Rodney hated the movie Beetlejuice. Implausibility on implausibility. The only thing he liked about it were that words said three times meant something, unlocked portals and dimensions. Though he knew it wouldn't work, he'd tried the, "home, home, home," multiple times in multiple places in Pegasus.
He laid down on the block of wood Ford and his boys called a bed, trying to sleep, enzyme coursing through his system, his body basically throwing a non-stop party, complete with stoners, drunks, and acid droppers.
"Equilibrium, equilibrium, equilibrium," he said to the mostly dark room, the only light coming from the open doorway.
He was twitchy and tense and felt ludicrously tactile. He turned on his side and petted the board beneath him, following it's lines and flaws.
Then, above him, stood John Sheppard, slight frown, messy hair, and a soft, questioning, "Are you okay?"
Rodney wanted to touch him, to touch the man's own lines and flaws, compare them to the board, see if anything like a solution to their captivity could come from it. A voice in the back of his mind said there would also be curves and chaotic formations and electricity, and he longed desperately to reach out after that.
He flicked his eyes back to the board. Don't touch John, he told himself. He attempted to blink the want away, but....
He dragged his eyes back to John, who was leaning slightly toward him, frown still in place.
"I... I have to..." Rodney started.
Then his hand moved from the board to John's leg. His fingers lightly caressed the fabric, then pressed and kneaded into the thigh, where there was warmth and skin beneath. He moved his hand higher up, nearly reached the hip, when John's breath hitched, and the man leaned down, asked a question.
Rodney, after his hand was not shoved away, knew he had permission, and was busy making formulas and calculations and gathering variables, so he just nodded absently, and employed both hands, one headed under John's shirt, one toward the front of his pants. John was hard. He groaned and shuddered, and moved quickly on to the bed, hovering over Rodney. Just as quick, he pushed against him, kept pushing until Rodney's calculations crystallized and froze and shattered, and he didn't even feel the slightest remorse.
There was a blaze in his perception, a sweet explosion, breaths harsh beside his ear, and then they were both still.
When John's lips touched his own, Rodney said against the wet and warm lips, "John, John, John."
The end