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5.
Rodney doesn’t really mean it the first time he says it.
That’s not entirely true. He means it with every fiber of his being, each word holding more weight than any other word he’s ever spoken. He’s never meant anything to quite the same degree that he means this.
The thing is, he hadn’t really meant to say it. Not then. Not there. He hadn’t really ever even thought about it before, not in such specific terms. So, it’s as much of a shock to him as it is to anyone else.
“I love you,” Rodney says, his fingers curling around the steaming cup of coffee John hands him.
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, as soon as his brain actually catches up with itself and processes the sounds he’s just articulated, their meaning, the fact that it was a reflex to say it, the fact that he doesn’t regret it in the least—as soon as all of that, Rodney accepts it, turns his attention to John and waits.
John, for all that he’s an almost-genius under that unruly head of hair, just smiles at Rodney, lazy and uncomplicated, completely missing the significance of the moment.
“We know you’ve got a special relationship with your coffee, McKay,” he says, leaning temptingly against Rodney’s workbench. “But try to keep it in your pants until the Wraith aren’t knocking on our door.”
Next to them, Zelenka snickers.
Rodney takes a fortifying sip of coffee before he responds. Clearly off the cuff isn’t his strong suit.
“Ha, ha,” he says. “You’re lucky coffee’s here for me in our time of need. Imagine where we’d be without it.” Sliding back into their usual banter is easy enough, Rodney finds, and he can forgive John for missing the point entirely, since he’d even surprised himself this time.
Later, when there’s not a hiveship breathing down their necks, when Rodney has time to plan it, to make it just right, he’ll make sure John gets it.
4.
John’s asked Rodney to hit golf balls out into the ocean with him just as many times as Rodney’s turned him down, so there’s a real moment of shocked silence when Rodney agrees this time.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” John asks, after he manages to stop gaping.
Rodney shrugs, already making his way out of the mess, confident in the knowledge that John will follow. “Of course I do,” he says. “But maybe this will get you to shut up for once.”
In reality, Rodney’s been thinking about how to get John to invite him to play golf again for weeks. He can’t think of a better way to get John to realize exactly how important he is to Rodney, since he’s made it clear that golf is a waste of time. Also, some not so small part of Rodney’s mind is hopeful that John might offer to show him exactly how to drive a ball—up close and personal.
John does not shut up, though—and after an hour, Rodney doesn’t ever want him to stop talking.
John’s going on and on about the speed and direction of the wind, the weight of the club, the force behind each swing, how it all affects the arc of the ball out over the water—he’s even swinging his hips a little, something about demonstrating the correct rotation of the body through a swing, and Rodney’s completely enraptured. Golf has never been so sexy.
“That’s so hot,” Rodney says, can’t even bring himself to regret it, despite all the careful planning he’s put into saying exactly what he means.
Smirking back at him, John bounces on his toes and shimmies his hips. “Right?” he asks. “No one believes me when I tell them golf is hot.”
“Maybe you should swing your hips at them like that,” Rodney says, attempting the move himself.
John laughs, playful and unguarded the way he gets sometimes on their days off, when the weight of responsibility is a distant memory.
Carefully lining up his next shot, Rodney drives the ball hard enough that it disappears into the distance, the splash it makes tiny, nearly indistinguishable from the natural sound of the ocean.
Later, when they’re packed up and heading back to the transporter, Rodney catches John’s elbow.
“Thanks,” he says, his tongue already tied up around what he wants to say. “I’m glad we finally did this.”
John smirks at him, disentangling his arm from Rodney’s grasp and ducking back down the hall. “Hey,” he says, “I’m easy.”
3.
There are very few areas in which Rodney is not an expert, but he’s willing to admit romance is one of them. Even so, he’s pretty sure that he’s ticked all the boxes on this one.
There’s a picnic basket and wine, and he’s even heard Teyla say how romantic she finds the balcony out on the end of the northwest pier, the one where you can watch the sunset completely unobstructed. He’s managed to get everything set up perfectly—he’s even grabbed some of those little Athosian pastries that John pretends not to obsess over.
