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SGA Fic: The Fruit That Tempts Us
Title: The Fruit That Tempts Us
Fandom: SGA
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: Because Rodney is -- above all else -- practical, he leaves and doesn't taunt himself with what he knows he can't have.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I make no money from them.
Notes: A short sequel to Back to the Old Ways, written at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aurora_84's request. Unbetaed so all mistakes are totally mine.
Elizabeth finally takes the metaphorical training wheels off their bikes and allows them to go to a populated planet. When they discussed it, John had described it as semi-urban, most of the population living in large towns or small cities. A civilized culture that wouldn't throw spears, that wouldn't lock them up for no good reason, that wouldn't torture them because their Moon God said so.
They weren't supposed to do those things, but they did.
It's not a group of nomadic traders or Amish-esque farmers; so the prison bars have an electric current and the bench has a small amount of padding. It's not a backwards, medically-challenged society; so instead of beating John for information, they inject a dark-blue liquid into his veins, something that makes him sway and slur, makes his pupils stretch wide and black.
John smiles -- loose and happy, the way John would look if he ever let himself relax and get drunk -- as Rodney checks his pulse, as Rodney counts the quick beat beneath John's skin. It's normal, or close enough to normal, that Rodney's more worried about the hands burrowing under his jacket than the threat of tachyarrhythmia.
"John," Rodney says, trying not to squirm as John's fingers brush over his ribs, light enough to tickle, "you should keep your hands to yourself."
"You're warm," John mumbles, shuffling closer on the bench, shoulder pressed against Rodney's, hands under Rodney's jacket and skating lower, tugging at the edge of Rodney's shirt.
"If you're so interested in my jacket, you can have it. Really. I don't feel cold at all."
John's hands pause for a second, and Rodney's both relieved and disappointed. Until John moves closer, swinging one leg over Rodney's lap and settling his weight -- surprisingly heavy, certainly heavier than he looks -- on Rodney's thighs. "Don't want the jacket."
John leans down, and -- oh, good Lord -- starts licking at Rodney's throat, hands warm and sure on Rodney's chest. His mouth moves up, along the edge of Rodney's jaw. Then there's an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Rodney's lips that makes Rodney think of over-ripe peaches and long, hot summers -- sweet and sticky, juice running down his chin at the first bite, shirt plastered to his sweaty back and hot breeze against his face.
"This isn't a good idea," Rodney says, keeping his eyes closed. Not because he doesn't want to look at John -- he does, he desperately wants to see the longing, the needy desire, in John's eyes, wants to memorize every curve of John's face, to remember that expression for future fantasies -- but he doesn't trust himself to do so. Doesn't trust himself to watch John offering him his darkest desires and still be able to say no.
So he keeps his eyes closed, focuses on John's breath sweeping over his mouth, moist and warm. He breathes a little bit deeper, catching the smell of gun-metal and sweat, the half-imaged scent of powder residue on John's skin, the almost-taste of peaches on John's tongue.
"Why not?" John says simply, shifting in Rodney's lap, starting to rock slowly, leaving Rodney in no doubt that John wants this very, very much.
"This is a dangerous situation, John, we can't--" John rocks harder, lines them up, and the rest of Rodney's refusal gets lost in a groan.
"We could die. In a few months, a few weeks, a few days." John's voice is low and gravelly, grinding away at Rodney's self-control. His face is flushed, the skin of his wrists is hot under Rodney's hands and when he leans in, he stops to nip at Rodney's earlobe. "Hell, we could die today. You really think this is a bad idea?"
"*You* think this is a bad idea." Saying those words, hearing the truth in them, breaks this down into something Rodney can control. He pushes John back, pushes him off his lap until John's forced to stumble and stand, and then zips up his jacket to his chin. "Life threatening situation. Meaningless risks. Better to think with our brains than with other parts of our anatomy. Does any of that ring a bell, Colonel?"
At the title, John stands up straighter, sways a little less, and frowns. "I'm not sure. Maybe?" He blinks, looking lost and confused, and the urge to reach out is so strong that Rodney shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Aliens have taken us as prisoners, they've given you some kind of intoxicating drug and I think that's a good sign that we should concentrate on finding a way out of here. Or trying not to panic while we wait for the cavalry."
