Rodney comes home to find John lounging on the couch, wearing nothing but a towel and a mischievous smirk. His first instinct is to check the man for injuries.

"You know, if you want to be my toy boy, you couldn't possibly die before I do," Rodney remarks. John's legs are sprawled a bit suspiciously, making Rodney worry about the trick knee.

John just laughs – one of those deep throaty laughs, half seduction and half childlike guffaw. He stretches out, long and lithe and too catlike for Rodney's liking. As if in agreement, Copernicus is sitting perched on the kitchen countertop, watching John disdainfully. At least they see eye to eye on something (other than the fact that all of those annoying but endangered birds should die, die, die).

"Seriously," Rodney says, "I don't like what that smirk means for my health."

John rolls his eyes, sliding gracefully to his feet and sauntering over. Rodney tries steadfastly to look anywhere other than where the towel is sliding low on John's hips or the sleek wet line of hairs diving down below the terrycloth border to . . .

"Hey! You dripped all over the couch!"

John shrugs. "It'll dry." He's pressing up against Rodney now, pulling him in for a teasing peck on the lips – just enough to taste the saltwater and not much more.

Today is a good day – the light in John's eyes is dancing, playful as summer and the perpetual paradise of this place. It's moments like these when Rodney wishes he never saw shadows there, hazy reflections of an even more obscure past.

"You're dripping all over me too," he complains, though it's half-hearted and they both know it.

"Is that what they called it, back in the day?" John asks, tongue flicking out over chapped lips in the way he absolutely knows makes Rodney crazy.

Rodney snorts, pretending he didn't hear that comment. It's not that he thinks it matters – if John wants to be with him even like this, then it's immaterial how he got to be this way. What Rodney hates is having to lie. It's not as though when John asks about the Superbowl of 1967, he can exactly say that he wasn't alive to see it without inviting too many questions for good ‘ole Uncle Sam's liking.

"Well, my clothes are still all wet."

"Let's see what we can do about that," John says, pushing his hips up against Rodney until the towel comes undone and falls to the floor. "Oops."

Rodney groans. He might look like he's sixty, but his dick is still 37. "You're insatiable. You know that?"

John grins, leaning in for another kiss. This one is soft and just about as wet as Rodney's favorite t-shirt at the moment. John is gorgeous, but sometimes he kisses like a teenager who's seen one too many Hollywood screen kisses.

Rodney pulls back. "If I wanted to be slobbered on, I would've gotten a dog."

"Hey, not a bad idea . . ." John is a dog person, which probably explains the slobbering. Rodney doesn't know how he lives with him at all. Oh yeah, the whole scorching hot thing. And he's certainly not the dimmest lightbulb in the box.

"Oh, no, we're not having this argument again. Copernicus is perfectly happy as an only child." As if in agreement, the grey tabby cat jumps down off the countertop and stalks over to them, trying to squeeze between their legs.

"Sure," John says, sneezing. It must almost be time for his next allergy shot.

"Not that I don't appreciate the . . ." he gestures wildly, "nakedness and everything, but I can't help but wonder when the other shoe's going to drop." John looks to guilty for there to be no other shoes.

"Fine," John says, pouting and dropping back down onto the couch, before looking down, surprised at the wet spot against his bare back.

"Serves you right." Rodney crosses his arms over his chest, willing his eyes to be distracted by the sunset panorama before him and not a naked John and his horrible swim-trunk tan. "Now why with all of the . . . naked?"

"I can't be in a romantic mood?"

"Lounging around in a wet towel is not romance, unless you subscribe to the ‘Dude, where's my pecker?' school of seduction."

"I don't know, Dude. Where's my pecker?" John asks, reaching a hand down and teasing his hand up through the soft hair peppering his thighs. Rodney sure as hell does not want to know where he learned to do that. He just hopes it's not in the VA's production of ‘War-Weary Pilots Gone Wild.'

"Don't try to change the subject," Rodney says, plopping down on the other side of the couch where he doesn't have to look at John. He's hard already, but he can tell something other than his ‘pecker' is up.

"Fine," John says, spinning around and planting his feet in Rodney's lap. They're big and calloused and Rodney really doesn't want to touch them, but he finds himself stroking the inside of John's arch anyway. "I was looking around your stuff and . . ."

"Snooping, you mean." Rodney dumps John's feet back onto the floor where they belong, his mind racing, trying to remember if he has any classified documents, any sensitive material, Ancient devices, even.

