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The second week that Major Evan Lorne is on Atlantis, he approaches John and asks him to lunch.
He’s formal. Addressing John as ‘Sir,’ and ever so slightly nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Something must be broken in John’s head because the first thought that crosses his mind is that Evan is asking him on a date.
Which is ridiculous. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that John’s not gay and Evan is a man.
He must be having the opposite problem that he has with women. Where he usually never sees it coming, now he’s seeing something that’s not even there.
John says yes (its more of a drawling ‘Sure, Major’). To be polite. Mostly to get to know his new 2IC. But also its a little bit to prove a point to himself that this is not a date, no matter how much his screwy brain thinks that it is.
They eat in the mess. Lorne talks about Earth. A bit about current events. A bit about his childhood. John listens and nods in all the right places. He doesn’t volunteer any information about himself and Lorne doesn’t ask. Except when he says:
“Have you ever been to California, sir?” Because that’s where Lorne grew up. Because Lorne just finished telling him that’s where he grew up. Around the San Francisco bay area.
John says, “Yes.” Mouth full of turkey sandwich, and he swallows down limp lettuce and Pegasus-galaxy version of mayonnaise as he stops himself from thinking about the property his family owned. Summers spent with his maternal grandparents in the years before his mother died.
Evan nods and smiles. Its a small, genuine expression. “It’s great out there, isn’t it?” His eyes light up.
“Yeah.” John’s throat feels dry.
◦◦◦
Evan approaches him again. He asks to go to lunch again. He’s still formal. He’s still nervous.
Its the usual nerves from addressing a commanding officer, John thinks. Doesn’t make much sense if he thinks too hard, because in every other situation, Evan has proven himself to be calm and competent.
So John doesn’t think about it too hard.
They go to the mess. They don’t talk about work, which John appreciates even though he knows Evan has a list of about a dozen things he needs to run by John.
This week, they talk about sports. Which is how he learns Evan is a basketball fan.
“You play?” John asks.
And Evan shakes his head, smiling in a self-deprecating way. “No, I was never tall enough for basketball.” He says. “I was on the swim team in high school, though.” Almost absent-mindedly. As an after-thought.
And John has the briefest, most sudden, most vivid mental image of Evan Lorne in a speedo. Lean. Abs. Water glistening down his chest.
He stabs his fork into his wannabe-lasagne. “I played football.” He says.
◦◦◦
John’s lunches with Lorne slip neatly and without comment into his usual Tuesday routine. Barring any emergency or off-world mission, Lorne approaches without fail. And asks him to lunch.
He always asks. He never assumes. He’s always formal about it.
And John still can’t get his mind to stop thinking of it as a date.
It’s just the two of them. Lorne never invites anyone else. Not his team. Not any scientists. Not Chuck. Not Parrish. Not Rivers. Not Reed. Not Radek.
No one approaches their table to ask to join them. John wonders if they come across intimidating and unapproachable. The military leader of the city and his right hand man.
Or maybe everyone is just polite and don’t want to interrupt. Regardless. They’re left alone.
Today, it’s been six weeks (he’s not counting). He’s sitting in his office. The one he shares with Lorne. John hears Lorne shift in his seat across the room. A squeak of the chair as he stands.
Regulation boots clop along the floor, mostly quiet but still noticeable in a gait that John would be able to recognize even if he hadn’t already known it was Evan.
“Sir?”
John looks up, finally, resting his eyes on Evan’s face. He doesn’t always catch John in the same location. He must put in quite an effort to track John down each week. John’s routine is not really routine-ish enough to even be called a routine.
Evan never asks over the radio chatter. It’s always face to face.
“Yes?” If John were a better person, he’d interrupt Lorne. He’d say something like ‘Lunchtime already?’ and stand and walk over and clap Lorne on the back. They’d laugh like buddies and head out with no extra thoughts running through their minds.
John is not a better person. He makes Evan work for it.
Evan’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His gaze is steady. John has to give him credit for that. (credit for what? the back of John’s mind screams at him)
“Would you like to join me for lunch?” His hands are clasped behind his back. Posture tall. Stance wide and perfectly shoulder-width apart.
“Sure.” John says, to stop himself from thinking so hard. He stands and walks over to join Evan. He does not clap him on the shoulder.
Evan smiles, wide and happy. Beaming.
John averts his gaze. Its just lunch.
◦◦◦
“Music?” John asks. It’s not so very much one-sided conversations anymore these days. Even if Evan still does most of the talking.
“Bon Jovi.” He says instantly.
John snorts, barely managing to keep in his braying donkey-laugh. “Seriously.” In a tone that’s high and whiny.
“Yes.” Evan insists. “Most classic rock. You know, Queen. ABBA.”
