Archive of Our Own

After his first night staying over at John's place, Rodney spends the next day strutting around, pleased and proud. Oddly, his scientists and staff at the consultancy don't seem to notice the difference.

He gets a lot accomplished, brimming with even more brilliance and bonhomie than usual, satisfaction humming under his skin. All his life, he's been told that he's socially maladept, arrogant and petty and bad with people.

For such a hopeless case, he seems to be doing all right with John; things are moving forward very nicely.

Then it strikes him that John moved things forward, and in a rather significant way, too. He invited Rodney to stay the night. He even - oh, god, Rodney has John's spare keys. Was he supposed to give those back? John didn't ask for them back. They're on a carbiner that John clipped to Rodney's keychain, and he didn't ask for them back. Son of a bitch. He gave Rodney keys.

That must mean now it's Rodney's turn to advance things. In fact, it's Rodney's obligation not just to match the progress represented by the first overnight stay and the keys, but to surpass it.

What's really indicated here is a definite, unambiguous stake in the ground to demonstrate exactly where Rodney stands.

He just needs to determine: first, exactly where he does stand, and second, precisely what the demonstrative gesture should be.

*

Three days later, Rodney decides it's time to seek peer review. The life of a college professor is a slack and lackadaisical existence, so Rodney waits until the leisurely hour of 8 AM before making the call.

"Dr. Radek Zelenka."

"I'm taking you to lunch today."

"...Is this Dr. McKay?"

"Yes, hello, nice to hear from me, you too, how have you been, glad to hear it. Lunch: are you free?"

"Is lunch?"

"Oh, that's very witty, ha ha. Yes. When I say I'll take you to lunch I mean I'll pay for it."

"Then yes, I am free. Should I meet you at the b -"

"No! I'll pick you up. And I'm choosing the restaurant since my life may depend on the reliability of the cooks and servers."

"That is fine. You will of course understand if I bring a tape recorder to document any work-related discussions we may have."

"Excuse me, are you implying that I'd lift ideas from you?"

"From conversations with our colleagues I have heard that perhaps you have not always been entirely generous with proper credit."

"That's because hardly anyone I've worked with deserves any! Never mind, bring your stupid recorder, if we talk about work you can fire it up with my blessing. I'll pick you up at 11:30."

"The easiest place nearby to park is probably along -"

"Just give me your cellphone number and I'll call you on the way and you can direct me while I'm driving."

"That's not safe."

"Maybe for doorknobs who can't do two things at once. I, however -"

"Also I do not carry a cellphone."

"You..." Rodney grimaces. "Barbaric. Fine, email me your directions."

Zelenka makes an exasperated chuff, as if Rodney's the one slowing things down here. "I will, but I must go now. Goodbye, Dr. McKay."

At 11:15, Rodney is already on his way to the university when he checks his cellphone at a stoplight and finds a voicemail.

"Dr. McKay, this is Dr. Zelenka. I'm afraid I will have to cancel our plans. My TA must go out of town unexpectedly and I am left with a great deal of work to do. Some other time."

Rodney puts on his headset and calls Zelenka at once. "You still have to eat!" he says, both hands firmly on the wheel. Not safe, ha!

"Dr. McKay again."

"Obviously. Don't you have a backup TA? When I was at university I had a string of five TAs for when the first four inevitably had nervous breakdowns."

"Others are busy," says Zelenka. "You didn't seem urgent."

"What? Look, if I'm calling you, it's urgent!" Rodney clamps his jaw and sets his shoulders. "It's not about work, it's about John."

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, in order to properly answer that question I'm going to have to explain the situation. Like maybe over lunch."

Zelenka heaves a sigh. "Yes, then, I will go."

*

When they arrive at the diner, Zelenka murmurs, "I see you spare no expense."

"Money isn't everything," Rodney says airily. "This place has excellent curly fries."

Zelenka chooses a booth and makes Rodney sit facing the window so that sunlight shines straight into his eyes, and the weasel takes forever to decide what he wants.

Finally they order and while they wait for the food, Rodney opens with, "So tell me about something that's bothering you. Preferably something personal."

Zelenka looks over his glasses at Rodney with an expression of disbelief.

"Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but my sister drilled into me how this works," Rodney explains. "I want to talk about my problem, so first I listen to you go on about your problem and then I get to talk."

With slow deliberation, Zelenka opens his briefcase and extracts a thick sheaf of papers. "My problem, personally, is that a crazy man insists on wasting my time when I have work to do," he says, pen poised over the top page. "Now talk of yours."

"Efficient," says Rodney, "I like it."

"I take it from this asinine performance that John is well."

"He's fine," Rodney confirms. "He's great; we're dating!"

"God help him."

"Which just shows how very wrong you are. It's going extremely well, as a matter of fact. I just need to seal the deal here. Show him I'm serious with a big gesture."

"And this, you call urgent."

"I don't expect you to understand," Rodney flicks his fingers dismissively. "But I do think you can provide a little perspective. I was thinking maybe one of those zero-g high geosynchronous orbit plane rides."

The top of Zelenka's bent head bobs sideways above the paper he's grading, which, Rodney figures, signals a negative in Czech muppet body language. "Not likely to impress a man who has himself piloted jets at such heights."

"True," Rodney sulks.

Radek neatly punctuates his red scribble in the margin, caps his fountain pen and suggests, "A chess set, perhaps, that would be decorative for the bakery."

Rodney gives him a disparaging look. "I need something bigger. Bigger!"

"Hm. The word, I think, is compensation?"

"Laying aside your childish and insecure attempt to imply that I'm anything less than startlingly well-endowed... I'm a big enough man, in every sense, to admit that, well, compensation might be due in other areas. I may not be the most attentive potential boyfriend on the block. I'm a busy man, I don't have time to decode what's going on under that spike thatch of his all the time."

"When you put it that way, I am even less sure that I should be helping you." Radek uncaps his pen again and shuffles another student's paper on top of his pile.

Rodney continues, unmoved by such easy theatrics. "What about a cruise? Who wouldn't like to ride the ocean waves, share a cozy first-class cabin, be waited on hand and foot, enjoy lots of bottomless buffets, tour the engine room... I'm sure I could find a cruise ship that has a satellite linkup to the internet, and wi-fi in the high-end suites..."

"Yes, wi-fi is of paramount concern to John, who also very famously enjoys buffets and first-class accommodations," comes the withering reply.

"Fine, fine," Rodney grumbles reluctantly. "You obviously think you have better ideas, let's hear them."

"Does he not talk of surfing, and climbing the mountains?"

"Well yes, but that's not the kind of insanity I want to encourage!"

"You only want to encourage the kind of insanity that will land him in your bed. But you are short-sighted," says Radek. "Increasing the odds of head injury on his part can only help in this."

"I keep making this mistake, thinking that talking to you might somehow be useful. I think it's the glasses that fool me. And that one decent paper you wrote on protostars. Which bordered on genuinely clever. And was obviously a complete fluke."

"Fine," Radek throws his hands up, "I concede to your superior brilliance. Take John on a supersonic zero-g flight to a cruise ship, bore him with room service and buffets, I am sure he will be yours forever."

Rodney's not stupid enough to think these actually are good ideas, though. A deflating sigh escapes him. "There has to be something I can do."

"I suggest that a man who runs a bakery and goes running to relax may enjoy more active pursuits than an astrophysicist who regularly becomes sealed into his desk chair."

"But if I arranged some fun active sport holiday thing," Rodney wheels his hands, "I couldn't go with him, and it would completely defeat the purpose!"

"Perhaps instead of what you can purchase, think of what you can give. It's not so hopeless for you to build up hiking skills, no? I am told of legendary complaints when a girlfriend used to take you camping."

Untouched by Rodney's aggrieved and dogged look, Zelenka continues, utterly serene, "I believe John would be more impressed by effort than by money."

Rodney relents, "Sadly, for once I think you may be right."

"Sadly? If you do not believe John is worth the effort, perhaps step aside."

"Step aside for who?" Rodney asks sharply.

"Several patrons of the bakery would like to make John's acquaintance especially. There is a very beautiful woman named Chaya who... I would not say, hits on him? But nearly so. And a man, Baden, has asked him for drinks. These are only the most aggressive I have seen, you understand. Many flirt with him. Lara, she works with Teyla. Mitchell, from Cheyenne. So many people in and out of the bakery."

"You're joking, right?" Rodney pleads. "This is a plot to, to, to make me trek mountains and wear ridiculous shorts?"

Radek shudders, "The last thing I would wish is for you to wear shorts."

"John never mentioned those people!"

"Why would he?" Radek's grin turns wicked, reflecting the evil which Rodney has always suspected lurks within. "Do you often discuss his customers, or his day?"

The food arrives, which is handy, because Rodney has no good comeback to that.

*

That night, Rodney says, "So, um, how was your day?"

John shrugs, "The usual," and goes on unbuttoning Rodney's shirt.

Ha. There, he asked.

*

Now that Rodney's stayed over at John's, it feels a little odd to climb down out of the perilous loft bed after sex and dress again to go back to his apartment. John doesn't seem bothered, though, hopping down after him and handing him his pants.

"I have a meeting tomorrow," Rodney feels moved to explain, buttoning his shirt and collecting his socks. "So I need to go home to get ready. I resisted it for a while, but the sad fact is, a suit is a psychological shortcut I can exploit to make these peabrains to take me seriously. Otherwise I have to waste time proving myself, and given the choice, I opt for the suit. It's pathetic that I have to cater to simpletons, but there it is."

"A suit, huh?" John leans back against the ladder and waggles his eyebrows; it makes him look elfin and demented.

"Yes," Rodney snaps, "that's what I just said -"

"Whoa, down boy." John cups his hand around the back of Rodney's neck and exerts just a little pressure, a move that never fails to soothe Rodney - which pisses Rodney off, because he would prefer not to have any easily exploited psychological shortcuts of his own.

He lets John pull him in for a kiss though, then one more, and another; when he pulls back John just looks at him evenly, unfazed.

"Yes, well, anyway," Rodney says, backing down despite himself, "I have to. So. See you tomorrow?"

John smiles with half his mouth and shrugs, "You know where to find me."

*

Rodney arrives at the lab early, groomed within an inch of his life and wearing the hated suit - gunmetal blue-gray with a muted violet dress shirt and texture-striped gunmetal tie, all chosen by a professional shopper Elizabeth recommended.

"Look at you, Dr. McKay," Simpson dimples at him.

"Hmh. Attempts at flattery will be treated with the contempt they deserve."

She rolls her eyes. "I was just going to say you clean up nice, but forget it. You're still you."

"Yes," he says, settling his shoulders, "I am."

The meeting starts out smoothly enough, though as always, no matter how much Rodney simplifies his explanations, somehow he has to dumb it down even more.

"The uptakes have to be machined to a precision of nanometers?" Larson scratches his chin. "Dr. McKay, the equipment it would take just to measure that wouldn't come cheap."

"It won't come at all unless you sign the contract," Rodney says. "Then you'll receive what you need from us. We will, of course, only accept a final product that's approved by our scanners."

"But if you have the capability to manufacture the scanner, why do you need us to manufacture the parts? This contract's sounding like a booby prize to me," says Larson.

Rodney glares at Dorrance, the senior representative, but Dorrance maintains his silence, allowing Larson to run free and uninformed.

Sometimes it seems as if everyone on Earth is not just willing, but eager, even anxious to waste Rodney's invaluable time.

"As I've already explained, comprehensively," Rodney clips out, "expansion into fabrication isn't cost effective for McKay & Associates at this time. ATK is well positioned to capitalize on that. Of course our standards are very high, but of the companies authorized to work on SG-classified materials, ATK stands the best chance of meeting those standards."

Professionalism satisfied, he adds, "So far as we know, ATK has never used imperial measurements in a project that calls for metric, and apparently in this field, that's a mark of distinction. ATK is the least bad of the bunch, but we can resort to someone else just as easily."

"Happy holidays to you too, Dr. McKay," says Larson, annoyingly unflappable. After all, what does he care; once someone's approved for this highly classified level of access, they have to screw up hard and repeatedly to get sacked.

Rodney can't quite begrudge that, since he is, in point of fact, benefiting from it himself. Which burns.

"It's not the holidays. It's not even December," Rodney snaps.

Larson waves that off negligently. "Say ATK takes this contract. The margins are pitiful -"

"Excuse me, the margins are extremely advantageous, unless you're accustomed to six hundred dollar markups on toilet seats. Anyway," Rodney stalks on, "you need this job more than I need to give it to you. ATK's been cleared to work for Stargate Command, but they won't let you bid on any big contracts until you prove you're reliable on smaller jobs that aren't mission critical. And practically everything the SGC needs is mission critical. If you want to line up at the trough, you have to fulfill a few contracts for one of the vanishingly few outside contractors working on the project. Like me. Let's not pretend you have much choice, here."

"And you do?" Larson returns. "We could use an in with the SGC; you need our contacts in Washington."

