This story was unintentionally written for McShep month on Tumblr, for the Week 1 prompt, Mcshep + emotion. I thought, 'I'll draw something.' So I did. Then I thought, 'I'll write a caption for that. Or maybe a short scene.' This is the result!
(Oh, by the way, I know lots of people say 'heads-up' display, but my husband, who is an engineer and involved in the production of such things, would be horrified. 'It's a head-up display. How many heads do they think a pilot has?')
Hope
"I'm not picking anything up. Nothing at all. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nichego. Is anyone getting the picture here that I'm so vividly illustrating?"
"Calm down, Rodney," said John, his eyes flickering between the head-up display and the tiny atoll he could see through the Jumper's viewscreen. "If Zelenka said it's there - it's there."
"Huh. Well, we'll see, won't we?" Rodney tapped at his datapad and frowned at the result. "But I bet you're all thinking what I'm thinking."
The ocean was a deep blue, blending into a vivid turquoise around the ring-shaped island. The head-up display helpfully pointed out a suitable landing spot on the gently sloping white sand of the inner curve. Lorne had offered to fly, but John had declined, so the Major sat on one of the bench seats in the back, keeping himself to himself and wisely not joining in with the team's bickering.
Ronon stretched out his legs and yawned. "What are we thinking, McKay?"
There was an eye-rolling snort from Rodney's direction. "That Zelenka must have had some of his own particular brand of homebrew in his canteen when he came here. That rotgut would make anyone see Ancient facilities."
John wasn't having this. "Hold on, now, Rodney - the last batch was pretty smooth!"
"And Radek would not drink while on a mission," added Teyla, repressively.
"That too," acknowledged John.
He set the Jumper down.
Outside the viewscreen the sand was smooth and pure and inviting, the sky was a beautiful cloudless blue and the ocean lapped gently in a line of pearl-white ruffling wavelets. It was a scene from paradise. But, in John's determinedly hopeful (yet frankly terrified) opinion, it could so easily explode into a hellscape of epic proportions.
Rodney leapt up and marched to the hatch, banging on it impatiently. "Come on then, Sheppard, let's go and find Zelenka's discovery - this wonder of the Ancient world that requires not one but two natural gene-holders to give up its secrets!"
John opened the hatch and Rodney burst out and strode away across the pristine sand, waving his datapad and giving orders and directions as if he were being followed by a train of attendants.
John spun the pilot's chair around to face the other half of his team. "Look, are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Yes, John."
Teyla smiled at him, but she wasn't the one about to stick her head between the lion's jaws, was she? She pulled out a covered basket from a cubbyhole in the bulkhead and held it out.
John eased himself out of his seat, his body stiff and uncoordinated, as if all his joints had rusted up. He took the handle of the basket and his arm was tugged downward as Teyla let go. "Jeez, what've you put in here?"
"All that you will need, John."
There was a distant shout. "Are you coming or what? Get your collective asses out here!"
"Yeah, Sheppard, get your ass out there!" Ronon stood up and slapped John hard on the back, sending him stumbling toward the exit.
He passed Lorne who smiled sheepishly, heading the other way, toward the pilot's seat. "Good luck, sir."
"Thanks." John cleared his throat. His mouth was parched, his heart beating a mile a minute. Maybe he was sick and they should pack up and go home.
"John, go," encouraged Teyla. "All will be well."
He sent a curt nod over his shoulder, unable to speak, then set his jaw and swallowed down his terror. Come on, John. You can do this. His boots rang on the ramp, then sank into the sand. The hatch closed behind him and the Jumper rose and swooped away.
A light breeze fluttered his hair. The waves swooshed in and out on the sand. And Rodney started to yell.
Anger
"What the hell?" The Jumper had gone. They'd just… gone. "Sheppard! What the actual fuck?"
