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 thinks John's going to be -

"I hate you," he glares when he takes the seat next to Rodney's.

"Lorne says that dinner's not for a few hours, but he gave us these to snack on."

Rodney is hovering one hand over an assortment of snacks - fruit, cheese, crackers, pickles and olives. John takes a cherry from the tray and pops it in his mouth.

"Don't even try to impress me with the cherry-stem-in-a-knot thing," Rodney says, happily munching on olives - first a green one, then a black one, then another green one.

John spits the cherry pit and stem discreetly into his hand and scowls.

Rodney sniggers - politely, for him, which means he's not actually belly-laughing in your face - and moves in on some crumbling white squares of cheese. "Oh, goat cheese," he moans, sounding more enthusiastic now then he had with John's cock in his ass, smacking loudly as he swallows. "I love this stuff, and it's so much better for you then cow-based cheese products that's in the MRE's. I think that the Athosians are working on finding dairy substitutes, though. That greenish cat-looking thing from P3X-741? It's actually not a feline, and Dr. Linnae is working with them on finding ways of processing the yield."

Listening to Rodney babble about his genius in everything and sundry is often entertaining. But often isn't all the time. Fortunately, John's gotten very skilled at directing the Great River Rodney and he grins, popping one of the squares into his own mouth. It's a different texture from the cheese he's used to, not smooth or creamy or crumbly, but some strange combination of all of them, pressed into a wet block that dissolves formlessly on his tongue. He likes the taste. "Good with crackers," he says. "Here, pass some of those over, will ya?"

About halfway through the plate, Rodney freezes in place. John quickly swallows the bite of cheese and cracker and olive in his mouth.

"What?"

Then Rodney smiles, big and wide and happy, and the intensity of it is a little stunning.

"I just realized that I can do this," he says, leaning closer to John. "I can do this." He takes John's face in his hands and kisses him, slowly and thoroughly, with the afternoon sun streaming down.

John's holding one of Rodney's wrists when they move back to breathe, fingers light over the pulse-point. "I'm pretty fond of that, myself," he says.

He doesn't look around. He isn't going to look around.

Rodney chuckles, kissing any remaining hint of salt from his mouth. "They're not looking at us, John. Okay, actually, the big guy over there is, but since his companion definitely isn't a girl, I'm pretty sure it's not in disgust."

John sneaks a look over his shoulder and the big guy winks at him. John gives him a half-smile and returns his attention to Rodney, very deliberately twining their hands together on the tabletop.

"Are we done here?" he asks, looking down at the remains of the snack platter.

"Sure," Rodney says. "You want to go for a walk on the beach?"

John stands up and pulls Rodney to his feet. "You're really getting into this vacation thing, aren't you?"

Rodney slides his arm around John and turns them toward the ocean. "I had a really good teacher."

"Ah, and the student thinks he's the Master now?" John asks, waving one hand around grandly.

"Why people don't figure out that you are the geek, I will never understand. Also, a geek with bad taste."

"Star Wars is bad taste," John repeats, flat and incredulous. "This from someone who just made a mock-up of the Death Star using bottles like legos." The beach is pure white, grains powdery and soft, fine enough that they don't sink with each footfall, almost gliding along the surface. John kicks his shoes off without thought, holding still while Rodney follows. Rodney's toes wiggle in the sand.

"Hey, I never said Star Wars was bad. It's that particular line. Just because I'm more, shall we say, scientifically inclined, doesn't mean I should suffer through dialogue my three year old niece could have crapped."

“Nice,” John says, taking Rodney's hand to continue their walk. “Wait – you have a niece?”

“Sure,” Rodney says. “Andie, my sister Jeannie's daughter. Of course, I haven't seen her since she was a tiny baby, but I have great faith in her intellect.”

“And also her script-crapping ability, apparently.” John steps quickly to avoid the sand Rodney kicks at him.

“What about you?” Rodney asks. “Brothers? Sisters? Nieces? Nephews?”

John looks out at the ocean. “Nope, only child.”

“I used to wish to be an only,” Rodney says. “Jeannie drove me crazy a lot of the time. We aren't...close. If we ever get back, I'd like to see her again.”

"We'll get back there. I think I'd like to meet her."

"Really?" Rodney says, stopping and turning a bit, so his temple rests against John's. "I'd let you meet her - she'd love you. Not the rest of the family, though."

"Why?" John asks lightly. "You ashamed of me?"

"No," Rodney laughs, knowing he's quoting some silly movie about geniuses and highly improbable laser technology. "Them."

John chuckles. "Lemme guess: you want to be Val Kilmer when you grew up."

"Oh, please, and work on something so utterly ridiculous, without knowing exactly what it was let alone what it was going to be used for? Genius means genius in all things. I've never been that naive, not even in high school when people started recruiting me."

Recruiting? John lifts an eyebrow.

But instead of continuing, expounding on the various worthy events in Rodney's life, he just smiled and shook his head. "Not important. Oh, hey."

They stopped, John craning his head around to figure out what Rodney was looking at. "A pile of wet sand and kids toys?"

Rodney gave him a fixed look. "And I'm the one with the string of horrible vacations? Nevermind, go get the rest of the toys and bring them here."

Brightly colored children's buckets and shovels are scattered across the sand, the colors almost lurid against pure shades of nature - white and blue and the pink of Rodney's skin. They feel plastic and cool, oddly familiar, as John gathers them up and returns to kneel in the sand next to Rodney.

"Oh," he says.

"Yes, you're a moron. Start on that turret there." Dark, wet sand bunches between Rodney's fingers as he shaves off the edge of the cylinder he's just upended onto drier sand, making it the perfect shape and height for the half-bucket he's already got waiting to go on top of it.

Sandcastles. Cool.

It's been years, decades since John has built as sandcastle, but it's not a skill a California kid forgets. The sand here is finer than Pacific sand, almost like the sugary beaches of the Gulf of Mexico, which makes it an excellent building material. It holds small details and lends itself to the precision architecture John expects from Rodney.

He busies himself hauling buckets of sand and water to Rodney's side, and by the time he gets back into construction mode, Rodney has refined the original turret into a blockier version of the central spire of Atlantis. John kneels in the sand and starts working on the east pier.

They work together the way they always work - Rodney snapping and glaring, expecting John to just know what Rodney needs at that moment, and about half the time John does. It's quiet, mostly, the occasional bantering comment, or Rodney's dismissal of John's attempt to reproduce one of the graceful arches that connect one turret to another.

Their fingers brush as they work, sandy kisses from skin to skin.

Almost half of Atlantis, slightly blockier and not anywhere as detailed as Rodney wants, rises up before them. "I haven't done this in forever," Rodney says, happily applying spit to a delicate cross-hatch, since John's refilling the bucket with water.

"I thought you didn't like the beach?"

"You don't need a beach for sand, John." His back pops as he arches, sun glinting off his lashes as he tips his head upward with a gusty sigh. "It's fun."

"I'm getting a mental picture of you as the tyrant of the sandbox, McKay," John says, smoothing his rendition of the funny-shaped room at the base of the west tower that has all the windows and no furniture.

"That would be pretty accurate." Rodney leans across the sandcastle for a kiss, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world. John thinks for a moment how much he's going to miss their casual closeness when they get back to Atlantis. That sets him off into thoughts about what Lorne had said - and wondering if he's even going to get to remember this magical interlude.

"What?" Rodney says, still close, picking up on his slightly subdued mood.

John kisses him again, stroking his tongue lightly between Rodney's lips before pulling back. "I was just thinking," John says. "I'm glad this happened - all of it."

"Yeah," Rodney says, pressing his forehead against John's neck just above the collar of his shirt. "Me, too."

Maybe they'll remember, then. If not, John knows, it won't matter - no harm, no foul, just the pleasant, fuzzy memory of a moment when the world stood still and let him have a second's happiness.

He hopes, though. He hopes more strongly than he's allowed himself that particular emotion in a long time. If wishes were fishes, his grandmother used to say, and hopes are just as ephemeral.

But still.

The sound of the ocean changes slightly, growing minutely louder. John looks out over the surging waves. "How long do you think we've been here, you suppose?"

Rodney's forehead is warm and solid against John's neck. He doesn't move it, just lets his words fall where they will. "I wondered if you were going to notice." One lazy hand curves through the air. "No tidal shifts. None at all, and we've been here at least an hour or two."

"Oh," John says, thinking. "Do you think that means we only get the one day? That tomorrow we wake up back in Atlantis?"

"Probably," Rodney says. "Though I think today's been about twenty hours long so far."

John tilts his head down to drop a soft kiss onto Rodney's hair. "So we make tonight count, right?"

"Yeah." Rodney presses in closer. "We'll make it count."

The sun shines liquid gold above them, dying the sandcastle Atlantis in reds and mauves as it starts a more downward descent. John knows it's because they're thinking about it, wanting the feast and the time after.

"I wish there was some way to take a picture." Rodney's frowning, studying one tower that leans a little too much to the left, when in reality the actual tower leans right. "To capture this."

'This' means the sandcastle, John knows, but there's a hint of other that makes him smile. Maybe his hopes aren't so very ephemeral, after all.

"We should finish it," John says. He lets a finger run over the pier he's pretty sure is actually a jetty, remembering the grooves that go to nothing they've ever identified. "Shouldn't we?"

Rodney's chest brushes against John's arm with every slow breath. "Yeah, okay."

They break apart reluctantly to finish the castle, putting on more detail and sharpening edges. As the sun edges closer to the horizon, the resort staff members come down to the beach, setting up lounges and tables and another huge buffet. Two young men in short sarongs plant and light torches at the perimeter of the luau area.

Finally, Rodney steps back from their masterpiece, taking John's arm and drawing him away also.

"It's pretty good," John says. "The scale's probably off, though."

"I like it," Rodney says. "Let's go clean up a little."

They walk up the beach, shaking sand out of their shorts, and make their way to the cabana showers to rinse their hands and arms and feet. A savory scent assaults them, and John can almost see Rodney levitate, he breathes in so hard.

The tide is rising now, a more urgent sound to the cymbal crash on the shore. John lets Rodney salivate over each new dish as it's carried out, foil glinting, instead moving towards the edge of the lighted area. Water races up the beach, flirting with the edges Rodney had used a seashell to perfect. It isn't destroyed yet, but another twenty minutes or so and it'll be pulled into nothing, lost forever.

