Perfect Timing
by lamardeuse

For chopchica



Rating:  R

WARNING: Spoilers for SGA 5x01







Two months after Teyla's baby is born, the team makes a date to visit their old friends on M5X-384 just in time for the Blessing of the Rain.

Yeah, okay, John knows what it sounds like, but this isn't any old harvest festival – it promises to be fun, in a way that very little has been lately, and so when Teyla suggests it, they all leap at the chance. The N'wiri believe in enjoying life, in living it to the fullest, and John half believed he'd forgotten how to laugh until their first visit there more than three years ago. When the N'wiri were miraculously spared the ravages of the Wraith cullings, they all breathed a sigh of relief, because maybe that meant something went right in this fucking galaxy every now and then.

Despite their many visits, the Blessing of the Rain is something only Teyla has experienced, and she refuses all requests to describe it. When John arrives, he's half expecting everybody to be naked and braiding each others' hair, the atmosphere more like Woodstock than a sacred ceremony.

What they get is quite a bit different. Just like always, St'naal meets them at the Gate, hugs all of them in turn, then strokes Teyla's son's forehead with a thumb, tracing a complex pattern. The guy's taller than Ronon and twice as wide, but he's one of the gentlest men John has ever met.

“He is beautiful and strong,” St'naal says, smiling warmly at Teyla. “I am glad you have brought him.”

“I would not have missed this,” Teyla answers. “My child craves the joy of your blessings.”

“Good,” St'naal affirms, nodding. “He will have them. As will you all. Follow me.”








The sky is already darkening dramatically by the time they reach the village, and they've barely been shown their sleeping quarters for the festival when the rain starts. St'naal shouts, “It has begun!” and races outside like a giddy six-year-old launching himself at the tree on Christmas morning. With a grin, Teyla follows, her baby held snugly in her arms. Torren, John reflects, is a cool little guy, pudgy and happy and scarily smart, already bored with the regular baby stuff. Pretty soon Rodney'll have to build him his own pint-sized particle accelerator just to keep him happy.

Ronon looks at Rodney and John, then jerks his head toward the door, the let's get this show on the road gesture he uses in combat incongruous here. John makes a sweeping after-you motion with his arm, and Rodney smirks and obeys without comment. John does not look at his ass as he follows him. Well. Not much.

It occurs to him that he's spent years now with this low-level crush – that's the only word for it, because it's juvenile and impossible – on Rodney McKay hovering just under his skin, through war, Batman DVDs, chess, and countless near-death experiences. Most of the time, he does a pretty good job of hiding it, but lately he's been careening between resentment and fury, and he knows it's been bubbling to the surface. Last week he nearly took Lorne's head off for no good reason at all, and ended up taking his next two OOD watches to try to make up for it.

He tries to tell himself it's no different now than it's ever been, but he knows that's a lie, because there was a point, lying under that building, when he was actually ready to give up, just put his head down and let it all go, because he'd already failed Teyla and led more good men to their deaths, and losing Rodney under a ton of rubble felt like the last straw. Thinking about it was like having that wraith's hand on him all over again; he could feel himself slipping away, dying by inches. Ronon kept him going, dragged him back, but when he raised his .45 for what he thought would be the last time, he was ready in a way he'd never been before, not even when Mitch died in his arms, not even when he was on final approach to that hive. And yeah, that scared the hell out of him, and still does, because he's never needed anyone that much, never thought I can't live without you was ever anything but some cheesy line of movie dialogue, but no, apparently it's become his life now.

When they reach the square, it looks like every man, woman and child in the town is gathered there, though it's tough to tell because the rain is so heavy by this point it's nearly blinding. The N'wiri wear brightly colored clothing, and the colors are running over the light grey cobblestones, turning them green, purple, yellow, orange. 

Rodney hunches his shoulders. “Okay, I'm already soaked to the skin.”

“Ceremony'll probably be starting soon,” John offers, trying to ignore the way the water clings to Rodney's long eyelashes, making them look darker. He realizes he's staring, but he can't force himself to look away.

Rodney stares back at him for a moment, then clears his throat. “I'm going to see if there's a buffet,” he says, more loudly than he needs to. John nods, and Rodney's gone, weaving through the crowd like his ass is on fire.

Okay, yeah, so he looks.

Over in one corner, a group of drummers is beating out a tattoo that skitters up John's spine, making him restless. The urge to move his feet is suddenly overpowering, and that makes him even more pissy, because nobody else seems compelled to dance; for the most part, the N'wiri are talking and laughing together in small groups, their occasionally upturned faces the only indication they even know it's raining. What kind of a blessing is this, anyway?