"Hardly," Rodney scoffs. "When it comes to the level of expertise we provide, it really is what you know, not who. Although as it happens, I do know more than a few people at the DoD."

Though since leaving, he's come to suspect that he was prized by his Department of Defense contacts largely because he was politically useful. Colonel Simmons, for one, fed Rodney a steady diet of cherry-picked data and flattery to steer him into giving scientific advice that bolstered Simmons' agenda.

But even after all that, Rodney still has connections. He can play this game as readily as Larsen can. He reminds himself to treat everything he knows as currency whether it seems valuable or not. Every piece of information is worth something, even down to the terrible quality of the food in the SGC mess hall.

Finally Dorrance opens his mouth, leaning forward. "If you've got an ear to the ground in Washington, then you've probably been hearing rumblings about a proposal for a Department of Homeworld Security."

"Won't happen," Rodney says, opting to pay out a little intel. "Not that it's a bad idea to have some bureaucratic insulation between the SGC and the presidential administration. But the US government can't even find enough trustworthy people with clearance to staff the NID."

"Don't you think that's the idea?" says Dorrance. "Purge the National Intelligence Department, and form a new org with whoever's left over?"

"Good luck," Rodney says sourly. "If you tossed out all the corrupt staffers at the NID, you wouldn't have enough people left to run a bake sale."

Larson says, "Still bitter, McKay?" Whatever shows on Rodney's face encourages Larson to continue, "I hear the NID tried to recruit you for some off the books activities, and you snitched them out in exchange for this sweet deal you've got set up with Stargate Command."

"The SGC deals with me as an independent entity because they need me," Rodney says stiffly. "And they know I could go to any partner nation and get hired right back into the Stargate project. I worked for the US Air Force because they made me a good offer while I was doing my second Ph.D., but I'm Canadian, I don't owe any particular loyalty to the States. I'd be just as happy to work for the RCAF, or the Royal Air Force, or JASDF, or the Armée de l'Air."

"Or the NID?"

"Obviously not," Rodney denies, then realizes how much he's giving away and hastily tacks on, "assuming what you heard is true, and you know what they say about assumptions."

"I have to wonder," Larson says. "If it wasn't the NID that made you decide to leave, hard to see why you would. You can't be getting the same level of access to the tech that you had before."

"You'd be surprised. Anyway. Maybe I wanted a better negotiating position to get paid what I deserve," Rodney says. "Maybe I wanted to do publishable work again. Or maybe I wanted more time for my personal life. If I were still working directly for the Air Force, I doubt I'd've met my boyfriend."

That's extremely satisfying to say.

"Maybe you just didn't want to go to Russia right after Carter busted their DHD," Larson replies. "And maybe when you complained about it, the NID thought they could turn you."

Son of a bitch. Between the correct guess about the threatened assignment in Russia and the accurate description of what happened with the NID, Larson seems to have Rodney's number memorized to 67,890 digits. It's intensely annoying.

For his next trick, maybe Larson will describe the decor of the guest room at Jeannie's where Rodney stayed for five months, stressing and panicking while he waited for the SGC to clear him of all the terrifying counter-allegations the NID asshole made after Rodney reported him. Not to mention the barely veiled threats Rodney received about the safety of his sister's family.

"Do you want to sit here and psychoanalyze my business decisions," Rodney snaps, "or do you want this contract?"

Larson starts to answer, but Dorrance cuts in, "Dr. McKay, you're right that the main benefit we'll get from this job is building a track record with SGC. But we won't get that benefit if we do a job for a firm that turns out to have problematic connections."

"So you... what, suspect I'm some kind of double agent? For god's sake. Even if I were secretly in league with the NID, Stargate Command couldn't hold it against you for doing business with me when they've hired me themselves! I don't have time for this crap," Rodney declares, standing. "I want someone to manufacture the equipment I need to do actual productive work. If you'll do it, great, we'll call in the lawyers to finish up the contract. If you won't, get the hell out of here so I can start looking for someone else!"

Dorrance smiles slowly and turns to Larson. "Jamie, call the firm. We'll take it."

"Yes, sir," Larson says, and the casual antagonism he's been giving off just vanishes; he stands and smiles and shakes Rodney's hand. "Thank you, Dr. McKay," he says, and flips open his cellphone.

"...Whatever," Rodney says, and orients on Dorrance. "Would you mind telling me what this was really all about?"

"There are a lot of rumors going around the industry right now," Dorrance says. "It's important to know where everybody stands."

"I have got to get a business manager," Rodney says, and Dorrance laughs.

"It would probably save you an ulcer," Dorrance agrees. He takes an envelope from his satchel and slides it across the table to Rodney. "It's a pleasure doing business with you."

"If this is an attempt to pay me off, I'm going to give up on civilized discourse and just start throwing chairs."

Dorrance chuckles again. "It's not a payoff, Dr. McKay. We give all our business associates a little gift for the winter holidays." He shakes Rodney's hand too. "On behalf of ATK, we look forward to working with you."

Rodney, never one to trouble himself with tact or the tyranny of the calendar, pries open the envelope right away. "Spa passes?"

"Enjoy," says Dorrance. "It's a beautiful place. The wife always drags me there when we're in town. The views are fantastic. You never know, maybe you'll even relax."

"After today?" Rodney shakes his head. "I doubt it."

*

When Rodney arrives at the bakery late that night, John's eyes skate over him appreciatively in a way that makes Rodney suddenly understand what all the silly eyebrow-wiggling was about.

"Nice," John says, curling his fingers around Rodney's cuff and smoothing a hand down his lapel. Rodney actually feels his face heat, as if he's still a hapless teenager and not an experienced man of the world in a suit that should look good on him, considering what he paid for it.

"Yes, well," he says meaninglessly, and clears his throat.

"I'm just waiting for Katie," John says, stepping away, still looking and looking.

"...Who?"

"She picks up the unsold stuff at the end of the day for the women's shelter," John says. "She called to say she's running late. Shouldn't be too long."

"Right. Okay. How was your day?" Rodney remembers to ask.

John scrunches his eyebrows cutely at him. "It was fine. Why?"

"I just wondered."

"No, you didn't," John says, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms, his t-shirt sleeves tight around his biceps. Rodney's developing a bit of a fixation on John's arms, but they're worth obsessing over. He's starting to want to perhaps bite them a little.

He's not sure they're in the biting stage yet, though. To be honest Rodney's never yet reached the point in any relationship when it seemed okay to bite. He's confined himself to occasional nibbling. It's starting to seem like a serious deprivation.

"I did too wonder," Rodney says when he eventually recovers his wits.

"Okay, in that case, I opened at nine, and I ran out of blueberry and banana muffins before lunch. I had to run into the back to work on more while I had customers at the tables. At least Radek was here, so someone was keeping an eye out. I don't know if everyone's fingers are numb from the cold or what, but I had three different people spill their drinks all over the place. Also someone's kid threw up. You wouldn't believe how much puke fits in a tiny little munchkin's stomach. So the mop got a workout today. And I need to order more sanitizer."

"You should hire someone to man the mop for you," Rodney suggests automatically. "You shouldn't have to clean up after every brat that drags through your door."

John lifts his shoulder in a minimalist shrug and says, "So how was your day?"

"The meeting was terrible. I don't even want to complain about it, because it was an enormous waste of time and talking about it would just waste even more. Also, it's classified."

"Then we're all caught up now."

"What..." Rodney peers at John in confusion. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," says John, "why wouldn't it be, my day was fine." He cocks his head, looking at Rodney, and takes a breath, his stance stiffening, a little awkward. "Look, don't... fake it. Okay?"

"Fake what?" Rodney has no context for accusations of 'faking it' outside of orgasms, which obviously doesn't apply between them.

"Don't," John shrugs a little again, "do stuff just because you think you're supposed to."

"...Like asking about your day."

"Yeah."

"Um. Okay."

"If anything interesting happens, you'll hear about it."

"Right." Rodney frowns. "I was just trying..." he spreads his hands unhelpfully, "I don't know. Trying."

John looks at his shoes and breaks into a tiny smile at that, and Rodney relaxes, only now realizing how tight his shoulders were getting.

"Okay," John says. "Trying's cool."

"Let me see if I have the lexicon," Rodney says. "Trying is cool. Faking is uncool. I'm supposed to know the difference somehow."

"You keep tellin' me you're a genius."

"Oh, very original," Rodney says. "No one's ever thrown that in my face before. Genius does not equal psychic."

John regards him a little more seriously and nods. "Okay."

The sadistically unpleasant door buzzer interrupts, and "Sorry I'm late," says - Kathy? Katie?, rushing in. "Thanks for waiting."

"It's no problem. I appreciate you coming by," John tells her, suddenly all charm. Really, he has a lot of nerve accusing Rodney of faking anything.

Over the months Rodney's known him, John's become a lot more congenial, and it's clear now that despite his quirks and oddities, he can achieve a superficial ease with people at the drop of a proverbial hat. If anyone around here is fluent at putting up a front, it's not Rodney.

Ka-something responds favorably, of course, smiling bright-eyed at John. She's very pretty, actually, a slender redhead with faint freckles. "Oh, I'm glad to," she's saying. "Usually it's right on my way. It's just that tonight I was at a party on the other side of town."

"I don't want to put you out. Next time just let me know if it's inconvenient for you, and I'll drive it over," John says. "Or Rodney will."

"What? I will? How did I end up getting commandeered for this?" Rodney demands.

"Pretty easily," says John. "I just commandeered you. Keep up."

"Well, I'm not doing it just because you say so," Rodney says. "If I do it, it'll be to save," crap, what's her name again? - "this, ah, worthy volunteer some trouble."

"It's no trouble," says Katie/Kathy. "But I'll let you know, John." She takes the boxes of antique pastries. "Thank you again."

John sees her off and locks up, shutting off the lights. When he returns, it's with a distinct prowl to his step, coming right up into Rodney's space.

"How good's your dry cleaner?" he asks.

"My - what?"

"I really wanna take you upstairs, open up your fly and suck you while you're wearing this," John says, almost sultry, which sounds really weird in his mildly nasal voice. Weird, but hot.

"The thing is," he adds more normally, "that could get a little messy. And I don't want to ruin your suit."

Rodney takes him by the shoulders and kisses him, promising, "My dry cleaner is amazing."

*

Since he spends much, much, much more time at the lab than at his apartment, Rodney has all his mail delivered there, as well as keeping Mahler in the first floor office suites.

Mahler has an automatic feeder, a pet fountain, and an automatic litterbox in Rodney's office washroom. (The private washroom attached to the master office was one of the features that swayed Rodney to choose this building for the consultancy. He's had enough of institutional life: no more dining halls, no more anonymous bunks in dorms or quarters, no more rows of stalls and urinals; never again, not if he can help it.)

The consultancy's cleaning service probably loathes Rodney, since Mahler is a medium-hair cat who sheds blizzards, and his grey and white fur contrasts brightly with the dark office furniture and carpets.

And with Rodney's navy slacks, too: Mahler leaps into his lap and rolls around, coating him in a fine net of conspicuous white and grey hair. He settles down to flex his prickly claws into Rodney's thigh as Rodney opens and sorts his mail to the tune of very low volume Johnny Cash. Rodney's trying to acclimate himself to John's taste in music by playing it at almost subliminally quiet levels; he hasn't quite built up a tolerance yet.

"Dr. McKay?" Dr. Esposito is still new enough around here to use his title. She waits in the doorway til he impatiently waves her in. "Dr. Branton and I were hoping you could look over the results of our simulations today. They're atypical, and we're having some differing opinions on whether the experiment parameters are sound."

Rodney tears open his last envelope and unfolds the bill or invoice or whatever and spreads it flat, his thoughts directed inward, reviewing his schedule. "I can give you half an hour at three thirty," he says.

"Great." She hesitates. "Are you all right, Doctor?"

"What? Yes. Well, comparatively yes. You know, we must have spent half the initial office budget on Herman Miller chairs, and then of course the nanosecond after we bought them, they came out with a better model with more back support, which I absolutely need, because even with this one, I always get lumbar tension, and it's really killing me right now." She's giving him a weird look. Wait, maybe that was a conversational volley rather than a genuine question. "Um, and you?"

Dr. Esposito says uncertainly, "I'm good. I know it's none of my business, but I just wondered if your test results came back okay."

Rodney looks down at the top sheet on his mail pile, bedecked with a large Siemens Healthcare Diagnostics logo. His hand still rests on it, practically pointing straight at the line that screams HERPES SIMPLEX.

His face gets so hot he feels almost feverish. "I'm fine, thank you, everything's negative - I mean, that is, positive as in good news, but negative for - I'm fine. Completely fine."

"Glad to hear it," she says companionably. "See you at three thirty, Dr. McKay."

"Sure," he says weakly, and almost forgets to yell after her, "Email me a reminder!" and then he snatches up his test results and checks them - yes, negative for everything, as expected, though it's still nice to see it in black and white - so he folds it up and puts it back in the envelope and buries the envelope in his laptop bag and pets his cat and waits for his blush to go away.

