Two Left Feet (SGA, John/Rodney, PG13)

Title: Two Left Feet
Author: Cesare (almostnever)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word count: ~2100
Ratings/Warnings: PG13. This story should be safe for people with triggers. (skip) Set post-s5, with brief mention of past Jennifer/Rodney and Rodney/OMC.
Summary: Domesticity on Atlantis: it's not all bigger beds and sparkly curtains.

*

"Looks like that's it for tonight," John says, standing.

Lorne stands as well. "Yes sir. So... do I buy you a drink? To, uh, congratulate you." He sounds doubtful.

"That's okay, thanks," John answers. "It's not really a big deal."

"Sure it is," Lorne says. "Moving in together, that's practically like--" he catches the look on John's face and continues smoothly, "like no big deal at all."

"Attaboy," John says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

If John moves too quickly, old-school expedition members start looking for places to hide. So he keeps his pace steady as he can as he crosses hallways to the transporter that goes to the central tower's north side living quarters.

He makes it back to the room with the appropriate level of decorum, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he's tearing off his boots and socks and rolling onto the bed-- scratching and scratching and scratching.

"Wow, that's attractive," Rodney says from the bathroom, where he's brushing his teeth.

"Guess you already ate."

"Didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I would have gone with you and gotten a thing of yogurt or something." John rubs and scratches his foot, trying to keep it over the floor instead of the bed so the disgusting skin flakes don't get on the linens.

"There's rice pudding in the mini fridge."

"That's okay. I'll probably have that for breakfast. Throw me the tube, would you?"

"It's on the bedside table."

John finds the tube under a printout of cargo allotment rules. He uncaps the medicated ointment and slathers it on his toes and makes a face. He hates the squishy feeling of gunk between his toes, but he hates the infernal itching more. "You have it too, huh?"

"Not necessarily," says Rodney defensively. "I could just be aware that you have it, and put the tube there for your convenience."

Even as much as his foot is killing him with the itching, John takes a second to give Rodney a look.

"Yes, fine, I have it too," Rodney grumps, coming over to bellyflop on the other side of the bed.

"I don't understand why we can't have the aerosol spray. Tinactin or something," John says. "That stuff always got rid of it for me in no time. This lotion's taking forever."

"Regulations," Rodney says. "Aerosols are combustible."

"It's coming out here on a spaceship," John says. "If aerosols can take out the Daedalus we might as well surrender now. Just wave a white flag and give it up to whoever comes around."

"Go figure, the military has archaic restrictions that get in the way long after they could possibly have any relevance. What a revelation." Rodney digs his chin into the pillow sulkily.

"Yeah, yeah." John spreads salve down over the balls of his feet, everywhere the skin's peeling. It's pretty gross, and gomming it up with lotion just makes it grosser. "The spray's nice and cold. It makes the itching stop. This stuff doesn't help half as much."

"Believe me, I know. I have it even worse. It looks like I have toe leprosy."

"Which means you spent a couple of hours reading up on Hanson's disease and pestering the doc into running tests..."

"It would be idiotic not to. We are in another galaxy."

"Yeah, could be some dangerous Pegasus kind of athlete's foot."

"It might be! I only have it on one foot; don't you think that's odd?"

"I only have it on one foot too. The left."

"See? Mine's only on my left! What if that means something? We should tell Jennifer."

John grabs Rodney's hand before Rodney reaches for his radio and pulls them closer together, kissing Rodney. It's on the tip of his tongue to remind Rodney that they can't tell anyone about them... that they fuck and wash each others' backs and compare their cases of athlete's foot.

Then he has to remind himself that everyone on Atlantis knows, that things have finally changed, and it's okay.

"You can tell her tomorrow," he says.

Rodney doesn't look as though he missed the byplay there. He's bad with people, insensitive, can't read them very well. But he's not bad with John.

He shrugs it off, though, just says, "Fine," and slips his hand under John's t-shirt in back, kneading his lower back just above his ass. John always gets tight there on days when he has too many meetings and not enough movement.

"Mmm. Angling for a backrub?"

"I'm always angling for a backrub," Rodney says.

"And then maybe a frontrub," John waggles his brows ridiculously, because he likes to watch Rodney scoff and pretend he doesn't think it's funny.

Rodney ends up ushering John onto his stomach and really digging into the small of his back, and then radiating out from there to massage everywhere, strong fingers palpating and smoothing out the tension until John feels just about ironed flat.

"I can't believe you just walked around knotted up like that all the time before we got together," Rodney muses. "Six of the nurses know therapeutic massage. Six."

"You didn't let them at you either."

"I tried. Several times. They always left me feeling worse off than when I went in there. It takes a delicate touch," Rodney sniffs.

It takes the promise of getting laid, actually, to keep Rodney from balking at the pain when John unravels the knots in his muscles, and it usually takes an orgasm to keep Rodney from tensing right back up again after a massage, too.

"Here, I'll do you," John offers, caressing Rodney's hand. He has to be a wiseass, though, and add, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

"That'll be a first," Rodney mutters, but he settles eagerly into place, stretched on his stomach. John straddles him and knee-walks back, forgetting that's a bad idea until the noises start.

"Oh my god, is that your knee again?"

