Archive of Our Own

John looked at the address on his phone again, confused.  The building in front of him looked more like a dentist's office than a tattoo studio but it matched exactly with the directions that Ronon had given him.

"If you're going to get inked, you'll want McKay to do it," he had said.  "He's the best."

John had taken him at his word but now, looking at the beige office building with the hand lettered "No time wasters" in the window, the only sign that something even remotely artistic went on here, he was beginning to think that Ronon had been screwing with him.  John thumbed his phone to the contacts and hit D for Dex.

"What?"  Ronon answered the phone with his usual grunt.

"Does Teyla know you answer the phone like that?" John asked.

"She doesn't care," John heard Ronon take a bite of something and start chewing.  "You done already?  Don't tell me you let McKay run you out?"

"I haven’t even gone in yet," John snapped.  "This place you've sent me to looks like it belongs to an accountant or something."

Ronon huffed a laugh.  "That's the place," he said. "Now quit stalling and put your money where your mouth is."

John bit back a curse as Ronon hung up on him.  He made a mental note to rat him out to Teyla later.  She may have looked tiny and innocent compared to Ronon's bulk but John had been friends with the both of them long enough to know exactly who held the reins in that relationship.

He clicked his phone back to its home screen, smiling absently at the picture of him, Teyla and Ronon mugging for the camera, and pushed it into the front pocket of his jeans.  Breathing out, John squared his shoulders and pushed the door of the world's blandest tattoo studio open.

Things weren't much better on the inside, the opening waiting area as beige and sterile as any doctors waiting room he'd ever been in.  There was still no sign that this was a tattoo studio anywhere to be found, not even a binder of samples on the low coffee table in the corner.  Instead, John was sure he could see a copy of Home and Garden.

"Twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds."  An accusing voice interrupted John's assessment of the premises.

John turned towards the sound and raised his eyebrow as he caught sight of the broad shouldered, slightly balding man standing hunched over an open laptop.

"You must be the accountant," John deadpanned.

"Oh yes, very amusing," the man replied.  "Almost as amusing as watching you dither outside for twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds before finally deciding to come inside.  You did see the sign in the window, I presume?"

"You must be McKay."

"That's Dr. McKay to you," the man, McKay , sniped.  "And if you can read, you'll know that I don't want any time wasters here so,"  McKay waved a hand towards the door without looking up from his laptop,  "be off with you."

John felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards.  Today was looking a lot more interesting than it had been a moment ago.  

"I didn't realise that you could get a doctorate in tattooing," he smirked.

McKay finally looked up from his laptop and John grinned as intelligent blue eyes turned on him.  Oh yes, much more interesting.

"You're still here," McKay sounded genuinely surprised and John remembered Ronon's words on the phone.  Just how many people did this guy run out of his studio on a daily basis?  It seemed an odd way to run a business.

"Well, I haven't got my tattoo yet," John shrugged.

McKay groaned.  "Listen, flyboy,"  John nodded his head in acknowledgement, desperate to know how McKay had figure that one out but too cool to show how impressed he was with the deduction, "even if I decide to take you on as a client - and that's a big if - you won't be walking out of here with a tattoo today.  That's not how I operate.  If you're looking for a quick bit of ink that will age horribly and look tacky as hell then I suggest you go elsewhere.  There's a lovely place next door to the strip joint on 76th."

"Yeah, but will they have your delightful customer service?" John teased.  "Besides, Ronon said you're the best.  I want the best."

"Of course I'm the best," McKay bristled.  "Ronon should know, it's a miracle I managed to salvage that monstrosity he got in New York."  McKay snapped his laptop closed and nodded his head towards the door to the right of the desk.  "Wait for me in there," he said.  "And don't touch anything."

John felt like he'd passed some sort of test as he pushed open the door McKay was waving at.  He let out a chuckle at the room he'd found himself in.  Now this looked more like a tattoo studio, albeit a very orderly one.  Framed pictures of beautifully rendered tattoos covered the walls and John could see right away why Ronon insisted that McKay was the best.  John was especially drawn to the ethereal blue and grey circle of runes that covered a pale expanse of back.  The symbols seemed to dance across the skin, even in the flat photograph.  

"Don't go getting any ideas," McKay snapped as he entered the room, closing the door behind him.  "I never tattoo the same design twice.  Now, why should I tattoo you?"

John barked out a laugh, cringing at the way McKay's eyebrows raised when he heard it.  John hated his laugh, knew it made him sound like a dying donkey and cleared his throat quickly, slapping back on the cover of cool bravado.  "I didn't realise this was an interview?"

"Not my problem."   McKay sat down on a waiting stool and folded his arms across his chest.  "Now, tell me why I should take you on."

John blinked.  McKay had really good arms and it was more than a little bit distracting.

"I suppose because I'm a paying customer and you're a tattoo artist isn't a good enough reason?" he asked.

McKay sighed deeply and started to stand up again.

"No, no, wait, OK, I'll - " John ran his hand through his hair as he expelled a breath.  At least McKay was sitting down and listening again.  "Look, I just got discharged from the Air Force and I'm a little bit lost and - -"  John broke off again.  He really didn't know how to talk about this (or how to maintain anything close to his usual casual detachment when he was opening up such a fresh wound).  

"Do you want a coffee?" McKay asked out of the blue.

Surprised, John looked at him.  He saw something unexpected in his eyes.  Understanding.  It was enough to knock the breath out of him.  "Yeah," he said shakily, collapsing onto the stool opposite McKay, "that would be good."

McKay nodded and stood up.  He reached up, seemingly at random, to the shelves above him and grabbed one of a dozen or so identical binders from it.  "Here," he handed it to John, "this one has some ideas that I think might work for you.  Have a look, I'll be back with the coffee."

"You're not gonna ask me how I take it?" John asked.

"You'll take it black and you'll like it," McKay called over his shoulder as he left the room.

John chuckled.  He liked this guy.  He was a little surprised Ronon had refrained from smacking him but John liked a challenge. He'd always found that it was the best kind of  people that needed you to put a little work into them before they opened up.  He had a feeling McKay was further proof of that theory.

John balanced the binder on his knees and opened it up. From the direction their conversation had taken he expected it to be filled with images of planes or helicopters or maybe even military crests but he should have known that McKay wasn't as pedestrian as that.  

Instead, the images in the binder took his breath away, made his heart race.  Page after page of drawings, some rough sketches, some beautifully inked masterpieces, each one - as different as they were - screamed the ideal of freedom, of endless possibility.  It was perfect.

"Here."  

John tore his gaze away from the last drawing in the book to take the hot cup of coffee being thrust at him.

"See anything you like?"  McKay asked.  John bit down on the immediate flirtatious response that threatened to spill from his lips.  He was interested, very interested, but McKay seemed serious about the tattooing thing and, after looking at his binder, John knew that nobody else could do this for him.  Just the thought of having someone else's attempt at a tattoo on him made his skin crawl.  Attraction could wait.  He hoped.

"This one,"  John set his coffee down, still far too hot to drink, and gestured to the rough line drawing that had caught his eye.  

McKay scooted his stool closer to John and bent over the page.  "Why this one?" he challenged.

John grinned.  He should have known it wouldn't have been as easy as just picking one and having McKay agree.  He looked at the drawing again, really studied it as he tried to form the words in his head.  He wasn't good at talking about dumb stuff like feelings but this was important enough for him to try.  He needed McKay to agree to this.

The sketch was rough, a spiral of fractals tailing off into the wispy impression of a bird in flight.  It wasn't quite perfect, but the combination of the mathematical structure and the bird soaring from it...it could have been designed specifically for him.  Now he just had to convince McKay of that.

"Well," he began, "there's the bird which is cool.  I mean, I joined the Air Force because of the whole flying thing so, y'know, I like birds."

McKay made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.  "I can't believe I wasted the good coffee on you," he muttered, already moving to take the binder back.

