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"'I'll be fine, Rodney.' 'It's nine o'clock in the morning, Rodney.' 'My skin isn't made of delicate flower petals like yours, Rodney.' Well, now look at you. Are you happy?"
John sighed and speared another piece of broccsparagus with his fork. One hour. He'd spent exactly one hour on the pier, celebrating the first genuinely warm, sunny morning of the season by racing cars with Rodney between meetings. Atlantis was no Afghanistan, and he didn't burn easily; he'd brushed off Rodney's repeated offers of sunscreen. Now his bright pink forearms paid testament to the wisdom of that decision.
"Doesn't hurt," he pointed out. He hadn't even noticed that the rash had come up until he'd sat down with his dinner tray and Teyla had asked if he was okay.
"It will." Rodney shook his head.
John stuck his tongue out at him and kept eating.
Two hours later John was lying on his bed trying to read a magazine, but his burns, which had indeed gotten worse, were too distracting. His arms looked and felt like throbbing beacons, even brighter now than they'd been at dinner. The skin felt hot and tight all the way from where his t-shirt sleeves ended down to the backs of his hands. He hadn't been sunburnt in years, but he remembered this miserable ache.
Dammit. Giving up on the magazine, he made his way into the bathroom and rifled through the contents of his tiny medicine cabinet in search of some kind of lotion. Aftershave, hair gel, shaving cream, a single-dose tube of antibacterial ointment, travel-size toothpaste. Great.
He was contemplating trying the shaving cream when the door chimed.
"Yeah," he called, and frowned at himself in the mirror before walking back to the main room.
Rodney stood there with his arms crossed and, bless the guy, a small tube in one hand. "I knew you'd be too stubborn to get something from Keller. Let me see." He reached out for John's arm.
He gave it willingly, surprised—although he shouldn't have been—at how gently Rodney handled him. Rodney cupped the unhurt underside of John's wrist and pressed the skin on top with his thumb. His finger felt startlingly, refreshingly cool against the radiating heat. Then he let go, and John watched the pale fingerprint he'd left behind flush bright again to match the rest of his arm.
"Ow," John said, partly from the vague rebounding discomfort and partly because he was still mad Rodney had been right.
"I have no sympathy for you, Lieutenant Colonel Medium-Rare," Rodney said, but John caught the concern in his eyes. "Sit down and take your shirt off."
"Sir, yes, sir," he said. He lifted his t-shirt over his head and then as gingerly as he could down his arms. He tossed it over to the laundry pile and sat on the bed, looking up with his best pitiful expression.
Rodney gave an exaggerated, put-upon sigh and plonked down on the bed beside him. He cracked open the lotion and squirted some of the deep green goo onto his fingers. "Arm number one, please," he said, as if John were Madison waiting for a Band-Aid or sparkly nail polish or something.
It was kind of condescending and smug, but there was still that concern and affection underneath, and anyway, Rodney had aloe gel and John didn't know how well he'd be able to sleep if his arms got worse, so he obediently held out his right one.
Rodney took it as carefully as before and started to apply the gel. Nothing happened at first; John just watched Rodney's thick fingers rub soft, cold circles into the back of his hand, mingling green with the pink. It looked kind of gross. But then, gradually, as Rodney made his way up to John's elbow, the prickling heat began to recede. His arm relaxed into Rodney's hold.
"Good?" Rodney murmured. John glanced up to find him completely focused on his arm, his eyelashes highlighted by the bedside lamp.
"Mm," he answered. The hands kept going, firm and sure but still gentle, up to his biceps where the pink patches gave way to winter paleness.
"Okay, done," Rodney said, giving him one last swipe. "Next." The way they were sitting side by side, it was awkward to switch arms; the next few moments consisted of shifting and re-shifting and "Here" and "Let me just" and "Ouch" and finally, "That works," as John lay back into the pillows and let his blissfully gelled arm hang off the other side of the bed.
He closed his eyes and let Rodney take his still-hot left arm. He didn't hear the snap of plastic or a filthy squirt, though. Instead, Rodney lifted his arm, seemed to be turning it for a closer inspection, and then something small, damp and warmish pressed into his forearm. John opened his eyes and found Rodney softly kissing the reddened skin.
"Rodney, what…?" he asked, but he couldn't hold back a smile.
"Shh." Rodney turned his head to rest his cheek on John's arm instead of his mouth, smooth cool skin soothing his own. "You're so hot."