Sheppard was just standing there, on the sand, on his own. No Ronon, no Teyla, no Lorne. Well, there wouldn't be, would there? Because he must be flying the Jumper - flying it away, and if the now featureless sky was anything to go by, flying it right out of the atmosphere and back through the space Gate.
"What the fuck?" demanded Rodney again. "They've gone! Why've they gone? Sheppard!"
The black silhouette might have been a statue - some volcanic rock formation left on the lip of this ancient island from its last eruption. Then he moved, trudging slowly toward Rodney over the white sand. He was holding something - a basket, Rodney realised, as his team leader came closer. A basket covered over with a cloth. A picnic basket, in fact, which he might have been glad to see under different circumstances, but as things stood… Rodney folded his arms tightly across his chest and tipped his chin at an angle calculated to express extreme, brittle ire.
"Explain," he snapped, as soon as John moved from yelling range to within snapping distance. "Now."
John set down the basket. He looked at the sand. Rodney predicted that his next move would be to drop his head and rub the back of his neck. This action was duly carried out.
"I'm waiting."
"Uh…"
Rodney huffed.
"Uh, yeah, d'you think maybe we should take this into the shade?" John flipped a hand at the rocks which ran in a semicircle around half of the atoll.
"Well, seeing as we're apparently here for the duration and I'm liable to burn at the drop of a hat - which will be your fault, by the way - well, then, yes, I suppose we'd better."
John pulled up the cover of the basket, sorted through the contents and drew out a tub of Rodney's special factor one hundred.
Rodney snatched the tub and marched up the slope. He reached the rocks, then made a sharp right turn and carried on marching until he found a suitable nook, then sat down in the shade and proceeded to slather his arms and face and anywhere else that was exposed, with a thick layer of cream.
The basket was deposited with a crunch of sand, next to him - and a rustle of its contents, which, be they ever so tempting, would still not mollify him in the slightest. John sat down on the far side of the basket. Using it as a bastion, no doubt. He was right to be scared.
"Well, come on. Let's have it, then! What's this all about?"
Rodney continued to cover himself in cream, while listening to the assorted huffs, neck-rubbings, abortive grunts and other sounds that were the product of a particularly inarticulate, emotionally challenged Lieutenant Colonel. No, he was what they called a 'full bird' Colonel now, wasn't he? He'd been promoted, when they'd been hanging around, twiddling their thumbs, with nothing to do but admire the view of the Golden Gate Bridge. And then they'd been ordered back to Pegasus and Jennifer hadn't wanted to go and Rodney had, which was just one in a long line of ways in which they hadn't fitted together.
There was still no articulate speech from the hunched-up figure on the other side of the basket.
"Okay, why don't you start by apologising?" Rodney prompted. "For whatever short-circuit in your neurons led you to cook up this stupid plan?"
There was another huff. "Sorry, Rodney."
Two words. Two, barely adequate words. Fuck. Rodney clipped the lid back on his sunscreen and wiped his hands down his arms. There was already sand stuck to them. If the breeze picked up there'd be sand stuck to all of him. Then it would be bound to get in his eyes and he'd get a scratched cornea and Carson would give him those drops which stung like hell - that's if he wasn't blinded.
He rotated in place, his ass digging a hollow in the sand. Ninety degrees brought him into effective glaring position. He glared. And folded his arms again. And huffed loudly.
Sheppard looked like a crumpled cranefly, his knees sticking up asymmetrically, his arms flopping between his legs. His head hung down and his twitching fingers dug themselves into the sand. This was a full-bird Colonel in torment.
Rodney huffed again, but it was more a sigh than a huff - an expression of resigned sympathy. Clearly Sheppard had something on his mind which demanded more articulation than the usual, 'Rodney, please save our sorry asses.' Or 'Hey, McKay, wanna play with the cars?'
This could take a while.
Fear
'Tell him how you feel,' Teyla had said. Tell him how you feel? She might as well have told him to bring about intergalactic peace, or make a river flow backward. Or turn Ronon vegetarian.
