Fandom: Pairing: Stargate Atlantis: John/Rodney
Spoilers: Minor location spoilers for early S4.
Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com. If you spot a typo, please feel free to tell me in comments. I want you to!
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: The weather here is like nothing they've experienced before, not on Lantea or Athos or Earth.
Notes: Written for day 6 of mini_wrimo and prompt #45 of my long-neglected McShep Big Damn Table.
The weather here is like nothing they've experienced before, not on Lantea or Athos or Earth. It starts cool and damp, but the barometric pressure creeps ever upward and takes the temperature with it.
Over days and weeks - a month, maybe two - the dampness resolves into humidity, limning the more athletic, aesthetically pleasing ones with glistening dew. The less fortunate become sweaty, lank and swollen, plagued with heat rash and the ever-present threat of dehydration.
The pressure builds until a flashpoint is reached - and then the storms come.
They dance across the surface of the planet in a beautiful ballet, each a thousand miles or more across and a hundred miles high. They merge and grow, or clash and spin away on new trajectories, completely unpredictable.
For the lightshow and the rains, the city hides behind its shield - an upturned goldfish bowl trapped beneath a never-ending torrent. For three to five days, a million tonnes of water every seventeen seconds hits the shields, a deluge of Biblical proportions.
The sheer weight of it, the unimaginable volume, keeps Atlantis in motion on the roiling sea. Dramamine is in short supply for those who have no sea-legs.
Most people take their downtime when the pressure gets too much, when they can feel their brains liquefying, their tempers stretched so thin that their nerves poke through. They only return to regular work when the weather breaks and the rains begin.
Rodney claims he does his best work under pressure, and that the lack of personnel underfoot is just a bonus. He spends these sultry, sequestered days, when offworld's out-of-bounds, scouring the database for long-buried treasure, hunting down elusive hints of armories and ZPMs.
The sultry, sequestered nights he spends with John, sprawled inelegant and naked on a thrown-together bed of Ancient mattresses and cushions on his balcony. They breathe together and watch the sky when it's too hot to fuck, and join the stars and gasp for air when it's not.
Rodney knows the taste of every inch of John's skin - every crease and scar and wrinkle, every follicle. He knows a nip behind the knee makes him giggle, that a long, slow lick from tailbone to nape makes him beg. He knows the taste of John angry and cheerful and fierce, he knows the taste of him melancholy, half-drunk and glad.
He knows the taste of every mood, every facet of John, but today - this day that hasn't been different in any way but this - today he tastes fear and hope and something undefined, something frangible and sweet as spun sugar.
The sweetness, the fragility, is visible in John's eyes, in the angle of his jaw and the lightness of his touch.
"You know this isn't just about…" John waves a hand over their come-smeared bellies. "Right? I mean, it's not like we meant to… But with the heat and… With you… And I really…"
Rodney kisses him into silence. So this is what love tastes like.
"Yeah, me too."
mini_nanowrimo running total: 2890 words