SGA Fic: Waltz, Tango, Foxtrot (Part 2/2)

[out_there]

Continued from Part One






"You know," she said, when Rodney finished saving his notes and turned around, "you're not very good at apologizing."

"You're not very good at taking an apology, so we seem evenly matched."

She folded her arms, pushing her breasts up. "You left four messages. In one of those, you called my entire family moronic--"

"I didn't mean your family so much as their insistence on formal dances at weddings." Rodney cringed. "It wasn't a personal attack."

Narrowing her eyes, Christine carefully continued. "And then you accused me of flirting with our dance instructor. Please believe me, that is not what's causing your complete lack of dancing ability."

"Well, you do," Rodney said lamely. He was right: she virtually threw herself at John's feet. "He comes over and you're a thirteen-year-old with a crush. You've got to expect me to be a little jealous."

"And you had to bring that up while apologizing for completely missing my birthday party?"

"You said not to come!" Rodney spluttered.

"Because I expected you to be there on time. It was the one day, Rodney, that I expected you to remember. It's written in every calendar you own. And instead--" Christine shrugged, like she didn't know why she bothered. "Instead, you did what you always do. You made your work more important."

"My work is important," Rodney said, waving a hand at the simulations he was currently running. This was ridiculous. He forgot one -- very boring -- social arrangement and Christine had been the one who told him not to come. There was no need to insult him professionally. "You know that."

"It's important to you. But there are other things, things that you don't even notice--"

"And John does?"

"Yes!" Christine's breaths were coming quicker as the color rose in her face. "He noticed. He comments. When I change my hair color, he mentions it. You never notice."

Knowing Christine was partly right didn't make Rodney any happier about it. "I notice."

"You never say anything. Is it any wonder I find myself attracted to a guy who compliments me? Who actually smiles back?"

"If you think John's so wonderful," Rodney said, angry and annoyed and knowing he was saying something stupid, "why aren't you dating him?"

"Because I'm dating you!" Christine almost yelled. "And that's the only reason."

"Then why are you dating me?"

She sucked in a breath, and stopped. The wall clock ticked loudly in the sudden quiet, and Rodney knew this was about to go very, very bad. "I don't know."

"Really?" Rodney asked, swallowing back another dozen questions. That was the only one that mattered.

"I don't know," she repeated. "Habit, maybe?"

"Habit?"

"Convenient habit, I guess. It's not like either of us puts much effort into this. It's... kind of easy." She shrugged, and then her gaze dropped to the floor. "But it's not going to be anymore, is it?"

"No, I don't think so," Rodney said and then turned around and walked out the door, out of the building, and off the campus before he remembered he'd driven in that morning so his car was still parked there. He decided to pay for a cab home, instead.

He sat on the couch, feeling numb and tired, a little relieved and more than a little guilty about being relieved. They'd met randomly at a staff function, both of them going home early. They didn't work with each other or live together. They barely ever drove in together. It was frightening how little it was going to change his life.

When the phone rang, he picked it up without bothering to look at the caller ID. "Yes?"

"Rodney?"

"No, it's the King of Spain," Rodney said, but his voice sounded flat.

"Are you okay?"

"John?" It took him that long to realize who he was talking to. And people thought he was a genius. "Why are you calling me?"

"We had a lesson booked in for tonight, and you didn't show. Are you okay? Because you're being quiet, and when I'm the talkative one in our conversations, something is wrong."

"Oh. I'm fine." He was, really. He was still in a small amount of shock, was all. "I don't think I'll have any more lessons."

"Why not?" John sounded concerned. That was why the lessons were popular: John had the perfect way of faking that he cared. It was oddly endearing.

"I was only learning for Christine's cousin's wedding. And now it's off."

"The wedding?"

"No," Rodney said, rubbing at his eyes, "Christine. I mean, me and Christine. Christine and I. It's over."

John made a small sigh of regret. Rodney would feel the same if he'd been paid in advance, and then had to return the money.

"Keep the advance payment. Consider it a bonus. And, um. Thanks. For the lessons." Rodney hung up the phone. He stared at it for a few minutes, then he dragged himself off the couch, heated up a microwave dinner and ate it in front of a Star Trek re-run. At least he didn't have to go through the pains of dance classes anymore. He'd miss the sex, but the lack of dancing would be a big improvement.

See, he was thinking about the positives already.

In fact, he dozed off thinking about the positives and was woken up by someone ringing on his doorbell. Ringing twice, and then knocking, and then ringing again for good measure.

If it was Christine, she had a key -- Rodney wouldn't be surprised if it turned up in his mailbox next week -- and there was no one else he wanted to speak to. The banging continued, but Rodney was good at ignoring the obvious: he'd raised that skill to an art form.

The amount of maudlin self-pity in that thought made Rodney sneer at himself. If he was going to be annoyed, he should at least get to yell at someone else. Huffing, he walked over to the door.

"What?" he demanded as he opened the door. John looked taken aback, his finger hovering over the doorbell button. "You think if you keep hitting that over and over, it'll drive me insane and I'll be forced to open the door for you? It doesn't work like that."

"Except it did." Rocking back on his heels, John looked… well, like John. Blue jeans that gave a vague impression of being too tight, black T-shirt, black leather jacket. A pair of wide aviator glasses that should have looked far worse on him. "Anyway, you sounded--"

"I don't need lessons anymore because I just broke up with my girlfriend, so it's none of your concern how I sound," Rodney said, but he stepped back and let John walk inside. "Why are you here?"

"You paid in advance. I wanted to make sure you got what you paid for. Word-of-mouth is important."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to go around complaining that I went to this dance school and all I got was a lousy T-shirt."

"It would make me feel better." Somewhere, there was a law against grown men using hangdog eyes and the hint of a pout to get their way. Obviously, John had no sense of shame. "You wouldn't want me to feel guilty, would you, Rodney?"

Rodney closed the door to allow himself time, to remember that he inspired fear into the hearts of lecturers and grad students alike. "How about one last lesson and we call it even?"

"I don't have any music," John peeled off his jacket, "but that's fine with me."

Then it was back to familiar ground, John's hand against his, light fingers on his shoulder, and moving in sync. At least he'd learnt something, although being able to dance with John -- only with John -- wasn't the world's most useful skill.

"So," John drawled, "you broke up?"

"Over you, actually." Rodney sighed. Of all the stupid reasons to break up, getting jealous over the gorgeous dance instructor was utterly ludicrous. Like a guy who looked like John -- flat abs, and broad shoulders, and mischievous smile -- would be interested in a middling-attractive academic like Christine.

"Oh." John's breath skated across the side of Rodney's neck as they turned and moved around the cramped space of his living room. "Why me?"

"You'll laugh, it's really-- I mean, there are levels of pathetic and then way below that, there are stupid break-ups." Rodney stepped forward and John moved with him, seamlessly, like he knew precisely where Rodney was going. Which he did, since it was a structured dance. "Let's just say that one of us liked you in a way that had nothing to do with dancing, and the other got ridiculously jealous."

"Huh."

"The really stupid thing is that there was no real reason to end it. Nothing happened. Nothing would have happened."

"Well, no." John gave a tight grin and shrugged, leaning a little closer to Rodney as they moved. "I'm not the type to make a pass at someone who's attached. It's kind of sleazy."

Rodney stopped moving, pulled his hands away from the softness of John's t-shirt. "But you would have?"

"If you and Christine weren't dating?" John ran his tongue across his upper lip. "Yeah."

Rodney couldn't explain it. They'd broken up -- and he wasn't going to apologize, not to an answering machine, not again -- so it shouldn't matter that someone else was interested in her. It shouldn't matter that some guy -- some guy who looked like an advertising agent's wet dream, who got math jokes, and almost had dimples when he smiled, and wanted to soar -- liked her.

It shouldn't make him feel any worse.

But it did.

"Okay, that wasn't precisely the reaction I was hoping for."

"Am I supposed to give you my blessing?" Rodney swallowed. It hurt, and he'd always been better at lashing out than stoic acceptance. "Did you want me to say 'Go get her, champ' and give you her number?"

John blinked, and then his eyes widened until white completely surrounded the hazel. "You don't do things by halves."

"What?"

"When you get the wrong idea, you really get the wrong idea."

"What the hell--" Rodney's complaints were muffled by John kissing him. Rodney froze, completely stopped -- stopped breathing, stopped thinking -- and waited for... something. For something other than John's soft, smoky lips on his, pressing lightly with only the slightest hint of suction.

He was waiting for fireworks or explosions. Something loud and overwhelming. Something weird and harsh. Not this surreal sweetness, this dream-like, impossibly gentle touch.

