When he wants it - when he needs it, John will leave Rodney a clue. Rodney's not always that observant, so the belt to his bathrobe and the ugly tie (it has fish on it for god's sake) might hang neatly on the headboard for a couple of days. Eventually, Rodney realizes that the belt is gone. And he knows.

John doesn't get jittery or angsty about it; he's good at waiting. Rodney knows that if it was him, John would know in a second. He's lousy at hiding his feelings. But John waits him out with that same patience and peace that follows him here, now.

This time, Rodney figures it out on a mild Sunday morning. He's standing on the small sun porch off their bedroom, looking out across the city. It's fairly early, so the breeze is nicely cool. He tried to tie his bathrobe's belt before he went out there - the neighbors already know enough about them, thank you very much. He'd fumbled around, trying to see if the belt was stuck in the loops or if it had fallen on the bathroom floor.

That's when he sees that it's draped over the headboard on John's side of the bed. His stomach clenches in anticipation, and he has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. It's a surprise. It's always a surprise when it happens, every single time. Rodney's not exactly sure what need in John it fulfills, but he fully understands that it's about John and not him.

He takes one more deep breath, holding the sides of his robe together with his hands, then goes back into the bedroom. Once the belt and tie are left for him, he gets to choose how they are used. He can tie John any way he wants him - arms open and held to the corners, both hands together above his head, spread-eagled with one hand and one foot bound. He wonders if he should get inventive - maybe put John on his knees and tie his arms to his thighs, but he knows he can't do it. He has to see John's face.

He ties the belt to one end of the headboard and the tie to the other. He ties them so that they each fall in a single loop onto the bed. That's the other thing - sometimes, when he's got John this way, he makes it so that John's restraint is voluntary. John slips his hands into the loops and wraps his fingers around the fabric, but he can free himself if he wants to. So far, he's never wanted to. It adds an extra layer, and it makes John shake and makes his eyes go dark and focused that much sooner.

He can hear the rustling of a newspaper and the clink of a coffee cup on a saucer, so he knows that John is sitting at the table waiting for him to catch a clue. It's always "the" table. There are other tables in the house, but the one in the dining room is the only one that counts.

John made it - he made it for them. His fingerprints are all over the wood, as indelible as the grain of the oak. John's hands made it - fashioned the sturdy legs and cut the bevel on the edge and sanded it for days and days before applying the varnish in thin coats. The table is strong. The table is forever. Rodney thinks they both might be a little sentimental and whimsical about it; it's just a table after all. Every time he thinks that, Rodney stops himself and usually goes into the dining room to run his hand over the slick surface.

"John?" he calls from the bedroom. "Can you come in here a minute?" He thinks it's pretty much a miracle that he can keep his voice from shaking. He hears John clear his throat before he says, "Sure."

John is standing in the doorway quickly enough to belie the casualness of his answer. He is, as usual, fucking gorgeous. Faded jeans and an old, worn white oxford that has black paint on one cuff are all he needs. He's getting a little older - they both are - but the smile lines and faint hints of silver in his hair just serve to draw more attention to him, even in this city of perfect plastic people.

Rodney tilts his head, then looks down at the floor in front of him. When he looks back at John, he sees the way his hands hang at his side, clenching and unclenching, the way his cock is starting to push at the wash-worn denim of his jeans. He looks at Rodney with eyes gone a pure, clear green and walks slowly across the room. When he's standing in front of Rodney, he waits.

And Jesus, he's so beautiful. He always has been - on Atlantis; in the air; dirty and sweaty in his workshop; sleeping in their wide, soft bed; running his hand along the table; sitting on the steps at sunset. He's the most beautiful thing that Rodney's ever seen, and Rodney's seen a lot over the years.

Rodney cups one hand under his chin and turns his face up to give him one soft kiss on the mouth, tasting coffee and cream and sugar. When he pulls back, he lets his thumb trace John's jaw before leaning close, nuzzling the side of his face and whispering, "Love you."

They don't say the words very often. They're not that kind of guys, but Rodney thinks John might need it right now, and he knows for a fact that he does. John doesn't say anything; he just draws in a sharp breath and turns his head to kiss the heel of Rodney's hand.

Rodney steps back and wraps his hand around John's wrist and brings it up. He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt, then kisses the soft skin where the pulse beats a little faster than usual. He repeats the process on John's other hand, then unbuttons the shirt from the bottom.

