stargate: atlantis, beckett/mckay, PG
something light and fluffy for hermioneorourke who's had the world on her back lately; hang in there, love.
(betaed by delgaserasca, all remaining mistakes are my own fault)
Dangling somewhere on the hazy edge of asleep and awake, Rodney sensed that something was wrong. Well, actually, not wrong as much as different.
For one, his toes were cold. No, that wasn't it. (Still, he pulled them back under the covers.)
Sleep was still heavy on his lids, so he was reluctant to open them; his body felt ponderous, and he knew that if he could only get his brain to shut up, the wave of dream would pull him back under and he could slumber blissfully for quite a while longer. The mattress felt too comfortable for him to be moving, and the position he was in, somehow, felt natural, that soft centre of Good that pulls like gravity.
But a tiny voice at the back of his head kept nagging at him through the sleepy fog. Rodney frowned.
He tried to focus. There was something that he ought to remember. Reluctantly he squinted his eyes open. It was still dark, and he had to blink for a moment before his brain started to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. He looked down at himself.
And found out that the thing, the heavy, weighing thing across his torso that he'd figured to be the cover wrapped around him tightly was not a cover at all but an, an... arm. Rodney's eyes widened. An arm. And obviously, not just an arm, not just an arm but an arm that meant that there must also be a body attached to it (or else he'd have to really start freaking out for sure).
He stared at it. His mind tumbled across the threshold of Memories, possibly tripped over the carpet in the hallway and came in smack down, face first onto the floor of Recollection. Oh dear, he thought.
There had been a movie and a bottle of wine. He hadn't had that much to drink, mind, not as far as he remembered, but enough still to make his mind a bit confused come morning. Only a bit, though; he hadn't been drunk, of that he was certain, and that was possibly the most embarrassing part of the whole ordeal.
A perfectly normal night off in general; he'd had nothing planned, maybe a quick look at some calculations before going to bed for a good night's sleep. But then he'd got an invitation, off-handed and casual, extempore, for a late-night snack and a film. It had been something about drug lords or gun dealers, or something of that sort, and Samuel Jackson in a kilt-- he couldn't really remember because they had ended up talking more than watching anyway.
Rodney stared at the fingers that rested casually against his own elbow. And he remembered vividly, which made his skin flush violently, which made him remember even more vividly, which then again made other parts of his body... flush violently. In a sense.
Oh dear, he thought.
They'd been sitting on the couch, Rodney's arm steadied on the back of the seat so that he could rest his head against his palm, his body turned sideways toward the other man. He'd been listening, and Carson (oh god, Carson) had been talking, the sides of his eyes wrinkling with a smile.
Rodney could feel Carson against his back. His body was solid and radiating warmth and, oh yes, definitely naked, a fact at which he wasn't very surprised, considering, but now that he had thought of it, the knowledge somehow became more acutely known.
Slowly, so very slowly, Rodney manoeuvred his body so that he was lying on his back. This way he could at least see with his own eyes what his other senses had already told him. Yes. Carson was most definitely there. Very definitely asleep. And very definitely still naked.
He couldn't really remember which one of them had made the first move or, most importantly, why. All he remembered was that, while they'd been talking there on the couch, the air had slowly grown tighter (there was no better way of putting the focused feeling that had wrapped around Rodney during those moments) and there had been a weight in the bottom of his stomach and a need under his skin that had all somehow let to the point at which, at which... Well, he had to admit it: the point at which they'd somehow, ridiculously, ended up sprawled on top of each other on said couch, making out like teenagers on the backseat of a banged-up hand-me-down Volvo.
Oh god, he thought. They might have even bumped noses at some point. He gave a mental grimace.
And then one of them, or possibly both of them at around the same time, had decided that the bed was a better place for continuation and also that there would be continuation because neither one of them had seemed to entertain the thought of stopping. (He stared at the fingers that now rested halfway between his chest and his abdomen, and could vividly recall the way they'd felt moving across his skin. His blush only deepened.) There had been kissing and groping and... other things, all of which had led to this moment of prolonged nudity under shared covers and the fact that Carson was cuddling him.
Carson's eyelashes were fluttering, as if he couldn't quite decide whether to open his eyes or not. And Rodney could see the process all over his face, the process of the world slowly coming back to focus and reality sinking in, and he waited, nervous and apprehensive.
He'll wake up now, and open his eyes, and see him, and remember as well, and freak out, and that'll be all she wrote, and then it'll be awkward and uncomfortable, and their friendship will never be the same, and he might as well shoot himself in the head. Or jump off a balcony, that'd be more convenient here, and less fuss for the cleaning personnel. (He could be thoughtful when need be.)
Carson shifted, and Rodney tensed.
He knew the exact moment when the realisation of the state of affairs hit home in Carson mind. He could see it in the wrinkle of his brow and in the way his eyes cracked open just so.
The seconds crawled, and Rodney wasn't sure if he should say something. Or if he'd better not. He voted for the latter option, and Carson kept Not Reacting. It was horrifying.
Finally, Carson opened his eyes a bit more and glanced up at Rodney's face. Bleary, blue eyes blinked up at him for what seemed like forever but what couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Rodney couldn't help staring right back, as if watching the infamous train wreck. Any second now – Rodney was certain – Carson would bolt.
Carson frowned. Rodney swallowed.
And then, then unbelievably, astoundingly, unpredictably – Carson closed his eyes again.
”Go back to sleep, Rodney,” was mumbled against Rodney's shoulder. Or something akin to it anyway.
Rodney felt the rigidity in his muscles give away, as if someone had flipped a switch in his body. He hadn't even realised how tense he had been before his body relaxed again. Carson buried his face deeper into the pillow, and the arm tucked, as if as a reflex reaction, before settling still against his side. Rodney stared at the ceiling, slightly confused and unsure as to what to do next.
The lure of sleep shoved away the remnants of panic and beckoned with the come-hither smile of a courtesan lounging on satin sheets. It wasn't even dawn yet, and Carson's breath danced with lazy steps over Rodney's skin. The bed was warm and comfortable. It was a good place to be.
Rodney grinned. Oh well, he thought, and closed his eyes.