs. The guy named Lorne gives them a smile that might be a frown. "Lamb chop," he chides gently, "would I do that to you? Citrus free, I promise."

John sips at the drink, then nods to Rodney. "I don't know what it is, but there's no citrus."

Rodney accepts a glass from Lorne and takes a small sip. He smiles at the taste and takes a larger gulp.

"Champagne and passion fruit, world travelers," Lorne says with a wink. "We can all use a little more passion in our lives, don'tcha think?"

"So," John says conversationally. "What is this place?"

"And how did we get here?" Rodney adds. "And what's going on?"

Lorne smiles indulgently at them. "Why don't you guys get some breakfast and find a table? I'll swing by in a few and give you the 411. Everything goes better with Eggs Benedict."

"Hollandaise has lemon in it," Rodney says darkly.

"So for you, there will be eggs over easy."

Rodney grumbles at the parting shot, but as they approach the buffet table it becomes clear that Rodney's choices aren't just limited to eggs over easy - or even eggs at all, given the mountain of food available: pancakes and waffles are up front, leading to five different kinds of meats before they ever reach the smiling man who appears out of no where, offering to make them omelets of their choice.

Rodney immediately launches into a list of what he wants, cooked to what specifications. John just watches him. There's still a hint of reserve, a hesitation in Rodney's shoulders that says he doesn't totally trust this, but the rest of him is gleefully moaning over real food -- "Oh, Colonel, bacon! Real bacon, not your greasy strips of cardiac arrhythmia! And oh, oh, mushrooms, fresh mushrooms and spinach!" -- and John just rests his weight on an elbow, other hand supporting a half-laden plate, smiling slightly.

It's been a while since any of them have been this relaxed. It's nice.

When Rodney finally stops monopolizing the entire table, they take their plates over to a table shaded by a white umbrella. Rodney tosses his sunglasses onto the table with a casual, practiced flick of the wrist and immediately digs in.

It's kind of fun to watch Rodney eat on a normal day - there's just something about that sort of focus and efficiency; John likens it to watching some sort of massive industrial process. But here, with this food, it's like watching a master at work. Rodney works his way around the plate, tasting everything, then building combinations based on some crazy algorithm in his head - eggs and bacon together, then French toast and sausage, then melon and pancake and so on.

John's Denver omelet is just about the best thing he's tasted in a year. Just after they push their plates back with matching groans, Lorne approaches the table, a red drink in his hand.

"May I join you, buttercups?" he says, sitting before they can answer. "I suppose you have questions?"

"Yeah," John says. "Lots. Who, what, when, where, why and how come to mind."

Lorne smiles at both of them. "Do you believe in magic?"

John and Rodney exchange a look. They believe in space vampires that can suck the life out of you with their hands and sentient mist-creatures that can exploit your subconscious, but magic?

"Oh, why not," Rodney says. "It's not any statistically less probable than the lost city of Atlantis, right?"

"So, we're at a magic Vacation Resort?" John asks. "The whole 'why?' question is coming to the forefront again."

"Well," Lorne says, "you guys are Champions, and that takes a lot out of you. A little vacation time out of mind seems like a fitting reward."

"See," John says to Rodney. "This is the part where I understand the words but they don't make sense."

Rodney nods, but turns to Lorne. "So, time's not passing in Atlantis? Everyone we care about isn't getting eaten by Wraith while we're here having breakfast?"

"We'd hardly facilitate our Champions falling down on the job. So, no," Lorne quickly adds when he sees Rodney's expression. "Your absence occurs between one second and the next, indistinguishable to even Atlantis' advanced sensors. You get to stay here, relax, have a few drinks, sleep the sleep of the exhausted, and then go back to the hub-bub without missing a beat."

John frowns. "So you're telling us that we're in our own time-bubble?"

Lorne's smile is infinitely patient. "If that's what helps you get through the moment, then sure, we can work with that. Any questions out of you, mein wissenschaftler?"

"Oh, yes, so cute. Like I haven't heard that one before. And what exactly am I supposed to ask? You said this was magic, which means it doesn't have any quantifiable properties, nothing to base theories or expectations on because then it'd be science and not hocus pocus!"

The rant is down right lazy for Rodney's usual. He's barely red in the face and only one hand is gesturing wildly, the other still pushing the last piece of french toast in a river of sticky syrup. John slumps back, watching with a grin, ready to add any fuel necessary if Rodney shows signs of slowing down.

Or he would've if Lorne hadn't shaken his head, smirking. "Oh, magic's got rules and regularities to it, never you worry. But how's about I refresh your drinks while you two load up on seconds, hm? Toodles."

They both watch as Lorne heads toward the bar, stopping to exchange a few words with the people at other tables along the way.

"So, Colonel - what do we do?" Rodney keeps his eyes on his plate, one hand idly toying with his napkin.

John sighs and looks out over the ocean, duty warring with the terrible exhaustion that's been his companion for so long he can't remember what came before. He looks at the sky and the beach and the ocean and Rodney - who looks even more exhausted than he feels - and he makes a decision.

"I'm tired, Rodney," he says, playing with the earpiece of his sunglasses. "I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but I want this."

Rodney looks up then, eyes searching John's face. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you ask for anything for yourself," he says. "And, as much as I find your whole internalized martyr complex tiresome, I think you're right. As long as it doesn't hurt anything, I think we should take advantage of it. Only..."

"Only what?" John asks.

"Only... I've never had a vacation. I don't actually know what to do."

Rodney looks so uncertain that John wants to laugh. He stops himself, though, because Rodney's serious, and Rodney's as tired and beaten-down as he is, maybe more so, and it hurts to see the lines on Rodney's face and the shadows in his eyes and the almost constant downward slant of his mouth. They're both much closer to the edge than they'd admit.

"Let's start with seconds," he says, forcing a small smile. "After that, we can go to the beach or take a nap or go for a walk or do whatever you want. Okay?"

Rodney looks up, and there's something there in his face, a little glimmer of the guy who happily let John shove him off a balcony. He stands up and makes a sweeping gesture toward the buffet. "After you, Colonel."

This time they go for more extravagant things. Rodney bullies John into taking some real bacon, while John glares and glares and determinedly doesn't smile as he forces Rodney to try some grits. They both make faces as they eat, but it's so good; not just the food, but the sunshine warm through the umbrella's cover, and the scent of an ocean that's deep and briny and completely unfamiliar.

Rodney's chasing grapes around his plate with a fork. He's frowning, so John plucks the fork out of Rodney's fist and lays it down. "Let's go to the beach?" he suggests. Looking out over the pure white sands, John spots a kiosk full of chairs and folded up umbrellas in a riot of colors, waiting to be spread out. "A breakfast like that needs some serious napping in the sun, I think."

Shrugging, Rodney finally stabs the last one - but doesn't eat it. "Right. Napping. I can do napping."

His tone is nervous, uncomfortable, like John's just asked him to climb a hill that's full of loose shale. "Let me guess: you've got a religious objection to napping?"

That spurs Rodney into making a face, mouth curved down into hard lines. "Yes, Colonel, because I'm both a religious man and one who spends a great deal of time relaxing."

"Rodney," John says, gently herding them toward the beach. "I need you to trust me on this one. I have a deep and abiding connection with the concept of laziness. I won't steer you wrong."

Rodney looks doubtful, but he follows along.

At the chair kiosk, a smiling young man greets them. "Sun or shade, gentlemen?"

"Shade," Rodney says quickly. "The UV out here has got to be well above safe levels."

"Shade," John echoes, smiling. "And some sunscreen would be cool."

The attendant nods and gestures to a spot beneath a pair of palm trees. "I'll have you set up in just a few moments, if you'd like to look around a bit."

They walk down to the water's edge and stare out at the horizon for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"I like the ocean," John confides. "I always have."

"That doesn't surprise me," Rodney replies.

When they turn to go back up the beach, they see that the shady spot under the trees has been transformed. Two luxuriously padded chaise lounges sit side by side under a broad umbrella, and a small table holds a bottle of sunscreen and two more of the passion fruit-champagne cocktails. John kicks off his flip-flops and stretches out on one of the lounges.

"Sheppard's first law of vacationing," he says. "Every meal has an equal and opposite nap."

Rodney pops open the sunscreen and immediate begins slathering himself. "How long do we nap for? Is there a set time-limit? I mean, I'd think all that napping would be boring, since the point of a vacation is to go somewhere or do something. Isn't it?"

John feels his eyebrows going up. "Your family was the type the crammed a hundred different sites to see in five days or less, wasn't it?"

"And what's wrong with that? Wanting to get a little culture and experience into our young minds." The words are stuffier than normal, so he's probably quoting - and it's not a good memory. That's clear from the way Rodney's shoulders are hunching, and his voice has regained that exhausted tension their meal had eased a little.

Well, fine then. Sitting up, John snags the waist of Rodney's pants, yanking him down onto the chair and stealing the sunscreen at the same time. "First rule of napping - you can't do it standing up. And you don't need to drown yourself, Rodney, we're under the palm trees."

"Right. Right. Okay." Rodney shifts, staring a little when John rubs lotion along the back of his neck, and then eases back when John pushes him, settling against the cushions. "You know, this is surprisingly comfortable."

"You're not really breathing, are you?"

"I'm really, really bad at this," he confesses miserably.

"Okay," John says. "I've got an idea. Wait here and just breathe. Inhale, exhale. No thinking, no worrying, just breathe. I'll be right back."

He hurries up the beach to speak to Lorne. When he returns, Rodney looks marginally less uncomfortable.

"Where'd you go?" Rodney asks.

"I booked us massages for later," John says, smiling smugly. "You're going to relax if it kills you."

"That's very, um, not reassuring at all, actually."

John settles back in his chair. "Breathe, Rodney. Listen to the ocean and breathe with the waves. Become one with the universe. Stop talking."

"Oh, my god, you really are from California, aren't you?" Rodney grouses, but John lets it go, because he does sound a tiny bit more relaxed.

It's easy for John. He closes his eyes, letting the steady pull and crash of waves on sand sink into his chest. His heartbeat finds the rhythm in seconds, lungs filling as the ocean recedes, emptying as the surf crawls up to just barely wet the sand below them. The sun offers gentle counterpoint, the wind keeping it from go beyond 'warm' into 'too hot'. John actually wouldn't mind the heat, but he knows Rodney does. This is better, anyway; just the sun, and the sand, and the ocean, and his body melting into that perfect Zen moment.

"No bugs. Don't you find that odd, Colonel? I've been to the beach before, had several very regrettable vacations there, which is probably why we stuck to seeing the sights afterwards, and there should be bugs. Little flying things that sting whenever you sweat, and sand lice crawling beneath us, and there's nothing."

Rodney sounds dreamy, for all he's talking too fast. John cracks open an eye, noting Rodney's toe digging into the sand. "Magic, remember? No bugs, if it's magic."

"Oh, like you actually believe that."

John opens his other eye, tucking a hand behind his head to get a better angle. "I don't know what I believe, right now."

"I don't - I don't know how to trust this."

John knows what Rodney's really saying and he nods. "Okay. But you trust me, right? Yeah, yeah, an eye-roll means yes. So trust me, Rodney."

Eyes as blue as the sky just beyond the feathered palm fronds meet his and hold. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Okay." Rodney shifts and wiggles, grunting a little as he finds a comfortable position. "Right. I can do that."

"Close your eyes. Nap-time means closed eyes."

"You never fully graduated beyond kindergarten, did you?"

John grins, listening as Rodney's breathing deepens and smoothes out, matching the white-crested waves as his body finally unwinds.

John drifts a little, resting but not really sleeping. He sneaks a peek at Rodney and is pleased to see that he's sprawled out on his lounger and his eyes are moving rapidly behind his eyelids. He hopes Rodney's having good dreams.

The morning is waning, and more and more people come outside. There seem to be a lot of couples, and he hasn't seen any kids yet, not that he minds. No one gives him and Rodney a second glance - everyone seems to be captivated with the perfect surroundings. John watches as Lorne circulates, stopping to chat and dispense drinks before making his way over to them.

"May I?" Lorne says quietly, gesturing at the foot of John's chair. John bends his knees and slides his feet up so that Lorne can sit.

"So, magic?" John asks.

"Yeah," Lorne says. "Magic. Don't tell me you haven't seen weirder things."