John panicked, holding onto the binder tighter as he pulled it from McKay’s reach.  "Fractals are this perfect, never ending pattern," he blurted out.  "They repeat and repeat and repeat and yeah, they're beautiful in their own right but sometimes you need to break the pattern, to change it up and - - that's what I did when I joined the Airforce.  My life was, well it was planned out for me.  Be the perfect, polite, well-behaved son, take over the family business, continue the legacy, and it was a fine life, but it was restrictive, predestined… it wasn't for me.  So, I broke free from it and - -" John trailed off as he reached out and touched the bird, it was more of an impression of a bird really, just a few lines hinting at wings and movement and freedom.  "I mean, it's a bit heavy handed with the metaphor but it was the closest to what I need."

McKay looked at him, his blue eyes assessing and warmer than they had been.  If John didn't know better, he'd almost think McKay was impressed.

"Drink your coffee," McKay ordered, pulling out a laptop.  "Now, why don't you tell me how a flyboy like you knows about fractals."

John rolled his eyes.  He took a gulp of the coffee and moaned appreciatively, noticing with interest the way McKay shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the sound.  McKay hadn't been kidding when he said he'd brought out the good stuff.  "They don't let idiots fly, you know," he said.  "I have a degree in applied mathematics from MIT.  I'm probably more intelligent than you - a doctorate in tattoo artistry isn't quite the same."

McKay looked amused, a challenging smirk rising on his face.  "My doctorates, yes, plural , are in physics and mechanical engineering, flyboy, so don't go getting ideas above your station."

John almost choked on his coffee.  "And how does someone with two PhDs like that end up as a tattoo artist?"

A shadow of some emotion that John couldn't quite identify crossed over McKay's face, the playful smirk falling and he wished he hadn't asked.  "We're not here to talk about me today," McKay murmured.  "Now, keep talking.  Tell me more about yourself."
John sighed and took another swallow of the dark, bitter nectar.  It might not be Dutch courage but he needed something to get him through this.  He was pretty sure that the end result would be worth it.

So, John spoke.  And spoke.  And spoke.  He opened up to McKay like he hadn't opened up to anyone since he'd come back, certainly not the shrink that Teyla had insisted he get, not even Ronon or Teyla themselves.  Through it all, McKay sat silently behind his laptop, his fingers tapping away at the keys with a single mindedness and lack of judgement that was intoxicating to John.  His mouth was dry when he finished and he felt a little shell shocked.  Talking about himself and his feelings was a lot closer to combat than John would have thought.  He wasn’t sure what that said about him, that he was left reeling after an emotional conversation about himself like he’d just been in a dogfight, his ears ringing as if he’d just been under heavy fire.  Probably not anything good but one thing was for certain - this was not how he thought his day would end up.

McKay nodded at his notes and stood up from his stool, cracking his back with a groan, oblivious to the thoughts racing through John’s mind.  "Right, well, I think I have enough to start working on something for you."
John stood up too, glancing at the clock on the wall and feeling stunned to realise that two hours had passed since he walked in here.  "So, what happens next?" he asked.

McKay gathered up the used coffee cups and opened the door to the waiting area, John following behind.  "I'll use the information you've given me to design a piece, the perfect piece, and then we'll talk logistics.  Do you know where you want it?"

John traced the left side of his torso, the side that wasn't covered in scar tissue.  "I was thinking here," he said.  "But I'm not married to the idea.  The piece is the important thing, not where it is.  I'm flexible on the placement."

McKay hummed noncommittally and rummaged around behind the counter for a form.  He thrust it at John.  "Put your contact details on here and I'll be in touch once I have something for you to look at.  It might be a few days, it might be a few weeks, if that's not acceptable then might I remind you about the option next to the strip joint."  

John smiled.  "I trust you, McKay.  I'm staying with Ronon and Teyla while I get myself sorted so you should already have their details but here's my cell number and email address."

McKay looked over the form and sighed.  "And your name?  I kind of need that unless you want me to keep calling you flyboy.  I hear your type is also partial to wingnut, right?"

John laughed then, not caring about how ridiculous he sounded because wasn't it just perfect that he'd told McKay things he'd never told anyone but had forgotten to introduce himself.

"It's John.  John Sheppard."

McKay nodded as he wrote it down in a barely legible scrawl across the top of the page.  "Well, Mr. Sheppard, I'll be in touch."

" John, " he insisted.  "People who know as much about me as you do can call me John."

"I'll be in touch, John."

John nodded.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he turned to leave, noticing he had a missed call each from Ronon and Teyla.  Not surprising considering how long he'd spent pouring his soul out to McKay.  Amazingly, he felt better for this afternoon, lighter.

"Hey," he called, pausing just at the door.  "Thank you for today, McKay.  I know you were just doing your job but - - thanks."

McKay looked a little surprised at that.  Surprised but pleased.  "You're welcome," he said, a little uncertainly.

John turned to leave, his hand on the door when McKay spoke again.  "And, uh, call me Rodney," he said.

John smiled.   Rodney.  It suited him.  "I'll talk to you soon, Rodney." He waved goodbye and exited the tattoo studio, whistling a happy tune as he walked towards the parking lot where he'd left Ronon's car.

 For the first time in months, for the first time since his discharge, John was looking forward to something.  He really should swing by a grocery store and get Ronon a six pack to say thanks.  It was a good feeling.  A feeling he could get used to.  He hoped Rodney called soon.

John placed his phone next to his dinner plate, thumbing the screen on to check that he had a signal before picking up his cutlery.

“Is he seriously still moping over McKay?” Ronon asked Teyla as he set the tray of lasagne on the table.  John had made sure to double check that it was Ronon’s turn to cook tonight before accepting the invitation to dine with them but the strings attached to a home cooked meal were looking a little too heavy now.

“I am not moping after Rodney,” he insisted, resolutely ignoring the way Ronon mouthed the word “Rodney?” to Teyla.  “He said it might take a few weeks and I’m just making sure that he can contact me when he’s done.”

A few weeks.  Six weeks was more than a few in John’s book but who was he to quibble with genius?  He’d done enough googling of Rodney McKay by now to know that the man was undeniably a genius.  In the world of physics as well as tattoo artistry, even if nobody in the scientific media could figure out why he had left the scientific field to pursue his current career.  Still, it prickled at John’s feelings, the waiting.  He’d thought that he and Rodney had connected but now he was starting to wonder if the man was trying to subtly hint that he wasn’t interested - in having John as a client or anything else.  Then the other side of his brain, (the side that had sized Rodney up the moment they met and declared, yes, want, please ), told him that subtle and Rodney McKay did not go together.  

If Rodney hadn’t wanted to tattoo him, he’d have been kicked out on his ass.

Six weeks with no word was hard not to argue with, though.

“Ronon,”  Teyla’s soothing voice kicked John’s mind from its reverie, “were you not intending to expand the tattoo on your arm?  Perhaps you should take John with you when you visit Dr. McKay.”

John knew that he had visibly perked up at the thought of having a legitimate excuse to visit Rodney (one that wouldn’t let on just how impatient he was feeling).  Teyla elbowed Ronon encouragingly, earning a grunt of agreement and just like that, John’s appetite returned with gusto.

He only checked his phone twelve times that night but the disappointment to find the screen devoid of any contact from Rodney was tempered by the knowledge that he would get to see the man himself tomorrow.  And try not to demand an explanation for why he hadn’t been in touch.

“Go away, I’m busy.”

“Well, hello to you too, Rodney,” John drawled.

“John!”  Rodney looked panicked.  “What are you doing here?”  John watched with raised eyebrows as Rodney frantically collected the piles of paper cluttering the front desk.  “I’m not done with your design yet, it’s, ah, I’ve had other commitments and, and - - “

John decided to take pity on him now that it was clear that he hadn’t been summarily fobbed off.  “I’m here with him,” he jerked his head back at the hulking bulk of Ronon standing behind him, flicking through the latest edition of Reader’s Digest .  “I figured if I was going to get inked by you, I should probably know what I’m getting myself into.”

Rodney seemed to register Ronon for the first time, a hell of an achievement given his size, as his face settled into the more familiar pattern of a scowl.  “Don’t tell me you’re here for more of those damn triangles?  I told you before that there should be at least two more rows but would you listen?  No, not the mighty Ronon Dex .  Well, who’s right now, huh, Chewie?”