Brushing his fingers across Rodney's cheek, John pulled back. "I wasn't interested in Christine."

"Oh."

John smiled -- almost-dimples and everything -- and Rodney found himself nodding nervously.

"To make this perfectly clear, because for a genius, you're not that smart," John said, standing so close that Rodney could feel his chest move as he breathed, "I'm interested in you. I was always interested in you. Any problems with that?"

"Some of the details are new to me." Swallowing, Rodney settled a hand on John's bicep, trailing a finger over the sewn edge of John's sleeve. His heart was beating rapidly, and he could feel his neck tense up as he leaned forward, but once he pressed his mouth to John's, it was astoundingly easy to kiss him. "But I've got the gist of the mechanics."

"Good to know."

Then they were kissing again. The differences were minor: leaning up instead of down (noticing that John was slightly taller than him) and the vague smell of salt air and city traffic (instead of cloyingly sweet perfume). The similarities -- wet, soft mouth, warm hands on his shoulders, smooth cheek under his fingertips -- were more surprising.

Leaving his fingers on the stretch of John's cheek, Rodney leaned away. "You shaved before coming here? That's unbearably arrogant."

"It's called being prepared for all eventualities," John said, looking slightly cross-eyed at the close distance.

Rodney closed his eyes and leaned forward, towards warmth and kissing -- and, huh, he was probably the world's worst boyfriend to be kissing someone else a few hours after they'd broken up; on the other hand, go him! -- and nearly jumped out of his skin when something vibrated against his hip.

John laughed and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I have to get this," he said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and grimacing.

Rodney watched John answer it -- "Pegasus Dance School," John said, voice showing no annoyance -- long legs pacing the floor as he talked about time and place, running a finger along the spines of Rodney's books as he agreed and nodded.

It occurred to Rodney that he could be slightly out of his depth here. John was, for lack of a better term, John and Rodney was, well... hmmm. Tonight had been surreal and the only thing stopping Rodney from panicking and arguing against this was quantum physics. He believed in theories that stated there was always a possibility of wildly improbable things happening.

But they normally didn't happen to Dr Rodney McKay.

"You've done this before, right?" Rodney asked as John slipped the phone back into his pocket. "This is something you do all the time, right?"

John blinked, and his lips twitched like they didn't know whether to smile or frown. "Contrary to your low opinion of me, I don't make a habit of picking up my students."

"Not the student thing." Rodney rolled his eyes. "The... well, the guy thing. Because I think at least one of us should know what we're doing here, and that really isn't me."

John laughed. Actually, he covered his mouth and made a small, snuffling sound, but Rodney knew it was a laugh. "I know what I'm doing."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?"

"Yes." John dragged the word between his teeth, like he was talking to someone very, very slow and sat down beside him on the couch.

Sitting up a little straighter, Rodney continued, "How do I know that your idea of knowledge is the same as mine? For all I know, you could have done this three times and consider that enough to know what you're doing, whereas I'd still consider that fumbling in ignorance."

"Hmm," John said, leaning across and pressing his face against Rodney's neck. Not kissing or licking, just hovering there, breath hot against Rodney's skin. It made Rodney think of dancing lessons, of John's bare skin against his back and John's laugh muffled against his shoulder. "Are you stalling for a reason?"

"I-- I value knowledge." Rodney voice didn't crack on that last word. Really. "I dislike incompetence. And being taught by somebody who doesn't know what he's doing is a bad idea. A really bad idea. It leads to... bad things."

John's hand slid down to Rodney's stomach and started pulling at the hem of his T-shirt, gathering it into his hand. "I know what I'm doing. I've been dating guys since high school. What do you want, a CV with a list of references?"
Then there was a hot hand against his bare skin and Rodney found it easy to gasp and hard to think.

"Um," he said after a moment, "that would be good."

"Well, first would be Matt Stevens, but I haven't seen him since the high school reunion."

"Let me guess," Rodney said, imagining locker rooms and showers as John traced symbols up his ribcage, "he was captain of the football team?"

"No." John punctuated his point with a quick bite to Rodney's neck. Rodney groaned and dug his fingers into John's back, squirming as John carefully licked the tender spot. "I was a junior, he was a senior. He was head of the Science Club."

"Really?" Rodney turned to face John, and hit John's cheek with his jawbone in a way that wasn't pleasant or attractive. "Sorry."

With a quick shake of his head, John ignored the apology. "I have a type. Matt in high school, my Advanced Calc TA in college, and do I need to go on? I like 'em smart."

"Oh," Rodney said. He blinked a few times. And then blinked again. "You know that makes you pretty weird, right?"

"But it's a good weird."

"Well, yeah," Rodney said as John kissed him. It was good: warm and wet, and a neutron star of a kiss, which made absolutely no sense as a metaphor, Rodney realized. Because this wasn't unknown and fast and self-destructive. This was slow and planned, with John's tongue moving against his lip so slowly that it was driving him a little bit crazy. But maybe, maybe the gravity force was right because Rodney wanted to pull away, wanted to divide this experience down into manageable pieces, and was powerless to break the soft, steady connection.

"I don't do this," was the first thing out of his mouth when John pulled back. "This sleeping with new people on the day I break up with the old person. Well, not the old person as in geriatric, but the other person I was dating. This isn't what I do."

John looked blindsided, like Rodney had just confessed his carnal love for turkeys.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, because, yeah, how often do I get the chance to sleep with a seriously hot stranger -- I mean, at any time, not just on bad break-up days -- but this really isn't something I do. And," Rodney cringed, wishing that his brain wasn't so big and brilliant, because that was he could ignore it like most of the population, "I don't think I can go through with this."

John nodded, and sat back on the other end of the couch. The warm hand on Rodney's hip was gone; likewise, the warm puff of breath against his shoulder. It kind of sucked.

"Which is not that I don't want to do this, but if I do, it's going to feel like some cheap rebound thing and it isn't. At least, I don't think it is, because I've never done the rebound thing so I'd be surprised if I suddenly started now. On the other hand, you're very hot. And I don't have hot people throwing themselves at me. So… I've just reached the part of this conversation where I don't know what I'm saying."

"You're saying that you're not comfortable with this because you've just broken up with someone." John leaned an arm over the back of the couch and rested his chin in the crook of his elbow. He had one leg curled up on the seat, and Rodney's libido was taking vicious pleasure in pointing out what he'd missed out on.

"Yeah." Rodney had seen the guy shirtless. He was well aware what he was missing out on. "What about, I don't know, getting together sometime this weekend?"

"Can't," John said with a shrug, standing up. "I'm busy this weekend."

Rodney sighed. He knew a polite brush-off when he heard one. (He'd heard a lot.) Of course the once in a lifetime opportunity -- to sleep with someone really, really hot -- would come when he'd feel guilty to enjoy it. John was standing up and getting his jacket, and Rodney knew he'd be out the door soon, and away on his motorcycle and Rodney would never see him again, and it sucked so much that he listened to his stupid conscience.

Stupid, stupid conscience.

Then John said, "Are you free next Saturday?" and Rodney nearly whooped in victory.

"I should be."

"We hold regular dances. It's a combination of rewarding the students and maintaining a good reputation." John gave him a crunched up piece of pale green paper. The Pegasus Dance School logo was only just visible in the top corner. "It starts at eight but I have to help with the prep work, so I'll meet you there."

There were eight days between John walking out his door -- calling back, "And wear a suit!" over his shoulder -- and the dance. Rodney would have thought he'd spend more time worrying about the sudden gay desire, but he didn't. Partly because his type had always relied on fairly superficial qualities -- blonde and stacked -- and he could still see the appeal, especially when Justine Clarence (chemistry admin-girl and Rodney's living wet dream) strode by. Partly because John was gorgeous, and thought Rodney was smart, and liked him for that, and Rodney could overlook trifles like sexual orientation for the sake of fantastic sex.

But mainly it was because he spent most of the week thinking, and occasionally saying out loud, "My grad students are the special type of stupid this year." There was Adrian who was supposed to be researching black holes, only he'd been studying red dwarfs three months ago, and now wanted to change topics again. Jeanette -- who was bright and competent, if not insightfully brilliant -- seemed to have forgotten that even a thesis needs some type of conclusion, and she'd blinked tearfully behind those huge glasses of hers when he pointed that out.

His best hope of the lot was Peter. His theories were very good but his calculations were fatally flawed, in a way that Rodney couldn't pinpoint until five thirty on Saturday morning. When he did, he called Peter; the pair of them worked on it, in the blissfully empty (well, emptier since science didn't always stop for weekends) labs, until ten.

