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A Well-Deserved Reward

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A party isn't exactly how John had thought he'd be spending his time when the rescue team arrived back on Atlantis. He’d imagined that Colonel Sumner would have returned with them, of course, and that Sumner would have had a verbal whipping ready for John, and that maybe John would be on 'jumper chauffeur duty for the rest of his life. He'd visualized a successful rescue, the fond looks on everyone's faces as Jinto reunited with his dad, and maybe Ford would say something like Good job, Major. It was goddamn pathetic hoping for a scrap of praise from a pup like Ford. Weir had said it instead, but it was clear that she had no idea what to do with the two hundred glorified bodyguards at her disposal, no real grasp on the fact that they were all trained killers, as he'd proved only hours ago.

She'd thrown a party because the shield hadn't imploded and they hadn't died, which wasn't something that anyone military ever wanted emphasized – they'd known death was always one of the outcomes, so this escape was just another miss, another reason to get bumped up a few slots on Death's list. A celebration right now felt more like they were sweeping Sumner's death under the proverbial carpet and pretending everything would be coming up roses from here on out.

John's standing on the balcony when Teyla approaches, and he musters up a smile while she gazes at him with the glow of hero worship in her eyes. He'll be sure to ask for her on his team. She'd caught every nuance of body language he'd thrown at her, acknowledging some cues with only a twitch of an eyebrow, and he needs someone like that around to catch the things that he won't. The glow will fade. She's just relieved that her people have survived.

Weir's circled back around, heading straight for him, a huge bottle of champagne and some glasses dangling from her fingers. He can practically read her lips: You're the new military commander of Atlantis! Good hustle! Have some bubbly! In my quarters! Drink it from my navel!

John fakes a huge yawn, stretches, and gets the hell off the balcony.

At the entrance to the hall, he sweeps a look over the assembly and notes that Teyla's read him right again and has corralled Weir, talking animatedly. The head scientist – the one he'd exchanged significant looks with in the SGC gate room, the guy who had given him some flirty lip over determining the right gate address – McKay, Rodney McKay, that's it, has Weir hemmed in on the other side. So much for that idea. A slice on the side is one thing when you're not in charge, but now everything's different. Even if McKay's not under his command, John's position has changed.

The Marines he passes in the hallway swing off sloppy salutes that are just this side of insolent. John doesn't care. He knows they think he murdered their CO. The words 'mercy killing' haven't really applied to war since people still battled with swords. If he hadn't returned with the other people who'd been captured in tow, he'd probably be in the brig right now. So he'll take what he can get and like it.


He should be tired, since he's been running on adrenaline for what feels like weeks. He's sure as shit not energetic, but there's still a restless buzz skittering under his skin, and it's irrational, but John doesn't want to take off his holster yet. Those monsters don't know where they are; they weren't followed, they're not in immediate danger. He knows this, and he knows it's a normal shocky reaction of coming down off a rush, his body in free fall while his brain tries to overcompensate and ride out the trip.

It's a compromise to set the gun within arm's reach while he shucks off his clothes and grabs a towel. He's contemplating how the shower works when his quarters resonate with a soft sound that John associates with laser sights on a sniper rifle and later, he'll let himself feel like a jackass for the reflexive tuck and crouch, coming up with his pistol pointed at the bathroom door. It takes another repetition of the sound for him to figure out that it's a doorbell, that someone's waiting at the outer door, and he ties the towel around his waist and tucks in the gun at the small of his back. Fuck it, he's the new fucking military commander of Atlantis. If it's Weir outside his door, being naked will work to his advantage because he knows she'll blush and stutter and he can turn her down cleanly and get back to his own private breakdown.

But it's not Weir, wringing her hands or here to seduce him. It's McKay, and he's cradling the big bottle of champagne and two metal mugs and if the look on his guileless face is anything to go by, he's definitely here to seduce John.

"Okay," John says, before Rodney can say anything, and he moves aside to let McKay in.

Rodney hasn't lifted his gaze from John's bare chest, and he stumbles into John's bedroom slash studio apartment. He looks up when the door whooshes shut, and John's glad he said yes. McKay's eyes sparkle with interest and intent, but he still moves clumsily, tiredly, when he shoves the bottle and mugs in John's direction.

"She said, you, that is, Elizabeth," Rodney shifts his weight foot to foot, looking increasingly nervous. "Elizabeth said you deserved it."

John can't hold back the laugh, and Rodney looks surprised.

"Is that a laugh of self-deprecation, because trust me, if I was getting eaten by a crazed vampire alien, I'd be totally fine with you ending my life, okay," Rodney says. His gaze dips down to John's mouth. "Or is it because I just made my boss sound like my pimp?"

"It was just a laugh, McKay," John says, suddenly wanting nothing more serious in his head than how quickly they can get to the part where John finds out if Rodney likes it a little rough. "I'm going to go put on some pants. Open that bottle."

Ducking into the bathroom, John stows his gun above the mirror, pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt and reappears in time for McKay – no, Rodney – to hand him some champagne.

