Despite the fact that he's an innovator in his field, Rodney McKay is something of a traditionalist.

He thinks that mornings should begin slowly and with lots of coffee. He believes in lunchtime, and he believes that it happens at noon, not 11:30 or 2:00 - noon. He is certain that, when possible, the day should end with a soft kiss and mumbled "good night", and that - again, when possible - it's best to fall asleep with his arms around someone else instead of his pillow.

Rodney likes breakfast food for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and a hot dinner. He likes his martinis dry with an olive and his beer in a frosted mug. He likes flat-front pants and thinks that wearing a tie with a short-sleeved shirt is stupid. Belts match shoes, tuxedos are black and cars have manual transmissions. The laws of the universe may be in constant flux, but some things should stay the same. Constants are important.

This is all not to say that Rodney can't branch out. No, he's a creative guy, and he's become frighteningly adept at adapting Ancient technology to his purposes. Genius is a concept without walls, after all, and Rodney pushes everything to the limit.

John is more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants guy. He scopes out a situation, learns what he can, and then keeps the parts that apply and tosses the rest. He creates his reality anew in every situation.

John never quite knows what a morning will bring, so he's learned to wake up all at once, ready for whatever awaits. He eats when he's hungry or when the food is available, and he's not picky. Even when he was in charge of his own care and feeding, he was likely to have leftover Chinese food wrapped in a tortilla for breakfast and cereal for dinner if it suited him.

John can sleep anywhere, and he can fall asleep in seconds. He can rest and recharge in thirty minutes, or hibernate for the better part of a day, when the chance presents itself. He can sleep alone, in a barracks with a hundred other snoring, farting men or wrapped in Rodney's arms - it's all good.

John likes uniforms - less trouble. His civvies are all jeans or track pants, tee shirts or ancient oxfords - solid colors that can all be washed together in cold water and stuffed in a duffle bag. John's constants are all carried within - his ability to shoot, his laid-back attitude and walls that few people get past.

John let Rodney get past his walls, thinking that they'd be good, if volatile, together.

John had no idea what he was getting himself into.

"Can you hear me now?"

"Yes," John says. "I can."

"Anyone else?" Rodney asks. "This is a test. Anyone receiving this transmission please reply."

They wait.

"Hmmmmm," John says.

"Wait." Rodney clears his throat. "There are naked pictures of Teyla on the network in the shared media folder in a file called 'children's educational programming.'"

They wait.

"Anything?" John asks.

"Nope. No one's accessed it. I think I've managed to isolate a private channel."

"Okay," John says. "Why?"

"You'll find out," Rodney says, and a shiver runs up John's back. The good kind.

Four days later, John's out for a run.

"Can you hear me now?"

He stops and tries to catch his breath before answering. "Yeah."

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah," John says. He's on the catwalk, and he's very alone.

"Good," Rodney says. "Get comfortable."

John finds a spot on the floor and leans back against the railing, stretching his legs out on the grating. "Ready," he says. "Where are you?"

"My office," Rodney says. "The door's locked."

"I can't believe you modified the comms so we could have phone sex."

"Yes, you can," Rodney chides. "And you like it."

"I love it," John says. "Tell me what to do, Rodney."

Rodney's chuckle is low and dirty, but there's not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. "Put your hand on your throat, like I do when I kiss you, with your thumb just under your ear. That spot always makes you shiver."

John does it, and his own touch makes him shiver, just like Rodney likes it. "Sensitive," he says. "You showed me that."

"Bow down before my keen observiness," Rodney quips.

"It shouldn't make me hot when you talk like Buffy," John groans.

"Kinky bastard. Stroke your throat, down to your collarbone and back."

John does, and it feels so good, almost as good as if it was Rodney's blunt-tipped fingers. He lets a small sound come out, knowing how much Rodney likes the feedback.

"How do you want it, John?" Rodney asks. "Fast or slow?"

He'd been thinking slow, but Rodney's voice - rich and dark and with that little hitch in it - changes his mind. "God, fast. Slow later."

"You hard?"

"Yes." John knows he sounds desperate, doesn't care.

"Good. Touch your cock. Over your pants."

John groans, because he'd already had his fingertips under the waistband of his sweats, but he does what Rodney says, tracing the outline of his erection through the fleece, his other hand still stroking against his neck.

Rodney's breathing is still smooth and even, but John knows he's getting into it. He calls up a mental picture - Rodney sitting behind his desk, his pants open, one hand on his cock, the other cupping his balls lightly - and he can't help the small sound he makes.

"I bet you look good," Rodney says with a dirty chuckle. "Makes me wonder if anyone can see you." His breathing gets faster. "What if Ronon... or, god, Lorne was up there, out for a run, and they could see you."

John moans. "Rodney..."

"Put your hand in your pants," Rodney instructs. "Touch your bare cock, pull it out."

John does it, shoving his sweats down around his hips and getting both hands on his cock, one hand sliding up and down the shaft, the sweat on his skin smoothing the way. With his other hand, he teases the head, touching himself the way Rodney touches him, fingertips tracing the ridge.

"If someone could see you..." Rodney says.

"Lorne," John says, not really meaning to let it slip out.

"Oh, god, your mind is a filthy place." Rodney sounds admiring. "Okay, if Lorne could see you, see your head thrown back, the way your neck cords up when your jaw clenches. You're so fucking gorgeous like that."

John's way closer to the edge than he should be, the idea of Rodney and Lorne watching him is hitting kinks he didn't even know he had, and he can't slow his hands down. "Rodney," he says warningly.

"Slow down, John," Rodney says, reading him perfectly as always. "Left hand only for a minute; let me catch up."

John stills his right hand, clutching his thigh. He's a little clumsier with his left, and it helps, but not much. He can hear Rodney panting, and he wishes he could hear Rodney's hands stroking along his cock.

"I'm getting close, John," Rodney says. "I wish you were here in front of me, wish I could have you on your knees in front of me, wish I could come on your face."

"Rodney," John's voice is a sharp whine. "Tell me to do it. Oh, god, please." His cock is as hard as iron, his balls drawing up, he's so close.

"Okay," Rodney pants. "Both hands, now. Do it, let me hear you come."

John gets both hands around his cock, and it doesn't take more than a few hard strokes before he's coming hard, Rodney's name on his lips. He can hear Rodney's answering moans, hear his own name whispered brokenly over the comm.

"I'm a mess," Rodney says, breathless.

John looks down at his own wet hands, one still wrapped around the base of his cock. "Me, too."

"Oh," Rodney says, and his tone is speculative. "You should clean up. Lick your hand."

John's moan is cut off by the speed with which he carries out Rodney's instructions. He makes sure to exaggerate the sounds of licking and sucking, and he's rewarded with a thready moan in his earpiece. He tucks himself back in and gets to his feet, wincing at the creaks in his knees. He can't stop himself from looking around, and he gets a little bit of a thrill from imagining Lorne lurking in the empty shadows.

As he starts to jog again, Rodney's voice is still in his ear.

"You want to have lunch?" he asks.

"Is it noon already?" John's tone is teasing.

"You calling me predictable?" Rodney huffs.

"Maybe about lunch," John says. "Not about everything."

"What?" Rodney laughs. "Phone sex is a classic. You just wait until we find a civilization with cars."

John's brain helpfully gives him a three hundred and sixty degree, surround-sound visual of himself riding Rodney in a roomy backseat, and he picks up his pace.

"Meet me in my quarters," he says. "And I'll make you late for lunch."

"On it," Rodney says, and signs off.