"It sounds worse than it is," John tells him, pushing into his back muscles with the heels of his hands.

"It sounds like a trash compactor full of rice cakes!" Rodney gets his elbows under him and glares back over his shoulder. "I told you and told you, you need to go to the infirmary and let them try the cartilage regenerator on it!"

"I will... I just haven't had a chance yet."

"You had a chance to run with Ronon, and train with Teyla, and practice your golf swing--"

"I didn't think about it."

"Of course! Why would you, you only have the sound of your bones grinding each other into sand to remind you."

"It only does that when I bend it all the way."

"Well, good thing you're not an extremely physically active guy, then!"

"Tomorrow," John promises.

"You should get workman's comp," Rodney grumbles, lying flat again. "It definitely happened in the line of duty. All those Wraith queens making you kneel, it pulverized your kneecaps. And now your knees make noises like that part in Terminator 2 where the robotic tanks roll over human skulls."

"Look, I'll take care of it, okay? Knock it off."

"I don't know what you think she's going to do," Rodney says. "I keep telling you, it was a friendly breakup, she's not going to suddenly flip out and poison you to get me back."

What John really fears is that she'll cry again, but Dr. Keller swore him to secrecy about that. John's never going to forget it, though; she said Is he okay? and her eyes welled up, and then, I'm sorry, I just thought, you know, and she sniffled a little while John felt about two inches tall for being the one to benefit after things went all to shit for them.

Sometimes he still feels like the rebound, but Rodney's rebound was a xenobiologist bearing a kind of unsettling resemblance to Ford-- older than Ford would be now, but not by much. It freaks John out to think about it, so he doesn't.

He focuses on Rodney under his palms, the stiff bands of muscle that he works loose with steady pressure from the heels of his hands.

"Oof," Rodney says.

John works out the worst trouble spots and quits, tumbling onto his side of the bed. If they have sex, the rest will ease up on its own. To that end, John draws Rodney closer and kisses him.

Rodney wriggles closer, planting his arm awkwardly against John's shoulder. John tries ignoring it, but Rodney's elbow just keeps digging in, and John finally says, "Babe, you've gotta move your arm."

"I can't get used to that."

"Moving your arm?"

"You calling me babe. It's so... un-you."

"No it isn't."

"I've never heard you call anyone babe the entire time I've known you."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't in a relationship that entire time."

Rodney falls back against the pillows. "So you're the kind of guy who-- what? Becomes a totally different person when he's in a relationship? Come on."

"Why not? You are."

"I am not!"

"You kind of are, Rodney. You're a real sweetheart these days."

"Take that back." Rodney creeps back a little, though, careful with his elbow, stroking lightly up and down John's side.

"You're a little more patient with people, anyway."

"I'm not. I've just given up on them getting faster."

"Riiiight." John touches his nose to the tendon in Rodney's neck. "You're a marshmallow deep down."

"Really not."

"No, not really. You could stand to go a little easier on the new people. This place is pretty overwhelming at first, remember?"

"Go easier. Like you do with the military? Oh yes, I noticed them just the other day on the mainland, sitting in a meadow braiding daisies into each others' hair. Until three of them keeled over from heat exhaustion."

"It's a survival course, not a picnic. Now they know they should listen when their team leader tells them to bivouac in some shade when the sun's that high."

"Uh-huh. And after I get done with them, my science team knows not to go around randomly activating Ancient tech in some asinine hope of making a major find they can take credit for."

"Little do they know, you'd take credit for that."

"They'll learn."

"Damnit, my foot itches again." John waves it around a little, like that's going to help. Short of submerging it in an acid bath, he can't imagine what will. "I'd do the survival course twice if it'd get me one can of Tinactin."

"I could maybe talk to the chemists."

"Waste of expedition resources," John says.

"As it stands, you're spending time complaining about it and I'm spending time listening to you. That's a significant amount of lost time from two of the most productive people on base. Getting that time back is more than worth a small investment of resources."

John whistles low. "A lot of my paperwork would go a lot faster if I could slap 'waste of my valuable time' on it and send it back."

Rodney levers up a little to kiss him more deeply, and slowly eases away. "Do you mind if we skip doing anything tonight? I know it's our first night here, tradition demands christening, inaugurating, et cetera. It's just, I don't want to imply that the foot rot is a dealbreaker or anything, but-- it really isn't pleasant. I'd rather wait til we're both over it, and your knee doesn't sound like somebody chewing gravel."

"Sounds good to me," John says, a little relieved that they're not making a big thing out of moving in together. They'd been more or less shacking up at Rodney's before the move anyway; it's not a big change.

Just getting together with Rodney was enough of a big deal to hold John for a good long while. Lorne and everyone else can be as doubtful and puzzled as they like.

John waited years thinking this was never going to happen. No one else is ever likely to understand what that was like, and he's fine with that. It's his.

He can live with that a lot easier now that he's got what he wanted, because the relief, the vindication and satisfaction of it: that's all his, too.

Rodney slithers a little closer and rests his head on John's pillow with a pleased sigh. "Call me babe again."

He yawns. "Sure thing, babe."

"Still not used to it," Rodney informs him, and wraps his arm securely around John's waist.

John rubs his shoulder and kisses his cheek. "Take your time."