Easy Like Sunday Morning

Mar. 9th, 2008 05:30 pm

Fandom: SGA

Series: Parallels 'Verse

Characters: John/Rodney, Junior, Emily

Rating: R

Warnings: Slash, fluff

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Weekend mornings at the Sheppard-McKay household.

Author's Note: So, I depressed myself. Unbelievably. My solution? Happy fic about how the John and Rodney that were married and stayed on Earth in their part of Long Way Home spend their Sunday mornings. With their adopted kids. Wee! Fluff! I can write it, it just has to be in AU form. And why is their adopted son named Junior, you ask? Because there are a lot of Johns in the world and John Sheppard thought he was being funny.


Rodney wakes up to sun in his eyes, bands of warmth creeping in through the blinds and falling across his skin. He feels almost too warm, with the sun and the blankets and all the skin and heat that is John sprawled on top of him. John had started using him as a body pillow roughly seven hours after they actually made it to a bed for the first time, and twenty years later neither of them had bothered to break the habit.

Rodney shifts. He's still got the headache that had been drilling away at his temples the night before, a product of too many hours spent working on problems for a company that demands more and more from him every year. He winces, raises a hand to rub at his eyes and John makes a sleepy protesting sound while making a stunningly successful effort to wrap himself more completely around Rodney.

John's got his face mashed up against Rodney's chest, one hairy leg thrown over Rodney's thighs. The man's right arm has to be asleep, curled up under Rodney's shoulder, elbow pointy under Rodney's neck, left arm thrown over Rodney's chest, fingers curling against his side. John claims that he doesn't want the cats in the bedroom because he doesn't like them shedding on the sheets but Rodney has no doubt that the protest has more to do with John not wanting to have to share cuddling space.

Rodney shifts again just to listen to John mumble nonsensically. His headache doesn't seem as bad as it had a few moments ago. Rodney runs absent fingers back through John's hair, eternally messy and looking like it needs a haircut. John has been a little weird about his hair for a while, since he noticed the silver strands starting to come in at his temples, around the same time he stopped letting his stubble grow for more than a day.

Rodney is willing to give John some time to get used to the change. His own hair has been stubbornly falling out for five years, and God knows they'd all had to put up with him freaking out over that at first. And, okay, if he's brutally honest with himself, it still bugs him every now and then.

Right now isn't one of those times. John stretches, back arching while his skin rubs up against Rodney's. John always wakes up faster than him, so it isn't really a surprise when a half-second later John is pulling his arm out from beneath Rodney's body and pushing himself up on one elbow. John blinks down at him sleepily, rasps out, "Morning."

Rodney nods and winces again because it brings his headache back. John's pleasantly soft expression fades immediately, concern taking its place as his fingers dance up the tight tendons in Rodney's neck. John sighs, "I'm going to have to have a talk with your boss about sending you home broken."

Rodney rolls his eyes, bats John's hand away only to have it replaced a moment later by John's warm mouth. John kisses and sucks at his throat, tongue tracing patterns on Rodney's skin, teeth a ghost of pressure that has Rodney ignoring the pain and tilting his head back.

John rumbles and at any other time Rodney would tell him not to be so smug, but John's hand is sliding promisingly down his chest. Arguing would probably work against his better interest in this instance. He settles for letting out an appreciative hiss and feels John grin against his neck.

John's hand is warm and familiar, fingertips sliding below the waistband of Rodney's boxers. John still feels the need to crow a little in victory every time he gets a hand down Rodney's pants and now is no different. Rodney rolls his eyes again at the gloating.

John's fingertips leave scorching trails against Rodney's skin. John has apparently decided to be an infuriatingly teasing bastard now and Rodney shifts, opens his mouth to demand that John get on with things. John takes the opportunity to abandon his attention to Rodney's neck, shifting up and kissing him hungry and sloppy while finally wrapping his hand around Rodney's cock.