Ronon was unmoved by Rodney’s diatribe.  He tossed the magazine back on the low table and crossed his arms.  “You gonna do it or not, McKay?”

Rodney tucked the pile of paper inside one of his sketch pads and nodded his head at the room opposite the one John had been in last time.  “Get settled,” he ordered.  “I’ll be there in a second.  I suppose you’ll want coffee too?”

Ronon grinned wickedly.  “With milk and two sugars please.”

Rodney shot him the finger as he disappeared into the back.

“You’re not gonna get the good coffee if you keep that up,” John cautioned.  

“He doesn’t give anyone the good coffee,” Ronon huffed. “Just tortures everyone with the smell of it.”

John bit his cheek to keep from smiling.  Maybe Rodney had sensed that connection between them after all.

John wasn't sure how he was going to sit through his own tattoo.  Not because of the pain or the blood, no, John's problem was that Rodney looked incredibly hot with a tattoo machine in his hand.   Especially the way that he flushed a pretty shade of pink under John's scrutiny.  He might have been staring a little too hard but there was something arresting about the hard focus on Rodney's face as he turned Ronon's skin into his own canvas.  John watched Rodney’s broad shoulders and arms flex and relax as he moved the gun with precision control, body hunched over Ronon’s arm in a way John was sure would need massaging later.  

He mentally slapped himself and looked back to the ink, reminding himself why he was really here.

Ronon's tattoo was simple when compared to some of the samples he'd see on Rodney's walls and John wondered whose idea the design had been.  He didn't ask - he knew from past experience that Ronon was closed mouthed when it came to talking about his ink, a sure sign that it symbolised something intensely personal for him.  He had a hard time imagining Ronon opening up to Rodney in the same way that John had six weeks ago but the connection and trust between them was obvious in every line of their bodies as Rodney worked, moving Ronon's arm where he needed it to be with barely a blink from Ronon.

John felt a little uncomfortable as he remembered the outpouring of personal detail he'd laid on Rodney the other week, especially as he still knew next to nothing about Rodney.  Nothing Google couldn't tell him, anyway.  

"How did you two meet?" he asked, suddenly curious.  

Rodney hummed as he wiped off the excess ink and blood from Ronon's arm.  "My sister," he said at the same time that Ronon grunted "Teyla."

Rodney rolled his eyes.  "Teyla and my sister, Jeannie, go to the same gym," he explained.  "When Teyla mentioned that Ronon was wanting to get a tattoo my sister gave her my card.  Chewie showed up a few days later.  Haven't been able to get rid of him since."

"You love me, McKay," Ronon's eyes crinkled as he gifted Rodney with one of his genuine smiles and John knew that he was right when he sensed the closeness between them, Ronon didn't smile like that for many people outside his small circle of friends.

"Keep telling yourself that," Rodney muttered.  "And quit moving!  It barely even scratches you baby."
John cast his eye over Rodney's bare arms; he'd assumed that Rodney was one of those rare tattoo artists without any ink of their own but he was starting to think he might be wrong.

"You've got your own ink?" he asked.

Rodney nodded.  "Some.  How else would I know how to prepare first timers for the process?"

John snorted a laugh.  That seemed so typical of Rodney, getting a tattoo for scientific purposes.  "I thought you were the best?  Who does the best get to tattoo them?"

Rodney ducked his head in embarrassment and John laughed so hard that he almost fell off his stool.  "It was the place by the strip joint wasn't it?"  

Rodney's silence was answer enough and John laughed harder.

"You know you sound like a donkey dying from hysteria when you laugh, right?" Rodney scowled.  

If anything, his attempt to shift the focus onto John's admittedly awful laugh just made John laugh harder.  

Rodney switched the tattoo machine off and pointed at the door.  "If you're going to insist on making that racket then do it outside.  Some of us are trying to work here."

John held his hands up in apology but he'd passed the point of no return a while ago and a quiet place to pull himself together sounded pretty good.

 "And bring more coffee when you're ready to come back," Rodney shouted as John closed the door on them, still laughing.

Finding himself alone in Rodney's work space sobered John up quickly enough and he took the chance to nosy around while he waited on the top of the line coffee machine to brew a fresh pot.  Two cups of the good stuff for him and Rodney and a cheap brand of instant for Ronon.  John smiled, inordinately pleased that he had still rated the good stuff when Rodney had brought their cups through earlier.  

The small kitchen space was littered with crumbs and discarded wrapping papers.  Rodney seemed to be especially fond of chocolate flavoured energy bars if his trash was anything to go by.  John resisted the urge to clean while he waited, deciding instead to grab a magazine from the front room to pass the time.

The hastily gathered together pile of sketches Rodney had been working on when they came in caught his eye and John immediately regretted it.  He knew he shouldn't look.  Flicking through someone's art uninvited was tantamount to reading someone's diary behind their back, right?  In any other situation John wouldn't have even contemplated it but a little voice whispered that this was his chance to even the imbalance of information a little bit, to find out something about Rodney (and boy, had he been yearning to learn more about Rodney).

Before the rational part of his mind could talk him out of it, John flipped opened the sketch pad.  

He knew immediately that these sketches were meant for him.  Sketch after sketch, each one more brilliant than the last, each one a piece that he would be proud to wear on his skin forever.  Why the hell hadn't Rodney called him?

John didn't realise how much time he'd lost looking at the sketches until he heard the door of Rodney's studio open.   He froze in place, raising his head to see Rodney staring at him, stuck in the process of stripping his medical gloves off.

"I thought you might be having trouble with the coffee machine," Rodney said quietly.  John had expected shouting but somehow the quiet hurt in Rodney's voice was worse.

"I'm sorry," John said quickly.  "I know I shouldn't have but - - these are incredible.  They're for me, right?"

Rodney shook his head and John felt like an idiot for a second before Rodney continued.    "No, they're, they're not right."  He stomped forward and gathered the sketches up again, pulling them from John's hands.  "I just can't - -" Rodney ran his hand through what was left of his hair in frustration.  "You're surprisingly hard to define."

"I'm really not," John said, feeling his cheeks pink.  "I'm just your run of the mill ex-flyboy."

"Oh yeah," some of Rodney's familiar sarcasm came back, "a run of the mill ex-flyboy who was a defense away from completing his PhD when they called him into active service, a run of the mill ex-flyboy who was dishonourably discharged for doing the right damn thing, the only human thing.  You're - you're something new, John.  Something I haven't quite figured out."

"Have dinner with me," John said, mouth moving long before his mind could catch up.

 "What?"

"Have dinner with me.  You want a chance to figure me out?  Locking yourself in this studio won't do it.  Come out with me.  Spend time with me.  I promise I'm a lot easier than you think I am," he grinned.

Rodney flushed, blue eyes widening as his mouth tilted even further down - he really did look incredible like that.  

"I'm allergic to citrus," Rodney offered.  "Deathly allergic.  Just one squirt of lemon juice and - - "

"Rodney," John interrupted the beginning of a rant.  "I promise there will be no citrus.  Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"Awesome," John smiled as he pulled out another set of sealed medical gloves from below the counter and tossed them at Rodney.  "I'll be back in with the coffee in a second."

John watched Rodney's ass as he turned and walked back into the studio, seeing it for the first time and trying not to have a coronary right there behind the counter. Grinning in anticipation, he turned back towards the small kitchenette with a spring in his step.

"If you're done with the sexual tension, can we get back to finishing my tattoo?"  Ronon's voice carried through the closed door of the studio, closely followed by a quiet hiss of pain as the tattoo machine whirred back to life.  John chuckled.  This was going to be fun.

Rodney frowned at his reflection in the mirror.  None of his shirts seemed to fit right - they were either too loose or too tight, too short or too long and every one of them made him look like the almost middle aged, sedentary, balding man that he was.  Cursing in Czech (curses always sounded better in Czech - something he had learned in his last job - in another life), he ripped open the grey button down he had been considering and threw it violently on the bed atop the dozen other discarded shirts and pants.

He should just cancel, say that he had come down with a terrible case of malaria or something, that sounded plausible right?  