"I won't," John says. "What happens when we leave here? Will we remember what happened?"

"Ah," Lorne says, sipping his drink. "That's the cherry in the pina colada, now isn't it? You'll remember, but only if you both really want to. If either of you wants to forget, you both forget."

"Are we safe here?" John can't help the paranoia.

"Completely. The club is protected from violence; you can't be injured or killed and you can't cause physical harm to another. You're free to do what you want, and if there's anything you need, just ask for it." Lorne gives him a direct look. "It's a reward, cupcake, not a trick - bartender's honor, I swear it on my garnish tray."

The lime-green shirt is neither bright enough nor campy enough for Lorne. John studies him a moment, unsurprised when Lorne tips his head back and lets him. That kind of thing usually means either someone is really, genuinely intending harm and brazening it out is the only way - or they're being sincere.

John can't help but think this time it's sincere. There's something ... open about Lorne. "George Washington," he murmurs.

Lorne nods, a brief shadow of something darkening the red-hair on his head. "I cannot tell a lie. Now, you could lie all you wanted. Although I don't recommend it. The point of my little acreage is to give you guys and gals the freedom you don't get the rest of the time." He pats John's ankle. "Enjoy your rest, and remember - anything you need, just ask. If it's not there when you go looking for it, that is."

John leans back in his chair and thinks about surfing. About how maybe, when Rodney's awake, he'll see if he remembers how to do it.

"Mmmrphguh. Wormhole. Apple pie," Rodney snorts and comes awake with a start.

"Wormhole apple pie?" John says, genuinely curious.

Rodney rubs his eyes with his fists like the world's largest toddler. "What?"

"Never mind," John says. "Did you enjoy your nap?"

Rodney looks like he's really thinking about it. "Yeah," he finally says.

"Good. Wanna go surfing?"

"Maybe. When are our massage appointments?"

John laughs. "Whenever we want, Rodney - magic vacation resort, remember? We get what we want, when we want it. In fact, I bet there are surfboards on the other side of that tree."

Rodney levers himself out of his chair and walks around the palm tree. "What about swimsuits?" he asks, poking his head back around.

John gestures to a nearby cabana. "Chances are, whatever we need is right in there."

Rodney glares at him from behind the trunk of the palm. "I was asleep for an hour and you discovered the secrets of the universe?"

John crosses his arms over his chest. "I am remarkably good at manipulating my environment, or so I've been told. Roll with it, Rodney."

Rodney heads for the cabana with a snort.

Rodney's usually not very good at 'rolling' with anything, but when John catches up - it's nice to just walk along the sand, scrunching it between his toes, sea gulls calling in the distance - Rodney's already struggling to put on a armless, kneeless wet suit. He glares when John looks at him. "I'm not going out there in just swim-trunks, particularly the speedo-like contraptions I have never and will never wear even if you torture me."

Rodney nods towards a tangle of swim-gear, including several bikini briefs that John has no intention of wearing, ever, either. He thinks about Lorne's comment as he searches around for a more familiar pair of swim trunks, absently helping Rodney get the wet-suit over his shoulders and zipped up.

"The waves don't look too rough. Have you ever done this before?"

Rodney's look dares him to apply an affirmative.

"Hey, doesn't hurt to ask, you know."

John finally finds a pair of suitable trunks and changes quickly before turning to Rodney. "Ready?"

Rodney looks worried. "Um, Colonel - physicality isn't exactly my strong suit..."

"I don't think you can get hurt here," John says. "I was talking to that Lorne guy while you were asleep. I think we're protected here. Somehow."

"Magic," Rodney says quietly. "Okay, whatever. Just don't expect me to be good at this."

Back at their chairs, John explains the surfboard and the general concept, emboldened when Rodney readily grasps the mechanics. He snaps the leash from one board to his ankle and bends to secure Rodney's, ignoring the fact that his touch lingers a little on Rodney's hairy shin before he climbs back to his feet.

"Let's do it," John says, tucking his board under his arm.

The sea is perfect; cool without being cold. John glides out on his board, sculling with increasing dexterity as his body remembers what it's supposed to do. The sun is warm on his back, baking the skin without drying him to nothing - the salt content is perfect, he muses. Unreal.

Rodney keeps pace, or at least until it's time to do more than sit up on the board, watching as the waves froth and swell, taunting them with possibilities. "Um," he says.

"Relax." It's a mantra, by now. "C'mere, watch with me. This is just physics, Rodney. Trying to figure out which wave is going to be that perfect one."

Rodney drifts over to his side and John plants a hand on his board to keep him there. "Look," he says, pointing. "Watch the swells. Keep an eye on the way they rise, and you'll be able to tell which ones will have enough momentum."

Rodney nods, his gaze growing sharp as he follows the motion of the water. "That one," he says, gesturing.

John nods and drops down flat on his board, paddling hard to reach the wave Rodney's selected for him. He shakes the water out of his eyes and bears down, feeling the water gather to lift him. As he pops up onto the board and feels the familiar vertigo of the catch, he thinks he hears Rodney whooping in joy.

There's nothing but the roar of the wave, light reflecting like prisms around him as he weaves in and out. He's crouched low over his board, wind rushing in his face as he comes as close as he can to flying without ever launching into the air.

And then, abruptly, he is in the air, feet scrabbling for purchase as the wave judders underneath him. He only just manages to turn his body into a smooth curve before he's under water, lost among blue and gold and the rising swell that pulls him upward again.

"Colonel!" Rodney's voice isn't quite frantic, but he's sculling closer to the beach. "Are you all right?"

John hops back onto his board, whooping in pure joy. He can't remember the last time he went surfing. He sculls back out to where Rodney's bobbing, a pink-and-black leaf on the swells, watching him with the biggest grin he's ever seen - bigger, even, than that first week when everything was new and exciting, the harm well hidden.

John slides up beside Rodney, panting and smiling, and Rodney's grin is almost blinding.

"I feel like I should say 'dude!'"

"Mock not my culture, McKay," John says, flipping his hair back out of his face. "You ready to try?"

Rodney gets that look on his face - the same determined one he wears while piloting the jumper or taking target practice - and he nods. He makes John go over the mechanics one more time before he points his board toward the horizon and starts scanning the waves.

John sees it first - a building swell that looks promising, and taps Rodney on the shoulder and points.

"On it," Rodney snaps, and he's gone, body low across his board, his arms digging deep into the water. John watches as he judges the wave correctly, angling himself in front of it and paddling hard. The transition to his feet isn't graceful, but suddenly Rodney is perched on the board, knees bent, and he's got it. He's flying.

Just for fun, John screams, "Duuuuude!"

Rodney has just enough time to flash him a grin before he wipes out.

Rodney comes up from the water crowing. "Yeah!" he calls out, turning around blindly as he wipes water from his eyes. When he spots John, he yells, "Awesome dude."

John falls back into the water, he's laughing so hard.

"Again?" Rodney hurries back to where John is, already scanning the waves. "We should go again!"

Rodney surfing. There's something incredibly precious about that, the way he focuses that brilliant mind on each gentle curve of the tide, body big and almost clumsy as he forces it do what he wants it to, instead of catering to its various whims and desires. But when he's on that board, poised and getting it, the rush and lift-off, and the joy...

Rodney catches two more waves, lasting a little bit longer each time, before he smacks John on the shoulder and says, "Okay, enough with the spacing out. Surf!"

They surf, playing in the waves, cheating gravity, harnessing momentum, and they're happy. John can't remember the last time he's felt so good, despite the fact that his muscles start to shake and he's got sand in some remarkably inappropriate places.

He rides one last wave in, almost all the way to the shore, where Rodney's lying face-down on his board, panting and bobbing in the shallow water. John props his forearms on his own board, letting his knees settle to the sandy bottom.

"That was..." he says, making a lazy gesture with one hand.

"Yeah," Rodney says, looking up. "It was."

John licks his lips, tasting salt. "I need a beer."

"Oh, god yes," Rodney moans. "Take me to your Molson's."

Trampling up the beach, Rodney spots the showers outside the cabana that houses the surfboards. John manages not to make an inappropriate noise, but he has to scramble to unsnap the board, replacing it with the gentleness it deserves - before diving under the shower.

It's only after he's sluiced salt and sand from his body that he notices Rodney, leaning against the wall and watching him with a smile. "Enjoying yourself?"

John splashes him.

"This is why sane people wear wet suits." Primly, Rodney wipes his chin and chest, flicking drops onto the concrete. "I think I'm starting to understand this crazy system. It's like Atlantis only, well. More." He points to their beach chairs, where a table full of snacks and two frosty glasses of beer wait.

John steps out of the shower and closer to Rodney before shaking himself like a dog. While Rodney splutters, John high-tails it to the chairs, cackling maniacally.

The table nestled between their chairs holds an assortment of goodies, but John goes for the beer first, taking a long sip from the glass on his side of the table. It's TurboDog - a beer he once had in New Orleans. He remembers liking it quite a bit. He's crunching his way through a handful of tortilla chips when Rodney flops into his chair.

"Ah, Molson's," Rodney groans, wiping a bit of foam from his lips. "This is the kind of magic I can believe in."

"What, no LaBatts?" John just laughs when the expected french fry bounces into his lap.

"Actually, LaBatts isn't all that terrible." Rodney's halfway through his beer, content as he studies the motion of the waves foaming over the sand. "Compared to just about any American beer, anyway."

"You should try Yuengling." John finishes his first beer, unsurprised when he looks at the table to find another glass waiting for him, equally as frosty although a more amber color then the Molson's had been. "Here, try. It's not bad."

Rodney makes a considering face - and then hands John back his Molson, and not the Yuengling. "Are you sure this is American?"

"I toured the factory once, Rodney, so yes. I'm sure." There isn't much to do in the middle of green, foresty Pennsylvania, not for a kid who's used to California's openness or the South's innate hospitality. He tells Rodney about it, little snippets of what it was like to be military from your cradle.

When John pauses to sip the beer in his hand - which he's not giving back - Rodney looks at him thoughtfully.

"Must have been hard to make friends with all that moving around." He pauses. "What am I saying - this is you - Major Social."

"Colonel Social," John corrects lazily. "But, no - I never made friends easily."

Rodney snorts.

"No, seriously." John pushes himself over onto his side to face Rodney, because this is kind of an important thing about him and he can't quite believe he wants to tell it. "I make acquaintances easily, but I don't actually have a lot of friends."

Skepticism gives way to thoughtfulness, intensely focused on a point just over John's shoulder. "Huh. You're good at making people feel like they're friends of yours, then."

There's nothing leading or vulnerable in Rodney's voice. He's successfully mastered that trick, at least - but John can see his eyes. Blue, and fathomless, and trying very desperately to hide something John already knows.

He grins, slow and steady, waiting until Rodney stops looking everywhere but him and finally meets his gaze. There's bluster on the tip of his tongue, but John knows how to circumvent that. "No," he says. "Well, no, I am, when I need to be. You've seen it when we go impress the natives into not wanting to shoot us. But no, Rodney."

"No?" Rodney says, still holding his gaze.

"You don't get to doubt that we're friends," John says gently. "Not after everything we've been through."

"Oh," Rodney says, and there's relief in his voice. "That's, um, well, I'm not always good at the more nuanced social stuff."

"No, really?" John knows he deserves the French fry Rodney lobs at his head, but it's worth it to see the uncertainty in Rodney's face bleed away.

They eat and drink quietly for a while, and John starts thinking pretty seriously about a nap. He's about halfway there when he hears Rodney's quiet voice.

"Thanks. For the surfing and for making me do it. It was fun. I didn't expect to like it."

John feels a contented smile spread over his face. "Stick with me, Rodney. Never a dull moment."

Rodney snorts. "Yes, because lying here doing nothing at all in the hot sun doesn't, at all, count as dull." He's grinning, the amusement clear and bitterness-free in his voice, despite the ever-present sarcasm. He tilts his head to share the grin with John, and John -

John swallows, hard. He grins back, letting his eyes slide half-closed as he fumbles for his sunglasses. He misses, too busy staring at something he isn't supposed to be aware of, and then Rodney's fingers are brushing against his own, taking the sunglasses out of his hands and carefully sliding them onto his ears, over the bridge of his nose.

