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Holy Matrimony, Batman

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"You started without me?" asks Rodney, sounding pathetic and wounded.

"You weren't here," John replies, unmoved, but he shifts over a little anyway and makes room for Rodney next to him on the bed. Rodney kicks off his shoes and wriggles in close, propped up against the headboard at a perfect angle for John to sort of lean in and rest his head on the broad familiar solidity of Rodney's chest.

"God, I love this movie," says Rodney, already appeased. They're barely ten minutes into Batman anyway; Rodney's hardly missed anything. He's even in time for the awesome rubber shark with the clearly visible rope hanging off it.

"I know you do," says John, abruptly drowsy and content with the scent of Rodney in his nostrils, the heavy feel of Rodney's possessive hand stroking over John's back over his t-shirt.

They watch for a while, pointing out the myriad continuity and effects goofs, and then John gradually drifts out of talkativeness and Rodney reaches down to hike up John's t-shirt. It's rare that Rodney's generous and gracious like this, giving out free back scratches without a word of bargaining involved. John has to work hard to stay awake so he can enjoy the whole thing: Rodney's blunt-nailed fingertips skating across John's skin, the gentle sweet tickle of it, soothing and comforting and a whole lot of things John had thought he was past desiring after about age ten.

"Are you making sex in there?" PJ calls through their closed bedroom door, making John jump and blink out of the trance Rodney had cast over him.

"Making sex?" Rodney repeats in a mutter, rolling his eyes. "I swear, he sits in his room and thinks of weirder and more awkward ways to say it." He raises the volume of his voice to answer. "No, we're not making anything, come in already."

The door creaks open and John shifts, moving away from Rodney and trying to get his shirt back down, but he's still slow with contentment and he doesn't make it far.

"Stay put," Rodney hisses irritably, the gentleness of his hand on John's shoulder belying his tone.

"But -- Peej," says John, flopping down again.

"He's seen you shirtless in the pool a million times," says Rodney.

"It's different when we're lying"-- and John has to stop because PJ is in the room and clambering over the bed and dropping down next to John, a small knobby-kneed intrusion into the quiet sanctuary that usually exists in this space.

"After you're done scratching Yooge's back can you do mine?" asks PJ, kicking and settling.

"I live to serve all Sheppard men," Rodney says flatly, but his hand drifts back to work and slowly John gives in to it, letting the hypnotic sweep of Rodney's touch relieve him of his usual anxiety about PJ seeing the two of them like this.

PJ loves the movie, somewhat to John's surprise. He laughs great childish belly laughs at the silliness and gets too excited at the fight scenes, shouting out the campy cartoon sound effect words with glee. At some point John's drowsiness finally drops into actual sleep, and the next thing he's aware of, the room is dark and quiet and Rodney is standing beside the bed with a sleeping PJ slung over his shoulder.

"I'll just take him back to his room," says Rodney. "He might sleep in tomorrow, thank god for winter break."

"Mm," says John, warm under the throw blanket Rodney must have drawn over him. "S'a good movie."

He seems to drift off again, because it feels like only a couple of seconds pass before Rodney is back, browbeating John to move his legs already and get under the covers.

"I don't suppose you're awake enough to..." and Rodney lets his voice trail off suggestively, and John hums his sleepy cooperation. He lets Rodney take off John's pants and socks and underwear, and then Rodney wriggles under the sheets and takes John in his mouth.

"If you're thinking about Adam West please don't tell me about it," says John, blinking into arousal with a grin.

Rodney's mouth is otherwise occupied but he manages a sarcastic huff of air through his nose.

"Fine, just thought it was weird that Batman gets you horny," John says, knowing that this will provoke Rodney into stopping what he's doing, and sure enough, there's Rodney's flushed sweaty face popping out from under the covers to glare at John, ripe for the kissing.

Rodney makes angry noises into John's mouth for approximately three seconds before going a little crazy and ardent in response to John's own urgency. "You're horny too," Rodney accuses him with a smirk, and then his face goes eager and weirdly innocent all at once. "Oh! Can we fuck?"

"You do me," says John, and Rodney sort of falls across the mattress to get to the bedside table drawer.

"You're really going through a phase," says Rodney when he comes back, kneeling between John's legs and fumbling with the lube. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I like it when you do me," says John, wanting to sound defensive, but instead it comes out all purring and uncomfortably like Lee Meriwether, who was the least hot Catwoman anyway.

"I noticed," Rodney answers. "But it's kind of a new thing."

It really is kind of a new thing, John knows, and if he were the type to psychoanalyze himself he'd probably say that it's indicative of how comfortable he's gotten with Rodney in this new life, this way they're together now where it's actually okay for their nine-year-old nephew to join them while they're curled into each other watching a movie. John's never been like this with anyone, not anyone, and that's including the Rodney of Atlantis. "I like it," says John again, because he's not at all prone to psychoanalysis, but Rodney can figure it out with his giant brain if he tries.