“You consider ABBA classic rock?” John’s grinning now. Ear to ear.
“Yes?” Lorne looks confused. And it shouldn’t be so goddamn endearing.
John takes a step forward, but the transporter doors fail to open at his command.
“Hm.” Atlantis must be playing games with him again. It’s not like he wants to be trapped in here with Evan.
Evan steps up. “Here let me try.”
He is incredibly close to John in the cramped confines of what is essentially a closet.
John can smell the musk of Evan’s sweat. He inhales sharply through his nose. Blinks. Swallows hard.
The door wooshes open at Evan’s prompt.
◦◦◦
The first time he can’t work up the nerve.
Lorne’s sitting in a chair and John stops in the doorway as he walks by. All he has to do is walk in and clap him on the shoulder. Nothing weird about that. Strictly buddy-territory right there.
Lorne’s typing into his laptop keyboard. Emails. Reports. Something. Something that’s probably John’s job and Evan’s doing it anyway.
His uniform stretches across his back as he hunches. His posture leaned over a computer is the worst that John has ever seen from Evan. His shoulders are wider than John’s. His muscles are strong and broad. The things he could do to John-
“Sir?”
John jumps.
Evan’s looked up. He doesn’t seem surprised to see John there, watching him. (hungry)
John shakes his head. “’s nothing.” He croaks.
John turns and continues down the hall.
His fingers curl into fists as his hands clench.
He doesn’t think about swiping his thumb across the back of Lorne’s neck. How Evan might shiver.
◦◦◦
John puts on his faded denim jeans. A rumpled button down shirt. And in place of his sweatband, there’s a half dozen hemp bracelets covering his wrist.
So.
His date outfit.
He stares at himself in the full-length mirror in his quarters.
His hands are shaking. His breathing is heavy.
He thinks he might black out, his vision is swimming so hard with panic.
He takes it all off.
He sits on the edge of the tiny bed, in his briefs, with his head in his hands and wonders what in the hell he thinks he’s doing.
◦◦◦
Evan bends over a crate as they take inventory. Closing a lid with a quick flick of the latches. His ass flexes against the line of his pants.
He stands. “Next up is ammunition, sir.”
“Right.” They move down another aisle.
There’s an after-image burning into John’s retinas. He won’t be able to forget it.
John tries to focus. This is work.
Work. He repeats it to himself as he jots down the totals on a clipboard.
This is work. He says to himself again.
Evan leans up on his toes to reach for a shelf above, and his shirt rides up high revealing a smooth strip all along his stomach and the small of his back.
John drags his eyes away. Hm. The crates are an interesting color today. Very black plastic-y.
◦◦◦
Evan is in the infirmary. It’s not serious. But he’s likely got a concussion, and Carson’s doing some scans.
John doesn’t really think about it when he wanders down to see Evan. He visits lots of people in the infirmary. Teyla. Rodney. Ronon.
He doesn’t really think about it when crossing the room, dodging med-carts and sprained ankles to sidle up next to Evan’s bed and pull the privacy curtain closed behind them.
“Sir?” Evan asks, not dazed - which he might have been - with a head injury, but somewhat confused. “What are you doing here?”
John is really honestly not thinking about it when he drawls out, “You almost missed our date, Major.” His voice cracks.
Evan flushes. A nice pink color settling across his cheeks.
It’s a joke.
But its also not a joke.
◦◦◦
John never declined an invitation to spend time with Evan, but he also never - initiated. It was starting to become apparent that John was not so much the - aggressor in situations like these.
Evan would almost start to question if John knew what they were doing. But he had to know - the looks he sent Evan sometimes. Out of the corner of his eye, almost vulnerable. There was no way John didn’t know. There was no other way to explain it.
He would just have to - escalate this - if he wanted it to go anywhere.
◦◦◦
They’re walking to a conference room together. The hallway’s deserted. Sheppard keeps brushing the back of his hand against Evan’s with each swing of his arms on the stride-rhythm.
Evan grabs his hand. John jerks. Stares directly at the floor in front of him. Hitch in his step and for a half second, Evan thinks he’s going to stop walking, tug his hand away and demand to know what the hell Evan’s doing.
Evan’s not so sure he knows what he’s doing. Just that they can’t keep existing on the precipice of this. This. Whatever this is.
There’s a beat. There’s another beat. Evan’s still not a hundred percent sure Sheppard’s not going to turn and deck him.
Sheppard keeps walking, keeps his eyes forward and down, keeps his hand in Evan’s and doesn’t address what they’re doing at all.
Sheppard’s hand is firmed from callouses. Long fingers. Evan runs his thumb across the back of John’s hand. The skin there is smooth and soft and tanned. The fine hairs stand up in the wake of his touch.