When he woke up, it was twenty past seven at night. There was an irritating tug at the back of his brain, the thought that he'd forgotten something, and then he realized. Dance recital. John. The need to wear a suit.

He jumped in the shower and then threw on the suit, so glad he'd pressed the shirt and gotten it ready on Wednesday night. He called a cab and turned up only twenty minutes late.

Inside was a lot more crowded than he'd expected. Either the beginners class was one of their smallest or they had a lot of classes. Lots of women in skirts and heels; lots of men in business suits. He fitted in fairly well with his navy pinstripe -- he'd been a little concerned about that. He didn't wear suits on a daily basis. This one was his interview suit, the one he wore every time he got called into the Dean's office and asked why one of his grad students threatened to jump off a window-sill again. (It had only happened twice. And that was from the same highly strung student who'd threatened, both times, from the first floor.)

Everyone was standing on the dance floor, listening to some woman thank them for coming. Rodney edged through the crowd until he could see John, standing in the center of the little clearing. Rodney had the sneaking suspicion someone had once told John black was slimming. First those black t-shirts, now black shirts. Combined with a black suit, and possibly, a black tie. Rodney didn't need to look down to know that John would have the matching black shoes shined to a polish.

John was standing with two women, who were a riot of color in comparison. To John's left was a brunette in a jungle green dress, talking into a microphone. To her left, stood an obviously-fake redhead, wearing a mango-colored thing that was split up to her thighs and had a cut-out revealing a taut, caramel stomach.

Not so long ago, he would have been lusting after the redhead, not watching John smile lazily at the crowd, gaze never lingering in any place for too long. Then John looked at him, the smile widened, shifting from charming to genuine. John waggled his eyebrows at him.

The brunette stopped talking and the music started: loud and brash and something Latin, the tango or cha-cha, something Rodney didn't know. The people around him started moving, dividing into couples or heading for the few tables scattered around, and Rodney lost sight of John.

Rodney headed off the dance floor, thinking that would make it easier to see, but it still took him a minute to spot John amongst the crowd.

John was dancing with the redhead, lean hips twisting with the beat and legs moving faster than should be possible. There were spins and kicks, and the shimmies were rather devastating. The lean lines of John's suit emphasized strong shoulders and slim hips. No man should have been able to move like that.

Then he lifted her over one arm, and she spun upside down, legs pinwheeling over her head and landing flat on the floor, stepping into the next move without a pause.

Rodney realized he was staring with his mouth open and quickly shut it.

At least he wasn't the only one mesmerized. There were groups sitting at the tables, watching John with a combination of envy and awe. Rodney understood completely. Then the song changed, one Latin beat blurring into another, and the dance loosened up and got comfortable, let its metaphorical hair down and boogied on a table top.

There were less of the sharp leg movements, and more swaying, their hips constantly touching in a way that was fully-clothed and completely obscene. By the time that dance ended, Rodney's mouth was dry.

John, apparently, was fine. He kept dancing, through the next song and the next. Then he changed partners and danced with the brunette. And after a song, switched back to the redhead.

Then the music changed, slowed from the hip-swiveling Latin beat to something more formal, more sedate. It took Rodney a moment to recognize it as the waltz, but that was only because he was watching John disentangle and saunter across the dance floor.

"Hey," Rodney said, because it seemed like the kind of thing you said to a guy who'd made out with you, invited you to his dance school's recital, and then spent the night dancing with a series of graceful, gorgeous women.

John held out his hand. "Want to dance?"

John didn't look out of breath. Not even a little, which was kind of unfair. The collar of the shirt was still high and starched; the tie lay flat on his shirt, hiding in the camouflage of black-on-black.

"Here? Seriously? I mean, you know what I'm like. And the number of people I could step on or fall over is little intimidating." Behind John, there were couples starting to dance. You could tell the beginners by the way they fumbled as they started, and took a few steps to find the beat. "I'm sure you'd look a lot better dancing with someone else. Like, anyone else here."

Rodney could feel himself edging back from the dance floor, but John smiled and kept holding his hand in mid-air. Rodney almost felt embarrassed for him.

"I'm expected to come here and put on a show. I've done that." John added a grin, a sharp flash of teeth -- the same teeth that had left Rodney with hickies like some oversexed teen -- and stepped closer. "Now dance with me."

"What about Miss Midriff over there?" Rodney pointed at the redhead, ignoring the stretch of John's hand waiting for his.

"Trisha? She prefers the faster beats, which is why she teaches the Latin dances. Besides, I know you can waltz."

Rodney didn't like public humiliation. He didn't like setting himself up for a fall, and that was what John was asking him to do. To dance in front of a crowd of strangers and prove that he sucked at this. There was no way he was masochistic enough to agree.

"Okay." Except -- apparently -- he was.

John grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the dance floor. Right into the middle, Rodney noticed with a touch of relief, where the crowd would hide them. Then he settled one hand on Rodney's shoulder and slid the other to hold Rodney's hand, and waited.

Rodney blinked. "I'm supposed to lead, aren't I?"

"Any time now."

"You realize how bad this is going to look, right? This isn't going to lead to some magical transformation to grace. It might lead to knocking over other couples, but not-- not--" Rodney stuttered to a stop as John ran his thumb down the side of Rodney's neck. "That's cheating."

"Sorry," John said, but the lift of his brows told Rodney he wasn't sorry at all.

"Okay, fine," Rodney said, and started moving, "be like that. You'll only have yourself to blame."

It wasn't graceful. It didn't help that everyone in the room seemed to be staring at them. Not just the people from the beginners' class, which Rodney could understand, but also a range of carefully made-up women whose smoky eyes followed John as their red lips caught in puzzled frowns.

"There's a lot of women watching you," Rodney said, peering over John's shoulder and forgetting to turn.

"Ever watch Dirty Dancing?"

Discretion was the greater part of valor, and lying was unquestionably the best way to go. "I think that was the one style-challenged 80's musical that I skipped."

"A lot of the girls who learn to dance have seen it. Many, many times. There's a certain romanticism to being taught to dance by a guy called Johnny." John leaned closer, his smooth cheek brushing against Rodney's hastily shaved stubble. John's breath was warm against his ear. "It gets old, fast."

"Oh." Rodney blinked as John's face came back into view, hazel eyes and quirked brows, and parted lips only inches from Rodney's mouth. John licked his lips and then smiled. "What?"

"I was wondering when you'd notice."

"Your sphinx-like riddles are not endearing."

"When you'd notice," John said, managing to roll his eyes in a way that, well, was endearing, "that you're dancing with me, not the rest of the room."

Over John's shoulder, there were other couples dancing, and behind that, people watching. Flocks of girls in candy-colored dresses stood in twos and threes, heads bowed together as they talked, eyes never leaving John. But if he watched John, kept his attention focused on the gold specks in his eyes, or the small twitches of eyebrow, they were easy to forget. It felt like a private lesson, almost as if there was no-one there to laugh at him when he inevitably tripped. "I've never been comfortable with public performance."

"Then it's a little amazing that you've got a PhD." When John spoke, he ducked his head a little closer. It was completely unnecessary. Rodney wanted him to do it again.

"Presentations, where I know what I'm talking about, that's different."

"Uh-huh?"

"I'm not going to make a fool of myself when I know the subject matter. Defending a dissertation is easy when you know that you're right. It's a simple case of making everyone else understand that they're morons and they need to shut up, sit down and start taking notes in the hope that eventually, one day, they will understand my brilliance."

They turned, John's feet shadowing Rodney's, and John said sweetly, "You must be popular at conventions." Rodney nodded twice before he realized John was being sarcastic.

"For your information, I am well-known and liked amongst my peers. Well, maybe not liked, but certainly respected. And I always get invited to the most important conventions."

"Do you get to sit with the cool kids, too?"

"I get to make the cool kids cry," Rodney replied with a smirk. John's eyes widened for a second as he laughed, ducking his chin close to his chest. His hand was on the small of John's back; under the smooth jacket, Rodney could feel muscle shake as John laughed. It made him feel bold. "Feel free to laugh it up, because I'm serious. At this stage, it's a tradition. I attend, tear down someone's idiotic theory and make them cry bitter tears of envy. At the last convention, I broke two astrophysicists and one engineer. It's a personal record."

John laughed harder, hiccupping breaths as Rodney continued.

