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Three weeks after they returned to Earth, Rodney and Jennifer took a few days off to visit her father. Shortly after they left, John threw a six pack in the fridge in anticipation of Rodney's return. He figured it was about even money that it would be a celebration or a wake.
He had no idea which outcome he was rooting for. Which made him feel like a shitty friend, but he figured he'd be able to hide either his disappointment or his elation from Rodney, and he told himself that was something, at least.
Rodney got back two days early – without Keller. He showed up at John's door barely an hour later.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Rodney said, as soon as he was inside.
“No problem,” John said, handing him a beer. Rodney stared at it for a few seconds, then popped the top and downed half of it in a gulp.
“Hey, slow down, there, cowboy,” John murmured. As Rodney turned, John's hand rose and hovered near Rodney's shoulder, then fell away again. Rodney didn't see it.
“Her father hated me,” Rodney said, after the second beer.
“Thought we weren't talking about it,” John said into his beer – his first. He was keeping a clear head tonight.
“I mean, really hated me,” Rodney said, obviously not worrying about consistency. “Like the way Ronon hates the Wraith.”
“Didn't Jennifer tell him you were a good guy?” John didn't know much about Jennifer, but he knew she and her dad were really close. He was sure she'd bring him around.
Rodney finished his beer and reached for a third, suddenly silent. “Hey,” John said, grabbing Rodney's hand before it could close around the can.
“What could she say?” Rodney snapped, looking up at him. “That I'm a world-renowned physicist who disappeared off the map a decade ago? That I regularly shoot bad aliens and save people's lives with brilliant plans I pull out of my ass? It's not like she can plunk my resumé down in front of him.”
“She doesn't love you for your resumé,” John said.
“Yeah, well,” Rodney mumbled, “that didn't stop her from dumping me last night.” Before John could respond to that extraordinary statement, Rodney shook off his hand and grabbed his third beer. “Anyway! Enough about me! How have you been?”
“You know me,” John said weakly, “same old same old.”
Rodney snorted. “Yeah.” He looked up and met John's gaze. “I miss the same old same old. I miss – I miss you.”
John took a deep breath. Shit, he hadn't even had one beer. “You see me all the time.”
Rodney shook his head. “Not like I used to. And I'm sorry about that. I want you to know that when I get involved with someone again, I – I'll do better.”
“Okay,” John said, after he swallowed around the lump in his throat.
Rodney smiled for the first time that night, and John gripped the couch cushion to keep from doing something really, really stupid.
“Look, why don't we watch a movie?" John asked. "Lorne got his hands on an advance copy of the Watchmen.”
Rodney put the beer back down on the table. “Oh, wow, really? That's great!”
John rose on rubbery legs and went to retrieve his laptop.
“Did you ever think,” Rodney said, as the credits rolled, “that life would be easier if we were gay?”
John dropped the bowl of popcorn, and the last remaining kernels went skittering under the table and couch as the bowl clattered to the floor. There was a couple of minutes of muffled cursing and apologies, and then they were sitting side-by-side again in silence.
“No, really,” Rodney said.
“Jesus, Rodney,” John growled, “how many beers have you had?”
Rodney held up a can of Pepsi. “I stopped drinking before the movie. So?”
“So? So what?”
Rodney threw up his hands. “So what do you think?”
John closed his laptop with a decisive snap. “I don't think anything.”
“Look, this is a valid theory,” Rodney insisted. “I mean, it's so much easier. With a guy, you'd never have to worry if you've said something you shouldn't. You'd never have to remember Valentine's Day, and the anniversary of your first kiss. And most importantly, you'll never have to get his family's approval.”
“Newsflash, genius,” John gritted. “Gay men have families, too.”
Rodney flapped a hand. “My sister already likes you. And you don't care what your brother thinks of anything.”
John closed his eyes briefly. “Since when did this get to be about us?”
“Since you're the most logical choice, of course,” Rodney said in his best duh voice, “in a hypothetical sense. So come on, just admit I'm right. It would be easier, wouldn't it?”
John held Rodney's gaze for a long time. And then he heard himself say, “No, it wouldn't.”
“What do you mean?” Rodney demanded, obviously affronted by John's denial of his brilliant idea.
“I mean,” John said, and his hand was fisted in Rodney's shirt, and Rodney's eyes were wide in his startled face, “it's not. It hasn't been.”
“You – oh my God,” Rodney breathed.
“Shut up,” John growled, his other hand coming up to touch Rodney's cheek as he leaned in. Rodney froze for a moment, and then he was kissing John back, almost desperately, like he'd just discovered how much he needed oxygen and John had the only supply.
“This is – oh my God,” Rodney babbled, lips trailing along John's jugular.
“You said that already,” John murmured, mouth grazing Rodney's ear.
“It's worth repeating,” Rodney informed him. His hands squeezed John's shoulders, then trailed up into his hair. “John.”
“April twenty-third,” John murmured.
“What?” Rodney lifted his head. “That's today.”
“Mark your calendar,” John said, sucking on his lower lip. “I'll be wanting a box of candy next year.”