“John?” Teyla's voice drags him out of his own head. “Is something wrong?”

John nods. “No, nothing, only – when is the ceremony supposed to start?”

Teyla frowns. “Ceremony?”

John gestures toward the crowd. “The Blessing of the Rain. When does it get going?”

Teyla shifts Torren on her hip and smiles. “John, it is raining now.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” John says, then realizes he's sounding snippy again. He opens his mouth to apologize, and then it hits him. “Oh.”

Teyla raises an eyebrow and waits.

“Wow,” John says slowly, as the significance of it knocks his breath from his lungs. “I'm an idiot.”

“Not at all,” Teyla says, her eyes sparkling. Torren turns his face up to the rain and giggles. His hands wave, the fingers spread wide as if trying to catch the falling droplets. He's totally soaked, and John knows from personal experience how much the little guy hates baths, so why this should be any different is anyone's guess. John's willing to chalk it up to the mysteries of the universe, though, because suddenly all his brain power is occupied by the overwhelming need to find Rodney right this second.

“I have to – ” John says, pointing vaguely at the crowd.

“I understand,” Teyla says, smiling, and damned if John doesn't think she does.

It probably takes him a couple of minutes to find Rodney, but it feels like half the afternoon, and when John finally spots him huddled under an awning, eating some kind of barbecued meat on a stick, it's like being in the infirmary all over and hearing Keller casually tell him about Rodney like it was nothing, like he hadn't nearly abandoned the will to live thinking Rodney was gone. It's a strange feeling, because the act of drawing air into your lungs suddenly seems like both the simplest and the most complicated feat imaginable, and you're simultaneously soaring with the birds and plummeting like a dead jumper.

What's even crazier is that it feels great.

He strides up to Rodney, who offers his half-chewed shish kebab. “Want to try it? It's pretty good.”

John shakes his head, and something in his expression must give him away, because Rodney frowns. “What?”

“Rodney,” John says, then can't say any more, because there's both too much and too little to say.

Rodney gnaws the last bite off his stick, then throws it in the nearest receptacle. “Are you all right? You're not coming down with pneumonia, are you?”

And this is just so ridiculous that John barks a laugh, high-pitched and jarring to his own ears.

“It's not funny!” Rodney exclaims, bristling. “You just underwent major surgery not all that long ago. It's possible.”

“I'm fine,” John assures him, still grinning. The water's cascading down his cheeks, dripping off the end of his chin, soaking through his uniform and waterlogging him clear to the bone. He doesn't care. “Fit as a fiddle.”

“Please,” Rodney says, “just – humor me.” He takes John by the arms and tries to drag him under the awning, but John digs in his heels.

“Rodney, it's raining now,” John says simply.

“Wow, your powers of perception are stunning,” Rodney drawls. “Get under here before you catch cold.”

John quits fighting the pull, and the sudden loss of resistance makes Rodney stumble. Moving forward quickly, John wraps one arm around Rodney's waist and neatly spins him around before he can regain his balance, so that they're both out in the rain.

“Gotcha,” John says, feeling giddy and strangely young. The rain, he notices, is warm, the big fat droplets striking the skin of his arms and splashing down on the tip of his nose. He dares to gaze into Rodney's eyes, and gets distracted by those damned eyelashes again. Rodney's hair is plastered to his head, and he looks like a goof, and John's never wanted to kiss him more than he does right at this moment.

“What did you do that for?” Rodney demands, outraged. “I was starting to dry off! You just – ” Suddenly he cuts himself off and looks down.

Oh, right. John's arm is still snug around Rodney's waist. Problem is, he can't seem to make himself let go.

For four years, he's been telling himself no, not yet, and this isn't the right time, and things'll look different in the morning, and just wait and think this over, and a hundred other things that neatly covered up the real reason he was holding back, which was that he was a total chickenshit. But it's raining now, dammit, and if John doesn't do this soon he's going to burst with it, because the terror that gut-punches him at the thought of never getting to do this outweighs the fear that Rodney'll tell him no.

The latter option is starting to look more and more likely, because every second John holds him, Rodney's eyes get bigger by another millimeter, until John's sure they're  going to pop right out of his head and land on the dye-stained cobblestones. John's just starting to plan out likely escape routes when Rodney's mouth works a couple of times, and he says, “Oh.”

John closes his eyes briefly. “Yeah.”

“You never – I mean. You never said.”

A muscle in John's arm starts to cramp up. “I'm saying now.”

Rodney nods jerkily. “Right, yes, I get that, I do.”

John sighs. Well, at least he finally knows, one way or the other; that's got to be something, right? With conscious effort, he forces his arm to relax, and it falls away from Rodney's body. The chill from the water sets in almost immediately, making him shiver.