John tenses again when Evan touches him, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop him.
Evan’s reluctant to say anything. Doesn’t want to break this thing that feels fragile while Sheppard’s hand feels strong.
He says it anyway. “It’s ok.” He punctuates his statement with a soft squeeze.
Sheppard doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t pull away.
“It's ok.” Evan says again. Coaxing. Soothing.
They walk hand in hand until an intersection with another corridor, where, by mutual understanding, they both let go.
◦◦◦
They go up in a jumper. They hover above the city with a view of the skyline at the rear and a view of the ocean at the fore. A wash of blues on endless blues. Floating. Freedom.
It’s logged as a test flight on the jumper schedule, but nothing about the jumper has changed or in need of testing.
It’s Tuesday and John’s packed a basket with sandwiches.
It’s not a date. Definitely not a picnic. They’re just going to be out long enough to justify eating lunch.
The daylight is bright and intense. There are no stars visible. Still, Evan says, “Sometimes I think about the different kinds of horoscopes that could exist in in this galaxy. If there would be different Zodiac signs.”
John’s never thought about it before. He hmms to show he’s listening as he maneuvers the jumper a little bit higher.
Evan is not deterred by John’s silence. Never has been.
“My mom was one of those bra-burning hippies of the 70’s, you know. Divorced my Dad. Got really into that new-age woo-woo kind of stuff. Astrology. Tarot card reading.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She moved in with another woman when I was seven. Cathy. She’s an art teacher. I think of her as something like a second mom.” He glances quickly at John, an attempt at gauging John’s non-reaction. “My family is very open-minded about that kind of thing.”
John’s heart is in his throat. His fingers grip the armrest of the pilot’s chair. Hard. The gentle vibrations of the jumper’s engines seem to echo up his arm.
John turns to look at Evan. It’s there. It’s all goddamn there in Evan’s eyes. If John wanted to take it. If John had the courage to fucking take it.
John says, “That sounds - nice.” In the lamest excuse for conversation that has ever been attempted on this planet.
Still, Evan smiles at him.
They eat the sandwiches.
Later, before they’re ready to turn the jumper back towards the city, Evan’s hand lands gently on John’s wrist. Right above the watch-band.
“Thank you for today, sir.” Evan’s smile is sincere and genuine. Full of affection. He squeezes lightly. “I had a lovely time.”
John just nods. The barest fraction of a jerk of his chin. His wrist is tingling.
◦◦◦
Evan had chickened out of asking John if he could come to his quarters later. So knocking on his door just then meant that John had no idea he was coming. Evan didn’t even know if John was home. He could be out with Rodney or the rest of his team.
The door swept open.
“Lorne?” John stood there, revealed, on just this side of stunned. “Uh-”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” Hoarse. John backed away. “Yeah.” Quieter but clear.
Entering John’s space for the first time, Evan took it all in. There wasn’t much here, but what was here was very - Sheppard.
Looking back at John, he was stiff. John’s gaze was on the floor. Uncomfortable.
Jesus. Evan had misunderstood. He shouldn’t have come here. This wasn’t -. They weren’t -.
John looked up through his lashes and took a step closer. Reaching out, knocking his hand against Evan’s. The warmth of his skin was a shock. Evan closed his hand around John’s.
John grinned at him. For Sheppard’s standard’s that was the equivalent of absolutely beaming.
“I’ve got college football recordings, if -.” He coughed and broke eye contact, tendons tensing in Evan’s grasp. “If- ”
“Yes.”
That grin again. Boyish. Dorky. In a way that a man fast approaching his 40s had absolutely no right to be. God help him, but awkwardly happy John Sheppard was beautiful.
They sat on John’s bed.
Together.
◦◦◦
Evan has learned this: John needs soft. Turn the lights off soft. Under the blankets soft. Undress in the bathroom kind of soft.
When agreement comes, its couched in vulnerability.
“Just.” John looks away. “Just to spend the night.”
There’s a terrycloth bathrobe. It’s Evan’s. John’s never owned one. Usually it hangs on a hook on the back of Evan’s bathroom door.
John’s wearing it now.
Evan pulls the the tie on the belt. The robe falls open.
“I’ll go slow.”
John nods.
◦◦◦
For all that Evan can get Sheppard to talk about sports, and cars, football and beer, he goes completely non-verbal as soon as they start touching.
“You’re beautiful.” Evan will say, and John shudders, closes his eyes, and turns his face away.
He’s no longer shocked that Evan says things like this, and Evan takes that as a win, even as he wishes John would keep his beautiful, beautiful eyes open while Evan touches him.
◦◦◦
“Yes.”
It’s the only word John ever says about what they are doing. It’s the only word Evan needs.