"My personal favorite was Bernstein, who had the nerve to suggest that one of equations was wrong as I hadn't factored in gravity. Gravity! As if I'd forget a force so basic, so intrinsic to our understanding of the galaxy. Please. It was there, clear enough for anyone with half a brain, and he was using it as a petty, pathetic attempt to humiliate me in front of the scientific community."

Step, turn, forward, across, back: Rodney barely noticed the steps he was taking. It was partly because of the way that John had dropped his forehead to Rodney's shoulder, still sniggering, and partly due to the warmth of John's hand in his, the steady pressure of torso against torso, legs against legs. If he stopped and thought about it, he'd lose the rhythm and stutter to a halt, so he kept talking.

"My response was a thing of beauty, honestly. Not only did I point out his amazingly huge and unfounded assumptions but I also exposed him for the fool he was, proved that he really had no idea of the intrinsic complexities of the universe and that he had no business criticizing what was obviously beyond his capabilities. You need to picture this middle-aged man, graying hair, flannel shirt, full of pompous self-importance reduced to tears while dozens of his academic betters looked on. I heard he had a mental breakdown after that and ended up teaching in some high-school in the Midwest."

"There is nothing I can say to that." John stepped back, and Rodney belated realized the music had stopped and something new was starting.

"I think you could say thank you. I'm protecting the world from incredible stupidity. I deserve awe and admiration."

"Yeah, you're a real hero," John said, patting Rodney on the back and walking them towards the drinks table. "There should be bronze statues of you at every university."

"I wouldn't say every university. There are some schools I wouldn't want my name associated with."

There weren't a lot of choices when it came to drinks. It came down to soda, cheap beer, an ambiguous fruit punch or white wine mixed with orange juice. Two of those were deadly, one was just terrible, and Rodney settled on a coke. John copied him, and Rodney was distracted thinking how well that boded in general -- and specifically for kissing that night -- when a blonde sidled over.

She was exactly Rodney's type, meaning she had cleavage you could drown in. The way she smiled at John put Rodney's teeth on edge.

"John." She drawled the word, dragging it between her teeth like a terrier with a rat. "Long time, no see."

She turned out to be the first of many but she set the pattern pretty well: attractive -- definite head-turner -- flirtatious and amazingly pleased to see John. The conversations all started with them saying his name, like they had some special claim to it, followed by a moment of small talk and then asking John to dance.

To John's credit, each time he smiled as if he was genuinely flattered -- instead of Stalker Monthly's latest target -- and said that he was with someone tonight. After the third girl looked around the room, obviously hunting for that mysterious someone, Rodney burst out with, "Me, you simpering idiot!"

It wasn't his finest moment.

But when the fourth girl came, John's hand settled on his shoulder and he pre-empted her offer to dance with, "And this is Rodney. He's a... friend." He said 'friend' like he was talking dirty, like something intimate and detailed and X-rated. Rodney could feel his ears burn.

The girl disappeared at record-speed.

As he watched her go, Rodney asked, "How soon can you leave?"

A slow blink, and John's easy smile paused. "Do you want to go? They'll play another few waltzes soon."

"I want to go," Rodney said, hoping John would get the hint, "back to your place. Now."

John's smile was a happy, inverted caret. "We can do that."

John quickly bade goodbye to the redhead and the brunette (Trisha and Buffy, names better suited to cheerleaders than dance instructors) and then they left. There was a brief discussion about the mode of transport -- "You rode a motorcycle? To a function where you'd be drinking alcohol? In a suit that would tear like tissue paper the second it hit asphalt? Amoebas have stronger life preservation instincts than you." -- before they hailed a cab.

Rodney found himself tensing, sitting bolt upright in the backseat and thinking about kissing John, slobbering all over him like a teenagers trying to get past second base. The trip passed in a silence that was not entirely comfortable.

John Sheppard turned out to be a man of contradictions: his entire life seemed to revolve around getting off the ground but he lived in a basement apartment. There were a few windows set close to the ceiling, showing darkness and the occasional pair of ankles walking past.

"Either this place has really cheap rent or you have very bad taste," Rodney said, looking at the off-white walls, plaster cracking in the corners. They were bare, apart from a large monochrome poster of Johnny Cash walking forward. It loomed over the black futon couch and the simple coffee table. Rodney noted that John had a stereo but no TV. The kitchen made one corner of the room: a fridge, a sink, a grey bench top with a kettle and a camping hotplate. "And when I say cheap, I mean the month's rent should still be in double digits."

"Rodney?" John leaned one hip against the back of the couch, deft fingers pulling his tie loose. "I've seen your place."

"Yes, you have. It has windows and natural light, and enough space to swing a cat. Not that I've ever tried to do that, and I'm certainly not suggesting that you try, because you should be warned that Angstrom has sharp claws and an innate skill at targeting major arteries."

"Anyone who decorates with piles of notes and discarded t-shirts," John said, pulling the tie free and tugging open the top button of his shirt, "loses the right to criticize my place."

Rodney didn't know where to look. Staring at John's neck, at the exposed golden skin framed by black cotton, seem sordid, desperate. But lowering his gaze left him staring at the curve of John's hip, the long line of his thighs. Which was worse. Rodney swallowed and turned to Johnny Cash for reassurance.

John's place was a dive -- cheap, dingy, and the only thing that stopped it from being cluttered was that John barely had any furniture in the room -- but it was clean and neat. No magazines were spread across the table, no empty mugs had gathered around the couch. It was smooth and minimalist, as far as you could get from Rodney's messy, cluttered -- and, okay, somewhat grubby -- apartment.

He was standing in the middle of John's carefully tidied living room, wearing a pinstriped suit and an ugly tie, as alien as a humanities major in the physics lab. Rodney hadn't felt this out of place since he'd let his then-girlfriend talk him into going to the Alpha Kappa Whatever party. Using empirical evidence -- sweating palms, general anxiety, the tight band around his ribs -- Rodney had to conclude that one John Sheppard was far more intimidating than an entire crowd of frat jocks and their life-sized Barbies.

"So. Um." Rodney wiped his hands on his pants and stared at the poster, willing inspiration to strike. Mr Cash wasn't very helpful. "You like country music, huh?"

"You want to talk about my musical tastes?"

"No." Rodney kept watching the cuff of Cash's shirt. He though he heard John moving closer, but he might have been wrong. He didn't look.

"So what do you want to do?"

John sounded closer, but Rodney figured that as long as he kept staring at the poster, he could ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach and the jittery urge to run and hide.

"I was planning on, well, not that I had a plan as such. It was more of a vague idea. A direction. The direction of your bed and being naked. I hadn't thought much past that. Bed. Nakedness. Those two things together. Seemed like a good idea."

"Cool," was John's monosyllabic reply. While it was certainly a positive response, it lacked the important details, like what John wanted and what John had expected and if John even owned a bed where the aforementioned nudity could occur.

Rodney didn't like being uncertain. He didn't mind waiting -- waiting for simulations, waiting for data, waiting for reviews -- as long as he knew what was happening, what role he was supposed to play. He didn't know if he should look at John or not, didn't know if he was supposed to stay quiet or, if not, what he was supposed to say. More than that, he didn't want to say the wrong thing.

So far, John appeared entertained by Rodney's outbursts and idiosyncrasies -- which in and of itself was highly unusual -- but surely there must be a limit. Somewhere there had to a line. There had to be a division between entertaining and annoying, between interesting and not worth the effort.

His palms were moist and he felt slightly nauseous, and Rodney was too afraid of getting it wrong to even try. It was cowardly and moronic: two words Rodney had never applied to his own behaviour. He told himself to say something, say anything -- to talk before John concluded he was an absolute idiot -- but it didn't help.

Then John stepped up behind him, chest solid against Rodney's back, breath searing the side of his neck as arms wrapped around Rodney's waist. The roiling tension inside Rodney eased as if John was absorbing it, dispersing it, with every slow breath.

"Is this okay?" John asked carefully.

"It's not your bed and it's not naked, but it's a start."

John chuckled. "Come on then," he said and led Rodney to the bedroom, one hand cinched around Rodney's wrist.

Rodney had a fleeting realization that John's bed was wide and suitable -- and far more supporting that he would have guessed -- as John pressed him down and started kissing him.

John's kisses were slow and light, all lips and barely any tongue. It felt like that first time, soft and warm and dreamlike. Rodney couldn't understand why that made him edgy. Made him pull John down, drag him closer and push a leg between John's thighs.

The bed moved as John rocked against him, making small choked groans that Rodney was sure he'd be able to taste if he could get deep enough inside John's mouth.

