John's been working at the salon for about two months when the new guy gets hired.

"He's a genius," Austin says. "A genius with color. Kind of high-strung, but an absolute genius." He tests his flat-iron to make sure it's hot and starts working on the young woman in his chair.

"Let me guess," Sasha drawls. "Probably gay like the rest of you." She's standing around, waiting for the next client to be ready to shampoo.

John pauses, looking up from the precise line he's shaving across the nape of his client's neck. "If you were looking for straight guys, Sasha," he says. "You probably shouldn't work in a hair salon."

The truth is that John's not actually gay, but it keeps the female clients from propositioning him, which they do. A lot. It doesn't stop the male clients, but there aren't that many of them, and they take a look at John's wiry but strong frame and politely take no for an answer.

"Well, he'll be here tomorrow and he's bringing most of his clients from Damsel with him." Austin's voice is gleeful - stealing clients from their biggest rival is something of a coup, as is securing the services of Rodney McKay, Master Colorist.

"No," Rodney snaps at his client. "There is no way. That color would look stupid on you and I would be ashamed to claim the work as my own. You're getting honey blonde with caramel lowlights and a few - very few - platinum highlights. Very few people can pull off all-over platinum, and you're not one of them." With that, he sweeps off to the back room to mix the coloring solutions, leaving the client, a twenty-something woman, near tears.

"Here," John says, handing her a cup of tea, which she sips gratefully. "He's a pain in the ass, but he really is a genius - your color will look fantastic, and then I'll cut it for you, okay?"

She nods, and her gaze sharpens. John smiles, but he makes a point of patting Austin's ass as he walks back to his chair. Austin doesn't even acknowledge it, but John can almost feel the disappointment radiating off the client. John slides into his chair and hooks one leg over the arm in a perfect, beautiful slouch.

"John!" Rodney shouts from the back. "Get in here!"

John grimaces at Austin, but he rises from the chair in a single graceful move. Once he reaches the door to the back room, he pokes his head inside. "You bellowed?"

A bowl of a foul-smelling concoction is shoved into his hands, along with a pile of foil strips. "Carry this. Take it out there and set it on the lower left corner of my table. And don't spill it."

John just shakes his head. He's not sure why he lets McKay push him around. It's kind of fun, actually, and it seems to make McKay happy in some grumpy, superior, ill-defined fashion. He takes the bowl and foil out to the main salon area and places the bowl on the upper right corner of Rodney's table before slouching back into his chair. This time, he swings his foot gently back and forth.

Rodney comes out with two more bowls. "Idiot," he growls. "I said lower left." He arranges his tools and turns back to the client, taking the tea out of her hands. "Let's get this done," he says. He sections and combs the client's hair, separating a thin line of strands with the delicacy of a surgeon or a research scientist. He snaps his fingers at John, who leans across and stretches out one long arm to hand him a strip of foil.

Two hours later, the client leaves happy, and her hair looks fantastic - the color is perfect. She squeals and hugs John, then a spluttering Rodney, then leaves them both big tips.

"Nice work," John says, sitting cross-legged on the world's most attractive yet uncomfortable chair.

Rodney leans against the matching incredibly uncomfortable couch with his arms crossed. "Thanks."

They watch for a minute as Sasha sweeps hair from the floor and Austin straightens his station. It's Tuesday, a quiet day; by the weekend, the place will be full of stylists and colorists and demanding clients, but for now it's almost peaceful.

"Do you want to go get some dinner?" Rodney asks, looking anywhere but at John.

John thinks about it for a long minute.

"It's a simple question," Rodney snaps, his face flushing a little.

John tilts his head and purses his lips. "Are you asking me out on a date, Rodney?"

"Come to dinner with me and find out," Rodney says, and the smugness is back.

John agrees, and finds himself dragged along to Rodney's favorite restaurant, a small bistro with an extensive wine selection that Rodney pores over for ten minutes before making his choice. He looks appalled when John orders a beer. He looks disgusted when John orders a cheeseburger and fries, and huffs as he orders a complicated pasta dish, spending five minutes explaing it to the waiter in excruciating detail.

"You're kind of high maintenance," John observes.

"I'm worth it," Rodney says, obviously checking out the way John's chest looks in his tight black tee shirt.

John returns the appraising look. The waiter shows up with John's beer and Rodney's wine, and John busies himself by pouring the beer into a frosted pilsner glass, finishing with a perfect inch of foam on top. He drinks, then sits back and licks the foam off his upper lip.

"You are so fucking hot," Rodney says, his wine sitting untouched on the table.

"I'm straight," John says.

"I can fix that," Rodney replies, lifting his wineglass to his lips.

[Scooby-Doo-style segue, complete with wavery lines]

"Oh, god," John gasps, arching up against Rodney's solid bulk.

"Told you," Rodney smirks, licking a hot line up the center of John's stomach. "Take off your shirt."

John reaches one hand behind his head and grabs the collar of his tee shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion.

"So fucking hot," Rodney says, running his fingers through the hair on John's chest, finding a nipple and lightly scratching a fingernail over it.

"Jesus," John moans. "I didn't know you had it in you, Rodney."

