John doesn't cuddle. And I doubt he ever will. Not that I mind . . . cuddling has always struck me as being kind of pointless. I mean, for how long am I expected to lie there, not sleeping, not talking, not getting aroused and not eating, while someone uses my chest as a pillow? It's uncomfortable . . . usually leading to a crick in my neck that will inevitably get in the way when the other person wakes up and wants another round.


I guess that's the problem I have with women. They're nice to look at, definitely, and fantasize about, and squeeze (there's just something squeezable about them) but in reality they always disappoint. They claim I don't understand them . . . which is kind of fair, because I don't, but also completely unfair because I don't see how anyone could possibly be expected to. And then they always want me to share . . . by which they mean, sit around twiddling my thumbs and agreeing while they off-load all their insecurities on me, as though I don't have enough of my own.


Women make this completely erroneous assumption that just because I think with my brain instead of my cock, don't play sports, or call them 'woman' or 'bitch' that I'm somehow a 'sensitive' guy. The sad thing is . . . for the longest time I took all their shit, because I figured the only way I could get laid was just to take it. Even if I use my brain most of the time . . . I still have needs. I'm only human, after all - I don't even have the goddamn ATA gene! Not naturally at least.


But then again, sleeping with women has never been as violent as sleeping with John. We have a routine, and I like routines: We have sex until we're both exhausted, collapsing into whatever tangle of limbs we can manage. After we've calmed, he rolls off me or out from under me to the far side of the bed and curls up into a ball with his back to me, taking all the covers with him. I generally don't mind this. The sea air is nice and warm and I usually manage to lose my duvet sometime in the middle of the night anyway. I like this. I can usually even work up a good snore (so I'm told).


Of course, I inevitably wake a couple of hours later to find myself in a death grip. I guess it's technically cuddling in a 'two people in a bed holding onto/lying on each other' sense, but cuddle is far too nice a word for whatever it is John does. Cuddling implies closeness, comfort, relaxation. With John it's more, territoriality, possessiveness, and desperation. He rests his head on my chest and wraps his arms around me with our legs intertwined. The first time he did it, I woke up thinking I was having an asthma attack, he was gripping so tight. And of course, like quicksand, the more you struggle, the harder it is to get out.


Finally, I've given up. Sometimes I have to stay up nearly an hour waiting for him to relax his grip enough for me to fall asleep, but it's good to know he wants me enough to fight for me this way. I'm not sure it's the healthiest thing, physically or otherwise, but I enjoy having a man who - while in the light of day, seems to need nothing and no one - need me so badly.


Of course, when he wakes up, he's quick to roll out of bed and stretches, pretending he's stayed on his side of the bed the entire time. He even ignores the irrefutable puddle of drool he's left on my chest. It's one of the few arguments I allow him to win, however. I don't know why he needs to deny it. Maybe it's the military . . . something about the tough guy image he tries to exude, but I doubt it. It's not as though leaving bruises on your partner's sides from 'cuddling' really disqualifies you from the tough guy routine. Maybe he doesn't want to admit that he needs me . . . or needs someone in the very least. I can't presume to know him. He won't let me know him.


My first inclination, of course, would be to bitch and moan about how much he's killing my efficiency, and my beauty sleep - which I really do need a lot of. Or maybe just tease him about how damn territorial he is . . . but I don't. I can't. I'm afraid he'll pull away again . . . go back to leaving every night or never coming at all. I have to remind myself that if he's looking for someone to fuck - he doesn't need me at all. And . . . as much as it's almost physically painful to admit . . . I think I've grown to need him.


But that's the selfish part of me speaking. I admit my natural urge for self-preservation can be overwhelming at times (justifiably so, might I add, considering that it's one of the few reasons I can come up with for my existing in the first place . . . the others involve metaphysical video games, entropy and the fact that the world may be experiencing a surplus of chocolate) but, in my defense, I sometimes think of others . . . more and more since I met John. I think about how tight he clings to me and wonder what he's lost to hold onto something so tightly. I wonder why he comes to bed with me if all he's intending to do is curl up in a ball on the opposite side of it. I wonder if . . . maybe, as improbable as it may be, I might be able to do something for him.