'What if he doesn't feel the same way?' he'd asked, ten times, or twenty. Or fifty.
She'd put her hand on his and looked into his eyes in that I-know-what's-good-for-you way of hers. "He does."
And Ronon had threatened - no, promised - to kick his ass if he didn't go ahead with their plan. So, there was that incentive…
And they weren't coming back. They were going to radio through the Gate in twenty-seven hours and if there wasn't obvious joy exuding over the low frequency airwaves, they were going to simply cut the connection and give it another rotation of this particular planet.
He and Rodney were in no danger. The few Wraith ships still in existence wouldn't bother this uninhabited waterworld. Maybe John was Kevin Costner… no.
The sand pushed up under his nails as he dug his fingers deeper. Say something. Come on, John, just say something. Anything.
"Uh, sorry."
"You already said that. And I'm not accepting your apology unless you tell me what this is all about. Right the hell now."
A fingertip jabbed into his upper arm, hard. It would leave a small, round, bruise.
"It was Teyla's idea." God, he sounded like a kid. She did it, not me!
"Teyla's idea, to strand us on an island - a volcanic island, no less - where I take it, following more extensive investigation, I will find neither hide nor hair of an Ancient facility?"
John shook his head. "'t's just an island. And the volcano's extinct. Zelenka checked it out."
"Oh, well, thank you very much, Radek, for making sure I won't be subsumed into a vast pit of molten lava. That's really made my day."
He should stop looking at the sand. He should pick his head up from where gravity was dragging it down and turn around and look at his friend. He should look Rodney in the eye and just say it. He could psyche himself up for a suicide mission, couldn't he? He could slap himself onto the side of a Wraith ship and piggyback through subspace, couldn't he? He could face down a Queen, pull an F-302 out of a flat spin, free climb the side of the Control Tower? He could do all those things and plenty more. But could he do the one thing that terrified him above all others? Could he lay not his life but his heart on the line?
"Well, this is nice," said Rodney, with totally false joviality. "Maybe we should just start on the food. I take it there is food?"
Okay, maybe it would be easier if they were both eating. Maybe that would break the deadlock in John's head. He had to do something.
John pulled the cloth cover off the picnic basket. There was a rolled-up blanket inside and packages and flasks, tupperware containers and a round, flowery tin. That was probably the cake. Ronon said Amelia had made a cake. She probably baked a dozen at a time, if she was catering to Ronon's legendary appetite.
"Ah, well. This looks like a comprehensive supply, at least." Rodney pulled out the blanket, shook it out and sat down on it. He didn't invite John to join him. He took out a flask, unscrewed the lid and sniffed at the contents. "Aaah." Dark liquid gurgled as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He set it down, screwed the lid back on and slid the flask back into the basket.
John reached in, but received a sharp slap on the back of his hand.
"No! You get nothing until you tell me why we're here."
There was wriggling and shuffling as Rodney made himself comfortable. Then a slurp and a long, appreciative sigh. The coffee smelled really good.
Sometimes, when Ronon and Teyla were having an early-morning, beat-the-hell-out-of-each-other session, Rodney and John had breakfast together - just the two of them. Well, no, not just the two of them, because they'd be in the Mess Hall and there'd be a couple of hundred other folk eating too. But it would be just the two of them at their table. And neither of them would say much. But Rodney would drink his coffee and John would try not to watch him and try not to imagine that they were breakfasting together as a couple.
He'd try not to imagine that they'd woken up together and traded lazy strokes and warm, sloppy kisses. He'd try not to decide whether they'd take turns to shower or whether they'd get in together, their bodies pressing close, damp lips sliding over water-beaded skin. He'd try not to picture them getting dressed, or the way that he'd slip one hand up beneath the hem of Rodney's shirt and Rodney would pull it down and promise: 'Later.' He'd try, try, try - and always fail - not to imagine that they were having breakfast together because that was what they always did and would always do.