"Napping," Rodney declares, waving a regal, lazy hand. "Napping, and then massages, and then lunch. I was thinking pesto aoli, with those bell peppers and no lemon, and thin, little little noodles. And bread, oh, real bread with real butter not that margarine crap they served at McMurdo and ... "

John lets the babble wash over him and concentrates on getting his composure back. It's not like he's unaware that his interest in Rodney has gone right off the damn chart - no, he gets it. Otherwise, he figures he'd have woken up in that big, soft bed next to Chaya or Teer or Teyla or Angelina Jolie. And that thought prods another up to the coherent part of his brain: why didn't Rodney wake up next to Colonel Carter?

John slides into sleep thinking about the way Rodney's shoulders looked bunching and releasing as he chased a wave on nothing more than John's say-so.

Lorne is back when John wakes, chatting quietly with Rodney. Safely tucked behind his glasses, John just watches for a little. Neither of them can really handle quiet, their voices meant to be loud, strident almost. Rodney gets it from shouting down stubborn, recalcitrant coworkers who are wrong, wrong, wrong and defiling the beauty of his genius. Lorne's has a different quality, not shouting down so much as airily lifting over, soaring up with that graceful tenor.

He wonders what the two of them are talking about, that such powerful voices are muted and shapeless.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Care for lunch? Rodney, here, has been regaling me with all the different things he wants to try." Lorne's mouth is twisted into a wry smile John knows he's sported in Rodney's company: part exasperation and part fondness because Rodney isn't going to change - and, eventually, you don't want him to.

"Well, we can't stand in the way of Rodney's stomach," John quips. His voice is scratchy with sleep.

"If you want to eat in your trunks, go to the courtyard," Lorne says. "There's also a dining room just inside, but they cruelly require shirts."

John shrugs, and Rodney heads toward the cabana. "I guess we're dressing for dinner," John tells Lorne.

"Go on, dandelion," Lorne says, giving John's hair an amazed look. "Our Rodney might leave you behind if you don't hurry. I'll send your masseuse to your room in a couple of hours. Tonight's Luau Night, so save some room - the kitchen fairies are roasting a pig."

John stops short at that. He doesn't want to ask, but: "Fairies?"

Lorne smirks. "Both kinds."

Both kinds? John almost asks Lorne what the hell he means by that - but Lorne just winks, ambling away to another couple, and Rodney's arms are folded over his chest, frown drawn into the hard, shadowed lines of a physicist delayed from his meal.

John's been to the mess hall when the scientists hit it en mass, before. He tries really hard not to repeat that experience.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming."

John wastes a precious minute once he's dressed to try and do something with his hair, which is reaching new heights and finding heretofore unknown angles, but it's a lost cause. Once he comes out, Rodney is almost, but not quite, tapping his toe on the sand.

"Okay, food, go!" John laughs, gesturing for Rodney to lead.

"Aren't you starving?" Rodney asks. "I'm starving."

"I could eat," John says, mostly just to annoy Rodney. He really is kind of hungry. Must be the sea air.

"Lorne says one of the chefs is Italian." Rodney rubs his hands together gleefully. "Apparently the guy's a culinary genius."

At the door to the restaurant, they're greeted by a pretty girl. "Dr. McKay, Colonel Sheppard; it's lovely to see you."

John and Rodney exchange bemused looks, but follow her to a corner table set with white linen and gleaming china.

"I feel underdressed," John says, but Rodney either ignores him or misses the comment in his mad dive into the bread basket.

Crumbs scatter everywhere as Rodney rips off a hunk, but the first bite invokes that blissful 'oh, yes, please, just like that' expression. It's a good thing that he's not paying attention to anything but the bread melting on his tongue, leaving John free to stare and take his own bread. He's hungrier than he realized.

"Oh, oh, that's good. I forgot how much I missed real bread." Rodney's practically crooning at the desiccated roll in his hand. "With flour, real flour, that's white and not milled with bugs and oh, oh, butter."

John fights him for the butter, their knives clashing on the china. Sure, it's childish, but it's butter. Good old, Earth cow butter - not some weird-ass substitute made with six-legged-Yak-like-thing milk, and god, it's so good.

John moans around his bread, and Rodney moans in response, and they just chew and beam at each other until the waiter clears his throat politely.

John chokes down his mouthful of bread and looks up sheepishly.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Do you have iced tea?" John asks, and when the waiter asks "sweet or unsweet" he wants to jump up and kiss him. He practically shouts "sweet!" at the poor man, who then wanders off to get the tea and a Coke for Rodney.

At Rodney's look, he explains. "Sweet tea, Rodney - it's just the best thing ever."

"Can't you just put sugar in regular tea?" Rodney asks.

Before the words are out, John's already shaking his head. "No, no, no - that's all wrong. If you put the sugar in after it's already cold, it never dissolves right, and artificial sweetners just suck. The sugar has to go in while the tea's hot, and then it has to be chilled, and then it has to be poured over ice. God, I haven't had the real thing since... Louisiana, I think."

Rodney looks at him with something kind of like awe. "That's the first time I've ever seen you get really excited about food," he says.

"Sweet tea," John repeats, and then beams when the waiter comes back with their drinks.

"You are never allowed to mock me and my reactions to food again," Rodney says a few minutes later. He sounds a little strangled, which is almost enough to make John open his eyes - oh, god, it's so good, exactly like he remembers when his mother made it - but he resists.

At least until the waiter says in that same strangled voice, "Perhaps you'd like to try some as well?"

"What? Oh, um, no. No-no, I think one of us should still have working brain cells at the table. I... "

John finally stops blissfully savoring each mouthful. Rodney is staring at him, mouth gaping, looking stunned. So is the waiter, who recovers faster than Rodney and gives John a look that's definitely not something John's going to take him up on.

Although watching Rodney click his mouth shut and start snapping out their order - of course he knows what John wants - is kind of fascinating.

The waiter retreats with the menus and John can't stop looking at Rodney. He's jealous, and that might just be the most welcome thing John's seen all day. John squashes a massive grin and takes one more sip of his tea.

"How's that Coke?"

"Good," Rodney grunts. "I always seem to be too late to get them after Daedalus runs for some reason."

"That's because you're usually busy diverting the coffee supply," John says.

"I don't divert it," Rodney answers, "I allocate it - the labs run on coffee; it's a mission-critical resource."

"Uh huh," John says, and he closes his eyes to take another sip of his tea. It really is that good.

"Oh, like you haven't ever come to me begging for a cup." Rodney smirks, mobile mouth somehow going in two different directions at once. "Don't forget, Colonel, I know where you live."

The slight hint of menace is all John needs to start him laughing. Their first course -- soup for Rodney, salad for John -- arrives while he's still chuckling helplessly.

Rodney stops beaming so he can make pornographic noises as he blissfully spoons up the salmon chowder. One eye is on the waiter, who lingers just a touch too long. John can't help preening, just so Rodney's face can go dark and controlled and jealous.

When Rodney kicks him, John hooks his ankle around Rodney's foot and doesn't let it go. "I'm pretty sure nothing in here can have citrus," he says. "Wanna swap?"

"Uh, okay," Rodney says, gesturing a little with his spoon while John switches their plate. He takes the spoon out of Rodney's hand and makes a point of using it, though he's not sure if he's making his point to the waiter or Rodney or both. Either way, the waiter stops hovering, and Rodney smiles.

The soup is creamy and rich, with chunks of salmon and potatoes. "This is good," John says, watching Rodney shovel salad greens into his mouth. "How come we don't have much fish at home?"

"Because the Athosians are hunters and proto-farmers, not fishermen," Rodney says. "And most salmon live in freshwater. Except for Atlantic Salmon - they live part of their life in freshwater and part in the sea. Kinda weird. Anyway, maybe the aquaculture people can figure it out. And give me my soup back."

They trade again, and John's obnoxiously pleased that Rodney takes the spoon out of his hand and continues to eat with it.

Despite Rodney's ecstatic reaction - poutine, oh, Colonel, I haven't had this since I last visited my sister which is way too many years ago to think about - to lunch, neither of them eat heavily. The promise of a luau hangs before them, for one thing. For another, they keep looking at each other - quick, darting glances, there and back again. John's still got an ankle around Rodney's and despite a few cautious tugs, he's not letting go.

It's nice not to worry. Nicer to just sit there, enjoying the half-full restaurant, good food, and Rodney's pulse steady against his leg.

"Ready?" he asks. The waiter whisks their half-empty plates away, promising to have the leftovers sent up later. "Your masseur is ready whenever you gentlemen are." He's not flirting anymore. John's pretty sure he knows why, too.

John knows he's being reckless. God knows he's fully aware of what recklessness feels like, but he can't help it. He knows Rodney is starting to catch on, and that's just oxygen to the flame, really. As they get up to leave, he moves close and lets his shoulder bump Rodney's, and he's absurdly pleased when Rodney bumps back.

It's a short walk back to their suite, and a pair of massage tables have been set up in front of the picture windows in the living room. Their masseuse is a tall Nordic-looking guy who introduces himself as Jimmy - John's a little disappointed that it's not Sven.

John walks through the bedroom into the bathroom and tosses one of the robes onto the bed for Rodney before going back in to strip down and put on his own robe. He takes a minute to wash his face and run a wet hand through his hair, repairing much of the damage wrought by sea and wind.

By the time he comes back out, Rodney is face down on one of the tables with just a towel draped over his hips and Jimmy is kneading his back, lightly tanned and shiny with some sort of oil that smells like sandalwood. John loses his own robe and arranges himself similarly on the other table, feeling his body relax as he waits.

Rodney's moaning as his back is slowly, carefully unknotted. Not quite the R-plus moans from before, but deeper, more pain-filled exhalations as months of tension and years of bad posture are slowly kneaded away. John watches, his head pillowed on folded arms. Muscles tense and release under Jimmy's touch, working deep shadows into pink skin, before settling over top to rub the excess away.

He quiets as his legs are worked on, calf and thigh, knee bent and twisted until it pops. The rhythm of his breathing eases and John wonders just how much pain Rodney's carried - probably forgotten - and for how long. It's one thing to hear him complain about every ache and twinge. It's another to realize just how bone-deep weary he is, and how that's translated into other things.

Mentally, John promises himself to get Rodney to the gym a little more often so he has some kind of physical stress relief. Or...

Rodney's half a sleep, but when John reaches out their fingers link together easily. "Such a good idea," Rodney slurs.

"Yeah." John's hand is darker than Rodney's, digits slightly thinner and longer. The knuckles are more gnarled though, dark whorls of a lifetime of punching bags. And worse. John rubs his thumb against the length of Rodney's, finding slick skin where he's been burned. "Glad I thought of it."

"Mmmmm. Genius." Rodney's voice breaks off to a sigh as Jimmy leans hard into his lower back and his hand goes mostly slack in John's grip. That's okay by John. He can still feel the warmth of Rodney's skin and listen to the noises, which are definitely having a physical effect. He spreads his legs a little to ease the pressure, squirming a bit on the sheet-draped table and tilting his head back to stretch his neck a bit. When he turns back, Rodney has turned his head to face him and is looking at their clasped hands with eyes that are equally sharp and sleepy.

"This okay?" John asks, squeezing Rodney's fingers.

He gets a squeeze back in answer, and Rodney nods solemnly. "I... yeah, I think so," he says.

"No pressure," John says, licking dry lips. He knows how much he wants this, but he's not about to push himself on Rodney, not interested in asking for more than Rodney's capable of giving.

"It's just that. Well. This whole thing is all about the mental over the physical, isn't it? We think it, therefore it is, complete with our own guide or docent or whatever you want to call Lorne, which I don't because then I keep thinking Major, and I'm afraid that this is happening because I - because I want it to."

Rodney's voice cracks on the last word. He shifts, glaring over his shoulder like Jimmy's hands are to blame - but John knows.

He tightens his fingers, almost enough to hurt. "No."

"Well, yes, of course you'd say that because this is out of Aladdin and his obsequious Jinn, or it really is a VR and you - you're saying that because - I - "

The beds aren't all that close, but John still props himself up on one arm, muscles tight and straining as he leans forward to brush his lips over Rodney's. "If that were true, would we have gone surfing?"

"Um. No. We probably wouldn't have gone outdoors at all."

"So." The silence stretches, broken only by the occasional crack of Rodney's body as it's realigned.

