With Replacement - posted in LJ

[zelempa]

tianostra pointed out that there are some very good accessibility type reasons why some readers prefer to have things in lj, rather than off-site, if at all possible. Since my most recent story is short enough, I've reposted it under the cut for anyone who prefers not to surf elsewhere.

For those of you who've already read it at my site: nothing new here, sorry.

What? Not for a challenge? That has to be a mistake.

Many thanks to my betas: janedavitt, whose suggestions at a crucial point changed the course of events for the one million times better; kimberlyfdr, whose gentle insistence on certain important changes, even when I initially did the bad-writer thing of brushing her off, "Ehhh, it's good enough," of course led to improvement; and to yolsaffbridge, who helped with everything.

Should you wish to comment, check out the announcement post here.

*

Rodney had ranked the hypothetical scenarios leading to sex with Colonel Sheppard according to likelihood. It wasn't something that he had set out to do; he hadn't cleared an afternoon and sat down with a calculator and a Kama Sutra, or anything. It was just one of those accomplishments, like his math degree, that had mysteriously materialized while he was working on more important things. On his ordered list, "alien ritual" was number one, and hovering near the bottom, along with "ancient device which turns gay people straight and straight people gay (presumably leaving bisexuals as-are)", was "Sheppard wanders into my room out of the blue and says 'Fuck me'". Rodney was aware, however, that the probabilities in question were minute, and none of it--not the alien ritual, and certainly not "Fuck me"--was actually going to happen.

He had never gotten anything so very wrong.

It happened like this. Rodney was lying in bed, drained. The adrenaline was wearing off, and his body was beginning to ache. He had just gotten back from being nearly burned alive in a series of volcanic explosions on M4X1L2. He'd held up the shields on the ancient outpost just long enough to get the frightened natives herded through the stargate, and Lorne had only barely managed to tackle him onto the floor of the Atlantis gateroom before they were showered with rocks and ash from the other side and someone yelled "Close the gate, now!" Rodney got up so dazed he didn't even finish snapping at Lorne for attacking him. He just turned, stumbled off to his room, threw himself on the bed, and wondered if he had the energy to get up and update the gate database: M4X1L2: Gate destroyed.

He found a semi-unwrapped powerbar on his nightstand, and decided that all non-snack and/or nap-related tasks could wait. But then he remembered the refugees, and he hauled himself up. At that moment, the door slid open, and there was Sheppard.

Rodney groaned as he opened his laptop. "Don't tell me you want to go to the shooting range now. Target practice can wait, okay? Did you hear I nearly got blown to bits?" He plopped back down on the bed with the computer. "You should've been there. Thrills, chills, a horrifying hellscape. You'd have loved it."

Sheppard said nothing, and when Rodney glanced at him, he looked--off, somehow. Rodney swallowed his giant bite of powerbar. "What's with you?"

"Nothing." His voice sounded weird, too. Scratchy. He smiled strangely.

Sheppard sat behind him and hovered over his shoulder, and that, at least, was normal. "Did you want something, or did you just come to make up for the annoying-me time you missed while you were off duty?" Rodney asked, glancing at him briefly. Then, because the last time he'd seen Sheppard, he'd had a black eye and a determinedly but poorly concealed limp, "Hey, didn't you used to be broken?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Got fixed. Wonders of technology. Whatcha doing?"

Rodney nodded at the map of the city on his screen. "Sealing off the labs and command stations in case our guests get curious."

"What, you think they're spies?"

"Go ahead, laugh, but just because they look like cowering idiots, doesn't mean they're harmless. Do the words 'Gen' and 'ii' mean anything to you?" Rodney secured the most vital doors with a few lines of code before looking up a second time. He was surprised to find Sheppard's face so close. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, as if he were a yoga instructor, or Teyla. Rodney mentally cursed him for being so close and so beautiful and so unattainable. He had that down to a science now, and it only took half a second to accomplish.

Rodney cleared his throat. "Are you... Did you want something?"

Sheppard opened his eyes, and Rodney felt a warm hand land solidly on his forearm. Rodney gulped, possibly audibly. Seriously, Colonel.

"You're here," said Sheppard, squeezing his arm.

"Of course I'm here," snapped Rodney. "It's my room. I don't know why you're here." Get out before I lose my ability to move the laptop.