I remember the first time we spent the night together, just sleeping. Before then we spent a few nights together a week. It started out with a quick fuck in the laboratory, of all things. Then we went back to his room and had the most passionate sex I had ever had - until the time after that, and the time after that, and so on and so forth. Then we moved into stolen kisses and quick fucks in unexplored rooms and alcoves. I've always been the more conservative and paranoid type. I was the last person I would have ever thought would develop a public places thing, but he seemed to drag me along with him - and this city, it's been dead for so many years. John said we needed to 'bring it to life -room by room, if necessary.' And when he gets that dangerous lusty glint in his eyes - the one that makes me feel disgustingly dirty and absolutely pure at the same time . . . I just can't say no. But, whenever we went for the more conventional bed verses floor or wall or alien something-or-other, my spine would rejoice, but I would always wake up alone.


Then, one night, after the rest of the team had been on some survey mission while I was still recovering from a slight flu, John snuck into my room. Well, he didn't sneak, he just opened the door very quietly, looking relieved that I was still awake. He had scratches all over his hands and face and had obviously just rushed from the lockerroom shower. I had been reading over some data in bed (to which I was confined against my will). We had a short conversation:


'How was the mission?'


'Sucky. How are you?'


'Recovering . . . and well, a little . . . make that a lot . . . stir crazy.'


'Beckett can be an evil evil man when he wants to be.'


'Don't I know it. I told him I don't like shots and he I swear he makes it as painful as humanly possible. I think my ass is bruised.'


'He gave you ass shots? It must be serious. Or perhaps he likes to look at your lovely behind.'


'Do you really think its lovely, because I always thought it came out more on the lumpy side?'


'Lovely, lumpy, same difference. It's enough that it's his job to have you moon him.'


'And he takes revenge by poking me in the butt.'


'I thought I was the only one who got to poke you in the butt.'


'You're not actually jealous of Doctor Beckett.'


'He does have a way sexier accent than I do and you seem to spend an awful lot of time with him.'


'Not willingly. Besides, he doesn't sweet talk me the way you do.'


'Ha ha.'


'Shouldn't he be seeing you now?'


'Nope. I'm all clear. Rain and mud had no nasty microbes. They were just good old-fashioned rain and mud. And the cuts are from running through bushes away from a fire started by lightning. You ever notice how lightning always looks cooler when it's not trying to kill you?'


'I don't think the lighting was trying to kill you.'


'How do you know? You were too busy sitting on your ass -sore or not- to come out there and tell me whether or not it was actually trying to kill me.'


'I would rather . . .'


'No you wouldn't.'


'Fine, I wouldn't, but it made me nervous not being out there with you . . . the team.'


'You, nervous?'


'Har har. Well, I'm glad you're safe, but I don't think the good doctor would approve of us . . . you know.'


'Fucking? Screwing? Doing the wild thing? Swordplay? Introducing my puddlejumper to your puddle? No, I don't think he would.'


But, instead of leaving, he stepped further into the room, pulling off his shoes and sweatpants and climbed into bed with me.


And, like an idiot, I asked, 'What are you doing.'


And he just smiled enigmatically and said, 'I'm tired and still a little cold,' using his damn ATA gene to turn off the lights.


'You know, I'm contagious. I don't think it's a very good idea you . . .'


'I know.'


Then he stole my covers, nearly chocked me to death, and drooled on my chest. But the next morning he was there, sleepy-eyed and still a bit beat-up. He had stayed.


A few days later he came down with the flu and Weir sent Bate's team to do a follow up on killer-lightning planet. Beckett blamed me for not staying in bed and spreading it. For a while I thought John's motives were selfish (he really didn't like that planet), but first we got quarantined together. And every night after that, he's stayed.