Mal (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} malnpudl) wrote,@ 2008-04-28 21:40:00 |
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SGA Fic: With Good Grace (John/Rodney, PG-13)
Title: With Good Grace
Author: malnpudl
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney
Length: ~950 words
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its characters belong to MGM, Double Secret, Gekko, and others who aren't me. No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks toisiscolo and sageness, two of the best betas a writer could ever hope to find.
Dedication: Forbeadattitude who was having a lost zebra day.
Notes: Two of my biggest bulletproof kinks are realism and happily ever afters. Put the two in a blender, set the time machine for 20+ years in the future, and this is what happens.
~ * ~
With Good Grace
John still has most of his hair, though it's gone silver at the temples and the rest is more gray than not these days, as is the sweat-damp hair on his chest and arms, bright against his deeply tanned skin under the warm California sun. Rodney used to resent that, as he watched his own hairline recede out of sight, but now he just enjoys it. Even in his sixties, John is still beautiful.
John's deck chair is reclined to half-mast and PJ is stretched out on his side in the shade beneath it, panting gently. His eyes are soft and dark against his golden fur, and his open mouth and lolling tongue make him look like he's laughing silently.
"Silly mutt," Rodney murmurs. PJ's tail thumps once in agreement against the silvering cedar boards of the deck.
Rodney still wishes they could have retired on Atlantis, but they'd found that neither he nor John was able to sit idly by when things went to hell – as they still did, reliably, at least twice a week on average. He never stops missing home like all holy hell, but he figures if they had to end up back on Earth, Santa Barbara is a good choice. They're right on the ocean, and the breezes smell a lot like home.
His eyes still closed against the afternoon sun, John reaches out and gropes blindly for his beer, nearly toppling the bottle before Rodney rescues it and slips it into John's hand. John raises it to his lips and drains it, his head tilting back, sweat trickling slowly down his throat as he swallows.
"Thanks," John says, plunking the empty bottle down on the deck beside his chair. He cracks an eyelid and turns his head to look at Rodney. "Hungry?" he asks.
Rodney grins. "Aren't I always?" He levers himself slowly out of his deck chair, his joints popping like a string of firecrackers. It's the left shoulder that's giving him the most trouble at the moment; dislocations heal (this one three times; the right only once), but they're never quite the same again. Not too bad; today's a good day, his body sun-baked and limber as it ever gets any more, and he gets to his feet with little difficulty.
Beside him, John is stretching his legs, one at a time, the first step in the slow and careful process of getting up out of his chair.
"Ready?" Rodney asks, and John nods. Rodney bends down and lowers the deck chair's footrest until John's feet are flat on the sun-warmed wood of the deck. Prosthetic technology is so good these days that if it weren't for the fact that synthetic skin doesn't tan, he'd have a hard time telling the artificial one (land mine four years ago; that planet with the six moons) from the real one.
John is still remarkably lean, gone spare and sinewy as he ages; somehow he's managed to avoid the spreading waistline that has padded Rodney's own middle, though his skin is no longer firm and taut. Rodney teases him about his wrinkles, but he secretly loves the crepe-soft, delicate feel of them under his fingers and against his lips.
John has finished the ritual stretching of his back, punctuated by soft grunts and groans that are remarkably reminiscent of the sounds he makes when they're having sex. John's right shoulder (gunshot; Genii), left hip (thrown out of a window on that planet with the tentacle creatures), and both knees (boot to the kneecap in a fight; bad fall down a mountainside) have been replaced and are blessedly free from pain, but nobody has yet figured out how to replace a spine (way too many fights and falls on too many worlds to count).
"Okay," John says finally, and reaches out with both hands. He and Rodney grab each other's wrists, and Rodney braces himself while John pulls himself to his feet. They've been doing this so long, it's automatic; Rodney has to stop himself from absent-mindedly offering the same assistance to their occasional houseguests.
On his feet now, John keeps tugging gently at Rodney's wrists until the two of them are chest to chest, releasing Rodney only to wrap his arms around Rodney's torso. "Hi," John says, and rests his chin on Rodney's shoulder.
Rodney's arms reach easily around John's waist, meeting at his knobby spine. "Hi, yourself," he says, smiling despite himself. "You're all sweaty."
"Yeah," John says, leaning back just enough to smile into Rodney's eyes. "So are you. Wanna fuck?"
When they first got together, Rodney feared his heart would burst, because surely nothing so frail as flesh could possibly contain all the love he felt for John. It never happened, even though the love has just kept growing through the years, spreading inward and outward, exponential. Love, Rodney has concluded, is the only thing in the universe that defies the laws of physics.
"I thought you were hungry," he says, and his eyes drift closed as he leans in to kiss John's mouth, warm and welcoming as always.
John takes his time, soft lips and tongue and sweet, dark sounds from deep in his throat. He leaves Rodney's mouth at last with a soft, lingering bite on his lower lip, and his smile makes wicked promises. "I am," he says. "But I have my priorities straight."
"Sex now?" Rodney says. He automatically slips a shoulder under John's arm for support as they turn slowly, carefully toward the sliding door.
"Food later," John agrees. PJ's tags jingle as he gets to his feet and gives himself a shake. His nails tap a soft, slow staccato as he follows them into the coolness within the thick stucco walls of their house.