He’s thought through every angle of this, every single possible response—every single worst-case scenario, down to a freak hurricane and Kavanaugh showing up uninvited with a bad case of the flu.
It’s completely unfair, then, that as soon as he’s got John out there, as soon as the sun’s setting prettily over the horizon, he freezes up.
“This is perfect,” John says, grinning up at the sky where he’s sprawled out across the deck, his feet dangling over the edge of the balcony.
Rodney’s heart catches in his throat uncomfortably, his fingers curling convulsively around his wine glass. He wants to say, You’re perfect, or something suave and romantic, or—hell, even something like, Of course it’s perfect, everything I do is perfect, and you should appreciate that more often. With your mouth.
All he can manage, though, is a muted affirmative, something that, caught in his throat as it is, is probably lost on the breeze.
Even though Rodney’s weighed all the possibilities—the probability of John responding badly or Kavanaugh barfing all over him nothing compared to the mounting necessity for John to know—even with all of that considered, it’s too much, now, in the moment.
It takes another hour for Rodney to build up enough courage to move, to reach out and brush his fingers against John’s.
By then, John is asleep.
2.
“What’s this?” John asks, turning the plate with the cupcake on it in a little circle on his desk.
“A cupcake,” Rodney says. “I thought that was pretty clear.”
John raises a dubious eyebrow. “Yeah, I can see it’s a cupcake,” he says, then glances back at the cupcake like it might attack him. Maybe the little pink heart sprinkles on the bright red frosting are just a touch too far. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“I made it,” Rodney says, waving back towards the kitchens. Actually, they’re in the other direction. “Well, I asked Lt. Chen to make it for me. No one wants to eat anything I bake. Not even me—and that’s saying something—”
“Rodney,” John says, squinting up at Rodney.
“Right,” Rodney says, sighing. This is it. “I made it for—someone special.”
John freezes, his finger stuck in the frosting where he’s been poking the cupcake. Slowly, he removes his finger, like maybe Rodney won’t notice. He fails to be surreptitious as he licks frosting off his finger. “Why is it here?”
“What?” Rodney says, startled. “Are you serious?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, John sits back in his chair and glares. It shouldn’t be cute. Nothing about him should be cute. “Yes, Rodney,” John says, tucking his hands firmly into his armpits, setting his shoulders, “I’m serious. Why is your special-someone cupcake on my desk?”
This is going spectacularly wrong, and Rodney has no idea why. “I put it there,” he says, because he had. On purpose.
John makes an exasperated noise, rolling his eyes. “I see that,” he says. “What do you want me to do? Wish you luck, or something? Need a taste-tester? Chen’s as good as his word, when it comes to baking. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I put it there,” Rodney repeats, floundering because John is smarter than this. He is. He has to be.
“I have things to do, McKay,” John says, glancing pointedly at his laptop, which is snoozing with all the action John’s putting it through. “Take your cupcake and go. You’ve got this.”
“Do I?” Rodney asks, because he’s not sure what he’s doing wrong.
John sighs, something softer, something that makes Rodney’s heart ache. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
And really, if John’s smarter than this, Rodney’s definitely better than this. He’ll have to try again.
“Keep it,” he says, turning on his heel and storming back to his lab.
1.
The spicy drink that the village elders pass around makes them all loose. They’re usually better at following protocol when accepting strange beverages on missions, but even Teyla had insisted it was just tea.
Teyla, though, had been the first to excuse herself for bed.
“This stuff’s stronger than tea,” John mumbles, lounging back against his pillows.
Ronon’s dozing next to them, spread out on his own pillows, relaxed in a way that makes Rodney smile, makes him warm and happy, makes him want to lean over, touch John everywhere, make him relax, too.
“Rodney,” John says, and when Rodney opens his eyes, he finds he has his hand spread low on John’s belly.
At least the village elders had left them alone after the tea ceremony and there’s no one there but them to witness Rodney’s next move. Because he couldn’t stop himself, even if he wanted to.
“John,” Rodney says, feeling the name on his lips, his tongue, as he presses his fingers into the warmth of John’s shirt, soft flesh and hard muscle tensing under the pressure. “Can I?”