They clink mugs, very seriously, and then Rodney says, "I'm glad that you decided to come," and John tosses back the champagne and reaches out for him.


It turns out that Rodney does like it a little rough, but by the time they get to the actual fucking, John only wants it slow, unhurried and deep and with Rodney draped across his back like a blanket. Turning his head, John seeks a kiss, and it's exactly right: Rodney's mouth is warm and demanding, and Rodney's cock a relentless push inside him.

Rodney'd been surprised when John asked to blow him, blurting out, "But I thought-" and John had shrugged and said, "You can, too," and kissed him again, mapping out his intentions by sucking on Rodney's tongue and biting softly at his lips. They'd somehow found a way to fit on the child-sized bed that John had been sure was Bates' idea of a joke; John rested his cheek on Rodney's thigh and lapped at Rodney's balls until Rodney had choked out, "Jesus, Sheppard!" before curving his tongue against the head of Rodney's cock and sucking fiercely.

Rodney hadn't minded when John nudged his dick into Rodney's throat, or when John scratched his fingernails down Rodney's chest, and he definitely hadn't minded when John had thumbed a nipple, twisting and pulling it as he moved his mouth up and down.

After they'd both come – Rodney voicing his pleasure rather spectacularly, John thought smugly – John had kissed his way up Rodney's body, pressing his lips to every bit of skin that had looked as though it needed a mark, and then they'd rested, their legs tangled, mouths open for wet, hungry kisses that made John feel light-headed, and it wasn't because of the booze.

"Champagne!" he'd exclaimed, sitting up and rolling out of bed. They drank another couple of mugs' worth and John had felt as though he was on his honeymoon, bouts of sex interspersed with good champagne.

When Rodney's fingers had fluttered lightly down between John's ass cheeks, he'd elbowed Rodney out of the way and rolled onto his stomach, cushioning his head on crossed arms. Rodney had taken the hint beautifully, rimming him gently and opening John with soft touches and patience that John hadn't experienced since – well, for a long time. He'd rewarded Rodney by opening his mouth and letting out the gasps of pleasure stored in his chest, and when Rodney's fingers pushed inside, John arched his back and canted up his hips so Rodney could slide his knees under John's thighs. That they moved together like they'd been lovers for years hadn't escaped John, and he'd decided then and there to ask for Rodney on his team, too.

Now, though, now he's concentrating on each thrust Rodney makes, the way Rodney's fingers tighten and then release on John's hips, the heat of Rodney's breath on John's shoulder. There's sweat on John's forehead, on his chest and back, and Rodney has to be slick with it too, straining to control himself, each press into John's body slow and careful, though he’s probably trembling with the effort.

Rodney shifts even closer, sliding one arm around John's waist and kissing the back of John's neck. The dreamy feeling that John's been enjoying disappears when Rodney wraps one hand around John's cock; it's abruptly replaced with the realization that Rodney's taken him all the way up, and he's about to come, hard. Scrabbling at the bed covers, John makes it up onto his elbows when Rodney tightens his grip, stroking faster, and John grits his teeth and orders, "Fuck me," and Rodney obeys like he's a goddamn jackhammer and John throws his head back and lets himself be consumed by a long, throbbing wave of pleasure.

"Oh," Rodney says, his voice sounding as though he's far away, "Wow."

"Mmmmm," John hums agreeably.

"I guess I should..." Rodney trails off, and then he pulls out gingerly and John hears the wet plop of the condom hitting the floor. It's such a man thing to do that he grins, flopping over onto his back and holding up his arms in invitation.

Seconds later he's licking Rodney's neck, sucking on his earlobe and listening to Rodney moan brokenly. Rodney's chest is flushed and he's squirming, rubbing his dick on John's thigh.

"Mmm, yeah," John murmurs, leaning up to kiss Rodney, laughing into his mouth when Rodney grabs John's hand and places it, pointedly, on his cock. "I was getting there."

"Get there faster," Rodney huffs out, his annoyance tempered by unmistakeable sounds of satisfaction as John rubs, pulls, and strokes, then licks the palm of his hand and makes a tight circle with his fist. Rodney's breath hitches and he clutches at John's wrist, his body stiffening.

John licks at the corner of Rodney's mouth and says, "Come on," in his huskiest voice, "Gonna make you come, c'mon, show me," and Rodney's mouth opens so John kisses him some more, biting his jawline, whispering, "God, you look so good, come for me," and Rodney whimpers, his fingers impossibly tight on John's wrist.

"Oh," Rodney says again, and then he groans, loudly. "Oh, oh, yes, yes - John," and he's coming, uninhibited movement and his eyes squeezed shut. John watches the whole time, kisses Rodney sweetly through the aftershocks, and then curls them together and drags up the blanket.


When John wakes up, Rodney's gone, and so's the champagne bottle.

The rubber is still on the floor.

John's throat aches a little when he laughs, feeling raw and kind of pleasantly used. He's sticky and the sheets reek of sweat and sex, and he's really going to have to conquer the shower this morning.

Then he's going to meet with Weir, tell her his thoughts on how they can best work together; he's going to gather his team and get back out there.