Five Minutes Before Dawn (McKay/Sheppard, PG)
For velocitygrass: John/Rodney, Neck
His room is filled with the pale light of early morning when John wakes up to find everything's changed, only he doesn't know why.
He turns his head and looks down at Rodney like he's seeing him for the first time. Rodney's dead to the world, hair standing up in wild tufts, drooling slightly into the fabric of John's T-shirt where his face is mashed against John's shoulder. The sight isn't new; it's not even unusual. But the way John's heart picks up its pace until it's pounding, slamming against a chest that's suddenly too tight - that's new.
He doesn't know what to do with that.
Over the last two and a half years, he and Rodney have been co-workers turned friends turned friends with benefits, and it's been fun. Easy and comfortable and fun, three words no one else would probably ever associate with Rodney McKay, but there you go. Rodney never said anything when John first declined sex but still asked for company, and John kept his mouth shut when Rodney first fell asleep and stayed the night. They've become routine to the point where John feels strangely uncomfortable when he spends the night alone. But it was never meant to be... this, breath hitching and mouth strangely dry, just from the sight of one ageing astrophysicist asleep on John's shoulder.
Torn between terror and something he doesn't dare name, John brings his hand up and rests it lightly on Rodney's back. Rodney's shirt is warm and a little damp in the dip between his shoulder blades; John's fingers brush the fine hair that's curling in the nape of Rodney's neck. Rodney huffs quietly and makes an aborted motion to scoot a little closer yet, mumbling in his sleep before he settles down again.
John licks his lips and closes his eyes, heart still pounding. His hand never leaves its resting place on Rodney's back, separated from skin only by a soft layer of fabric.
He's so screwed.
His room is filled with the pale light of early morning when John wakes up to find everything's changed, only he doesn't know why.
He turns his head and looks down at Rodney like he's seeing him for the first time. Rodney's dead to the world, hair standing up in wild tufts, drooling slightly into the fabric of John's T-shirt where his face is mashed against John's shoulder. The sight isn't new; it's not even unusual. But the way John's heart picks up its pace until it's pounding, slamming against a chest that's suddenly too tight - that's new.
He doesn't know what to do with that.
Over the last two and a half years, he and Rodney have been co-workers turned friends turned friends with benefits, and it's been fun. Easy and comfortable and fun, three words no one else would probably ever associate with Rodney McKay, but there you go. Rodney never said anything when John first declined sex but still asked for company, and John kept his mouth shut when Rodney first fell asleep and stayed the night. They've become routine to the point where John feels strangely uncomfortable when he spends the night alone. But it was never meant to be... this, breath hitching and mouth strangely dry, just from the sight of one ageing astrophysicist asleep on John's shoulder.
Torn between terror and something he doesn't dare name, John brings his hand up and rests it lightly on Rodney's back. Rodney's shirt is warm and a little damp in the dip between his shoulder blades; John's fingers brush the fine hair that's curling in the nape of Rodney's neck. Rodney huffs quietly and makes an aborted motion to scoot a little closer yet, mumbling in his sleep before he settles down again.
John licks his lips and closes his eyes, heart still pounding. His hand never leaves its resting place on Rodney's back, separated from skin only by a soft layer of fabric.
He's so screwed.