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It's Friday, and Rodney's still sleeping when the news hits the wires, buried beneath the duvet with the abandon of a man who's survived two all-nighters in the name of physics and genius, and who now claims all the slumber that's overdue. John's been up for hours, shepherding Merrie to daycare, Finn to school, fixing the hinge on the screen door that Finn decimated with the singular power of an early spring fly ball, sweeping up Merrie's far-flung Cheerios with his booted foot until he figures, okay, maybe a broom's not a bad idea. He brews a second pot of coffee to replace the stone-cold dregs of the first, sits down at the computer to figure out an invoice – and there it is, large as life on the AP wire, 'breaking news' across the home page of the New York Times.
He sits for a while, stunned and stupid with it, and when his senses come back to him, he's pretty sure his mouth's been open the whole damn time. A click, and the story opens; another, and the printer whirs to life.
Rodney doesn't seem too appreciative when John bounces onto the bed, straddles the lump of him that's completely swaddled in bedclothes. "Hey," John says, poking indiscriminately – he's no idea what part of Rodney he's poking at.
"Nnnanaaar," Rodney says viciously from beneath the covers. "NNNNNNNNNN."
John bounces a little more. "Wake up!"
Rodney pulls down the covers that have been over his head and glares. "Hate," he whispers.
John grins at him. "Guess what?"
Rodney narrows his eyes. "You have a death wish."
"That's not a surprise," John says, deadpan.
Rodney scrubs a hand over his face, scritches his fingers through his own hair. "What?"
"You have to guess."
"No, no, I really don't, because you woke me up when I am supposed to be asleep and that means you owe me at least, oh, rough guess, 472 blow jobs in the next six months, because waking me up is strictly the job of our children and even then, it's wrong, I just understand the futility of explaining to an almost-four-year-old that no, Daddy is not excited about it being 5am. You, on the other hand, are – "
John snorts and shoves the print-out in his face. "It's legal," he says.
Rodney splutters and slaps at the paper, grabbing it and kneeing John in the ass for good measure. "You are an overgrown lump of . . . "
"It's legal," John says again. He bounces. Something creaks, possibly Rodney's hip.
Rodney huffs and squints, holds the paper close enough to read it, and his face shifts from quantum irritation to confusion to wonder in roughly fifteen seconds. "Oh my god."
John pulls the paper out of his hand and bends to kiss him. "Hi," he says when the kiss breaks and Rodney's delightfully pink.
"Oh my god," Rodney says again.
"I know," John says, waggling an eyebrow.
"We," Rodney says, "are totally getting married."
John grins at him.
"Which begs the question – why are you clothed? Out there? Why aren't you . . . "
"That's three questions," John points out.
". . . getting naked so that we can having getting married sex!" Rodney asks, voice rising with every syllable. "Get in here!"
John tilts his head. "Aw, shucks," he says, ducking his head, feigning modestly, and he laughs when Rodney slaps him up the head, laughs as Rodney pitches him off the bed, laughs as Rodney follows, naked, and starts to undress him right there on the bedroom floor.