“Wait, what – ”

“It's okay, Rodney,” John says heavily. “You're right. It's time to get out of this damn rain.” He turns, doing a quick search for Ronon and Teyla, and finding them chatting happily with St'naal, heads off across the cobblestoned square, back to their accomodations and a dry change of clothes.








As soon as he's inside their suite of guest rooms, John starts stripping. He attacks buckles and zippers with clumsy fingers and muttered curses, flings off his tac vest and throws it in a corner, and of course that would be when Rodney comes barging through the door, dripping and scowling. They glare at each other for a moment, and then John starts trying to take off his shirt, but the slippery buttons and soggy material resist his attempts.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Rodney snaps, striding forward and batting John's hands away, “it's amazing you manage to dress yourself in the morning,” and then his blunt, capable fingers are undoing John's shirt buttons. John stares at Rodney, astonished, but his head is bent to his task, his brow knotted in a determined frown. And then Rodney's fingertips graze John's sternum, and John shudders and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I knew it,” Rodney mutters, finishing the last of the buttons, tugging John's shirt tails out of his pants with brusque efficiency. “You're freezing, aren't you? As soon as we get back, you're going straight to Keller.”

“Rodney – ”

“No arguments,” Rodney interrupts. “Obviously you're completely incapable of looking after your own health.” He reaches up, his expression still twisted with anger and worry, and his hands slide up under the material, warm against John's damp skin. They both look up just as Rodney's palms cup his shoulders, molding to the curve like they were made to fit just there.

Rodney stares at him for a long moment, or maybe it's no time at all, and then the furrow between his sandy brows deepens, and there's just enough time for John's heart to slam into his ribs before Rodney tugs on John's shoulders and kisses him.

The kiss is soft, tentative, like he's not sure how to kiss, or maybe he's not sure how to kiss guys, or maybe he's not sure how to kiss John, or shit, maybe John should just stop thinking. John returns the kiss, just a brief squeeze of Rodney's lower lip between both of his, but even that much makes Rodney's hands clutch at John's shoulders, short nails digging into the skin.

“Oh, that, that was nice,” Rodney murmurs when he pulls back, cheeks flushed and eyes huge and bright.

“You're telling me,” John agrees, gaze trying to take in every bit of Rodney at once, because he still half believes he's imagining this.

Rodney's hands push gently at John's shirt, and then the sodden material is slipping down his arms, landing on the floor with a wet thud. John watches Rodney bite his lower lip, then shudders as Rodney's fingers gently explore John's chest.

“Cold?” Rodney asks, and John shakes his head violently. Rodney's eyes widen. “Oh, you mean that's – that's me? I'm doing that?” His hand brushes over a nipple, and John hisses air between his teeth.

“God,” Rodney breathes, gaze searching John's face. “You – how long? How long have you – ”

“Too long,” John says, leaning in. “Rodney, I don't want to – ”

“Yeah, okay, okay, I can, just,” and then he's kissing John again, hands on John's face, gliding up into John's damp hair, and there's nothing tentative about it, and when John wraps his arms around Rodney this time, he holds on and doesn't let go.








“I think I'm permanently waterlogged,” Rodney sighs. Considering he's smiling as he says it, not to mention naked and sprawled on the bed beside John, it doesn't seem like much of a complaint.

John studies Rodney's hair, which through neglect and vigorous activity has dried into a mohawk-like pattern. Rodney hasn't looked in a mirror lately; John decides to let that be a special surprise for later. For now, he slides a hand down Rodney's belly to his dick. “I think you'll live,” John murmurs, as Rodney arches into John's touch like a contented cat.

“Mmmm,” Rodney says, and John doesn't know if that means he agrees, disagrees, or is just horny again. They heard Ronon and Teyla and Torren come in a couple of hours ago, but nobody stopped by to say hi, which means they've probably figured out what they'll find if they open the door. John knows he should be mortified, but at least this way he doesn't have to talk about it.

“So I know you don't want to talk about it,” Rodney says, startling John out of his reverie, “but what – what made you decide on today, of all days?”

John thinks about ceremonies and milestones, rites of passage that mark the beginnings and the endings, and the times you just sit and wait for a sign to tell you when to leap. He thinks about explaining all this to Rodney, but in the end, it's simpler to shrug and say, “It was time.”

Rodney snorts and rolls over on top of John as easy as breathing, as flying, as falling, and does this obscene little shimmy that leaves John gasping. He leans down and nuzzles John's earlobe, and John can hear the smile in his voice when he murmurs, “You're telling me.”





End



June 2008

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