SGA fickle--Critical Mass
Yeah. So I've been cranky. What's new? Wrote some schmoop to cheer myself up. And if maybe it cheers a few of you up as well, that would please me immensely. John/Rodney, non-porny touching. Oblique Instinct/Conversion spoilers.
It got to the point where it was inevitable. Flash paper waiting for a spark of static electricty. One or two atoms shy of critical mass. A whole host of terrible metaphors that Rodney couldn't help coming up with every time he thought about the situation, like a lovesick poem gone horribly wrong.
It wasn't that Sheppard never touched anybody. Hardly. It was just that his occasional hands-up and manly pats seemed more like a necessity of the job than actual friendliness. Except, lately, with Rodney, there'd been...more.
Maybe he first noticed it with the head-slap on the planet of the pitch-forked renfest wannabees, but the whole thing was a little fuzzy considering the fact that John had almost died shortly after. Well, Rodney'd almost died as well, but then John had to go and one-up almost dying by almost dying while turning into a Wraith, so, yeah. Fuzzy.
They'd always had an ease around each other. He didn't notice personal space issues with John like he did with other people. So it was no big deal to gently ease John out of his way with a hand to the back, or shoulder, or that one distincly memorable time, the hip. John didn't seem to notice, just let Rodney direct him, his attention never wavering from whatever crisis or near-crisis they were focusing at the time.
Rodney just wasn't sure whether John was in his way more often these days, or whether his own need to see the exact thing John was parked in front of at that particular moment had shot up disproportionately. It could have been coincidence--but seeming coincidences always demanded throrough investigation.
Their touching wasn't limited to that. There were gentle brushes of hands as they passed each other equipment on missions. A couple of times after one of those innocent hands-up, John had brushed him down, hand lingering just a little too long in its quest for dust. Rodney wasn't sure if he had imagined the quick brush over the crest of his ass last time, but he held onto the memory anyway.
There was brushing of shoulders, and pressing of thighs. More head-slaps, a few pokes in the side. A tussle over a PowerBar that involved far more touching each other than grabbing for the bar itself.
The day that John did the girlfriend-guide, hand possesively perched over the small of Rodney's back as they hustled through the gate, Rodney's mouth had gone dry as dust, his palms sweaty as a teen's on a first date, and he had known that it was an inevitabilty. That some day, at some point, they'd hit critical mass and every touch would flare up into something they couldn't extinguish, couldn't ignore.
Like right now, for instance.
"Rodney," John gasped, and lifted one dirty, gravel-matted hand from the ground where he had braced himself, his fingers flitting spastically between Rodney's hair, face, and neck, never quite touching.
Rodney wheezed back at him, still winded from the near brush with death and the impact with both the ground and John's body. John's body, which was stretched out on top of his own. Chest to chest, legs tangled together. Other parts...in close association. He forced in some air, swallowed hard, and pushed out some noise that was supposed to be John, but mostly sounded like need.
It was okay, though, because John translated it into a perfect kiss.
It got to the point where it was inevitable. Flash paper waiting for a spark of static electricty. One or two atoms shy of critical mass. A whole host of terrible metaphors that Rodney couldn't help coming up with every time he thought about the situation, like a lovesick poem gone horribly wrong.
It wasn't that Sheppard never touched anybody. Hardly. It was just that his occasional hands-up and manly pats seemed more like a necessity of the job than actual friendliness. Except, lately, with Rodney, there'd been...more.
Maybe he first noticed it with the head-slap on the planet of the pitch-forked renfest wannabees, but the whole thing was a little fuzzy considering the fact that John had almost died shortly after. Well, Rodney'd almost died as well, but then John had to go and one-up almost dying by almost dying while turning into a Wraith, so, yeah. Fuzzy.
They'd always had an ease around each other. He didn't notice personal space issues with John like he did with other people. So it was no big deal to gently ease John out of his way with a hand to the back, or shoulder, or that one distincly memorable time, the hip. John didn't seem to notice, just let Rodney direct him, his attention never wavering from whatever crisis or near-crisis they were focusing at the time.
Rodney just wasn't sure whether John was in his way more often these days, or whether his own need to see the exact thing John was parked in front of at that particular moment had shot up disproportionately. It could have been coincidence--but seeming coincidences always demanded throrough investigation.
Their touching wasn't limited to that. There were gentle brushes of hands as they passed each other equipment on missions. A couple of times after one of those innocent hands-up, John had brushed him down, hand lingering just a little too long in its quest for dust. Rodney wasn't sure if he had imagined the quick brush over the crest of his ass last time, but he held onto the memory anyway.
There was brushing of shoulders, and pressing of thighs. More head-slaps, a few pokes in the side. A tussle over a PowerBar that involved far more touching each other than grabbing for the bar itself.
The day that John did the girlfriend-guide, hand possesively perched over the small of Rodney's back as they hustled through the gate, Rodney's mouth had gone dry as dust, his palms sweaty as a teen's on a first date, and he had known that it was an inevitabilty. That some day, at some point, they'd hit critical mass and every touch would flare up into something they couldn't extinguish, couldn't ignore.
Like right now, for instance.
"Rodney," John gasped, and lifted one dirty, gravel-matted hand from the ground where he had braced himself, his fingers flitting spastically between Rodney's hair, face, and neck, never quite touching.
Rodney wheezed back at him, still winded from the near brush with death and the impact with both the ground and John's body. John's body, which was stretched out on top of his own. Chest to chest, legs tangled together. Other parts...in close association. He forced in some air, swallowed hard, and pushed out some noise that was supposed to be John, but mostly sounded like need.
It was okay, though, because John translated it into a perfect kiss.