Finally, Rodney lets out a sigh. "So, you... want this?"

John bites back the sarcasm that makes him want to say "Duh!" Instead, he tilts his head to what he knows is a charming angle and lets one side of his mouth turn up. "Yes, I do." No room for ambiguity - he's being as straightforward as he knows how to be.

"Oh," Rodney says faintly.

John lets his head fall back down onto the table, letting his neck relax. He knows that Rodney's thinking about it, really thinking, and that all he can do is wait for the process to be complete. Rodney's hand is still resting in his, so he takes that as a good sign and closes his eyes.

It takes a while, really. Rodney is a genius, but he's often a slow genius, at least when it comes to things like this. But the wait is worth it: Rodney's thumb, skin too smooth from typing, moving in circles on the back of his hand.

It makes John shiver. Rodney's not good at innocent or subtle. He doesn't have any time for it, he always says. There's more there, John's pretty sure, but right now Rodney's rubbing away the ache in his gun hand while Jimmy works on the line of jagged fire under his shoulder blade.

He doesn't have to have more then this.

John's not even sure when the masseuse moved from Rodney's back to his own, the transition was so seamless, but now it's his turn to make those little noises that he can't hold back. The heels of Jimmy's hands press a long line up either side of his spine, and John groans and feels his fingers twitch as the nerves are soothed and released. Rodney tightens his grip a little at each involuntary motion.

"Feel good?" he asks, his sleepy eyes locked on John's.

"Yeah," John says, and he means Rodney's touch as much as the massage. Jimmy finds the pressure point at the back of his thigh and John's resulting noise makes Rodney swallow hard.

"Yeah," John says again. He's not talking about the way his toes are being flexed. He licks his lips, deliberately, just to see Rodney's eyes go hot and fully awake. "Rodney - "

"Not yet." Rodney's too relaxed to breathe heavily, but his chest moves more fully against the bed. "We can wait."

We've been waiting, John wants to say. Longer than he'll let himself think about, waiting and wondering, and his earlier belief that just a simple touch could be enough burns away in the tilt of Rodney's head. It could be enough. But John doesn't want it to be, and he doesn't think Rodney does, either.

"Relax, Colonel," Rodney tells him, shifting against the table.

"Tease," John grumps, but he knows his smile takes any heat out of it.

"You ain't seen nothing yet." Rodney's comment is a promise, and a shudder runs through John. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, thinking about what it's going to be like when all of Rodney's unholy focus is brought to bear on him.

Jimmy's hands ease off of him so gently that he doesn't realize the masseuse is gone until the door clicks shut behind him. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to the sounds of Rodney shifting over to lie on his back.

It should be easy, seamless. This is - almost, sort of, just barely - a natural progression from what was to what will now be: effortless and graceful, the way John knows he's always been at this, just leaning forward to take that next step. He wants it.

Doesn't do it.

"So, I'm thinking nap."

John scours the words for any hint of disappointment or nervousness. Rodney's always adorned his thoughts in neon, thirty feet high above the highway, and it should be simple to know if Rodney is... upset, about his lack of movement. But the more he twists and turns, the more he finds nothing but quiet and stillness: a sense of comfort where there's never been before.

For once, he thinks Rodney might actually be relaxed.

He blinks when a hand is thrust into his vision, Rodney impatiently waving for him to get up. It's familiar enough that John grins and accepts the hand, levering himself to his feet.

Rodney doesn't let go.

And then, suddenly, it is easy - one step forward, swaying to some voiceless rhythm, pressing his mouth to Rodney's wide, accepting one and leaning almost drunkenly, the press and scrape of chest hair gliding against his own a counterpoint to the slick feel of lips on lips.

As kisses go, it's pretty chaste - just lips sliding, touching and moving apart and back together again, but it's perfect. The kiss ends naturally, but neither of them moves away, chest to chest, John's bare hips pressed lightly to Rodney's towel-clad ones, their hands finding the oil-slicked skin of one another's backs.

"Hang on," John says, reaching back for his own abandoned towel. He wipes Rodney's back gently. "No need to get the sheets all messed up."

Rodney returns the favor before leading the way to the bedroom. The windows are open and the sheer drapes are billowing around. The sheets feel cool against their skin. John stretches out, luxuriating in the softness of the bed, the crispness of the sheets and the languid pull and release of his relaxed muscles. Rodney is doing the same thing, like a cat in the sunny spot, shifting around to find maximum comfort.

John's just about ready to sleep when he feels Rodney's hand over his. He smiles as his arm is tugged lightly and gentle kisses are dropped onto his fingertips. Sometimes, it slips his mind that Rodney is a genius at almost everything.

This is not one of those times.

The kisses move up his arm, mapping out veins and whorls, the occasional pencil-thin whiteness of a long-faded scar. John lets him, eyes slitted and curious as Rodney moves over his body: down his chest now to stop, breathing warm and wet over a nipple, before bypassing it to press a kiss right over John's heart.

"So when you said sleep," John teases.

"I meant eventually, yes. Obviously." Rodney's smile is half-hidden by the jut of his nose as he leans down to just breathe over John's stomach. Already his eyes - so blue, brighter than the sky outside - are hazy and lost, the way they always are when Rodney is truly focused on something. When his eyes become superfluous to whatever his mind and his touch can tell him.

John wants to squirm when Rodney licks over his hip, and after a second's hesitation he gives in to it. He's glad he does, because it doesn't distract Rodney from his explorations or make him stop. It does get him Rodney's big, oddly graceful hands lying warm over John's belly, pressing him still.

Rodney's hand is heavy, pressing him down with just enough weight that John wonders if his skin will show Rodney's fingerprints. The thought makes him shudder almost as much as the soft kisses to the top of his thigh.

"Look at you," Rodney murmurs. "You've already got tan lines."

John picks his head up enough to look down at his body, at Rodney's pale hand against his own golden belly, at Rodney's other hand, the fingers tracing the demarcation of bronzed and white skin that bisects his thigh. Rodney turns toward him, resting his temple against the point of John's hipbone, a gentle smile on his lips.

"It's been years," he says. "Years since I've had all the time in the world to do this. Do you mind?"

John just manages to shake his head before falling back onto the pillows, resigned to his fate.

Rodney's chuckle is low, with a curling heat John has never heard from him before. It's a good sound. "Oh, yes, it's so very terrible. Please assume that stoic, military facade that can withstand all kinds of torture."

He wants to say something about just what kind of torture Rodney means. He even gets his mouth open. But the only sound that comes out is a groan as Rodney touches him. Chaste, nearly dry lips, callused palm and smooth fingers dance over his body. Each nerve, each sweet spot untouched for so long - some that no one has ever found before, not even John - uncovered and examined, the information filed away in Rodney's eidetic mind.

And then he does it all over again - same places, different patterns, with wet, sucking kisses that leave reddened marks on darkened skin, nips that has John gasping, murmuring broken phrases he can't understand and doesn't try to. Rodney is everywhere, playing him as deftly as any instrument, and John is so hard - so achingly hard as Rodney touches him everywhere but where John needs.

Rodney keeps moving, keeps touching, and he does it in such a way that John's constantly anticipating. The pattern shifts, the touches going from barely-there to almost-bruising, from the silken slide of wet tongue to the sharp sting of teeth.

John never knew that the inside of his elbow was susceptible to the gossamer pressure of a fingertip tracing the crease, or that the Rodney's nimble tongue outlining his lowest rib can make him cry out in wordless pleasure.

He knows what Rodney's doing; he's collecting data. He's observing John's every reaction and stockpiling them, and John knows he will never be the same. When this is over, Rodney will know him, will hold the keys to the kingdom, will own John in a primal way that no one ever has before. The very idea should terrify him, but all he can do is lie there and give himself over to Rodney - his surrender his only gift.

It's a shock when Rodney's cock drags over him, silky and wet, leaving a trail that goes cold instantly. John arches at that, trying to get his thigh back against that warmth. Above him, Rodney chuckles and pushes him back down. "Like that?"

"Like you don't know."

That gets Rodney to pause for a half-second, a stinging nip below his ear both reward and punishment. "I don't, actually. Know."

John hands rest lightly on Rodney's hips. "Aren't you always telling me how fast you learn?"

Rodney's mouth turns down a little and he looks speculative. "Data I can do," he says. "But, people - too many variables. It's hard to be sure."

John arches up then, pressing his erection to Rodney's hip. "I like it," he says. These kinds of words have always been trouble, either too difficult or too easy - but here there's no expectation, just acknowledgement of fact. "I like the way you touch me, the way you want me. I like you, Rodney."

"Oh," Rodney says, grinding down to pin John to the bed. "That's good."

"Really good," John groans. "You're killing me."

Rodney laughs, low and dirty. "It just feels that way," he says. "I promise it'll be worth it."

"I believe you," John says, gasping as Rodney's teeth find the upper curve of his ear. "Oh, god, I believe you."

"Mmm," Rodney hums and does something to the side of John's neck. "Not to be a downer, but ... have you done this before?"

John tries to regain his breath from wherever Rodney's stolen it. "Uh. Had sex?"

Withering sarcasm should not be so incredibly sexy. Not when it gets in the way of actual sex, but watching Rodney raise a single eyebrow, blunt chin lifted and thrust forward, has John shuddering against him. He pushes up just enough so that he can bite it, feeling bone underneath.

"Ow," Rodney says, flat and grinning. "And yes, of course that was what I was asking you."

John grins back, licking his teeth. "Not a lot, but some. I'll let you know if it's too much, okay?"

It's the eyes that are so expressive. Protruding, slightly, and for the past few weeks blood shot and obviously aching, but even then they tell the story the barrage of words ends up hiding. The vulnerability there makes John melt back down onto the bed, tugging Rodney up so he can kiss any hesitation away.

"C'mon," he murmurs between kisses. "You're a genius. I hear geniuses make great teachers." He's gratified when Rodney's face relaxes and the gleam comes back into his eyes

"And you're career military," Rodney says, his fingers coming up to stroke at John's chest. "So you're good at following directions."

John shudders, both from the fingertips brushing through his chest hair and from Rodney's slippery, sexy tone of voice. "This is good," he says, because he wants to reassure Rodney, because he wants Rodney to know.

"It is," Rodney says. "It might be the magic talking, but this is really good."

It's still bizarre to hear Rodney say 'magic' with the same scorn he imbues 'religion' or 'faith'. John agrees, though. He gets a timeless moment of sun, and surf, and Rodney laving over the pulse of his neck, soothing where he'd just bitten. It's a damned good thing.

He spreads his legs a little wider, letting Rodney settle more deeply against him. The weight is nice. Solidly reassuring, pressing reality into John's skin.

"Arms up."

Rodney's request catches him by surprise, but some orders you obey without thought. He stops when he can feel the pull in his shoulders, arms spread out over the mattress.

"Idiot," Rodney scolds. "Above your head. I don't want to be interrupted."

And oh, does that make him shiver.

John's hands find the headboard, gripping the slick spindles hard enough to make all the muscles in his arms bulge. And, from the look in his eyes, Rodney likes that. Rodney's fingers start to trace the thin skin on the underside of John's biceps, setting off a whole new round of shivers. The shivers turn into low moans and the unconscious flexing of hips when the fingers are replaced with Rodney's lips and tongue and teeth.

"I mentioned the part where you're killing me, right?" John gasps. He doesn't think he's ever been so hard without the chance of an orgasm in sight. He knows that Rodney's going to play him like this for far longer than he wants to contemplate; he realizes that there's not a chance in hell of relief until Rodney's wrung every sensation, every reaction from his eager body.

"If your complaints are going to sound like that," Rodney says, his lips moving against the skin of John's side "There will be very little mercy."

John moans as Rodney sinks his teeth in just a little, biting at the lowest curve of his ribs. "Mercy... is... overrated."

"You say that now." Rodney breathes against the inside of John's thigh, flicking it with his tongue before finding a ball of nerves he'd never known about and biting. "I haven't gotten you to beg, yet."

John has to link his fingers together as more marks are dusted over his body. He wants to touch, to feel Rodney's jaw work as he gifts John with another bruise he desperately wants to keep for tomorrow. He wants to marvel at the strength Rodney hides, the physicality that gets lost in each hand-wave and stumble.

That he can't makes his breath come a little hotter, his cock a little harder.

