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The guys running the prison take Rodney away, and John is not okay with that at all. They toss John in a cell and ignore him for what feels like hours. John shouts and rattles the bars and looks for a way out, and tries very hard to think of a plan. He's been stripped down to his t-shirt, boxer briefs, and socks, and he has to assume that when he finds Rodney, when he breaks out of here, he's going to need shoes for two, at the least. The Stargate was a good day's walk from where they were ambushed. Ronon and Teyla escaped -- John tells himself he's sure of it -- but rescue's probably 20 hours away. John would prefer not to be captive that long, and they'll run faster in shoes.
Finally, the guards come back, and John demands to be released and to see Rodney. Sure, the guards say, but they look too smug for John to think this means anything good. The taller of the guards gives John a speculative look and says, "If you fight, we hurt your friend."
John repeats that he needs to see Rodney. So they bind his arms behind his back and take him there.
Rodney's in another cell, and he's been chained to the wall. He looks terrified. There's a man holding a knife, big like Ronon's, with the point pressed against Rodney's right eyelid. Rodney is very, very still, except for his panicked breathing.
"He doesn't need two eyes," the tall guard says. "Or his tongue." John wonders what Rodney did to piss them off. "You harmed two of my best men," he goes on. "I think I'm entitled to a little fun."
He moves John so he's standing right in front of Rodney, so close John can see his own reflection in the blade. John keeps saying that they should just talk this over, that his people and their people got off on the wrong foot, that they need to stop and get to know each other -- all kinds of stupid shit. He sounds stupid; he sounds scared. He does not sound in control of the situation at all.
Finally the guard takes pity on him, and leans in. "Shut up," he says, and the knife moves just a little, opening a fine red line on the pale thin skin of Rodney's eyelid. John's mouth clamps shut. "Kneel."
John does, clumsily, scraping his knees raw on the ground. One of the men pulls Rodney's boxers down, and John thinks, okay, he's in for a bit of humiliation here. Then the man produces a bunch of leather straps, a harness of some sort, and straps John in good and tight. When he's done, John's got all of Rodney's dick in his mouth and his nose in Rodney's sweaty pubic hair. Breathing's hard; John can't pull back at all, with the straps holding his head in place.
"Have a good night," the tall guard says, and then he and all his men file out, laughing and talking about dinner. The cell door clangs shut behind them, and is locked tight.
Fuck, John thinks.
"I'm sorry," Rodney says. His voice is thin with misery. "I maybe said some things I shouldn't have. Are you suffocating? Are your knees okay?"
John tries to say that he's fine, but not only does he sound muffled, he forgets that using his tongue is a bad idea and ends up licking Rodney's dick. He swallows hard, but apparently that feels pretty intimate, too, because Rodney snaps, "Would you please just not do that."
After a very long moment, Rodney says Sorry again, miserably.
John tries to ask what happened and and if he's okay, while keeping his tongue flat at the bottom of his mouth and trying not to use his teeth or lips. He sounds garbled to his own ears, like he's underwater. He looks up as far as the harness permits. He can see the bottom of Rodney's chin as Rodney gripes through a predictable chain of events: questioning, mouthing off, chains, the big knife.
But still, Rodney's not hurt physically. That's what's important, John tells himself, and looks away. He's trying not to think about swallowing, but it's like yawning; the more conscious he is of the way Rodney's Adam's apple bobs convulsively, the more he needs to swallow himself. There's a metal ring around Rodney's neck that keeps him from being able to look down, which sucks in terms of non-verbal communication. John wonders if he remembers enough Morse code to be able to tap out messages with his tongue. He doesn't think that would go over very well.
He can feel the exact moment when Rodney's dick gets over Rodney's general terror and starts filling. John had hoped they'd avoid this situation. He doesn't know how to tell Rodney it's okay, they'll just do it and it'll be done.
In a way John regrets that night shortly after Ronon joined the team, when he and Rodney got drunk and Rodney admitted to being bi, or bi-flexible or bi-curious or some damn thing that sounded like in theory but never practice. John had rolled his eyes and Rodney had been huffy, saying that for the right person maybe. John said he really doubted Ronon was going to be the one to take Rodney on his walk on the wild side. There had been genuine hurt in Rodney's eyes that he tried to hide, and then John felt like a shitty friend. "If you ever do," John had said, "I promise I won't be an asshole." He'd bumped his shoulder against Rodney's. "As one bi guy to another."
Right after that, Rodney started the thing with Katie Brown. The awkward haste of the relationship made John wonder, at the time, but he preferred not to know or think too much about his friends' sex lives. Rodney never took John up on his offer, and that was totally fine with John.
Except now he's got Rodney's dick in his mouth and whatever unsexy thoughts Rodney is trying aren't enough to kill his hard-on; John's going to have to suck Rodney off or choke to death on dick. That reminds him of a stand-up comedy routine, and he tries to remember what the punchline was as he clears his throat to get Rodney's attention, apologizes, and then starts licking and sucking in earnest.
