Archive of Our Own

John Sheppard steps out into the icy air and shivers. "Where's your truck, Airman?" he asks, wishing he hadn't put off buying a decent winter coat in the hope that he wouldn't need it back on Atlantis. The airman shrugs and points toward the far end of the parking lot, and John smiles and tries not to hunch his shoulders. He's not driving tonight, which is probably good; the combination of freezing rain and no auto-pilot mean that John's ability to get himself home with his wrenched shoulder is non-existent.

What feels like a half hour of wind chill later the airman pulls out a handful of keys and fumbles for a button on one of them. The truck peeps and its lights flash, and the airman – Wallace or Willis, John's not sure – helps him into the front seat. "Thanks," he murmurs, and the airman gives him a curious look before disappearing around the truck's enormous hood. John pulls his seatbelt around himself and peers at the dash. "Nice truck," he offers.

"It's got heads-up display," the airman says, and twists the key in the lock. "Sir." And it's true, sort of; the dash lights up in a way that makes John think of video games, and he closes his fists against the memory and pushes the thought of Jumper One out of his head.

Wallace or Willis pulls out of the parking lot and glances over at him. "You're in Colonel Mitchell's building, aren't you, sir?"

"How'd you – never mind, Walter told you, didn't he?"

"The Colonel did, sir. Told me to tell you he'd be home if you needed anything, too."

Jjohn tries to picture the inside of his refrigerator. He hasn't been home since they left for M3X-657, and that was four days ago. "You mind stopping at the market? I think I'm out of coffee." He's out of pretty much everything else, too, but he can make Mitchell buy him breakfast in the morning, since moving out of the Mountain and away from the 24-hour mess was Mitchell's idea.

The airman pulls into a 7-11 and John grabs instant coffee, Corn Flakes and milk, and a six pack of Bud in case the headache he's been hiding since he hauled what was left of his team through the gate four hours ago gets any better. Back in the truck, he fumbles for the pills Lam had given him and dry-swallows two – it may be December 24th, but John intends to sleep through the whole thing. If Santa brings him any presents, he'll open them later.

The airman drops him by the main gate and speeds off, and John puts his six-pack down so he can get his keys out. Once inside, it takes him a minute of complicated re-arranging before he's got everything hanging off the arm that wasn't nearly taken off at the shoulder by some weapon stolen from the set of Braveheart, the same weapon that two minutes later succeeded in separating Lieutenant Simmons from his, and so he's standing in front of the elevator before he notices that it's nearly as cold inside the building as it was on the sidewalk out front.

And it's colder still in his apartment. Shit. At least the light in the entryway comes on when he flips the switch, and he wonders if he's got Cameron Mitchell to thank for that, too. The man knows how to work those blue eyes, that's for sure.

"It's Christmas Eve," Mitchell'd said to Dr. Lam with one of his cheesiest smiles, and John's always amazed when hardasses like Lam fall for the routine. But it's never that smile that gets him, after all. Nope, John's a sucker for the faint grin he sees on Mitchell's face when he thinks no one's looking. Maybe it's because John never thinks of himself as a hardass, even if he sometimes wishes he was. Especially if it meant he could say no and have it stick when Landry puts kids like Simmons on his Gate teams.

He drops the bags in the hall and heads back to change into something that's not scrubs or bloodstained BDUs. And the lights may be on but if anything it's colder back in John's bedroom, and there's no way he's going to be able to stay here without waking up with pneumonia. He shudders, wincing when the movement catches at his shoulder, and walks back out into his living room. The clock on the DVD player tells him it's 10pm – too late to call the landlord, but not too late to call Mitchell. Who got him into this mess, and can now damn well get him out of it. He pulls out his phone.

"Merry Christmas!"

Mitchell sounds like a department-store Santa booming out a holiday greeting over the Chipmunks' Christmas album, and John's eyes blur suddenly. "You're busy. I'll call you tomorrow." He can always go back to the Mountain, or check into a hotel. Or leave his jacket on and tough it out until dawn, then go back to the Mountain.

"Wait, no, Sheppard! Where the hell are you?"

He wonders if Mitchell heard the self-pity and shakes his head, which is a mistake. The pain pills have started to nibble at the edges of the headache, but even though the graze from the arrow-thing didn't need stitches the cut itself still hurts. "Shit."