John's skin is revealed, little by little. He's managed to stay as lean as he ever was - he jogs and surfs and is basically a California boy come home to roost. His skin is tanned past golden and into a rich brown, and the hair on his belly lies black against it. Rodney continues up at a measured pace, but by the time he gets to the top button, John's chest is heaving with each breath, though his face betrays nothing past the dark glitter of his eyes.

Rodney pushes the shirt back, letting it slide over John's shoulders and down to the floor. John's already barefoot, and Rodney leaves the jeans in place. He puts one hand against John's ribcage and kisses him lightly on the opposite shoulder.

"Get on the bed?" He says. There aren't any orders here, no "yes, sir" or any of that crap. This isn't about Rodney on a power trip. It's about John and a need. He keeps it buried, but sometimes John just needs to cede control, needs to let Rodney take care of him. John is so bad at being taken care of most of the time. He's stoic and independent and capable in all things. Rodney's surprised they don't wind up here more often.

John gets on the bed, on his back. Rodney sits beside him and guides one hand to the loop of fabric. When John sees the way it's tied, he swallows hard. Rodney looks at him, searching for some sign that this is wrong, that this is not what John wants. But it is, and John reaches his hand through the loop and turns his wrist so that he's got a handful of fuzzy blue cotton. Rodney looks at his free hand, and John does the same thing, wrapping the silk in his palm.

Rodney arranges the pillows so that John's back is supported and he's half-reclining. John likes to watch. Rodney likes to watch, too. He slips off his robe and his own tee shirt and gets on the bed. Rodney knows that he's emphatically not the things that John is. His skin is pale - he refuses to go in the sun without sunscreen and a hat and an umbrella. His body is still broad and strong, but he has the soft middle of someone who spends their time in an office or a lab or a classroom. His hair has thinned more since Atlantis. He, too, has smile lines and greying hair, but he couldn't care less as long as John still thinks he's something.

By the look on his face, Rodney can tell that he's still something in John's eyes. He pushes John's legs apart and kneels between them. He braces himself on one hand so he can use the other to touch the hollow of John's throat and lean in to kiss him. John kisses back, but it's different from kisses in the kitchen or the living room or the dining room or the porch. Here John's mouth opens under his, and he waits until Rodney slides his tongue inside before reciprocating, before leaning up into the kiss.

Rodney takes his time kissing John's pretty, curvy mouth before letting his lips wander over the planes of his face. John's skin is a little warmer than usual, flushed with arousal, and Rodney can taste the sweat starting to dew his hairline. John's going down fast, going down hard. It makes Rodney wonder just how long the belt and tie had hung there before he noticed. He throws the thought off - they're here now, and it doesn't matter, though he promises himself to be more observant in the future.

He kisses his way down, stopping to play with John's nipples, making him gasp and twist. A hand on his hip stops him, and Rodney smiles at the willing obedience, given as a gift. When he kisses his way down to the waistband of John's jeans, Rodney sits back on his heels to just look. The denim is old and thin, and it's hiding nothing. Rodney can clearly see the line of John's cock. The jeans are tight enough that he can see the ridge and the soft shape of the head. He wonders how many days John's been going commando, waiting for him to notice.

Rodney traces John's cock with a single fingertip, and John's breathing gets harsh from just that much. When Rodney moves away, John makes a pleading sound. Rodney smacks him gently on the hip.

"I'm just going to take your pants off, that okay with you?" He looks up to see John close his eyes and swallow before nodding at him. "Dork," Rodney says fondly. He unbuttons the jeans - and they'd just have to be button-fly, wouldn't they - and pushes the wings of denim open enough to glimpse the paper-white skin of John's hips, the curve of his cock where it's trapped by the jeans.

"Lift up," Rodney says, and John does, letting Rodney pull the jeans down and off his legs. Rodney loves the wide, pale strip of skin that's usually hidden under John's swim trunks. It looks somehow vulnerable in contrast to the bronzed skin above and below it. He stares so long that John's hips start to shift restlessly. Rodney pushes his own boxers down and off and they're both naked, a very normal thing on this bed.