"You don't have to do that," Rodney says, sounding pissy, as if he had been managing just fine. "Seriously. Sheppard. Colonel. Stop."
John stops and pants a little. He can't pull back, is the problem, and it's uncomfortable.
"Okay," Rodney says after a moment, using his thinking now voice, brusque and sharp. John can taste come when he swallows now; he hopes Rodney thinks fast. "Right. You're not taking advantage of the situation --" John shakes his head as much as he can and says uh-uh -- "you're just trying to get my penis out of the way." John give him a short nod and an uh-huh. "Do you have any idea how good it feels when you talk? Your mouth," and Rodney's voice falters, "sorry. Way out of line."
John's a bit confused for a moment, and then he nods again. He's not Rodney's girlfriend or his boyfriend; he prefers not to be treated that way. "If you promise not to call me baby, can I get back to blowing you?"
Rodney snorts, nearly a laugh. "I can't understand a word you're saying, but. Could you... do it... fast?"
"Yeah," John says, and gets back to work.
John likes being in control of a blowjob. He'd have to trust his partner a lot to not keep their hips pinned when he's going down on them. Porn makes deep-throating and face-fucking seem a lot sexier than they are, in his experience, present circumstance definitely included. He can only use his tongue and suction; he can't pull his head back to get any kind of real rhythm going. He tries to wet his lips and mostly makes a mess, spit trickling down his chin. Despite the fact that he repressed that memory, damn it, he's strongly reminded of practicing on a banana when he was young and horny and had that huge crush on Den Heese.
Rodney, unlike the banana, seems to be enjoying John's crappy technique, if the way his breath catches and his body jerks is any indicator. John twists his head as far as he can to the side and tugs back so he can see Rodney's right hand, where it's manacled to the wall. Rodney's hands are fairly indicative of his mood, and John's wondered now and then if Rodney was handsy during sex. He is now, his fingers flexing, curling into a fist when John rubs hard with his tongue, reaching out abortively to grab when John sucks hard.
"I'm nearly," Rodney says, "I wish I could see you, I bet you look hot, Christ, John."
"I bet you're a hair-puller," John says, wrapping the words around Rodney's dick, and Rodney shudders, barely catching a groan with his teeth and thrusting as far forward as he can. John nearly gags, which would be pretty bad, but gets himself through it and then bumps his forehead against Rodney's skin, which is slick with sweat. "More."
He doesn't know if Rodney understands him, but Rodney shoves his hips forward, making angry-sounding noises. Just when John thinks Rodney's right there on the edge, he starts humming the Imperial March.
Rodney starts laughing and coming at the same time, sagging against the restraints. John swallows, and finally lets himself feel the ache in his jaw and the pain in his knees and arms. He shifts as best he can, which isn't much.
"You're such an asshole," Rodney says. "You really are. You could have given me a heart attack."
"You're welcome," John says pointedly, and shuts his eyes for a moment because there's no point in rolling them.
"I'll write you a letter of reference," Rodney says dismissively, and yawns. "I always thought the whole nap after sex thing was a myth, but I feel very... noodly."
John doesn't say anything about how the adrenaline from being attacked and captured and tortured in bizarre ways is probably wearing off. He leans the side of his face against Rodney as best he can and suppresses a yawn of his own. "Can you sleep like this?"
"Of course," Rodney snaps. "This must be a Posturpedic stone wall I'm chained to."
"Hm," John says, not bothering with words. He knows he's not going to sleep, not in this position and with his back to the cell door, but he needs to rest. It's been a long day.
Next to and above him, Rodney is restless, muttering and moving as if he can't get comfortable. John tunes him out and thinks about escape again. They'll need pants as well as shoes, he decides. The woods were full of undergrowth, and his ass is going numb from cold even indoors. Good solid boots and warm trousers; that's not too much to ask, he thinks, and tries to draw a mental map of the route back to the stargate.
Rodney bumps John in the face once, then again, then again, and John realizes that Rodney's talking to him, saying, "John? I'll kill you if you're dead. John? Colonel," and another sharp nudge that nearly makes John bite down.
"I'm awake," John says, damning himself with his own words. "What?"
"I'm really sorry," Rodney says.
John wishes he could rub his eyes. Or shut his mouth. Now that he's not thinking of pants and stargates, he finds the inability to move nearly intolerable. It makes him short-tempered. "Stop apologizing. It's creepy coming from you."
"Stop mumbling," Rodney says. He sounds wild-eyed and desperate, like they're about to die. "Look, when I was alone with the guards, before they chained me to the wall, they were really nice. We sat around and drank tea. A lot of tea," Rodney adds, and John hates that he knows where this story's going. "I was thinking what would Teyla do to persuade them that this was a mistake and that they shouldn't do whatever horrible thing they were doing to you. And Teyla... drinks a lot of tea."
"You're a big boy," John says. "You can hold it, right?"
"Shut up." Rodney gulps loud enough for John to hear. "Seriously, you know the sleepover hand in warm water trick? Try having your dick in a nice warm wet place for hours and hours. Not to mention that you swallow an awful lot, which I think might be a symptom of some underlying disorder, like rabies or diabetes."
