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Sundays are rare on Atlantis, coming around only once a month or so, less often when they’ve been caught up in a series of crises. And so Rodney’s caught off-guard to realize that he and John have been together long enough to form a solid Sunday morning routine. The rest of the day is spent apart for both of them – John hanging out with Teyla and Torren, or Ronon, Rodney trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to sneak back into the lab for several blissfully quiet and uninterrupted hours of work.
But it always begins like this: John stretching next to him with a sleepy sigh, then subsiding back into the mattress when he remembers that his alarm isn’t about to sound. Rodney will burrow deeper under the covers, turning into John’s warmth, resisting John’s sleepy affectionate kisses because they’ll only wake Rodney up. Eventually John will work himself up enough that he pulls off his boxers and Rodney’s and then they’ll have drowsy lazy morning sex for the first time since the last Sunday; today John is on top of Rodney, hips bearing down into the arch of Rodney’s pelvis. Today, John is making it last, taking his time to travel down Rodney’s body before settling in to deliver a nice lazy blowjob, his insane bedhead sticking out from the rucked up sheets like an exclamation point.
And exclamation points are pretty much the only form of expression Rodney has left by the time John’s good and done, clambering up on his elbows to hover over Rodney’s panting body with an insufferably smug grin on his face. “Spread ‘em,” John says, mostly just to be an asshole, and Rodney does, mostly just because John asked him to, and John sinks into him while Rodney utters ellipses and commas, stuttering over how good this is.
Afterwards, they take turns showering, but neither of them bothers to shave. Usually by the time Rodney is dressed and dry, John is down in the kitchen with a French press of Sunday coffee sitting on the counter, making breakfast for both of them. He’s usually wearing jeans and a worn-thin t-shirt, and he looks so good, barefoot in Rodney’s kitchen, that Rodney has to kiss the back of his neck, put his arms around John’s waist. It only takes a second to do it, but it comes before coffee, and Rodney knows that John appreciates the gesture.
They sit down to eat, Rodney with his tablet on the table beside him as he catches up on reading reports that have accumulated in the past month, John absorbed in whatever masterwork of literature he’s tackling this year, eating his bacon with his fingers.
Today, the doorbell sounds, and Rodney gets up to answer it, taking his tablet with him and not really thinking about much beyond the appalling lack of productivity in the biological sciences this quarter. If he’s expecting anyone on the other side of the door, it’s Teyla or Ronon, both of whom know about their Sunday morning breakfasts and sometimes come by to drink tea and (in Ronon’s case) eat their leftovers. But honestly, Rodney isn’t really thinking about it, hasn’t even formed a concrete expectation for who he will see when the door slides open – so it’s a complete blank shock to look up and see Richard Woolsey at his threshold.
“Oh,” says Rodney. Over his shoulder, Rodney knows that Woolsey can clearly see everything: John sitting at Rodney’s table, the two place settings, the quiet and complete domesticity of the scene. And even though they’re both fully clothed and nowhere near each other at the moment, Rodney knows – he *knows* – that Woolsey might as well have walked in on them an hour earlier when John was braced over Rodney, coming his brains out. It’s that blatant. “Mr. Woolsey. Uh. Good morning?”
There’s a long awkward pause while Woolsey is clearly working on something to say and Rodney is trying to plan how he will survive when John tries to dump him all over again in a fit of panic. And then John clears his throat and says, “We have some coffee left. Have a seat.”
“I, uh, I actually was just hoping Dr. McKay would join me today,” Woolsey manages. “He mentioned that he plays piano and I recently acquired a decent keyboard – I play oboe – and thought perhaps we could try it out? We’ve – uh – we’ve talked about it before.” As if trying to reassure John that Woolsey was not, in spite of outward appearances, trying to hit on John’s --.
And -- *oh*. Rodney blinked twice, found his voice again. “Of course,” he said, and managed a smile, stepping back and waving Woolsey in. “We have some French toast left, and some eggs. Don’t worry, John made them, I promise.”
Woolsey steps inside, obviously nervous as hell, and John pours him coffee and offers him food, and Rodney sits down and fidgets and fights against the weird elation that’s rising inside his chest. Woolsey knows. Woolsey *knows*. And he’s not military, and he clearly doesn’t give two shits except for the social awkwardness involved at the moment, and John -- *John* -- is apparently totally, completely, absolutely okay with Woolsey knowing, with Woolsey seeing him here, barefooted and freshly showered and housewifey and at ease in Rodney’s quarters.