*

He's still embarrassed that night and can't think of any good way to broach the topic, so after sandwiches and leftover muffins and an episode of The Prisoner, Rodney passes over his results with a flustered, "Uh - here."

John glances at the parade of NEGATIVEs. "Cool. Mine's stuck up on the fridge. We're all good."

Later when he goes to get dessert, Rodney checks. Sure enough, magneted to the fridge, there's John's own clean bill of health.

He's almost a little queasy with nerves after that, rehearsing the possible celebratory fuck in his head. They could safely eschew condoms now, but Rodney prefers to use them regardless for penetrative sex. Otherwise he can't quite relax for worrying about UTIs, which is always a huge turnoff to try to explain. Not to mention his related issues about hygiene.

Surprisingly, though, it turns out to be a taking-it-slow night. John winds his arm with Rodney's while they watch another Prisoner, and it's a sort of boring episode, so they make out for a while. John's kisses are slow and easy, and he strokes Rodney's thigh and laughs at the cat fur that gets all over his hand.

They never quite get back to making out after that, but when Rodney stands, John says, "Tired?" and Rodney says, "Well, yes," and John says, "Yeah, we should turn in," and just like that, it's another first: the first time Rodney sleeps over when they haven't had sex.

In the morning, there are messy, extravagant handjobs, and then John takes a lint brush to Rodney's trousers and they're good to go for another day, no problem.

*

Midday Saturday at the bakery, Rodney settles into the uncomfortable chair next to Ronon's, keeping his eyes on the passage between the kitchen and the front counter. John is safely sequestered in the back for the moment.

"I have a question for you," he says.

Ronon raises his eyebrows. He looks mildly amused already, but he always seems to look mildly amused in Rodney's presence. Perhaps he looks mildly amused all the time. The problem of observation applies to so many situations.

"I need your opinion on something. I've been given day passes to a spa," Rodney explains. "Do you think it would offend John's macho whateverness if I took him there?"

He's been debating the question for an absurd amount of time, considering what his time is worth. The passes seem fortuitous, since Rodney has yet to come up with an idea for a relationship-solidifying gesture.

On the one hand, the panoply of body care products in John's washroom suggests that he might enjoy the benefits of a five-star spa. And incidents like the pink apron episode seem to indicate that John would like to practice more freedom of personal expression than he's been in the habit of affording himself.

On the other hand, John is... well, Rodney's always found terms like "butch" and "straight-acting" to be bizarre and possibly a little insulting. Also, John isn't so much straight-acting as just... John-acting.

Rodney can't consider himself any fit gauge on the subject of gay masculinity, though. He hasn't dated all that many men, and of that small number, one criticized him for his "queeny little habits" and broke up with him for being a "diva," while another told him he was so repressed he might as well be closeted, as part of a fight that started with Rodney's admittedly deficient fashion sense and went downhill from there.

He wishes he'd taken the trouble to cultivate gay acquaintances, someone who could help him navigate cultural perils that, as usual, he knows nothing about. Not that it would necessarily help in this circumstance, though. Who could help him figure out John?

Suffice it to say, John does not necessarily seem like the spa-going type, to such an extent that being confused for the spa-going type might actively irritate him. Rodney puts those odds at something like 85% Amused But Game, 12% Surprisingly Into It, 3% What The Fuck, Rodney.

Ronon looks at him over his reading glasses. "Offend his what?"

"His, you know. Manly pride. Do you think it would bother him?"

"Doubt it," Ronon says. "Why're you asking me?"

"Because you're -" Rodney gestures expansively. "You know. You. You're the most manly guy I know."

"I'm the tallest guy you know."

"Oh. Modesty. Yes, fine, very becoming, but really. Name me one other guy who's more manly than you."

"That Scottish doctor friend of yours."

"Carson? Are you nuts? He's a mama's boy and grand champion worrier and he raises fussy little dogs, and that's just for starters!"

Ronon lifts a shoulder negligently. "He values family. He's secure enough to show his feelings. Does work that helps people. Married to a strong woman. And they raise hunting dogs. Seems pretty manly to me."

Rodney huffs. "Well... I know for a fact that Carson is fine with spas. He went on and on about some Dead Sea salt water thing he visited with Elizabeth last year." He glares at Ronon. "You're still completely wrong about his manliness though."

"No I'm not," Ronon says.

"Yes, yes you are. Plus I'm pretty sure you're confusing manliness with happiness, or at least, contentment. James Bond is manly, but does he seem very contented to you?"

"James Bond's a bitch."

Rodney reels like he's been slapped. "What?"

Calmly and certainly, like this is something everyone knows, Ronon says, "Those movies are campy crap, and Bond's an overcompensating bitch."

Rodney opens and closes his mouth, aghast, but Ronon's just so... implacable, and Rodney can in fact see what he means. Still! Rodney crosses his arms. "Well. Okay, but - that's doesn't mean... just..."

Ronon's expression is so assured and composed that Rodney can't help himself. "He's still a manly bitch!" he insists hotly. It comes out a little... loud, though. People's heads swivel to seek them out.

Rodney ducks his head between his shoulders, leaning closer and hissing, "Next you're gonna tell me Batman's not manly either! Which he so is. And whoever heard of Batman at the spa?"

"Batman's rich," Ronon says. "Bet he's got his own spa." He adds contemplatively, "Alfred probably knows massage."

"Shut up! Oh my god, that's practically incestuous. Is nothing sacred to you?"

"Massage doesn't have to be about sex," Ronon says. "Batman probably needs a lot of it. Guy trains hard."

Rodney waves him off. "This conversation is totally derailed. You should probably go back to... whatever it is you normally do."

Ronon tilts up his book so that Rodney can see the spine as well as the million post-it tabs sticking out from the pages. He's reading a worn and heavily annotated copy of what is possibly Rodney's least favorite book in the world, Moby Dick, the loathsome novel Rodney's father read to him every night as a childhood bedtime story despite Rodney's constant whale-themed nightmares.

Rodney groans. "Of course."

*

The conversation with Ronon does little to help Rodney decide about the weekend, and Rodney doubts that talking to anyone else is likely to be any more useful.

But Rodney learned a few things from the nightmare of his last assignment working directly for Stargate Command, one such lesson being: always get buy-in on ideas, so that if something goes wrong, other people share the blame.

One man can be sent to Siberia with insulting ease; the same man plus multiple colleagues who signed off on his plan, however, have little choice but to back each other up.

He's toying with the idea of calling Elizabeth (Carson is a great friend but useless at advice, inclined to unhelpful clucking and stories about what his mum would say; Elizabeth is much more decisive) when Teyla comes into the bakery in yoga clothes with her rolled-up mat in a special rolled-up-mat-shaped bag on her shoulder.

Rodney watches as John pours tea into a travel cup for her and hands her one of the new pumpkin quinoa muffins, the two of them talking the whole while, and Teyla lingers after the transaction is over, nodding as John speaks.

Teyla answers, and John smiles, a real smile that crinkles his eyes. Teyla always ends up talking with John for a while when she comes by. And while John's become notably more personable over time, there still aren't many people he chats with for that long.

And Rodney does know her at least a little. Before her promotion, she sometimes worked on the accounts for McKay & Associates. He's met her often enough that her first name, at least, has stuck.

She looks very groomed and attractively put together, and Rodney's certain that if she were coming from her yoga class that she would at least have a few strands escaping from her ponytail. So as she goes, he stands to open the door for her, and with a quick wave to John, he follows her out.

"I thought you might like a ride to your class...?" he offers.

Teyla's eyebrows arch, but she only smiles a little and says, "Thank you, Dr. McKay, that's very kind of you. But I planned to walk; it is part of my warmup."

"Oh, okay. I'll just walk with you, then. If that's all right with you," he remembers to tack on. "I'd like to talk to you. Um, you know, you can call me Rodney."

"Thank you, Rodney," says Teyla decorously as they set off. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

He'd hoped that doing her the favor of driving her to class would be enough to start things off, but instead, Rodney has to cast around for some other good way to open the conversation. "You seem to be an insightful person," he tries. Along with the yoga he has a vague recollection that she does meditation and similar incense-scented nonsense, so that compliment ought to appeal to her. Anyway it seems true; from what he knows of her, she's not at all stupid, and she appears perceptive and possessed of good judgment.

She seems a little taken aback by his remark, though. Maybe he laid it on a little thick.

"Thank you...?" she says, looking askance at him.

"I could use some insight," says Rodney. "I - well. You know I'm dating John." At her nod, he goes on, "I want to do something nice for him. You know, signal that I'm serious."

Teyla warms into a smile. "That's wonderful. I'm sure that if you simply tell John..." She hesitates and appears to think twice. "Well. Ordinarily I might suggest you tell him, but I think I understand why you would prefer to make a gesture. I believe John is more comfortable with actions than words."

See? Perceptive. Rodney nods. "Yes. And beyond that I'm not sure just telling him 'I'm very serious' has any chance of a non-ridiculous outcome. So. I was thinking about taking him on a short trip... a little vacation."

"That sounds wonderful," she replies, and then turns her head to study him briefly as they walk. "I'm sure you're planning something John would enjoy...?"

He hangs his head with a groan. "Yes, yes, I heard that already." Rodney rubs his hand over his face. "Zelenka had strong words about the inadequacies of my ideas. He thought I should take John tromping around in the woods or the mountains."

"It's very good advice. We live near some of the most beautiful nature preserves in the United States. I can recommend rock climbing in Cheyenne Canyon. There are very forgiving routes for beginners." Catching what's probably visible horror in Rodney's expression, she adds, "I'm sure Dr. Zelenka only wanted to help."

Rodney gapes at her. "Help? Zelenka? What, out of the goodness of his blackened stone of a heart? Ha!"

"Dr. Zelenka has always seemed like a very kind person to me, and a good friend," Teyla says almost sternly. "John seems to think so."

"All right, Radek probably wasn't deliberately trying to set me up for failure. I was joking. Mostly."

"Of course." Teyla adjusts the strap of her mat bag, toying with it. "You know Dr. Zelenka well, don't you?"

"Sort of. I knew him professionally long before I had the misfortune of meeting him." Rodney taps his foot as they pause at an intersection. "That was another joke, by the way."

"I understood as much this time, yes."

"Anyway, he may not have been trying to sabotage me, but he was spectacularly unhelpful. Hiking and mountain climbing? Please. No one wants to see me struggling uphill, getting sunburnt and sweaty."

With a hint of mischief, Teyla says, "I think you should let John decide that." She hesitates. "Did Dr. Zelenka happen to mention whether he is seeing anyone?"

"What? No. We weren't there to talk about him!" Rodney flutters his fingers, thinking back. "That is, I did invite him to discuss a problem of his first. You know, to even up the score. He, uh," Rodney coughs. "He declined."

Teyla gives him a mildly sardonic look. "You didn't ask me if we should discuss a problem of mine."

"Well. No. I doubt you'd need my advice, unless maybe you want engineering help."

"I see," says Teyla, her expression ambiguous. It includes a faint smile, so Rodney gives up trying to figure it out and just assumes it's not too negative. "I suppose I could use engineering help, in a way," she says. "I would like to get to know Dr. Zelenka better, but he responds with mixed signals. I am not sure if it is a difference between our cultures, or if he would prefer to remain only friends."

"Only friends? You mean you... all right, well, then..." Rodney frowns, boggled that one of the most beautiful women he's ever met in person - really, Teyla is right up there with Samantha Carter, and Rodney does not say that lightly - is interested in weedy, bespectacled Zelenka of all people. "I... think you should ask him? I mean ask him... out. To, um, dinner, probably."

"When I have asked him to dinner, he suggests meeting for coffee or lunch instead. I would take that as a sign that he does not wish to pursue a relationship. But he also gave me this, for my birthday." Teyla turns her head to indicate a sparkling hair ornament adorning her ponytail. "These are Czech glass beads, and he said this was in his family. That seemed significant. But since then..." she tilts her head in a shrug.

Rodney has no hope of deciphering the coy mating habits of the expatriated Czech scientist, plus, his own problem isn't solved yet. Of course, he can't simply come out and say so, and has to wrack his brain to fit the convoluted paths of expected "polite" conversation. There's a reason he usually avoids this sort of thing.

He settles for, "I'm not surprised that Zelenka's being balky. He could be a much bolder scientist, too - he's not stupid, but he's not adventurous either. What to do about it... that's a little out of my skill set, sorry."

Teyla nods, and sighs, but she must be more disappointed with the overall situation than with Rodney personally, since she follows it up with a small smile in his direction. "Thank you for the attempt, Rodney. I hope you and John have a good trip, and that you convey all you wish with the gesture."

"So you really think a trip is a good idea?" he asks, eager to get back on track.

"Yes, it is very thoughtful. John spends too much time working. It would be good for him to take a few days off."

Rodney feels virtuous and straightens his shoulders a little. Then he looks around and realizes that Teyla took a right into a car park, and is striding towards the back door of a self-proclaimed 'Health & Zen Center.' A faded purple poster on the glass lists the schedule for the yoga classes.