Rodney tried cursing again but it had lost its luster, the truth of the matter staring him in the face - he didn’t want to cancel.  Oh boy, did he not want to cancel but he wasn’t good at this - this socialising thing.  (Even in his head he refused to call it a date, no matter how much he wanted it to be one).  There was only one thing left that he could do.  

Swallowing his pride, Rodney slumped his shoulders, flopped down onto his bed, and braced himself.  “Jeannie?” he called out.

“Yes, Mer?”  Jeannie’s blonde curls and easy smile appeared in his doorway almost immediately, as if she had been hovering close by, just waiting to step in to help.  Rodney glared at her.  Who was he kidding?  That was exactly what his sister had been doing.

“Help me.”  He tried to make it sound like an order but Rodney knew it came out sounding more like begging no matter how high he angled his chin.  Jeannie didn’t seem to mind either way and flounced into the room, her long skirt swishing in her hurry to paw through his wardrobe.

“What kind of restaurant are you going to?” she asked as she started gathering random bits of clothing in her arms.

“A steakhouse,” he said, crossing his arms defensively.  His default setting for his sister had long ago stuck itself on self-fortification and this was no exception.  

“OK, good choice,” Jeannie hummed in approval.  “Not too romantic but still special, not your everyday meal out.  And not much chance of the menu being riddled with citrus.  You told him that you were allergic to citrus, right?”

Rodney rolled his eyed.  “Who do you think you’re talking to?  Of course I told him.”

“Well, excuse me, Mer,” Jeannie snapped sarcastically.  “But you’ve been gone on this guy since he came into your studio six weeks ago. Forgive me if I thought that maybe you might have been too overcome by emotion when he asked you out to mention it.”

Rodney pulled the floral monstrosity of a shirt that Jeannie was holding up against him out of her hands.  Seriously, why did he even have that in his wardrobe?  

“I am not some insipid heroine in your harlequin romance novels,” he snapped right back, waving the shirt at her.  “I was not overcome by emotion or dizzy with passion when he asked me out - I’m a man.  A manly man who does not wear flowers, understood?  Besides,” he sighed, “it’s not even a date.  It’s a business arrangement.”

Jeannie cocked her eyebrow at him.  “You realise that makes you sound like a hooker, right?  Or is he the Julia Roberts in this scenario?  I mean, you’re no Richard Gere but - -”  

“Oh my God, why did I ever agree to live with you again?” Rodney threw his hands up in frustration, floral shirt flapping in agreement.  

“Because I’m your sister and you love me,” she smirked.  “Now, put this one on with the dark jeans.”  

Rodney frowned at the blue shirt that Jeannie threw at him.  He was sure that he’d tried that one on earlier and it had been firmly in the too tight pile, or was it the too boring pile?  

“Trust me,”  Jeannie said seriously.  “I want you to be happy, Mer.  I’m not going to steer you wrong on this.”

“It’s not a date,” Rodney grumbled as he pushed his arms through the shirt.  

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

“Don’t you have a daughter to go and bug somewhere?” Rodney sniped.

Jeannie punched him on the shoulder as she left the room.  Honestly, sometimes he felt that living together had turned them both into fourteen year olds again but it had been necessary.  Rodney didn't like to think about what might have happened if Jeannie and Madison hadn’t moved in with him when he left Nevada, how he’d probably be the furthest from this moment he possibly could be.  

Blinking, Rodney pushed the burgeoning memories out of his mind and concentrating on buttoning his shirt correctly.  

Huh.  He looked in the mirror at the finished picture, turning to the left and then right as he tucked in the pockets on his jeans.  Not half bad at all.  Just one last - -

“Meredith Rodney McKay, don’t you even think about tucking that shirt in!”  Jeannie’s head poked around the doorframe, grinning.  “Save showing off your ass for the second date, you hussy.  And, you’re welcome by the way.”

Rodney had to admit that he did look good, the jeans elongating his legs and the shirt tight across his broad shoulders but forgiving elsewhere, kicking the blue of his eyes up a notch.  

“Fine, thank you,” he grumbled, reaching for his wallet and keys.  “And, by the way, it’s not a date!”

OK, maybe it was a date.

John had been waiting outside the restaurant when he arrived, looking way out of Rodney's league in a plum coloured shirt, leather jacket and a pair of soft looking Levi's that hugged his legs in a very distracting way.  The strange thing was, it had been John looking at him like he'd just won the dating lottery, his hazel eyes darkened to a hazy brown as he looked appreciatively at Rodney's blue shirt and dark jeans on their way into the restaurant.

Couple that with the soft smile and the complete disinterest John had shown in the redhead that had come to take their order and Rodney had to admit that Jeannie might have been right.   Possibly.  There was really only one way to be sure.

"So," Rodney cleared his throat, "I, uh, I worked on a few more ideas for your ink this afternoon but - - "

"Rodney,"  John leaned over the table and placed his hand over Rodney's own. "You know that this isn't a business thing, right?  I mean, yes, I'm still very interested in one of your tattoos but, this is a date.  You knew that, right?"

"Of course I knew that," Rodney blustered, internally cursing the way his cheeks heated up.  He knew that he was probably flushed a bright florid red right about now.  "I'm the smartest man in this galaxy, you know."

John wasn't buying it, could see through him more easily than anyone Rodney had ever met, but he seemed happy to let Rodney pretend, for which Rodney was pathetically grateful.

"Smartest man in the galaxy, huh?  Do I get to hear the story of how the galaxy's smartest man ended up running a tattoo studio or is that more of a second date story?"

Rodney grimaced.  "That's more of a never story," he muttered as the waitress sat down their drinks.  He saw the flicker of disappointment on John's face and immediately felt like a tool.  John had been open enough - brave enough - to share his own story with Rodney back in his office and it didn't take the smartest man in the entire galaxy to realise that had been incredibly out of character for him.  It hit Rodney then that their knowledge of each other was incredibly one-sided.  Here he was, knowing things about John that he was willing to bet not even Teyla nor Ronon knew and John knew next to nothing about him in return.

Rodney took a swallow of his Molson for courage as he let his fingers tangle in John's across the table, the tactile sensation smoothing over some of his frayed nerves.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I don't like talking about it but it's only fair that we balance things out, right?"  He took a deep breath and another mouthful of Molson before setting the bottle down.  "Ask me anything."

John lightly squeezed Rodney's hand and Rodney knew he'd said the right thing - even if it might be hard for him.  John took a moment to think, a moment where Rodney just concentrated on the connection of their hands, until he seemed to settle on a question, looking seriously at Rodney.  “There is one thing I’ve been dying to know.  The flux capacitor; that would totally work, right?”

A bark of surprised laughter escaped Rodney at the ridiculousness of the question. John’s eyes shone with amusement in response, making him seem years younger and about twelve times more attractive.  Rodney grinned, taking another mouthful of beer before he leaned forward and pointed at John sharply.  “You asked for it, Sheppard,” he teased.  “Now, prepare to hear a list of twenty-six reasons why Doc Brown is the worst representation of a scientist ever committed to celluloid.”

They got kicked out of the restaurant at closing time and Rodney felt pleasantly buzzed and pleasantly full as the crisp night air hit his flushed face.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard or felt so comfortable with another person.  John’s laugh, which had been jarring and unexpected when he’d first heard it, had quickly become Rodney’s favourite sound in the whole wide world.  

He didn’t want the evening to end.

John tugged the collar up on his leather jacket and then did the same for Rodney’s own coat, his fingers casually brushing against the skin of Rodney’s neck and making him shiver in a way that the night air couldn’t.  

“I’d invite you back to my place,” he murmured, “but - -.” John trailed off and Rodney knew he was thinking about Ronon and Teyla.

“I, well, mine isn’t much of a better option.”

John raised his eyebrow in query.

“My sister and her kid,” Rodney explained.  “They live with me, or I live with them, it’s - it’s complicated.”  

John nodded and Rodney knew that he would be kind enough to leave it at that, to not push, but that weird imbalance of knowledge still hung between them and it wasn’t fair.  Rodney knew about John’s estrangement from his family, his reasons for both joining and getting kicked out of the Air Force and his fear of the unknown ahead of him.  Rodney sympathised, knowing what it felt like to have to start over again and John deserved to know that about him.  He deserved to know everything.  More than that, Rodney actually wanted him to know and he hadn’t experienced that feeling since...well, never.