"You know, pudding," Lorne's voice floats around him before the man himself appears, grinning cheerily, "nothing's ever really lost forever. Memories are suspect, sure, just like everything is. But they're all we have. Now come on. I think your scientist's wondering where you've gotten to."

John's a little surprised to realize that Rodney had drifted away from him - he's parked next to one of the chefs, the speed of his hands whirling in the air giving away the importance of the conversation. John would bet it's about the evils of citrus or the joys of chocolate.

John spares the sandcastle one last glance. The tide is coming for it. He turns back to Rodney, unable to watch even an effigy of Atlantis destroyed.

Rodney meets him halfway and takes his hand to lead him to a large double lounger. He plants himself in the center and pulls John down to sit between his legs, resting against his chest. He wraps his arms around John's waist and puts his chin on John's shoulder.

There's a moment of huh? what?, and John goes thoughtlessly rigid, trying to pull a little away. Rodney just harrumphs into his ear and tightens his arms a little bit more. "Stop it."

"Rodney. Not a girl." Also, he's just a little too much taller then Rodney in the torso for this to be entirely comfortable, but he's not saying that. Rodney's called him 'beanpole' one too many times.

Rodney's fingers make a brief, meandering detour over John's cock, but before he can do more than squeak, Rodney's hand is gone and he's saying, "The evidence certainly suggests a lack of feminine features, yes."

He's torn. Does he answer with, so, the cuddling?, which he no longer really objects to now that the shock's worn off? Or does he come up with a quip about Rodney's need to bear-hug him in front of everyone? Or even something about the soft heat pressing into John's tail-bone, a reminder for what later might be?

It turns out to be none of the above. Rodney's just holding him, solid and strong, and after a moment's indecision, John melts. Lets his spine find that comfortable slouching curve, Rodney's body molding to his. Rodney's arms loosen after a moment, and a kiss is dropped onto his neck.

"It's gonna be uncomfortable, eating like this," John can't help but add. There's still an underlying tension he can't get rid of, contrary to his casual position.

"Oh, my god, will you stop being nervous? You're never nervous!"

"In my defense, I've never been the one in this position, before."

"Well, then it's about time you were. Shut up now." Rodney's arms tighten again, the hard curve of muscle oddly comforting as it rests heavily against John's belly.

Little by little, John manages to get comfortable. He scoots his hips down enough to even out the height differential, and slides slightly to the side to find the perfect spot to rest his head. He rests one of his hands lightly on Rodney's forearm and slides the other down to gently grip the large muscle of Rodney's thigh. By the time the sunset gets really spectacular, they're breathing in sync, eyes half-closed.

They start slightly as they hear a rush of running feet and the boom of drums, but fall back laughing when they realize it's a troupe of dancers running from behind to congregate on the beach, complete with flaming torches that they spin and toss, lighting up the night.

As the dancers and drums go wild, waiters circulate, discreetly passing out drinks. Rodney leans forward enough to tap the rim of his glass against John's, and they share a smile.

The dancing is spectacular, a combination of acrobatics and circus tricks, performed by glistening, sinuous bodies. Fire light gleams reds and oranges, flickering patterns that mesmerize until John is only just hanging on to his glass, nearly asleep. He's got a Rodney back-rest, thighs hard and snug against his own, a spectacle worthy of Cirque de Soliel - at least, he thinks since he's heard of their feats but never actually seen - and alcohol coursing warm and tingling through his body.

Nice. A feast for all the senses, once the scent of cooked food is factored in. Easy and simple and -

"You're staring at me."

Rodney doesn't deny it, half-smiling out of the corner of John's eye. "You're vain enough. Objecting?"

Not really, no. He is vain, if that means knowing how his looks affect other people, and he certainly likes the growing effect he's having on Rodney. Scrutiny is nothing new to him, but this is different. More intense.

"We need to get you fed," he says, changing the topic. "You're grumpy if you don't eat regularly. Where's that Lorne guy with our food?"

Rodney just laughs. Slow, at first, almost a giggle that grows rich and smooth like the mellowest merlot, pattering over John's skin like raindrops. There's nothing vaguely hysterical, or stressed, or wrong in Rodney's voice; just pure pleasure and shared amusement and John lets his eyes slide half-shut, enjoying the vibrations that dance up and down his back.

The dancing ends with a bang - literally - of drums and fire and final twists and flips, and the dancers run off as quickly as they'd arrived. One of the chefs announces that the buffets are open and people start milling around.

John takes the opportunity to put his glass onto a handy table and turn slightly in Rodney's arms. He lets his hand slide up Rodney's bare thigh as he leans in for a slow kiss. Rodney kisses back, rumbling low in his throat, and John lets his hand keep on sliding up until his fingers brush the warm skin of Rodney's balls, making him jump.

"Hmmmm, this commando thing has its merits." John grins against Rodney's mouth, stroking lightly.

"God," Rodney moans. "You're just made of sex, aren't you?"

"You like it," John says, fingers still moving busily.

Rodney sinks his teeth in John's lip, breathing fast and shallow. "That's entirely beside the point."

John curls a finger slightly back, letting his nails scrape behind the swell of Rodney's sac. Rodney jumps again, eyes fluttering appreciatively as he moans into John's temple. "You like it," John repeats, voice lower than before. "And you'll let me do it."

"Oh, god, you're like a cat. You don't care that we're in public, or that some people are very pointedly not looking at us, or, oh-oh, god. Calluses. Calluses good."

Rodney clearly knows what he's doing, crooked little half-smile at odds with the wonder in his voice. It's having the desired effect, too, as John tightens his grip the tiniest bit and pushes himself against Rodney's thigh. "Why Rodney, I think you're complimenting me. Besides. Don't tell me you don't like knowing everyone could watch."

There are several couples clearly engaged in something similar, but neither John nor Rodney cares about them. It's not the actual reality of being watched that appeals, just that it doesn't matter. John's hand grows bolder, the heel of his palm rubbing against the length of Rodney's cock.

Rodney kisses him desperately, and John takes it, in direct counterpoint to his hand working between them. It's hot - really hot, and John can't quite believe himself, being so blatant in public, and liking it so much.

Rodney pushes him back slightly, just enough to get one hand under his shirt, his wrist bent awkwardly. "I am about thirty seconds away from saying fuck dinner," he pants, nails scratching lightly through the hair on John's belly.

John leans his head against Rodney's neck, his own control (what little there is of it), stretched to breaking. "I know. Me, too." He tries to breathe deeply.

"Fuck."

John lets Rodney kiss the curse into his mouth. It's rare for Rodney to really swear like that - he's always oddly restrained, polite, even as he tears someone's supposed intelligence into shreds - and the guttural, grunting word sends sparks down to John's cock. "Yeah?"

Rodney arches, his cock slipping into the cup of John's palm perfectly. "You are such a tease," he hisses. "Forget about all the cock-blocking, you're a cocktease, and oh, god you're enjoying this."

Like Rodney isn't. Wet excitement slicks over John's skin and the musky scent of Rodney overwhelms the complex smells of food from behind them.

Slowly, John pulls his hand out of the leg of Rodney's shorts, and Rodney groans in frustration. His groan changes pitch when John moves back far enough to get his fingers to his mouth and lick at them delicately.

"You're some kind of sex monster," Rodney says, shuddering. "An incubus or a succubus - I can't remember which."

John just grins down at him, then relaxes a little to the side, easing the pressure on his own hard cock. He glances to the side and notices the cabana from earlier.

"I have an idea," he smirks.

"Does it involve touching me again? Because I'm okay with the in-public thing," Rodney babbles. "Anything. Please. I'm really not all that shy."

That's a blatant lie, John knows, but Rodney is flushed and staring, hands moving fitfully against John's ribs, and he means every word. He looks good like this, even with the slight hint of vulnerable desperation mingled in the lust. He looks like John's.

A short, hard kiss and John has to break away before he just ruts them here, with sky and ocean and everyone else to watch. "Come on," he says. The world wavers a moment as he pushes back onto his feet.

John leads Rodney to the cabana, which is lit by a pair of Chinese lanterns to a warm glow. He gets them inside and pushed Rodney to lean against a convenient counter.

"I believe I promised you a blowjob," he says, sinking to his knees.

Rodney's only answer is a low moan and the movement of his hands in John's hair. It's enough. John gets Rodney's shorts open and lets them fall to the floor, one hand gripping a hard thigh, the other guiding Rodney's cock to his mouth.

He wants to go fast and hard, but he forces himself to slow down. Yes, this is just to take the edge off, just enough to get them through dinner, but he wants to do it right. This is no furtive encounter in a bathroom or back room somewhere - this is Rodney, and John wants to make it memorable.

He takes as much as he can inside his mouth, forcing himself to breathe through his nose as he just holds it. His tongue moves, can't help that and Rodney tastes good, bitter salt and hot life, but he ignores the impulse for quick and dirty. He's done that: dingy bathrooms, the back of the barracks when everyone's gone - that's about getting off as fast as possible, not giving your partner pleasure.

When he finally slides back so that only the head is in his mouth, Rodney gives a groan so low John feels the subharmonics more than hears the actually sound. "Oh, god, John," Rodney whimpers which is the hottest thing ever.

John rewards him by licking over the head, tongue wet and strong, finding the slit and teasing it just the tiniest bit. Bitter precome floods his mouth, and John laps away all of it before sliding back down, taking Rodney inside again.

It feels good - powerful. He's the one making Rodney shake and moan, he's the one that's taken all of Rodney's words away. He slips down further, bending his head to let Rodney's cock skirt the edge of his throat before pulling back with a long, strong suck. He grabs a quick breath and repeats the motion, his senses filled with Rodney's sounds, Rodney's taste.

The fingers in his hair tighten down, and the little bit of pain is good, too - welcome sharpness. His own cock is iron-hard in his pants, but he can ignore it for the moment, intent on giving Rodney everything he's got.

His jaw aches after a while; it's been a long time since he's done this, and never for this long continuously, but Rodney is whispering promises through his fingers, broken moans and stuttering, choked off cries as he's systematically turned into one long, aching nerve. His hips bunch and tense against John's palms - not enough to actually thrust, but enough to know that he wants to. That maybe someday, John will just relax his throat and let Rodney move inside him, fucking away every bit of stress and upset and -

He has to pull off, damp forehead against Rodney's thigh as he shudders, so close without a single touch. He's clumsy as he finds Rodney's cock, jacking it, waiting for Rodney to say something. Insult, concern, praise, it doesn't matter - just something.

