Eight Times
John can't stop fussing with his napkin, wringing all the starch out of it and then compulsively smoothing the wrinkles again. He feels off-balance, clumsy (cockpit controls are no problem, but apparently he can't make his fingers wield a butter knife without fumbling it to clink loudly against his water goblet), and the way his jacket's pulling across the span of his shoulders, collar stiff against his neck, makes him feel hemmed-in and claustrophobic. Twist-smooth, twist-smooth, twist-smooth until Rodney, eyeing him across the tiny table, tells him to cut it out.
Yeah, this was John's great idea-take Rodney out to a real dinner-only it feels like there's a lot more at stake here than there's ever been over dozens of cups of coffee and plates of home fries or beers on John's porch. He smoothes his napkin over his lap one last time, runs a hand through his hair and aims a smirk back at Rodney, goes to tip back in his chair and thinks better of it, and oh, thank god, the wine's here.
Rodney proceeds to sigh and moan over the food, and John relaxes a little more with each course, figures he's done okay after all. By the time they're lingering over dessert, Rodney's a little flushed from the wine and the close quarters, and he looks intent-he's been watching John all night in a way that makes John want to duck his head and rub the back of his neck and press a hand against the fly of his jeans all at the same time. John battles his own weird flush when their waiter hands him the check, and then they're stepping out into the damp spring night.
Driving home, he feels the weight of Rodney's gaze on him, and something in his belly thrums in time to the rumble of the engine.
The same quiet from the car wraps around them when John leads him into the dark, still house. John lets Cash out and lets him back in a minute later, flicks off the porch light, and when he turns around, Rodney's right there, kissing him hotly, tasting like mocha coffee tart, big hands peeling off John's jacket and letting it puddle on the floor.
John might have spared a thought for it, the only nice jacket he has, if Rodney weren't already sliding his fingers between the buttons of John's not-so-crisp shirt, rumpled where it was tucked into his jeans, damp at his armpits and between his shoulder blades. They stumble up the stairs while Rodney works at it, a button for a step, and his shirt's hanging loose by the time they make it to the bedroom, by the time Rodney pushes John down on the bed and climbs on top of him.
This'll be the eighth time they have sex, and John's not sure why he's counting, except that it seems like when you've had something and almost lost it, well, you really should be paying attention. Eight is enough times for Rodney to have figured out a lot about what John likes, and every touch feels like Rodney's saying, I know you. I know you, John Sheppard. John tries not to let that scare him.
Rodney bites John's jaw, nuzzles his neck, hot breath puffing out against John's skin, and he's murmuring, "You dressed up for me, took me to that fancy dinner, and you put on cologne or aftershave or something, and I could smell you all night, across the table, in the car, god."
"Just trying," John gasps out, "just trying to show you a good time, McKay."
"You're trying so hard," Rodney whispers, "I know you are, and you don't have to prove anything to me, you don't," and if John shudders, it's only because Rodney's licking wide, wet stripes behind his ear.
One more lick, and then Rodney's clambering off the bed again, pulling off his own clothes and helping John with his, impatient until he has John laid out, until he's ghosting his fingers along John's collarbone, his belly, his cock, circling John's scarred knee, there and gone again before he can flinch, then back up to his hip, his ribs, his shoulder. I know you, I know you.
They've had you-screwed-up sex, and I-still-like-you-anyway sex, and this, John thinks, this feels a lot like don't-you-dare-do-it-again sex. I won't, he wants to promise Rodney. I won't, I won't, I won't.
Rodney's making his own promises, pressing his thumbs into the backs of John's thighs, holding him open until John's shaking with it, his heart beating crazily, until he's reaching for Rodney, and then Rodney's sliding slick fingers into him, sliding in and in, down and down, until John's anchored-this is the opposite of running, and John holds on to him, holds on, holds on, holds on.