John eyes droop, don’t close all the way, hang there as he stares at Rodney, breathing deeply, steadily. “What’re you gonna do?”
Rodney could lean in, kiss John where his lips are parted and tempting and so, so close. He could run his hand lower, ruck up John’s shirt to get at his skin. He could press closer, wrap his arms around John and hold him close.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks. Even with his limbs loose and the strange tea coursing through him, he can’t forget the way John’s missed all of his other attempts.
John takes a long breath, his stomach rising and falling under Rodney’s hand. “Don’t ask me that,” John says, the words soft, barely a whisper. They have hope fluttering in Rodney’s chest anyway.
Leaning closer, Rodney says, “Why not?”
John closes his eyes, his whole face scrunching up like it hurts, like he can’t stand to look at Rodney any longer. “You won’t like the answer,” he says, pushing himself up and off the floor.
Rodney can’t bring himself to do anything as John stalks away on unsteady feet.
+1
Of all the routines in Rodney’s life, running for his life through an alien jungle ranks among his least favorite—right behind running for his life through an alien swamp and right ahead of trapped in a damp alien cave. Even so, his body knows just what to do.
“I can’t believe you,” Rodney snaps, shoving past John, who’s turning to shoot over Rodney’s shoulder at the creature that won’t leave them alone.
“Me?” John growls, stumbling as he catches up to Rodney, grabs his sleeve and drags him onwards. “You’re the one who woke it up.”
The jumper’s just ahead, the line of the invisible ramp clear on the forest floor to anyone who knows what they’re looking for.
“You were supposed to be paying attention while I figured out what that machine was for,” Rodney says, tripping up the ramp, hot on John’s heels.
The inside of the jumper materializes around them and Rodney’s never been happier to hear the quiet hiss of the hatch closing behind him, particularly when it’s followed by the hollow impact of the creature against the hull.
John’s panting next to him, sliding down onto one of the benches. He winces as the creature continues to hurl itself against the jumper.
“What?” Rodney says, catching himself on the netting above. “Now I have to fly us out of here, too?”
John doesn’t answer, just makes a soft sound as he presses his hand against the inside of his thigh. When Rodney looks closer, he sees it, sees the fabric slick with something dark and wet. John’s hands are bright red.
“You’re bleeding,” Rodney says, feeling winded all over again, light headed but already scrambling for the first aid kit above him. “Shit. Don’t die.”
“I’m not going to die,” John says, annoyed, but he gasps and looks like he might be sick when Rodney kneels and presses his hands to the injury.
“Of course you’re not going to die,” Rodney says, already cataloging the ways the placement and depth of a thigh injury might actually kill John. “I’m not going to let you die.”
John tips his head back against the bench, shakily lets his hands fall to the side as Rodney takes over. “Didn’t know you cared,” he says.
“What,” Rodney asks, glancing up before tearing his eyes away, forcing himself to refocus. He wipes away enough blood to see the gash more clearly, tearing at the fabric of John’s BDUs to get a better angle. “You’re going to be fine. Just a little blood loss. A flesh wound.”
“Just a flesh wound,” John repeats, dazedly, his almost-laugh melting into quiet cursing as Rodney starts wrapping the bandage.
“You’re not allowed to die on a mission this stupid,” Rodney says, winding the bandage methodically, counting his breath as he goes.
“Rodney,” John says, his voice small, soft. When Rodney looks up, John’s eyes are wide. “Rodney. I didn’t know.”
“What?” Rodney repeats, tucking the ends of the bandage securely. It’s all catching up with him now and he’s feeling a little light headed again.
John grabs Rodney’s hand and Rodney has to ignore the tackiness of blood on their skin. “I didn’t know.”
Rodney stares up at him, his brain spinning, getting nowhere. “I’ve been telling you for months,” he says, finally, curling his fingers around John’s. “Months. And you notice now?”
John’s smile is a little lopsided, blood smudged on his cheek, but he licks his lips, his eyes bright in the low light of the jumper, and Rodney pushes up, kisses him, amazed to find John kissing him back, holding onto him with a grip just as tight as Rodney’s.
“You complaining?” John asks between kisses, and that’s really unfair because—
“Yes.”