He ran a hand down John's back, tugging at John's shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He yanked it up and off, leaving John to curse and fumble with the cuff buttons as Rodney ran fingers and nails across the damp skin of John's back.

He was mesmerized by the changing terrain under his fingertips, by the muscles shifting and moving with every erratic thrust of John's hips. It was even better when Rodney slid his hands lower, under the tight waistband of John's pants, creeping under the cotton of briefs and digging into the firm curves of John's ass. John stuttered his name like he was dying, like he was being reborn, and god, it was good.

There was a blur of pulling off clothes, his and John's, of kicking shoes across the room and pushing down trousers, but Rodney was far too busy skimming greedy hands across John's skin to pay much attention.

Afterwards, he remembered only a few sharp details. John's briefs were black -- the man color coordinated all the way to his underwear -- and the bones of John's hips dug into his palms as he pushed the briefs down. He remembered the coarse feel of pubic hair, the taste and weight of John on his tongue, the sight of John stretched out on his back, hands twisting in the pale sheet.

He gagged when John thrust up, choked and had to stop and breathe. As he blinked rapidly, John gasped apologies and pulled him up, kissed him open-mouthed and sloppy. John was desperate and hard, sweat-slicked hair sticking to his forehead. It was so easy to reach for him, to get him off with a few sharp, firm strokes.

When John came, he was clutching Rodney's shoulders, and when Rodney rolled off, John followed, curling onto his side. He hooked one hairy thigh over Rodney's, and Rodney waited for his breathing to even out before speaking.

"You have a dictionary around here, right?"

John puffed against his neck, warm and sly. "Somewhere. Why?"

"In case I need to explain the meaning of reciprocity." It came out a little sharper than intended.

"Give me a moment," John muttered, still a dead weight against Rodney's side, "and I'll reciprocate until you can't see straight."

"That's an unfortunate rhyme, there."

"Would you have preferred it in haiku?"

"You could do that?"

John raised himself up on an elbow. "No."

"Oh. Well. That would have been really impressive." Then John's hand moved under the sheet and curled around Rodney's thigh. John's thumb rested in the crease between leg and groin, and Rodney almost gasped when it brushed higher. "But that's good. That's impressive too."

It turned out that John's hand on his cock was even better -- slow, sure pulls, twisting his palm over the head -- but that was nothing compared to John's mouth. The sight of John's lips stretched around him, the way John hummed until Rodney could feel the vibrations in his bones, the sensation of John swallowing around him, the muscles of John's throat working around the head of his cock...

It left Rodney speechless and empty, hollowed out by John's tongue and hands. For once, the constant background noise in his brain paused, and he fell asleep to silence.

When he woke up, it was dark. He was in an unfamiliar bed and someone was snoring loudly beside him. His first thought was that he'd had some guy's dick in his mouth. His second was that he'd come in that same guy's mouth. His third was that he had to get out there now.

Rodney would have liked to believe that he was more mature than that, more open-minded. If he was, he wouldn't have woken up and panicked, wouldn't have sneaked out bed, grabbed his clothes and left. He wouldn't have taken a cab home and unplugged his phone, but that was what he did.

He sat on his couch and let Angstrom curl up on his lap, and spent a few hours trying to think about anything other than John Sheppard. He mulled over Peter's numbers, tried to think about the curves of parabolas and black holes, not the arch of John's back and the curl of his smile.

He was being ridiculous, he knew it. So he plugged his phone back in, took a long, long shower, and then headed over to the campus. There, he could bury himself in research and theories; he could focus this annoyance, this simmering unease, into something productive. It was much better than sitting there and hearing John talk into his machine, saying, "Hey, I just wanted to check that you made it home safely," and "You know my number, give me a call."

And if he wanted to spend the night camped out on the physics departments overstuffed, uncomfortable couch, he could.

Monday passed slowly. He felt gritty and tired, like he was still a student working on his doctorate, one of the unwashed intellectuals that haunted the computer labs. The minutes ground by, but he forced himself to work on overdue papers and half-finished theories, doing simulations and calculations in the insulated safety of his office.

He drove home after midnight, and found another three messages waiting for him. The first was John, calling to make sure he actually had John's number. The second and the third he deleted as soon as he heard John's voice.

He took particular pains not to grumble through his grad student appointments on Tuesday, but all that achieved was Christine knocking on his door that afternoon.

Her hair was still red, still short, but she didn't look angry any more. "You are okay, right?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I overheard a few students complain. Apparently, you've been enthusiastic and encouraging all day. You're scaring them." She raised her brows for a moment, and the gesture was so familiar Rodney smiled. "Also, I wanted an excuse to talk to you."

"I'm fine," Rodney said, because he was. Sort of. If you didn't count the way he kept dialing John's number and stopping before the last digit. If you ignored the way he kept questioning his own actions, the way everything felt wrong, and off. "What did you want to talk about?"

"You left some stuff at my place. A couple books, a video. A backpack. I want you to come get it."

That was how he ended up at Christine's apartment at eight that night. She said, "Come in," and "Have a drink," so he did. Following logic that only applies to interpersonal relationships and quantum probability, that led to her kissing him on the cheek, which led to him kissing her back -- mouth against mouth -- and sex was somehow inevitable.

It wasn't bad sex.

It was comfortable. And familiar. And lots of other reassuring words that made Rodney think of patterns and standard deviations, and expected data as he slid inside her, as he cupped the softness of breasts and thighs and cellulite, kissed lipstick-smeared lips and tasted the alcoholic sting of perfume on her neck.

It wasn't frightening. It didn't force him to think about who he was, to think about what he wanted. It didn't make him feel inexperienced and uncertain, and excited as if he was spinning out of control. It was safe. It was expected. It was easy.

That realization was enough to make him regret it. To make him rethink the entire situation as he lay on his back, staring up at her ceiling.

"I think this was a bad idea," he said slowly and was relieved when Christine didn't argue, didn't profess her undying love, didn't try to convince him otherwise.

She just nodded and said, "I should have paid for a courier for your stuff."

Rodney laughed. He couldn't help it.

Christine's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going to have a shower. Let yourself out."

When he got home, he stacked his reclaimed stuff on the couch and headed straight for the machine. There was one slow blink of light, one message from John. It started with a sigh, and Rodney knew that had to be bad.

"Hey, it's me. I just... thought I might catch you. Don't worry about calling me back."

That was the moment Rodney knew he'd screwed up big-time.

John didn't sound hopeful. He didn't anxious. He sounded, well, annoyed. Like he'd just figured out that Rodney McKay wouldn't know tact and consideration if it came up and kicked him. He'd been expecting the other shoe to drop, he'd been expecting John to turn around and realize that he could do a hell of a lot better, and now that it had happened, all he could think about was all the things he could have done to forestall this moment.

At the top of that list -- above sleeping with his ex, above freaking out -- was not talking to John. He could have explained and babbled and begged for forgiveness. He could have pointed out that beneath the ego, beneath the staggering intelligence, beneath the neurotic ability to see all the probable ways things were going to fall apart, there was a relatively sane, decent, reasonably attractive guy who'd really like to have sex with John again.

He needed to explain that to John.

But dialing that last digit of John's number remained terrifying. What if he didn't pick up? What if he did? What if he never wanted to speak to Rodney again or hung up, or said it was no big deal, that he hadn't been that interested in the first place?

That was why Rodney decided that the only way to fix this was in person. People who had no trouble being rude over the phone (or behind his back) tended to back down when personally confronted. Also, it meant that John couldn't hang up on him. If worse came to worse, he could shout through a closed door.

He hadn't paid close attention to John's address when he left -- he'd been focusing more on putting his shirt on the right way round and finding his socks. Also, John's decidedly odd working arrangements meant that even if Rodney did track down his address (which he could probably with a little effort), if was most likely that John would either be sleeping or not at home.

It occurred to Rodney the next morning -- Wednesday morning -- that for one hour that night he knew exactly where John would be: teaching the beginner's dancing lessons.

He changed shirts three times before he left his apartment that morning.

Driving from Berkeley that evening, he ran two red lights and went the wrong way up a one-way street. But he got to the dancing studio at half past seven, which allowed him five minutes to panic -- hyperventilating into a paper bag that smelled of ham and mayo sandwiches -- and another five minutes to climb the stairs and linger in the doorway, wondering if he should do this.

John was doing whatever he did to prepare for lessons: pulling things out of his backpack, walking back and forth, turning the stereo on. For once, he wasn't wearing one of those ever-present black t-shirts, instead, it was a dark olive green, almost inky against the tanned skin of his biceps. Rodney found himself staring, and he was still staring when John turned around and saw him.