"Nice turn of phrase," Rodney says, unbuttoning John's pants. "But it's you who'll have it in you."

John goes still. "Remember the part where I'm straight?" Rodney guffaws. "Okay, fine," John says. "Remember the part where I've never done this before?"

Rodney's hands are gentle on his hips, sliding inside the unbuttoned pants and stroking lightly. "Believe me," he says. "When we get there, you'll be begging for it." He punctuates his claim with a bite to the skin just below John's navel, earning a hiss.

John lifts his head from the pillow to look down the line of his body to Rodney's smirking face. "You have a very high opinion of yourself."

"I'm a genius." He tugs John's pants down and strips them off, taking shoes and socks with him, then moves up to capture John's cock in his mouth, and damned if he isn't right about the genius thing.

In a fleeting coherent moment, John wonders if Rodney has a Master Cocksucker certificate somewhere, and until Rodney laughs around his cock, he has no idea he's said it out loud.

John loses the plot for a while, because Rodney sucks like a fucking Hoover, bringing John to the edge over and over before pulling back, letting the head of John's cock trail lightly against his cheek or chin, the rough prickle of his five-o'clock shadow just enough to stave off John's orgasm. He comes back to reality when a slick finger rubs over his asshole. Rodney must feel his involuntary flinch, because he takes John's cock all the way, and John relaxes and he feels the finger slide inside him.

One finger becomes two, and Rodney twists and crooks them, making pleasure shoot through John like a supernova. John feels his whole body clench, his orgasm burning up through him. But Rodney's right there, his free hand coming up to wrap tightly around the base of John's cock as he pulls off.

"Not yet," Rodney chides, and John groans in protest.

"Please, Rodney."

"Please what?" He's smirking again, and John kind of wants to kill him, at least until Rodney's fingers move inside him again and he throws his head back. "Please let me come, Rodney. Please." John knows he's begging, but he also knows what Rodney's waiting for, and something won't let him ask.

By the time Rodney has worked a third finger into his ass and has sucked up an impressive hickey on his hip, John breaks.

"Fuck me," he whispers.

"What was that?" Rodney asks, lifting his head.

"Fuck me, Rodney, and that's the last time I'm asking."

"Good enough," Rodney says, sitting up.

Somewhere along the way, Rodney's gotten naked, and John rubs his hands over his broad chest and slightly rounded belly to touch his cock. It feels good in his hand, and he strokes it a couple of times while Rodney opens a condom that's come from god-knows-where. He helps Rodney roll the condom down, then lifts his hips so Rodney can shove a pillow under him, tilting his ass into position.

John braces himself for pain, but Rodney puts one big, warm hand on his belly, rubbing softly. "Relax," he says. "I won't hurt you."

John looks up from the pillow, bending his neck awkwardly. "I believe you." And he forces himself to relax.

Rodney levers himself up and kisses him, and John kisses back, gasping when Rodney's fingers slide back into him. By the time Rodney breaks the kiss, John is pushing himself down onto Rodney's hand mindlessly. He moans when Rodney pulls his fingers out, then gasps when he feels Rodney push his legs up and open and the head of his cock pressing against him.

"Easy," Rodney says against his lips, and he moves forward inch by inch, giving John's body the chance to adjust.

It hurts, but John breathes deeply until Rodney's all the way inside, their bodies pressed tightly together. Rodney's hand goes to his cock, and John can feel that he's softened somewhat. Rodney pumps him slowly, bringing him back up to full hardness. John has no idea how Rodney can not move inside him, but he's glad of it for the moment. Suddenly, the pain changes, sparking toward pleasure, and John twitches his hips upward a little. Rodney moans, and John does it again.

Rodney starts moving then, thrusting into John with easy, long strokes, and John finds himself wrapping his legs around Rodney's hips and hitching himself higher, pressing his ass against Rodney.

"So good," Rodney moans. "You feel so good."

John can't speak, so he hopes that the noises he's making are enough. Rodney speeds up, and John's brain short-circuits, his world narrowed to the cock in him and the hands on him and Rodney's weight pinning him down, and he comes hard enough to make his ears ring. Rodney's not far behind, and John feels his cock swell and pulse inside him. They hang there, both panting, then Rodney pulls out gently and John groans; it feels like Rodney's dragging his insides out with his cock.

Rodney pulls the pillow out from under John's ass, throwing it onto the floor. John drifts, one hand moving down to touch the mess on his belly while Rodney goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. He comes back with a warm wet cloth, and he wipes John's belly with more tenderness than John expects. He pitches the cloth toward the bathroom and slides under the covers. When he pulls John into his arms, it seems natural to go, and to rest his head on Rodney's broad chest and let him stroke his fingers through John's hair until he drifts off to sleep.

John listens in as Rodney argues with a stubborn client about color, keeping at least half his attention on the blunt cut he's working on. Rodney finally browbeats her into the appropriate colors, then eventually comes back with what he needs.

"Hmm," Rodney's client says. "What's the deal with John?"

John can almost feel Rodney's scathing look.

"He's gay," Rodney says. "And he's taken."

The client makes a disappointed sound, and John looks up and winks at Rodney.