John closes his eyes, the better to catalogue all of the sensations - the crisp sheets under his back; the slick wood of the headboard; the stinging, singing nerve endings where Rodney's been working him over; the warm breeze; the prickle of sweat on his scalp. He's so lost in his own mind that it takes him a moment to register that Rodney's not touching him anymore.

"Rodney?" He opens his eyes.

"It's okay," Rodney says, propped beside him. "Relax. I'm just looking."

Oddly enough, the thought isn't all that relaxing. John's actually used to being looked at - he knows his features are striking, that he's got the sort of face that's just far enough off the axis of handsome to invite second and third looks. He's watched people watch him his whole life. But Rodney isn't just looking. Rodney's eyes are like lasers - they cut through him; they see through the surface beauty like it's not even there. Like it's a mask of tissue laid over the reality of John, easy to tear away.

"What... what do you see?" John asks, his mouth suddenly dry.

"I see someone who's reckless." Rodney's fingers find the scars, some of them invisible but for the hard knots of tissue underneath. He traces them, over John's chest, the inside of his left bicep, the jagged slant down his calf where the glass caught him. "Who cares about others before he cares about himself."

It's something Rodney doesn't and can't ever understand. Rodney is selfishness personified - except when he's not. When the goal is so perfect, crystal-brilliant and beautiful the way only a flawless mathematical syllogism can be - when only he can do what needs to be done - he'll fight past any pain, any fear.

John's never forgotten that in one reality, Rodney drowns saving as many as he can.

"I see someone who hides." The planes of his face are examined, fingers reading him like Braille: from the edges of his hair over lines that crease ever more deeply; crow's feet that grow more pronounced with every glance at the mirror; the downward slope of his chin, softer than it used to be; lips that are framed by a hint of stubble he can't ever totally remove and has stopped trying. John blinks when Rodney brushes over his eyes, tickling his lashes. "A fight?" Rodney asks, a butterfly's kiss of warmth over the crooked part of John's nose.

"When I was ten. Baseball to the face." It's hard to breathe, the air too hot under Rodney's gaze and Rodney's touch.

"I bet you shook it off - the pain," Rodney says. "Didn't let anyone see you cry."

John smiles at that. "I was ten, Rodney. With a broken nose - I cried like a baby. Well, once I got home." Rodney's fingers trace his mouth like they could gather up his smile and carry it away.

"Maybe not so tough back then." Rodney's smiling, too. "It doesn't make you any less good-looking."

John doesn't answer. Good looks are an accident, he had nothing to do with it.

"I watch you hide all the time."

"Not hiding now," John says. "Not from you."

"Not for a while," Rodney agrees.

John's surprised, a little. He'd made the decision, conscious of the repercussions that could range from nothing to disdain or even fear. But that Rodney knew and never said?

Rodney lifts his arm, kissing blue-shadowed wrists. "I'll try," he starts to say, and John doesn't want to hear the rest.

He pushes up, mouth on Rodney's, taking away the words before they're given breadth and depth. "My turn," he murmurs, pushing Rodney back against the pillows. His skin is pink next to John's tawny gold, sunlight glinting off of curls that are almost auburn, nestled thickly below his neck. John presses his face there, rubbing nose and cheeks and mouth while Rodney tries to stay still.

"I wasn't done yet," he protests, thoroughly indignant, as though John is a piece of Ancient technology, yanked from his fingers. "I had - I wanted - "

"Sure. But later." He wants to know what Rodney sounds like when it really is sex that drives him, not food so good it mimics orgasmic sensations, because: "I bet you get quiet, don't you? Really quiet."

Rodney's sudden flush is answer enough.

John laughs out loud because - god help him - it's cute. "Oh, look," he says, brushing his fingertips over the color that floods Rodney's cheeks and neck and throat and down to the top part of his chest. "I think this goes all the way down."

His light touch traces down Rodney's sternum, feathering out to brush at a nipple, watching avidly as it tightens. Rodney moans, and John's suddenly energized with the realization that he can make Rodney react, that he can make Rodney's eyes go wide, his lips fall open, his body shudder. Rodney's his. Maybe just for a little while, maybe just for now, but all his.

He's not as methodical as Rodney. He lacks precision and that incredibly focused concentration that had seared right into John's belly, latching onto his spine from the inside.

What he is, though, is unpredictable. A lingering caress of his tongue on the shoulder follows a stinging nip on Rodney's soft belly, kisses scattered like rain drops down the length of his legs. He ignores the most erogenous zones, just as Rodney did, except for nipples.

Those nipples had teased him, tiny points of possibilities during boring meetings, a carrot held proud during the worst missions. John spends a great deal of time teasing them into hard points, teeth and tongue determining the best combinations, lips soothing it away so he can start again, sand tablets ever renewing.

Rodney quiets as John grows more creative. He's panting, shallow exhalations like all the words piled up in his throat block air as well as sound. He does make noise occasionally, sharp gasps or breathless sighs with a moan buried beneath them. But the brash loudness, the torrent of words and noises is gone.

Rodney looks more naked without noise than he does without clothes, and it's all for John. Rodney's letting him, pupils blown wide as he watches each move and touch. No, not just letting. Asking.

Taking a page out of Rodney's book, John pauses. He pulls himself to the side and hovers, waiting for Rodney to be able to focus. Clouded blue eyes clear, and John waits, watches as Rodney's tongue darts out to wet his lips and he gets ready to speak, to ask.

That's when John dips his head and kisses Rodney with everything he's got. Mindful of Rodney's earlier comments, he doesn't try to hide, doesn't try to hold anything back. John's body is stretched out along Rodney's side, his arms propping him up - they are barely touching except mouth to mouth, and John knows he's never kissed anyone like this.

Rodney lets John lead, echoing each dip and swirl until John can almost hear the cadence they're dancing to. At least he does until John nips, then sucks on Rodney's tongue. That produces the groans Rodney is famous around the lunch-table for, grabbing John's hips and yanking him down so they're chest to chest, cocks trapped between their bellies.

"Hel-lo," John says. Sailor is not spoken, but Rodney still grins like he heard it.

"Jerk. You've been tormenting me!"

"Name, rank and serial number, then." He's grinning, hips rolling with the same gentle movement of the waves they'd played on, the slick glide of heat and pressure making his breath hitch. "Or begging. Begging's okay, too."

Rodney's kneading his ass, hands so big and capable that John feels almost small in comparison. He's never been with anyone physically broader than he is, and it's a surprisingly nice feeling: the lines of his chest rest comfortably on Rodney's without spilling over the edge.

"Jerk," Rodney says again, and this time it's him who leads the kiss.

When they pull apart to breathe, John smiles down at Rodney. "I can't remember the last time I spent this much time just making out."

Rodney smiles back. "I can't remember the last time it was this good."

John makes a happy sound in answer, because it's that good. It's been years since John's been with a man, and he'd forgotten how nice it feels to trade off control, to not have to be the one in charge all the time.

Rodney's hand at the back of his neck tugs him down for more consuming kisses, and John goes with it, letting Rodney tilt his head to the perfect angle, accepting Rodney's soft tongue into his mouth. He lets his hands rest on Rodney's biceps while he waits like he did in the ocean, feeling the perfect wave building beneath them.

The rhythm is easy at first. Lazy. But as Rodney's knees rise up, bracketing John's hips, and his hands stop just holding John and start moving him instead, it shifts. The tide strengthens, growing wild as they thrust and rock, panting in each other's faces when they aren't desperately kissing.

"Yeah?" Rodney asks. His fingerprints are etching into John's skin, controlling the tense and release. "Please say yes."

It's too much to bite out that it's not like he's going to say no now, so John just kisses him quiet again, letting Rodney rut him against equally surging hips. Rodney moans, licking against John's teeth as he moves them faster, harder, heat flushing John's skin, sweat giving them smooth friction to work against.

John tries so hard to hold back, to make it last, but Rodney's cock is burnishing the crease of his hip and his own is riding smoothly against skin and coarse hair and he can barely breathe it feels so good. He's rolling against Rodney's body, digging his feet into the mattress for leverage, hands still clutching against Rodney's thick arms.

Rodney throws his head back, and his hands dig into the taut muscles of John's ass as they thrust in counterpoint. Rodney's fingers flex once, twice, and then one slips between John's buttocks and strokes him hard - just once, just there.

John jerks so hard he bites his tongue. Using his grip on Rodney's arms, he pushes himself up so he can see. So they can both see, the way Rodney's now gasping out each breath, eyes glued on the dusky flush of their cocks rubbing together.

"Again," John grits out, arms straining.

Rodney repeats the move, harder still - and then he's gasping, head thrashing as he pulses and comes all over John's belly. His chest creaks as he sucks in air, shuddering as John continues to thrust against him.

Then the tip of his finger pushes inside. Just a little. Just a tiny bit and -

John makes a sound without a single consonant, staring wide-eyed as he strips translucent lines over Rodney's chest. He keeps moving, hips working on autopilot as aftershocks race through him. "Huh," he manages. Rodney looks so damned good, bright eyed, red mouthed, and covered in John.

Rodney brings him down, strong hands gentle against his back, and John melts into it, not caring that they're slick and messy where they're pressed together. When he gets his breathing somewhat under control, he lifts his face just enough to kiss Rodney, his mouth moving slowly over swollen lips.

"Too heavy?" he asks between kisses.

"Not yet," Rodney says. "Stay."

John's happy to do so, and resumes the unhurried kissing. It's like he can't get enough of Rodney's mouth, like there's some drug or the secret to the universe in there, like they're sharing a secret language of kisses and nips and touches.

"We should probably clean up," John whispers.

"Probably," Rodney agrees. Neither moves.

Rodney traces unhurried designs on John's back, rhythmic enough that John's eyes start to droop. "Mm. Feels good."

"You say that now." It's confusing, talking between slow, lush kisses, but they manage. "Wait until you start stiffening up."

It's possible, of course, but John doesn't think it'll happen. The magic of the place - or VR, and wouldn't it suck to wake up right now? - is catered to their desires and John really doesn't desire to feel sore and old. Just in case, though, he rolls so that they're both on their sides, still breathing Rodney's air.

"Didn't you say there was a hot tub?" John's thinking that hot water and a steamy Rodney sounds pretty close to perfect.

"Oh, yeah," Rodney groans, rolling up to a sitting position and taking John with him.

Getting to his feet beside the bed, John sways a little, still languid and easy from the incredible orgasm. Rodney slips up behind him, wrapping strong arms around his waist, and John leans back into his bulk and heat, rolling his head to nuzzle at Rodney's neck.

"I don't think I expected you to be so..." Rodney squeezes him, ducking his head to accept John's kisses.

"Cuddly?" John asks.

"Yeah," Rodney says. "You aren't usually very physical with people."

"Whereas you're the touchy-feely type." Compared to John's normal behavior, it's not a totally incorrect statement. Rodney doesn't shy away from touches and is perfectly willing to drag people where ever he thinks they need to go, if they aren't jetting at appropriate speeds. But Rodney, pliant and calm in a way that means he isn't nervous in his own skin is different – really nice.

"I can touch," Rodney defends himself, flattening his hands over John's belly as proof.

"Well, you are good to hug," John fires back, turning around to wrap his arms around Rodney fully. It's meant to be teasing, the kind of banter they do in their sleep, if with a new, intimate level. Once he's got his arms locked at the small of Rodney's back, though, cheeks together and breathing synced...

"Hey." Rodney grips the back of his neck, pads of his fingers resting lightly against skin. His voice rumbles between them, felt more than heard. "Hey, it's okay."

John's lips buzz against Rodney's skin. "This was supposed to less with the desperate."

Rodney doesn't reply, just holds John a little more tightly. Hugging isn't something John normally indulges in. He isn't the touchy type, not past the required amounts of cuddling and holding hands every girlfriend he's ever had mandated. It's usually uncomfortable, too-warm skin asking for something John's never been able to give, pieces of himself he needs too much to ever risk letting them go.

Rodney's not asking for anything, though. And he doesn't seem to need bits of John so much as wrapping him up like a human burrito - too hot, and too close, and too perfect -as Rodney braces his weight and lets John relax or tense as he wants. So long as he doesn't try to leave, anyway.

