This was the best I could do...
Series: Sequel to Balance.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowed. I promise to return them the way I found them.
Notes: As season 2 hasn't screened here yet, this is probably a bit AU for those of you who've seen the first episode.
John was braced against the wall of the shower, forehead resting against his forearms, hot water pounding his shoulders and rolling down his back. He had his eyes closed, even though the floor had mostly stopped swooping around unexpectedly, and he was letting Atlantis stroke his pleasure centre a little, vaguely aware, like a tickle at the back of his left eye, of the movement of the tiny cleaner-bots that had pounced on the mess on his floor as soon as he'd left the main room of his quarters.
That's how Rodney found him, after he'd finally managed to hack the door lock. He hovered in the bathroom doorway, his gaze a palpable weight on the back of John's neck.
"Enjoying the view?" John asked, not moving.
The motion sensor in the ceiling tracked Rodney as he stepped across the threshold and crossed his arms. "Of course," he said, with a whole monologue's worth of sarcasm, "because looking for evidence of radiation poisoning is so gay!"
John sighed. "I told you I'm fine."
"After ten minutes of me yelling through the intercom!" Rodney said. "And it was so convincing too. Especially the vomiting part." He took another step into the room, so that he was facing the shower straight-on. "You need to go and see Beckett again."
"No," said John, opening his eyes to seashell-swirled ceramic, "I need to go see Heightmeyer again. And I don't care if it offends your delicate sensibilities, but I'm not doing that until I've had some food and some sleep." He pushed away from the wall, thought the water off, and stepped out of the shower. "Not necessarily in that order, given the vomiting part."
"Oh." Rodney looked nonplussed for a moment, then pulled a towel off the rail and held it out to John.
John didn't take it. He stood there letting water drip off his body and watched Rodney watch him. The first hint of a warm buzz splintered its way out from the pit of his stomach, spreading up his spine, and he was too tired to even bother pretending to himself that it wasn't happening.
Rodney's hand was white-knuckled on the towel as he let it drop back to his side, but he jerked his chin up and said, "Oh, please. As though I'm going to be psyched out by something so puerile."
"You think sex is puerile?" John said, mildly. "That explains so much about you."
"You're not fit to be left alone, so just stop it," Rodney said in his snottiest tone.
The annoyance on his face looked real enough, and for a breathless, stretched moment that threatened to bring back his nausea, John wondered if he really was going crazy and the whole rapport thing he thought they had going was all in his head, and Rodney really didn't feel the tension between them, didn't understand that his presence here was an implicit offer. But then his brain processed what his eyes were actually seeing: the nervous way Rodney was threading the towel between his fingers--in and around and around--and the flush creeping up his neck, and John let the air in his lungs out in a long, almost silent exhalation.
Rodney did know, he was just waiting for John to go first.
Well that was simple enough. John had always found sex easy.
He moved into Rodney's space. "If you're really staying, you could use a shower yourself." He snagged the bottom of Rodney's shirt and tugged up it, just a little. "Take this off."
"Oh, God," Rodney said, and dropped the towel. His hand fluttered up, glancing against John's bare shoulder, fingertips skidding on the water still beading John's skin. "You hit your head and forgot to mention it, didn't you? You have some kind of severe, undiagnosed brain damage." His expression was one of bafflement, but his fingers were gently tracing the crease between John's upper arm and his body.
"And here I was, thinking you were supposed to be a genius," said John, tugging more determinedly at Rodney's shirt.
Without any further protest Rodney gave in, lifting his arms so that John could pull the shirt off. "Well, I thought you were supposed to be straight."
"I thought I was supposed to be dead," said John, moving on to Rodney's pants: popping the button and unzipping, then pulling them and his underwear down in a single motion. "One-up that!"
"Oh, God!" said Rodney, bracing his hands on John's shoulders as John undid his shoes, staring at the narrow space between John's head and his own already-hardening cock. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I had sex in the shower? With someone other than me? Please say we can have shower sex now," and the moment each shoe was gone he kicked his left foot, then his right, out of his pants.
Mission Get-Rodney-Naked accomplished, John stood, thought the shower back on, and backed into it, pulling Rodney in with him. "Yeah, we can have shower sex now."