"Sheppard – look, did you make it home okay?"

John nods, more carefully, and then remembers he's on the phone. "Yeah. Wallace? Wilson? – whoever it was even let me stop for coffee."

"Coffee, huh? You planning on waiting up for Santa?"

John huffs out a laugh. "Only if he's planning on bringing me cookies."

"I'm sure he's got something for you in that bag, Sheppard. Sit tight, I'll be right there."

"I'm good, Mitchell."

There's a pause, and John presses the phone to his ear. The music gets louder – not the Chipmunks, but maybe Yoko Ono? He wouldn't have figured Mitchell for a fan, and then thinks it must be Teal'c's CD - and then he hears a door slam. "You got any heat in that apartment?"

John sighs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. It's like cars – part you need's always in Wichita." He makes an exasperated sound. "Shit, Sheppard, you have any idea what Lam'll do to me if you get lost and we find you frozen to death like the little match girl? You're coming back with me – least I can do after dragging you out of a nice warm hospital bed." Mitchell's voice is low and rougher than usual, and right in his ear, and John finds himself shivering for reasons that have nothing whatever to do with the cold. He steps out into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him, and heads for the stairs that'll take him to Mitchell's second floor apartment.

"You gonna tuck me into yours instead?" What the hell – this may be stupid, but it's Christmas, he's not lying somewhere with a Stone Age weapon embedded in his chest, and Mitchell's not part of his chain of command. But just in case some god of chaos somewhere is listening, he knocks on the faux wood panelling as he steps out into the second floor hallway.

"I told you Santa had your Christmas present ready," Mitchell says, and okay, he's just trying to crack John up, but underneath it all there's a careful note in Mitchell's voice that tells John he's right about Cameron Mitchell and the looks he's been giving John for the last couple weeks. And he's still breathless with the whole idea when he rounds the next corner and walks straight into a fuzzy red wall covered in white reindeer.

"Mitchell!"

"Hey, Sheppard," Mitchell says, gusting warm, nutmeg-scented breath against John's neck and patting him awkwardly. "You feeling any better?"

"Cold," John says. "You were right." He leans into the reindeer, suddenly light-headed. "You're not, though. Cold. "

"Nope," Mitchell agrees. "Hypothermia's dangerous, you know."

Mitchell's warmer than John thinks he's ever been, and he's the head of SG-1, which means he know these things. "Yeah?" he says, and turns his head. Mitchell's ear is right there, and it's a nice, compact ear, with tiny freckles on the lobe.

John also thinks it's possible, now that his blood is circulating again, that his pain pills have started to work.

Mitchell chuckles and pulls John's arm over his shoulder, and turns him so he's facing back into the hallway that leads to Mitchell's apartment. "Oh yeah. Calls for immediate measures." He hooks his thumb into the waistband of John's BDUs and gets a firm grip on John's hipbone. John leans into the touch and feels Mitchell hitch him closer. "Y'know, I was a Boy Scout – they teach us that stuff."

"I bet they do," John says, letting Mitchell take his weight. "Hey, do you have any more eggnog back at your apartment?" That gets him a short laugh and the grin he likes so much, so he swings an arm around Mitchell's waist and slides his own thumb into the space between Mitchell's jeans and the smooth skin of his back.

"Christ, Sheppard. How many pain pills did you take, anyways?" Mitchell says, almost growling, but he doesn't pull away, just hauls them both down the corridor until they get to a door that looks exactly like John's. The similarities stop there, though. For one thing, Mitchell's apartment is warm; for another thing, there's a Christmas tree in the corner and candles on the coffee table, and it smells like some kind of food that's not pizza or Thai.

Shit, guests. Or guest. John's not sure which would be worse, dealing with the rest of SG-1 or getting introduced to Mitchell's date.

Mitchell kicks the door closed and starts to tow John toward the couch, but John lifts his arm off Mitchell's shoulder and pulls away, shivering as Mitchell's arm trails across his lower back. "Look," he starts to say, feeling uncomfortable. "If you've got a guest I can…"

He doesn't really know what he can do, offer to sleep on the floor by the Christmas tree, maybe, but Mitchell shakes his head. "Sit down before you fall down, Sheppard. Why the hell didn't you tell Lam you had a concussion?" He glares at John for a moment, an unreadable look in his blue eyes, and John waves a hand around at the room, a gesture he hopes Mitchell also interprets to mean that the place looks great.