He puts on a burst of speed to catch up before she disappears inside. "Wait, do you have to go in yet? I wanted to run another idea by you."

Teyla glances at her watch and says, "I have a few more minutes. Come in, we'll talk in the lobby," tucking her small hand into his elbow and guiding him inside.

"Oh, it is a lot warmer in here, good idea."

She smiles. "You have something else in mind?"

Rodney pats his pocket and lowers his voice a bit. "A... business acquaintance gave me day passes to a spa. I've never gone to one of these places and I'm not sure -"

Rodney trails off as it occurs to him, belatedly, that Teyla might not be favorably inclined to hear him wonder aloud if a spa visit would impugn John's masculinity. She's an insightful sort of person, so she's probably hip to gender and sexuality as fluid concepts and likely to respond with blah blah expand your mind beyond rigid outdated gender roles et cetera.

And even if she gave a cogent answer, Rodney would have to second-guess her judgment now that he knows she has the hots for Radek Zelenka.

Fortunately, in all her benevolence, Teyla takes Rodney's interruption as a consequence of his embarrassment, and she squeezes his hand in a friendly fashion.

"I am sure you will both enjoy it if you keep an open mind. The rituals of bathing together can provide a lovely opportunity to share intimacy." She pats his hand once more, a light reassuring touch. "I am afraid I have to get to class now or I'll be late."

"Of course," Rodney says, trying not to grimace at the mention of intimacy; it's a good thing she has to go before she starts talking to him about processing his feelings, because then he really would start foaming at the mouth. "Thanks for your advice," he adds, and, "I'm sure it'll, you know, things will work out. For you."

"We can hope," she says, flashing a brilliant smile, and disappears down the hall to her class.

Rodney wheels around to go, disappointed. No one's been able to give him any clear direction, not that he should be surprised. However hopeless Jeannie might claim he is with people, he's still a brilliant man, and if he's unsure of a course of action, he can't expect people without his prodigious intellectual gifts to have better results with the same conundrum.

Though this last conversation hasn't been entirely fruitless, he realizes, beginning to grin to himself. He's learned that one of the most gorgeous women he's ever met has an inexplicable interest in Zelenka - and Zelenka is totally blowing it. Rodney can't wait to throw that in his face during their next argument.

*

That night finds Rodney relaxing after hectic, terrific sex with John. Someday, he's going to convince John that "taking it slow" can apply to sex, and not just to delaying having sex. Eventually. At present he's enjoying the rush. It's been a while since anyone was this eager to sleep with him, and he's not sure anyone's ever stayed this eager to sleep with him for this long.

He spends the afterglow recumbent, petting John's hair, which is quickly becoming a favorite activity. He's discovering there's a technique to it. If he does it the right way, John goes liquid and all but purrs, and once, memorably, was inspired to a long, drawn-out second round of fellatio. If he does it the wrong way, though, John squirms out of petting range and pulls a face.

The key seems to be careful treatment of his cowlicks, because stroking against the grain makes John retreat. Stroking them the right way is tricky, though - they go all directions - and navigating around them is no picnic either, as they seem to cover the entire crown of his head.

Rodney carefully finds a patch of sticky-up hair and smooths it in the direction it's already skewing. John hums in appreciation and genuinely cuddles up against him - there's just no other word for it. Wow.

"Can you arrange to take a weekend off anytime soon? Maybe if you pay him his weight in food, Ronon could keep things going?" Rodney asks, scritching John's scalp just fore of the cowlick thicket; John shivers subtly.

"I can take a day or two. I'll just close and put up a sign."

"I don't think you'll enjoy the trip as much if it cuts into your business."

"You want to go on a trip?"

"Of sorts. It's not far. A day trip, I guess you could say." Rodney shifts his attention to John's neck, slipping fingers down the collar of his t-shirt to circle the subtle bumps of vertebrae, working up along the fine muscles of his nape, rubbing at the base of his skull. John plows his face into the crook of Rodney's neck with a little groan.

This is definitely zooming up the list of Rodney's favorite things to do, right up there after sex and proving himself right.

"At some point you're going to have to hire someone."

"I know," John admits. "One of these days."

"Well... I suppose we could wait til you have help, if one of these days is soon," Rodney says, dissatisfied.

"It'll be a while. It's fine, I can stand to close for a couple of days." John lifts his head a little, looking at Rodney through the dark fringe of his lashes. "What's the plan? Or is it a surprise?"

"I suppose it could be a surprise if you wanted. I don't know. It's not something I've ever done before and probably not something you've done either. I'm not sure you'll like it, but the opportunity presented itself, and I thought some time off would be nice."

"Odds are I'll like it," John says. "I'm pretty easy." He hesitates and glances up again. "It's not flying."

"No," Rodney says. The look on John's face makes him very relieved that Zelenka talked him out of that idea.

"Okay." John drapes against him again. "Something that's not far, huh. Brewery tour?"

"Is there one around here? God, it's not Coors, is it? Aren't they the 'tap the Rockies' beer?"

"No, jeez, I meant the microbrewery downtown," John laughs. "The zoo?"

"Smelly, bored animals behind bars? No."

"Hm. Focus on the Family?"

Rodney digs into John's cowlicks and pushes them against the grain on purpose.

"Ow," John squirms, pulling a face.

"You deserved that."

"I guess," John says, laying his head back down. "But now you have to fix it."

"Oh, well, if I have to," Rodney says, and goes back to doing his new semi-favorite thing.

*

John keeps guessing, but unsurprisingly, he never even gets close. Meanwhile, Rodney's accumulating a massive list of options for future occasions. It's like getting relationship Cole's Notes. He starts a spreadsheet.

He might have come up with some of the sports events on his own, but he probably wouldn't have thought to seek out the brewery tour that John seems genuinely interested in, or an amusement park up by Denver called Lakeside that sounds decrepit and dangerous, but which John insists would be "awesome" because it has an especially tall Ferris wheel.

He's briefly terrified when John asks if they're going to a tourist trap cattle ranch with cowboy singers. Fortunately, a day or two later, John confesses he just mentioned that one to see the look on Rodney's face. Rodney deletes it with relish from his spreadsheet.

"Do I get hints?" John asks one evening, across the table from him at the bakery while Rodney slashes and burns his way through his email.

"Of course, if you want them. I'll tell you whatever you want about the plan, up to and including what it actually is."

"I like guessing. Is it Christmassy?"

"...Christmassy?"

"Yes," John says, oddly almost prim, "That's the word I was looking for."

"It's not Christmassy," says Rodney. "I'm generally not. Christmassy, I mean. As a rule."

"No plans, then?"

Oh, right, because it's coming up. "No. I went to my sister's for the holidays last year, but she's visiting the English teacher's in-laws this year." Belatedly he adds, "You?"

"Nah."

"We could try making a turducken. I've always wanted to give it a shot."

He glances up to find John smiling a little. It's weird how much more John smiles now; Rodney's continually bludgeoned by how good it makes him look.

"Yeah, okay," John says.

Rodney clears his throat. "Did you want any other hints?"

John leans back, slinging his arm over the back of his chair. "Are there dress requirements?"

Rodney points a finger at him. "That's an excellent question. No, but also yes. Wear whatever you want. Something comfortable. But bring something nice, a dress shirt and sport coat and so on. We may go out for dinner, where there might be a dress code."

"Dinner's not a given, then."

"Well, I'm not planning to starve you. But dinner out is not a mandatory component of the plan, no."

"Interesting," John ponders, but his guesses don't get any closer.

*

John chooses three days to close the bakery in the middle of the week, since the bakery's most busy on the weekends. Rodney clears his obligations at the consultancy for those days. He likes to keep hands-on track of the lab, but he also makes everyone report to him by email daily, and that seems to keep the rabble in line when he's not available in person.

There are no new, time-critical, or dangerous projects going on right now, so he feels reasonably confident that his senior staff - Danielle Simpson, Brendan Gaul, Watanabe Miko - will be able to manage in his absence.

It still bothers him that John intends to close the bakery. John keeps odd hours, but he almost never shutters the place entirely.

It's irritating. With as much thought as Rodney's devoted to this project, he should have anticipated this problem and arranged for it. His gesture can't be considered a complete success if it costs John money; Rodney has no real sense of John's financial situation, but three days of lost income would surely have some impact.

Rodney approaches Ronon again with the dates in hand. "If you can keep the place open, I'm afraid you're going to have to let me pay you filthy lucre for it this time," he says, "because it's a present for John, and it wouldn't be much of a gift if he wound up trading you food for it."

"Yeah, okay. I can be on counter," Ronon says, "and I can deliver. But I don't cook."

"Damn it. That's sort of a prerequisite," Rodney slumps.

"Ask Aiden."

"Who?"

"Aiden Ford. Thought you knew him."

"Oh, Ford. Yes."

"He asked Sheppard for recipes for that citrus stuff he doesn't make anymore, he made some and gave me a couple, they were good."

"I can hardly taste-test those. I'll have to finagle some of John's other recipes for him to try out."

"Recipes're in a stack on the counter under War and Peace," Ronon offers, going back to his pen and legal pad.

Rodney's beginning to see why Radek is so fond of Ronon. Ronon's almost supernatural hotness is wasted on Radek, but Ronon is also eerily observant, and the Boltzmann equation he's scratching out is in fact the best solution for the nanoengineering problem in front of him. Rodney would probably be in a hopeless welter of inappropriate lust if he weren't thoroughly preoccupied with John.

The next morning, during John's workout, Rodney slips down to the bakery and stealthily lifts a few of John's staple recipes long enough to run them through his portable scanner - one of the few times he's found a use for it - and emails them to Ford along with an explanation and the relevant dates.

It's surprisingly hard to decide where to meet with Ford. Since Ford will be bringing food, restaurants of all stripes are out, and Rodney's apartment doesn't really have a good place to sit. As he's been spending more and more time with John, his couch has become an extended landing strip for junk mail, printouts, journals and DVDs.

So Rodney reserves a conference room and invites Ford to the consultancy. The first floor doesn't require a security clearance, everything classified is in the lower levels. Though he still has to sign Ford in and scan his ID for their records.

Ford's renditions of John's recipes are good. The texture isn't the same, and the muffins lack the crusty, slightly caramelized tops that John always achieves, but perhaps that's just a matter of slightly different ingredients or the industrial ovens at the bakery. The flavors are a close match, that's the main thing.

"Are you sure you can take time off in the middle of the week for this?" Rodney asks.

"Sure," says Ford. "I quit my job. I'm back to temping."

"Oh. That's... too bad," Rodney ventures uncertainly.

"It sucks, but I had to," Ford says. "They had a couple of laptops stolen. Next thing you know, they want me to take a drug test. Nobody else. Just me."

"And you weren't the only employee who had access, I take it."

Ford gives him a look of wounded reproach. "Six of us had keys. When they asked me to get tested, they tried to make out like all of us were going to take it, but I checked and I was the only one."

Rodney thinks back to Jeannie's exasperated tutoring on interpersonal subtleties. "That, ah, sounds insulting," he says. He doesn't know how anyone could imagine Ford is taking drugs, the guy radiates bright-eyed clear-skinned energetic good health.

"No kidding. I waited til they got back the results and apologized to me, and then I quit. Temping sucks, but I have good references from my old job, so I'm pretty sure I'll find something before too long."

Rodney dives for the opportunity to bring things back around to negotiation. "I can probably pay you twice the rate you get for temping. It's only fair since it's specialized work, and it's over eight hours each day. If you're up for it."

"Sure, doc," Ford says.

"You should give me a copy of your C.V., too," Rodney says. "I'll pass it around."

"Aaah, you don't have to do that."

"You're doing me a favor, and it's not the first time," Rodney says, almost not even grudgingly.

Ford was an administrative gofer at a tech company where Rodney did a consulting stint while he was setting up McKay & Associates, and he warned Rodney that one of the permanent employees intended to steal credit for some of Rodney's work.

Rodney was able to dispense swift and terrible justice thanks to Ford, who'd stuck his neck out just because he thought telling Rodney was the right thing to do. He's a good guy, even if he does call Rodney "doc."

"Okay," Ford grins. "Thanks."

*

Rodney works the weekend before the trip to make up for the days off, though he certainly doesn't have to. He's more productive in a day than most of his staff manage in a week, and his staff are more productive in a week than most of their so-called peers are in a month.

(In fact, Rodney's greatest fear is that when he comes up for the Nobel, he'll have so many accomplishments that the selection committee won't be able to agree which one to honor him for, and he'll be passed over in favor of some dunderhead who lucked into just one big showy discovery in the course of an entire career.)

It turns out to be lucky he's planning to work on Sunday, though, because there's an emergency at the Mountain.

Most of their usual gate experts are busy helping SG-1 get out of yet another jam. At the same time, SG-4 is offword and can't dial back to Earth long enough to return. When Rodney arrives at the SGC, the team can only get an outgoing wormhole to hold for about four seconds at a time; Rodney gets the description of the problem in bursts of ten words or less.