John sinks into it a little, letting his shoulders, which had started to climb with tension, relax. Rodney's hands explore each knob of his spine slowly, like they have all the time in the world, which they do. On a whim, John lifts one foot slightly and rubs his ankle up the back of Rodney's calf, over the muscle and back down.

Rodney mouths the point of his shoulder in reply. It's like a new language, one they started to speak in the bed - a language of motion and touch. John splays his hands over Rodney's lower back, letting his fingers brush the upper curves of his ass. In return, Rodney runs one hot hand up John's neck and into his hair, directing their lips together for a lingering kiss.

John shifts a little and frowns at the tacky sensation of drying sweat and semen on their chests and bellies. He gives Rodney one last lingering kiss, then steps back, drawing Rodney's hand into his own to lead the way to the bathroom.

The hot tub is where he remembers it, set slightly at a remove and open to the cool ocean breeze. John fiddles with the taps while Rodney examines an assortment of colored powders, gels, creams, and syrupy liquids in oddly shaped bottles. "They fit together!" he notes after a moment, then spends the next few moments playing legos with their bath-toys.

John helps. And it really is cool when the bottles can be put together at a diameter, forming three dimensional parabolas or circles with part of it caved in so it --

"Is that the Death Star?"

"The original," Rodney confirms, happily filling it out with as many bottles as they have left. "Not the ridiculous mockery Lucas forced on us in his fit of regretful pique."

Just barely managing not to roll his eyes, John tests the now-full tub and sighs happily at water that is blood-warmed and bubbling merrily. Perfect. He grabs one of the few remaining bottles, containing a lurid purple gel, and without checking dumps half of it into the water. Rodney squawks, predictably, but the scent of sandalwood and something that reminds John of the jungle rises up, silencing the protest before the first syllable is truly created.

"In," John orders.

He watches as Rodney tests the water with one foot, then runs his hand along the curve of his ass, just to feel the sleek muscle as Rodney steps into the tub.

"Well, come on." Rodney settles himself chest-deep in the water and holds out an arm. John's only too happy to comply. The purple stuff adds a heavy silkiness to the water, and John runs his hand over Rodney's chest and belly, cleaning away any residual stickiness. Rodney returns the favor, swirling John's chest hair into patterns that are quickly smoothed by the bubbling water.

"This is the best magic vacation ever," Rodney sighs, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub.

A desire he's never truly acknowledged prompts John to tuck himself against his side, head on Rodney's shoulder. "Mm."

Beyond the distant roll of the waves, John can see the responsibilities still waiting for him. For them, really, and worse for Rodney. John's days are spent in bureaucratic mindlessness, getting beat up, or the occasional terror of missions gone wrong. Rodney gets to do all that - except the beating up - and still take care of a city, work on his research, and manage a cadre of scientists that have no idea what 'chain of command' means, let alone proper respect and authority to the title, if the not said bearer of that title.

It's a little daunting.

"I can hear you thinking." Rodney's hand drips as he runs his nails up the back of John's scalp, tugging on perpendicular locks. "Stop it. We can go back to being terrified and worrying tomorrow."

It's a switch that Rodney's the one offering procrastination and reassurance. John likes it, though, closing his eyes and letting the hot water bubble around them, easing out the final bits of discomfort or tension left in their bodies.

John gently rearranges them, turning so that Rodney's sitting in front of him, broad back to his chest. He finds a thick washcloth on the side of the tub and wets it, trailing the warm, scented water over Rodney's shoulders. One of the bottles yields shower gel, and John scrubs gently, removing sweat and massage oil, watching Rodney's skin turn pink under the onslaught.

"Lean back," he says. "I'll wash your hair."

Rodney does, bracing his hands on John's knees. Yet another bottle is shampoo, or close enough, and soon Rodney is moaning happily as John's long fingers lather his hair and scratch at his scalp.

"You're like a cat." Rodney's completely blissed out, nudging John's hands imperiously if for some reason he stops. "All about me me me."

"You just want your own hair washed. Careful I don't check to see if one of these bottles is Nair. Actually, huh. I wonder if I wish hard enough one of the bottles would become Nair?"

John knows this way lies baldness so he arranges his fingers like a net over Rodney's hair and digs down until he can feel blood beating against the thin skin. Rodney groans like a dying thing, going utterly limp against him.

"See?" John teases. "Don't distract me, or you don't get nice things."

"Testing the limits of magic is distracting you?" The words are heavily slurred, almost incomprehensible as Rodney works lips and tongue that have no connecting nerves in them.

John's had this particular trick done to him a few times, and he knows the Novocain feeling of slack release. "Yes. No testing. No pondering. Nothing but contemplating what you're going to do when it's my turn."

But for all the slightly greedy tone of voice, John doesn't stop. Rodney is so touchable, each soft curve and dip a new perfect place for John to rest his hands, his chin, his body.

John supports the back of Rodney's head in one palm and uses the other to gently rinse his hair, letting his fingers drift through the strands, making them float in the water, forming a corona around Rodney's head.

"What was your hair like when you were a kid?"

Rodney gives a gentle snort from his very relaxed position. "Blond. Curly. And there was a ton of it. Didn't last, though."

"Hmmm." John tries to picture it, and it's not so hard. He gets the image of a cranky cherub, complete with Rodney's piercing blue eyes and ungodly long eyelashes.

"I bet yours was exactly the same," Rodney says. "A life of its own."

Without gel, Rodney isn't wrong. But what he says, as he leans close to Rodney's mouth to whisper conspiratorially, is, "Actually, it was floppy. I had to constantly flick it out of my eyes." He leans back, adding, "When it wasn't buzzed, anyway."

Rodney is staring straight ahead, face slack and blank. Ordinarily, he could be thinking anything from please, god, let there be pictures so I can torment to I now have the perfect puzzle-piece for my nefarious scheme. It's an expression John spends far too much time analyzing, and he's a little disappointed to learn what it actually means:

Seriously aroused and trying desperately to hide it.

John manfully tries to muffle his snicker, watching Rodney's cock create eddies and swirls as it half-hardens in the water. "Floppy hair is a turn-on, then?"

"Oh, like you weren't contemplating the image of me as jail-bait."

"I'm not denying it." John's voice is downright dirty and he knows it. "Tell me you were skinny - like, jeans-hanging-off-your-hips skinny."

"Oh, yeah," Rodney says. "And my nose was too big for my face. Really hot, I'm sure."

John raises his hips from the bottom of the tub so that Rodney can feel his growing hard on.

"Perv," Rodney says. "Tell me more about the floppy hair."

"This is really disturbed," John protests, but Rodney makes an impatient hand gesture. "Okay, okay - I grew it out long to hold down the cowlicks and it hung in my face and annoyed the shit out of my father."

"God," Rodney groans. "I bet you looked like a frat boy. Tell me you wore white tee shirts under sweaters."

"Are you reliving puberty, Rodney?" There is no fucking way John's owning up to the sweaters.

"Duh. I was halfway through my Junior year when puberty hit and my dorm was across the street from the Beta Theta Pi house."

A junior? It's not like John doesn't know Rodney's smart, but for him to be thirteen or fourteen - fifteen at the very outside - when he was a junior in college... it explains so much about Rodney, actually. "Fine," he huffs, pretending resignation even as he presses his cock into the groove of Rodney's ass. "But only if you tell me about you."

"Three professors hit on me, and from the time I was eighteen to twenty two and I grew a goatee, if I went anywhere after dark without my Super Secret Scientist costume, I got propositioned by dirty old men, and a few really very terrifying women," Rodney rattles off. "Sweaters, please. Now." He snaps his fingers, water droplets arcing out to catch the sunlight.

"Sicko," John grumbles, but he leans down to whisper in Rodney's ear. "The best one was a navy blue v-neck with a white tee shirt underneath and jeans and hiking boots. Very Abercrombie and Fitch."

Rodney moans, arching up to kiss the edge of John's jaw. "I bet you had those stupid Tom Cruise Ray-Bans, didn't you?"

"Yes, Rodney - I was an early-90's wet dream. I played a little volleyball, too."

Rodney's eyes snap open, pinning John. "Oh, now you're just trying to make me crazy."

John grins and brushes a series of kisses across Rodney's forehead. "Probably."

Rodney grumbles words like bastard and working and fuck. The water swirls silken against them, somehow not splashing over the edges as Rodney drifts slight away from John, twisting around so he can come back, straddling John's hips.

Straddling is such a good word, John thinks.

"More," Rodney tells him. Then, belatedly: "I was incredibly skinny, don't mock, it was before I started living in the lab twenty four seven. I used to wear these ratty clothes, since I was at university and poor, cords that hung off my hips and t-shirts with holes in them." He leans forward, eyes dancing as he says, "One girl put lipstick on me, once, but I never actually needed it."

John's hips thrust up, dragging his cock against skin and water and the image of skinny, fragile, cherubic Rodney with red, red lips wrapped around John's cock. "Christ," he gasps.

Rodney grinds down on him, and John can feel the way his cock slides along the seam of Rodney's body, thinks about how good it would feel to press inside.

"And, back then, I could sleep late and wake up with my hair all messy, buried in the covers." Rodney presses down again, and John's cock goes all the way hard. "I'd stay in bed all morning - wake up slow and jerk off, then fall back asleep, naked and sticky, and wake up a few hours later and do it again."

"You had time for that?" It's a fairly pathetic gambit for retaining some control. John isn't even sure he wants it back, but breathing is often considered crucial, and he can't when Rodney's moving against him, painting decadent pictures with his words.

"They kicked us out of the labs," Rodney says, grin sharp and boyish and falling off a balcony. "Made certain we enjoyed our truncated youth. At least, that's what one professor said to everyone else. I got asked to stick around, to help him with this very pressing - " Rodney's thighs press together and his hips come down and John isn't breathing at all - "problem he had. One that required dim lighting, a bottle of wine for his courage, and a lack of clothing."

John can see it with his eyes open. Rodney, too skinny and cocky for his own good, challenging the world behind black-lashed blue eyes, that quick, graceless walk enticing in its own way as he powered his way through classrooms and lectures and science labs, overawing even the most jealous into grudging respect, admiration - want -

"Yeah," Rodney pants. "Oh, god, John. He -- he hated me, he was incredibly jealous since I was obviously so much smarter than he was. But that didn't stop him from wanting to n-nail my ass." Rodney places his hands on John's shoulders, using it as leverage as he bucks, carefully riding against the length of John's cock. "I think it made him want me more."

Between the water and the silky skin of Rodney's inner thighs and the way his voice cracks as he talks, John's so hard he thinks he might die.

"Did you..." John's voice is harsh, his mouth dry. "Did you let him fuck you?"

"Hell, no," Rodney says, scorn warring with the lust in his voice. "I told him to get down on his knees and blow me."

John fumbles at the bottles on the tub's edge, wishing hard for one of them to be waterproof lube. He gets the bottle open and slicks his whole hand in his haste.

"Did he do it?" John asks, using his knees to lift Rodney slightly so he can get his hand between them.

"Y-yes." Rodney's voice veers off into a sharp moan as John presses a finger into him.

"Christ, really? A professor gave you a blow job?"

Pink that has nothing to do with the water flushes high on Rodney's cheek bones. "I didn't actually expect him to do it." His voice is rueful where it doesn't waver, hitching when John's finger moves deeper. "It - my first - "

He has to dart forward, to bite over the throbbing blue vein in Rodney's neck as his finger slides in to the second knuckle. Rodney is wet and heat and tight, fluttering with eagerness, as he takes John deeper still.

"He was good at it, too. He - he had me help him with a project for blow jobs. Kept my name off the - oh, god, more. Now, right now, I've done this, I'm used to this even if it's been too damned long, and I won't break now more."

John gets the first finger all the way in and holds it there, the rest of his hand pressing up against Rodney's body.

"Shhh," John says, his other hand stroking down Rodney's back. He spreads his legs a little more and pushes, edging a second finger alongside the first. "You took blowjobs instead of credit?"

Rodney shoves himself down hard against John's hand, moaning. "I was young. I didn't know any better. Besides, the research was flawed."

"Ah, of course." He's too breathless to laugh, but he can feel it bubbling inside of him. "Flawed research makes blow jobs worth it."

Rodney's eyes are unfocused, his body pistoning up and down, grunting since John isn't going fast enough for him. "Did I mention me not breaking? And no, blow jobs make blow jobs worth it."