“You don’t have to tell me,” John said, as if he was reading Rodney’s mind.  “I’m not gonna force you to - - “

“I know you wouldn’t,” Rodney said defensively - of John.  “But I want to, well, not want to but…”

There was a pause in which the chill of the night threatening to slip between them and Rodney made his decision.

“Do you want to come back to my studio?”

“Do I get the good coffee?”

“Always.”

John smiled at him and held out his hand.  “Then let’s go.”

Rodney’s studio looked just as ordinary at night as John watched him unlock the door, appreciating the way that his broad shoulders moved in the streetlights as he fumbled with the keys.  As far as first dates go, it had been pretty damn good.  John hadn’t been on one in a long time - not since Nancy - but he remembered them well enough to know that they weren’t usually this effortless.

The harsh fluorescent lighting kicked in as Rodney flipped a switch, making John blink as he stepped into the now familiar space.  

“Why don’t you go through to the consultation room and I’ll get the coffee?”

John smiled in agreement, peeling off his leather jacket as he headed into the room where he had bared his soul to Rodney all those weeks ago.

He laid his jacket over one of the stools and wandered around the room, taking the opportunity to really look at the pictures on the wall this time.  Now that he had a bit more time, he could see Ronon’s ink in one of the photographs, just below an intricately lined scarab beetle.  Rodney’s work really was incredible.  John had read article after article bemoaning the loss of Dr. McKay from the scientific community but, looking at the evidence of what he did now, John knew that science’s loss had been an incredible gain to the world of body art - even if he couldn’t fathom how anyone could make such a leap.

He heard Rodney push his way into the room and gratefully accepted a mug from him.  “Which one is your favourite?” John asked, nodding his head to the tattoos displayed on the wall around them as they both took a seat on separate stools.

“I never got a picture of my favourite,” Rodney replied.  “The client didn’t want anyone else to see it.  It was intensely personal and until you, the most trouble I’d ever had with a design.  But the end result was worth it.”

John scooted his stool closer to Rodney’s until they were knee to knee, all the better to see the attractive flush of red on Rodney’s skin.  “I told you,” he said.  “I’m not that complicated.  Hell, just give me a good old-fashioned skull and crossbones and I’ll be happy.”

“Don’t make me refer you to the place next to the strip joint again,” Rodney threatened.  “No, if you’re going to put something permanent on your body, it needs to be perfect.”

John watched Rodney stare down into his mug, his face awash with thought and in stark contrast to all of the sarcasm and humor John had experienced earlier.  “I’ll make it perfect for you John,” he said softly. “I promise.”

John wanted to kiss him so badly, to remove that look of worry from his face.  Instead, he contented himself with placing a warm hand on Rodney’s thigh, squeezing gently at the firm muscle underneath before rolling his stool back a few inches.

“Show me your tattoo?” he asked.  “I want to see what the perfect tattoo for Rodney McKay, double pHD, artist extraordinaire is.”

A flash of pain crossed Rodney’s face before he looked up and John thought he would refuse.  Rodney continued to surprise him though, setting down his mug to the side instead before moving to unbutton the blue shirt that did amazing things for his eyes.  John watched in a way that he hoped conveyed appreciation rather than acute allure as Rodney discarded the overshirt next to his mug.  He had a plain white tee-shirt on underneath and only hesitated for a moment before grabbing the hem and pulling it over his head.

John cast his eye over the pale skin of Rodney’s chest, his pink nipples standing at attention in the cool room.  God, John wanted to touch, to kiss, to lick, to suck but his motives changed as he moved his gaze to focus in on the dark ink over Rodney’s heart.

An equation.  John had no idea what it was for, the science of it a million light years beyond his ability, but from the look on Rodney’s face - the pain, the guilt - he knew it wasn’t anything good.

“What does it mean?” he asked, watching as Rodney kept his back stiff, hands resting in fists on his knees as he flexed his thumbs over and over again

"Nothing good," Rodney answered.  "When we were in here before you told me - - you told me about how hard it was to think about all the people you'd killed in the service."

John nodded, feeling that edge of guilt wash over himself.  Rodney was the only person he'd ever spoken of that with.  Ronon would get it - John knew that he had his own shadows from several tours to deal with, but for one reason or another, Rodney had been the one John decided to confide this feeling in.  He didn't understand, though, why Rodney was bringing that up now.  This was supposed to be about Rodney.

"This equation - - my equation..." Rodney trailed off.  "I know what it's like to have a body count John.  A big one.  Too big."

"A weapon?" John asked cautiously.

"It wasn't supposed to be.  But...yes.  I couldn't let them do that again.  Use my work like that, use me like that...so I left that world, moved up here and got this,"  Rodney traced the ink on his chest with a shaky hand, "so I would never forget that my work, this, that it could be taken from me and used in ways that it was never supposed to.  I won’t let that happen again.”

John couldn't stand the tremor in Rodney's voice, couldn't stand the guilt in his eyes, and pushed himself forward until he was sat in the open space between Rodney's legs.  Gently, he dragged the pad of his thumb across the equation, the penance, on Rodney's chest, feeling the raised skin where the ink had healed in stark contrast to what surrounded it.  

"The military?" he asked softly, brow furrowed as he felt a tightness forming in his own chest.

Rodney nodded and John's heart hurt for him.

"Thank you," he said.  Answering Rodney's quizzical look, he elaborated.  "For telling me.  For trusting me."

Rodney ducked his head and John could see that the embarrassed flush of colour on his cheeks spread all the way down his chest and across his shoulders in patches. "Same to you," he said, haltingly.  "I, can I kiss you now?"
John smiled as he lifted Rodney's chin, meet his eyes briefly before bringing his lips forward to find Rodney's own.  "I think that can be arranged."

Rodney tasted of coffee and the chocolate mousse that he'd had for dessert and John melted into him, deciding then and there that he could never get enough.  He hummed in approval as Rodney's long fingers started to quickly pick at the buttons of his shirt, slipping over them in their haste.

Breaking the kiss, Rodney pulled back so he could concentrate better on the task at hand and John used the distraction to press his mouth against Rodney’s neck.  Strangely, he tasted of coffee there, too, like the caffeine was seeping from his pores but underneath it all was still the salty, perfect taste of skin.

Rodney gasped as John's teeth scraped at his pulse point and John grinned to himself as Rodney finally pushed the plum shirt off John's shoulders.

“Oh my God,” Rodney sounded horrified and John immediately pulled back, surprised and half panicked.

“What the hell, Rodney?”  John fought the urge to cover up, to hide the scars that marred his right side.

“No, no, keep doing that,” Rodney begged.  “And it’s not what you think, I just, I was - -” he gestured helplessly at John's chest.  “Do you know how much of a hassle shaving you to do your tattoo is going to be?”

John laughed in relief, resting his forehead against Rodney's shoulder.  “Jesus Christ, Rodney.”

“What?” he defended.  “You're really hairy, it's a legitimate concern.”

“Can we get back to the kissing?”

“I'm not the one who stopped!”

“Never change, Rodney.  Never change.”

Waking up on the sticky pleather of Rodney's waiting room couch was a wholly unpleasant feeling. But, waking up with Rodney's warm back pressed against him, the other man trapped between John and the back of the couch, made it all worth it.  Well, at least John thought so.

"Oh my God, I'll never walk again," Rodney groaned as he shifted, back cracking with little effort.  "Why the hell did I think falling asleep here was a good idea?"

"It was good for me too, Rodney," John drawled, his free hand idly running along the soft curve of Rodney’s belly.

"Yes, yes.  You're a sex God and we're definitely doing that again but in a bed next time.   God, I need coffee ."

John snorted, planting a kiss on the back of Rodney’s neck before he rolled off the couch and padded towards the consulting room to find his boxers.  Pulling them on, he moved towards the small kitchenette and started the coffee.

For someone who had made a show of complaining about the couch and his back, Rodney looked surprisingly blissful and undisturbed when John came back, two hot cups of the good coffee in his hands.

"I might have to keep you around," Rodney murmured appreciatively into his cup, sitting up on the couch.