He's briefly inhibited by his natural inclination to avoid vast unknown interplanetary danger, but he's sure he can fix the Stargate on their end, and the team leader's last few words are a desperate plea to get her people out of there before the storms sweep in at night.

So Rodney insists on full inclement weather gear - he suspects someone rustles up a bright yellow rain jacket specifically to mock him, but he wears it anyway - and then he spends Sunday night on another planet.

Of course, no one at Stargate Command sees fit to inform him that the storms in question are sandstorms, or that night won't arrive on PY7-043 for another three days, Earth time. Rodney just dives into the DHD, reminding himself how much his contract charges for hazard pay, a rate that increases exponentially for time spent offworld.

By the time he gets back to Earth Monday morning, he's made enough to spend a week at that exclusive spa if he wants. And he's seriously considering it, because his every pore feels dusty and gritty from MY7-043's horrible free-flying sand, against which a sweaty yellow rain slicker is about as effective as wearing a sticky lollipop.

Quarantine and debriefing takes all day. He showers at the Mountain and heads straight to Foster's Bakery in the evening. John takes one look at his scowling face and damp hair and raises his eyebrows.

"I didn't have time to clean up this morning," Rodney explains, clomping over to kiss him; he forgot to change out of his field boots. "Is it okay if I go on up? It's been a long couple of days."

"Sure," John says. "Be up in a few."

As long as the days have been, as tiring and fraught, Rodney can't seem to sleep, jittering and waiting for John. Maybe to the SG teams it's old hat, but he goes offworld seldom enough that he still can't stop marveling over the fact that he's been on another planet, where the air smelled nothing like any air Rodney's ever breathed on Earth.

He wishes he could tell John.

Lying in John's perilous loft bed, Rodney stares at the very near ceiling, thoughts drifting, anticipating the next few days.

Originally, he just wanted to make a gesture and, well, one-up John. 'Oh yeah? Well take that!' is probably a bad approach to building a relationship, but Rodney has done worse with romance than turning it into a high-stakes game of chicken.

Anyway, it was his turn. And Rodney messed up a little after their first date, and John's a little guarded at the best of times... it seemed like a good idea to put a stake in the ground.

Now, though. Whether or not John gets the message, making these arrangements has taught Rodney just how deep his stake really goes.

When he thinks of all the conversations he's pursued and all the details he's chased down just to make this go smoothly, he has to admit, at least to himself, that it's about more than just trumping John, or making progress, or proving he can handle a relationship.

He didn't have to make sure the bakery stayed open while they were gone. He didn't have to triple-check his idea with John's friends. He's even made a backup plan. The backup plan has a backup plan. He's a perfectionist, but this is a lot even for him.

It matters if John relaxes and has a good time. It matters if John's really able to trust that Rodney took care of everything. It's just... it's important.

When John comes to bed, this time it's Rodney who reaches for him right away and sets the pace fast and faster, speeding to outrun his nerves.

*

Tuesday morning, Rodney's attempts to distract John fail, even though he generously offers oral sex. John can read him too well, he just narrows his eyes and demands, "What's up?"

"Why would anything be up?" Rodney frowns, but John threatens him with failed recipes and Rodney breaks, "I got someone to take care of the bakery today."

"Someone?"

"Aiden's baking, Ronon's delivering. Aiden seems pretty interested in this stuff. Though I suppose anything's fun compared to office drudgery at the hellmouth."

"Rodney..."

"It'll be fine! Aiden's been trying out your recipes to make sure he can get all the orders up to snuff. I did taste tests, they're almost as good as yours. And Ronon may look like he's as crazy as Zelenka, but I checked and he has a perfect driving record. It's all under control." Rodney settles against him. "Sleeeep," he croons like a B-movie Svengali, "sleeeep. Is this working? Sleeeeeep."

John tilts his head against Rodney's. "Stop trying to half-assed hypnotize me. You're not even swinging a watch."

Rodney grabs the clock radio, dangles it by its cord, and swings it above John's face. "Sleeeeep."

Batting it out of Rodney's hands, John honks out a laugh, the loud awful one that always makes Rodney grin helplessly too. "I'm okay with the plan, I just wanna know what this is about. Is it your birthday or something? Carson's supposed to tell me these things."

"No occasion," Rodney says. "I just thought, you know, day off."

"Uh-huh. Whose idea was it?"

"Mine! Well, and I talked to Teyla," Rodney admits. "But let it be noted that I asked her to suggest something nice."

"You're sure it's nobody's birthday?"

"I'm sure it's somebody's birthday," Rodney says, slave to logic, but, "No. It's just Tuesday."

"Tuesday: International Day Off Day," John says, reclining back against the pillows. He has sleep in his eyes, pillow lines on his face, a heavy crop of dark stubble; his mouth is soft, his usual keen awareness and self-possession blurred around the edges.

It's only a glimpse of vulnerability, but it still makes Rodney feel protective, which in turn makes him feel anxious and inadequate.

Historically Rodney has not been great with interpersonal things, particularly important things. In fact, historically, the more it matters, the more thoroughly he's managed to screw it up.

He grabs John's hand and slides down the sheets and goes down on him. This, at least, he can do with assurance, rolling John's balls gently in his palm, tonguing underneath the head of his cock until John's diamond hard and salty with pre-come.

He sets himself to the task so vigorously that he nearly trips his gag reflex despite his careful attention to angles, but it's worth it. John's thighs tense and tremble, and he moans aloud a record three times, and tips his head to the side and gasps, "Rodney -" just before he comes.

He's totally lax afterward, and Rodney's keyed up and perfectly willing to just rub off against him, fitting to the groove of John's hip and pushing up his shirt to get it out of the way of the impending mess, but John recovers and slithers down and sucks him with a blissed-out expression and no hurry at all, just nursing him along until Rodney's half blind with the need to get off - then suddenly John's going all the way down and really, certain people have no business teasing Rodney for making all that racket if those certain people are going to surprise him like that.

*

"I thought," Rodney says once they're dressed, "if I arranged for Ronon and Ford to work today while we're around, you could see for yourself how it goes. And then they could keep the bakery open while we're gone, and you'd know they can handle it."

"Thanks," John says after a pause.

"Well, I'm not psychic, but I am a genius," says Rodney.

John grins, "Yeah. A psychic probably wouldn't have made so much noise when Ronon and Aiden were already in the building."

" - Oh god."

Rodney dares to hope that they were playing loud music or something, but when he and John go down to get breakfast, Ronon looks particularly amused, and Ford has a slight wince of embarrassment along with his usual beaming smile.

Still, John compliments Ford's baking, so it's a net win... even if Rodney's face feels like a cinder and he's never going to be able to meet their eyes ever, ever again.

Rodney wakes up Wednesday morning and puts his plan into motion. Like any great plan, it starts with blowjobs.

He's always fantasized about being awakened with oral sex, and he's finally gleaned that the best way to get a favor like that is to give it. He was thwarted the day before, but today the opportunity's wide open.

So while John's still snoozing, Rodney slides under the covers, eases down John's boxers and gets to it.

It turns out to be sort of fun to give a blowjob under these circumstances; John starts out soft, so Rodney can really feel the difference every suck and swirl of his tongue is making. Each movement causes John's dick to fill out and stiffen more and more.

He suspects John wakes up almost immediately but plays possum; that's fine with Rodney. He tries all his best tricks to get John to react til John's rocking up into his mouth and making very gratifying desperate noises somewhere up there outside the blankets.

John gasps, and from outside the covers he's probably trying to grip Rodney's shoulder, but he actually manages to tweak Rodney's ear rather painfully, and when Rodney jerks away with a complaining noise, his mouth pops off and John comes.

Rodney's unprepared, and gets a sort of semi-facial before he seals his lips around John's cock again and swallows. It feels as if a bucket of semen splashed across his cheek and chin, plus it's spreading across his tongue, filling his mouth.

Almost before he's done spasming, John is tossing the blankets back. "Are you okay?"

"Messy, but fine," Rodney says, trying for a wry smile.

John seems mesmerized, his thumb gliding slowly over Rodney's spattered skin. "Come up here."

Rodney has a suspicion, but he's still a little taken aback when he wriggles up and John puts his mouth to the smear of come on his cheek.

"Uh. Really?"

"Not if you don't like it," John says, backing off.

"I guess I wouldn't know," Rodney admits. "Go ahead."

If he'd been asked, he might have balked at the idea, but it turns out to feel... nice; it's just John's lips and tongue on his skin, which is happily familiar. It feels especially nice when John reaches down and grips him, his hand slow and just a little rough on Rodney's dick while his lips are soft and light on Rodney's face.

Maybe it's even a turn-on, because Rodney gets off in almost no time, a strong steep build of an orgasm.

He looks at the gloss of his come on John's hand and hip. He did that, and now John is just patiently wearing it, and licking it off his palm.

"Okay, you're onto something here," Rodney says, and he sucks John's fingers clean. The semen itself is slick and blandly sour, but there's a certain thrill to be derived from John's ease with what is, essentially, just another bodily fluid.

He gets a tissue to clean up John's hip and belly, though. No need to be fanatical about it.

*

They grab a quick breakfast, coffee and pumpkin quinoa muffins. Rodney's very ready to spend a relaxing day getting steamy and clean and massaged and then perhaps steamy some more, so extremely ready that he's walking John out to the car before he remembers that John still doesn't know where they're going.

"All right," he says once he's in the driver's seat. "I have a plan, but just in case, I also have a backup plan."

"Okay," John fastens his seat belt. "So, time to get in my last guesses."

"Sure." Rodney starts the car so the heat can run, and looks over expectantly.

"What haven't I guessed yet? Uh... Glen Eyrie," says John. "And for the backup plan, I'm gonna guess the Numismatic Museum."

"There's a numismatic museum? A money museum? What do they exhibit there, is it just old coins? Rows of smashed penny machines?"

"I dunno; are we gonna find out?"

"No on both counts." Rodney shifts gears and pulls out. "Look in the glovebox."

John fetches out the spa passes and looks them over. "The Broadmark Award Winning Five Star Luxury Spa. With our compliments, enjoy your choice of services." A crisp flip of paper as he looks at the two passes and moves onto the brochure. "Options include... ladies' or gentlemen's facials, complete course of hydrotherapy including mud baths and serenity showers, customized anti-aging treatments, Swedish massage, hot stone massage, duet massage, wine sugar scrub and wine therapy massage, and a variety of manicure and pedicure experiences."

The tone of his voice is impossible to read; Rodney wrings the steering wheel in his hands and repeats, "Or there's a backup plan."

"But you already bought the passes," John says.

"Remember how I said the opportunity came along? Well, these were a gift from a work associate."

"Must be a hell of an associate," John says, "these passes cover up to a grand apiece."

"Really?"

"Gotta read the fine print."

"Well, we should take as much advantage as we can. I deserve it for the crap they gave me before they'd deign to take my money for a glorified tool and die manufacturing job." Rodney glances quickly over, but John's profile tells him nothing. "That is, if we go. I wasn't sure you'd want to, so like I said, there's a backup plan."

"It's a good choice for a surprise trip. I am definitely surprised," John says, his tone too ironic for Rodney to decipher his reaction.

"I thought it could be nice," Rodney offers. "I don't go in for capital-L luxury stuff usually, but if I'm going to get naked for a sauna and massage and so on, then an expensive, quiet, private environment seems like the way to go. And this place sounds good. They bring you cocktails in the Jacuzzi. You can order food to have between the different sessions."

"You can drink, huh? I mean. Right in the hot tub. That sounds all right."

Rodney beams, relieved. "I wasn't sure you'd like the idea, but then again, you have all that skin care stuff in your medicine cabinet. And I'm told I can be a little... there may have occasionally have been criticisms in the course of past relationships that I focus on work all the time and supposedly never relax. So, here's something relaxing. I asked around for second opinions just in case. Ronon said it'd be good, and so did Teyla. Did you know she rock climbs? Voluntarily. She seems so sensible!"

"Guess you never know."

"Frankly, I think the guy who got me these passes meant it as a dig," confides Rodney, "you know, to imply I should loosen up. But I intend to put this would-be insult to good use."

"That'll learn 'em," says John.

"Exactly," Rodney says with satisfaction, thumbing the turn signal. "I've booked us a room, too. I went back and forth because after all, it's so close, we could just drive back. But after all the spa stuff, I thought we could have dinner at their restaurant, or room service, and stay the night at the hotel to keep the relaxation rolling a while longer. So... I think it'll, you know... be... nice," Rodney says, winding down, glancing repeatedly over at John.

Finally John drops his hand to brush against Rodney's on the stick shift. "It is nice," he says. "Thanks."

*

The spa receptionist is gratifyingly prompt to respond when Rodney shows their passes, summoning another woman who seems to be a concierge.

"We'll be happy to set you up with a full program for the day," she says. "Where would you like to start? Massages? Steam room? Mud bath?"