“I’m afraid I interrupted your morning,” said Woolsey, some minutes later, rising to his feet. “Thank you for the coffee – Dr. McKay, maybe you can come by this afternoon and we can try a few duets?”
John shoots Rodney a look -- aren’t you going to work this afternoon? -- and Rodney shoots a helpless look back -- well, what am I supposed to do about it, he’s clearly trying to get the hell out of here -- and then John is talking. “You should go ahead,” he says to Rodney with a dismissive nod. “I’ll clean up, you go and have your jam session.”
“Really?” says Rodney. “Yeah, okay. Okay.” And he stands, and impulsively bends down and completes the Sunday morning ritual: a quick sweet press of lips, a murmured, “See you later,” and another rushed goodbye kiss.
Woolsey is closely studying Rodney’s countertop when Rodney straightens up. “Shall we?” says Rodney, flushed and embarrassed and stupidly giddy.
“After you,” says Woolsey, and they head out the door.
**
Woolsey doesn’t mention it again until Rodney’s leaving, much later. Then, he just says, “Forgive my curiosity – but, uh, how long have you and Colonel Sheppard…”
Rodney and John aren’t big on anniversaries and neither of them has really bothered keeping count, so it surprises Rodney when he finds he has an answer ready: “It’s been about a month of Sundays,” he says.
Thirty Sundays on Atlantis: thirty pots of coffee shared over thirty hot breakfasts, thirty times he’s showered while John makes the bed up with fresh sheets, thirty times he’s woken in the quiet morning with nowhere to go but into John’s arms, nothing to do but kiss John’s mouth. Thirty Sundays, Rodney realizes as he walks home from the lab, makes about three years.
The living area is a disaster; Torren has clearly been over, wreaking toddler havoc and scattering debris in his wake. Rodney doesn’t know why they live on Rodney’s side of the sliding wall and only keep John’s place up for appearances, but he suspects it’s because the John Sheppard he used to know would never countenance this kind of domestic chaos, let alone fall asleep on the couch right in the middle of it. John used to be all about hospital corners and polished golf clubs and pristine floors, but Rodney thinks John secretly likes this a lot better. John’s hospital corners have become rounded off, to the point where he doesn’t mind being kissed right in front of his boss.
Rodney quietly tidies the room a little, stowing away papers and makeshift toys and dirty dishes and cups. Then, less quietly (because if John sleeps too much in the early evening he can’t sleep at night), Rodney gets out some dried pasta and a pot and starts making dinner.
“Did you rock out with your cock out?” asks John, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Would you be jealous if I said yes?” Rodney returns, smirking.
“Of Woolsey?” John snorts. He gets up stiffly – the couch is hell on his back but he insists that he likes it just because it matches the curtains – and comes over, leans against the counter with arms folded. His hair is flat on one side and there are sleep wrinkles on his cheek. “So. That was weird, before.”
“You let me kiss you in public,” says Rodney, trying not to crow in triumph.
“That wasn’t public,” protests John. He sticks his finger in the tomato sauce, tastes it. “He’s a civilian. He should know, anyway, it’s one of those things your expedition leader should know.” John reaches across Rodney for the little jar of red pepper flakes, shakes some more into the sauce. “Was it weird hanging out with him after?”
“Surprisingly, no,” Rodney admits. “Stop it, it’ll be too spicy.”
“I like it spicy,” John says.
“Yes, well, your guts don’t, and I have to share a bed with you, so –“
John swoops in, kisses Rodney hard and quick, like a guerilla attack. When he backs away, leaving Rodney open-mouthed and stunned, he says, “I like kissing you in private better.” He slumps back against the counter, trying to regain his cool.
And maybe John’s not the only one who’s changed in three years, Rodney realizes abruptly, because as thrilling as it was, to have the moment of publicly acknowledging what’s between him and John, Rodney has to admit that he likes this better too: he likes John in his kitchen – in *their* kitchen – arguing about what makes John fart too much and bumping shoulders and attacking each other with guerilla kisses.
“Next Sunday,” says Rodney as he drains the pasta, “let’s have waffles.”
“Yeah, okay,” says John, coming up behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of Rodney’s neck.
Thirty Sundays on Atlantis, by Rodney’s reckoning, is about a thousand kisses.
He turns around and tilts his chin up, wanting to make it a thousand and one.