He moves between John's legs again, pushing them apart. He bends down and places a soft kiss on John's knee. It's the one that gives him trouble now, the one he's blown out twice - the one that carries the tiny scars of arthroscopic surgery. John groans above him. He knows what this means - that Rodney will be taking his time. Sometimes he just opens John up with slick fingers before pushing one leg high to give him enough room before slamming inside and pushing John against the headboard for as long as either of them can ride it out.

Rodney's gentle kisses tell John that this is not one of those days. The deep softness of John's moans tells Rodney that he's chosen correctly. He works his way from knee to hip, then switches to the other side. John's skin is soft under the hair - an odd mix of silky and springy that Rodney weirdly likes against his tongue. The hair on John's belly is much softer, satiny against his dark skin. Rodney likes the feel of that, too. He likes the soft skin of John's hips, likes the way John jumps when he glides his lips over the hollows.

John's breath catches when Rodney kisses the strip if skin where his thigh meets the curve of muscle below his hip. Rodney stops just above the tan line to sit back on his heels and give John an assessing look. John's eyes open slowly, and his hair is even crazier than usual where he's been rolling his head against the pillow. He's close to breaking, Rodney can see it in his pleading eyes.

Rodney moves from between John's legs to kneel on one side of his hips. He wraps his hand around John's wrist and kisses the pulse point. He feels John's blood thundering against his lips. He moves up slowly until he gets to the inside of John's elbow. As soon as Rodney's lips touch that perfectly normal strip of skin, John starts twisting his body - shoulders and hips - away from and back toward Rodney's mouth. When Rodney alternates hard sucks and soft bites, the dam breaks.

"Oh, god," John moans. "God, Rodney. Please."

Once John starts making noises, once is stoic facade is broken, Rodney knows that he's done it right. Somehow, somewhere, John needs to hand himself to Rodney, and that level of trust, of love, makes Rodney's chest tighten again. He wonders if he even needs to go to the other side, but the decision is taken away when John frees his opposite wrist and wraps himself around Rodney, a hand on the back of Rodney's head holding him in place.

When the inside of John's elbow is red and wet from Rodney's mouth, he looks up. He rubs his hand all the way up John's arm and slides his hand out of the loop of silk. He turns John onto his side and reaches over to the bedside table. John moans his name when Rodney's body leaves his, but Rodney gentles him with a hand on his hip until he can get the lube. John lifts his top leg and plants his foot on the bed, asking for what he wants.

Rodney works a slippery finger inside and John arches back into the touch. He makes an unbroken stream of sounds now, and Rodney stretches him with two fingers. "Please," John says, so Rodney slicks his cock and sets the tube of lube aside. "Please," John moans again.

Rodney guides his cock to John's ass and pushes in. John gives it up to him easily. His whole body is ready, aching for it, aching for Rodney. It's unbelievable, and Rodney tries to go slow, to give John what he needs. The position helps; there aren't a lot of options, not a lot of leverage. Then John reaches back to put one hand on Rodney's hip. He holds them together as he turns over, spreading his legs.

Rodney pushes John's legs even further apart to make room for his knees. He doesn't want to pull John up onto all fours, but he wants a little leverage. He starts rolling his hips, pushing into John a little harder on each stroke. He's waiting. After a few long minutes, it starts.

John's hands start to creep across the bed, stopping along the way to dig into the sheets, into the mattress. When he gets them fully spread, his hands reach for the loops of fabric waiting at the edges of the headboard. As soon as he's holding the belt and the tie firmly, Rodney plants his hands harder on the bed and speeds his strokes, pushing himself into John with all the leverage the position will allow.

It doesn't take long, John's way too close to the edge, and Rodney knows John's body as well as he knows his own. He knows the perfect angle that will set John off, and he knees John's legs apart just a little further and adjusts himself just slightly. John arches back, his head lifting off the pillows, and makes the long, deep sound that Rodney loves to hear - the sound that means John is coming.

John's body shudders, his ass clenching, but he doesn't let go of the cloth at each wrist. Rodney pushes in hard, then backs off before repeating the movement until he can't stop the orgasm that shakes through him like an earthquake. By the time he's come back to himself, John's hands are back on the bed, curled into a relaxed shape, palms up.

Rodney pulls out and eases himself to one side. John turns toward him and sinks into his arms, sweaty and still breathing hard. Rodney holds him close and kisses his temple. He strokes John's arm and back and waits for his knees to stop shaking.