And that was when the impossibly good-looking, hotshot-flying military commander of Atlantis blinked his lashes, innocent as anything, and asked, his voice low near Rodney's ear, "Do you want to fuck me?"

All the turns the conversation could have taken, and John had chosen to spin the wheel and drive on the grass. Rodney's mind reeled with questions--what? and why? and since when? and seriously, what?--but he prided himself on his ability to regain mental composure in a crisis. "If you're screwing with me," he said, "the answer is no, of course not, scoff, and if you think for a second that's what I want you're ridiculously high on yourself and seriously deluded. But if you're serious," he continued, "then--yes." He nodded vigorously. "Uh-huh. Yes. That."

A slow smile spread over Sheppard's face, crinkling his eyes. He began to unbutton the black shirt he must have poured himself into that morning, and Rodney watched dumbly, mentally running through the possible scenarios:

1. He had died on M4X1L2, and John was his equivalent of seventy-two virgins. Which was odd, and maybe insulting, since there was only one of him and he was kind of an intergalactic space slut, but hey. Rodney could certainly live with it. As it were.

2. He was asleep and this was a dream.

3. He was asleep and this was a dream featuring Evil Nightmare Sheppard, which--considering the devilish look on his face--was not all that unlikely. But Evil Nightmare Sheppard, in their last encounter, had been, let's face it, delicious. Yes, the fact that he was back was a problem, but it was Waking Rodney's problem. Let him deal with it.

4. This was not John at all but an evil clone. Considering the devilish look etc., and that this was Pegasus, and Atlantis, and Sheppard, this was also not unlikely.

5. Sheppard had been possessed by

"Rodney?" God. John's body lean and hard, his awful posture more obvious than ever, but the probably-scoliotic slouch was cool and sexy and always had been. Rodney had seen him shirtless before, but never so close, and he was surprised at two long scars, one on his belly, one on his chest--faint, but noticeable. "Something wrong?"

"No," said Rodney, and because he could, he reached up and wrapped his hand around the dogtags which glinted against Sheppard's fine dark dusting of chest hair, and pulled him gently forward, and kissed his mouth.

*

Rodney was busy for most of the next day, so no surprises there. But it was strange how the many and varied crises and blunders he had to resolve single-handed seemed less dire, and less idiotic, when in the back of his mind (okay, the front) he was replaying a Penthouse letter starring Lt. Col. John Sheppard. And this time, it had actually happened.

Sheppard had been gone when Rodney woke up, but it hadn't been a dream. Rodney never woke up naked except after sex or being Cadman, and his sheets all smelled of John. It was still hard to believe. Rodney had resigned himself long ago to the universe's impossible cruelty in making someone that pretty, and that obsessed with his hair, straight, but now it seemed he owed the universe an apology.

Except for a morning meeting to which John slid in twenty minutes late--Rodney flashed him a knowing look, which must have turned out pretty dorky, because John just squinted at him, bemused--Rodney didn't see John until after dinner. He and Zelenka were in the hangar bay doing some work on the puddle jumpers, including the one that someone (not naming any names) had managed to crash. And not just crash as in emergency landing, no inertial dampeners, ow my face, which Rodney at least understood if not condoned, but crash as in Microsoft, Apple, blue screen of death.

Rodney was about to put into words just exactly how annoying it was when Zelenka fluttered his hands in Rodney's line of sight when he was trying to work ("Yes, I know you want my attention, and I certainly don't blame you, but my attention is very selective, and frankly, you've been waitlisted!") when John wandered in to have his daily commune with the jumpers--pet them or talk to them or make sweet, sweet love to them or whatever he did. Rodney didn't know how he could even bear to face them after it had all gone wrong the way it had, but there it was. Guy was a glutton for punishment, apparently.

Coming face-to-face with John outside one of the jumpers, and immediately making the mental leap to sweet-sweet-love for a variety of reasons, Rodney trailed off midsentence and grinned dopily.

"Sheppard!" he exclaimed, his voice unnaturally high. "Hi!"

"Uh, hi, McKay," said John. He turned, inexplicably, to Zelenka. "Any chance I could take this baby out? I missed my scheduled test run yesterday."

"He was with me," said Rodney, unable to contain his pride.

"Actually, I was sleeping off the meds," John corrected testily.

Zelenka rolled his eyes. "Rodney, what you do with your personal time is a matter of supreme disinterest to me."

