John's pissy. His lower back has been hurting for weeks - ever since that less-than-stellar landing in the Mark-8 prototype. The one that made people say things like "lucky bastard" and "can't believe he walked away" and "deal with the devil." The Mark-8 hadn't fared so well, and neither had John's back.

Along with leading a charmed life, John is also a stubborn son of a bitch. He doesn't like to show pain, which explains why he once went to middle school for a week on a fractured ankle and also why his nose isn't exactly symmetrical. However, he's smart enough to know when he's licked, so he makes an appointment at the spa Lorne's wife recommends, and even requests her favorite masseur, Rodney.

Rodney, John thinks, is a stupid name for a masseur. People who rub other people for a living should be called Fernando or Tristan, not a solid midwestern name like Rodney. Rodney is a guy that teaches school or works at the gas company or schleps test tubes in one of the labs that dot the town, spreading out from the central hub of the university all the way down to the Air Force base, where John used to work. That thought still gives him a twinge, but he shakes it off and gets out of his car in front of the modest wood-frame building sporting a sign that says "Daylily Spa." Frankly, it makes John feel super-gay, when just this morning he only felt regular-gay.

The receptionist is completely androgynous, and he or she rolls his or her eyes when John asks for Rodney. John is directed to a cluster of chairs located in front of a waterfall. There's some sort of New Age-y music playing and pitchers of ice water set around on small, useless tables. The waterfall makes John have to pee.

"John Sheppard?"

John looks up when he hears his name called. The guy standing in the doorway is exactly not what John expected. This guy - big, broad, balding - is no Fernando. This guy is a Rodney through and through. He's wearing black pants and a black tee shirt and his feet are bare. John notices that he has long toes. John gets up and walks over, and when they shake hands, he notices that Rodney's palms are as soft and smooth as silk. He thinks that his own must be as rough as sandpaper.

Rodney leads him through the door into an artistically dim hallway, then stops at a door, gesturing with his thumb. "Bathroom," he says, scowling. "The stupid waterfall makes most people have to pee."

John smiles, and Rodney smiles back, a sweet grin that lights his whole face. When he exits the bathroom, Rodney's waiting for him. He takes John further down the hall to a small, dark room with a massage table and more New Age crappy music and some candles that smell faintly of juniper. Rodney pulls a white robe off the hook on the back of the door and tosses it to John.

"Undress to your level of comfort and put on the robe," he says, and it sounds like a script. "I'll be back in a moment."

John strips completely and shrugs on the robe - he got over any sort of nudity nervousness in boot camp. When Rodney knocks, John tells him to come in.

"Before we start," Rodney says. "Are there any trouble spots I need to know about?"

"Yeah, my lower back. It's been all screwed up for a few weeks."

"Did you injure it?" Rodney looks at John like he's something interesting under a microscope.

"Yeah." John shrugs and gives his sheepish smile. "I hurt it in a plane crash."

"What?" Rodney yelps.

"It was a controlled crash," John says.

"Well, that makes all the difference, now doesn't it?"

"I'm a test pilot at Lockheed Martin," John explains.

"Oh, good - a crazy person," Rodney mutters. "My life is complete. Up on the table, face down." He moves to pull up the sheet to give John some cover, but John slips the robe off and just climbs on, making a pained noise as he settles in.

He can hear Rodney moving around, and he jumps slightly when something wonderfully warm is draped over his lower back, followed by a light blanket that covers him from mid-back to his feet.

"Moist heat," Rodney says, pressing the pad down lightly against the small of John's back. "We need to loosen that up before I touch you, or you'll be screaming."

John very carefully doesn't let his mind go to the dirty place. The filthy, dirty, bad place. And since when does his filthy, dirty, bad place include stocky, balding masseurs, anyway?

"Is it okay to talk or do you want quiet?" Rodney asks, turning away to a small sink in the corner to wash and dry his hands.

"Talking's okay, but can you muffle Enya? I hate this kind of music."

Rodney laughs and moves away, and after a moment, John hears Creedence Clearwater Revival quietly on the radio. When he turns his head to look up, Rodney grins at him. "You looked like a classic rock sort of guy. Now put your head back down, twisting like that puts stress on your lower back."

John obediently turns his head, settling himself on the table. The headrest has a hole in it for his face, and he looks down at the beige carpet and Rodney's feet. They're pretty nice feet, as that sort of thing goes, long and pale, with neat squared-off toenails. John wonders if he's going insane. He watches Rodney hook a rolling stool with one foot and pull it close before sitting down at John's head.

"I'm going to start with a scalp massage," Rodney says. "Before I get a bunch of oil on my hands."

John grunts in answer, then lets out a soft groan as Rodney's hands dig into his hair, raking through the strands.

"I can't believe there's no product in here," Rodney says, and his voice is a little envious. "It just does that by itself?"

"Does what?" John counters.

