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It’s not like Rodney hasn’t seen John’s bedhead before. They’ve shared tents and rooms at the inn and they’ve even been stuck together in cramped jumpers for days at a time. It isn’t even like he hasn’t seen John’s sex hair before. But waking up next to him for the first time—the first time John stays the night—it’s an entirely different experience.
There’s sunshine pouring in through the jungle of plants on Rodney’s balcony, catching softly at John’s face and the slope of his shoulders. He’ll have pillow creases on his cheek when he wakes and his hair—
“It’s like a sentient creature,” Rodney says. There’s no reason to resist the impulse to reach out this time, so he doesn’t, poking cautiously at a spiky tuft that’s sticking out at an odd angle.
John grumbles something that might be a question, one eye cracked open and glaring at Rodney.
“Good morning to you, too,” Rodney says, patting the little tuft of hair down gently. Miraculously, it springs right back up.
The noise John makes this time is even less like a word. It’s mostly lost, anyway, as he smooshes his face into the mattress.
Rodney runs his fingers through John’s hair, up from the nape of his neck and back down. It’s a marvel, the way it spikes up, refusing to lie flat again. “The biology department would have a field day,” he says, thinking less about data points and more about how John’s hair is greasy this morning because of what they’d gotten up to last night—the shine of sweat on John’s brow, the way it had dripped down into the hollow of his throat still vivid in Rodney’s memory.
“It’s just my hair,” John says, apparently able to form words now. He bats Rodney’s hand away, shoving his head under the pillow.
“Yeah, but,” Rodney says, heart pounding now because—“I’m the one who messed it up this time.”
John peeks out from under the pillow, still frowning. “And you want the biologists involved why?”
That’s a solid point against the whole thing, but Rodney doesn’t mind. “I can keep my own records,” he says. “Biology’s squishy anyway.”
“Squishy—” John manages, but it turns into a startled almost-yelp when Rodney pulls the pillow away—“McKay!”
Rodney presses a brief kiss to John’s shoulder in apology, but he doesn’t really feel bad. John’s hair is even more of a mess after communing with the pillow and Rodney’s ready for some more practical experimentation. “Just let me see what happens if—”
John pushes Rodney’s hand away again. “Can’t even let a guy sleep in,” he mutters, yanking the sheet up over his head.
“You can sleep,” Rodney says, pulling the sheet back enough to get a look at just how spectacularly John’s hair has been affected by this new development. “It would probably make it easier for me, actually.”
It would make it easier, Rodney decides, because John looks up at him with a truly miserable pout before rolling himself out of bed.
“I’m not your new science experiment,” John says, stumbling his way towards the bathroom.
Rodney flops back on his pillow, running his hand through his own hair—which feels just as much in need of a shower as John’s, but in a far less novel way—and lets himself pout as well. So much for a lazy morning in bed.
But John returns much quicker than Rodney expects.
“Good morning,” he says, placing a stubbly, yet minty fresh kiss on Rodney’s cheek as he pours himself back into bed, still sweaty and languid and delightfully naked.
“Oh,” Rodney says, and rolls himself on top of John, licking his way into John’s mouth because he can, because John’s here in his bed and not running out the door. Because John’s melting back against the mattress beneath him, one hand sliding up Rodney’s neck to pull him closer, the other sliding down his chest.
He’s not really thinking about it this time, just letting his hands explore mindlessly—the muscles of John’s shoulders, the rasp of stubble on his chin, the softness of the hair at his nape. As soon as he realizes his fingers are once again buried in John’s hair, John breaks off the kiss with a frustrated noise.
“Not again—” but John’s words cut off into a soft groan as Rodney tugs experimentally, just hard enough to tip John’s head back and expose his throat.
Pride stirs in Rodney’s belly, because he’d done that, he’d figured out how to get that sound out of John. Even the resulting flush that’s spreading down John’s neck is entirely of Rodney’s own doing.
“See?” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of John’s neck. “It isn’t all bad.” He pulls gently at John’s hair again, experimentally, just to see if the results will be the same.
John hisses a few, hoarse curses in response, his hips twitching up wildly. Otherwise, he’s gone pliant, tipping his head when Rodney sucks a messy, demanding kiss just under his jaw, his legs falling open with the slightest suggestion from Rodney’s knees. He makes another soft, desperate noise when Rodney pulls at his hair a third time, and Rodney relents, finding John’s mouth again for a gentle kiss as a thank you—or an apology, he’s not sure which.
“Come on,” John murmurs, because he’s forgotten to be grumpy. He pulls at Rodney’s hips until Rodney moves himself up to straddle John’s shoulders. By the time John’s licking his lips and wrapping his hand around Rodney’s cock, Rodney’s too distracted to keep track of the data, anyway.