John asks, "Is that with other people?"

She glances at their passes again and beams a bright white professional smile. "You're welcome to choose our private baths. The steam rooms are shared with other guests, but they're very spacious."

"Sounds good," John says.

"There's a shared shower room adjoining the steam rooms," says the concierge, "or you can opt for our private serenity showers."

"Let's do that, the private one," Rodney decides. He feels a little antsy; the reception desk is flanked with round tables, tops crowded with dozens of bottles of spa goo. Considering his first kiss ended in mono and he threw up on his first date, it would just be typical if he destroyed the foyer here before they ever even got inside.

A man arrives with two bundles, giving one to each of them: white terrycloth robes wrapped in plastic like they've just come from the dry cleaners.

Rodney's relieved to see the male attendant. He was a little concerned that despite the brochure's touted "gentlemen's services", he and John might be the only men around. He researched online to make sure the Broadmark is gay-friendly, and it's rated highly by gay travel guides, but he still has trepidations.

He knows he's probably paranoid, but with his track record, caution is merited. He's done more research than he'd care to admit into everything on the spa services menu to ensure he doesn't accidentally opt them in for a salt water purge or high colonics.

"Your robes and towels," says the concierge. "You can get fresh supplies at any time, as well. Trey will show you to the showers. Whenever you're ready to move on, you can flag any of our attendants and they'll arrange your next activity. Your passes are open-ended, so you can take advantage of everything the facility has to offer."

"I'm starting to revise my opinion of Dorrance. He might not have meant this as a dig after all," Rodney tells John.

"If he did, it's a pretty pricey dig."

"Yeah. He's loaded. Those military contractor types always are," Rodney expounds. "I think his family's been in the business for at least three generations. Guys like him are born thinking the world owes them a no-bid contract."

John's usual easy smile goes brittle. Rodney racks his brain for possible reasons (and with a brain the size of his, that's a lot of racking,) and realizes that he promised in the car that today would be all about relaxing, nothing about work, and already he's talking about his job.

"Anyway," Rodney says awkwardly, then, "Oh, huh, thanks," as Terry opens a door for them and patiently stands aside. "Question for you. When we put these on, what happens to our clothes?"

"There are baskets waiting inside for you to put your things into," says Terry. "When you're done here, I'll take your baskets to the locker room and secure them, and you can get everything on your way out. This door locks, just turn the bolt."

"Thanks, Trey," says John.

"I thought it was Terry," Rodney says once they're safely inside, turning the bolt. "Then again, me and names..."

"Do I even wanna know how long it took you to remember mine?"

"Probably not," Rodney admits. "In my defense, the bakery says Foster in big letters. How was I supposed to know?"

"I meant my first name."

"Oh, well..." he's not sure he should admit this, it's a little embarrassing. "When I learned your name for the first time, I was, you know... paying attention. I made Carson keep reminding me til it stuck."

The smile that spreads across John's face is so worth it.

As promised, baskets wait on a marble bench. Rodney sits and unlaces his shoes, and after a hesitation, John does the same.

Unwrapping the robe bundle, Rodney's a little puzzled to see they've received not just robes and slippers, but also microfiber shorts in a size and style that's bound to be snug. They do have mud baths here, though: Rodney hadn't even considered it but of course there could be some problems involved in a combination of mud plus bare genitalia, and it's not as though Rodney's usual boxers would represent much of an improvement over nudity in that regard.

Rodney shoves each sock in its corresponding shoe, wriggles his shirt off, stands up to unzip and pushes his pants down, along with his underwear, folding himself into his robe in almost the same movement. Sure, he's undressed in front of John before, but it's different to just stand around naked under bright lights.

There are four shower alcoves off the changing room. It's probably tacky, but he's tempted to suggest they share one instead of splitting up. No harm proposing it. John's not likely to be surprised by his lack of taste by now. Rodney starts to say something, but looking over at John stops him.

There's something about John's posture or the way he breathes when he plucks at the neck of his t-shirt and lifts it off that suddenly gives Rodney a Usual Suspects-style montage of insight: the suggestion to take it slow, even though John seems as eager to have sex as Rodney; the shrugs and terse explanations about how John left the Air Force; and how did it take him this long to realize that he still hasn't once seen John shirtless?

John pulls his t-shirt off and folds it. He looks completely neutral, loose-limbed with a distant, abstract expression. Rodney lets his eyes skim down quickly, and then fumbles his clothes into the basket, heart thudding, trying to figure out where it's okay for his gaze to rest.

Because now it's obvious why John hasn't taken his shirt off. He clearly doesn't want to talk about the crash, and it's evident at a glance that something catastrophic happened to him. The itch to ask about it is almost overwhelming. No surprise he's put it off as long as possible.

Rodney risks another quick glance. John has a really attractive build. Rodney's been with guys who were more muscular, more cut - okay, he's been with two guys who were more cut, and both were one-night stands in grad school, but anyway - there's an elegance to the long lines of John's body, something about the way it all fits together, his long neck, the yoke of his shoulders, his strong arms and the V of his torso, toned muscle and tapered waist... he just looks good.

Which makes it that much more jarring that the left side of his chest looks torn up. Most of it must be from the crash: random paths of shiny thickened skin, a little too red here, a little too white there. Those marks loop from just above John's abs up along his ribcage, over his chest, with thinner scars arcing up over his left shoulder. Fainter lines shine whitely neat and straight, obviously post-surgical, concentrated just to the left of his sternum.

Grounded on a technicality. Right. He's irrationally angry at John all of a sudden, for agreeing to come here; he should've just told Rodney no! Rodney would've... probably complained about it, yes, but so what, he complains about everything.

But that would mean admitting there's an issue, which is obviously not John's preferred method of coping, considering how he's soft-pedaled the crash the few times he's even allowed a mention of it. Rodney wonders how long he would've avoided taking his shirt off if this trip hadn't inadvertently forced the issue.

He steals a look at John's face, the impassive expression. John strips silently, and slips into the robe. "Shower time," he says, inane and toneless, and steps into one of the alcoves.

Rodney swallows and goes to his own shower, a large enough stall to fit four people Rodney's size, provided they were much less jealous of their personal space than Rodney is. It's built into the center of a small private nook of a washroom, tiled in a dozen deep shades of blue that could've been sampled straight from the Colorado skies.

To the left is a counter with a sink and an assortment of personal care products, and above it, a head-and-shoulders mirror. Tucked beyond the countertop sits a commode with a design so sleek it's almost unrecognizable as such. A full-length mirror stands nearby, tastefully angled so that Rodney would have to deliberately step in front of it to see himself in it.

It's definitely a tacky impulse, but Rodney doesn't care: he really, really wishes he could talk John into having sex in here, in the shower or on the counter or up against the tiled wall in sight of the mirror.

The thought gives him an unhappy visceral twinge. He can't count on having sex with John again any time soon.

He glances at the smaller mirror. Jeannie's complained to him occasionally about salons and shops that put harsh lighting in some places and pinker, more flattering lights in others, to create the illusion that spending money has caused a visible improvement.

He hopes she's right and this is the harsh 'before' lighting. In the glass Rodney sees the fleshy crease of his jaw, blue veins twisting visibly across his collarbone under his scary-white skin, lines beginning to solidify under his eyes and bracketing his mouth, his thinning hair fleeing backward in terror from the wrath of his eyebrows.

He grimaces and hurries into the serenity shower.

The shower is amazing. Water sprays from all sides and above and below all at once in powerful pulsating streams. Rodney actually relaxes for entire microseconds. Then he remembers how completely he screwed this whole thing up and tenses hard enough to snap something.

He cleans up quickly, dries off and slips into his shorts, robe and slippers again, venturing out.

A few minutes later, John emerges too. Wet is a good look for him... beads of water in his dark hair, a sheen of moisture across the span of his shoulders. He's moderately hairy - not Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug hairy, but he has a fair amount of dark and silky body hair that emphasizes his contours everywhere but the scarred area.

Rodney's already getting used to the scars, incorporating them into his mental picture of John. Past the first shock, he can see that a lot of it is superficial and healed well, leaving just discoloration.

The thickest scarring covers a solid area about the size of a dinner plate, starting high on the pectoral muscle and spreading up over John's collarbone and shoulder. Thinner blotchy scars zag further down, and he's missing half the areola on that side. Now that Rodney's looking for it, he can see a few faint lines etched high on John's left arm, too.

He clears his throat. "Sauna next," he says. "Unless you want to bail out. We can, still." Oh god, 'bail out,' for all he knew John had bailed out of his helicopter before the crash; what is wrong with his mouth.

John wraps and tucks a towel around his waist, and hangs another towel over his shoulders. It looks casual, but John settles it to cover most of the scarring.

"I'm goin' in," he says, and heads for the sauna.

Rodney trades his robe for a towel and follows, his throat tight. It's a really bad time to realize that he'd do almost anything not to hurt John: now, when it's already too late.

*

There are a fair number of other men in the steam room, which is of course tiled and acoustically reverberant, so private conversation is out. Rodney keeps quiet and spends the time mentally constructing his apology while slowly melting. He's never really enjoyed the sensation of sweating and of course, that's all this room is for.

It makes John look appealingly flushed. He leans back as if he hasn't got a care in the world. The towel around his shoulders never budges, though, so Rodney suspects he's faking it.

Eventually they leave the steam room, Rodney feeling red and puffy (yet pleasantly softened), John back to nonchalant slouching and superficial ease.

Trey appears soon, asking, "What would you like to do next?" He recites some of the options; normally Rodney might snap that he read the brochure already, thank you, but his brain feels cooked and soggy right now and the reminder is kind of useful.

John doesn't volunteer any preferences; Rodney tentatively opts them in for "gentleman's manicures," and John nods and follows along.

The nail salon is a bright, open room, cut flowers everywhere, wide windows looking out on the mountains. More importantly, there are snacks and drinks. Rodney helps himself to a little bowl of chocolate covered pretzels and a bottle of mineral water. He passes another to John, who opens it and drinks and makes a face.

The manicures come with hand and arm massages aimed at computer users. It's boring, and stymies conversation again with the masseuse between them, but it feels amazing.

Rodney wishes he were at all in any state to enjoy it.

*

At lunch in the spa's cafe, Rodney finally has an opportunity to speak. John beats him to it.

"It's not the scars," he says, glaring down at his place setting like he's spotted a chunk of dog hair on his fork. "It's the story."

"You don't want to tell the story," Rodney decodes.

John shrugs agreement.

"Ever?"

He gets a soft exhale of amusement for that. "Maybe not?"

"Well..." Rodney tries to organize the right words. "Okay. I know there was a crash, and you were injured, and... and okay." It's not quite as easy as okay, because he can't help wanting to know everything. But he can deal with it. People underestimate him because he doesn't bring it to bear on unimportant things, but in fact, Rodney has an iron will. Well. Definitely at least bronze, anyway.

"Right," says John.

"And surgery," Rodney matches John's quiet tone.

"Broken ribs. And, ah..." John shifts, looking at a patch of nothing off to his lower left. "Heart surgery to relieve fluid pressure. That's a mandatory suspension from flying," he says, glancing toward Rodney again without quite meeting his gaze. "I was looking at more than a year of rehab and desk work til I could even put in to fly again, and even if I got it... once you've taken that kind of hit, they usually put you out to pasture on supply runs. My tour was up. So I left." He takes a bite of his sandwich, a loud and clear signal that he's done with this subject.

Nothing about the circumstances of the crash, but as much as Rodney wants to know, he wants more for John to look him in the eye again.

"Okay," he says.

*

A different attendant, nametagged Bonnie, greets them after they leave the cafe and head toward the mud.

"Will you be together for your mud bath?" she asks politely. "We have several mud rooms. Each accommodates up to six guests. You can each have your own, or you can enjoy them together, whatever you like."

"Together then. Right?" Rodney looks to John for cues.

"Sure," John says.

After escorting them through a honeycomb of small rooms, the attendant opens a door and says brightly, "Here you are! Would you like anything else?"

"Yes, beer, please? John?"

"Bud, thanks," John says, already ducking into the mud room.

"A Budweiser," Rodney sighs. "And a Singha, please."

He has to sign her little order slip so they can add the drinks to the charges, and she adds, "I'll bring a pitcher of water too, all right? You should stay hydrated in the heat!"

"Yes, fine, good idea. But no citrus! No lemon, no lime."

"I promise," she says, all smiles, and clicks off down the hall.

John's already up to his neck in the mud tub when Rodney hangs up his robe and comes over to dip a toe in. "You jumped in quick."

"Cold out there."

Gingerly stepping down the tiered sides, Rodney sinks in across from John. The mud's viscous but not as thick as he expected, with an ashy mineral smell. It coats and clings to his arm when he lifts it out. "Weird. But... nice," he decides. It's like submerging in oobleck.

"Yeah, it's kind of cool."

"Really? It's warm over here."

"Yeah, yeah," John rolls his eyes and flips him a mud-covered middle finger.

