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John is a remarkably even-tempered guy, most of the time. Rodney's been known to infuriate bomb disabling specialists, hostage negotiators and kindergarten teachers, but he can count on one hand the number of times that John's reacted to him with genuine annoyance, let alone anything stronger. Mostly, things just don't seem to get to John.
So it's very weird to let himself into the loft only to find John looking grim and glittery-eyed while staring at a magazine.
"Hi?"
"Hey," John answers, standing. He rubs the back of his neck, ducking his head, but somehow it just makes him look even more piqued.
"Something up?"
"Stupid article," says John. "According to this, gluten-free baking and alternative sweeteners are ruining the world." He tosses the magazine onto the coffee table, but it's really more of a throw, and the magazine overshoots and hits the wall, pages fluttering.
They both look at the magazine, splayed open on the floor. John shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, finally hooking his thumbs in his pockets.
"I could loan you my red pen," Rodney offers.
Somehow that seems to help; John relaxes a little. "Yeah, but then I'd have to look at it again, so... no. But thanks."
"Do you want to go out for dinner?"
John eyes him, and Rodney realizes he's still standing right by the door as if he's afraid to stray too far from his escape route.
"Not hungry," John mutters, sweeping the magazine up and dropping it on top of the bookshelf, and falling onto the sofa again.
Truthfully, Rodney's kind of tempted to take the opening and run for it. He's never seen John in a mood like this and he has no idea how to cope with it. He barely knows what he's doing on a good day.
"I"ll just make a sandwich," Rodney crosses to the kitchenette and starts putting together some food.
"Somebody's gotta be throwing a ball around somewhere," says John, turning the TV on. Eventually he stops on some non-hockey sport that involves a lot of people crashing into each other.
Later, when Rodney comes over with a loaded plate, John says, "Still not hungry. Thanks." Rodney chooses not to enlighten him that Rodney made both sandwiches for himself, and digs in.
He always thought people were just being dramatic when they talked about "tension in the air." Rodney never felt any such thing. Maybe because he grew up with constant fighting and he acclimated to it, so he never sensed anything in the air when things were tense: his parents would just start yelling again, because they always started yelling again.
Now, though, he actually can feel a certain... well... tension in the air. John watches the television like it's done him wrong, eyes narrowed, his whole body seeming to emit some kind of intense negative charge. Rodney stuffs the food into his mouth, downing it in record speed, and John doesn't even remind him to slow down, or tease him about how he can't possibly be tasting anything. He's fully absorbed in whatever bad vibe he's experiencing, and again Rodney's tempted to leave him to it.
He doesn't, though. He doesn't know what to do, and his first impulse feels like the wrong thing, but he follows it anyway: puts the plate away, washes his hands and comes back to sit right next to John, close as he can.
It feels like the wrong thing, but it seems like it works. John's glum focus fades, and he presses his shoulder against Rodney's.
"This morning Radek said he was going to try to get ahold of you today," John says. "Did he ever get in touch?"
"Yes," Rodney scowls. "He called to gloat about how his funding came through. I swear he must have heard somewhere that our project for Northrop Grumman was cancelled. He was just... lording it over me, totally smug. The bastard."
This is usually the point when John would elbow him and remind him that Radek is their friend, but not tonight. If anything, it seems to be lifting John's personal dark cloud a little.
Encouraged, Rodney carries on with his complaints, his descriptions of Radek's treachery growing more and more extravagant until even he knows he's going too far, bitching, "He's always reminding people he grew up under this oppressive regime with all their propaganda and intimidation tactics, but if you ask me, that just gave him plenty of opportunities to learn how to manipulate people, the sneaky son of a bitch," and he braces himself for the head-slap that he expects and, in all honesty, deserves.
It doesn't come. There's even a hint of a smile softening John's lips. It's disorienting.
"Aren't you going to tell me I'm going overboard?" Rodney asks.
"Nah," John shrugs. "Get it off your chest, you'll probably feel better."
"Oh. Well... that was it," says Rodney, stymied.
John frowns at the television. "This game sucks." He flips the channel to Discovery; it's showing The Deadliest Catch.
"Is this show ever not on?" Rodney asks, but John drops the remote control on the floor and settles in to watch, and Rodney finds himself following the show despite himself.