"Totally passed out all night," John insisted.

Fine. Rodney should have expected Sheppard would be that way about it. Still, it stung. Was he stupid enough to think that Rodney was stupid enough to get any more explicit than that? Like Rodney's idea of a good time was to put up his feet and dish gossip with Zelenka. Like Rodney didn't know about DADT, which was pretty damn irrelevant anyway out here, except possibly as a convenient excuse for Sheppard not to call his male conquests the next day, which, wait, had there been more? Was one encounter too soon to be getting this proprietary? Focus. Actually, Sheppard couldn't have had much experience with this kind of thing, as he evidently didn't realize that his knee-jerk denial to even having been within ten feet of Rodney was obvious and suspicious. He'd just said they were hanging out, for God's sake. They did that all the time.

Losing face in front of Zelenka was not an option, so Rodney snapped, "It must have been someone who looked and sounded an awful lot like you, then." Hitting upon a new way to be mean, he added loftily, "Though I can't say I was paying that much attention."

Something in Rodney's words seemed to strike a nerve with Sheppard. Unfortunately it wasn't exactly the intended effect of sudden lack of confidence in his own sexual prowess, so much as a light bulb flash of recognition. "Actually, I thought..." Then he shook his head.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's stupid."

Zelenka was apparently content to accept that; he abandoned the last pretense of paying attention and stuck his head up in the ceiling panel of the jumper. But Rodney's curiosity was piqued almost against his will. He sighed, "If you let that stop you, Colonel, you'd have to be mute ninety-eight percent of the time."

"Only ninety-eight? Hey, thanks." He seemed genuinely touched.

"So just tell me and let me decide if it's stupid."

"Well--I don't know. It's dumb. I thought I saw--well, you know those guys we rescued."

"The dumbass volcano enthusiasts."

"The refugees, right," Sheppard agreed. "I was passing by them in the hall last night, and I didn't really pay attention at first, but then I got this feeling like there was something odd. So I look over, and this one guy, he puts up his hood right away, but I was almost sure it was--well--me." He shrugged helplessly.

Rodney stared. The pieces were coming together, and he didn't like the picture that was forming.

"I thought I was still loopy from the meds," Sheppard explained.

"Sheppard," Rodney said, carefully maintaining composure, "have you considered the possibility that you might have an exact physical double?"

"So what else would be new?" came Zelenka's muffled voice.

Sheppard frowned, eyes narrow, jaw slightly slack, in what was either an expression of "Thought in progress; please hold" or "I am growing increasingly angry" or perhaps both.

Before he could speak, Rodney burst out, "And before you hit me upside the head and ask how did I spend all evening with him and not realize it wasn't you, I don't know! It seemed like you, okay?" It hadn't, though, of course. For one thing, the real Sheppard had never licked circles around his nipples. Had never sucked his earlobes and then whispered hotly, "Do you have any lube?" Had never lain on Rodney's bed with his legs spread, had never let Rodney grip hold of his shoulder and thrust into him again and again--that should have been his first tip-off.

"I wasn't going to say anything," said Sheppard. And insincerely, "I am a little hurt, though."

"Obviously we have to figure out what he is and what he's doing here," said Rodney.

"He could have come from an alternate timeline," Zelenka called. "Like Rod." Was that the hint of a dreamy sigh? Rodney scowled.

"Well, he can't be one of those clones," said Sheppard, getting into it. "We saw what happened to them."

"Yeah, but we don't know how many actual clones have been built; there could be others. And it's possible the Replicators themselves have figured out how to--oh, shit!" Rodney screeched, and leapt through the open bay door and out into the safety of the hangar. While Sheppard, or whatever he was, was still confused by this sudden about face, Rodney ordered quickly, "Zelenka, I'm going to need you to very carefully step away from the conduits and join me for a conference out here on, um, very important energy reduction techniques which I just thought of and which Sheppard would have no interest in."

But Zelenka didn't look up, only consulted his handheld. "He registers as a life sign, Rodney," he reported, as if he checked his colleagues' Replicator-or-not status every day, which, for all Rodney knew, he did. It was probably not a bad idea, come to think of it. "Also, he has not yet tried to destroy us."

"Yet?" Sheppard seemed to take offense.

"Okay. Good. Yes. Fair enough. But we still don't know you're you. Quick, uh, what's your mother's maiden name?"