Morning breath is not sexy. Not even from John. Rodney knows this, but he's still letting his mouth fall open, sucking on John's bottom lip and smirking at the shuddery little breath that escapes John. John's skin is so warm, his body relaxed from sleeping soundly all night. Rodney gets an arm under him, wrapped up around John's back.

John's hand around his cock goes momentarily still and slack when Rodney trails his fingers down John's spine, counting vertebrae in his head as he goes. Rodney nips at the corner of John's mouth to get his attention and John reciprocates with a slow, lazy stroke that's more of a tease than anything else.

John's boxers are suspiciously loose around his hips when Rodney reaches them, and he frowns, shifting up on his elbows to look. John mumbles something in protest, sliding to the side at Rodney's movement. Rodney stares across at him, points to John's underwear and says, "You have your own."

Rodney isn't sure where John's odd fascination with wearing his clothes came from. John had stolen a pair of sweat pants from him the day they met, after Jeannie claimed to accidentally have spilt wine all over his jeans. From then on there had been no going back, Rodney finding articles of clothing going missing every time John came over and suddenly reappearing when John moved in.

John flushes now, grinning even as the tips of his ears stain pink. John wiggles his hips, raising his eyebrows, "Well, you gonna take 'em back?"

Rodney rolls his eyes and sighs huffily but it's only misdirection to allow him to flip sideways and settle over John before he can squirm away. He settles on his elbows, looks down at John and says, "They have cooties now," before dropping a kiss to the tip of John's nose.

John sniggers, his thighs falling apart as he leans up off the bed to kiss Rodney again. John pulls away when he shoves both hands down the back of Rodney's boxers, grabbing his ass and squeezing. Rodney bites his bottom lip, strangling the moan in his throat as best he can.

John is nothing but smug, pushing his hips up as he pulls Rodney down, "I think it's safe to say that you've been thoroughly contaminated with my cooties for years. You must have developed some kind of immunity to them by now."

Rodney nods, "Repeated exposure no doubt built up my tolerance." The last words come out in a huff, and he buries his face against the side of John's neck, trying to muffle the grunts and moans against John's skin. John's breath is a warm rasp against his ear and Rodney grinds down against him, need and want and desire all swimming through his blood.

"You trying to come in your shorts?" John sounds fascinated with the idea and Rodney opens his mouth to point out all of the reasons it's a really, really good idea right now. The words all come out in a rush, consonants and vowels that he can't make any sense of as he feels himself come undone.

John's voice is deep, rough, right in Rodney's ear, "Jesus." Rodney feels heavy and so good and lets John roll them. He thinks he should probably be lending a hand, but all he can manage to do is get one hand on John's back, rubbing circles that are probably more 'comfort' than 'sexually gratifying'. Then again, maybe John doesn't need the help.

John bites at Rodney's throat when he comes, thrusting against Rodney's thigh, fingers digging into Rodney's arms.

Rodney is dopily pleased to note that they've pretty much ended up back in the same position they woke up in. Technically he supposes they didn't really have to move at all, but he can't complain with the results of their activity.

John stretches up after a moment, sliding his hands up to cup the back of Rodney's head and kissing him hard. When John pulls back they're both panting and Rodney's body is trying very hard to convince him that there's really no reason at all for him to ever get out of bed again.

John ruins that plan by crawling across Rodney out of the bed, taking half the sheets with him and calling over his shoulder, "Dibs on the shower."

Just for that, Rodney decides to drink all of the first pot of coffee by himself.


It's getting to be too warm for robes in the morning but Rodney is in desperate need of caffeine and he's not getting dressed while all sticky. John's showers take roughly the same amount of time it took Homer to recount the Odyssey over a fire and so Rodney pulls on his robe and heads for the kitchen.