He's not entirely conscious of it as John leans more and more against him and eventually slips down to lie stretched out on the sofa with his head pillowed on Rodney's thigh. Rodney only realizes it's been happening during a commercial break, when he tunes back in and finds he's tracing John's hairline along the back of his neck, fingers flirting with the short soft hair, following the line that dips down into a little point in the middle and back up again.
A few pots of lobsters go by, and Cash Cab comes on, and John quickly grabs the remote control again and turns off the television.
"Can't remember if I mentioned this," he says abruptly into the silence, "but I have this younger brother."
"Oh?" Rodney changes from tracing to petting, lightly.
"Mm. He called."
"What about?"
"He might be out this way in a couple of months."
Rodney considers that with trepidation. "How long since you've seen him last?"
It takes John a few moments to answer. "Saw him? Couple years ago," John says, slowly, like he's really trying to remember. "Talked to him... four or five years, maybe."
"I get the sense you're not that wild about seeing him," Rodney guesses.
"It's been a while. So it might be kinda... who knows," John shrugs, and squirms to tuck himself more comfortably against Rodney's leg, his head heavy on Rodney's thigh. All Rodney can see of him is dark thorny hair and a pointy ear, the slope of his shoulder; the line of his neck, which Rodney follows with his fingers, down to the collar of his t-shirt.
Rodney assembles the data. A brother John hasn't really talked to in five years: maybe estranged, or maybe they're just not close. Either way, the brother hasn't interacted with John since John left the Air Force, which gives Rodney at least one obvious conclusion. "Do you want me to stay away while he's here? Is that the problem? You're not out to your family?"
"That's not it." John grabs the hand resting on his shoulder and squeezes hard. "Even if it was, I wouldn't keep it up now."
Rodney squeezes back. "Okay, well... good."
John levers himself up and rolls to face him, which puts him sort of leaning steeply over Rodney's legs with no good place to put a hand to prop himself up. Rodney rolls his eyes and grabs him, dragging him into Rodney's lap. John makes a face, but he's already sitting there and molding to Rodney comfortably, legs curling up alongside Rodney's, pressing chest to chest.
John's way above him, in this position; Rodney has to tip his head much further back than usual to meet John's mouth. It's worth it. John kisses him deeply, one arm tight around him and the other cupping the back of his head.
Eventually they drift from kissing, and Rodney mouths John's jaw and throat. He never thought hickeys could ever, ever be a turn-on-- even when he was a teenager he thought they were childish. But John makes utterly amazing noises when Rodney sucks on his neck, and marks have been an inevitable consequence, and seeing the marks reminds Rodney of the noises and John's enthusiastic reciprocation. Rodney's gaining a new appreciation for childishness.
John groans and tips back, and Rodney takes the invitation and bites him a little, and John murmurs, "Yeah, yeah," and "Rodney," trying to grope him; Rodney grabs his wrists and holds him back from it. Groping usually starts the countdown clock to orgasms, and while Rodney's very in favor of orgasms, tonight they have enough time to draw it out, and he's even more in favor of that.
He succeeds so thoroughly in slowing things down that minutes later, they're still just trading lazy kisses. They've worked themselves into a weird position, John shifted half off his lap and leaning back into the bend of Rodney's elbow, John's arms around Rodney's neck while they taste each others' mouths.
They break to breathe, and John tucks his face against Rodney's shoulder. Uncertain, Rodney tightens his hold.
Lifting his head, John says, low and fast, "It's just hard to talk to them."
It takes a little effort for Rodney to realize that John's adding to the conversation from before, about John's family. And because he's thinking back and trying to find the thread of context, he connects together the rest... John's unusual overreaction to something trivial in a magazine. The way he encouraged Rodney to rant and rave for a change. The odd, almost admiring smile on his face, listening to Rodney vent his spleen. Getting it off his chest, something John seems to find it almost impossible to do.
"What would you say?" Rodney asks.
John eases back, til he's reclining across Rodney's lap, staring at the ceiling. He chews his lip.
"I'm not going back," he says at length.
Rodney bites back on the natural questions: back where? Why not? Why do they want him to go back to somewhere?
"Not... because I don't want to be there," John goes on with difficulty. "I mean. I don't. But that's not why anymore." He shrugs, and Rodney thinks maybe that's the end of it. It might be a full minute later when John finally says, "I want to be here."
Rodney clears his throat. "Well. You said it. So... you're halfway there?"
A slow, genuine smile spreads across John's face. "Pretty good place to be," he says, turning and reaching for Rodney's fly, and with that, the talking portion of the evening is decidedly over.