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It's become a Sunday night ritual, bundling Finn off to bed before 8pm, crashing with an enormous bowl of popcorn on the couch just as the opening credits of Holmes on Homes roll. Rodney loves the righteous indignation – Holmes' squawking about plumbers who cut through flooring joists or electricians who leave live wires to spark into the sub-standard insulation – while John just plain loves the power tools. He feels a slow burn of satisfaction every time Holmes starts pulling down drywall and reframing walls, but the burn becomes something more pressing by the time there are nail guns and cordless drills involved. (Once, Holmes built a deck on the back of some woman's house, and there were screws that were, honest-to-god, eight inches long, fixed in place with a drill so powerful that it made John moan just a little. Rodney's head whipped around so fast John thought he might get whiplash, but he didn't so much as grumble, just asked, "Do you have one of those?" and John was forced to admit he didn't. He got one next birthday.) It's companionable, trading quips and disparaging comments about shady contractors, Rodney asking questions about laser levels and John trying to steady his breathing when they break out the sub-floor heating system. Everyone's just so competent, and the way they lay tile . . .
Which is round about the time Rodney makes his move and initiates the regular Sunday night making out that leads to Sunday night sex by 9.01pm. John's practically begging for it before the end titles close, and Rodney's shameless about asking HVAC questions until John's sweating and arching beneath him, hands wrapped tight around Rodney's hips, and Rodney always ends up coming so hard he thinks – every week – he's going to break something vital that no contractor can put back together again.
Not that he's going to change the ritual, not when it pays off in orgasms and John Sheppard spent and smiling beside him; not when it regularly means they start to laugh as they clean up and tumble back into bed again; not when they reliably fall asleep, sprawled in a messy, middle-aged heap, touching anywhere they can.