Rodney's stomach twists with relief that John's getting back to his usual slouching and sarcasm. He flicks mud in John's general direction, not nearly hard enough to actually splatter him. "If I weren't worried about getting it in your eyes..."

"It's probably supposed to go all over," John says, and presses his muddy hands to his face, keeping clear of his eyes and eyebrows. The ashy smears give him a different look, his eyes bright and green and startling against the mud.

He drifts closer to Rodney, dipping his fingers into the mud and drawing lines on Rodney's cheeks. Then he smirks a little and fingerpaints something onto Rodney's forehead.

"I have a feeling you're making me look like an idiot," says Rodney, crossing his arms (which feels really weird when his arms and chest are all mud-covered.)

"I don't know what you're talking about," John says. "I'm just trying to help you take advantage of the health benefits of this awesome mud."

"Just no dunking, okay?"

"I don't want this stuff up my nose any more than you do." John looks genuinely relaxed in here, Rodney sees; he was putting on a game face before, but even before they undressed there was tension that's now eased in John's face, his neck less stiff, his shoulders settled lower. John closes his eyes, his face smooth under the mask of grayish mud.

Rodney has to kiss him-- carefully.

John drops his voice to his lower, growlier register. "I am so tempted to move my head at the last second so you get a mouthful of this gunk."

"Why do you always save the sexy voice for the weirdest moments?" Rodney complains. It's not fair; John's normal speaking voice is kind of nasal and weirdly intoned, while Rodney's is a rather fine tenor if he says so himself. Yet Rodney's attempts at a sexy voice always seem to sound breathy and broken, and somehow John has this low, hot rasp.

The attendant knocks on the door and at Rodney's acknowledgment, sweeps in and puts the beers and water at the edge of the tub. The water has cucumber slices rather than citrus. "Can I help you out with anything else?" she bubbles.

John shakes his head and Rodney agrees, "No. Thank you." Once she goes, he confides in John, "I have no idea how to handle tipping in this situation. I know they're going to solicit some sort of gratuity at the end, but I'm not sure how it works. I should've looked it up." He was too busy catastrophizing about all the wrong things to check.

"They'll have envelopes at the desk on the way out," John says, "and the receipt will have a list of names that says who did what. You write the names on envelopes, put in the tip and leave the envelopes at the desk."

"Oh." Rodney purses his mouth. "That seems simple enough."

"Simpler it is, the more likely everyone gets paid," John points out.

"Wait. How do you know how it works?"

John fixes his eyes on the mud, his voice unconvincingly casual. "My ex-wife used to go to places like this. I picked her up at the end of it a couple of times when she was dealing with the tips."

"You were married?" Rodney can't help reacting, but then years of familiarity with the military catch up with him. "Oh. You were an officer. Of course you were married."

John snags his beer by the neck. "Yeah."

"You must have a Master's, too, right?" Rodney realizes.

"Mm-hm. Aerospace engineering."

"Oh god," Rodney says. "This is a really inconvenient place to get a hard-on. Where?"

John snickers at him a little. "Embry-Riddle. I was stationed at Patrick."

"Okay, stop talking, I have to think about Phantom Menace now."

"Liam Neeson, or Ewan McGregor?"

"No, no, no! Pod races! Pod races. Boring, franchise-killing pod races." Rodney points and snaps his fingers, "Hand me my beer."

John does, carefully. They're both slippery with mud. "Is this like the sauna, is there a time limit?"

"I think we can stay ninety minutes."

Nodding, John sinks down almost to his chin.

They alternate between sips of beer and swallows of water, and Rodney peers around the room for a reflective surface, certain that John's lettered something silly on his brow.

The silence feels comfortable enough to him, but John sounds a little strained when he suddenly speaks up.

"I guess... stuff's maybe been a little weird."

Rodney straightens. "Stuff? What stuff?"

"Stuff," John repeats unhelpfully. He makes a little gesture, flipping his hand between them.

"It's been weird? I thought it was going great! I know this trip hasn't turned out to be the best idea I've ever had, but... what do you mean weird, exactly?"

"A little weird, I said. It's not code, I'm just saying." John adds, "I don't mean today. I mean it's - been a little weird, with me. I'm just. Hoping you get it now, and it's not too big a deal."

"Are we - talking about, is this..." Rodney hesitates, anxious and frustrated. "You mean you had concerns about, um - but I get it now, so you'd rather just not talk about it? I mean," he can't help a nervous stammer, "go - go back to not talking about it. Or, you know, obviously you can talk anytime, I'm all for it. Or not."

"Or not, yeah," says John with open relief.

And then Rodney blurts anyway, "But so, does this mean I get to see you naked now? We can do the, the naked tango?" Did he really just say naked tango out loud? Oh god. He hurries to add, "Obviously it's okay if you want to keep your shirt on all the time, but. Is it -"

"It's fine," John says, so easily that Rodney's convinced it must be fake.

"That didn't come out right," Rodney winces. "That was the opposite of how I meant to say... any of that."

"It's okay. Sorry about, you know. You didn't have to do this whole thing." John shrugs.

"What whole thing?" Rodney's jaw drops. "Oh my god, you think I brought you here to make you strip!"

"Oh. Huh." John says awkwardly, "Maybe partly, yeah."

"It wasn't! It's meant to be relaxing, and, and... okay, yeah, there's the angle about 'furthering intimacy' - not my words! Teyla said that! But I wasn't trying to get you naked! I didn't even notice you hadn't been naked yet!"

Maybe he shouldn't admit that, since it reveals just how unobservant he's been; oh well, too late. "I wouldn't do all this just to manipulate you. Ask anyone, I'm bad with people, I don't even know how to be manipulative." Rodney slumps. "I meant to do something nice. I uh, I just kind of suck at it."

"No, look. It's... that's good to know," John says. "You don't suck at it. It's nice."

"Well, I thought so," Rodney says, slightly mollified.

"I mean, the spa stuff itself... it's cool to do something different like that. And to be able to blame you for it," John gives him a tiny grin.

"Blame away," Rodney says, wiggling his toes in the mud right at the surface, right by John's elbow. "But remember! I asked Teyla, and Radek, and Ronon."

John's expression softens into one of the more serious expressions Rodney's ever seen on his face. "Yeah." His brows fold with effort and he adds, "But being here like this, it's - really good."

"Like..." Rodney doesn't get it until John tilts his head expressively and shrugs, and even though there's no semiotic content to the gesture, suddenly Rodney understands what he means: being here and obviously together, out, with the staff treating them like a couple with no fuss. "Oh. Yes. I suppose that was a factor, I mean... I thought you, ah, might like that."

"Yeah. It's, it means a lot. Thanks," he says.

"Oh. No, it was nothing." Rodney lets himself look straight into John's eyes, trying to measure if everything's okay now, if they understand each other at all.

John looks askance at him, closes his eyes and lets himself sink back against the edge, fingers playing around the neck of his beer bottle, still smiling. Somewhere under the all that mud, his hand closes on Rodney's ankle and squeezes.

Rodney spreads his toes in the warm mud and breathes out happily. The relief does what a thousand dollars worth of spa treatments couldn't accomplish: he's finally able to relax.

*

Washing the mud off takes less time than Rodney feared it might, thanks to the powerful jets of the adjacent showers. They both emerge prune-skinned but oobleck-free, and it's off to the next item on their list, "gentlemen's facials."

Aside from the addition of more goopy stuff, the facials aren't much different from a trip to the barber, though for some reason Rodney didn't expect them to shave him, which they do. In the next chair, he can hear John explaining that as a matter of fact he did shave this morning. Perhaps that slightly disreputable stubbly look that John works so well isn't necessarily intentional.

When they come out of the chairs, John's jaw is almost entirely unshadowed and smooth, and he could almost pass for ten years younger. Rodney can't help cupping his hand to feel the sleek skin, and John freezes a split second. He smiles and colors a little as Rodney strokes his cheek, and no one around them looks twice.

They walk close, hands brushing, on the way to the brochure's much-vaunted "wine therapy" massages.

"It'll be just a few minutes," Bonnie promises, parking them in a waiting room. Like in the salon, there are ice buckets full of mineral water and jars of chocolate-covered pretzels, nuts, molasses cookies and dried fruit. Rodney nibbles compulsively while John looks at the posted list of treatments, the prices in small discreet typeface.

"They call it wine therapy, but it doesn't sound like it has any wine in it," John says.

"I suppose they think $300 for a massage goes over better if they call it 'wine therapy' instead of 'grapeseed oil therapy.'"

"Did you see this ends with a glass of wine and a foot massage?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just, you're kind of ticklish," John offers a little smile. "Not so therapeutic if the wine goes flying as soon as they start in on you."

"I do have some self-control," Rodney lifts his chin to offer a dignified profile.

As promised, soon Bonnie reappears to show them into a double massage room where their masseuses are waiting. It's dim and pleasant, lots of varnished wood and fabric valances.

"No Enya," Rodney says as soon as Lisa makes a move toward the stereo. "Nothing with pure, or mood, or Celtic in the name."

"No music then?" she says.

Rodney's planning to ask for the Goldberg Variations, and then to demand to know why they don't have the Goldberg Variations, but John asks, "Do you have anything that's just ocean sounds? Waves?"

"Of course," she says, and soon there's a soundtrack of soft rushing water, and nothing left to do but lie on the massage table across from John.

"You're welcome to talk," says John's masseuse, Oksana. "Pay us no mind, we are concentrating on our work."

John doesn't say anything, though, and Rodney's trying to take his cues from John, so he keeps quiet too. Which makes the massage a bizarre experience. When he booked a "duet" massage, the two of them in the same room, he hadn't really thought ahead to what it would be like to lie there listening to someone else touch John-- the odd, surprising intimacy of hearing John's soft sighs and grunts on the next table, as Oksana thoroughly works him over.

Rodney's grateful when Lisa soon has him turn to reposition facedown, because his appreciation for the noises was becoming a little too evident.

There's no telling what, if anything, are the benefits of a grapeseed oil massage in particular, but a pair of warm competent hands untangles knots in Rodney's back, and after a while he can't stop himself from giving voice to his own satisfied groans.

Eventually, Lisa says, "Y'all just relax a while. Let that oil soak in, it takes years off your skin. Martin and Raina will be along in ten minutes to do your foot massages," and she and Oksana leave.

"How was it?" Rodney can't stop himself from asking.

"I feel like I've been rolled flat," says John. "How about you?"

"I seriously doubt I'll ever get up from this table again. We'll have to relocate the lab."

It seems like no time til the promised Marvin and Renée arrive, with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"Don't give him any liquids before you start," John advises. "He kicks."

"Ha, ha," Rodney sighs. "No I don't, not when I have all the energy of a wet noodle." Renée is extending her hand; Rodney takes it and lets her roll him face up. Two quick jabs at invisible buttons and the articulated massage platform folds up into a reclining chair, and soon Rodney has a glass of wine and a serving of pretzels at his elbow.

Renée, or, no, her nametag says Raina, is much more chatty than the other masseuses. "We're using the same chardonnay grapeseed extract as you had during your body massages," she says. "It's full of anti-oxidants! They combat free radicals that can prematurely age your skin -"

"No, no and no," Rodney says, "please, please don't oversimplify and misuse biochemistry just to talk up your smell-good oil. A healthy body naturally produces anti-oxidants, there's no clinical basis to believe that supplements have any benefahh!" he jerks as Raina runs an oily thumb too-lightly along the arch of his foot, and it tickles. He suspects she did it on purpose.

"Told you he kicks," John says, and it's on Rodney's tongue to snap back at one or both of them, but he looks over, and John's smirk is fond. "So tell me what's really the deal with free radicals," John says. "We need some kinds, right? Keeps bacteria in check."

"Well, that's also something of a simplification, but you're not wrong," says Rodney. He leans back, wriggling his shoulders against the padded massage chair, and sips his wine.

A comfortable chair, a nice drink, John reclining at his side and apparently interested in hearing him talk about particle science: Rodney could learn to like the spa.

*

Despite his newfound appreciation of the spa, though, the lack of privacy from a whole day spent being handled is starting to get to Rodney. His patience is tested while they settle the tab - incredibly, they went over the two grand covered by the gift passes - and deal with the list of gratuitable staff and the many fiddly little tip envelopes.

He's looking forward being alone with John too much to have dinner at the restaurant, no matter how many stars it has. "Is it okay if we have food sent up to the room?"

"Sure," says John. "That'd be good. I don't know about spending another hour sitting in one place."

The suite is fine, if overdecorated. There are drapes all over the place, not just on the windows, and approximately twelve thousand pillows on the bed. Everything seems to have a different pattern on it; Rodney assumes it must all match somehow. The telephone in the bathroom is nothing Rodney hasn't encountered before in high-end suites, though he's never understood it.

Still, the important things are in order. The sofa and chairs are comfortably overstuffed and the bed is adequately supportive.