"Caroll, but that doesn't prove anything," said Sheppard. "Anyone could have looked that up, and I'm betting you didn't."

"And it might be the same in an alternate universe," Zelenka pointed out.

"Okay, fine, point taken. Shut up," said Rodney, not really clear himself on whom he was addressing. "Wait, so what's something only this Sheppard would know?" The questions that sprang immediately to mind were exclusively dirty and would only prove he was the non-John. He told himself to pull it together; now was so not the time to dwell on the depressing factor that in one night he'd developed a closer intimacy with an undoubtedly evil clone than he had in four years with the real thing.

"How would I know? You're his best friend," said Zelenka.

There was something, anyway. Rodney looked at Sheppard hopefully for confirmation.

"Oh, for," Sheppard sighed. "Otto Preminger was Mr. Freeze--"

"Who else?" Rodney asked, thinking that surely, the chances that the exact same three reputable 1940s celebrities going on to become Mr. Freeze in an alternate universe had to be significantly smaller than one.

"George Sanders," said Sheppard.

"Who else?"

"I--don't know." Sheppard looked slightly panicked. "Your first name is Meredith. You can't sleep offworld without an armed guard in your tent, because you're afraid of space bears."

"It was a real concern," Rodney began to defend himself.

But Sheppard just continued, "The closest you came to camping before Pegasus was when you got lost in a mall for so long you had an elaborate contingency plan for sleeping in a display tent."

"That's something only Jeannie would know," Rodney protested.

"Yeah, well, we talked. Your favorite powerbar is the purple kind nobody knows what it's supposed to be. You cried when Elizabeth--disappeared, but you told me it was because you were thinking about the end of Jedi. You think you're a coward, but you'll leave no man behind, even when it's your life on the line."

Rodney looked down, wondering how he ever could have thought he was closer to the clone. "It's someone from Magnificent Seven," he said gruffly.

Sheppard's eyes widened. "Not McQueen!"

"Of course not McQueen."

"And I am more than done here," Zelenka announced, slipping past them and darting off, probably to go work on his decorative baskets, the crafty bastard.

"Brynner? He was bald."

"You don't have to be bald to be Mr. Freeze. We're straying off topic here," said Rodney. "If you're you, who's he? And where is he? We have to track him down and contain him before he does-- any more-- damage," Rodney found himself unable to stop saying.

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Damage."

Fair enough. Rodney wasn't even sure himself what he meant. "He--confused us," he suggested lamely. "But he could very well do more! I mean, he's an evil double--"

"Evil?" Sheppard repeated. "What'd he do to you, anyway?"

"Nothing! I mean, he, he asked me highly personal questions," Rodney covered. "I see now he was just p--uhhh, looking for information." And that was kind of true, too, come to think of it. He'd asked Rodney what he was doing, peered over his shoulder at the screen. He'd asked if Rodney thought the refugees were spies, scoffing at the idea. Maybe they were spies. Maybe the whole rescue had been a trap, a way to plant the evil John and his crew on Atlantis long enough for them to complete their evil mission! "What if he tries to kill you?" Rodney demanded. "You know there's at least a seventy percent chance that he's here to kill you and take your place as stage one of some elaborate master plan, right?"

"Or maybe he was just minding his own business on a backwater planet, hoping never to run into me, if he even knows about me. Maybe he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him," Sheppard suggested.

It occurred to Rodney that "surprise" was not a bad word to describe the way the other Sheppard had reacted to him. He'd clearly known who Rodney was, and he'd kept up the casual banter for awhile, but then he'd said, "You're here," as though Rodney's existence--or perhaps his survival--was a surprise. Maybe he was an alternate universe Sheppard who had lost his McKay. The thought made Rodney feel some pity for the other John, and wonder briefly if perhaps it might behoove him to go back with the big gay Sheppard to his big gay timeline.

All these thoughts passed through his mind in the time it took for Sheppard to theorize insipidly, "Hell, maybe this is all for nothing. Maybe he is just a guy who looks like me."

"He's more than a guy who looks like you," said Rodney. "He's exactly like you. Well--not exactly," he amended, because, well, there was one difference, anyway. "But very, very, very close. Especially," he added thoughtfully, gesturing to his own face, "around the eyes."

"Look," said Sheppard, "We're jumpering them back home tomorrow. I'll give him the chance to get off the boat with the others. Odds are he'll just go away, we'll never hear from him again, no harm, no foul."