John nods and leans against the wall. Rodney folds his arms and sits on the bench. For a long time, they say nothing.
***
Afterwards, John's smile is tired and uncertain when he meets Rodney's eyes across the conference room. There's been a flurry of debriefings between him, Elizabeth and Lorne -- and everyone on the respective teams -- but the short version is that Lorne saved them before the aliens could get inventive and force John to talk about something other than Ferris Wheels and football.
The first chance they get to be alone is in the mess. It's after midnight, so it's empty.
During the first month, the cafeteria staff learned that the scientists tended to stay up to all hours and raid the kitchens for sugar and caffeine, so there's now a range of snacks left out: cake slices and sandwiches, cling wrap tight across the plates; coffee and juice; whichever fruit is currently in season. At the moment, it's peaches from the Athosian mainland. Rodney takes two.
"Do we have to talk about what happened," John asks as they sit down, "or will a vague apology cover it?"
"I honestly have no desire to ever mention my time in captivity, let alone discuss it." They've discussed these things before -- all the reasons to "Why not?" -- in depressingly accurate detail. The end answer never changes. "A vague apology will be fine."
John slouches a little bit more, leaning over his coffee. It's a tired gesture, a relaxed one, and Rodney knows that as far as John's concerned -- as far as they're both concerned, honestly -- this is settled.
Part of him wishes there had been a discussion, an argument. Part of him wants John to argue against this, to argue against logic and reason and practicality, to be sly and charming and manipulative. To give Rodney an excuse to push John back against the table and go down on his knees.
But the rest of him -- the strong survival instinct, the rational brain, the frightened heart -- is glad. Glad that he doesn't have to worry too much, doesn't have to guard his reactions too closely, because John's standing guard, too. Glad to know he's not alone, that he shares this with someone -- even if all they're sharing is a lack of action and a careful avoidance of a subject they know too well.
He stands up and tosses one of the peaches to John. At John's raised eyebrow, he says, "They're good. Sweet. You should try one."
And because the logical part of him outweighs the foolish, he doesn't stay to watch John bite into it, to see the juice shine on John's lips, to hear the soft, suckling sounds. Because Rodney is -- above all else -- practical, he leaves and doesn't taunt himself with what he knows he can't have.
Fandom: SGA
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: Because Rodney is -- above all else -- practical, he leaves and doesn't taunt himself with what he knows he can't have.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I make no money from them.
Notes: A short sequel to Back to the Old Ways, written at
aurora_84's request. Unbetaed so all mistakes are totally mine.Elizabeth finally takes the metaphorical training wheels off their bikes and allows them to go to a populated planet. When they discussed it, John had described it as semi-urban, most of the population living in large towns or small cities. A civilized culture that wouldn't throw spears, that wouldn't lock them up for no good reason, that wouldn't torture them because their Moon God said so.
They weren't supposed to do those things, but they did.
It's not a group of nomadic traders or Amish-esque farmers; so the prison bars have an electric current and the bench has a small amount of padding. It's not a backwards, medically-challenged society; so instead of beating John for information, they inject a dark-blue liquid into his veins, something that makes him sway and slur, makes his pupils stretch wide and black.
John smiles -- loose and happy, the way John would look if he ever let himself relax and get drunk -- as Rodney checks his pulse, as Rodney counts the quick beat beneath John's skin. It's normal, or close enough to normal, that Rodney's more worried about the hands burrowing under his jacket than the threat of tachyarrhythmia.
"John," Rodney says, trying not to squirm as John's fingers brush over his ribs, light enough to tickle, "you should keep your hands to yourself."
"You're warm," John mumbles, shuffling closer on the bench, shoulder pressed against Rodney's, hands under Rodney's jacket and skating lower, tugging at the edge of Rodney's shirt.
"If you're so interested in my jacket, you can have it. Really. I don't feel cold at all."
John's hands pause for a second, and Rodney's both relieved and disappointed. Until John moves closer, swinging one leg over Rodney's lap and settling his weight -- surprisingly heavy, certainly heavier than he looks -- on Rodney's thighs. "Don't want the jacket."
John leans down, and -- oh, good Lord -- starts licking at Rodney's throat, hands warm and sure on Rodney's chest. His mouth moves up, along the edge of Rodney's jaw. Then there's an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Rodney's lips that makes Rodney think of over-ripe peaches and long, hot summers -- sweet and sticky, juice running down his chin at the first bite, shirt plastered to his sweaty back and hot breeze against his face.