John grins sheepishly, grabbing a throw pillow and planting it in his lap. He suddenly seems very small. The first image that should come to mind is a boy getting scolded in the principal's office, but instead Rodney sees a young man, lost and weak stranded by a downed helicopter in the middle of a war zone. For the thousandth time, he wishes he hadn't hacked John's file.

"I was looking for your passport."

"My passport?" Rodney hopes this isn't one of those things where they're in trouble with the law and have to flee to the North Country, because he doesn't think that his knees can take the cold anymore.

"I just . . . I wanted to sign you on as a . . . well, in case anything happens to me. I wanted you to be the one to decide things."

Rodney refuses to believe this is John being sweet. Sarcastic or sneaky or sexy, maybe, but not sweet. "I was right! You do intend to leave me a widower!"

John snorts. "No. Rodney, c'mon." John nudges Rodney with his foot.

Okay, so maybe it is a little sweet. Especially with that aw-shucks head-ducking thing he always does.

"I . . . it's a good idea . . . great. I . . . I . . ." he snaps his fingers, "I have people to do these kinds of things. We'll do it in the morning."

And now about that whole nakedness issue. Rodney leans forward, reaching for the pillow John still has in his lap.

"Wait. God, I can't believe I'm about to do put off sex for talking, but, Rodney when I was looking through your stuff, I found . . ." John stands, walking over into the bathroom, with Rodney staring after him and taking in the view.

"Here." John hands him a necklace – small and silver with an embedded bluish stone. Of course . . . Teyla. "I saw this before, in that picture," he points to the picture of their team – Rodney's one slightly anachronistic indulgence. "I know we said the past doesn't matter, but if you were married or had an adopted sister or something . . ."

Married to Teyla? Sure, he's had his fair share of fantasies, but what human being with a pulse wouldn't? She's hot. But still . . . in what universe could he survive a relationship with Xena, Warrior Princess. "Oh, no . . . no . . . I had an . . . accident. She helped take care of me. We were friends. Just friends . . . not that I wouldn't have, because, well . . ." he waves his hands, illustrating a very curvy form. "The necklace was symbolized protection, given to her by her father. When they sent me home, she gave it to me."

"Oh," John says, looking down at the necklace, fingering it in his palm. "I didn't mean to ‘snoop.'"

"It's okay," Rodney replies, reaching again for the pillow, not to be deterred this time. John puts up no resistance, leaning in to a very promising kiss.

Of course, that's when they break the door down.

Before he knows it, he and John are standing in the middle of the room, hands up and surrounded by Marines.

A young blonde officer is striding over to them, obviously trying very hard not to stare at the naked young man in the process of kissing her old boss. He vaguely remembers her as the girl that was way too hot for Ford, but he's drawing a blank on names.

"Dr. McKay, Sir."

"Rodney?" John is reaching for the throw pillow again. Rodney doesn't blame him.

"What is it with you people? First you exile me out here to the land of polyester and Kodak moments and now you break down my door and interrupt what is turning out to be a not entirely horrible forced retirement? Do I have to save the world again?" Rodney doesn't even try to keep the eagerness from his voice. As much as he loves it here, there will always be a part of him that misses being in the thick of things.

"Dr. McKay, it is very important that you tell me what it is that you touched," she demands.

"I didn't touch anything!"

She gives him a piercing glare.

"I swear I didn't! I don't have any Ancient tech. They confiscated it all at airport security."

She scowls.

"Kidding. Kidding. God, don't they requisition you a sense of humor?" Rodney tries not to remember all of Ford's bad jokes. Not after what happened to him.

"It's the Marines that have to be issued them, Doctor. I'm Air Force," she responds dryly. "You're certain you touched nothing?"

Rodney nods.

"Because the recovered Wraith dart we got back just started going crazy. It was picking up a radio signal, originating here."

"Well, the only thing I've got from Pegasus is . . ."

They both look to the necklace still dangling from John's fingers.

"Oh."

---

Some lab tests, a long lecture on the meaning of classified from Major Davis, and the rather cheesy official debrief about aliens, stargates, etc., and they're collapsed in bed, John curled around Rodney protectively. Rodney knows that he should have been disturbed before, but somehow he misses the firm pressure of John's hand, cradled carefully in the perfect mark etched deep into his chest.

FIN