"You tell me that all the time."
"Yes, yes, and you didn't have to go roast yourself to make it literal," Rodney murmured, and kissed him again.
John closed his eyes and settled back when Rodney reached for the tube of gel. A moment, and then Rodney's hands were back, working their magic. He hummed as the slick coolness spread over his skin. The sheer relief had him lax again with gratitude in no time. Rodney's fingers swirled his arm hair in a weirdly comforting way as he rubbed in the gel. His touch wasn't hard enough for a massage, but John was reminded of one anyway. He breathed contentedly.
Too soon, Rodney finished. John let his arm dangle off the edge of the mattress like the other one and just lay there. He thought about maybe not moving for the rest of his life.
Except then Rodney straddled him and pressed his cold hands into John's chest. John made a strangled sound of protest.
"Easier than washing up," Rodney said, grinning down at him. He rubbed his palms over John's pecs, and the thin layer of evaporating aloe cooled his skin like mint. He squirmed a little at the contrast to Rodney's hot hands and his own heating body—the good kind of heat, this time.
Rodney scooted back and bent lower over him to mouth at an ungelled area under his left nipple, then lower, his hands going to John's bare sides.
"Hey," said John quietly. His whole body still felt pleasantly heavy. "C'mere." He lifted one protesting arm to touch Rodney's hair.
Rodney looked up from John's navel. "Don't move, you'll get gel all over everything. Just—lie there." But he did what John wanted, moving back up and holding himself on hands and knees over John's body so John could lift his head and kiss him.
Rodney was a great kisser: passionate and sensual, tender but not submissive. John worked that expressive mouth open, then pulled back, nipping, drawing Rodney down with him to the pillow, before pushing in again.
Then he let Rodney take over so he could concentrate lower down. He nudged Rodney's knee with his thigh; Rodney raised up so John could move his leg to the outside. John hooked his freed leg over Rodney's and tugged. "Get down here," he murmured into Rodney's mouth, lifting his hips as best he could without using his arms for leverage.
Rodney went. He made a happy noise into the kiss at the contact. John made a noise himself when Rodney shifted and pressed down so they each had something to rub against. They settled firmly together, Rodney's thigh between his, and Rodney began to rock into him, slow and heavy.
John tried to lift to meet Rodney's thrusts, but between the kiss and his useless arms, he wasn't really effective. Rodney broke the kiss to reprimand him, so John went still and let Rodney do all the work. Rodney's arms locked on either side of John's shoulders as if he were doing a push-up. John rolled his head to the side so he could watch Rodney's triceps clench.
Soon they were breathing too hard to kiss anyway, the drag of cloth and muscle a sweet, maddening friction. Rodney breathed wetly into John's neck. John's blood was pulsing fast and hard. The activity made his arms burn again, but he didn't care. He wasn't sure he'd had sex quite like this before, lying motionless, open, while his partner worked them both to climax; he'd always at least been clutching, kissing, or, that one memorable time, tied to the headboard so he'd had something to work against. This felt hedonistic, selfish—and fantastic. He didn't have to do anything but lie splayed out on the bed and let Rodney push, release, push again, each time bringing him closer.
John rolled his head back to see Rodney's face pink and sweaty with exertion. "Close?" he asked.
"Yuh," Rodney gasped. "You?"
"Yeah," he said, and strained up to kiss the thin salty skin at Rodney's throat. He was almost—he just needed— He dropped back to the pillow and tightened his leg over Rodney's hip, pressing them even closer. His pulse pounded in his neck and arms and groin. Rodney dipped his head to drag his mouth over John's and really started to go for it, shoving fast and graceless. "Yeah," John groaned again. His arms flopped at his sides with the force of Rodney's thrusts.
Finally the pressure built enough to tip him over, and he came, moaning into Rodney's mouth.
When it was over, he went totally limp and let Rodney ride him into the mattress. It didn't take long before Rodney stilled, jerked, gave the sort of whimper that meant it was good.
Rodney kissed him once more before sitting back on his heels. John lifted one pleasure-slack arm and curled it stickily over his chest so Rodney could settle next to him.
"That was totally worth the sunburn," John said when he could breathe normally again.
Rodney narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't get any ideas about skimping on sunscreen and increasing your risk of melanoma so you can be lazy in bed."
"Wouldn't dream of it," John promised.
At least, not so soon that Rodney would catch on.
Besides, he figured he could milk this burn for at least two more lotion rubs first.
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