Rodney leafs through the menu and discovers they can have sushi brought up to them on a literal silver platter. John looks over his shoulder and approves, and soon they're pulling the armchairs up to the accent table and eating very nice sashimi. They finish off the ginger and green tea mousse, and Rodney's nerves flare.

"We could watch a movie," he suggests.

John sits back in the armchair and studies him. "You wanted to stay the night at the hotel so we could watch a movie?"

"Why not? We've had some very nice times watching movies!" Rodney defends weakly. "Um, the first halves of them, anyway."

Slowly grinning, John says, "I think we can probably skip to the last half tonight."

*

Rodney lowers the lights, and turns back to find John leaning back against the heaped pillows and peeling his shirt off, throwing it over the back of the chair along with the rest of his clothes.

It's only fair, so Rodney strips to nothing too on his way to the bed, and doesn't get under the covers even though he feels a little silly, totally uncovered in an unfamiliar room.

It's strange to be naked with John. Hard to believe they've been having sex all this time without ever really undressing completely before. But when he thinks about it, they haven't really been having sex for that long. It just feels like a long time. Maybe because he's been fantasizing about it for months. Or maybe because they seemed to mostly skip the really awkward stage.

Possibly they just delayed the awkward stage, because Rodney feels like he's all thumbs now. John kept his chest covered before, so maybe he doesn't want to be touched there. But maybe he was being perfectly honest earlier when he said he only kept his shirt on because he didn't want to talk about what happened. In that case, if Rodney avoids touching him there, John might think Rodney's disturbed by the scars.

Rodney will admit to being superficial at times, but he's not so shallow that he can't see the beauty in those scars: they mean that whatever John's been through, he's healed, he's survived. He's here.

He reaches for John, then, because he can't wait any longer. He might as well do what he wants to do, at least that way someone's getting what they want. If he gets this wrong, he'll get it wrong with good intentions.

He holds John's shoulders and kisses him, and lets his hands glide down. Chest hair tickles his left palm, subtle ridges of bare skin slip under the right. John's nipples peak under the pads of his fingers.

John presses close, draping an arm over Rodney to grab a handful of his ass while they go on kissing. Rodney can feel his own hard-on filling out, and when he tilts his hips closer he feels the answering brush of John's, lengthening between them.

Rodney tips his head back to snort at himself.

"What?"

"I arranged all this, and made a backup plan and a second backup plan, and I forgot to bring condoms." At John's snicker, Rodney says, "I know, I know. You must have some, though."

"In my shaving kit," John confirms, "but, uh... I mentioned it's kind of been a while? I haven't replaced them."

"It's not as though we need them to be in perfect shape," says Rodney, "we've been tested, and we're definitely not using them as contraceptives." But his mind spins ahead to the worst possibility, as always. "Though, what if the condom falls apart and I end up with scraps of latex left up there..."

John snickers. "I'm having this horrible image of you farting out balloon animals."

"Oh, that's it! We've completely squandered our relaxed romantic mood!"

"I don't know," John grasps Rodney's cock, a dry smooth tug, "mood feels pretty solid to me."

"I can't believe I'm this crazy about you, you're ridiculous." Rodney pushes John back against the pillow mountain and straddles his thigh, kissing him and knocking his hands aside when John tries to grope his ass again. "No, no. You've ceded the right to decide how this is going to go."

"When did I do that?"

"When you - the balloon animals! Clearly you've lost it. I'm in charge now," Rodney says. He licks his way down John's neck, sucking gently at the pulse point and feeling John up, hands greedy on his waist, his ribs, fingers light and insistent on his nipples.

"Uh, okay," John says, suddenly tractable.

Triumphant, Rodney mouths further down, tastes John's skin along the rise of his clavicle, leaves a damp path of chest hair as he maps John's pecs with his tongue and works over each nipple in turn. Part of the left one might be missing along with half the areola, but it doesn't seem to affect the intensity of John's reactions. The shape of his nails is printed into Rodney's shoulders before Rodney even gets around to licking into his navel, which makes John's back arch in a little involuntary jump.

"Ticklish, or good?" Rodney asks.

"Both?"

"Hm." Rodney applies himself to the task more thoroughly, and John's cock stiffens further and smacks him wetly for his trouble. Rodney takes it in hand, as much to keep it out of his way as anything, but John gasps very nicely as Rodney rubs his thumb in little circles just under the glans.

Rodney detours around it, though, because he really needs to know what John's hipbones taste like, and the crease of his thigh, and the tender skin just behind his balls. They've just spent an entire day bathing. It's probably not even possible for John to be smoother or cleaner than he is right now, and Rodney wants to savor it.

He likes John sweaty too, and after a quick shower, and at the end of a normal lived-in day. But Rodney's set on becoming a connoisseur of John Sheppard's flavors, and he wants the full benefit of this one, John's taste after he's been washed and steamed and mud-dipped and washed again.

There's faint sweat starting on John's skin now, as Rodney takes his time with him. It's almost flavorless after all the sweating and bathing of the day, weakly salty as Rodney laps it up.

"Okay, you're running things and I have no problem with that," John says, "but if you're taking suggestions, you could move your hand any time now."

"Not taking suggestions yet," Rodney tells him, and applies his tongue to John's balls, lingering, unhurried. The reaction he gets is totally worth the several hairs that he has to spit out or lick onto John's thigh.

"Seriously though," John pants after a while, helplessly trying to thrust into Rodney's hand.

"Fine, I suppose you can contribute again." Rodney strains to sound casual, but getting John worked up has done a lot for him too. He's aching hard and his mouth waters to finally blow John already. "Let's hear your idea."

He's surprised when John hauls him up by one arm and weaves their legs together, clutching Rodney's ass and grinding against him and kissing him, thoroughly turning the tables - his eagerness is such a huge turn-on that Rodney's desperate in no time.

"Lemme just -" John stretches back, grabbing for something by the side of the bed. His shaving kit, maybe. It sounds like he completely upends it and shakes everything out of it onto the bedside table, and then he's back with a pump bottle and a handful of lube. The bottle goes somewhere behind John - if it gets subsumed into the pillows, they'll probably never find it again - and then John's hand is slick and perfect, working lube around and between both of them.

"Oh my god," Rodney says fervently, and gets his hand around both their cocks too, his fingers tangling with John's, and it's wild after that, both of them bucking and shoving against each other, twisting against each other, a feedback loop that pulls them tighter and tighter together.

Rodney feels the hot pulse when John starts to come, and it gets him off too at almost the same instant, the two of them making an enormous mess between them. It's perfectly, unspeakably satisfying, and the aftershocks keep echoing through him with every little twitch and rub against John's stomach.

"That was simultaneous," Rodney says proudly.

"Were you going for that?" John asks, barely opening his eyes. His hair's damp all around his hairline, his mouth deep pink. For once neither of them have any beard burn to speak of. It's nice as a novelty, but Rodney finds he sort of misses reading where he's been on John's skin.

"Not really," Rodney admits. "But it was. It seems like a big deal in porn."

"It was great," John says. "If that's what making bad jokes gets me..."

"Hey! It's not supposed to condition you to that response! You're supposed to think it went so well because I was in charge."

"Hey, if you always want to do all the work, fine by me."

"When you put it that way..." Rodney tries to frown, but his mouth doesn't want to hold it. Even his toenails feel relaxed.

John smiles faintly. "Catch you next time."

"Does that mean I have to do the cleanup too?" Rodney cranes around to snatch a box of tissues off the table on his side and starts mopping. "Great. These are those tissues with lotion in them, they're about as absorbent as a sheet of typing paper."

"I have a travel pack over there," John waves vaguely toward the chaos of his spilled-out shaving kit.

"I'm not climbing over you to get to them, hand them to me."

"If you wanted me to help you shouldn't have made me come so hard," says John, but he rolls over to retrieve the tissue pack.

Rodney's able to tidy up adequately with those, but there's a pretty unmistakable stain on the bedspread. "I suppose the upside of doing this on top of the covers is that no one has to sleep in the wet spot. We should pull this down."

"I have to move? Again?" John groans. There's no way Rodney should find that charming. And yet.

He prods and manhandles John between the sheets. As they settle in, he's startled to find himself with an armful of John, as John stretches out next to him, an arm across his waist, his head on Rodney's shoulder. They've slept this close before, but it's never made Rodney feel protective like this.

They forgot to turn the light off. Rodney can see that John shaves a couple of patches of body hair left stranded among the scarring. It makes him feel even more tender and careful. He spans the length of John's jaw with his hand, and John turns into his touch, lips soft against Rodney's palm.

*

They have a second round later, a slightly awkward but mostly amazing sixty-nine that ends in almost simultaneous orgasms again, which Rodney suspects is due to John feeling a little competitive. Maybe they're both out to one-up each other in this relationship. Rodney's not going to argue with these results.

It's probably a mistake to bring it up again, but afterward, Rodney can't help saying, "I really didn't do this so you'd have to take your clothes off. Or to make you talk, or anything."

"I know." John strokes his side. "I had a good time. Good trial run for being a little more, you know," he shrugs. "So what was the backup plan?"

"Oh. They do guided horse-riding tours that go up the mountain..."

John shuts his eyes and laughs through his nose, his mouth stretched wryly.

"What, that's a sore spot too?"

"Not... exactly." John bites his lip. "My family had horses. It's... been a while."

"Seriously? I can't believe you, you're like a minefield!" John's eyebrows leap up and Rodney flinches, "Oh, god, did you crash in a minefield?"

John laughs - really laughs, this time, long loud cackles. "No," he says, eking closer and kissing Rodney.

"Now I'm afraid to even tell you what the second backup plan was."

"But you're gonna," John nudges him.

"The golf course on the grounds here," says Rodney. "While we were in the bakery, Ronon got your clubs from your apartment and put them in the trunk. And by the way, I deserve points for being even hypothetically willing to come golfing with you."

"C'mon, golf is awesome. And it's Scottish," John wheedles. "It's your heritage."

"I'll decide what's my heritage," says Rodney, "and as far as I'm concerned it's cheese curds, Nanaimo bars, and poutine."

"But you put all that thought into it. We shouldn't let those backup plans go to waste," John nuzzles Rodney's ear persuasively.

"I'm a genius, I have plenty of thoughts to spare," says Rodney.

"Yeah? What're you thinking now?"

He's thinking it's unlikely that he could go a third time tonight, but it seems to be one of those rare moments when his brain doesn't have all the answers, because his body is starting to disagree.

"I'm backing up my backup plans," Rodney says, because he is, even while John's hands prove him more and more wrong by the second.

*

It's a week after the spa excursion when Rodney moves on his next plan. He's discussing the particulars with Teyla when Ronon settles into the other chair at their table.

"Overheard you," he explains. "I want in."

"That - could work out really well, actually," Rodney says.

"We can keep him between us. You'll be less nervous that way," says Ronon pragmatically. "Teyla's light, so she can go first, like she was saying. And I'll follow him up."

"Okay. Both of you make a list of everything you think we'll need, then," Rodney opens up his laptop. "Do you know where I can get a really extensive first aid kit? I want everything. Snakebite pump. Inflatable casts. Folding travois..."

"I am sure we can find something suitable at the shop," says Teyla.

"I'll just buy this one on Amazon. It says it's for EMTs," Rodney says. He doesn't miss the amused looks passing between Teyla and Ronon, but Rodney's not taking any chances. Well. He's not taking many chances.

Another week and a half, and, "I thought I already got my surprise," says John as Rodney drives them to meet Teyla and Ronon. It's a Sunday, so the bakery doesn't have deliveries today, and Ford said he could hold down the fort on his own, since John did the lion's share of the baking already in the early morning. Rodney's seen John poring over his accounts more assiduously lately; it's probably only a matter of time before he offers Ford a job.

"This is the backup to the backup plans," says Rodney. "I really don't want to play golf."

John looks curious when they arrive at Cheyenne Canyon, and beams when he sees Teyla and Ronon waiting for them, and he's floored when Rodney starts unloading the trunk.

"We're going climbing?" John's tone splits the difference between doubtful and thrilled.

"You're going climbing," Rodney answers. "Assuming you want to."

"Yeah, assume. But -"

"Well, then, you and Teyla and Ronon are going climbing. I'm going hiking, on a parallel route. I'll meet you at the top."

"He's carrying a hospital," says Ronon.

"I'm just taking sensible precautions and bringing some safety equipment, and a first aid kit, and some food, and my phone, and an emergency radio. Just in case," Rodney quells him with a glare. Ronon looks entertained and not even a little bit quelled.

"I feel very secure knowing that Rodney is well supplied if we should happen to need anything," Teyla intercedes.

"If we start now we'll get the best light," says Ronon, hefting his pack and setting off. Teyla smiles at them and goes with Ronon, giving them space to talk.

"Rodney... don't get me wrong, this is great," says John as they follow at a slower pace. "But remember the whole thing about not doing stuff just because you think you should?"

"This isn't faking," Rodney says. "This is trying. I'm trying this."

John watches him for a long moment and breaks into a smile as happy as any expression Rodney's ever seen on him. "Cool."