"Oh, I, um..." Swallowing, Rodney pulled his gaze away from John's torso and forced himself to meet John's eyes, forced himself to talk as John walked over. "I went to the effort of driving here so I at least deserve a chance to go first and explain. Or not so much explain as acknowledge that I've spent the last few days acting like the biggest idiot in the world. And that I want to apologize and I know that you have no obligation to forgive me, but I really think you should. I behaved badly, yes, but everybody makes mistakes occasionally. Even Einstein made mistakes. The introduction of the cosmological constant was bad science, needlessly cluttering up his theory of general relativity. He should have followed his instincts, instead he doubted himself and tried to fix it, and made a mess of the things he'd done well. This is the same thing. Not that sleeping with you explains the universe--"

"Rodney?"

"-- but it's the same thing, two really smart guys screwing up what they know should work because they're having trouble understanding the rest of the universe," Rodney finished in a rush. When he'd prepared that speech, reciting it inside his head, it sounded a lot more convincing. Inside his head, this was the moment where John started kissing him; in actuality, John gave him an odd half-smile and dropped his eyes to Rodney's shoulder.

Then he frowned, a change as sharp as a lightning strike, and switched from placated and guardedly encouraging to cold and dismissive. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean you don't think so? I came all the way out here, I fought through rush-hour traffic to apologize right, and you're vetoing this as if you've changed your mind on what you want to order for lunch. I don't accept that."

"You don't get a choice. Apologizing doesn't mean you're automatically forgiven," John said, his voice as harsh as his expression. "I don't want your apologies and I don't want you."

There was a long moment of silence. Rodney thought about leaving, about giving up, but scowling and determination and sheer pigheadedness had gotten him pretty far in life. "I screwed up, I get that. Big, big screw up. Huge. But I know that, so I'm here apologizing and you're being an idiot."

John's jaw clenched and unclenched, and there was a flicker of something else, something softer, before John huffed. "No, I've been an idiot. I've done this before and like hell I'm doing it again."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm not playing tour guide for the "questioning" straight guy."

"That's unfair." He could hear himself whining. Rodney hated it when he whined. "It's not like I was waving a rainbow flag the first time you kissed me, and you kissed me, not the other way around."

"You'd think I'd know better, wouldn't you?" John asked with a rueful nod. "But instead, I fall for the cute, straight guy. The one who isn't sure about his sexuality, who won't be comfortable being obvious in public. The one who'll turn around in six months time and be self-righteous and condescending as he tells me he's getting engaged and has to stop playing around now."

"That's completely unfair. And ungrounded." Which wasn't technically true, but John didn't know -- couldn't have known -- about him sleeping with Christine, so it was true enough. "Just because there are a lot of jerks in the world doesn't make me one."

"It doesn't. Getting your machine five times in a row does. Being completely ignored by you for days? Does as well."

"You don't understand--"

"You'd be surprised how much I understand, McKay." John stepped back, like a door slamming in his face, and Rodney hated the smirk on his face. "I'd appreciate it if you leave. I have a lesson to teach."

Rodney wasn't sure what the past tense of slinking was -- slunk? slinked? -- but he did it going down the stairs, staring at the carpet, trying to ignore the students coming up. He still noticed the way a couple of the younger girls smiled at him, the odd quizzical look. He wondered how many of them had been at the dance on Friday.

He got back to his car, scrunched up the smelly paper bag, and spent some time looking at his own reflection. He didn't have rings under his eyes, didn't look tired and despairing: he wasn't the picture of yearning, longing lover.

He just looked like him. Blue eyes, wide forehead, straight nose. Almost-straight mouth and soft chin. Nothing was different, nothing stood out.

Other than the hickey on his neck, he thought as he fingered the reddened mark. Then he remembered seeing it in the mirror this morning, wondered if he should wear a collar high enough to cover it or display it easily with a t-shirt, forcebly remind John of what had happened. (Not that he thought John would forget, but... He had. He couldn't remember John biting hard enough to bruise. Not like Christine always did.)

Not like...

He was concussed. He had to be. He must have hit his head so hard he couldn't even remember, because there was no other explaination for suddenly becoming a complete moron.

He hadn't seen it Monday morning. He'd looked in the mirror, searched for the evidence, tried to wash it all away. He hadn't seen the hickey.

Hence, he hadn't had it at that stage. Hence, it must have been Christine.

Crap.

No wonder John had thought...

He had to fix this. Somehow.

Across from him, the second-floor window had "DANOING LESSONS" misspelled in thick red letters. The studio inside looked bright and lively with couples moving round the floor. Rodney stared at them and wondered if the lessons were any different, if John seemed less friendly, less carefree than he had a week ago. If John had wanted to call up sick and beg someone to replace him tonight.

The dancers looked the same. The couple closest to the window were in their late forties. The man was graying and half-bald, stepping stiffly in a dark business suit. The woman was blonde with loosely set curls and a flared lemon skirt. Then John walked over to them -- dark hair, dark t-shirt; Rodney couldn't see if he was smiling -- and Rodney found himself reaching for the paper bag again.

He realized he couldn't do this. He couldn't front up there and interrupt John's class, couldn't stand in front of strangers and beg for forgiveness. So he waited. He waited for the hour to pass and spent his time staring up at the window. When that got too bright, he stared at the clock in his car. He waited until the couples stopped moving, until the small crowd of people walked outside.

He waited until the window went dark. Then he grasped the door-handle, told himself if he didn't go now he'd never get a chance to fix this -- and more importantly, never get a chance to sleep with John again -- and forced his way up the stairs.

The door to the studio was open, as were the thin, gauzy curtains on the windows. Orange streetlight fell on the empty stretch of wooden floor, making the room look much larger than it actually was. John was at the far side of the room, fussing with his backpack. That corner of the room was darker, shadowed, but it didn't hide the fall in John's expression when he turned around and saw Rodney.

John's shoulders were squared and he had one hand on his hip. Rodney desperately wanted those almost-dimples to appear, but John's expression was hard and cold. "Was there something you wanted?"

"I came to talk to you. I came to apologize, which I'm not good at. It's not something I do often but I may need to -- I mean I think I do -- with this, because clearly I was--"

"I meant," John said sharply, "did you want something dance-related? If not, feel free to leave."

"I wanted--"

"Is it dance-related?" John's smile was tight.

"Well, no, but--"

"Then leave."

John turned his back to Rodney, and Rodney realized his mouth was hanging open. He'd expected this to be humiliating but he'd expected to have a chance. "John, please."

John didn't even turn around.

"I'm not seeing Christine. We really did break-up." It sounded like a pathetic excuse but it was true. "I'm not sure how we ended up sleeping together -- I was just getting my stuff -- but it's not like I lied to you. Well, not about that."

John hoisted his backpack over one shoulder and started walking towards the door. Rodney waited for him to walk out, but a step away from Rodney, John stopped.

John didn't look at him -- stared at the ratty strap of his bag instead -- but Rodney had to try. "Look, I--"

"Don't." John didn't meet his eyes. Even when Rodney lifted a hand to cover the incriminating mark, John didn't look up. "I don't need to know the details. Let's put it down to a mistaken one night stand between us. This obviously wasn't... wasn't what I thought it was."

Rodney let his head drop. When he glanced up, John was staring at the floor, looking angry and sad and hurt. Mostly hurt. For some reason, Rodney hadn't even considered that. Hadn't ever thought he had the power to hurt John. He'd seen John's confident smiles and easy grace, and he'd lusted, sure, but he hadn't really thought...

"I'm sorry." The words were too small, too common. They couldn't fix something like this.

John shrugged. "It was one night. No harm done." The lie was glaringly obvious; it made Rodney feel worse.

"Dance with me."

John snorted and shook his head.

"Dance with me," Rodney repeated, stepping closer, not sure if he was allowed to reach out and touch. "Please."

"You don't have light, Rodney, let alone music."

Rodney almost smiled at John's words. It wasn't a no. "There's enough light to see by," he said, waving a hand at the street-light streaked floor, the hazy orange dusk of the room. "Dance with me."

John let his bag drop to the floor. It wasn't exactly a yes, but when Rodney reached for his hand, John didn't pull away. When Rodney put his hand on John's back, John's palm landed lightly on his shoulder.

And when he moved, John moved with him.

John settled close to him, neck held up straight, head hovering over Rodney's shoulder. Rodney had a sneaking suspicion it was so John wouldn't have to look at him.