"Odds are so not," Rodney snorted. "Besides, that still leaves tonight. What if he tries something tonight? I mean, in the killing-you department," he clarified hastily, even though Sheppard had no reason to believe he meant anything else. Although the possibility that the double might come to his room again was actually more likely. After all, "sex with Rodney" was the only mission objective the double had clearly demonstrated by his actions.

But, as satisfying as it had been the first time, Rodney thought an encore would create a moral dilemma he'd rather not deal with. On the whole, nothing disastrous having come of the double's presence (yet), he was happy to have gotten free sex out of the deal. How many people get to score with an exact physical copy of the object of their fondest desires? But it would be totally different if he knew, going in, that it wasn't really Sheppard. Surely "bros before sexy duplicates who probably want to kill said bros" was, at least, an unwritten rule of friendship.

"Hm. You're right." Sheppard made his strategizing face. "Okay. I'll arm up. You stay here."

"What? No! I'm going with you."

"I can handle him, Rodney."

"Uh, no, by definition, you can't. He has exactly the same strengths and weaknesses as you," Rodney pointed out. "Except you were recently banged up in a terrifying space crash, and he's in top physical condition."

Sheppard seemed to stare a little at that remark, and Rodney wondered if he'd said too much, but the strange moment passed quickly. "Fine, you're right," Sheppard agreed. "I'll take Lorne, though. I don't want you getting any more involved"--okay, seriously, did he know? but he was continuing cool as ever--"if he's as dangerous as you seem to think."

"If he wanted me dead, he'd have done it," said Rodney, but he was struck with a vision of himself and Sheppard rounding a corridor and facing down the other John. John coming up to him and running his hands down Rodney's sides in that shudder-inducing way; Sheppard looking on in alarm and disgust. "But, hey, fine, whatever, it's your call. Have fun."

*

At least Rodney could rule out the possibility that he'd inadvertently broken his lifelong "No sex with robots" rule. He went to the lab to get the count of life signs in Atlantis. They'd rescued fourteen bodies; the map had better show the full complement of Atlantis plus fourteen.

On the citywide display, his eye was drawn toward Sheppard's quarters. There was a single dot there, stable in the middle of the room, like he was lying in bed. (Not that Rodney would know what that looked like from checking on him while he was in recovery or anything.) Unless Sheppard had told Rodney he was going after the double, gone directly to his room, and flopped down on the bed with a magazine, there was no way that was the real deal. Considering what Sheppard-prime had done left alone for one night with Sheppard-classic's best friend, Rodney didn't want to think about what he was doing to his bedroom.

He got on the radio. "Sheppard, you might want to check your quarters."

"On it. Relax, Rodney. Go do something else. I'll let you know when it's taken care of."

"Great! You know, it's kind of hard to focus on the New York Times crossword when your best friend is risking his neck."

"Yeah, I know." Maybe it was just the radio, but he sounded strangely pained. "Just trust me, okay? I'm on top of it. Sheppard out."

"Great, jinx yourself!" Rodney muttered to the nontransmitting mic. "Why must everything you say sound like famous last words?"

But Sheppard wasn't bluffing. Twenty minutes later, when Rodney had just settled down in front of some incongruous energy reports, he showed up in the door of the lab, looking tired, but unharmed, and said, simply, "It's taken care of."

"Huh?"

"That little problem?" Sheppard said vaguely, as the occasional marine or scientist passed by behind him. "It's over. Don't worry about it."

Rodney pulled him into the lab by the arm and then, realizing he was manhandling Sheppard, and unable to remember whether that was normal in their relationship, let go awkwardly. "Did you kill him?" he asked once the door had whooshed shut.

Sheppard scratched the back of his head. "Uh... in a manner of speaking."

"What the hell does that mean?" Rodney thought of his most optimistic pro-clone theory--that it was just an unfortunate alternate universe John who'd stumbled into the wrong Rodney's bedroom. Shit.

"Listen, Rodney..." Sheppard looked at his own hands for a moment, and then reached one out tentatively and placed it on Rodney's shoulder, a friendly gesture. Oh, God, Rodney thought. He's going to confide in me because I am trustworthy. I am the world's worst person. "I kinda know something you don't."