"Well, then, I suppose I'll have to give you one of those later."

Arching, Rodney forces himself to breath. "Right, okay, enough of this." And then John's fingers are pulled out of Rodney's body, John's cock gripped and held in a feat of flexibility that leaves John gasping, Rodney's lowering himself down with a long, aching groan. One that's more about finally and right there than it is about ow.

Halfway down, Rodney hesitates. The water smoothes around the parts of John not inside, teasing and caressing, and John has to grit his teeth hard, so not to thrust all the way in. "You okay?" he croaks.

"Oh, a cliché." Rodney's breathing much too fast to reach the level of sarcasm he wants, his expression dazed and growing slack. "How perfect. It's - it's just been a while."

"You... you could have waited," John says, straining every muscle he's got to keep Rodney above him, to keep from just shoving himself into the tight heat that brackets the head of his cock. "You could have let me play a little more, open you up slow and easy, get three fingers in you - maybe four."

Rodney groans, and John's seductive words do the trick - he can feel Rodney relax and open to him, and with a slow slide, he's got a lap full of Rodney and he's all the way in.

The bubbles in the water have dropped off to nothing. It's still moving, swirling around them, but the frothing caps have disappeared, allowing John to look down: Rodney's cock, red and thick, pressed against his belly, thighs layered over John's, and oh, god he wants to see. He wants to know what his own cock looks like deep inside Rodney, whether it's all pink or if there are darker flushes of color, mixing and contrasting as they touch.

"Holding you to that." Rodney sounds drunk, words slurring.

John's not sure he's any more coherent. God, he's fucking Rodney. Or, he will be once they start moving. "To what?"

"The f-finger fucking." A warm forehead settles on John's collarbone. It can't be comfortable - he knows how bony he is - but Rodney is relaxing against him, a heavy weight that presses as gently as the water still swirling clean and clear around them. "And the blow job."

Yeah, okay, John tries to say. But his hips are starting to move, tiny, careful thrusts as he tries to determine just how ready for this Rodney actually is. His mouth finds Rodney's temple, mindlessly lipping over the skin while Rodney pants hot against his shoulder.

There's no way John can see, no way he can look at his cock as it slides into Rodney - not in this position - but he can feel it. He moves his hand around and under and lightly touches the place where they're joined, and it's amazing. He can feel the stretch of Rodney's body and the implacable tension holding him inside.

Their position is impossibly good for closeness, but terrible for the physics of fucking. Neither can get much leverage.

"Can we...can you?" Rodney's voice has gone thready with frustration, and his hands scrabble on John's wet shoulders.

"Whatever you want," John says. He can't help the outraged little cry he makes when Rodney pulls up and off and away.

"Bend me over the side of the tub," Rodney says. "And fuck me."

Now that's an idea John can get behind. He watches as Rodney gets his knees under him and turns around, spreading his legs as far as he can. John gets up to his own knees and finds the discarded bottle of lube leaking on the surround, slicking a handful over his cock. Leaning over, he kisses the back of Rodney's neck before guiding himself inside. It looks even better than he'd hoped.

One hand braced on Rodney's shoulder, John holds his torso back and away as he slowly eases in and then back. Skin slicked from lube and want glistens, his cock, the skin of Rodney's ass, pink and open and -

John thrust back in, harder than he meant to. Rodney grunts in reaction, leaning heavily on the rim. "Yeah, just like that."

"Want it hard?" John asks. He reaches down to fondle Rodney's balls, his forearm adding friction as Rodney rubs his cock against him. "Hard and fast, Rodney, letting your mind short out as I fill you?"

"And you'd pick now to let me know about the dirty-talking thing? Jesus." Demanding as always, Rodney's rocking back and forth, setting a rhythm that's just as hard and fast as John teased -- more, actually.

John can feel muscles shuddering under the assault, stretched almost too tight as he's forced back in. He knows it feels good, since Rodney's gone quiet like before, when the moans peter out and the low, grunting gasps disappear into wet breathing. But it's a kind of quiet John isn't sure he wants, right now, so he wraps both hands around Rodney's hips and grips until they go still.

"I told you about me in sweaters, Rodney. I can do dirty talking. But right now, I think I don't care that you want it hard and fast." His voice is dropping, curling around them like the steam rising up from the water, with a hint of amusement, a hint of dark lust, and a hint of something he's never been able to quantify, no matter how successfully he uses it. It's not a voice he can pull up on command, but when he does ... "I think I want it slow," he murmurs, pressing the words into the damp skin of Rodney's back. "I want to hear you moan for me."

"I've told you I get quiet during sex."

"Don't really care." It takes more control than John's ever going to admit to, but he manages to tamp back the urge to just rut them both. "I like slow," he says. It's a reminder as well as another way to drive Rodney crazy, because he does like slow. He likes the skill and effort it takes, holding his eager, trembling body down to an aching, tortuous crawl as he eases his cock back inside. "I like feeling you all around me, tight and greedy. But you can't do anything to stop this. You just have to stay there and take it."

His hips brush against the curves of Rodney's ass - something he's going to explore at length, at some point, he promises himself - and just holds there.

"John?" Rodney's voice is strained and a little wavery.

"Yeah?" John's pretty sure he's not hurting Rodney, but the tone makes him worry a little.

"I am so going to get you back for this," Rodney says.

John rewards that with two short, sharp strokes that make Rodney's hips slap against the side of the bath before freezing in place again.

"Bastard," Rodney hisses.

John buries his smile in Rodney's shoulder and pulls out slowly enough to make them both shake, then waits with just the head of his cock inside. The sound of the surf is loud as John waits. He isn't going to break first. He's going to force those sinfully arousing moans here, and now, where he can do something about them.

Rodney tries to shove back, but John knows at least as much about leverage and way more about body mechanics than he does, so he holds his position and keeps Rodney pinned. There's a beautiful, frustrated sighing noise. John smiles and lets it roll around in his head.

Rodney's next gambit is to clench down on John's cock, and that one comes a little closer to working, but John manages to hold still, even though he does have to squeeze his eyes shut and tense his shoulders.

He leans in, keeping his body back but getting his mouth right next to Rodney's ear. "Please, Rodney," he says. "Let me hear you."

"If you were fucking me, you'd hear me," Rodney spits out. It's not quite a capitulation, though, and both of them know it. "Fuck. I am so getting you for this."

John smiles, pushing just the littlest bit deeper. "You know," he purrs, nipping Rodney's earlobe, "I'm pretty much counting on that."

Rodney whimpers, clenching down tight at the same time. The combination sends John's hips stuttering into action, muscles prickling like he's being shocked with electricity. It isn't an unrealistic assessment, either, not as he finds a rhythm - still slow, too slow by the frustration in Rodney's moans - friction burning hot and steady.

"More," Rodney moans, and John can hear just a little of the customary impatience in it, buried under a lot of escalating desperation. So he gives him just a little more, speeding his strokes, pushing all the way in and holding there for a long second before pulling out just a tiny bit faster.

"Like that?" John asks. He wants to be coherent, wants to come up with filthy, dirty, unbelievably hot things to say to Rodney just to see what kind of reaction he can provoke, but he's losing it way too fast. Rodney's ass is hot and tight and he can't believe he's where he's wanted to be for so long.

"God. Love it," Rodney pants. "Harder."

"Uh uh." It's not the suavest thing he's ever said during sex, but Rodney is moving with him, catching the pace and making it better. "Not yet. You - you're barely moaning."

He doesn't throw a dirty look over his shoulder, but it's pretty clear Rodney wants to. He heaves slightly, pushing himself more deeply into the cup of John's hips, getting a better grip on the rim of the tub. "Fuck me."

It's a growl, low and dirty and hot enough to be incandescent, vibrating through John's body.

"Fuck me, John."

Again, just as dirty but lower still, approaching baritone registers. John's mind is shorting out into nothing, lost by the implicit command and the need in that voice, hips working harder and faster. He pants into Rodney's back, mouthing the flex of his shoulder-blades, the tension of back muscles denting shapes and shadows into his skin.

"Fuck me."

Rodney's voice breaks on the final command, and John's lost - gone. He couldn't stop or slow down even if he wanted to - and he kind of does, just to make it last. But that little break in Rodney's voice gets him every time - it happens when Rodney's at his highest emotional peaks, and John's only ever heard it times of stress and fear, but it's Rodney at his purest, and all John can do is obey and fuck him harder.

"Yes, yes, like that, yes." Rodney's satisfied hiss as John slams into him is the shields going up when they should, an equation falling into perfect symmetry, and the steady blast of a gun pulsed into a paper target. It's cream on a cat's whiskers, so damned familiar even with the underlying ache of sex John's never heard in it before.

John moves faster, fucking harder than he's let himself fuck women before, hips slamming into Rodney's ass as he goes harder, deeper. A moment's clarity has him shifting the angle, up, then down, then -

It's not a moan so much as a shout, and John concentrates on hitting that spot over and over. Rodney's practically convulsing beneath him, as loud as John's always expected him to be, words lost in a sea of noise as Rodney gives back everything he's taking from John.

They've crossed a line, and there's no going back. All John wants to do is last until Rodney comes, but there's no way he can keep up the pace without both of his hands anchored firmly on Rodney's hips.

"Can you touch yourself?" John pants. "G-get yourself off."

"Keep doing that," Rodney says, tilting his ass back to the perfect trajectory. "And I won't need to."

John makes a small adjustment to his angle and shortens his stroke, and Rodney's jump-and-shudder lets him know he's dead on.

His eyes squeeze shut as he concentrates on not coming first. The thought of Rodney clenching down instinctively tight as his body releases - John wants that, to ride through it to the other side. So he focuses on that perfect angle, the sensations more about rubbing the head of his cock against Rodney's prostate than about Rodney's tight, tight body swallowing his cock.

Rodney's lost the ability to form recognizable words, gasping as he lets John take over. He's still rocking backwards, mindlessly pushing himself into sensation, but the care and control that they've been dancing to is gone. This is John's show now, his own iron control maintained with teeth and toenails as he keeps his hold on Rodney's hips, bruising pink, pale skin, his cock driving in.

"Come on," he murmurs, kissing away beads of sweat on Rodney's skin. "C'mon, Rodney, just like that. Fuck back at me, I want to feel you. Come on, come on, there, just there. Come for me, Rodney, come on. Let me feel you ..."

And, oh - thank god - Rodney makes a mostly-incoherent noise, his voice like tearing paper, and pushes back one last time, driving his hips into John's as his body clamps down and he comes.

John's never felt anything so good - Rodney's ass rhythmically pulling at him, Rodney's body shaking in his arms, and he tries to hold on, to keep his cool until the end, but it's Rodney, and it would be impossible not to come with him.

His cries are buried into Rodney's back, body nearly convulsing as he comes. A corona of nuclear flare blinds him while his mind goes still and quiet. It's good to have someone to fall against, instead of his own too-cold bed, soft skin and muscles turned liquid with pleasure cradling him as he moans through the aftershocks.

Eventually, John's heart rate matches the pounding of the surf outside their window, the call of water birds hunting a familiar backdrop. They're breathing grows slow and even, almost the cadence of sleep.

Almost.

"I'm being crushed."

John chuckles, creaking as he carefully shifts his weight off of Rodney - and he's even more careful when he pulls out, but he still provokes a wince or two. "Possibly the first time you've ever sounded rueful when complaining."

Rodney's flushed, lips swollen from kisses, hair brushed up like a broken bird's nest. John wants to run his fingers through it, but Rodney's busily making a face, twisting around and grabbing for John in one smooth motion. "That didn't mean go away, moron, it meant I don't appreciate breathing in marble. Ow."

There's no heat to the final word, but John still gets his arms around Rodney's waist, gentling him as he slides onto the ledge. "You okay?"

"Have you had sex with men?"

"Yeah, just a minute ago," John cracks, but he's worried, too. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Rodney settles himself a little gingerly on the bottom of the tub and the jets kick back in. As John sits next to him, he can feel an influx of hot water bringing the bath back up to soaking heat.

"I'm fine," Rodney says. "I'll just feel it a little later. Can't say that idea's not appealing - sitting at dinner, still feeling like your cock is in me."

If John wasn't completely sated, that thought might make his dick twitch in interest. "How about next time you fuck me," he suggests.