Instead, Rodney runs the edge of his nails gently up John's skull, ruffling the hair backwards. It's shiver-inducing and John's grip firms automatically. "Needed a breather," John says.

Rodney doesn't say anything, eyes a reflective smear above. His hand cups John's cheek, gentle, thumb moving over the arch of a cheekbone. John lets his head be moved, opening his mouth to take Rodney in again with a sigh of contentment.

This time, John doesn't go for slow and easy. They're both too keyed up, and John's not sure how much longer he can keep this up. He moves faster, one hand around the base of Rodney's cock, stroking the length that he can't quite get into his mouth. He sucks harder, and gets his other hand down to his pants, through the button and zip and into his boxers, pulling his cock out.

Rodney's hands grip his shoulders, bracing and balancing him so that he can find the perfect rhythm for both of them. "Oh, god, John," he moans. "So close."

John knows he can't do any of the porn-star moves he wants, but there is something. Taking Rodney as deep as he can, John swallows. It isn't around Rodney, but against him, John gagging slightly as the blunt head of Rodney's cock presses against his throat muscles.

Rodney hisses something that might be fuck and might be Fermi. His cock is twitching inside John's mouth, though, so it's a good reaction.

John does it again.

Rodney's fingers turn hard in John's shoulder, digging five points of pain that don't hurt at all. "God," he moans again, hips stuttering just a little bit. "Yes, yeah, please, John."

The broken, pleading voice is all John needs. His hand moves faster, tugging hard and fast on his own cock as he swallows on the downstroke one more time.

Bitter, sour-salt floods his mouth. John moans with each pulse, swallowing as quickly as he can, listening to Rodney heave and whimper as he comes, and that's enough. That's more than enough, John twisting his wrist and coming himself, even as a tiny bit of Rodney's release escapes down his chin.

Everything shakes, his hands, his body, Rodney - it's like the world's smallest, most localized earthquake, and he lets go of his dick to clutch Rodney's thigh with his sticky hand, trying to ride out the aftershocks. Rodney's hands finally let go of his shoulders, but they stay close, rubbing his back and his head, gentling them both. John lets Rodney's spent cock slip out of his mouth so he can rest his forehead against one padded hipbone, panting to catch his breath.

Rodney's breathing is none too steady either. "Jesus, John." With that, he pushes John back so he can slide bonelessly to the floor. He opens his arms and John lets himself collapse against Rodney's chest.

John's eyes close, face buried in neck and shoulder as he licks his lips and tongue. "See? I keep my promises."

Laughter extends the shakes even as their breathing evens out. Rodney's hands are big and purposeful as they knead up the tendons in John's neck, find the points - well, point, since one is hidden in Rodney's shoulder - of John's jaw to rub that as well. "You keep them like that and I'm going to need a back brace. Have you always been this horny?"

John groans as the sorest point of his jaw is manipulated. "Uh. Are you complaining?" Because the answer is yes.

Snorting, Rodney rolls them so that he can look at John's face. "I'd answer that with sarcasm, but since you've just sucked every bit of intelligence I have out my dick, instead I'm going to glare witheringly at you and try and come up with something that makes your back pop when you come."

John feels himself flushing a little, but he gives Rodney his best cheeky grin, sore jaw and all. "Well, I can think of a couple of things offhand..."

Rodney laughs and kisses him. "Sex monster."

John kisses him back, then struggles to his feet, holding his boxers and shorts around his hips until he finds a handy towel to clean up with. He helps Rodney up, and they take a couple of minutes to pull each other back together, stopping every few seconds to kiss or touch or nuzzle.

"Feed me," Rodney finally growls. "Food now - and no more sexy touching for a bit. I need to gather my strength for later."

The word later makes John's dick give a half-hearted twitch, but he just smiles and takes Rodney's hand.

"You see," Rodney murmurs, breath suddenly hot against his ear, "now I owe you."

John stumbles and Rodney takes advantage of that to pull his hand away, smirking as he grabs a plate from the head of the line. Despite the other couples happily eating, each new dish appears untouched as lids are removed. Rodney moans ecstatically as he piles his plate with pineapple rice and dumplings and slices of tender, succulent pork.

John follows behind more sedately, but the mountain of food he receives is just as high.

They find their place as they left it, only with the addition of fresh drinks and a merrily glowing hurricane lamp on a small side table.

John settles in and smiles, listening to Rodney make porn noises over the food. He's still a little chagrined that Rodney food noises are not equal to Rodney sex noises, but it's still fun to listen while he eats.

They go for seconds, Rodney even hurrying back for thirds. The level of food never appreciably dips, but Rodney still eats too fast, like he's afraid the mango-salsa draped over lightly grilled fish will actually vanish if he leaves it for too long.

Rodney catches his raised eyebrow and surprisingly flushes, pink dyed a more golden color from the lamp-light. "Sorry. Do you know how hard it is to find Hawaiian food that doesn't have citrus? They put lemon in everything, which means I don't get to have it that often."

Belligerent without being abusive, defensive but not hysterically so; John lets his mouth curve in a smirk as he leans forward. "Mostly I was wondering how to get you to sound like that for me."

Yup. More flushing. Rodney's scowling now, eating only a touch more slowly. "I'd like to see your reaction to food you've had to basically give up on," he mutters.

His reaction would probably be the same, John knows, except he's never been all that focused on what he eats. He has favorites, things he enjoys, but so long as he gets enough balance to be healthy, it's all the same to him. Soldiers survive on cast-iron stomachs and not being picky, and military brats - particularly army brats - learn that rule at an early age.

God, just thinking about government cheese can give him nightmares.

Eventually, Rodney's plate is empty but for the beaded, liquid remains of what he's eaten - and something white, gelatinous, and wiggling slightly when Rodney pokes at it. "Poi," he moans. "Real poi."

"What the hell is poi?" John says, looking askance at the blobbish... stuff.

Rodney scoops some up on two fingers and holds them out to John. "It's made from taro root. Here, try it."

John is really unsure, but he's not one to back down from a challenge. He leans forward and takes Rodney's fingers into his mouth. He very enthusiastically licks and sucks them clean, barely tasting the poi over the flavor of Rodney. By the time he's done, Rodney's eyes are wide and he's breathing a little erratically. John sits back, grinning his sexiest grin.

"Um," Rodney says. There are words there, lots of them seething like fish waiting for breadcrumbs to fall, but Rodney's not speaking, just sitting there and staring with his brain firmly turned to off - or maybe turned on. John's okay with that. He doesn't get to fluster Rodney into speechlessness all that often, and anyway - Rodney had issued this particular challenge. Nice that it backfired on him.

"Don't you like this stuff?" John scoops up a fingerful of the stuff, which is cold and sticky, holding it out to Rodney. "I wouldn't want to eat all of yours."

Rodney lets out a thin, thready whimper as he leans forward, eyes sliding closed as his mouth slides over John's fingers. A tentative tongue, surprising given how Rodney talks and kisses, flutters against the pads, carefully removing the poi with fleeting touches that send nerves racing up John's arm and down to his cock.

He's miscalculated a tiny bit, he realizes as Rodney pulls back, then slides back even more deeply than before, tongue broad and almost rough as it curls between his fingers. Maybe not just a tiny bit, actually, because John should've known that Rodney would be more than just proficient at giving head.

And suddenly John's right back to must fuck now, marveling a bit at his own reactions. There's horny and then there's ridiculous. He mentally shrugs and chalks it up to magic. That, however, doesn't do much to stifle the urge to have his cock in Rodney's mouth as soon as he can manage it.

He looks down at their plates. "You done?"

Rodney's smile is just as breathless and horny and sly. "What did you have in mind?" he asks, sliding his plate onto the table.

John looks up and meets Rodney's gaze. "Anything you want, Rodney," he says. "Everything you want."

The noises of people talking and silverware clattering on emptying plates recedes. There's only Rodney in front of him, the sound of his breath and the way his leg touches John's.

"No limitations?" There's just a hint of surprise in Rodney's voice, as if John's absolute acceptance is unexpected. Why after the past several hours, John doesn't know - but then Rodney's sliding his hand so that it rests millimeters from John's, heat tantalizing him across the cool plastic table. "I'm good with no limitations."

John can practically see the theories and tests Rodney's devising for him, spangled like the setting sun is in Rodney's eyes. He licks his lips, wanting to touch Rodney - needing it - but when his hand moves, so does Rodney's, maintaining the distance.

It's more potent than any dance John's ever participated in. "So, we done here?" His voice is rough and hoarse, like he's smoking cigars and he likes that it makes Rodney shudder, eyes fluttering close in appreciation. "Because I'm not really so hungry anymore."

"Yeah," Rodney says, his voice low. "We're done here." He's careful not to touch John while they get up, maintaining a half-foot or so between their bodies. John wants to close the gap, but he knows his earlier words for what they were - acquiescence, surrender - so he'll follow Rodney's lead.

It seems like a mile back to their suite, and it's like John's gone selectively deaf. All he can hear is Rodney's breathing - not the ocean, not the breeze, not the music still coming from the luau. John can just see the roof of their hut when Rodney's hand snakes out and snaps around his bicep, pulling them together.

"This is going to be so good," Rodney says, just before he kisses him.

John moans his agreement, opening his mouth for Rodney's clever, talented tongue. Rodney kisses him harder than before, no longer held back by the barest hint of reticence John hadn't recognized then. He knows it now, though, because Rodney is bruising his lips, teaching him tricks and showing him things that turn his knees to jelly and his cock to achingly ready steel.

When Rodney finally pulls back they're both breathless. He doesn't let go of his hold, just turns and tows a completely unresisting John back to the hut. John tries not to be grateful for the assistance - he's been desperate, he's been greedy, he's even been charmingly romantic.

But he can't think of a time when he was the one swept off his feet, tottering behind the long, purposeful strides of a man who knows what he wants and is going to have it.

He likes it. He's pretty sure he'll like anything when it comes to Rodney and sex with Rodney.

In their suite, Rodney halts them in the middle of the front room, caressing his face. The position hunches his shoulders, framing the intense gaze as John's face is studied and memorized. "Pick some music," he says, leaning forward for a kiss that leaves John's lower lip throbbing from a bite. "Something soft."