"I like it too," says Rodney with characteristic honesty, and reaches down to finger John. "Try and keep it down, Colonel Bottom."

John huffs a laugh but mostly he's feeling his ribs expanding with his quickening breath, the desperate adrenaline surge that always accompanies the moment of resistance before John schools himself into surrender. His heart is pounding wildly. It's too good, John doesn't know what to do with himself, so he pulls Rodney down by one shoulder and nips at his pointy chin, his wide mouth. "Hurry," he says.

"I can't hurry when you're this"-- and Rodney twists his busy index finger, and John makes a helpless ha! noise -- "this tight, would you just -- come on, John. Come on."

"No," says John, panting for real now, sweat popping out on his forehead and his chest. If he could, he'd probably shout right now, less from pleasure and more from this weird rush of -- something. Something terrifying and addictive.

"Yes," says Rodney, leaning in, insistent and strong and over John. "Come on, John."

And John squeezes Rodney's shoulder hard enough to bruise and gives in all at once.

"Shh, shh," says Rodney, half-laughing. "Can't believe I used to have to encourage you to make noise for me."

"Shut up," says John, or tries to.

"Shh," says Rodney again, laughing in earnest now. "Jesus, you're lucky the kids sleep like the dead. You'll get Brutus barking."

"Okay, I'll be -- I'll be quiet, I'm going to be quiet," says John, shivering and nodding and willing to do whatever he can to make Rodney happy.

And Rodney's finger moves easily now, quickly joined by a second, and then Rodney presses John's thighs apart and moves in, bare and slick and with his palm sweaty but sure on the shaking sensitive underside of John's bent right knee. John's always liked to watch but his appreciation for this particular sight has grown by leaps and bounds recently: Rodney's face first stern with concentration, then slack with shocked pleasure, then gradually shifting into heavy flushed appreciation. John is the one giving this to Rodney; it's a weird kind of power John hadn't ever suspected he'd like, but god, does he like it now.

"Yeah," says John, getting a hand up into Rodney's hair, mussing it into sweaty small spikes. "It's good, Rodney."

They've practiced this a lot lately, and it doesn't take Rodney more than a half dozen strokes to find John's sweet spot, and then they're moving together, shifting speeds to let the tension really build up in incrementally larger peaks.

When it gets really good it's blissfully mindless, an exquisite place of no-thought, leaving only motion and feeling to be experienced. They don't even have to talk anymore; they know each other's bodies too well to need it.

Rodney usually talks anyway, which John has mostly stopped pretending not to like. It's almost all nonsense anyway, which is gratifying in itself: the greatest mind of their generation reduced to yeah and fuck and John, John. Once in a while something really dirty and shocking slips out, and John loves that too, even though the exact same words repeated any other time would make both of them cringe with embarrassment.

"I'm close, really, really," says Rodney now, moving hard and fast in John, over him. "Really," he says again, "oh, god," and arches his back hard and comes, and John hurries his own hand to catch up with Rodney, coming just as Rodney starts to back off, moving from the urgent thrusts of initial orgasm into the leisurely rocking of the aftershocks that follow a powerful climax. "Shh," says Rodney again, still moving lazily, and kisses John's mouth through the highest rushes of release, muffling his noises.

"Oh, Adam West," says John, once he gets his breath back.

"So funny," says Rodney, and reaches down to pull out. "Is there a towel in that drawer? Please say yes, I'm going to fall over if I try to stand up right now."

John is almost gone already but he rouses himself enough to grunt an affirmative, barely aware of Rodney's ministrations, the tender way Rodney eases John's legs down and sweeps some of the perspiration from his chest and face before tending to the messier areas further down.

"Did you hear about DADT?" Rodney asks quietly, his voice pulling John out of the gathering heaviness of sleep. He's lying down behind John now; some time has slipped by.

"Yeah," says John, "I heard."

"What'd you think?" asks Rodney. He's not after John's opinion on American military policy, and they both know it.

"I like our bed," says John, consonants slurring a little. "I like our house."

"You like our life here," says Rodney, getting it in one.

"I like it when you kiss me to make me quiet," says John, not really sure if he's saying it aloud at this point. "I like it when Peej watches TV with us. I like Nora's bicycle always in the driveway when I'm trying to park the SUV."

There's a bit of a silence, long enough that John's pretty sure he actually just thought it all without speaking. But then--

"Me too," says Rodney. "Just -- checking in. That's all." He presses one careful kiss to the nape of John's neck, then settles down to sleep.

John falls into slumber with Rodney's heat at his back and wakes to the sound of rain pattering down onto the roof over their bedroom, in their house in the suburbs, with their kids sleeping soundly just down the hall.