"The antigravity thing." Rodney's voice is snide, but John doesn't care, because strong fingertips are digging into his scalp, rubbing away tension he didn't even know was there. Rodney's hands are magic, smoothing their way down to the nape of John's neck to knead and compress the muscles, sliding around to the points of his jaw and then back up to his temples before easing back through his hair, short nails scratching lightly.

After a few minutes, Rodney takes his hands away, and John misses them acutely. He hears the stool slide back, and then the sound of a pump bottle and hands rubbing together. The aroma of sandalwood fills the air.

"I'm going to work on your shoulders now," Rodney murmurs, and his touch is so light that John can't even tell when the oil-slick fingers land on his skin, he only knows that Rodney's hands are gentle and soft and warm, riding over the curves of his shoulders and up to the back of his neck. "You've got a lot of tension in your trapezius," Rodney notes, digging in deeper at the sides of John's neck and down toward his shoulders.

For his part, John lets out a quiet groan. Rodney works his way down to John's shoulders, and from there he moves all the way to his right arm, strong fingers loosening the muscles all the way down.

"I'll do your hands when you turn over," Rodney says. "It's a better angle."

John makes what he hopes is an affirmative noise into the pillow under his face.

Rodney moves around the table to work the other arm, and then drapes another warmed blanket over John, covering him from the back of his neck to the bottom of his rib cage. He pats John just above the hot pad before moving it away and folding the first blanket down to John's hips. John hears the sounds of Rodney getting more oil.

"Relax," he says, placing one hand over the part of John's back that really hurts. "There may be some discomfort while I work this out."

He's not joking. John grunts every time Rodney's fingers dig into the abused muscles, and he can't help tightening up. Finally, Rodney lays a hand on each of John's hips and leans forward, his mouth close to John's neck.

"Don't tell anyone I did this," he says, then leans his weight against one hand while gently flexing John's hip with the other. There's a sliding sensation, and when Rodney releases his hip, much of the pain is gone. John wiggles his ass from side to side, then relaxes onto the bed in relief.

"What was that? Chiropractic?"

"None of that voodoo," Rodney says. "That was simple physics. Your hips were misaligned and I just... encouraged them to go to the right place."

"Well it feels a lot better," John says. "Thank you."

Rodney doesn't answer, he just resumes rubbing John's back. John drifts a bit, barely cataloging Rodney's movements as he works his way down each leg, spending extra time on the bottoms of John's feet and his toes before moving up to the outside of John's hip, slipping his hands under the edge of the blanket to reach the top of his thigh.

"Turn over," Rodney says quietly, and John starts out of his stupor. Rodney gives him a hand, helping him to turn onto his back. As promised, he gives plenty of attention to John's hands, stretching and bending each finger and digging his thumbs into the palms. John keeps his eyes closed and tries not to dwell on the intimacy of Rodney's oiled fingers sliding through his own.

"How do you know about physics?" he asks, trying to distract himself, trying to stave off the hard on that wants to make itself known.

Rodney gives a short laugh. "I'm getting my PhD in astrophysics. I have a Masters in Applied Physics. Body mechanics is no big deal."

"Then why are you working here?"

"Some of my funding fell through, and this is how I worked my way through undergrad and my first Masters." John can almost hear the shrug. "It's easy and profitable - beats waiting tables. You must have some fancy aeronautics degrees to work at Lockheed."

"MS in aerodynamics," John says. "And six years flying in the Air Force."

Rodney hmmmms and tucks John's hand down by his side, moving to get more oil before beginning to massage John's chest. The sensation of oiled fingers trailing through his chest hair and occasionally over a nipple isn't helping his erection any, and when Rodney starts in on his abs, John's cock goes to full mast, and he just knows it's tenting the blanket obscenely.

"Happens to everyone," Rodney says softly. "Don't worry, I don't take it personally."

"What, no happy ending?" John jokes, his face flaming.

"This isn't that kind of establishment," Rodney says, moving down to John's thighs, pressing strongly into the large muscles there. He works gently around John's knees and shins, then walks back to the head of the table, pushing the stool into place before sitting down.

"We've still got a few minutes," he says. "Let me work on your neck a bit more."

Rodney's hands cup the back of his neck, and John relaxes into the touch, letting him turn his head easily from side to side, his fingers lightly tracing from just behind John's ears to the crease of his neck and back. John doesn't even try to suppress the shudder.

"Too bad," he says, his lips barely moving.

"What's too bad?"

"That this isn't that sort of establishment." As soon as he says it, John feels his face flushing.

Rodney laughs quietly and eases John's head back onto the headrest, letting his hands slide silkily away. "We're done," he says. "I'll go get you some juice while you get dressed." He walks out the door.

John rolls off the bed and uses a towel from a stack on a shelf to rub off the worst of the oil. He feels loose and relaxed, and his back, for once, doesn't hurt at all. He manages to talk his dick down enough to get his jeans zipped, and he's tying his sneakers when Rodney comes back.