John's not sure of his balance, but he makes it to the stereo without stumbling. He briefly considers putting Rocket to Russia on, but his breath catches in his chest at the thought of Rodney fucking him to that tempo. Instead, he fumbles for something that says piano and romantic on the case and gets it started.

When he turns back to the center of the room, Rodney isn't there. He's leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, and his eyes are gleaming in the half-light. He doesn't say anything, he just waits, and it's more powerful than any command. All John wants is those hands on him, that mouth on his own, and he doesn't understand it, because it's never happened this way before.

He takes a second to breathe deeply, trying to reclaim his cool, and when he looks at Rodney again, he knows that he's not hiding a thing. Rodney holds a hand out, and John's across the room in an instant.

Rodney's crooked smile feels like a reward, and the kiss that feels bestowed definitely is. "Andante sostenuto," he says, backing John into the bedroom.

Fingers are tracing above the low-slung waist of John's shorts, tiny darts and dips that set off a crackle of want in his belly. "What?"

Grinning, Rodney bites down hard where he'd bitten not a few minutes earlier, then sucks lightly on the resulting throb. "Liszt. The B-minor sonatas. I've played this."

John wants to comment, but his knees have hit the edge of the mattress, and he's tumbling onto the bed. Gentle notes cascade over him, echoing each movement as Rodney carefully undresses him, ivory kisses placed over each new stretch of skin. John wants to help - tries - but Rodney pushes his hands away, humming along with each swell and settle of the music as he bares John to his gaze. His touch.

Kneeling between John's wide-flung legs, Rodney grazes the inside of John's thigh, cupping his balls, and carding long fingers through the curls at the base of John's cock. "Don't move. Okay? Don't."

John just blinks. He can't speak, too afraid the grating sound of his voice will shatter the cocoon Rodney's wrapped him in. He can't nod, either, because that's moving and Rodney's said not to. To hold still, like some of his first ever orders back when he was too young to understand the reasons behind them, and Rodney's mouth is wet and sweet as he takes John all the way in, all the way down.

God, it's so good. Rodney's mouth is so hot, and his tongue is exactly as nimble as John expects it to be, based on the speed at which Rodney talks, the way he kisses. He's not even really sucking, just holding and moving up and down slowly enough to make John's legs shake uncontrollably. And, apparently, Rodney doesn't have much of a gag reflex, a thought that makes John groan quietly and clutch at the covers with both hands.

Rodney's hands move to his hips, petting gently over the points of bone, sending shivery sensations through John's belly. Rodney pulls up and off for a moment, just long enough to place a soft line of kisses across John's abdomen and to look up at him.

"Good?" he asks, like he doesn't know.

John can't look away from Rodney's eyes as he nods.

Rodney's smile is sweet, not smug or proud but some how incorporating both into the pure, innocent pleasure of making someone else feel good. John's breath catches in his throat because generous has never been a way he's imagined Rodney as a lover, but it's the only word that possibly fits.

"Good," Rodney repeats, honestly and simply grateful that John's enjoying him. His forehead gleams as he bends back down, skin flushed nearly as pink as his wet, wet mouth sliding down to the base of John's cock, nose rubbing against John's stomach. He pushes at John's hips, spreading his legs wider, so that his torso can brush against the bed in a position that has to hurt like hell.

Mostly because now Rodney's bobbing, as quick as a whore desperate to make the john just get off already, and it's hot and dirty and better because John knows Rodney's not going to let him come so quickly. Or maybe even not at all as Rodney makes a displeased noise and tugs John's balls away from his body.

"You can't possibly be ready to pop so soon," he accuses, lips brushing against the head with every syllable. "You've come, what, four time already? Please remember you're a thirty-something year old man and you're supposed to have self-control. It'll make my job easier."

His eyes are twinkling and he looks so happy, like John's lack of stamina is just icing on the cake.

"You," John says, licking dry lips before smiling down at Rodney, whose lips are teasing the head of his cock, whose fingers are cradling him go gently. "You do this to me."

"Damn right." Rodney's reply is more growl than anything, and the possessiveness of it starts a low burn in John's gut. If Rodney wants him to last, he's going to have to curb the caveman stuff, apparently.

Rodney must sense it, because he eases back and lets John go, which makes him moan again at the loss of touch. Rodney gets to his feet and strips off his clothes, his eyes never leaving John's.

"Anything?" he asks. John nods. "Everything?" John nods again.

Rodney's smile is equal parts wicked and joyful.

"We need to freeze time in a bottle," Rodney murmurs distractedly, attention more on the placement of fingers that press and scratch John into shivery exhalations. "Or press pause on the magical remote."

"Oh?" He says it mostly to force himself to breathe.

"Keep up, John. I already told you it's been forever since I had time to do this. And one of the most valuable resources of any good scientist is time. There's always so much to do."

Like trace over John's sac with his tongue, sucking first one, then almost both of his balls into his mouth at the same time.

John moans, unsure of just how he's going to survive Rodney's explorations of the limits of time. He looks down and catches Rodney's gaze.

"I bet you could find a cockring in that drawer," he says, inclining his head toward the bed table.

Rodney's eyes widen, and he lifts himself away from John's body to crawl up beside him. He leans over and opens the drawer. John can't see what he's doing, not without moving, and there's no way he's doing that without Rodney's permission. He does see Rodney pull out a tube of lube and place it on the table. When Rodney turns back to him, there's no ring, but he's holding a length of black silk in his hand. He moves up to the head of the bed and threads the silk between the spindles of the headboard. John feels an end of the scarf pressed into each of his palms.

"Hold on," Rodney says. "I'm not going to tie you or restrain you in any way. I want you to stay still - and not come - because you want to. For me."

"Jesus." John's hips work against nothing, eyes tightly closed as he forces himself still, forces himself away from the orgasm that boils in the flashes behind his eyelids. "Rodney."

His can hear the grin, feel it the way Rodney strokes down the center of his chest. "Mm. Thought you might like that." Kisses are trailed over his belly back down to his cock where Rodney begins sucking on him again.

As hot as this is - and god, John's aching with frustration, grinding his teeth until they threaten to crack - what makes it hotter is that Rodney knows. He understands why bonds aren't something John's ready for, maybe ever, and the implicit trust that 'failure' is just another part of the game to play.

John's never been one for dumb blondes, but he's never been with someone who's as scary brilliant as Rodney is. A hysterical thought bubbles up as the tight v below the head of his cock is scraped with sharp teeth. Once you go genius...there's no rhyming couplet to end the thought and he lets it go. His arms are trembling with the effort of gripping sweat-damp silk, and each hitching breath has Rodney humming contentedly.

He's fighting it as hard as he can, but the sensations are so much more than he's ever had - he's already balancing on a knife edge, and he doesn't want to break. At least, not yet.

"Rodney," he says, then breaks off into an incoherent noise when tongue and teeth trace his length.

"Yes, John?" Rodney sounds so much more patient than he usually does that it makes John's breath hitch.

"Will you," he closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again. "Can you come up here and kiss me?"

Rodney's at his side almost faster than he can register the motion, his big hands reaching for John's face. "Yes," he says, just before he covers John's mouth with his own. "Even though I think you're trying to distract me."

John sighs into the kiss, grateful for even a thirty second reprieve as Rodney flicks his tongue into his mouth, counting fillings, it feels like. It's supposed to be relief, at least, because after just a few moments of languid, possessive kissing that makes John's toes curl, Rodney does something else.

It's not quantifiable, no moves John knows how to break down, but Rodney goes from kissing him, sharing breath and enthusiasm, to fucking John's mouth with his tongue. The pace is punishing, as harsh and raw as when John was inside Rodney, and he groans, hands spasming tight around his bonds as his momentary reprieve vanishes like sandcastles under a wave of pure lust.

John really thinks he's going to break under the onslaught, and how embarrassing would that be - to come from just kissing. He has to twist his head away, and when Rodney looks at him, he can feel the pleading look on his face.

"Please, Rodney," he begs. "You're killing me." He swallows hard, then continues. "I... I want to be good for you."

And, suddenly, John's not the only one skirting the line, because something in his voice or in his words has Rodney gasping and closing his eyes and shaking.

"Okay," Rodney says, voice wobbling and rough, like he's just inhaled too much. "Okay, you saying that without any trace of irony? That's...that's - " He breaks off, turning away to visibly get control of himself. "That's just so incredibly hot."

John doesn't have Rodney's grace - and there's a previously unthinkable thought - and can't stop himself from looking smug. Nothing he's said is untrue, but he's had a chance to breathe now, to try and calm the pounding of his heart. It gives him the strength to lean back down against the bed, fingers digging into slick silk as he widens his legs in clear invitation.

Rodney's response is to narrow his eyes and lean forward. "We need to play chess," he snaps. There's some kind of code behind the words, but John doesn't know what that it is. Doesn't care. Rodney's mouth is back around his cock, teasing out breathy, whimpering moans that make John shiver even harder when he hears himself.

John can hear his own voice, but he can't really make out the words, but he knows they're just some slurred amalgam of "Rodney" and "please" and assorted curses. Rodney's mouth is so hot, his fingers so sharp where they dig into his hipbones, that he knows he's going to have to trust Rodney to bring him back from the brink this time, because his control is shot.

And, just when he feels himself about to come, Rodney's mouth is gone and his fingers are there, and John would curl up in a tight, whimpering ball of sexual frustration, if Rodney wasn't weighing his legs down.

Rodney's quiet, almost wordless murmurs soon over take the harsh pant of his own breathing. One molecule at a time, John puts himself back together, relaxing under fond rise and fall of Rodney's voice gentling him.

"M'not a cat," he tries to say. It comes out slurred and broken, but John's too far to care.

"No? Say that to someone who hasn't seen you wake up in the morning." Rodney's hands move over him, a glancing touch as fleeting as a kiss here, a twist and hard pressure of a pinch there. He's winding John back up again, pushing him into deeper waters than John thinks he's ever been. This kind of blank-white yes that lurks behind his eyes, waiting on his tongue just in case Rodney asks him to give it - that's new. Different. Good.

He'd hate to be too old to learn new things.

"Can fuck me," he offers when Rodney uses teeth and tongue to set of fireworks against his inner thigh. "Can."