~ fin ~
Title: With Good Grace
Author: malnpudl
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney
Length: ~950 words
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and its characters belong to MGM, Double Secret, Gekko, and others who aren't me. No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to
isiscolo and sageness, two of the best betas a writer could ever hope to find.Dedication: For
beadattitude who was having a lost zebra day.Notes: Two of my biggest bulletproof kinks are realism and happily ever afters. Put the two in a blender, set the time machine for 20+ years in the future, and this is what happens.
~ * ~
John still has most of his hair, though it's gone silver at the temples and the rest is more gray than not these days, as is the sweat-damp hair on his chest and arms, bright against his deeply tanned skin under the warm California sun. Rodney used to resent that, as he watched his own hairline recede out of sight, but now he just enjoys it. Even in his sixties, John is still beautiful.
John's deck chair is reclined to half-mast and PJ is stretched out on his side in the shade beneath it, panting gently. His eyes are soft and dark against his golden fur, and his open mouth and lolling tongue make him look like he's laughing silently.
"Silly mutt," Rodney murmurs. PJ's tail thumps once in agreement against the silvering cedar boards of the deck.
Rodney still wishes they could have retired on Atlantis, but they'd found that neither he nor John was able to sit idly by when things went to hell – as they still did, reliably, at least twice a week on average. He never stops missing home like all holy hell, but he figures if they had to end up back on Earth, Santa Barbara is a good choice. They're right on the ocean, and the breezes smell a lot like home.
His eyes still closed against the afternoon sun, John reaches out and gropes blindly for his beer, nearly toppling the bottle before Rodney rescues it and slips it into John's hand. John raises it to his lips and drains it, his head tilting back, sweat trickling slowly down his throat as he swallows.
"Thanks," John says, plunking the empty bottle down on the deck beside his chair. He cracks an eyelid and turns his head to look at Rodney. "Hungry?" he asks.
Rodney grins. "Aren't I always?" He levers himself slowly out of his deck chair, his joints popping like a string of firecrackers. It's the left shoulder that's giving him the most trouble at the moment; dislocations heal (this one three times; the right only once), but they're never quite the same again. Not too bad; today's a good day, his body sun-baked and limber as it ever gets any more, and he gets to his feet with little difficulty.
Beside him, John is stretching his legs, one at a time, the first step in the slow and careful process of getting up out of his chair.
"Ready?" Rodney asks, and John nods. Rodney bends down and lowers the deck chair's footrest until John's feet are flat on the sun-warmed wood of the deck. Prosthetic technology is so good these days that if it weren't for the fact that synthetic skin doesn't tan, he'd have a hard time telling the artificial one (land mine four years ago; that planet with the six moons) from the real one.
John is still remarkably lean, gone spare and sinewy as he ages; somehow he's managed to avoid the spreading waistline that has padded Rodney's own middle, though his skin is no longer firm and taut. Rodney teases him about his wrinkles, but he secretly loves the crepe-soft, delicate feel of them under his fingers and against his lips.
John has finished the ritual stretching of his back, punctuated by soft grunts and groans that are remarkably reminiscent of the sounds he makes when they're having sex. John's right shoulder (gunshot; Genii), left hip (thrown out of a window on that planet with the tentacle creatures), and both knees (boot to the kneecap in a fight; bad fall down a mountainside) have been replaced and are blessedly free from pain, but nobody has yet figured out how to replace a spine (way too many fights and falls on too many worlds to count).
"Okay," John says finally, and reaches out with both hands. He and Rodney grab each other's wrists, and Rodney braces himself while John pulls himself to his feet. They've been doing this so long, it's automatic; Rodney has to stop himself from absent-mindedly offering the same assistance to their occasional houseguests.
On his feet now, John keeps tugging gently at Rodney's wrists until the two of them are chest to chest, releasing Rodney only to wrap his arms around Rodney's torso. "Hi," John says, and rests his chin on Rodney's shoulder.
Rodney's arms reach easily around John's waist, meeting at his knobby spine. "Hi, yourself," he says, smiling despite himself. "You're all sweaty."
"Yeah," John says, leaning back just enough to smile into Rodney's eyes. "So are you. Wanna fuck?"
When they first got together, Rodney feared his heart would burst, because surely nothing so frail as flesh could possibly contain all the love he felt for John. It never happened, even though the love has just kept growing through the years, spreading inward and outward, exponential. Love, Rodney has concluded, is the only thing in the universe that defies the laws of physics.
"I thought you were hungry," he says, and his eyes drift closed as he leans in to kiss John's mouth, warm and welcoming as always.
John takes his time, soft lips and tongue and sweet, dark sounds from deep in his throat. He leaves Rodney's mouth at last with a soft, lingering bite on his lower lip, and his smile makes wicked promises. "I am," he says. "But I have my priorities straight."
"Sex now?" Rodney says. He automatically slips a shoulder under John's arm for support as they turn slowly, carefully toward the sliding door.
"Food later," John agrees. PJ's tags jingle as he gets to his feet and gives himself a shake. His nails tap a soft, slow staccato as he follows them into the coolness within the thick stucco walls of their house.
~ fin ~