"I'm sorry. I woke up and I panicked, and I acted really badly. It was stupid and ridiculous, and I can't justify it. I didn't do it-- It wasn't... It wasn't planned and it wasn't because I don't like you, because I do." Rodney swallowed. "To an extent that frightens the hell out of me. I really like you, and I never, I never imagined being with someone like you. It was never part of my plan for the future. And suddenly I-- Am I making any sense?"

John nodded, his chin pressing against Rodney's shoulder.

"I like you. And I like this. It scares the hell out of me but," Rodney took a quick breath, "I want this. I didn't mean to screw it up."

"And Christine?" John asked softly, barely more than a whisper.

"We weren't getting back together, I wouldn't have, but it took me a while to understand that. It was…" Rodney took a deep breath as they turned, and fought the urge to dig his fingers into John and never let him go. "It was easy. It was so easy to do."

"That's not filling me with confidence," John said, and again, it wasn't a definite, it wasn't an invitation, but it gave Rodney hope.

"Not the cheating on you, the actual sex thing. The knowing what goes where and who does what. Knowing which events I can take her to and how far I can push, and what happens next. The general plan for my future was to have a brilliant academic career, to marry someone relatively intelligent and produce intelligent-to-brilliant offspring to save the next generation of idiots. It's a lot easier to fit Christine into that scenario than you."

John h'mmed under his breath, and Rodney figured the smart thing to do would be being quiet and hoping John would get it, would get how important this was to him, how much he wanted this. Apparently, his mouth didn't agree because he just couldn't stop the words coming out.

"I'm not absolutely married to the idea of being married, but we're talking about a lifelong assumption here. I always assumed that was how my life would go, that I'd meet someone after I had a couple degrees, get married, keep studying and start publishing. I didn't worry about dating in high school and college, because it didn't work in with my overall plans, but now I'm thinking there's possibly another reason I wasn't too worried about girls. Mind you, it's not like I've ever met you before -- obviously, but I mean, anyone like you -- so I hadn't had the comparison between frightening, scary, incredible attraction and safe, planned, easy sex."

John pulled back, enough to look Rodney in the eye and say seriously, "Screw it up again, and you don't get a second chance."

"Understood." John's neck was stretched slightly to the side, in the perfect place for Rodney to duck down and press a kiss against the angle of John's jaw. "No more stupid mistakes. Well, not like this. In my defense, you're kind of overwhelming. In the good way."

"And you're more than a little insane," John said, letting his head dip and then resting his cheek against Rodney's shoulder.

"I've heard the correct phrase is charmingly eccentric."

Comments

[etben.livejournal.com]

Awwww! *snuggles them both* This is adorkable, emphasis on the 'dork'. They're such lunatics, but I love them dearly. Your Rodney is hysterical—you've really got him down, the way he says things that really aren't meant to be insulting, but that just wind up coming out that way, because of the way his brain works.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I love the pair of them so much when they're being big dorks. I guess that shows. *g*

the way he says things that really aren't meant to be insulting, but that just wind up coming out that way, because of the way his brain works.

I think that's the crux of Rodney. He means to be sarcastic -- it's his sense of humour -- but most of his dialogue is hyperbole and ranting for the sake of it. It's not... well, it's not directly *meant* to be insulting. He realises afterwards -- okay, sometimes he realises afterwards -- but it takes a fairly special person (like John) to see past that and get that underneath that, he's a decent guy.

[anna_luna]

You finished it! And it's every bit as wonderful as I expected it to be!

You found the perfect way to make John forgive Rodney(the insensitive yet endearing jerk) and Rodney volunteering to dance...

The cover is beautiful! Captures the intimacy of the dancing perfectly.

Also I find that "Dance with me" is the best way to say "I love you" ever.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

You finished it! And it's every bit as wonderful as I expected it to be!

*beams* Thank you.

The cover is beautiful! Captures the intimacy of the dancing perfectly.

I know! tardis80 made it, which was what forced me to finish writing it -- so I could post and share the beautiful image.

Also I find that "Dance with me" is the best way to say "I love you" ever.

It really is. *beams*

[alie]

God, I want more than this. Sequels, pleeeeeease.

Fuck. This was awesome. I loved it.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

God, I want more than this. Sequels, pleeeeeease.

Not a chance. This isn't the type of story that just flowed on to the page: it's the type that needed many, many people bugging, prodding and poking me while saying it wasn't finished. As much as I love the idea of this Rodney and John, I really don't have anywhere else to take them.

Having said that, I have to admit that I'm a little curious. Did you ask for a sequel because you enjoyed it and just generally wanted more, or because it felt unfinished to you? *wonders*

This was awesome.

Thank you!

[perian.livejournal.com]

Yay! I'm so glad you finished this. I loved it so much!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*beams* Thank you!

[justabi.livejournal.com]

I love so much that Rodney freaked out so much that he scared his students being *pleasent*. I just hurt for John, falling for straights is never a good idea and he knows it but he wants Rodney anyway and he *knows* what is going on and ouch, so I really don't blame him for not wanting Rodney back. But they got together anyway, so YAY!!!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*stares at your icon*
*sighs happily*

I love so much that Rodney freaked out so much that he scared his students being *pleasent*.

I think the group of post-grad students that study under him would have to have thick skins and be used to McKay's harsh ways. Having him suddenly be nice, attention and encouraging? You'd have to be worried.

I just hurt for John, falling for straights is never a good idea and he knows it but he wants Rodney anyway and he *knows* what is going on and ouch, so I really don't blame him for not wanting Rodney back.

Yeah, I could just imagine John as being... almost self-destructive in his bad romantic choices: falling for the straight guy even though he knows he'll end up hurt, even though he's done it before and been shattered. Doing it again for the thrill, for the excitment, for the chance that this time it'll work (flying high and fast, and trying so hard not to plummet to the ground).

But they got together anyway, so YAY!!!

*throws streamers for them*

[anitac588.livejournal.com]

This was so good, so very, very goood -- Rodney freaking out, going to Christine again, John's hurt, him knowing what's going on (I actually winced when I read about Rodney having a hickey). Really good, loved it.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*beams* Thank you.

[20thcenturyvole.livejournal.com]

Holy crap, I love this in big and scary ways. Dancing! Rodney! Dancing! And lovely insecure John. Mmmm.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Holy crap, I love this in big and scary ways.

And oddly enough, I'm not scared at all. *sniggers*

[luthienlupin.livejournal.com]

Wow. I've fallen in love with this. With the dancing and the lovely seduction, and with John who falls for the smart guys and has been hurt, and Rodney who's so perfectly Rodney.

So… I've just reached the part of this conversation where I don't know what I'm saying.
Oh, Rodney. And really? It's scary how many of my conversations - just this week alone - have trailed off pretty much exactly like that.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

With the dancing and the lovely seduction, and with John who falls for the smart guys and has been hurt, and Rodney who's so perfectly Rodney.

*beams* I love it when people point out the things they like, and all I can do is mutter to myself, "Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what this was about."

Oh, Rodney. And really? It's scary how many of my conversations - just this week alone - have trailed off pretty much exactly like that.

*sniggers* Don't tell anyone, but mine do too. I'm sure I had a point when I started, but by the time I get to the end, I have no clue what it was.

[like-the-drink.livejournal.com]

Oh Annie! This was so great. I made myself wait until it was done before reading it, and it was so worth the wait.

Great job!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*beams* Thank you! (And I know it was a long wait, but I'm glad it was worth it.)

[aurora]

Yay, you finished it!

The final part was great. A rambling Rodney is one of my favourite things ever (when done right) and that last scene was fantastic. And sweet. I really adore that story.

Oh, also, these are still my favourite lines:
After the third girl looked around the room, obviously hunting for that mysterious someone, Rodney burst out with, "Me, you simpering idiot!"
It wasn't his finest moment.

"And in this plan I'm naked?" Rodney said, and then wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

Hilarious. Oh, Rodney. :X:X

[out-there.livejournal.com]

A rambling Rodney is one of my favourite things ever (when done right) and that last scene was fantastic.

*twirls* Part of the credit should go to mecurtin who was the one to point out, "Honey, that last scene? Doesn't work." and made me go back and fix it (despite my whining).

And "And in this plan I'm naked?" is possibly the my favourite bit of dialogue that I've ever written. It totally cracks me up.

[murklins.livejournal.com]

Mmm, I love Rodney's massive outpouring of babble, anmd the way John just shuts down. Really enjoyed this one. :)

[out-there.livejournal.com]

I do love Rodney babbling. If it was an Olypic sport, he'd totally have a gold medal. And I think John would shut down, would pull back and be untouchable, would immediately distance himself once he decided Rodney wasn't worth the effort (even though, deep down, he *wanted* Rodney to be worth the effort, he wanted Rodney to prove him wrong, to give him an excuse to trust him again).

