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They don't make dates. Rodney shows up at the museum like he always does, demanding a tour. Teyla declines to join them.
"I prefer the seven-year-olds," she says, not hiding her smile.
Rodney wanders away and into the first room, a collage of photographs--all the men from Newton, California who flew planes in the wars. He picks a spot and stands; he picks a photo and stares. Today, it's Nicholas Charles, 19, 56th Fighter Wing, according to the neatly printed card pinned below. Charles stands next to his plane, a hand on her nose, and his eyes on the sky. John can see his smile, as big as he can make it, because he gets to fly, and he doesn't know what's to come.
Pointing, Rodney asks, "Did he come home?"
John turns to the list on the opposite wall. "Nope." Rodney turns, too. "Shot down in '44."
Rodney makes a noise low in his throat, and they move to the next exhibit. They spend long quiet moments bent over clear cases of engine parts and flight manuals. John spins each of the propellers mounted on the walls. Rodney follows after, stopping each one. In the corner, there's an ancient trunk of goggles and flight caps, radios and helmets for the kids to play dress up.
John bullies Rodney into the photobooth where the kids get their pictures taken in their aviator costumes. From the box, he picks the goggles for Rodney and saves the cap for himself.
"You're only cool compared to me," Rodney tells him.
"And Teyla's got us both beat."
Rodney grumbles in the tiny booth where there's barely room enough for one. It's an awkward dance, between Rodney's wide shoulders and John's clunky boots. Pressed against each other, their knees touch. Their thighs and their arms touch. Behind his goggles, Rodney's blue eyes are big and bright, and the first flash of the camera comes before John is ready, before he can look away. Rodney is still frowning at the second, but, by the third, with a hand on top of Rodney's jeans, John gets a smile out of him.
"Last one," John warns, and he turns face forward. He wants to make it a good one. Rodney wants to make it something John can't show his mother. He grabs John's face, sticks his tongue in John's mouth, and, after the flash has flashed, he laughs against John's lips.
It's an old booth--black and white, still takes quarters--there's seven minutes before they get to see the photos. Seven minutes with Rodney in the photobooth, and Rodney always wants one more kiss.
"Last one," John warns.
They struggle out of the booth and out of their costumes. When Rodney gets the goggles off, a band of red remains around his eyes. He helps John with the helmet and ruffles John's hair, because there's no helping it. They're both still smiling like kids.
But when he's bent over the trunk, putting stuff away, Rodney touches the back of John's neck and kisses him there. He says, "Don't go to war, John."
John straightens up so he can look at Rodney. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.
"I mean it," Rodney says.
John licks his lips and kisses Rodney, whose mouth has gone dry. John squeezes his hand.
"Let's go look at the planes."