John kept his body still, tense. Rodney's behaviour was unusual, to say the least. He'd climbed into his sleeping bag as normal, yes, but then, after a short time, and just as John thought it might be safe to relax, had rolled to his side and wriggled his body closer. Having Rodney so near was a dream come true – surreal, yes, but still a dream come true – but it was exactly because it was surreal that it couldn't be real or true. There had to be a catch, a trick; if he responded in any way, especially positive, it would all turn to shit. Rodney would push him away in disgust, or Wraith would descend en masse. The Genii would swoop into camp and take them all prisoner, or some heretofore unknown and hidden piece of Ancient technology would suddenly activate and Rodney would be gone, ascended right in front of his eyes before he could so much as think 'off'.
Then again, he was a fucking Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force, leader of the military contingent on Atlantis, survivor of Afghanistan, not to mention uncountable hostile engagements in Pegasus – Jesus, he survived a fucking Iratus bug, for god's sake, and Todd the Wraith sucking out his life (even if he did give it back), and turning into a mutant blue bug himself. God, he needed to stop thinking so fucking hard. That was his whole problem; he spent so much time thinking about how he felt for Rodney, or what it meant – both for him and them – that he was frozen, completely incapable of action. In a word, useless. Definitely not the Kirk of Pegasus that Rodney was always accusing him of being, that was for certain.
Which, good. Because it wasn't a fair comparison, anyway. He, John, was no Kirk. Never had been, and never would be. For one thing, unlike Kirk, there were no blue babes anywhere in his history of conquests. Which was a short history at that. Contrary to popular belief, John did not spend all his free time chasing tail. If he counted back, it was a depressing 16 months since he'd last been laid – while Rodney was dating Katie Brown, actually. Now that he thought back, it was a pathetic attempt to soothe his bruised ego, and to help him feel wanted. Loved, even. Didn't work, though. All he could think about was Rodney. Not that he had a conscious thought of Rodney during the act itself – that might have clued him in sooner to his current lovelorn situation. And it would have been a major mood-killer, to be thinking of Rodney, and his blue eyes, his wide shoulders and big hands… oh. Oh, god. He really hoped Rodney didn't get any closer, or breathe any harder on his skin. Because oh, god, oh, god, that felt good. Too good, really good, really, really…
Rodney stared at the back of John's neck. It was still too tense. He'd thought the man was starting to relax, but as he'd rolled closer, the muscles and tendons had tightened to a point where he was surprised John hadn't cried out in pain. If it was Rodney's neck, he knew he'd be bitching up a storm. It was taking all his self-control – which wasn't much, this close to John – not to reach out and run a finger over the soft skin of John's neck, to try and ease the tension from the rigid lines. Hell, if he moved just a fraction of a foot closer, he could even run his lips over the back of John's neck, and taste his skin.
Of course, John was notorious for flinching away from even a suspicion of physical contact. It was a surprise to Rodney that John had managed to maintain a marriage for as long as he had, considering his palpable distaste at the mere thought of even a finger touching bare skin. Hell, he damn near needed sedation when injured, he was so averse to human contact.
Yet he'd man up if the occasion truly warranted, Rodney thought – such as that space tart, Chaya. John didn't look uncomfortable at all when she was hanging off him. And he was all smiles any time the space babes looked his way, even if he didn't leap up and offer an arm immediately – he was just more likely to be there if wearing long sleeves, than if he was in a t-shirt.
Only Rodney wasn't willing to let John put a barrier of fabric between them anymore. Straight or not, it was obvious to him that there was something between them that needed to be addressed, and it was up to him to start the ball rolling, because Sheppard – he didn't deserve to be called John for this – was being a pig-headed idiot about the whole straight/bi/gay/who-the-fuck-gives-a-shit thing between them.