Archive of Our Own ^beta

Come to find out, there is not a dungeon in Colorado Springs; there are three. John likes the one over the bookstore that plays a lot of trance, but Rodney insists on going to "the classy one, and don't act like you don't know which one I mean, Sheppard," which reminds him of conversations he used to have in college about exactly which of the four Denny's within walking distance of his dorm was the "good" Denny's, which only leads to him cracking up; so tonight, they're trying out the third option.

It's nicer than he expected, clean, but maybe a little more well-lit than he likes. Rodney grumbles a little over the fact that they don't serve alcohol- which John doesn't get, because Rodney only ever has one drink anyway, but then, Rodney's not the one who's going to be high on endorphins in a little while- but they've got a nice open playspace and not too big of a crowd, so it pretty much passes muster.

"Do you feel like playing now?" Rodney asks, rubbing John's back through his t-shirt. "We could watch for a while first, or we could holy fucking shit!"

"What?" he asks, following Rodney's gaze to whatever he's just been shocked by. "Is it those tattooed people again? Cause I thought they-"

John suddenly forgets how that sentence is supposed to end; because, at the other side of the room, handcuffed to the wall, wearing no pants, is none other than Elizabeth Weir. And, despite how sex-positive and kink-friendly John would like to think he is, it's just a little off-putting.

What takes it past off-putting and drives it right into what-the-fuck territory is that standing behind her is Colonel Caldwell; he has a frankly scary looking paddle in his hand, and he is beating her ass like it is his job.

"Jesus Christ," John says, because nothing else seems appropriate.

Rodney whirls around and says something like, "OhmygodohmygodIjustsawElizabeth'sassohmygod."

"What are you worried about Elizabeth's ass for?" John replies, unable to look away. "I just saw Caldwell wearing leather chaps."

"At least he has something on under them!"

John cranes his neck to see around Rodney and his ongoing, hand-waving freakout. "You know, it's really not a bad look for him."

"Oh my god, now you're looking at Caldwell's ass! I can't take you anywhere!"

John rolls his eyes and keeps watching. He's certainly not the only one who's paying attention; that corner of the room is starting to attract a good little crowd. "Man, she can really take it." He doesn't add that Caldwell seems to be extremely adept at giving it, because he figures Rodney really doesn't want to hear him expressing that opinion.

Rodney turns back around, curiosity winning out over panic. "Wow, you're right. You'd be flipping your shit by now."

John raises an eyebrow at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Please," Rodney scoffs. "If I hit you that hard, you'd just turn around and punch me in the face. Also, why are we still watching this?"

John's response is cut off when Elizabeth screams- the long, loud, "if you do that again, I'm going to have an orgasm" kind of a scream. "Because it's really, really hot?" he offers.

"There is that," he replies distractedly.

He bumps Rodney's shoulder with his own. "Now who's staring at other people's asses?"

"You," Rodney reminds him.

After a bit more screaming, the scene winds down, and the audience starts to disperse. Caldwell uncuffs her, checking her wrists carefully; she clings to him, pressing her head to his chest, and John starts to feel a little guilty for watching.

Elizabeth spots them first, blinking at them muzzily like she can't decide whether she's imagined them or not; she leans up and says something to Caldwell, who turns and looks directly at the two of them. Rodney literally shrieks, thrusting his wallet at John. "Go and get something to drink," he says hurriedly before he runs off, probably to hide in the bathroom.

John just rolls his eyes and goes to the bar; Rodney's paranoia is misplaced, because Weir and Caldwell go off towards the private rooms anyway, making Rodney more likely to run into them. He grabs a seat at the bar, orders juice for himself and a Coke for Rodney; he's just taking his first sip when Caldwell says, "Evening, Sheppard," from behind him.

He leans past John to order a couple bottles of water, having the good taste to ignore the fact that John's busy mopping cranberry juice off his face. He leans back and looks at John; they have a standoff for a couple seconds.

The phrase "mutually assured destruction" comes to mind.

"So," John drawls, looking back at his drink. "How long have you and Elizabeth not been doing what I didn't just see?"

Caldwell gives him a bemused smile. "Longer than you'd think," is his non-answer. "She's a handful," he says, and yeah, John can definitely believe that, "but it's worth it."

"I know a little bit about that," John tells him, and Caldwell snorts.

"I should get back," he says, collecting his drinks from the bartender. "Tell McKay that if he needs any help with you, Liz and I'll be around for a while."

John swallows. "What makes you so sure I'm not planning on topping him?"

Caldwell just looks at him. "You didn't bring a taser and a bullwhip."

"Point taken," he allows.

"Let me know if you plan to, though. I'll send for the National Guard," Caldwell says, giving him a wink and walking off.

"Is he gone?" Rodney asks, sidling up next to him some minutes later and looking nervously around the room. "Are we good, or do we have to move to Mexico and assume new identities?"

"We're fine, Rodney," John says patiently. He wraps his arms around Rodney's waist, kissing him sweetly. "So, I was just thinking-"