"Yeah, well, I know a lot of things you don't," Rodney chattered desperately. "And unless you want to get into quantum theory tonight there's always going to, um, an imbalance of information between us, so why not just embrace it? Sometimes secrets are the key to preserving a friendship."

Sheppard let his hand drop from Rodney's shoulder. "Uh. Okay. I guess I know what you mean." He stepped back stiffly. "The other me's gone and he's not coming back. You don't have to worry about that."

And before Sheppard could even think the door open, Rodney found himself declaring, "Sex! There was sex! I had sex with him!"

Sheppard stared, his expression inscrutable.

Rodney braced himself because he figured it was only just a matter of time before the violence started.

But instead Sheppard frowned, and said, "Why did you tell me that?"

"I don't know! It wasn't premeditated," Rodney whined. "Telling you, I mean, but neither was, you know, it. The--the incident."

"Yeah," said Sheppard. "I know."

"I mean, I guess it isn't much consolation, when you think about it, but I did think it was you," Rodney hurried on, pausing at awkward moments and blinking too frequently, because Sheppard had taken a step forward and was now standing in his personal space. Threateningly, Rodney thought. He considered telling Sheppard his blood type, figuring he could probably be trusted to report it faithfully even after beating him up.

"It was," John murmured, and reached a graceful hand up to stroke Rodney's chest--a decidedly more than friendly gesture.

Rodney's first reaction was to jerk backward, stepping into a chair, and sending it clattering down to the floor.

"You!" he cried.

Then he got it.

"Oh--you." He reviewed the events of the last twenty hours. "There was never any evil twin!"

John neither confirmed nor denied, but he looked suitably uncomfortable.

Rodney burst out laughing. "What the hell, Sheppard!"

"It wasn't premeditated," he mumbled.

"You asshole!" Rodney exclaimed wonderingly. "Next time you do have an evil identical double, see if I believe it. You know, 'asshole' doesn't seem to cover it, somehow. Seriously, what were you afraid of? Could I have made it any clearer that I liked you than by fucking you in the ass?"

"That," said John, wincing, "was never the issue."

"So what the hell's your problem?"

"It's my career, Rodney." John spoke with a kind of whiny pathos that made it impossible to be really angry, but Rodney wasn't inclined that way anyway. The whole situation was just too weird. He wanted to study it.

"Right," he said, rolling his eyes. "Because don't-ask-don't-tell is such a huge concern in the Pegasus Galaxy. Convenient excuse, isn't it? I bet you tell that to all the guys."

"There aren't..." John trailed off, evidently having used up his quota of words. He glanced toward the door wistfully.

"There aren't what? Oh, hell, no! Don't tell me that was your first--no! Was it? No!"

"No..." John began uncertainly.

"No." Rodney was firm on his behalf. "No way. I don't accept it. It couldn't have been. Was it? No. You knew what you were doing! No. Was it?"

"No." This time John was suitably firm. "It's just... complicated."

Rodney glared. "You don't honestly think you're getting off that easy."

"It's a part of my life I thought was over," John tried. He gave a sheepish shrug. "I was a different person once."

"A gay guy," Rodney sang, gloating. Imagining it.

"Among other things." This was another non-answer, but John looked like he was still thinking, so Rodney held himself back from speaking. Eventually, he was rewarded.

"I was going to be Air Force Sheppard on this mission," John explained. "I didn't intend to make friends."

"Friends or," Rodney waggled his eyebrows, "'friends'?"

"Either," said John, annoyed. "I screwed up with you."

"Something like that," Rodney snorted. "And then you blamed it on your evil twin."

"Hey. It almost worked."

"You're a total dork, you know that?"

"I know," John agreed somberly. "Don't tell anyone."

"I won't," said Rodney, meaning it.

And when John didn't hightail it out of the lab as soon as he had an out, Rodney took a chance. He leaned forward and gently, tentatively, brushed his lips against John's, once, and then again.

He stepped back respectfully because he wasn't sure how well that was going to go over in the harsh light of daytime-cycle lighting, but after a single tense moment, John's mouth twitched into a smile, and he pulled Rodney into an entirely different kind of kiss--hot and dirty, confirming, if Rodney had retained any doubt, that yes, indeed, this was the same man he'd fucked into the mattress last night.

"You don't have to be shy," murmured John, his voice a low growl. "We've already done it once."

Rodney nodded decisively. "Care to double that?"

The End