"Oh, if you insist," Rodney says airily, but John can see the gleam in his eye. It's a damn good thing they don't have to catch a plane out of here, he thinks.

They may be in a magical fantasy-land, but their bodies are no longer quite so youthful. After another ten or fifteen minutes, Rodney splashes a hand into the water, looking unhappy. "Um. I, uh, don't really want to ruin the mood here, but - "

"Except you're starting to get too hot, you're light-headed, you can feel your blood-pressure starting to shoot up, and eating something might be good, since it's been a good couple of hours, and the stuff in the water is nice, but it's in your hair and it's making it feel like straw."

Rodney stares at him. "I'm honestly not sure whether I should be seriously creeped out, or just hit you. Also, you're wrong on the last one."

John grins, tugging the locks he'd curled around his fingers. "The last one's mine. Duh. C'mon, let's hit the showers and then see if the magic buffet is around."

"Magic luau." Rodney corrects. "With a roast pig - no citrus, I checked."

The shower is easily big enough for two, but they stay close anyway. Rodney seems to want to take the lead, so John simply leans on him and lets him do what he wants, ducking down enough to have his hair lathered, rinsed, repeated and conditioned, the motion of Rodney's fingers on his scalp almost enough to lull him to sleep.

Finishing with his hair, Rodney starts at John's neck and methodically washes every inch of his body. He's never been comfortable with this kind of pampering before. That's something women want, spending half their husband's paychecks for Zen music and green avocado goop spread over their faces. It's different from the cuddling, too, a more intimate level of focus requiring mental effort both in giving and receiving. He could turn off his mind if he wanted to, but it's better to watch the way Rodney focuses on him, calm and sure, rediscovering the map of John's skin millimeters at a time.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No."

An expression of relief and surprise sweeps over Rodney's face, gone in an instant. "I'm surprised."

John isn't. He doesn't say that, though, not necessarily wanting the conversation that'd follow. Instead he waits until Rodney's finished and then reciprocates.

He's a little surprised by how good it feels to just touch Rodney. The conversation John doesn't want to have is at least partially about his own standoffishness - it's not news to him that he's physically distant. But there's something different about this, about having his hands on Rodney. Rodney doesn't ask him for anything, not through word or action - he just closes his eyes and melts into the touch in a way that makes John feel quiet and tender and suddenly he gets an ex-girlfriend's complaint that he wasn't very sensual for such a good-looking guy.

He soaps Rodney's body, letting his fingers make looping tracks through chest hair, slicking the soap and water off of smooth skin with the flat of his palm, rubbing his knuckles against the large muscles of Rodney's back and shoulders. When he moves behind and lets his soapy fingers trail down the cleft of Rodney's ass, he gets a quiet hiss, so he goes even slower and lighter and makes a mental note to kiss it better later.

That Rodney's sore is no surprise. He preens a little, though, when Rodney doesn't flinch away, pushing at John with words and touches, never precisely saying no, but definitely making it clear that John's actions aren't wanted. But instead there's just a slight tilt of the hips and a blush that stains down Rodney's back as the sorest spots are delicately caressed and cleaned.

Frankly, it should be gross. Washing someone's hair, their skin, the breasts John doesn't miss - that's one thing. Washing here is different. Just as good, though. Maybe even better when Rodney's head goes down, the cords of his neck tight as he allows John unrestricted access.

Sliding down onto his knees is both familiar and completely foreign. The floor is slick and cool, made of a material that isn't as hard as it looks. John runs his hands down strong, stocky legs covered in wiry, red-blond hair. There's muscle there. Powerful, even in their relaxed state.

He looks up at Rodney, blinking in the warm spray of the shower. "Nice."

"Not usually what people tell me, but, um. Thank you. After all, it's clearly about time someone gave me my due, what with my ten impossible deeds before breakfast on my laziest days."

John smiles at that and reaches up to hold Rodney's hips in his palms, rubbing a stubbled cheek into the small of his back.

"Oh," Rodney says, and his tone is speculative. "Oh, that's... that feels nice."

John rolls his face so that he can drop a series of gentle kisses along the upper swell of Rodney's gorgeous ass. He spreads his hands out, letting his fingers curve around the front of padded hipbones, his thumbs tease at the top of the cleft. He leans in and licks a soft, wet line between his thumbs, then waits to see what Rodney will do.

Lower back muscles go hard and rigid, almost distended in surprise - but that last's only a moment, and Rodney's relaxing again. "We've spent so much time in water," he muses, dreamy as he spreads his legs a fraction wider. "Ocean, hot tub, shower with never-ending hot-water supply."

John isn't sure if that's 'we live on floating city surrounded by ocean, get me away from it' or 'I'm more of a woodsy kind of guy' (which would be a lie, since Rodney is a five star hotel kind of guy, with a corridor connecting to floor-to-ceiling computers blinking in syncopated harmony, ready to do Rodney's bidding) but there's nothing negative about it, so he licks again. Flicks his tongue a little, fluttering it, teasing like he would a woman since that's the only frame of reference he has.

He isn't going to mention that out loud.

Rodney's breathing is lost in the steady rainfall from the shower heads, but John can feel the stuttering rush of blood underneath his palms, Rodney's heart rate accelerating to beat against John's skin. John takes his cues from that, or tries to, sliding his palms down perfectly rounded curves to spread shadows to light.

It's not pretty. Male genitalia, or any gender really, is not at all attractive up close and personal like this. But there are hints of red among the pink, burnished swelling that has to be painful. The good kind, but still. It's evidence of John having been there, and done that, without any of the crassness or rudeness the terms imply.

It's his - him - on Rodney. In him. Something thrums primal inside John at that, and he lets his tongue skate around one of the areas pink-raw from friction.

Rodney moans, but not in a bad way. He spreads his legs further and leans forward, bracing his hands on the wall. John's glad to know that he's the only one a hundred percent new to this. He wants to be careful, wants to soothe, not hurt, so he makes sure his tongue is as wet as he can make it and strokes it softly over Rodney.

Rodney shudders and pushes back, and it's body language that John recognizes - more, don't stop.

Rodney's ass is perfect, John thinks as he absently kneads it. Really just beautiful, which is not something John's thought about any man's ass, ever - even the few he's fucked over the years. But Rodney's is pert, almost, and just the right size for John's hands as he holds it open.

He tries to imbue that with his mouth, pressing saliva-softened lips at the very center of the cleft. Just touching. It's sexual, although John knows that he, at least, isn't getting hard for a little while. He has no idea if Rodney is or not, and despite how easy it'd be to reach around, he doesn't. He doesn't want to know. It's not about that.

John's always been a, well, one girlfriend called it perfunctory lover. He reciprocates because it's fun, and it's what you do. Your obligation as a gentleman, in a way. But this, like everything's been with Rodney, is just different. It doesn't matter that sex may or may not come from this. He just likes the taste of Rodney, musky even with fluoridated water and honey from the soap, the way his flesh gives under his tongue, the hidden depths he gets to explore. The noises Rodney makes, still quieter than John expects, but audible and enthusiastically pleased.

There's no urgency, and John likes it that way. Before, in the tub, neither of them was able to wait - Rodney was even more impatient than usual, and that's saying a lot - but John had wanted to play, to explore, to take his time. Here, now, with the edge blunted and his body sated, he gets his chance.

He presses his tongue inside with slow, firm pressure, feeling Rodney's body open to accept him, and he's careful, not wanting to abrade already-tender skin with his scratchy face.

Over the fall of water he can hear Rodney murmuring quietly, words like "good" and "oh" and, best of all, "John."

He'd wanted slow before, and here he gets it. It's like kissing - although, well, perverse - a lazy exploration that reveals hot and soft sensations that ripple around him. He concentrates on the edges at first, occasionally pausing to work his mouth wet again, smoothing them over and over again. He reads Rodney's body for reactions, backing off if there's the slightest hitch. No pain, this time. Not even that good, stretching pain that means living.

Finally, he feels Rodney pulling slowly away, and he figures that even his gentlest touch is too much, so he lets it happen. Rodney turns and puts a hand on top of John's hair, smiling down at him, his face flushed with pleasure. He pulls John to his feet and into his arms, kissing the side of his head.

John turns his face up into the shower's spray and rinses his mouth before returning the kiss to a spot just below Rodney's ear. They cling to each other under the water, like slow dancing.

Bubbles have to pop sometime, even in fantasy land. The water gradually cools, sliding away from two notes below scalding to a lukewarm that's clearly a warning.

Rodney glares at the shower heads, muttering about lodging complaints and getting a refund. John just laughs, finding terrycloth towels that feel like blankets, wrapping himself warmly before turning to Rodney.

"What, not me first?"

"Nope. Like all those stewardesses tell you, first you secure yourself, then the people around you."

Rodney's glare is poetic in its disdain. It turns an impressive scowl when John leans forward to kiss him, then moderates into something unhappier. "I'm trying, but really. Brush your teeth. Yes, I know, not real, no germs, but brush your teeth."

John feels a blush heating his cheeks as he turns to the sink and fumbles for a toothbrush. He's brushing rather aggressively when Rodney's arms slide around his waist and a kiss is pressed to the back of his shoulder.

"Sorry," Rodney says, his tone contrite. "I didn't mean to be so... well, me."

John shrugs and spits foam into the sink. "It's okay - I didn't think." He keeps his head down. "I've never... done that before."

He jumps a little when the toothbrush is taken from his hand and dropped into the sink, but before he gets his bearings, Rodney has him turned around with his ass pressed to the counter and is kissing the minty freshness right out of his mouth.

"You... for me?" Rodney says between kisses. "For me? That's... I don't know what that is." He dives back in for more kisses, his hands coming up to cup John's face like it's something precious.

When Rodney finally lets him go, there's a look in his eye that John knows shouldn't make him uncomfortable - but it is. Not seriously, not enough that John wants to draw away, pulling back the way he usually does right about now.

It's just that it's so intense. John's never been good with that, from other people. And it's almost a relief, in a strange way, to know that hasn't changed. He's still John, and there's a level of practicality and reality that's inescapable, even in their own private wonderland.

He can't help but let Rodney draw him into another lingering kiss. If his body wants to be sixteen again, John's certainly not objecting: Rodney's kisses are deep and lush, potent like brandy with that hint of almost caramelized sweetness.

Rodney stomach growls.

John laughs, reaching to cup Rodney's suddenly flushed and lowered face. "I was just about to suggest that myself."

"But you're never hungry. Well, I mean, obviously you do get hungry and you eat quite a lot for such a skinny body." Rodney paws through the drawers containing his clothes, pulling out a pair of khaki colored shorts. "But you never actively request food which I always put down to some kind of stoic, military idiocy, despite half your men regularly complaining that lunch time doesn't come soon enough."

John freezes as the shorts are drawn up Rodney's legs. It's partly the smooth, practiced movements, the competency that's always been a thing for John, and just Rodney's strong, sinewy legs.

Mostly it's the lack of boxers or some other form of underwear.

He arches a brow. "Commando, Rodney?"

Rodney pulls the shorts into place, then buttons them and zips them carefully. "Oh, yeah," he says. "I like the fresh ocean breeze."

John very deliberately does not choke on his own spit. "You don't... on Atlantis?"

"No," Rodney says, like it's obvious. "Too much imminent death and being awakened in the middle of the night. It's best for everyone involved if I wear boxers on Atlantis."

John sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands. "I'm going to be thinking about this all through dinner now."

"I know," Rodney smirks.

John doesn't say 'evil', and Rodney doesn't say 'duh', but somehow the words are hovering there as they finish getting ready. Out of habit, John gathers up their wet towels, dumping on one the bed and letting the pure white material run through his fingers over and over with the other.

"If you try and snap my ass with that, so help me, you will never get another chance at it."

That isn't actually what John's thinking about, but he smirks back easily enough, knowing his eyes are glinting just as darkly happy as Rodney's are. "What, not a kink with you?"

"Food. Food now, as you've clearly lost your mind." Rodney stalks out of the cabana, flip flops scattering sand as they hang off his feet. He waits until John catches up, then throws an arm around John's shoulders, pulling his head down just a little. "And you haven't seen half my kinks yet. So please, keep guessing."

Rodney's still laughing when he reaches the small patio with its tables and a few chatting couples. John's still stuck in the middle of the damned pathway, mind turning over just what the hell Rodney means by that and what kinks he th