The kitchen is a war zone. Apparently John and the kids had pizza while Rodney was holed up trying to figure out if it would be easier to come up with a brand new form of mathematics or just killing everyone he worked for so they'd stop giving him such impossible projects. Pizza in their house is never anything but an adventure. Mostly, because John insists on cooking it himself.

Rodney stares at the carnage around the kitchen. A can of tomato sauce bleed to death all over the counter. The murder weapons used to carve up hapless peppers and onions are still spread across the table. There is what Rodney can only pray is a sausage casing hanging over the sink faucet. Flour is everywhere, little white handprints all over the fridge and the microwave and—bizarrely—the overhead fan blades.

Rodney snorts, shakes his head and reaches over to turn the coffee maker on. In all the wanton destruction it alone is untouched and starts percolating happily while Rodney steps over a melted spatula to the cup cabinet. He leans against the counter, watching the coffee drip into the pot and supposes that he should consider himself lucky that at least the house didn't burn down.

The first cup is like a gift from above. Rodney drains it in two long swallows, ignoring the burn on the roof of his mouth and tongue. The coffee is bitter, dark, scalding hot and utterly perfect. It hits his stomach like liquid life, and Rodney cracks his knuckles before pouring another cup and getting down to business. If he washes the dishes by hand just so that he can use hot water then John asked for it.


Rodney is just disposing of the hopefully-a-sausage-casing when the house starts shaking. He doesn't turn to look, just yells, "No running in the house!" and is gratified a second later by the sound of someone trying to stop too quickly and landing on their ass. Rodney turns to face the door of the kitchen, arms crossed and smirking.

Junior comes through the door walking, fair skin stained beet red, blond hair sticking up in roughly twenty thousand directions. The boy freezes in the middle of a step, looking around the kitchen like he's never seen it before, mouth falling open and then snapping shut. The boy is still looking helplessly around the room when Rodney swallows a mouthful of coffee and says, "In a hurry?"

Junior looks up at him and tries on one of the shit-eating grins that he's attempting to steal from John, "I didn't think you'd be up this early." Rodney just stares at him and after a moment the boy lets the smile go, walks forward and throws his arms around Rodney, pleading, "I tried to tell them not to do it! You know how they are! There's no talking to dad when he's like that!"

Rodney rolls his eyes but can't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up. He reaches up with his non-coffee occupied hand and ruffles Junior's hair, prompting the boy to blink up at him with hope in his gaze. Rodney says, "Shall I assume it was you who kept the coffee from coming to any harm?"

Junior nods, stepping away and heading towards the fridge with a determined look on his face. Rodney catches the door, pushing it back closed and sticking his tongue out at Junior when the boy pouts up at him. "I'm pretty sure I'm owed some actual breakfast this morning. Go wake your sister."

Junior makes a face but doesn't protest, and Rodney reaches over to turn the hot water on full blast again. He'll give it five minutes. If John isn't dressed and in the kitchen by then Rodney will just have to go get him.


John flashes Rodney a dirty look when he steps into the kitchen four minutes later. His hair is still soaking wet, plastered against his skull and Rodney doesn't try not to laugh at him. John steps up to him, hands gripping the counter on either side of Rodney's hips and glares at him. Rodney is still laughing when John finally cracks a smile and kisses him.

John's hand is getting rather more involved with Rodney's belt than it should be when they're interrupted by, "Ew! You have a bedroom for that, you know."

John twists his head to look in the doorway, grinning at Emily and Junior behind her. While the rest of them look awake Emily still looks like she belongs in bed. Her red hair is a tangled mess and she's somehow managed to snag one of the afghans from the living room on her way to the kitchen. The blanket is slung over her shoulders like a cloak and she throws herself into her chair.

John waits until her back is turned to lean back in a kiss Rodney with far too many sound effects for it to be anything but hilarious. Rodney ends up grinning helplessly against John's mouth, listening to their children bicker back and forth about who has to set the table.

When John finally pulls back, his mouth red and his eyes shining, Rodney says, "I was thinking pancakes."

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