"I don't have have a concussion," he says carefully. "You have candles." There are times he really misses Teyla's ability to make those leaps.

Mitchell shrugs and picks up a remote control from the coffee table. Music floods into the room. He presses a button and the volume drops. "Sorry," he says. "I had it on a little loud earlier." He does something else to the device and the music shifts again, John Lennon giving way to a quiet piano solo that makes John think of snow. "No guests, I promise." He fiddles with the hem of his sweater as if he's forcibly restraining himself from yanking it over his head.

John gives the reindeer a pointed look. "Whatever you say, Mitchell." It's not just the candles, though. Mitchell's team is off-world more than anybody else's. Putting up a Christmas tree – a live one, for pete's sake, John can smell it, and he's got an overwhelming need to go stick his face in the thing like he remembers doing as a kid, pretending that the spaces between the branches were where the ornaments really lived – is nothing short of stupid for someone who might not see his front door again until February.

Mitchell drops the hem of his sweater and crosses his arms. "Hey, I like Christmas. Besides, the gang's coming over for waffles in the morning." He looks John up and down, and the grin is back. "You like waffles, don't you, Sheppard?"

John rolls his eyes and decides privately it's the combination of the grin and the cheesetastic lines. "Love 'em," he says brightly, and then frowns. There's no real point to lighting candles if you're serving breakfast anytime after dawn, and John's pretty sure he's going to be asleep for the next twenty-four hours, even if certain parts of him have other ideas. "What time are they coming over?"

"Whenever Teal'c gets hungry." He pads into the kitchen. John hears glasses rattling and the fridge opening. "Hey, you want some of this eggnog?"

'You got any rum?"

"Not if you've taken as many pain pills as I think you have. I gotta bring you back alive, Sundance."

"I'm perfectly sober, Butch," John calls out, and hauls himself to his feet to prove it. Which turns out to be a mistake when all the lights and tiny flames take wing like snowflakes in a globe that's been given a good shake. "Whoa!" He sinks back down onto the couch.

"Hey hey hey!" There's a heavy sound like something falling and then Mitchell is skidding to a stop in front of John and dropping to his knees. "You okay?" He cups his hand around John's jaw and John sees amusement underscored by worry and what might be a flash of raw fear sharpening his gaze.

John puts his hand over Mitchell's and waits, just for a second, and when Mitchell leans into his touch, eyes wide, he reaches down to brush his mouth against Mitchell's lips. "I'm okay," he says. "Just –" he starts to say, but Mitchell slides his other hand up into John's hair and tugs him back into the kiss, tightening his calloused hands on John's skin. John deepens the kiss, tasting nutmeg and rum, and slides his hands up Mitchell's arms, feeling the flex of muscle under the fuzzy wool of his sweater as Mitchell pulls back.

"What?" he says, frowning. Mitchell looks like he'd enjoyed the kiss, his eyes even wider and the reindeer moving up and down on his chest in time with his breathing.

Mitchell drops his hands down to rest on John's thighs, and sits back. "Just what?" he asks.

John stares at his mouth. "What?"

Mitchell rolls his eyes. "Am I back at work?" he says to the room, and then gives John a serious look. "Sheppard. Before I –" he starts, gesturing between them, "before we –"

"Oh, right." John drops his eyes back to Mitchell's mouth, and thinks about just where he'd like to see Mitchell's lips sometime later that night.

"Sheppard."

John bites his lip and looks down. Mitchell starts picking at the hem of his sweater again. "No, no, it's just – " John says, but when Mitchell throws him a annoyed look he gives in to the grin that's been threatening to escape. "-- Sundance?"

"That one's easy," Mitchell says, and grabs the hem of his sweater in both hands and pulls it over his head in one easy motion. He drops the sweater behind him and sits back on his heels.

John drops his gaze down Mitchell's torso, taking in the tight nipples beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, the line of his erection under his jeans, and his mouth goes dry. The only question he's got left is whether to strip Mitchell out of his t-shirt or his pants first.

Mitchell crosses his arms, the grin back on his face. "Um," John says, and reaches for Mitchell's fly. "Lemme guess: with Teal'c around, nobody ever calls you butch."

*~*