And this is a long-winded way of saying thank you.

[porntestpilot.livejournal.com]

This made me fall in love with Rodney all over again. Thank you.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*beams so much* That comment made my day.

[diluvian.livejournal.com]

::loves::

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thanks!

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Oh, God. There's no way I can possible express my unholy love for this story, especially not when it's nearing one o'clock in the morning. But I love it SO MUCH. I love your characterizations, which are amazingly true for an AU (and I say this as an utter AU-whore); and I love your dialogue, which is consistently refreshing and funny and real. And I love, love, love the fact that you never, not once, take the easy way out. Everything is earned.

Which doesn't even take into account how hot parts of this are (the scene when John comes to Rodney's apartment after he's broken up with Christine--God!), and that it made me feel shaky and undone in the best kind of way. Or that tardis80's cover art is beautiful.

Thank you so much for this. Really. Thank you.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

And I love, love, love the fact that you never, not once, take the easy way out. Everything is earned.

*beams* That is an incredibly huge compliment. It's lovely to hear that it works -- that all the things that made writing this difficult and time-consuming came together for a reader. Thank you.

waltz tango foxtrot

[laceymcbain.livejournal.com]

I adore this. This hits so many things for me including an unnatural love of ballroom dancing movies. One thing I've noticed about John and Rodney is how well they migrate into AUs - they have such personalities that even removed from their regular settings, they're completely identifiable. Rodney's ability to always say the wrong thing and somehow do the right thing, and John's casual distance from everyone, his willingness to take risks but only so far. I can totally believe that this is them, and there are a number of places I laughed out loud, smiled ridiculously, and generally decided this was one of the best things ever. Love, love, love.

Dance with me?

Re: waltz tango foxtrot

[out-there.livejournal.com]

One thing I've noticed about John and Rodney is how well they migrate into AUs - they have such personalities that even removed from their regular settings, they're completely identifiable. Rodney's ability to always say the wrong thing and somehow do the right thing, and John's casual distance from everyone, his willingness to take risks but only so far.

That is-- Yes, I mean-- *Yes*, exactly it. Exactly how I see the characters, and how I'm thrilled that you saw that in this story, because it's certainly not something I could have explained/described/worked into the story in any clear, concise way. So, yeah.

I'm stuck sitting here and mumbling, "Yes," over and over, so take it as a good sign.

Dance with me?

Certainly!

*joyfully twirls you around the room*

[bibliokat.livejournal.com]

This is awesome. Really *really* awesome!

Your Rodney is absolutely fantastic. I particularly like his realism toward his ability to dance, his stories about saving the world from stupid people, and the "me, you simpering idiot!" John is sweetly adorable and I love his determination to become a pilot without going military. And Christine's hair was great;)

Thank you for the wonderfulness!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you! And you get extra points for mentioning Christine's hair, which appeals to me for no real reason. It's just... one of those things that can be annoying or adorable depending on how you feel about the person, one of those little signs that Rodney -- regardless of how much time he does or doesn't spend around her -- doesn't actually *get* that it's a plea for attention, doesn't actually get or appreciate her.

Certainly not in the way he gets John.

[sylvertongue.livejournal.com]

Oh, wow. I wasn't expecting to be incoherent with adoration for a dancing AU, of all things, but - man, this is a thing of beauty. Characterisation is dead-on. I mean, I really, really cared about them getting together.

I loved the coffee house scene, with Rodney cluelessly falling in love, and noticing all the ways he wants to show off for John and not really knowing why. Also: bike. I will do a lot for a bike-riding John.

Thank you for sharing!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

I mean, I really, really cared about them getting together.

*beams* Thank you. Regardless of the fact that we'll know they'll end up together (nine times out of ten, they do), the sign of a good romance, whether it's slash or a Hollywood film, is if you care about them getting together. So I'm thrilled at that.

Also: bike. I will do a lot for a bike-riding John.

There is something about the image of John on a motorbike that is too hot for words. I really... mmmmm. Yeah, I can't explain it, but my mind turns to mush when I picture it.

[chaps1870.livejournal.com]

That was just an outstanding story. The humor and fuzziness had me laughing out loud and sighing contently. Very nice.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[silk-knickers.livejournal.com]

This was funny and sweet and very entertaining. I know that you put a lot of time and effort into this, and it definitely shows... it's clever and original while staying very nicely in character. Great job!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Hee! Your Shiny!Glory icon made me giggle.

I know that you put a lot of time and effort into this, and it definitely shows... it's clever and original while staying very nicely in character.

I swear, there were so many times when I was convinced I was in over my head, that I couldn't pull it off, that it was eternally and fatally flawed. It's wonderful to hear that the story works. *beams*

[adafrog.livejournal.com]

Loved it. And poor, easily hurt John. {{hugs him}} Glad they finally worked it all out. :D

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[misty4me.livejournal.com]

What fun, and I can just see John and Rodney in their suits, dancing and looking dashing.

I loved Rodney's working through the safe choice vs. the one he wants to make.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

I loved Rodney's working through the safe choice vs. the one he wants to make.

I like exploring the idea that the things that make you happiest, the things that give you a sense of achievement and pride, that fulfill you, are never the *easy* things. They take effort and time, and you have to risk that it won't work, that you'll fail horribly.

Or, um, maybe I'm just having issues with life at the moment. *laughs* But either way, I'm thrilled that it worked for you.

[fairestcat]

*loves madly*

This is fabulously hot and just so true to character, I love it. I love the dynamic between them and the way it's not easy. They both screw up and back out and have to work for it, which makes the ending all the sweeter.

[out-there.livejournal.com]

*beams* Thank you.

[starrylizard.livejournal.com]

Yay! Dirty Dancing is one of my all time favourite movies. I wore out the tape and have recently bought the DVD. *grins* I love the subtly of this lovely story and the sweetness of the romance. John and Rodney's voices are perfect and *sigh* actually I'm less than coherent right now, but I think I *love* you.

It's amusing to me that this came out on the same day or very close to my tiny Strictly ballroom hommage and the fun discussion that ensued. I'm so reccing this to my obviously dance-crazed flist. Thank you!

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Hee! Your icon? So appropriate.

And there's something so fascinating about Dirty Dancing. I mean, apart from the fact that Patrick Swayze seems to emotionally be a total woman (most of his lines/reactions? I'd expect to come from a romance novels' heroine), there is something that's really precious about it. Not just about the dancing, the sensuality, the intimacy, the thrill, but also the story of growing maturity, of challenging (and changing) your personal limitations, of becoming something more.

It was inspiring.

[enname.livejournal.com]

Oh wow.
Rodney is of course beyond all things beautiful in his bumbling, frenetic, genius way. However, your John here is gorgeous in the way he is intangible all the time, but still always there. Especially in the first part - he is just there all the time. He just shuts down and fades out so fast your head spins; mine as well as Rodney's.
The dialogue was a joy to behold (and laugh at: the 'me, you simpering idiot' just rules the world) and well, so were the descriptions. Every dance hall I have ever been in is like that.
Multa gracias..

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Rodney is of course beyond all things beautiful in his bumbling, frenetic, genius way.

He truly is. *happy sigh*

However, your John here is gorgeous in the way he is intangible all the time, but still always there. Especially in the first part - he is just there all the time.

Thank you. I love the way that John is so present, so close to Rodney's thoughts, and yet actually reveals very few details about himself. Part of Rodney's attraction is that he can't quite pigeonhole John into a specific type of person; John keeps surprising him.

Every dance hall I have ever been in is like that.

That is fantastic to hear. I've been to discos/clubs, but I've never done any ballroom dancing, so I had to take a guess and hope that the descriptions would come close enough. I'm thrilled they did.

I so love you

[krysalys.livejournal.com]

This was so painful, and sweet, and awkward, and... and...
Fucking adorkable.
Just like Rodney, and John.
*hugs you*
Absolutely perfect in all its flawed humanity.
----}-@

PS - And this? John looked blindsided, like Rodney had just confessed his carnal love for turkeys.
I almost fell off my chair laughing hysterically. You rule.

Re: I so love you

[out-there.livejournal.com]

John looked blindsided, like Rodney had just confessed his carnal love for turkeys.

I blame that line on seperis and mecurtin and everyone else who went on in detail about stuffing the turkey for Thanksgiving. There are some comparisons that sink into your head and stay there.

Absolutely perfect in all its flawed humanity.

Thank you! *hugs you back*