"Here, it's cranberry."

John takes the glass and drains it, surprised at how thirsty he is. Rodney takes the glass back and leads John through the hallway again, coming out at the lobby. John blinks in the bright daylight, and he feels Rodney's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome back to the real world," Rodney says wryly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, pressing it into John's hand. "Call me anytime." He disappears back through the door.

John pays the receptionist, returning his or her admonishment to have a nice day. He's seated in his car before he even looks at the card in his hand. The front is a regular business card with the name Rodney McKay embossed on it. John flips it over and finds a number, followed by the word "home" in brackets and a flourish-y letter R.

John makes it to 6:30 before he calls the number on the card. Rodney answers on the third ring, immediately knows who John is and invites himself over, quickly extracting directions from John to his small house a few miles from the center of town. John spends ten minutes frantically straightening the living room, then runs to change into a clean shirt and brush his teeth. In the mirror, he silently berates himself for being such a freak, then spits toothpaste into the sink and gives up completely on any lingering hopes for his sanity.

When John answers the door, Rodney is on the other side, wearing jeans and a "Mr. Fantastic" tee shirt and carrying a worn leather backpack. John pulls him into the house and closes the door before pushing Rodney up against it and kissing him soundly. Rodney drops his bag and kisses back. When they finally break apart, Rodney grins at him.

"How's your back?" he asks.

"I think it might need more work," John says, leaning in to nuzzle Rodney's neck and smelling a mild aftershave, perversely pleased that Rodney cleaned up for him.

Rodney grabs his bag and gestures for John to lead. "Do you have a guest room?"

"Yeah, why?" John turns and feels his brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Put an extra sheet over the bed," Rodney says. "You probably don't want to get oil all over your bed."

John leads him into the sparsely furnished guest room, then pulls a sheet out of the chest at the foot of the bed. Rodney pulls the bedspread off and helps John settle the extra sheet, then looks at him expectantly.

"Strip," he says.

John slowly unbuttons his oxford shirt and drops it on the floor. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, stripping them and his boxers off, glad that he didn't bother with shoes. "Now you," he says to Rodney.

Rodney puts his bag down on the bed and rummages around in it, coming up with a bottle of oil, which he places on the nightstand. That's followed by a fat pillar candle and a lighter. Then, he places the bag on the floor and slowly strips out of his tee shirt and jeans, pausing to kick off his tennis shoes. When he's done, he stands beside the bed with his hands by his sides, letting John look his fill.

Undressed, Rodney is broad and solid; he's a little soft at the waist, but his arms are beautifully defined, and he has an arrow of light brown hair on his chest that darkens at his groin. He's also hard. John moves to the bed and lies face down in the center, resting his head on his folded arms. Rodney lights the candle and turns out the overhead light. He climbs onto the bed and straddles John's thighs, the hot weight of his cock resting against John's ass as he oils his hands and rubs them together.

John moans when Rodney's hands settle on the back of his neck, then moans louder as they stroke up and down, covering him with oil from nape to the bottom of his ass. Rodney drizzles more oil onto his back, smoothing it until they're both slippery and John is completely relaxed under him. He spends extra time on the small of John's back before raising himself up slightly and urging John to turn over.

When Rodney goes for more oil, John lifts his hands. He sighs when the sandalwood oil fills both palms. He reaches up and begins rubbing it over Rodney's chest, loving the way his slick fingers feel running through Rodney's chest hair and closing on already-tight nipples. When he drops his hands to Rodney's lap, one stroking along his cock and the other cradling his balls, Rodney shudders against him.

"Feels good," Rodney sighs.

John tries to sit up, his hands going to the backs of Rodney's shoulders, wanting to pull him down and roll them so that he's on top.

"Forget it," Rodney says. "I've put in two and a half hours on that back and you are not going to screw up my work with your macho attitude."

"Then come down here," John says, sighing as Rodney stretches out on top of him, his cock sliding into the perfect place along the groove between hip and thigh. He wiggles a bit to get his own cock into a similar position, then thrusts up experimentally.

Rodney braces his hands on the bed and twitches his hips, rubbing his cock against John's oily skin. "Oh, god, that's good."

"Yeah," John moans. "Don't stop."

They find a rhythm that works for them. The oil slicks the way, and the scent of sandalwood envelopes them, adding to the heady scent of their sweat. John twists his hips hard, opening his knees to let Rodney sink further between his legs, using his feet on the bed to push up against Rodney's solid weight until he comes, feeling the rush of heat between them, slicking the slide of Rodney's body even more.

Rodney makes a broken sound deep in his throat and grinds down onto John harder once, then twice more before shuddering and coming, burying his face in John's neck, heedless of the oil. He rests for a minute before rolling off to the side.

"So," Rodney says, panting from exertion and tracing random patterns on John's chest. "Happy?"

"Oh, yeah," John says, covering Rodney's hand with his own. "Very happy."