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In a perfect world, John would never have to share a room with anyone, let alone a bed. There’s too much tension there, and other people do things like move around and snore and steal the sheets—and no matter what, they are always taking up space and breathing. Of course, the world isn’t perfect and John knows how to cope.
Mostly.
“Cut it out, Rodney,” John says into the dark, shoving at Rodney’s leg with his knee.
Instead of stopping, Rodney huffs and pulls the blanket down and off of them both.
“Hey—” John snaps, scrambling to grab the blanket back. It’s cold in here.
Rodney tears the blanket right off the bed, tugging it out of John’s hands and tossing it over the side of the bed.
Glaring up at the ceiling in protest, John feels it’s perfectly reasonable to ask, “What the hell?”
“How can you even care about the blanket when your bed is this uncomfortable?” Rodney whines, throwing himself over onto his side.
“It’s not like this is the least comfortable bed we’ve shared,” John says, and he’d bet money that Rodney’s rolling his eyes in the dark. “You’ve slept on rocks and complained less.”
Even if Rodney manages to both go to bed and get up at odd hours, he usually falls face first into bed and doesn’t move again. It’s a habit John’s come to appreciate in a bed partner, especially when taking Teyla and Ronon into consideration.
“Okay—fine,” Rodney snaps, twisting around again and shoving John to the very edge of the bed. “How are we supposed to sleep after the amount of ridiculous hoops they made us jump through today? My back is killing me and I don’t know why you insisted on taking them up on their offer of overnight accommodations instead of flying our nice, cozy jumper back home to our nice, cozy beds.”
And, okay. Maybe the trials the locals had asked them to endure in the name of fellowship and trust were a little more physically demanding than usual, but that’s exactly why John feels a little desperate for his beauty sleep.
“Didn’t you take a handful of pills earlier?”
Rodney rolls back onto his own side of the bed and shoves his head under the pillow, flipping John off as he goes.
Fine.
Whatever.
Rodney can make himself as miserable as he wants—as long as he leaves John out of it.
Forcing himself to get up, John finds the discarded blanket and wraps it around his shoulders before he crawls back into bed. “Just get some rest,” he says, burrowing into the blanket.
A few minutes later, when John’s almost relaxed enough to sleep, Rodney shifts again. This time, though, he sucks in a sharp gasp and bites off something that might be a whimper and John feels like an ass. They aren’t getting any younger, and Rodney really does have a bad back—and the bed is soft and lumpy and lacks anything like support.
John takes a deep breath, pressing his cheek into the comfort of his pillow briefly, and sits up. “Hey,” he says, nudging Rodney again with his knee.
Rodney just buries his head further under the pillow, so John runs his hand gently down Rodney’s spine and back up again. He smiles as Rodney settles into the bed, his shoulders dropping and his back bowing under John’s hand.
Shifting to his knees, John finds a better angle, gets both his hands on Rodney’s shoulders and digs his fingers into the knots he finds. It’s easy, familiar—like riding a bike. His fingers are almost working on autopilot, but he’s conscious of every detail—the soft fabric of Rodney’s t-shirt, the warmth of his skin through the material, the push and pull of skin and muscle, the little humming noises coming out from under the pillow.
The pattern is easy—out across Rodney’s shoulders before moving back to his neck, down his spine, up his sides and back down again. Tracing his fingers up Rodney’s arms, John starts again, smiling as Rodney shivers. He keeps going, even when his fingers start to ache.
He feels loose and easy, his stomach buzzing pleasantly. He could do this forever, if Rodney asked. Except, Rodney hasn’t asked, and they’re supposed to be sleeping.
Letting his hands come to rest on the small of Rodney’s back, he says, “Think you could stop being such a baby now?”
Rodney rumbles softly, snuggling deeper into their lumpy bed and John runs his hands up over his shoulders again, no real pressure this time.
But then Rodney goes a little stiff and shoves the pillow off his head. John’s stomach flips. He’s fucked this up somehow and things are about to tumble out of his control and Rodney is glaring at him—really glaring as he rolls over onto his back.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” Rodney says, grabbing at one of John’s hands and inspecting it, like it might have the answer to his question if he could just look closely enough.
John bites his lip, pulling his hand back—but Rodney doesn’t let go, his thumbs digging into John’s palm. “Don’t worry about it.”
Rodney raises an eyebrow, but his grip goes soft, rubbing little circles into the palm of John’s hand. “I’m definitely not worried—worry is the farthest thing from my mind. I’ve never been less worried about anything,” he says, his fingers never ceasing. “What I am is curious and maybe a little jealous of anyone else who ever got to experience that—because I’ve paid people to do that before—professional people—and that was just as good. So where the hell did you learn it?”
John’s throat gets tight and he has to swallow against it. “I—” he tries, the words stuck and his mind coming up blank.
“It’s okay,” Rodney says, pushing and prodding at John until he lies down next to him, never letting go of his hand. “You don’t have to.”
“No,” John says, because he can do this. “It’s—my mother used to get headaches.” He can still see it in his mind despite the decades of time gone, the way his mom’s head would drop forward as he moved his small hands across her shoulders, the soft smile she reserved just for him. There’s an ache deep in his chest, but it’s far away, almost comfortable with Rodney’s weight at his side.
Rodney’s fingers keep working, gentle and steady. “I get headaches,” he says. “Next time I get a headache I’m coming to you. No more holding out on me.”
“You sure you want to risk your health with an amateur?” John asks. “Isn’t there some chance I could fuck up your back even worse than it is now?”
“You’ll have to carry me to the infirmary if you do any permanent damage. And you’ll have to deal with the combined wrath of Jennifer and Carson,” Rodney says, tugging at the blanket with his free hand.
John rolls a bit to help with the blanket, but he’s drifting even then, sleep pulling at him with thick fingers. “I’ll make you sign a waiver,” he murmurs, smiling when Rodney gives an amused sort of snort in response.
And really, John thinks, sharing a bed with Rodney isn’t bad at all.