He would try not to love his friend. And fail at that too.
Rodney slurped and sighed again.
John's heart beat faster and faster until his pulse sang in his ears, overriding the rhythmic whoosh of the waves. A lump rose higher in his chest, pushing at his throat, higher and higher until something had to, it just had to burst out of his mouth.
"It's been repealed," he blurted.
"What?"
The soft, romantic words that he really meant weren't there. He couldn't do them. Not with fear hazing his vision and sending trickles of cold sweat running down his temples and down his back and down his chest.
"DADT. It's been repealed."
"Well, yes," said Rodney, slowly, puzzlement edging out his usual sarcasm. "Yes, I'd heard that."
Fuck, what now? What now? "So, people can… you know."
In the corner of his eye, Rodney tipped back his cup to drain it. Then he took out the flask and poured himself another. "But, presumably the fraternisation rules still apply?" he asked, conversationally.
"Yeah. They still apply. You can't compromise the chain of command, or undermine discipline." For fuck's sake. He sounded like a military information pamphlet.
"Oh. Well. Yes. Obviously. You wouldn't want to do that." Rodney blew out an exasperated breath through flapping lips.
John dug both hands into the sand and squeezed, so that the abrasive grains forced their way out through his clenched fists. He was so shit at this! Shit, shit, shit! "Shit, shit, shit!"
"Pardon?"
"Me," said John. "Me, goddamnit! I'm shit! At this!" And still he was speaking at the sand and not Rodney.
"Yes," said Rodney. "Yes, you are."
He couldn't take it any more. John exploded into action. He sprang straight up from his crumpled position, tore down the zipper on his vest, flung the thing onto the sand, kicked off his boots, pulled off his socks, hopping madly on one leg and then the other, and then ran, down the shore and waded into the water.
Fuck this. He wrenched at his shirt, flung it up onto the sand, his pants went the same way and then - why the hell not? - his boxers followed. Then he hurled himself into the water and just swam.
Denial
Rodney had frozen, his coffee cup half way to his open mouth. They'd been having some stupid conversation about military regulations, and the day was already pretty surreal. And then Sheppard goes off like a grenade, shucking his clothes left and right, like they were on fire, and diving into the ocean. Did he even know whether there were sharks in there? Poisonous jellyfish? Strangling seaweed?
Clearly, he'd gone mad. First he brings Rodney here and sends the Jumper away. Then he fidgets and says nothing to the point. Then he strips off and runs into the water.
Rodney regarded the abandoned heap of John's vest, his boots, and, further down the sand, the remainder of his clothes. The sequence of images replayed themselves in his mind. Sheppard's head had got stuck in his shirt, and it just showed how crazy he'd gone that he couldn't even remove his clothes efficiently.
He'd struggled for a few seconds, his arms trapped above his head. His torso had been elongated with his arms like that, especially because his pants, as usual, were riding low on his hips. Rodney had been able to see the line of his hip bones, the way the oblique muscles stuck out just above. He couldn't see those when he looked at himself in the mirror, just a smooth line from his waist down to his thighs.
And then the shirt had flown up onto the sand. Sheppard had probably ripped it. Then he was pulling at his fly and thrusting down the waistband and hurling his pants onto the sand too. His legs were wiry and hairy and muscular, just like the rest of him.
And then he'd pulled off his boxers. And he'd been entirely naked, only his feet hidden in the shallow water.
The nest of dark hair at his crotch had drawn Rodney's startled eyes like a magnet. It had only been a second or two and then John had dived beneath the waves, so he hadn't had much of a glimpse really. And they were just two men, like any two men in communal showers at a gym or whatever. You glanced, kind of by accident, but a bit on purpose, because it probably wasn't a good idea to compare, but everyone did it. Just out of curiosity really.
So, yes, Rodney had glanced. And he'd seen John's cock and his balls. Just for a couple of seconds. One second. Maybe less.