John laughs, and then stops himself quickly. He wants to argue that of course he doesn't have rabies, but that'd be pointless. He nearly tells Rodney to call for the guards, that maybe they'll untie him.... Except they're the ones who gave Rodney the tea. They'd probably stay to watch the show.
The cell is mostly dark, lit only by light from the lantern in the corridor. Probably it's the middle of the night, and a long time until morning. When they manage to escape, Rodney's going to have to run as fast as he can.
John refuses to let himself think as he says, "Okay. Whatever."
There's a pause, and then an unhappy, "Um." John can't bring himself to give any reassurances. After a minute, Rodney says, "Is that something you do?"
John wishes he were closer to the wall so he could beat his head against it. "No," he says, short and loud.
"I don't think you get how humiliating this is for me," Rodney whips out, with all the energy of a good yell but without the volume that might attract the guards.
"Which one of us in on his knees?" John counters, making his voice as cold as he can. "I'm sorry I can't hold your hand and lie to you, but --"
The rest of John's words are washed away in a sudden tide of piss. It's not like come; he has to keep swallowing and swallowing and he has no idea how much there's going to be, which makes him feel the edge of panic. Some trickles out of his mouth and some makes him start to choke. He can't stop coughing, once, and he gets piss up his nose, which makes his eyes water and his nose run. When the flow stops John has to cough more. He can't get away from the smell or the taste, which are pretty much the same thing.
Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Rodney's hand straining against the restraint, fingers reaching out towards him but not close enough to touch.
"I had a friend," Rodney says, sounding a little remote or stunned. "He was kind of fat and hated sports and wore sweater vests his mother made. He got a prize, I think for amateur radio or something, they announced it at school, and after school." Rodney pauses, and John can feel the tension in him. "They took turns pissing in his bag. Ruined everything. He didn't come back to school, and then his family moved away." Rodney's hand finally goes limp, like he's let something go. "You're my best friend. I respect you, when you're not being stupid. And I feel like I'm taking advantage of you, like I should be able to control my own dick, but."
"Don't worry about it," John says. "We're cool." He takes a deep breath, longs for a shower, and feels, absurdly, good about where they are in terms of their relationship. Rodney respects him. That makes him grin.
And Rodney obviously knows how to read John's mind, because he adds tartly, "Enjoy my emotional vulnerability while you've got it. I don't plan on respecting you in the morning."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," John says. "Shut up and go to sleep."
The escape in the morning is pretty easy. When the guards untie John, sweaty and stinking of piss, he collapses into a cramped puddle of whimpering misery on the floor. They leave him there while unchaining Rodney, which is a mistake. John takes down both the guards, manacles them together, and steals their boots and their pants. Rodney hisses complaints about his back; John falls over every five steps, because his knees really are fucked up.
Getting out of the prison is difficult, but not impossible, and they're halfway (okay, maybe a quarter of the way) to the gate when they run into Lorne's team and nearly get shot.
"Hi," John says. "Tell me you have a jumper."
"Nice pants, sir," Lorne says. "I can call for a jumper. Word is you were captured."
John waves a hand dismissively. "We were. It sucked."
Rodney, behind him, snorts in sudden loud, inappropriate amusement. "It really did. It really, really sucked."
"Kind of an all-day sucker," John agrees, and Rodney smacks him in the arm hard enough that it stings. "Looking forward to getting home, Major."
"Anything I need to know?" Lorne asks, looking past John, as if he squinted hard enough he could see the outpost and maybe set it on fire with his mind powers. (John figures he's on the wrong side of sleep deprived; his imagination's getting baroque.) John looks at Rodney, who's dirty with bruises and bloody scrapes from the chains and things, and is wearing ugly clothes. John probably looks the same, plus he smells bad and is limping. John can see how Lorne might be making some assumptions.
"We are absolutely good with leaving here right now," John says, and gives Lorne a quirk of his eyebrow and a wry smile. "McKay, tell the man he doesn't need to avenge our honor."
Rodney splutters. "I thought I took away all your Georgette Heyer, Colonel My Lord John." He snaps his fingers at Lorne, impatient and arrogant and not so much with the trauma. "You had better have food with you, or I might collapse on the way to the gate. What kind of a rescue is this, anyway?"
Lorne shuts Rodney up with powerbars and an honest-to-God bottle of Pepsi-Cola. Nothing says concern like carbs and caffeine. John tries not to look jealous; it's his own rule, after all, to take care of the civilians' needs first. But Rodney shoves the bottle into John's hand after only a few greedy gulps.
"Thought you'd be thirsty," Rodney mutters.
John swishes the drink around his mouth and swallows. Rodney makes a face and even Lorne looks put off, but John's glad to have his teeth taste like high fructose corn syrup and not a bathroom floor. "Thanks," he says.
Rodney shrugs and takes a bite from his powerbar. "What are friends for?" he says, chewing vigorously, and John just grins and starts off after Lorne, heading home.