"I know," Rodney says. "Anything. Everything." He punctuates his words with soft licks that swirl the hair on John's thigh. "And I will, soon."

"Won't last," John says, knowing it's true. Even if he manages to hold off until Rodney's ready to fuck him, he knows he'll come the second that thick cock stretches him.

"You will," Rodney says, and there's a tread of iron in his voice. "You'll wait for me."

Air fills his throat, cold and sharp as John nods, too choked to speak. Almost, he could hate Rodney for tormenting him like this, ruthlessly abusing his body and siphoning off bits and pieces of his mind to play with at the same time. Rodney is using him, in non-therapy-inducing or harlequin ways. He's taking everything he knows about John, and the military, and who knows what else, putting it together so fast that John can only blink as another secret is ferreted out to bind him more completely to Rodney.

"Might not." It's statistically possible, at any rate, and John's never thought of himself as particularly obedient even when he wants to be. It's the paradox of his life: a military man from cradle to grave, and a man who only cedes control to those he respects, a precious, precious few.

Rodney's been in that group for a long time.

Rodney's got one leg up, letting his tongue flutter against the back of John's thigh, sensitive where he'd never known it before. A sharp, stinging bite makes John curse, voice breaking on the hissing exclamation, but then Rodney's soothing it again, caressing the hurt away. "Nothing is impossible, of course," Rodney tells him, face framed by John's legs. "But you'll wait."

John nods again, then licks his dry lips. "Could you...not touch me for a minute?"

Rodney laughs then, but it's not unkind. He lowers John's leg back onto the bed, but not before letting his fingers run all the way down to the crease between ass and thigh. As John shivers, Rodney pulls away, until he's lying beside him with a respectable six inches of open bed between their bodies.

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, holding it for a second before releasing it slowly. He does it again, and the oxygen helps him to think more clearly, get a bit of a grip on his emotions. One more deep breath, and his guts aren't hurting quite so much, his cock doesn't feel like the skin is going to split from the pressure.

It's then that he hears the sounds of what Rodney's doing beside him.

There's another snap and then a quiet, grunting sigh of a man who knows exactly how to touch himself. Clear, sticky liquid glistens against Rodney's hand and cock as he strokes himself. There's nothing urgent about the touch, nothing that says yes, now, yes, right away. It's languid, lazy almost. Habitual, hand stroking up and down, twisting midway to some pattern John can't decipher, gliding along a plateau of formless, unhurried, goalless pleasure.

Rodney's watching him. His eyes move over John's body, studying him like the texts Rodney devours, English, Ancient, even the occasional German. John wonders what language his body is, and whether Rodney requires translation.

Carefully licking his lips, John turns only his head so he can watch the rhythmic pull, end over end, of Rodney's hand over his cock. "Mm," he says, lips already dry again.

"Yes?" Rodney says, like John is interrupting something, which he is.

"Is that for me?" John asks, finally sure enough of his control to play a little.

"Maybe," Rodney says. "But, I think you'll have to ask for it."

"Ask?" John says, stretching himself out even longer and leaner under Rodney's gaze. "Not beg?"

Rodney does something against the head of his own cock, toying with the foreskin, while his head tilts back in enjoyment. "Hm?"

It's answer enough, in a way. John swallows, almost choking when Rodney does something like a wave over the head of his cock - John knows what that feels like, now, the almost-painful way it builds. "Asking. I mean. I'm asking. I want."

"My, my. So very articulate."

God damn Rodney's control. John almost misses the way Rodney used to panic at everything, because he's always secretly enjoyed calming him down again. "Rodney, let me suck you. Please."

"I thought this was all about me sucking you?"

"Nah," John says, memorizing the motion of Rodney's hand. "All about us, whatever we want. And I want to suck your cock."

"Well, if you're going to put it so nicely." Rodney rolls back toward the bedside table and pulls a cloth out of the drawer, wiping the lube from his cock. He gets to his knees and throws one leg over so that he's straddling John's chest, his cock an inch from John's lower lip. Rodney presses forward, but stops when John's tongue flicks out to taste him.

"Wait," Rodney says.

He can't help it - arousal turns into a magnesium strip of frustrated anger. "Why?" he demands. He wants Rodney's cock in his mouth, thick enough that his jaw aches just from thinking about, his shoulder straining to keep his head at the right angle while Rodney's weight pushes him into the mattress.

Uncertainty crosses Rodney's expressive face, and John feels instantly contrite. He deliberately releases the crumpled, sweaty silk from his right hand and brings it up to cup Rodney's face.

"Sorry," he says quietly. Rodney's eyes sweep closed and his face presses into John's palm.

"I thought you wanted..." Rodney murmurs.

"I do." And he does, he's never stopped wanting it. He knows that even if neither of them remember (if Rodney - no, he won't, he can't) the next morning, John will still wake wanting it. Craving and begging for it with whispered pleas deep within his own mind, even if he has no idea what it is he needs so much.

Rodney half-grin is genuine, if a little vulnerable. "So. Apparently you do have limits."

The comment hurts a little. John can hear 'the Great Colonel Sheppard' in Rodney's voice, something he's hated ever since it was his father getting such obeisance. But it's true. He does have limits. He can't read minds. He sweats and he grumbles, and he fucks up, and he tries to fix it and it's all so human, and in a way, that's good too. Because Rodney may sound rueful but he looks relieved.

"Yeah," John rasps. Just in case. "I do."

His hand is still against Rodney's cheek. Stubble prickles the sensitive skin, heat making his fingers want to curl and for a moment...it's almost too much. Almost, the mood is shattered and it's just two men, not quite sure of themselves or what the other one wants.

Then Rodney grins, slow and unbearably sexy, turning his head so he can nip at John's thumb, a white streak of heat that tingles afterward. He's still holding his cock, letting the head hang a few inches before John's mouth; slowly, he strokes himself, twisting so his nails glint in the moonlight, sure to catch John's attention.

Up and down, pale pink against red, foreskin framing the blood-dark and shiny head that John wants to taste right now. He inhales, licking his lips - and that's all they need. Flash, magnesium gone without even leaving a residue, and John's desperate again, gripping silk that's rough from his own sweat, mindlessly straining forward for Rodney's cock and Rodney's come.

"I thought I told you to wait," Rodney says, mild as milk. His eyes burn, though, sapphires glittering with a sun's power.

John freezes in place and very deliberately forces himself to relax back against the pillow and wait, but he can't tear his eyes away from Rodney's to look down demurely, instead holding that gaze to himself like hoarded coffee or the last chocolate. He doesn't know why, but Rodney finding and acknowledging his limits with such gentle attention could be the hottest thing yet.

Rodney pushes his hips forward and brushes John's lips with the head of his cock, watching avidly as John's tongue flicks out to taste.

"You're beautiful," Rodney says breathlessly. "The most fucking beautiful thing in the world."

"So fuck me," John says.

Rodney's breath rattles at that. He coughs, pulling back to gain control of himself - an impossibility when John moans brokenly, straining after Rodney's cock.

"Oh, god. Okay." The tremor in his voice is excitement, not uncertainty, but John's probably the only one who'll know the difference. Rodney looks down, obviously chewing on the inside of his lip, and then nods abruptly. "Right. Which is it that you want? To take me all the way inside you and fuck you till you're screaming?"

John's vision goes blurry because yes. He can see that, almost bent in two, legs over Rodney's shoulders as the bed shudders underneath them from each powerful thrust -

"Or...I can fuck your throat. The way you wanted, back there, and didn't let me do." Rodney leans over him, weight on the headboard to stare down with that implacable intensity from before. The one that says he may be giving John a choice, but it's Rodney who's making the decisions. And it's Rodney that wins either way. "I can sit on your shoulders and slide over your tongue until all you can taste is me."

Dirty talk, John thinks hysterically, very good. Unusual from Rodney, but very good.

Rodney nods, like he's come to a decision, and very gently removes John's hand from his face, moving it back to the end of the silk scarf. "Hold on," he says. "Just a little longer. I'll take it away when I fuck you. I want you to be free to touch me then. But hold on to it while I do this."

This is a push and a shuffle and a quick move, and Rodney's exactly where he said he'd be, legs spread wide over John's shoulders, and the entire length of his cock sliding slowly into John's mouth.

He lets out a long sigh as it goes in, and the rush of air makes Rodney moan in return. "Take it," he grunts, and John does, opening mouth and throat as best he can, his tongue tracing patterns against the hot skin. Between the position and Rodney's weight pinning him down and the voluntary hold of the silk scarf, he's helpless. He had no idea it would feel so damn good.

Rodney's almost too heavy against him, flattening muscles into that striated white of compression against bone. The hard curve of his knees kiss into John's arms, flaring points that don't hurt only because the sensation is so overwhelming, sparking up his nerves to keep his cock again, his mouth almost too wet as Rodney pushes in even deeper.

"God," Rodney moans. His eyes are locked on the way John's lips are pushed flat and then too-full as Rodney moves in and out, fucking into John's mouth. He's panting, tiny moans and puffs of sound slipping out on each exhale. "God, so hot."

John almost quirks an eyebrow. He's never seen himself giving a blowjob before, but the way Rodney's watching him - devouring him with back-lit blue eyes - he wishes he could. Would his mouth be berry red, lips swollen and fuller from the constant rasp of velvet skin? Will he look as debauched and as blissed-out as he feels?

This is different from the prior blow-job. The sense of control, of doing this is gone. There's just Rodney's cock, sliding deeper and deeper into his mouth, the frantic inability to time his breathing as the thrusts quicken, Rodney somehow growing even thicker on his tongue.

John's got no control, not even a little, and it's sexy and scary and he likes it much more than he probably should. All he can do is try to keep the suction going and try to snatch a breath when he needs one and keep his fingers twisted into the abused silk in his hands.

He's just managed a much-needed breath when Rodney pushes all the way in and freezes, knees bearing down, eyes squeezed tightly shut, hands practically melding with the wood of the headboard.

"Swallow," Rodney says, his voice thready, and John does, feeling his throat close over the end of Rodney's cock. Rodney pulls out slowly, and he gets another breath before his mouth and throat are filled again. When Rodney's all the way in, John swallows again, and he feels the shudder that wracks Rodney's body reverberating through his own.

There've only been two girls to ever do this to John, and he's never been entirely certain that, well. That they'd done it right, since it'd felt warm and wet and tight, sure, but not really any different from the sensation thirty seconds before that moment.