"Hmm." So. Riddle me that little lot.
The day so far: a forced picnic, a brief, uninformative conversation about DADT and the angriest striptease Rodney had ever seen. Not that he'd ever seen much in the way of that kind of thing. His encounters tended to the hurried, embarrassed or even abortive, in a flurry of scathing rejection and possibly slaps. Not that it had gone that way with Jennifer. It had been more a rueful, 'Oh well, never mind,' on both sides.
A line of thrashing white in the distance indicated Sheppard's current position. He was moving fast through the water. He'd wear himself out.
Rodney perused the contents of the picnic basket. He drew out a long, baguette-shaped package, unwrapped it and wasn't disappointed. But, oh - this one was turkey. He rewrapped the baguette and set his sights on a similarly-shaped package. This one contained BLT, heavy on the B. He began to eat, starting from one end, because what kind of an idiot started at the middle, thus compromising the structural integrity of their bread-based meal? What kind of an idiot? Sheppard's kind. He always ate his favourite turkey baguettes as messily and crumbily as he could because he said it was 'more fun' that way.
And it was strange, really, how much Rodney knew about his friend, and actually how little. He knew, for example, that if Sheppard didn't get his morning run he was like a bear with a sore head. He knew that Sheppard often didn't feel like eating first thing and had to be presented with a bowl of oatmeal - not too much syrup on it but not too little - or he'd just get himself a black coffee and then, if no one monitored his intake, he might forget to have lunch too. The idiot.
He knew that Sheppard liked any kind of popcorn, but would let Rodney have most of his share. He knew Sheppard's top ten movies, video games, superheroes and why they'd been placed in their particular ranking.
He knew that Sheppard couldn't sleep unless he'd stripped and cleaned his weapon. He knew that Sheppard slept mostly on his right side, all curled up so that his ass stuck out and didn't leave much tent room for Rodney.
He knew Sheppard's various subtle expressions and was able to distinguish easily between that loose, insolent, lop-sidedness he affected, and genuine, no-wrinkles-around-the-eyes relaxation. He could tell by the shape of Sheppard's lips and how many times his tongue appeared, very briefly, per minute, how worried he was about their present situation, whether that be a threat from an external source or a visitation from some group of IOA fatheads wanting to 'streamline their efficiency' or some other stupid buzz phrase.
In fact, there was a whole section of Rodney's vast intellect entirely devoted to Sheppard. Which was perfectly normal, wasn't it? They'd known each other for years and worked closely together all that time - lived together, practically. So no wonder he had a detailed catalogue of the structure and maintenance of his friend - or more of a workshop manual, really.
Of course the chapter of that manual entitled, 'Communication' was restricted almost entirely to 'Non-verbal'. And so the man's deeper feelings - those not directly related to his work or his enthusiasms for such things as Spiderman, football and beating Rodney at any game they encountered - were a complete mystery.
There we are, then, Rodney decided - he didn't know what the hell was going on with Sheppard today, therefore the issue must concern those mysteries whose depths he had not been able to plumb - Sheppard's hidden emotional world. The one that soldiers weren't supposed to have.
Oh.
The one that soldiers weren't supposed to have.
Oh.
John had talked about DADT. He'd arranged an exclusive, not-to-be-disturbed picnic for himself and Rodney - and he'd talked about DADT.
He'd talked.
About DADT.
Oh.
Resignation
John was exhausted. He kept swimming, arm over arm over arm and then a breath to the side; and again, arm over arm over arm and a breath to the other side. He knew when to turn now, how many breath-sequences it took to cross the central lagoon until the water grew too shallow for his dipping arms and thrashing legs.
He was exhausted, but he kept swimming. He turned again and began another breathless, flailing traverse.
He'd failed. He'd failed and he would keep on failing. He couldn't do it. He'd tried. He had spoken, in an attempt to come at the thing from an unexpected direction, as if he was planning a surprise attack on his own awkwardness, to startle himself into reacting with more words than he'd usually be able to get out past his stupid, hopeless, tongue-tied embarrassment.