"This isn't a good idea," Rodney says, keeping his eyes closed. Not because he doesn't want to look at John -- he does, he desperately wants to see the longing, the needy desire, in John's eyes, wants to memorize every curve of John's face, to remember that expression for future fantasies -- but he doesn't trust himself to do so. Doesn't trust himself to watch John offering him his darkest desires and still be able to say no.
So he keeps his eyes closed, focuses on John's breath sweeping over his mouth, moist and warm. He breathes a little bit deeper, catching the smell of gun-metal and sweat, the half-imaged scent of powder residue on John's skin, the almost-taste of peaches on John's tongue.
"Why not?" John says simply, shifting in Rodney's lap, starting to rock slowly, leaving Rodney in no doubt that John wants this very, very much.
"This is a dangerous situation, John, we can't--" John rocks harder, lines them up, and the rest of Rodney's refusal gets lost in a groan.
"We could die. In a few months, a few weeks, a few days." John's voice is low and gravelly, grinding away at Rodney's self-control. His face is flushed, the skin of his wrists is hot under Rodney's hands and when he leans in, he stops to nip at Rodney's earlobe. "Hell, we could die today. You really think this is a bad idea?"
"*You* think this is a bad idea." Saying those words, hearing the truth in them, breaks this down into something Rodney can control. He pushes John back, pushes him off his lap until John's forced to stumble and stand, and then zips up his jacket to his chin. "Life threatening situation. Meaningless risks. Better to think with our brains than with other parts of our anatomy. Does any of that ring a bell, Colonel?"
At the title, John stands up straighter, sways a little less, and frowns. "I'm not sure. Maybe?" He blinks, looking lost and confused, and the urge to reach out is so strong that Rodney shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Aliens have taken us as prisoners, they've given you some kind of intoxicating drug and I think that's a good sign that we should concentrate on finding a way out of here. Or trying not to panic while we wait for the cavalry."
John nods and leans against the wall. Rodney folds his arms and sits on the bench. For a long time, they say nothing.
***
Afterwards, John's smile is tired and uncertain when he meets Rodney's eyes across the conference room. There's been a flurry of debriefings between him, Elizabeth and Lorne -- and everyone on the respective teams -- but the short version is that Lorne saved them before the aliens could get inventive and force John to talk about something other than Ferris Wheels and football.
The first chance they get to be alone is in the mess. It's after midnight, so it's empty.
During the first month, the cafeteria staff learned that the scientists tended to stay up to all hours and raid the kitchens for sugar and caffeine, so there's now a range of snacks left out: cake slices and sandwiches, cling wrap tight across the plates; coffee and juice; whichever fruit is currently in season. At the moment, it's peaches from the Athosian mainland. Rodney takes two.
"Do we have to talk about what happened," John asks as they sit down, "or will a vague apology cover it?"
"I honestly have no desire to ever mention my time in captivity, let alone discuss it." They've discussed these things before -- all the reasons to "Why not?" -- in depressingly accurate detail. The end answer never changes. "A vague apology will be fine."
John slouches a little bit more, leaning over his coffee. It's a tired gesture, a relaxed one, and Rodney knows that as far as John's concerned -- as far as they're both concerned, honestly -- this is settled.
Part of him wishes there had been a discussion, an argument. Part of him wants John to argue against this, to argue against logic and reason and practicality, to be sly and charming and manipulative. To give Rodney an excuse to push John back against the table and go down on his knees.
But the rest of him -- the strong survival instinct, the rational brain, the frightened heart -- is glad. Glad that he doesn't have to worry too much, doesn't have to guard his reactions too closely, because John's standing guard, too. Glad to know he's not alone, that he shares this with someone -- even if all they're sharing is a lack of action and a careful avoidance of a subject they know too well.
He stands up and tosses one of the peaches to John. At John's raised eyebrow, he says, "They're good. Sweet. You should try one."
And because the logical part of him outweighs the foolish, he doesn't stay to watch John bite into it, to see the juice shine on John's lips, to hear the soft, suckling sounds. Because Rodney is -- above all else -- practical, he leaves and doesn't taunt himself with what he knows he can't have.