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John kisses Rodney for the first time after yet another
mission-gone-bad, when a few (agonizingly endless, horror-stricken)
moments showed each of them what it would be like to live without the
other, once and for all. It’s a quick, angry stamp of a kiss, a kiss that
says don’t you ever do that again and what the hell were you
thinking and god, we almost *lost* you and afterwards, when
they’re both fine and the world hasn’t ended, John fully intends to
pretend it never happened at all -- despite the way Rodney stares at him
as if he’s a complex but fascinating scientific anomaly, one that
absolutely isn’t supposed to exist.
The second time, Rodney is lying completely still on a bed in the
infirmary, his knuckles bruised, his body wilted from exhaustion, and he
doesn’t open his eyes as John’s shadow falls across his bed, doesn’t even
bat an eyelash when John bends down and drops a feather-light kiss against
his temple, whispering “Rodney, jesus,” before straightening,
turning and stalking away.
The third time – the time that really counts -- they’re sitting
shoulder to shoulder in the blue-black glow of a starless night, out on
the pier. It’s a perfectly normal, uneventful evening, with nothing really
to distinguish it from any other until John takes a deep breath, turns his
head, and leans forward across the bit of space between them. A soft brush
of his lips against Rodney’s, a light, gently exploring touch of his
tongue, and then he’s pulling back, feeling sixteen years old and
bashful, of all things. But Rodney surprises him, moving eagerly into
the remaining space that separates them and kissing John back, deeper this
time, curling one strong hand around John’s neck as if he expects John to
run away again. When John finally does pull back, only to breathe,
Rodney’s eyes are wide and dark, like the sky, and John doesn’t think
about leaving at all.
(Since then, John has kissed Rodney in just about every way he can
think of: pressed into darkened corners and up against walls, tucked into
a dozen shadowy places in the city where no one can see. He’s kissed
Rodney in huts, crude shacks, tents, and lean-tos, bent over balconies,
spread out in tall grass. He’s kissed Rodney from above, below, and
behind, kissed the sharp bend of his elbow, the curve of his brow, the
arch of his foot, the ridge of his spine. He’s pulled Rodney close in the
shower, sipping droplets from the soft edge of his lower lip and the rough
underside of his jaw, and he’s pulled Rodney close beneath blankets and
sheets in the silent darkness of the wee hours, fitting his body perfectly
against Rodney’s in a way he’s never seemed to fit anywhere else, not even
close, ever before.) |