But it hadn't worked. He hadn't known how to continue, and Rodney, despite his self-proclaimed and actually very real genius, hadn't picked up the thread. He hadn't seen John's extremely oblique revelation for what it was - a declaration of intent, actually of love. And yes, it was a really, really bad, really, really oblique declaration. But it had been the best he could do.
And, let's face it, the best I could do was crap.
Teyla and Ronon would radio in tomorrow and they'd know he'd failed. Would they really leave him and Rodney here? Or would they sigh with defeat and come and pick them up and there'd be silence all the way back through the Gate until they parked in the Jumper bay and went their separate, disappointed ways?
Rodney would stay mad and confused and think it'd been some stupid ploy to get him to stop working and take some time out for a few hours - he'd never know that it'd been John's lame attempt to tell Rodney how he felt, to see if Rodney felt the same way, to see if they could have all the things he'd been fantasising about for years and years.
He didn't mean just those fantasies either - not just the ones that left him breathless and sweating and barely-sated and kind of ashamed.
It was the ordinary fantasies that really hurt. The ones like having breakfast together every day, forever - or for the rest of their lives at least. And others - looking around Atlantis for a place that could be theirs, moving in together, deciding where to put furniture, where they should hang a really giant screen, if they should have some workspace or keep work in their duty hours where it belonged. And then the really mushy stuff, like going back to Earth for the holidays, going to visit relatives together, then maybe hiring a cabin somewhere remote and just sitting by a roaring fire or going out for walks in the snow and doing all that stuff people did. The stuff two people did when they were in love.
John lost his rhythm. He took a sobbing breath at exactly the wrong time and choked. Water rushed into his lungs, the salt scouring and shocking, his arms and legs thrashing as he gasped and coughed and spat. He got some air in, then choked again, coughed, sank, fought his way to the surface, spewing out water, and managed another half-breath before his agonisingly rasping airway spasmed and he coughed and choked again and again.
He couldn't get a breath, his lungs were burning, he was sinking. He was sinking and he was stupid, because it was his fault and he'd never even said, never even just said it. To the man he loved. What a stupid, stupid waste.
Then there was an arm beneath his, curling around his chest - a strong arm and a strong presence behind him. He was turned on his back and his face was in the air. He coughed and breathed and coughed again, but there was air on his face and his rasping breaths were drawing it in, drawing oxygen deep inside his lungs.
"Just relax. Just let me take you. I've got you. I've got you. You're okay. You're okay."
It was Rodney's voice in his ear, Rodney's chest supporting his back, Rodney's strong arm across his chest.
John relaxed and let himself be supported. He let himself be carried, trusting Rodney, trusting his friend, who held him and had saved him. He'd been saving him for years.
"Your turn," rasped John.
"My turn," agreed Rodney. "Idiot."
Hope, again.
Rodney's back grounded against the sand. He pushed them both further up the shore, helped by the soft ripple of a wave. John's feet kicked too, pushing them higher, though his body had been loose and relaxed in Rodney's arms as Rodney had held him and steered him to safety.
Rodney collapsed on the warm, dry sand, that the rippling waves hadn't touched. John's back lay against his bare chest - he'd torn off his vest and shirt as he'd run down the shore to rescue his drowning friend. Their legs alternated - one of Rodney's, still clad in black, one of John's, wiry and muscled, one of Rodney's, one of John's - an even pattern that seemed right and natural.
Rodney simply breathed, exhausted from terror and frenzied action and relief. John's breaths were more even now and his wet hair sprang back into peaks and tickled Rodney's ear. His weight pressed Rodney into the sand. What imprint would they leave behind, the two of them? What imprint would they leave on the sand, or on each other's lives or on the lives of others?
When Rodney spoke, his breath fluttered back to him, reflected off John's stubbly jaw. "It was Teyla's idea?"