Here, though, John can see the way Rodney goes rigid, face twisted in a grimace that holds nothing of pain, the way he practically stops breathing.

John uses up the last of his air to moan.

Sound cascades over John's body, but he's too busy desperately inhaling as Rodney pulls back to try and identify it. It doesn't let up, not even as John licks sore lips and the head of Rodney's cock at the same time, wanting him back inside, filling him until his throat aches like he was sick, too cold and empty without Rodney's heat. "Mm," he encourages, opening his mouth and only just stopping from straining his neck to push himself back to where it was so good.

That's when he realizes the noise is Rodney. Whispering. Fuck and oh, god please and can't wait, so perfect and can't believe you're doing this and most of all John, oh god John.

The litany washes over him, white and blinding like sunlight seen through water's tint. John moans, hips working helplessly against air, and it's only the memory of Rodney telling John that he'll be good because he wants to be that keeps him from coming.

"Please, please, please," he chants. The words are meaningless because Rodney's pushing back in, soft, broken sounds accompanying each swallow of John's throat around the head of his cock. But the sound of them seems to make Rodney want more, to move just a tiny bit faster, and John's never wanted anyone as badly as he wants Rodney right at this moment.

On the next thrust, one of Rodney's hands drops down from the headboard to John's neck, the web between thumb and forefinger snug underneath his jaw, and John wonders if Rodney can feel what John feels - the way his cock fills John's throat, the stretch and pulse of it, the soft slide as Rodney pulls back.

And this time Rodney pulls all the way back, leaving John's mouth empty, his weight pulling away from John's torso.

"No," John moans, but that sound is cut off with another moan, this one of pain, when the blood rushes back into the starved tissues of his chest and shoulders and arm, where Rodney was bearing down on him. Rodney rains gentle kisses all over his face as he rubs at his neck and shoulders, and all John can do is lie there dumbly, his body flooding with pain and pleasure.

"It's okay," Rodney says, his fingers finding all the spots that have knotted up due to the strain of holding on for so long. He gently pries the silk scarf from John's fingers and lets it slide to the floor. He kisses the side of John's throat. "That was unbelievable," he says. "But I have to fuck you now. Can't wait any more."

John flexes his hands and rolls his shoulders. He's never been so hard for so long - never denied himself for so long, and it hurts; a deep, soft ache that runs all through him. He's thrumming with pleasure, vibrating to some frequency that only Rodney can understand.

"Yeah," he says, his voice thick and harsh. "Please, Rodney."

Lube is a cold shock against touch-starved skin, wet and everywhere. He's blind, lost in the shifting clouds in his own mind, but he still manages to lift his legs, hooking numb hands behind his knees so Rodney has room. One finger becomes two, and then three, far slower than John thinks he can stand.

"Now," he repeats. The word is just syllables, meaning lost into the flush of Rodney's skin, and if he doesn't fuck him right now John's going to break the game, roll them so Rodney's underneath and John can just impale himself -

But Rodney knows that somehow. There's no laughter, no you're not really good at this, are you?, because he is good at it. When it's Rodney, anyway, because Rodney always knows when John's about to jump, now, and can usually guess which way.

The fingers vanish, leaving an aching emptiness that only intensifies the pain that rides his blood, fuzzy against the base of his cock. He wants to moan, to arch up in a wordless plea - but he can't. All he can do is lie there, legs rough against his chest, waiting. Accepting.

There's no finesse when Rodney enters him. None of the skill he's so cleverly displayed before. Just one long, steady push, forcing his way past muscles not quite as stretched as they could be, a body long unfamiliar with this kind of activity. It hurts, red latticing behind his eyelids like blood on sky, and John arches violently, crying out as his body takes and takes and takes and still wants more.

Rodney is gasping over him, shaking hard and pressing their bodies together with all the power in his stocky frame.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chants, ruthlessly holding himself rigid. "Don't want to hurt you."

John's so far past coherent he might never get back. All he knows is that Rodney is in him, with him, splitting him open, and the initial shock of pain is giving way to something else. It's better than pleasure - deeper, truer. A clean, cold shock like he felt when that first wave took him under and tumbled him along the ocean's bottom with unimaginable power. He manages to get his hands free and to wrap arms and legs tightly around Rodney's body, to wrench his head into position to kiss Rodney's jaw. John takes a deep breath and nudges his hips up as far as he can, which isn't far.

"Yeah?" Rodney moans, his body quivering with the strain of not moving.

"Oh, god, yes." It's almost a prayer.

Rodney's "oh, thank god," is a prayer. There's something unbearably fragile in his voice, a sense of wonder and gratefulness that's almost abject.

None of that translates to his body: his hips pull back, sure and steady, then thrust forward until John can feel Rodney's sac against the curve of his ass. Then again, still slow and perfect and hard, going as deep as he can.

John groans. He can't help it, rolling his own hips in a plea for more.

"No." Rodney shifts his weight, putting one sweaty hand on John's hip, fingers tight over the swell of his ass, holding him still. "Don't."

He can feel himself shattering. Not moving now is nearly impossible, instinct driving him up for more skin, more of the tantalizing rough scrape of Rodney's wiry curls against his. "Rodney."

"No." Rodney's fucking him harder now, each thrust leaving aftershocks of pressure. He's white around the eyes with effort, but his expression is grimly stubborn, heels literally dug in. "Just - "

The angle shifts, Rodney rolling his hips until John's ready to throw his head back and wail - and then he does make a totally unexpected noise, because Rodney finds the right angle, battering away while firecrackers fill John's vision, body a live-wire, and it's only sheer willpower that keeps John waiting.

John's sure he can't take any more, but Rodney keeps going, shoving into him with brutal intensity, and John flies past barriers, past his own limits, held in place by Rodney's cock, Rodney's body, Rodney's eyes pinning him to the bed. He knows he's making noises - no words, just animal grunts and groans and cries - and Rodney's not quiet, either.

It takes John a second to realize what Rodney is saying - one word, over and over: "Now!"

John's body obeys with an alacrity his mind has never quite managed: he goes rigid, back a perfect arch, and it hurts. God, it hurts as his balls tighten into something that goes past pain, into the absolute whiteout of release as he comes hard enough that the world turns swirly all around him.

"Fuck," Rodney moans, heartfelt and frantic as he fucks through John's orgasm. "Oh, god, John." And then he's rigid, grunting softly as he comes. He doesn't stop thrusting right away, stuttering motions that are all about instinct and shockwaves, and John loves every second of it.

He's ready when Rodney collapses, slumping forward soundlessly. He hasn't passed out, John knows, just exhausted and wrung out. John's still got his arms and legs wrapped around him and he's heavy, but...John sighs, tightening his grip, just in case.

He holds on, keeping Rodney in him and on him, his whole body draped in Rodney's bulkier one. They're both panting; huge, whooping breaths that drag oxygen into their lungs, gradually slowing to something more manageable, more normal, the shaking of their bodies slowing to easy stillness.

"I don't want to go back." John's shocked to hear the quiet sentiment, especially since he's the one who said it.

Nuzzling against his chin, Rodney hms. "We have to, though."

No one in Atlantis would believe that it's Rodney who's advocating responsibility, except maybe Weir and Zelenka. They understand what John now knows, about Rodney and fanaticism and a weight on shoulders not nearly stocky enough to hold it all. John rubs along those shoulders, muscle giving easily to the pressure of his fingers.

"But I don't want to, either." There's no whine, no selfish pout: just simple fact. He doesn't want to go back. "I miss sleep too much, for one thing. And..."

Rodney tries to shift off, but John's ready for that: he tightens his grip, pressing his face up against Rodney's. "You can tell me 'and' without leaving."

"I've got to be crushing you, John."

"I can take it." He'll take anything Rodney gives him and knows with rock-solid certainty that he'll always want more.

The kiss is unexpected, moreso because it's sweet and light. "You waited for me. Um. Back there."

"Yeah," John says, like it's no big deal. "It seemed like it would be worth it."

That gets him another kiss, a little harder this time. "Was it?" Rodney asks. "Worth it?"

John figures that his shudder and the enthusiastic kiss he gives Rodney should be answer enough, but he can't help a little teasing. "I might not always be so compliant."

"I bet you will if I really want you to," Rodney growls, playfully biting John's chin.

It doesn't escape John that they're talking about the future.

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?" He's a romantic at heart. An optimist, for all he's often as cynical as Rodney. It's burned him in the past and there's nothing that says it won't when he wakes tomorrow morning.

Rodney's teeth are sharp against the vein in John's neck. "Oh, I plan on it. Neither of us have anything like stamina, if your dry spell was as long as mine was, which it probably wasn't, but regardless. A few more encounters and then we can go on to the real event. The one where I make you beg, make you cry for me to give you relief."

"So, this kink you have of reducing grown adults to tears. It should bother me, huh?" John smiles, accepting Rodney's punishing kiss, because he knows what Rodney means. "I thought I was immune from that."

"Nah, just means I won't yell at you. Unless..." Rodney pulls back only enough that he can see John's face, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly.

"Pass," John says, smiling. "But you can always talk dirty to me."

Rodney laughs at that. "I think I'm going to make you tell me more about your years as a... I think the phrase was 'early 90's wet dream', wasn't it?"

"Mmmm," John says. "I might be able to do that. For you."

Rodney's smile gets sharp then, almost as sharp as his teeth on John's neck. "You're going to do a lot of things for me. And to me."

It's far too easy a promise to make, with no guarantee that he'll be able to keep it, and John never makes promises he can't keep. Not intentionally, anyway.

To distract himself, he leans up so his mouth is against Rodney's ear. "Does that mean you get to be tied up, Rodney? Do I get to keep those big hands bound, so they can't get in my way?"

John doesn't have to see to know that Rodney's eyes are dilating. He can feel it with the quickening beat of Rodney's heart and the minute tremors that shiver through his body. "Uh, you, uh. Are really good at that. With the -- and the -- "

And then Rodney's got him shoved back down on the bed, kissing all his breath away. "Maybe," he says between kisses, which just makes John laugh and laugh.

"Control freak," he says. Rodney probably doesn't hear him, though, because he hasn't let John up for air yet.