"That a promise?" John teased, leaning back as he lazily draped an arm behind Rodney.

Rodney set his mug down on one of the magazines that lay haphazardly across the low table next to the couch and turned more fully towards John.  "I know we didn't talk about, well, intentions or anything last night but - "

John smiled reassuringly as he realised what the hell Rodney was rambling about.  "I want to stick around," he promised.  "This wasn't a one time thing.  Not for me."

Rodney looked cautiously happy at his words and John couldn't resist leaning closer for another kiss.  "What are you doing tonight?" he asked.  

"Tonight?" Rodney sounded surprised.  "I, uh, well Jeannie has her monthly gathering of harridans and I've been harangued into watching Madison."  Rodney paled suddenly.  "Oh, God.  Jeannie.  She's gonna know I was out all night and she's... oh God, she's going to be unbearable ."

John chuckled, watching Rodney drop his head into his hands at the idea.  "Madison, that's your niece right?  Do you think Jeannie would mind if I kept you guys company?"

"Why would you want to do that?" he asked incredulously as he looked up from his hands.  John stared at him, deadpanned for a long moment, allowing the silence to hopefully bring clarity to the scientist but none came.

"You know, for a guy with two PhDs, you're not very smart.”  Rodney still looked entirely dumbfounded, causing John to sigh despite the smile tugging at his lips.  “So I can spend time with you, idiot."

"Oh," Rodney had the same cautiously pleased look on his face.  "That would be...I'd like that."

"What time should I be at your place?"

Rodney looked at the clock and jumped up from the couch, almost knocking John’s cup onto the floor.  "It's already 11!" he exclaimed.  "I have to get dressed.  I have a client coming in at half past." Rodney frantically stomped around the room looking for his clothes, throwing the blanket he had been wrapped in carelessly over the armrest.

John rescued the almost empty coffee cups and rinsed them out while Rodney hopped around with one leg in his jeans, nearly face planting as his knee connected with an errant stool.  He set the coffee machine up again and managed to finish dressing himself in a much calmer manner.

"I'll get out of your hair," John said, picking up his jacket.

"What?" Rodney looked adorably ruffled and unkempt in last night’s clothes and John couldn't help but smile, helping to smooth out some of the wrinkles.  "You're still coming tonight though, right?"

"Just give me a time," John smiled.  "I'll be there."

"Six?" Rodney offered.  "You could eat dinner with me and the brat?  It'll be vegan crap but with enough hot sauce it's almost palatable."

"Sounds awful; I wouldn't miss it."  John pulled him close and licked his way into Rodney's mouth, the strong coffee flavour obscuring the morning breath that neither had been able to brush away.  He had meant it to be an intense but quick goodbye, however the moment insisted on enduring, John’s hands running up Rodney’s broad back, his hips canting forward to press them back into the kitchen counter. John felt Rodney’s hands skirt under his untucked shirt, running idly over his hipbones and sides before tracing the skin at the edge of his jeans.  For a moment, John forgot that the world could still spin without this feeling.

A sudden rapping at the studio door broke them apart, both gasping for a breath before Rodney, flushed red and dishevelled, scrambled to unlock the door.

Rodney's 11.30 client was a clean cut looking man, probably a few years younger than John himself with no visible tattoos.  He cocked an amused eyebrow at them, eyes darting up to take in the state of Rodney’s hair.  "Am I interrupting something, Doc?" he asked.

John watched as Rodney's professional, put together facade slammed into place - the same grumpy and arrogant facade that John had seen that first day so many weeks ago - and was surprised to realise that he could see right through it now.  He bet that most people didn't ever look hard or long enough to be able to do that.

"That's what happens when you show up fifteen minutes before our appointment, Lorne.  I've got half a mind to leave you sitting outside in the cold."

Lorne, whoever he was, was obviously used to the McKay treatment, walking right into the studio with little thought of the threat.  He rolled his eyes and, after carefully looking at the couch, pointedly chose to lean against Rodney's counter.  "So, do I get a coffee or..."

Rodney snapped his fingers towards the room that he had tattooed Ronon in yesterday.  "Take your shirt off and get into position.  If you've followed my instructions and not ruined the work that I did last week, then you'll get a coffee."

Lorne complied with a lazy salute, causing John to smirk, and Rodney grabbed a dishcloth to wipe the stains off the couch as soon as the door closed.

"I'm sorry for pushing you out," Rodney began, his personality switching back from professional.

"Forget it," John said, waving it off.  "It's fine.  Six o'clock?"

Rodney nodded. "Six o'clock."  He cast a quick look at the door Lorne had disappeared behind before giving John a quick peck on the lips.  "And bring Madison a present.  It's a rule."

John let Rodney push him out the door, suddenly very distracted as he wondered what the hell he was supposed to gift a six year old girl he'd never met before.

The door of Rodney's house swung open with a bang just as John opened the gate and a small blonde six-year-old girl, or possibly a Tasmanian devil with pigtails, came racing down the path towards him.

"Are you my new Uncle?! Did you bring me a present?  My Mum said that you had better not hurt my Uncle Mer or she’ll kill you but then she yelled at him not to hurt you either so I don't know who to be mad at.  You have really funny hair.  Is it as funny all across your body?  Uncle Mer says you have a lot of it, especially on your chest, but other places, too."

John wasn't proud of it, but for just a second he seriously considered turning right around, walking back to the sidewalk, getting into Ronon's car and driving back to his basement apartment as the sudden realization washed over him of  just how little experience he had with kids.  He shot a panicked glance to the front door but he felt himself relax at what his eyes found.  Rodney was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in a soft looking, washed out black t-shirt, faded jeans and bare feet, hands stuffed into his pockets with a caring, lopsided smirk stretched across his face.  

Looking at him, John felt the tension in his shoulders release and knew he didn't want to be anywhere else.  He tore his eyes away from Rodney's broad shoulders and grinned down at the whirlwind that was - he hoped - Madison.

"I think it's a bit early to call me your new Uncle," he began, "so why don't you just call me John.  And yes, I got you a present."  Madison squealed excitedly, causing John to chuckle.  "I promise I won't hurt your Uncle...Mer?"  John looked quizzically at Rodney who shook his head in defeat and John knew there was a story there.  Grinning, he continued.  "And your Uncle Mer won't hurt me either so you don't have to be mad at anybody and, for the record, my hair is not funny ."

"It is so," Madison insisted, an oddly familiar McKay defiance appearing on her face.

Rodney shrugged as John looked at him for support.  "She's got a point.  Now, bratlett, get back inside and set the table.  If you're done by the time we get in, John will give you his present."

Madison raced back inside, her blonde pigtails trailing behind her, and Rodney sighed.

"You sure you still want to come in?" he asked skeptically.

"Try and stop me."

When John had told Ronon and Teyla that he was planning to spend the night helping Rodney look after his six-year-old niece, Ronon had found the idea of McKay interacting with any kid, even his own family, hilarious.  Even Teyla had restricted her comment to a diplomatic 'that will be interesting.'  John couldn't exactly blame them - he had a hard time imagining Rodney in the role of Uncle himself but within minutes of entering the McKay-Miller household, he knew that they'd - all of them - been completely wrong.

Madison clearly doted on Rodney and it was just as obvious how much Rodney, or Mer (he was going to get to the bottom of that if it killed him), cared about her.  It was obvious in a million ways, not least of which was Rodney's willingness to eat a vegan meal to cater to Madison’s preference.  Dinner was as tasteless as Rodney had warned him it would be but John still counted it as one of the best meals he'd had in a long time, if only for the company.

Rodney refused John's offer to do the dishes after they were done eating and instead badgered Madison to pull out her little stepstool and dry while Rodney washed.  It was ridiculously domestic and John felt something  that still remembered tented mess halls and spartan bunks settle a bit further down, a bit deeper inside.

"Are you gonna get one of Uncle Mer's tattoos, John?" Madison asked from her spot at the sink.

"I hope so," John answered.  "If your Uncle Mer can settle on a design."

Rodney rolled his eyes and John wasn't sure whether it was in reaction to the teasing dig about the tattoo design or his use of 'Mer'.