"Yeah."
Teyla had known the two of them almost as long as they'd known each other. She knew them better than they knew themselves, both individually and what they were when they were together. She knew what they meant to each other - had probably always known.
"Sorry," said John.
"No." Rodney shook his head and his jaw rubbed against John's temple.
"No?"
"No," Rodney repeated. "Don't say sorry. You don't need to be sorry. Anyway, I'm sorry. Sorry I was stupid. Sorry for not getting what you were trying to say. Sorry for not getting it at all - I mean, not even getting what was going on in my own head."
Rodney's chest rose and fell, lifting and lowering his friend, who didn't now appear to be breathing at all.
"John?" Rodney jiggled his body, making John wobble on top of him. John said nothing. "John? I get it. I get it now. I understand. I… uh…" He swallowed. This really was hard. And he'd thought he was better at this stuff than Sheppard. It turned out Sheppard was a step up on him because at least John had known what he felt - Rodney hadn't even realised that. Not till now. Not till he was practically hit over the head with it. "I… uh… I mean, yes. I mean, me too. I mean you. And me. Yes. It's a yes from me. I feel the same way. I -"
For the second time that day, John exploded into action. Suddenly there was no weight on Rodney's chest and John's arms were either side of his head, John's body cutting out the sunlight, John's face above his, staring down at him, his eyes red-rimmed from saltwater, his face a shade paler than usual.
Love
The saltwater had dried on Rodney's face and mixed with the sunscreen, leaving white smears on his cheeks. His hair was peaked into short, stiff, spikes. His lips were parted and his eyes were open very wide, flicking back and forth between John's. John's extended arms trembled as he looked back - looked directly down at his friend. He hadn't been able to before. He hadn't looked up from the sand, because he'd been so afraid. He'd been afraid because he hadn't really believed Teyla - because if it was true it would be too good to be true - too good for him. Too good for John Sheppard.
He searched Rodney's eyes and they searched his. What were they each looking for? John wanted the truth - the absolute truth, no matter what. He wanted to be sure. He wanted Rodney to be sure. Because if this was really happening, if he was going to be allowed this, it had to be real, it had to be the same for Rodney as it was for him - it had to be everything to both of them.
He searched and searched and he could never have found the words for the questions his eyes were asking, and maybe Rodney couldn't have given him the answers anyway. But it was enough. Without words it was enough - he looked and he could tell, because Rodney was letting him see. And John thought - he hoped - that he was letting Rodney see; letting Rodney see what he had tried to keep hidden for such a long, long time.
But there was another way he could tell Rodney what he felt. He dropped his head, just a little, bringing their faces just a little closer. And Rodney's nod and the flicker of a smile at the corner of his crooked lips were enough.
John kissed him.
His words had been forced unwillingly from his lips, halting and tentative and not really to the point at all. His kiss was the opposite. His kiss told everything he couldn't say. It was deep and smooth, full of longing and lust; it was open and unashamed, it spoke of love and promises and the fulfilment of long-held fantasies. It was a hope and a vision and it was the gift of John's heart, spread out, right here, right now, in this single moment of joyful commitment.
And he had no problem interpreting Rodney's reply, delivered with his lips and with his arms, reaching up and surrounding John and pulling him down, pulling him close and wrapping him in strength and love. John had been drowning and Rodney had rescued him - he'd held him and supported him and taken his life in his arms.
He did it again now.
Eventually, John pushed himself up, breaking the kiss, so that he could look down and see the man that he loved. He grinned and so did Rodney. Rodney lunged up and drew him back into the luxurious intimacy of their two mouths together, but then mumbled into the kiss and they broke apart and laughed.
"Help me get these off." Rodney wriggled his legs.
