“You got a bigger bed,” Rodney asks, incredulous, looking at the definitely not twin-sized regulation beds most personnel on Atlantis were saddled with. “How did you get a bigger bed? Who did you have to bribe for a bigger bed is the question?”
“I didn’t have to bribe anyone, Rodney.” And then an unnatural pause while John squeezes the back of his neck in what Rodney has dubbed John’s go-to gesture of nervousness. “I made it,” he says, quietly like he’s expecting to be mocked for his craftsmanship.
“You made it, really?” Rodney doesn’t try to hide how impressed he is because he is.
John nods shyly, and if Rodney hasn’t already figured out that Colonel John Sheppard is really a twelve-year-old boy at heart, that little gesture confirms it.
John takes his hand, leading him to the bed. The queen-sized navy blue comforter under Rodney’s hand looks new and is incredibly soft to the touch.
“Wanna try it out,” John wiggles his eyebrows like there’s a universe in which Rodney would ever say no (there is no such universe).
Rodney pushes him back on the bed, kissing him with tongue, his hands already roaming under John’s uniform, the broad expense of John’s back warm and soft under his fingers.
“This way, you’ll never fall out of the bed again,” John says, when they come back up for air.
Rodney buries his face in John’s neck still embarrassed at the accident that had befallen him months ago. He has tried so hard to be a cool lover and gravity let him down (pun might or might not be intended). But John squeezing his hip somehow makes it alright. John has proved once again that even when Rodney is a big dork in bed, he doesn’t laugh at him or break-up. He apparently just builds a bigger bed for them.