Rodney let himself be pulled, his left hand sliding from John's shoulder to the dip of John's throat: his thumb circling the hollow, while his fingers splayed along John's collarbone. "Okay," he breathed, eyes dark and wide, full of a silent plea. "That's a really, really good idea."
John swiped some soap onto his palm and reached down, rubbing the head of Rodney's cock with the flat of his hand. Back and forth, until Rodney was arching towards John, lips flushed crimson, chest heaving. Wanting to up the ante, John changed his grip and began stripping Rodney's cock with fast, dirty strokes.
Rodney moaned and began babbling an endless stream of "Yes," and "Like that," and "More," and "Don't stop," and "Best idea ever," until a callus at the bottom of John's thumb dragged over the sensitive "v" of retracted foreskin on the underside of his cock, and then, in a broken voice, he begged, "John, please."
And just like that, John was lost...
...quiet and desperate in a dark place, his gun in one hand, Rodney's shoulder beneath the other, Rodney's broken voice begging him, "Please, John! Please..."
A dull, red tide crashed through him, his whole body instantly coming online like a high-powered Ancient device: his heart pounding in his chest; ears filling with a roar that made other sounds seem distant and muffled; skin tightening and burning with pins and needles. His peripheral vision greyed out until there was only a dark tunnel with Rodney at its epicentre... until there was only Rodney's breath, ragged against his cheek... Rodney's eyes spiralled black with want, begging John for nameless, impossible things... Rodney's hand at his throat, pushing the air out of his lungs... and John could feel himself shaking with it, coming apart, the taste of blood and fear and rage at the back of his throat, both hands coming up to dig into McKay's arms hard enough to leave stains.
With a sharp tug on Rodney's shoulders he reversed their positions, slamming Rodney's back up against the shower wall and wedging his thigh between Rodney's legs. "Fuck you!" he hissed into Rodney's ear, grinding his cock against the prickle of Rodney's wet hair, the soft give of his stomach, the soapy-slick curve of his hard-on.
"Oh, yes," said Rodney, his hands skidding over skin until they mimicked John's, clutching hard at John's shoulders. "Please... John." Hips jerking arythmically. "Oh... please, John."
"Fuck!" John said, almost beyond words, so far beyond words or thought or anything but the need to show (punish) Rodney... feel (hurt) Rodney... make Rodney know (know, know, know) what it had felt like to have to hold a fucking gun to Rodney's goddamned brilliant, impossible, irreplaceable head.
Rodney groaned, and his head thunked back against the wall, exposing his throat.
Like an offering.
John twisted one hand in Rodney's hair, caging him against the wall, and dropped his face to nuzzle at Rodney's neck. Rodney shivered, hips rocking, and said John's name again, over and over, like a mantra.
A quiet, calculating voice deep inside John's head processed the way beard stubble smoothed into a soft hollow behind Rodney's ear, the way the tendons in Rodney's neck felt against his tongue, the hummingbird pulsebeat hammering beneath Rodney's jaw. That same deep, well-trained military voice took the data, mapped it to all the places along Rodney's neck that were vulnerable to harm, and marked them off as out of bounds. Then, job done, the voice melted back into the rushing red rage John could feel all the way to the ends of his teeth.
"John, John, John," Rodney said into John's hair, shivering uncontrollably everywhere his skin was pressed to John's, his hands eloquent against John's body--now touching the wing of his shoulderblade, the curve of his ass, the nape of his neck. "Please."
"No!" said John, "God! You... Rodney!" and bit hard into the junction of Rodney's throat and shoulder. Hard. Hard. Hard.
Every muscle in Rodney's body clenched, and he made a harsh, wordless noise so loud it penetrated the fog baffling John's hearing.
With an effort John opened his mouth, and it sounded like a slick, wet kiss as he pulled away. The perfect shell-shape left behind on Rodney's skin slowly painted itself red.
"Oh," said Rodney, in a small, wondering voice. "Major..."
John caught a quick glimpse of lust-stoned eyes staring at him just before they slid shut, and then Rodney's mouth dropped open in an "O" of surprised ecstasy and pulses of wet heat were painting John's belly.