Somewhere in the middle of the kiss, John gets a foot around the back of Rodney's leg and turns the embrace into a friendly tussle. He shifts his hips and can't stifle a moan when Rodney's softened cock finally slips out of him.

"Are you okay?" Rodney asks.

John gives an experimental wiggle, wincing at the sharp soreness. "I think I'm going to be at least a little bit glad that this was all magic in the morning," he says.

"Remind me to kiss it better for you," Rodney says, resting his head on John's shoulder.

John nuzzles his neck, tasting salt and skin. "I won't forget."

"Please. Like I'd let you."

John knows that Rodney isn't one for flowery declarations. John isn't either, but there are times when words become...important. Maybe not the specifics, but something more than what skin and mouth and cock can tell you.

He likes these words. They're happy and smug and Rodney's got pit-bull in him somewhere so they're true, and that makes them best of all.

Shifting just a little, John snags a wet cloth that he's damned certain wasn't on the table thirty seconds ago. He cleans them both up as much as necessary, which isn't very, and then settles back down against Rodney's side. "It's night," he says.

"Yeah," John says. "Are you tired?" He doesn't want to sleep yet, afraid that if they do, the day will be over, but he can feel exhaustion pulling at him.

Rodney lets out a sigh, then hitches the sheets up to mid-chest. "Hmmm. Sleepy. And... happy."

That earns him a kiss to the shoulder. "Me, too," John says.

The CD ended long ago, but for a moment music seems to float into the room. All John can tell is that it's singing, a real person without the slight flatness that means a recording, and the notes convey pure, uncomplicated joy. Contentment. Peace.

An urge to make plans, to whisper a promise of tomorrow, after lunch seizes him. Having that expectation waiting for him, to fight against all the pressures that will come crashing down on him when he wakes - he needs that. But for all the words are there, on his tongue, he can't say them.

Another kiss, this time on his temple. "I can hear you thinking, you know. You're like the supercomputer at CalSci, the one that used to keep half the dorms awake. Churning and munching and reconfiguring every nanosecond." He sighs, exasperated, but when John looks at him he's smiling a crooked, fond little smile. "Also, you're a dork. Stop tensing or I'm going to have to give you a massage tomorrow after the meeting with Zelenka on the puddle jumpers, as well as a blow-job."

John has to laugh when the kiss turns into a yawn. It's been a long day - a good one, and he thinks that he should just let it go, just trust that he'll remember - that they'll remember. That there will be plenty of nights like this - in a narrower bed, yes, but nights when they will lie side by side and start sentences with "Remember when we were at the magic beach..."

So he does - he trusts, and he lets go while holding tightly to Rodney. But, as he allows sleep to claim him, he can't help but whisper one quiet promise. "See you tomorrow."

John wakes to the sound of the ocean, just like every other day. The ocean makes a specific sound as it washes against the piers of Atlantis, a rush-and-crash that's like nothing he's ever heard - it's the sound of home.

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, feeling the sheet under his back. It's standard government issue, not the Egyptian cotton from the beach. As soon as the memory penetrates, he opens his eyes. It's all there - the suite, the beach, the food, the sun, the surfing, and...Rodney. He remembers, which means Rodney remembers.

A few more minutes of basking, and he gets up and heads for the shower, amused to see that he's back in the blue-striped boxers and his dog tags, when he knows full well he went to sleep covered in nothing but Rodney. When he strips off the boxers, his tan lines are gone.

He's glad to have his thought-controlled shower back, though, and that he's not bearing any of the marks or soreness that the previous night's activities should have earned him. He feels good, though - incredibly well-rested and refreshed. Optimistic, even.

Wiping at the steam covered mirror, John studies his features. He doesn't look as tired as he did yesterday, he thinks. Maybe. He's looked haggard and tired for so long he's not sure what 'well-rested' looks like. But he's pretty sure that his eyes are a little less puffy, his mouth a little softer and more inclined to smile, instead of the hard, scowling grimace that'd been a permanent fixture.

He likes this face, better.

Humming a tune he can't quite identify, John shaves himself as smooth as he ever gets and re-knots the towel around his waist. Breakfast. Breakfast, and then maybe grab a couple muffins or the maybe-bacon that and take that over to see Rodney. It's still early and John isn't going to run this morning, so they've got plenty of time to convince Rodney that no, it wasn't a dream and -

"Rodney, hey."

Rodney's dressed, which is unusual at not quite oh-seven-hundred, sitting on John's bed and staring fixedly at the hem of John's towel. "Colonel."

That kind of kills the smile, and it must show in his body language, because Rodney looks up. His face is creased with concern, worry, uncertainty - but then he smiles.

"John, I mean. I guess I can call you John, now."

"I'd like that," John says, continuing over to the bed. When he gets there, he leans in for a kiss. After a moment of hesitation, Rodney tilts his head up. It's not wild and passionate like the others they've shared; it's just a simple, sweet greeting. John likes it a lot.

When he pulls back, Rodney shifts, opening his knees. John steps naturally into the space between, and he lets out an involuntary sigh when Rodney's arms wrap around his waist and Rodney's freshly shaven cheek rests against his belly just above the towel. He leans his own arms on Rodney's shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

"So I was - " The words don't halt so much as fade away into John's belly, mumblings that John doesn't have to hear the shape of to understand the meaning.

"Did you know? That if one of us didn't, then the other wouldn't?"

Rodney snickers, rubbing like a contented cat. "Fortunately, I am a genius and can parse together babble. Even your babble."

"Hey." There's no heat in it, not when Rodney is cupping his ass, thumbs rubbing firmly against his lower back muscles. In fact, it's hard to do anything but let his eyes go glazed. "Mmph."

"I knew," Rodney says, voice low. "I asked, probably for the same reasons you did, and Lorne told me. If both of us wanted to remember, we would. And if one of us didn't..."

"But you did."

"We did."

"Yeah," John says, and it's less agreement than it is encouragement, because Rodney's hands on his ass have given other parts of him ideas.

Those big, hot hands move to the front of the towel and slide it off, coming to rest against his hipbones. John feels extra naked in the face of Rodney's complete uniform, but the gentle track of lips and tongue across his navel short-circuits any comment he might have made.

Kisses are dusted down the line of his hip, following muscles that flexes and bunches under Rodney's mouth as he grows ever closer to what John really hopes is his goal. Really hopes, because John is always a fan of sex, and sex with Rodney, and he loves morning sex: the quiet it leaves, hints of euphoria staying with him all day, like that perfect cloud riding in a clear blue sky. It clears his mind and soothes his body, and --

"Hey!"

Rodney grins around the pinch of skin he's bitten, laving it with his tongue. "You should probably know that I really enjoy marking. It's primitive, sure," Rodney shrugs, eyes dancing, "and usually evokes comparisons I could do without, thank you. But I was a little disappointed when I woke up and there wasn't a mark on me. Which meant there wouldn't be any marks on you. I figured," Rodney pauses to suck where he's just bitten, hands dancing up and down John's spine, "that I'd come over here and rectify the situation."

John shudders, from both the feel of Rodney's teeth on his hip and from Rodney's words. He's never let a lover mark him before - always too worried about being found out, but there's no way he'll tell Rodney not to do it. The idea of having a bruise on his body that Rodney put there makes him even harder, and knowing that he'll be able to surreptitiously press that spot throughout the day and feel the deep ache of it...

"Okay," he says, pressing his body forward.

Rodney nods once and dips his head, teeth and lips closing around the spot he's already started on. By the time he's got the mark exactly the way he wants it - dark purple and scored with teeth marks - sheer will and a bruising grip on Rodney's shoulders are the only things keeping John on his feet.

Leaning back, Rodney studies the mark making 'hmm' noises, like John's an equation that isn't working quite right. His thumb is rubbing track marks over John's belly, while his other hand absently grips John's erection and begins stroking it, not like he's interested in John's arousal, but because it gives him pleasure to feel the soft heat of John against his palm.

John's eyes flutter and he's very glad the walls of Atlantis are mostly soundproofed. He doesn't want anyone knowing he can make noises like that.

"I suppose that'll do for now," Rodney says, letting his breath ghost against John's skin. "You should really understand, John, I'm a possessive person. Very. And I realize I can't actually hang a 'Property of Rodney McKay' sign around your neck, or anything around your neck really, but the thought is definitely there and if I'm going to be stymied, well, all that energy is going to have to go somewhere."

John isn't sure if Rodney wants an answer. He's not sure if Rodney's even asked a question, but Rodney's already got half of John's cock in his mouth, effectively short-circuiting John's brain, and coaxing another humiliatingly needy noise from him.

The things Rodney's tongue is doing to his cock are almost enough to completely short-circuit his brains, but John manages to hold onto a single thought. That thought makes him push against Rodney's shoulders until he releases John's cock, and to keep pushing until Rodney's flat on his back on the bed and John can crawl over him, onto him, and feel the rough material over Rodney's hips against the sensitive skin of his bare inner thighs.

"Wait," John says, a shudder wracking him when he remembers that same word in Rodney's voice the night before.

"What?" Rodney's voice climbs toward a whine, but doesn't quite get there.

"This," John says, and dips his head to kiss Rodney. It's silly, and more romantic than he'd ever admit to being, but he likes kissing Rodney, and he woke up wanting to do it, and nobody - not even Rodney himself with confessions of possessiveness that skirt the line of kink or his usual pushiness - is keeping John from his goal.

Rodney doesn't bother fighting, just opening his mouth with a breathy sigh. His capitulation could be because Rodney recognizes John's 'determined' face and knows not to go against it without a damned good reason -- blowjobs are not, surprisingly, a damned good reason.

But John like to think the real reason is that he likes kissing as much as John does.

The kisses start out hard and fast, wet enough to be dirty, and a prelude for more. After a few moments, though, they start to lose speed, lusty desperation throttling down into something slower, sweeter. The kind of lazy kisses they traded in a beach house, all about hello and I like this, like you without any kind of rider or caveat.

John feels Rodney relax under him, and it triggers his own relaxation. He's breathing Rodney's air and feeling Rodney's strength beneath him, Rodney's hands moving languidly up and down his back. But he wants more. Without breaking the kiss, he shoves at Rodney's jacket.

"Off," John says, pulling back just enough to talk before kissing Rodney again. As it turns out, they can't get Rodney undressed while they're joined at the lips, but they manage it with a minimum of pauses.