"But the design part's really important!" Madison insisted.  "If you don't get that right then you're stuck with something you might not like later!"  John got the feeling that this was a rant that she had heard from Rodney many times before.  "That's why Uncle Mer only ever uses markers for my tattoos, so's I don't get stuck with something I won't like when I'm older."

"Yes," Rodney said sarcastically, " that's why I only use markers on you - it's nothing to do with you only being six years old."

Madison stuck her tongue out at Rodney and John chuckled.

"What kind of marker tattoos does he draw for you?" he asked.

Madison threw her dish towel on the counter in a hurry, Rodney only just managing to save it from landing in the sink as she hopped off her stool and pushed the sleeve of her red Hello Kitty shirt up hastily.

John glanced down at the little arm and then tipped his head back in  a full on donkey bray of a laugh, Madison giggling in response.  

"Star Trek, Rodney? Really?"  

"What?  She likes it.  Tell him, Madison."

Madison nodded seriously.  "Uhura's really pretty and I like the grumpy doctor."

John grinned.  "Yeah, the grumpy doctor's not bad, is he?"

"What sort of tattoo are you gonna do for John, Uncle Mer?  Is he the one you were drawing those bubble things for?"

John raised his eyebrow, eyes darting over to Rodney who was concentrating far too hard on the dishes left in the sink.  Bubble things?  John’s curiosity was thoroughly peaked but he could see the conversation was making Rodney uncomfortable so he changed the subject instead.  

"So, who wants to see what present I bought?"

The hula hoop John pulled out of the back seat of Ronon's car may have made Rodney groan but it did the job he'd bought it for and it was just past 7.30 when Rodney returned from tucking an exhausted Madison into bed.

"You," Rodney pointed at John as he padded into the kitchen, "are a genius."  

John heard him root around in the fridge for a moment before walking back into the living room with two cold bottles of beer in his hand.  Passing one to John, he collapsed on the couch next to him.

"How long do we have before your sister comes home?" he asked.

Rodney huffed around a mouthful of beer.  "She always says she intends to be out until the bars close but I've never seen her make it past 11 yet.  Actually, with you here I'm betting she'll make it home a bit earlier.  Ten, maybe?"

John smiled.  "She gave you hell for staying out all night, huh?"

"Like you wouldn't believe.  What about you?  I know Chewie would have had something to say."

John shook his head.  "The basement flat has its own entrance.  Neither of them noticed that I didn't come back."

Rodney huffed. "So unfair."

John leaned over and gently kissed the slight pout on Rodney's face.  He broke the kiss quickly, all too aware of the sleeping six-year-old upstairs.

"So," he drawled.  "I don't know where to start.  Mer?  Or bubble drawings?"

"Oh God," Rodney sighed.  "Fine."  He sat up a bit straighter, pointing a finger into John’s chest.  "You tell Ronon this and I will make you wish you had never been born, OK?  I'm serious.  I have serious computer skills, OK?  You'll never be able to get credit again."

"I promise." John swore as he bit down on a smile.  "Now, spill."

Rodney hesitated for a long moment and John noticed his thumbs flexing nervously, again.

"Rodney's my middle name,” he finally confessed. “For reasons that I could never quite figure out, my parents felt like it was a good idea to name me Meredith."

John sputtered on his drink.  "Meredith?"  He looked Rodney up and down.  "You definitely don't look like a Meredith ."

"And that just proves that you're not quite as idiotic as your hair would suggest," Rodney toasted him with his beer.

"Hey," John pouted, hand coming up to pat the top of his head.  "Leave the hair alone.  I see where Madison gets it."  Rodney looked strangely pleased at that and John smiled.  "She's great, you know.  It's pretty obvious she loves you."

Rodney picked at the label of his Molson.  "I barely knew her when she and Jeannie moved in," he said.  "Kaleb - Jeannie's husband, Madison's Dad - he died not long before the whole...equation thing...happened.  I moved up here not long after and it made sense for Jeannie and the bratlett to move in with me.  She couldn't keep the house on her own and - -"

"You're a good brother," John assured him.  "A good uncle."

"Now, maybe,” Rodney insisted.  “I definitely wasn't before."

John sat back on the couch, taking in the width and breadth of Rodney's back as he sat hunched over, staring at his beer.  "Before doesn't matter, Rodney.  What matters is now."

Rodney looked back at him, staring for a moment until the worry melted into soft affection.  "Now's pretty good," he agreed.

John pulled him back by the shoulders until they were both leaning against each other on the couch.  "It's getting there," he said.  "Definitely."

Rodney shifted his back, getting comfortable, and settled against John, his warmth seeping into John's skin; he has noticed last night that Rodney was like a furnace and tonight was no different.  Thinking about those events was causing John's mind to wander into areas that were not really appropriate when there was a kid who could burst downstairs any minute and a sister who could interrupt any second.

He did the only sensible thing and changed the subject.  

"So, tattooing?  How'd that happen?"

Rodney rolled his eyes.  "I swear, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked that," he scoffed.

"You gotta admit, it's not the most obvious career change."

Rodney hummed in agreement, the vibration spreading into John’s chest.  "Honestly, it was an accident.  After I moved up here from Nevada, Jeannie and I got drunk off our asses one night and ended up in - -"

"The tattoo shop down by the strip joint," John interrupted with a wicked grin.  He'd never stop finding that hilarious.

" Yes, there ."  Rodney sighed.  "You know what I got and Jeannie got some stupid song lyric and, you know, there's a reason that I refuse to tattoo drunk people.  Anyway, Jeannie's tattoo ended up infected, nothing too serious thankfully, but it was so soon after Kaleb and everything in Nevada that I just kind of went into heavy research mode and...never really stopped, you know?  The next logical step was to apply all of that research so I started learning how to actually ink."

"And it stuck," John guessed.

"Obviously.  It's been about two years now and - it's not the same as science, nothing ever will be, but..."

"Yeah," John said softly.  "I get that.  I still have no idea what the hell I'm gonna do.  You don't need an apprentice do you?"

Rodney reached out and took John's beer from his hand, sitting up so they were facing head on, his blue eyes serious.  "You'll figure it out," he said earnestly.  "Jesus, John, you've got the whole world at your feet.  You could go back to school and get your PhD or you could...you know, flying isn't necessarily over for you.  There are so many organizations who would love to have someone with your skills, no matter what those dicks in the military say.  I mean, you could do...you could..." Rodney broke off, realizing he was rambling and not at all getting to his point.  He sighed as he gathered his thoughts.  " Your life isn't over ," he said quietly, eyes still filled with sincerity.

John felt impossibly tall under Rodney's gaze, like he could do anything, and it made his heart hurt.  It had been so long since someone believed in him like that, so passionately and completely.  In fact, John wasn’t sure if anyone had ever really had that kind of faith in him.  It was scary as all hell yet it was also incredibly freeing - like discovering the sky all over again.

"To new beginnings," he said, clinking the tops of the bottles together as he leaned forward to press a warm, lingering kiss to Rodney’s lips, pulling only slightly back afterwards.  "And what better way to celebrate a new beginning than with a new tattoo."

 Rodney groaned, breaking the seriousness of the moment, and John poked him in the stomach with his free hand as he smirked.  "Come on, Mer ," he teased.  "What are these bubble drawings that Madison was talking about, huh?"

"Fine, flyboy,” he sighed, letting John take his bottle back.  “Do you know what bubble chambers are?"

John thought for a moment, trying to think back to his college physics classes.  "They were chambers filled with liquid nitrogen, right?  Used to detect the movement of particles?"

"Oh God, it's really hot that you know that." John smirked slyly, finishing off his beer as Rodney shook his head, as if to put his mind back on track.  "They produced these photographic read outs of how the particles moved and, well I guess even when I was an undergrad I had some artistic tendencies because I always thought that they could be sort of beautiful." Rodney blushed, like the thought of finding science beautiful was something to be laughed at.  "I always kind of liked the idea that an impartial tracking of a particle's movement, seeing where it started and where it went, could create these beautiful images that were more than just a map, y'know?"

