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When John comes downstairs from his third round of assuring Finn that no, it's not Christmas morning yet and yes, he does have to go back to sleep, he finds Rodney sacked out on the couch, not quite asleep but hurrying toward that end. He's clutching a stray piece of wrapping paper – green with snowmen all over it – and there's tape stuck to his jeans, a stray curl of ribbon hanging over the edge of the seat cushion, its other end lost somewhere beneath Rodney's ass.
"Hey," John says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Mmmmm?" Rodney manages, almost (but not quite) a whine, fingers twitching where his hand dangles out over the couch.
John pads over, eases the wrapping paper from Rodney's grasp, rescues the tape from behind his knee, pulls at the ribbon. "Someone's sleepy," he observes.
Rodney lets out a long, expressive sigh. "Can it be bedtime now?"
"Tryin' to hurry Santa along?" John asks mischievously.
Rodney snorts softly. "That's it."
John smiles at him, feels his chest fill up with the strange, twisting warmth that he's come to associate with loving the crumpled heap of a guy lying on the couch below him, the rapidly receding line of his hair and the soft comfort of his belly, the stubble on his jaw and the comedy of his mismatched socks. "Lemme clear up this stuff," John says, bending to kiss Rodney on the forehead, so desperately fond of him in that moment that it makes something sting behind his eyes. "You go."
Rodney shakes his head. "Wait for you," he mumbles, smiling drowsily, and John laughs.
"Ogling my ass," he says, pointing a finger before he stoops to collect the remnants of their wrapping shenanigans.
"Always," Rodney grins, and John ducks his head to hide the fact that he's forty-two and only just discovering how readily he can be made to blush. "So cute," Rodney says, watching him, glee in his voice.
"Shut up," John says eloquently, heading to the kitchen to bury all the paper deep in the trash. He glances around the room, checks everything's in order, switches off the light and shuffles back to where Rodney's standing, swaying slightly in front of the tree, seemingly entranced by the lights. He turns when he hears John get closer.
"Bedtime," he says, looking cheerful and dazed. "Godzuki will have us up at 5am and . . ."
But John quiets him with a kiss – a slow, sweet kiss that's a place holder for the things he's not likely to learn how to say in this lifetime. He brushes his nose over Rodney's when he pulls away, feels his cheeks heating again as Rodney touches a finger to his jaw.
"Happy," Rodney says softly, and John's waiting for the 'Christmas' that's surely meant to follow, but realizes no, Rodney just means what he says. He pulls Rodney close, hums as Rodney settles his face into the curve of his throat.
"Yeah," he says, arms wrapped around him. "Happy. That."