It's different without the smell of a Tahitian-like ocean, sand crushed to powder adding it's own kind of blessing. Atlantis is metal and something distinctly Ancient, blues and greens, splashes of amber in that same, water-laden shade, forming mosaics behind John's eyes.

It's real, hard and practical like the slight chap of Rodney's lips, the way John loses the beat every once in a while, clumsily using teeth instead of tongue.

John groans, rubbing against Rodney's cloth-covered erection. "Off," he says without pulling away. "Lemme taste you."

He lets Rodney push him off the bed. As soon as his knees hit the floor, he starts stripping off Rodney's pants and boxer briefs, with only a slight pang for commando!Rodney. He leaves them bunched around Rodney's ankles and leans in, pressing his nose to the soft skin of Rodney's groin, breathing in the sweet, clean, musky scent.

Rodney's hands clench in his hair, and John grins before moving to fasten teeth and lips to Rodney's hip, starting a mark that matches the one burned into his own skin.

Rodney laughs when he figures out what John's doing, snickering through soft moans. His hands are gentle as they ruffle the edges of John's hair, smoothing down the tendons of his neck. "Possessive, John? You? I'd have never believed that."

John retaliates with a bite.

He pulls back to study white teeth-marks as they fade into the blooming rose of a bruise. It's right on the edge between hip and belly, the contradiction of muscle and softness: like Rodney himself.

John leans forward again, delicately kissing the mark, while above him Rodney inhales sharply.

"Now?" Not a command, just a near-whining entreaty, while thick fingers curl hot against his scalp. "God, please? Or, no, do you want -- if you come up here, we can -- I want us both -- "

He keeps the suction light and teasing, because Rodney's idea of both has worked its way into his head. He wants that, wants to feel Rodney on him and in him at the same time, wants to take turns mirroring each other's moves, wants to be that close - a circle without end.

Pulling off gently, he gets back onto the bed, manhandling Rodney to a better position on his side before fitting himself to the opposite curve of his body. Rodney bends a knee, offering a strong thigh to pillow his head, and John slithers into place, his lips inches away from the head of Rodney's cock.

"I missed you," he whispers, feeling Rodney shiver at the cool rush of air on sensitive skin.

"I wasn't gone long," Rodney says, wrapping strong fingers around the base of John's dick.

"Missed you anyway."

"When did you become such a romantic?" Rodney demands. But his mouth is wet and soft as he slides it over John's cock, the light pressure confirmation of the words Rodney isn't saying. Hands find John's hip, stroking over the fragile skin there while he does something -- god something -- with his tongue.

John tries to replicate the move; some sort of deliciously gliding swirl, and it must work, because Rodney moans around him. Then Rodney dips his head and takes John deep before pulling back and repeating the motion. John mirrors the motion, and sighs as they set up a gentle rhythm that has them rocking as softly as the waves in their island dream.

As good as it feels, the repetitive back and forth is soothing, lulling his mind into the concentric ring-images he's supposed to meditate to. His breathing is pretty even for all he's sucking Rodney's dick, Rodney's mouth working around his own.

At least, he is until he feels something else push against his dick, sharing space and bringing cold, sharp air where before there was only warmth. He moans, trying to figure out what Rodney's doing -- and then freezes.

Rodney's finger is saliva slick as it presses against him, circling around the soft, sensitive skin while Rodney sucks hard around the head of John's cock.

John's groan is deep and heartfelt. He wants it, wants Rodney's touch inside him, and he knows that his is Rodney's way of telling him that he wants the same. He wets his own finger alongside Rodney's cock and slips it behind his balls to rub over and over the entrance to Rodney's body.

They push in at the same time.

Rodney's making mm, mm, mm sounds, which, even muffled, are recognizable as the 'ohs' he lets out when something very good has happened in the lab. His hips arch, slowly, carefully, not shoving himself into John's mouth so much as informing him that he'd like to. Soon.

The deference is something that still surprises John, a gift of trust and want that warms him.

Rodney rarely asks, waiting for permission granted. That he does so with John is something he'd like to contemplate when Rodney isn't rubbing directly over his prostate, throat fluttering over the head of John's cock, while John grunts and moans around Rodney's.

John works a second finger into Rodney's ass and uses his free hand to pull Rodney's hip downward, Rodney takes the hint and rolls carefully, settling John beneath him while planting his knees on the bed on either side of John's head. John braces his own knees wide open, feet flat on the bed, and he slides his fingers against Rodney's prostate, rubbing firmly.

That does the trick. With a low sound of intense pleasure, Rodney starts to slowly fuck his mouth.

The angle isn't quite right, but after a moment or two Rodney uses the fingers inside John to move him, curling inside to tug his torso lower --

And then it is perfect. Rodney's cock feels huge, gliding over teeth and tongue and the roof of his mouth with no input from John, head bobbing over John's cock in counterpoint. John lets his knees fall open, feeling exposed as he's fucked with cock and oh, god, three fingers, Rodney's mouth buzzing with noises John can't hear as he speeds up everything.

It's insane. John's never felt so much. He's got Rodney over him and inside him and around him, and all he can do is hold on tightly and let it happen, his fingers inside Rodney are his only hold on any semblance of control. He flicks them forward, hard, hearing Rodney's sharp noise of surprise as vibrations around his cock. John's arms are tight around Rodney's hips, and he slips the first finger of his free hand into Rodney's ass, alongside the two already there.

Rodney opens for him easily, like there's scented lube to smooth the way, body hot and grasping as he takes everything John gives him. It could be more, John knows. More fingers, four of them combined maybe the girth of the dick Rodney's sucking so eagerly, and John remembers how Rodney had taken that. Remembers how he'd gasped, broken like the noises John feels more than he hears, vibrations pooling in his belly.

God, he can fuck Rodney, he realizes. Any time the two of them can find a moment, he can have it again.

That thought blindsides him, racing through the pleasure of them both remembering, both here and touching. This is his, whenever they want, and John comes so hard he sees stars.

Rodney swallows him down eagerly, the fingers inside rubbing and thrusting to stretch John's orgasm out into an incredibly long rush. As the spasms ease, Rodney's fingers slow down, then slip gently away. John pants hard around Rodney's cock, hitching his head back and then forward to get Rodney as deep as he can go before swallowing hard. One deep, almost choking thrust, and John can feel and taste Rodney's come flooding his mouth.

When it's over, John presses up against Rodney's hip, turning them over, back to the place where they started, heads pillowed on one another's thighs. John kisses the base of Rodney's cock, nuzzles his balls.

He jumps a little when the alarm on his watch beeps.

"Briefing in ten," he says, completely disinclined to move.

The seconds tick by, silence growing heavier as Rodney remains quiet. John can feel it as Rodney stops panting, each gust of breath against his thigh stirring the small hairs there, making him shiver. When it reaches a full minute, though, John has to lift his head and see. Just in case.

Rodney's eyes are closed, mouth open, bearing an expression of utter contentment and bliss. The kind of quiet John's never thought Rodney knew how to find.

"So. Clearly, shutting you up requires blow jobs and sixty-nines."

"Oh, are we going to be an ass this morning? I wasn't sure. You were so accommodating a few minutes ago, I'd forgotten what a bitch you are before you have your coffee."

That is just so blatantly unfair that John has to bite Rodney's hip, laughing into skin that vibrates from Rodney's amusement, looping back and forth. "Bastard," John says, watching the white imprints of his teeth fade to pink, and then a duskier red.

"I've already had my coffee."

"Three?"

"Four. Duh. I want to be functional, not a walking-zombie of exhaustion." He doesn't look exhausted, though. Still a little tired, but the puffiness is gone from his cheeks and even in the soft lighting of John's room, Rodney's eyes are sapphire and sparkling.

"You're giving me beard burn, you know," Rodney says, smirking.

John retaliates by rubbing his face all over Rodney's belly.

"Ow, ow, ow," Rodney complains, reaching down to pull John around and up alongside him. His muttered "bastard" is affectionate, though, and John kisses him, soft and sweet.

They pull apart reluctantly, and John is the first to stand, walking to his dresser to find a uniform, to armor himself against whatever the day and Atlantis have ready for him. He's got boxers and pants and socks on when Rodney finally stirs.

"Toss me my pants, will you?"

John finds them on the floor and heaves them toward the bed, but he misses. They make a dull "thunk" as they hit the floor. "What's that?" he asks, moving closer.

Rodney snags one leg of the trousers and pulls them closer, finally pushing himself to a sitting position. He roots around in the pocket and comes up with something smooth and glossy, which he hands to John. "I found it on my bed table this morning."

John turns the object over in his hands and smiles. It's a perfect model of the surfboard Rodney had used, right down to the bright yellow wave pattern on the underside. It's some sort of smooth porcelain or ceramic, and it's barely as long as his finger.

He's still staring at it when Rodney speaks quietly.

"Looks like you have a memento, too."

John turns to his own bedside table and sees a replica of the sandcastle they'd built - all of Atlantis, no bigger than the bottom of a glass.

It's made of the same material as the surf board, cool and water-smooth as he lifts it up. His fingers fit between the grooves of the towers, grainy browns and greys against his own pale skin.

"I messed up the archway, here." Rodney's not quite tall enough to enfold John the way he clearly wants, but it's a good effort. His arms are solid and warm against John's stomach. The kiss to his neck is even nicer. "We'll find a way back there, of course."

"I don't think the magic," he stutters on the word, the reality of Atlantis all around him, "works that way, Rodney."

"Pfft. We'll find a way back."

On the bed stand, Rodney's radio crackles a warning. "Dr. McKay? Please try not to be late for this particular meeting," Elizabeth's voice says, weariness as apparent as the humor. "We'll need your assistance."

Rodney releases John with one last squeeze. Picking up his headset, he puts it into place. "On my way," he says, dressing quickly. He takes the tiny surfboard and slips it into his pocket before turning to John.

"Coming?" he asks.

John curls his fingers around the model of Atlantis, feeling the smoothness against his palm. "In a minute," he says.

Rodney shrugs into his jacket and moves toward the door. Before he gets there, though, he comes back and steps in close to John. "See you there," he says, giving John a gentle kiss. Then he's gone.

On his way to the dresser for a shirt, John stops at the window. If he presses his forehead to the glass, he can almost see the place where the water meets the piers. The glass is soundproof, but as he holds the city in his hand, he thinks he can almost hear the waves.