Jack and Daniel break up about every eighteen weeks. Rodney has no idea what the significance of eighteen-week intervals is, but it works out, usually within a tolerance of two weeks either way. They stay broken up for anywhere from eight hours to eleven days. Jack takes off for their place in Connecticut and Daniel sulks in the Upper West Side apartment. When they make up, they disappear into either the cabin or the apartment for five days, and then they have a dinner party.

Rodney explains all of this to John on the way to Connecticut. John is driving Rodney's Jaguar, and Rodney is trying not to stomp on the imaginary brake pedal and to keep his blood pressure from spiking through sheer force of will.

"It's just their thing," Rodney says, flinching at the way John passes a truck with barely four seconds of blinker action. "It seems to work for them - they've been together a long time."

"Just not consecutively," John quips, and he puts one gloved hand on Rodney's knee and squeezes.

"Hands on the wheel!" Rodney says, and John laughs, but he does it anyway. They've been together for almost four months, and Rodney has to admit - grudgingly - that he's never been happier. Radek and Simpson keep sending John thank-you notes and cookies.

"Relax, Rodney," John says. "Don't waste all that post-sex lassitude."

"It was a ploy, wasn't it?" Rodney demands. "You just did it to get your hands on my car keys."

John laughs, low and dirty. "My primary objective was getting your dick in my ass, Rodney, but the key thing might have been a secondary objective."

Rodney grunts, but there's no way in hell he's going to complain about John's methods. Coming home to find John sprawled naked across his bed, his legs spread wide and the gleam of lube evident between his cheeks had taken his breath away. Rodney had caught sight of John and had walked from the door to the bed, shedding clothes as he went. He'd climbed up onto the bed and shoved his cock into John in a single, slow push, his shirt hanging from his elbows and one sock still on.

"You liked it, right?" John asks.

"Yes," Rodney says simply. It's true. He liked it. He fucking loved it; he still can hardly believe that all of this - all of John - is for him. He slides his hand onto John's thigh and keeps it there for the duration of the drive.

"So, what's for dinner?" Jack greets them at the door, barefoot in cargo pants and a tee shirt, and Daniel hurries out in jeans and a thick sweater to help Rodney unpack the car.

"French onion soup," John says, shouldering his camera bag and duffel before climbing the steps to shake Jack's hand.

"Get in," Jack says, "Cold out there."

Rodney gets everything arranged in the kitchen while Daniel shows John the guest room. The cabin isn't terribly big, but it's beautifully appointed and has lots of interesting angles.

"You should let me shoot this place sometime," John says as they go back to the living room, where Jack is poking at a blazing fire.

"Anytime," Jack says. "Do it now if you want."

So John goes back to the bedroom for his Leica, stopping to get a shot of the tops of the trees through the skylight in the stairwell. Jack is on the couch with Daniel on the floor between his feet, and John takes a closeup of Jack's hand carding Daniel's hair. He moves around quietly, framing shots on the fly, not worrying too much about the light or the angles - just playing, really. He steps up to the kitchen door and adjusts his zoom before firing off another fast half-dozen frames.

"What are you doing?" Rodney asks, not looking up from the onion he's slicing at light speed. He throws the slices into a soup pot on the stove, and John's mouth starts to water at the smell of melting butter.

"Taking a few shots," John says. "Smile for me?"

Rodney scowls, and John doesn't even bother to lift the camera. Rodney hates being photographed. Instead, he moves up behind Rodney and kisses the back of his neck before reaching out to snag one of the slices of Gruyere arranged on a plate.

"I will take a finger," Rodney warns, brandishing the knife, but John just kisses him again.

"How do you eat his cooking and stay so skinny?" Jack asks from the doorway, looking longingly at the plate of cheese.

"Do not encourage his manorexia," Rodney says, adding more onions to the pot.

John slaps his ass. "I don't have manorexia; I just have a good metabolism."

"Bastard," Jack and Rodney say at the same time, and just for that, John steals more cheese.