John rolled aside and sat up and helped Rodney pull off his soaking wet pants and his underwear. They clung to his legs and John pulled hard until they came free. And then Rodney was naked and John simply looked at him, from that familiar face, down his broad chest, to his stomach - curved and folded as he sat crunched up, leaning back on his hands. John let his eyes fall to Rodney's crotch and Rodney lowered his knees, stretching out his legs, allowing John to see everything.
And then Rodney got slowly to his feet and held out his hand. John took it and stood up and allowed himself to be guided up the beach to the little nook amongst the rocks.
Rodney lay down on the blanket, leaving space for John.
Teyla had been right. And Ronon. And even Lorne, though he hadn't said much - still too used to not asking and not telling.
"Lie down. Come on. Just lie down, John. It's okay."
It was okay. He was allowed this.
He knelt. Rodney reached out and trailed one hand down his chest, the tips of his fingers running through the short hair. He brushed over one nipple and then the other and John's head fell back and he groaned.
"Why didn't I see this? Why could I see you - but I couldn't see you?" Rodney's voice was breathy and lost.
John tipped his heavy head forward and opened his eyes. "Maybe I was hiding." Rodney's hand explored lower, brushing over his stomach, his hip, sliding along the crease at the top of his thigh. John's eyes wanted to close, but he kept them open so that he could see the wonder on his lover's face.
"You're not hiding now."
"No. Not anymore. Not from you." John slid down onto the blanket, onto his side, facing Rodney.
And though there could be words for this moment, if he tried really hard to find them, John let his eyes do the talking again. And his lips and his hands and all the rest of his body, shared openly, without hesitation, along with the whole of his heart.
Joy
They'd had twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours in which they'd finally found each other - finally told each other what they felt, using all kinds of actions but very few words.
Rodney was completely naked when the radio squawked. He sat on the sand, looking down at John, who lay on his back, one hand flung out to the side, the other pinching idly at the sand above his head. Occasionally John would reach out and drop some sand on Rodney's thigh and his eyes would follow it as it slid around the curve and fell. Rodney just looked at John's face and his body and smiled at his dopey expression and considered whether to remove his lover's pants slowly or in one swift move.
The radio squawked again. Their vests were lying on the rocks. One of them would have to get up and talk to Teyla.
"What if we don't answer?" said Rodney.
John's shoulders twitched. "Maybe they'll get the message anyway."
Rodney leant forward and kissed him. "I got your message. In the end."
"To be fair, it was pretty garbled." He grasped Rodney's arm and pulled him down again. "Lots of interference," he said, his words warm against Rodney's lips.
"But it's coming through loud and clear now." Rodney stretched himself out on the sand. "Well, maybe some of the lower frequencies are a bit muffled." He glanced down, hinting at the pants' complete superfluity.
John smirked. "I'll clear up the signal for you."
He did so and then they were both naked on the sand, which was very right and proper. And Rodney didn't care about sand in his sunscreen, or anywhere else for that matter. He would later. He'd bitch and moan and complain, because that was what he did. And John loved him. So presumably the things that he did were okay.
"You love me," said Rodney. Because it seemed completely straightforward to say it that way around.
Almost all of the parts of John that Rodney could see blushed a pleasant shade of pink - or possibly he didn't have enough sunscreen on and Rodney would have to correct that for him at slow, intimate length.
"And… you love me?" There was hesitancy. There was mumbling. But John had said it.
"Yes," said Rodney. "I do." He sealed his words with a kiss. John joined in enthusiastically, wrapping both arms and legs around Rodney and rolling him over as if experimenting, to find out how a man-of-action lover should operate.
The radio squawked again.
Rodney flung out a leg to stop himself rolling into the shallow water. "Shall we tell them?"
John looked down at him, sand trickling out of his hair. "They know, Rodney. They've always known. And now we both know too."
With a joyful whoop, he slapped a hand down in the water, splashing them both.
Rodney laughed and kissed him.
If you would like to check out the picture I drew, please have a look on AO3 or Tumblr. Thank you for reading! Please review!
