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Tucked close around Sheppard’s lean body it’s difficult to remember that everything’s different now, that they’re different together; it’s even more difficult to remember that Rodney’s making an effort to keep his distance, to keep this from happening again. One of them has to demonstrate some kind of restraint, and oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to be forthcoming from Sheppard, who should be all kinds of standoffish and yet is anything but.
“Would you just,” says Rodney, irritably, as Sheppard’s hand glides up the length of Rodney’s thigh, “just not do that?”
“Sorry, sorry,” says Sheppard. “Just -- I dropped my flashlight.”
“Well, here’s a clue for you,” says Rodney. “It’s not in my underwear.”
“Shut up,” says Sheppard, not in the absent snippy way that means ‘keep going’, but in the tough military way that means -- well -- ‘shut up’. They clamp down, hold their breath, watch the slats of faint light in the floorboards above them, and sure enough, Sheppard’s dog-like hearing has saved them again. Footsteps above, the dark shapes of booted feet, dust drifting down in the slanted light while Rodney breathes in -- one two three -- and out -- one two three four and waits for Sheppard to signal that they’re okay. There are voices, indistinct, there are the sounds of a room being gutted, but then there’s only more talking, and at long last the footsteps recede, the door closes.
Rodney never knows how Sheppard can tell when it’s time to move or time for silence, how Sheppard reads safety and opportunity like the old Athosian priestess reads knucklebones or tea leaves, but long experience has taught him to trust Sheppard, to follow his lead. Though the noises have stopped, it takes long minutes of tense silence before Sheppard relaxes all at once. “We’ll wait until nightfall,” he tells Rodney, “then we’ll make a break for the gate.”
Rodney’s back aches at the thought of even another single hour in the tiny space under the floor, but he can’t do anything but nod, his late afternoon stubble rasping against the collar of Sheppard’s jacket. “I think your flashlight is under my ass,” he admits, shifting over something hard and long and digging painfully into his hip.
“Well, I was close,” says Sheppard philosophically, and jams his hand under Rodney again, patting around until he extracts the light. He flicks it on, though Rodney wishes he wouldn’t, checking the crawl space for potential hazards. “No food,” he says, sounding put out, and Rodney knows he’s not thinking rationally when he finds himself answering, “I have food.” He blames the fact that he can feel Sheppard’s ass pressing into his body, not just the vague outline of it, but the explicit shape of it, two taut round rises of muscle flexing a little with Sheppard’s unhappy squirming.
“Of course you do,” Sheppard says. He’s probably trying for annoyed but he ends up sounding outright hopeful.
“Powerbars,” Rodney says, and reaches into his tac vest, the front pockets squashed against the broad butterfly of Sheppard’s shoulder blades. “Um. Peanut butter and -- another peanut butter. And a wild berry one, but it’s all bent.”
“Gimme one of the peanut butter ones,” demands Sheppard, looping his top arm back and grabbing Rodney by the wrist. Normally this would be when Sheppard would roll around, throw one leg over Rodney’s hip, and say something about finding a way to pass the time. Instead, Sheppard’s utterly unaware of the way he’s manhandling Rodney, the roughness of his grip, the way it’s making Rodney feel heated and miserable and lost.
Sheppard gets the wrapper open, takes a bite, the motions of his chewing carrying through the back of his skull where Rodney feels them in his forehead. “Here,” says Sheppard, and hands the bar back. It would make more sense to open the second bar, not to bother sharing because it’s not exactly like they’re rationing, but Rodney can’t resist Sheppard’s dirt-streaked fingers, the glistening shape of the chewed-off bar in his fist, and he closes his lips around the exposed part of the bar and tries not to be too obvious with how he’s practically fellating the thing.
“You got water?” Rodney asks around his mouthful, knowing that Sheppard will have water. He always has water, just like Rodney always has food.
Sheppard uncaps his canteen and Rodney takes a messy sip, watches as Sheppard takes it back and unselfconsciously flicks his pointed tongue around the thirsty lip, thriftily lapping up the stray drops gathered there.
“Rodney,” says Sheppard, capping the canteen again.
“Yes?” Rodney says, collapsing down onto the packed dirt, trying to tell himself that it’s getting darker out.
“Are you hard?”
Rodney realizes that yes, he is, and damn Sheppard anyway for noticing, for saying something instead of doing the polite guy thing and pretending like he doesn’t know. “It’s nothing, just -- tight quarters.”
“Why, thank you,” says Sheppard, smirking and shifting his ass. “I like to think they’re pretty tight.”
“Don’t,” says Rodney, choked and angry. “John.”
Sheppard goes abruptly still. “Sorry.” Quiet, distant, unfamiliar John.
They fall into silence. After some time has gone by, Sheppard says, “Sleep if you want. I’ll watch.” Rodney bows his head into the safe hollow between Sheppard’s neck and shoulder, and rests.
When he wakes, he finds that Sheppard’s holding Rodney’s wrist, just gently, thumb stroking a gentle path along the tender bare underside. “This okay?” Sheppard asks, showing that he knows Rodney’s awake again.
Rodney breathes in, lets his air go in a slow shaky sigh, and makes a new rule: when it’s dark, when they’re this alone and this close to each other, then it’s okay to let himself forget for a little while. “It’s okay,” Rodney murmurs, and kisses the warm back of Sheppard’s neck.
They don’t go any further than the line Rodney’s drawn: Sheppard bestows shiver-inducing touches to Rodney’s arms, his hands, and Rodney shows his appreciation with closed-mouth kisses against the space between John’s collar and his hairline. This time when Rodney gets hard, Sheppard doesn’t remark on it, and for a wild second, Rodney’s desperate to reach down, touch Sheppard, certain that this time it would happen, Sheppard would rouse and respond.
“It’s probably time to go,” says Sheppard, just as Rodney makes up his mind to try it. “Stay close behind me. Let’s move out.”
Just like that, Sheppard shifts from being the creature of dark stolen touches to his daylight self, the shuttered version that everyone else sees. Rodney’s seen him do it a hundred times before, but it’s somehow newly startling every time. Sometimes, Rodney reflects, it’s difficult to remember that everything’s different now; it seems so much the same.