Before the shower could wash it all away, John inched their bodies apart far enough that he could slide his fingers through it. Rodney's come was slippery and thick and smelled a little like aniseed and a little like batteries, and as he looked at his fingers--shiny and covered in Rodney--the rage lost ground, like a tide on the ebb, and then, as Rodney's still-hard cock brushed against his own, it was gone as though it had never been.
"That," said Rodney. "I... that." He reached out, taking John's come slicked hand and wrapped it around John's erection.
John's knees buckled, but Rodney caught him, sliding his free hand around John's waist and bracing him up. Rodney's eyes were still stoned, and his mouth was bright red and close enough to kiss.
Their joined hands gripped John's cock just the wrong side of too-hard, every come-slicked stroke sending gigawatt jolts of electric pleasure straight to his brain.
Rodney was speaking, urging John on, the words slipping out slow and easy, his voice well-used and a little husky, and it was the best kind of dirty talk. Lights were sparking across John's vision like distant stars going nova, and he was only catching about one word in four, but it didn't matter: it was Rodney's voice in his ear, Rodney's hand on his cock, Rodney's neck bruising purple in a perfect ellipse, and John could still feel it beneath his teeth... the give of skin... the thrum of pulse... the bitter salt of sweat...
Then everything went slow and clear and bright, every detail etching itself in John's brain in indelible strokes: the heat in every drop of water hitting his skin, the rough edge of a nail as Rodney's thumb pressed against his own, the way their movements were reflected as vague ghosts on the wall, the bitter scent of Rodney's come, and Rodney saying, "God, John," in the same husky, dirty voice he'd been using all along, "God, I love you."
An unstoppable fury of white light rushed through him, throbbing in time to the unsteady, frantic drumbeat of his heart, and then he was on the floor, leaning against Rodney, gasping for breath.
They just sat for a moment, Rodney's hands restlessly rubbing circles on John's hip and thigh.
"Please don't do that again," Rodney said at last.
"What?" John's voice sounded grated to his own ears. "Come my brains out all over you?" He couldn't stop staring at the bruise on Rodney's throat, which was turning blue and purple; John wondered if Rodney would mind if he licked it.
"Don't be a moron," Rodney said, sharply. "You know that's not what I meant."
John wrenched his gaze away from the bruise and looked at Rodney's face: the stoned look was fading from his eyes and they were edged now with fear.
Rodney lifted his hand from John's thigh and waved it in one of his all too familiar arcs of fury. "I meant your stupid death wi--"
Well-trained military instincts kicked in, and John went on the counter-attack, pressing his lips to Rodney's furiously moving mouth: sucking his bottom lip, licking his teeth, delving deep with his tongue.
"Don't think that's," said Rodney, between kisses, "going to..." but his hand had stopped waving and was back on John's skin.
Rodney's mouth tasted like powerbars and coffee and slightly astringent Atlantean tap water, wet and hot and so damned good, and John tried to say everything directly, tongue to tongue, that he couldn't say with words: I'm sorry I scared you; I scared me too; I can't promise not to do it again.
"That was cheating," Rodney said, a long time later, when they'd both started to prune.
John levered himself to his feet, thought the water off, and held out a hand.
Rodney took it and pulled himself up. "My point was fully justified, John. You don't take enough care--"
"I have a couple of Snickers bars stashed in my bedside locker-thing," said John, and ran a not-quite-gentle finger across the bruise on Rodney's neck.
Rodney blinked at him, looking a little like a startled owl, and his stomach growled loudly.
"I have some instant coffee, too," John added and licked Rodney's ear.
Rodney sighed, but it sounded more impatient than turned on.
John tried his best "who-me?" smile. It kind of hurt, as though his face didn't remember quite how to do it, so he gave it up and bent over to pick up the dropped towel instead.
When he felt Rodney's hand on his ass, some of the strain eased out of his jaw.
"You ought to feed me anyway," Rodney said, in his regular, everyday peeved voice. "After all, it's your fault I'm about to go into hypoglycaemic shock."
John straightened up and as his gaze met Rodney's he could almost hear the click, and this time his smile didn't hurt at all. "Okay," he said, and held the towel out to Rodney, "Yeah. I can do that."