John didn't know.  He'd used up all of his knowledge on bubble chambers in the two sentence answer he'd given Rodney.  He might have seen what Rodney was talking about at one point but somewhere in twenty years of military drills and dogfights, he'd forgotten.  But Rodney was so animated and enthusiastic, in a way that he hadn't been about the dozens of other incredible designs he'd dismissed out of hand yesterday, that John was excited, too.

"Show me," he said.

Rodney frowned.  "I'd have to get my tablet but - "

"No," John interrupted, setting down his empty bottle before starting to unbutton his shirt.  "Show me."  Rodney still wasn't getting it and John sighed as he nodded his head at Madison's markers that were spilled all over a small child sized table in the corner.

"You want me to draw on you?" Rodney squeaked.

" Now he gets it."

Rodney took a deep breath and stood up.  He walked over to the table and grabbed both a blue and black marker.  Impatiently, he gestured for John to hurry up and take off his shirt.  John was happy to comply, smirking in a way that made Rodney both blush and roll his eyes.  Bare chested, he stood up from the couch and placed himself in front of Rodney.

"I really will have to shave you when I do this for real," Rodney cautioned.  

A strange shiver of anticipation danced down John's spine at the thought of Rodney's hands on him like that.

"Oh my god, you freak ," Rodney teased.  "You like that!"

"You bring out my freaky side," John shrugged, hips waggling slightly.  "Come on, it doesn't have to be perfect, just show me what you're talking about."

Rodney bristled.  "My work is always perfect," he insisted.  

"Rodney, come on.  Preferably before I die of old age."

John watched with rapt attention as a focused professionalism settle over Rodney, first directing John into the best light.  His hands trailed lightly over the soft skin of John's stomach, hesitating ever so slightly as they edged against the scar tissue of John's right side.  John knew that Rodney had seen those scars before - after last night there wasn't much of John he hadn't seen - but his focus, his touch, made John self conscious.  He twitched under Rodney's hand.

"Sorry," Rodney apologised.  

John choked on the assurance that it was OK as he watched Rodney settle onto his knees in front of him.  Rodney grinned up at him, fully aware of the effect he was having.  "I'm going to start here," he said matter-of-factly, tracing his finger over the skin just above John's left hip.

John swallowed, trying to force the spike of want that flared at Rodney's touch, at Rodney on his knees, down.  The first scratch of ink against his skin made him gasp and flinch away from Rodney's hold.

“Tickles,” he murmured.  

Rodney’s mouth twitched upward in a smirk.  “I'm filing that fact away for later,” he said.  He moved the marker back to John's skin and traced a line up from John's hip and along his ribcage before looping it back in on itself.  “It's all about the journey,” he said as he went, voice low and serious.  “The particles bounce around, sometimes forging new paths, sometimes retreading places they've been before.”  John shivered as the ink and Rodney's hands traced along a patch of sensitive skin just below his nipple.  “I'm filing that one away, too,” Rodney told him before continuing with his work - which John was sure was less about showing him his idea and more about driving John mad at this point.  

"We do that too,” Rodney continued as he drew a calculated swirl parallel with John’s belly button, “bounce around, sometimes taking old familiar paths, sometimes trying somewhere new.  And sometimes, while you're still in the middle of the journey it can look chaotic or meaningless or even inconsequential but,” Rodney leaned back on his heels for a moment and surveyed his work, smiling.  “But the end result can be something incredibly beautiful, no matter how many detours you take along the way.” John nodded slowly, letting himself get lost in the sensations of felt tips and fingerprints along his skin, enjoying the sight of Rodney on his knees in front of him.  He wasn’t paying attention to the lines the markers were making anymore - he trusted Rodney and his vision, knowing that Rodney was creating something perfect -  just for him.  

After what felt like hours, Rodney got up from his knees with only mild protest before stroking his hand over the black and blue lines on John's skin, satisfied.  John let himself be gently turned to face the mirror hanging above the fireplace.  “What do you think?”  Rodney asked.

John looked at the marks Rodney had made on him and took in a breath.  They were beautiful, a cascade of loops and circles and lines that came together to form...something.  John couldn't decide whether it was Ferris wheels or the abstract spires of an alien skyline but he could see something very important in the pattern that Rodney had drawn.  He traced his fingers lightly along them, following the path Rodney had talked about before.  Maybe it was hope he saw there.  

John caught Rodney's eye in the mirror.  He looked uncharacteristically nervous and John turned, looking him in the eyes face on as he placed his hands on Rodney’s solid biceps.  “I want this,” he said, a bit breathless.  

Rodney sagged slightly in relief.  “Oh thank god, I'm booked up all next week but I can - -”

John broke Rodney’s words with a kiss.  “I'm not talking about the tattoo,” he said.  “Not just the tattoo anyway.”

Rodney huffed impatiently, annoyed at the change of subject.  “You've got this already, you've had this from the minute you walked into my shop.  But that was when I thought you weren't stupid.  Now, do you want me to do the tattoo or not?”

John rolled his eyes and pushed Rodney down onto the couch, moving down with him until he was straddling Rodney's lap.  “Yes, I want the damn tattoo.  Now, can you shut up and let me kiss you?”

Rodney shut up.

John locked the door of his new truck, a beat up old pick-up that was beautiful just for the fact that it was his, not Ronon's, and walked the short distance to Rodney's tattoo studio.  Today was the day.  Almost three months after meeting Rodney for the first time, almost four weeks after their first date, John was finally getting his tattoo.

Rodney was waiting for him, bouncing on his heels just inside the doorway, nervous excitement rolling off him.  John evidently wasn't moving fast enough for him, Rodney’s hand molesting his jacket ashe pulled John into the waiting area and locked the door behind him.

“Have you opened it yet?  What does it say?”

John shook his head and pulled the crumpled envelope out of his jacket pocket.  Today was a big day for more than one reason.  

“I wanted to wait,” John said.  “This is as much down to you as it is to me.”

Rodney scoffed.  “Please,” he said.  “While I'm usually happy to take the credit for genius, this was all you.  Now, c’mon, open it.  We don't have all day.”

John hesitated, the envelope suddenly feeling like a lead weight.  What if it wasn't the news he was hoping for?  What if - -

“Hey!” John complained as Rodney tore the envelope out of his hand.

“You're too slow,” Rodney sniped.  “And you're being ridiculous.  Ridiculous people forfeit their right to open envelopes.”

John watched with apprehension as Rodney made quick work of the envelop, tossing it aimlessly towards the trash bin before he unfolded the paper inside.  Rodney’s eyes skimmed the letter the tension still in his shoulders that belied his casual dismissal of John's worries.

Those same shoulders relaxed in increments as Rodney read further on and John knew that it was good news before the smile even broke out on Rodney's face.

“I got in?”  John could barely believe it.

Rodney thrust the letter at him, eyes shining.  “You got in,” he confirmed.  “I knew you would.”

John whooped, speed reading the letter before pulling Rodney in for a crushing hug.   He’d got in .  He was going back to school, he had a truck of his very own, a part time job flying the search and rescue helicopter for the local ranger service….and he had Rodney.  He had his life back. .  This wasn't where John had ever thought he'd end up but he knew, deep down in his soul he knew that this was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He broke the hug, still grinning ear to ear, and pulled Rodney towards the door on the left. He'd waited long enough - today was all about new starts, and it was only fitting that his new start would begin in the same place that he'd first began to believe it was even possible.

“I'm ready,” he said, stripping off his shirt to reveal the smooth, waxed skin beneath, settling himself back onto Rodney's work station.  “Tattoo me already.”

John felt his excitement build as Rodney started setting up, sterilising the area and snapping on the rubber gloves that had taken a starring role in John's fantasies.  

“One last chance to back out,” Rodney said eventually, tattoo machine in hand.  

John shook his head and pulled Rodney down into a quick kiss.  “I trust you,” he said.

Rodney leant down and returned the gesture, pressing a gentle kiss against John's lips.  “I'll make it perfect,” he promised before settling himself back onto his stool.  He took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before breathing out and switching his mind fully on the art and the canvas in front of himself.

The whirr of the tattoo machine filled the room and John managed to stop the words from tripping out, (too sappy by far and sure to be mocked for eternity if they were spoken out loud) but he couldn't stop the thought from flitting through his head.

‘You already have.’