Title: Beautiful
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Characters: John/Cam
Word Count: 1,683
Rating: R/surprisingly not porn. I know, right? Swearing, non-graphic sex, John being unbearably hot.
Notes: For gaffsie, who pointed me to sga_kinkmeme when I asked for porn prompts. Okay, so it's not porn, but I have Big Plans for some of those others, have no fear.
Prompt: John/Cam, Cam is turned on by the sight of John being all prim and proper in his dress blues and can't resist pushing him up the wall and just *wrecking* him.


It doesn’t happen often, and Cam thinks it’s both a tragedy and a good thing, because when John steps through the Gate wearing his Class A’s it’s usually a bad sign, but dear sweet mercy is it hot.

The last time Cam saw John in dress blues was when he came home for his father’s funeral, and the time before that he’d been bearing the coffin of his Scottish doctor. He’s not sure about the time before that, but he does clearly remember watching John pointedly not fuss with the buttons and ribbons and decorations on the uniform and wondering how hands so restless could stay so still, how a man so active could sit so calmly, how John could be so not-John.

He also clearly remembers after the ceremony – had it been his own promotion? He’s really not sure – carefully undoing every button, every buckle, and watching as John came undone.

He’s not sure about the occasion that time, but he knows that this time the dress blues are a good sign, and sure enough, John steps through the Gate with his back held straight, shoulders back, not a thread out of place, and Cam’s throat goes dry for a second, because, well, damn.

“Colonel Mitchell,” John greets him with a polite smile. He even salutes. Fuck. This is going to be a long, long day.

“Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard,” Cam replies, returning the salute. “Well, not for long.”

John’s smile breaks a little, one side slipping so it’s that familiar smirk for a split second before the mask is back. “Three hours.”

“Knowing General O’Neill,” Cam says, falling into step as John makes his way from the Gate room, “it’ll be more like one. Ninety minutes, tops.” And Cam’s hoping, praying, that O’Neill actually does this one himself instead of pawning it off on Sam, because while he loves Sam like the sister he never had she can drag on forever when she puts her mind to it.

The smirk reappears, directed at him, and John’s voice drops as they turn the corner into an empty hall. “Good,” he nearly purrs, voice low. “I’d hate to have to keep this uniform on for any longer than is strictly necessary.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving Cam gaping after him in the hallway.

Fuck.

He doesn’t catch John again before the ceremony starts, which is partly a shame and partly good planning, because Cam’s not sure he’d be able to keep his damn hands to himself, or keep his mouth from running. He slips into the room jut before the ceremony starts and sits towards the middle – close enough for a good friend to sit, but far enough back to not raise any suspicion.

“Cam!”

He turns to find Sam waving frantically at him, so he stands and makes his way up towards the front. General O’Neill is holding John’s wings, thank God, so it won’t be long. “Hey, Sam.”

“Look,” she says, and any conversation that begins with Sam saying look like that will probably end with Cam doing something he doesn’t want to do. He only hopes it’s not some sort of offworld emergency, because he’s not leaving and it’s going to get awkward pretty fast if they try to make him. “Colonel Sheppard asked – he says you guys are friends.”

There’s something in her tone that makes Cam focus entirely on her, using skills honed long ago to pick out traces, to figure out exactly what she knows, to slide from slightly panicky into damage control.

“Yeah,” he replies casually. “We’ve known each other since the Academy. He usually crashes at my place when he’s Earthside, drinks all my beer, complains that I only have basic cable.” It’s all true, it’s just not all of the truth.

“Cam,” Sam says. “I’m not asking anything and I don’t want you to tell me. I’ll be as blind as I need to be, and you know that.” There’s not really enough time for the shock to sink in and pass before Sam goes on. “But he wants you to stand with him, so you need to get up there, because they’re about to start, and Jack gets cranky when things run too late.”

Cam’s head is spinning as he makes his way up to where John is standing in parade rest. He steps up and John salutes, snapping his heels together smartly, elbow cocked at the perfect angle, and Cam again repeats the gesture, smiling at him a little. Some of the tension in John seems to drain as he returns to parade rest while Cam takes his place to John’s right, between him and O’Neill.

He’d thought Sam would stand with John. They’re friends, he knows, especially after Sam had spent that year in Atlantis. And Sam always assists in O’Neill’s ceremonies for reasons that Cam doesn’t want to contemplate too closely. But John had requested – and that means –

But O’Neill is speaking, now, and Cam tries hard to pay attention to what he’s saying, about bravery and valor in the most extreme circumstances, highlighting John’s accomplishments in Atlantis, and though Cam knows the stories and reads the mission reports, hearing them spoken so proudly by O’Neill makes his chest tighten a little. He sneaks a look at John, whose cheeks are stained a bit redder than usual, but his posture is still perfect, and there’s a tiny smile on his lips.

And then O’Neil is turning to him, passing him John’s wings. “I assume you remember what to do, Colonel Mitchell.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, saluting and waiting until the General repeats the salute before turning. He hears O’Neill mutter as he turns: “Just don’t stab him with the damn pin. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

Somewhere offstage, he hears Sam cough, and resolutely Does Not Think About That. John has turned to face him, and Cam reaches out and unclips John’s silver leaf, replacing it with the broad silver eagle. The insignia in his hand is warm to the touch and Cam presses it to his palm, holding it for as long as he dares before handing it back to O’Neill because it’s John’s, it’s been a part of John for years, and he has an inexplicable urge to just pocket it, to take it home and put it in the back of his sock drawer with the three photos he has of John and the smooth pebble that’s the only gift John has ever given him. Penguins give each other rocks, he’d said with a funny look on his face, rubbing at the back of his head with one hand.

Instead, he forces himself to turn back, to put the leaf in O’Neil’s outstretched hand.

The ceremony wraps up after that, and they break for coffee and cake (“What is it with O’Neill and cake?” John asks as he brushes his elbow against Cam’s at the dessert table. “He just loves it,” Cam answers) and mingling for a while, until John makes his way over casually.

“Mitchell,” he starts, still standing straight but much more relaxed now, standing less on ceremony. “I’m here for a few days. Can I borrow your couch?”

Cam grins slowly. “As long as you leave some of the beer for me.”

John turns. “I better stay here, then.”

Cam catches his elbow, laughing, and John smirks at him. “Is it bad form to sneak out of my own promotion party?”

“Probably,” Cam agrees. “But it’s your party. You can leave if you want to.”

“Someone should write a song,” John deadpans, and they slip out the back and make a break for the elevator, John snickering as Cam hums under his breath.

The drive to Cam’s apartment takes ten minutes that feel like a lifetime each, because John’s still sitting straight in the passenger seat, the dress blues still looking perfectly pressed though John’s been wearing them for hours now, his ridiculous hair in some semblance of order. It takes less than ten seconds for Cam to go from locking his apartment door to him turning and shoving John up against the wall roughly, pressing into him and nipping at his lips.

John gives a startled laugh and settles his hands on Cam’s hips. “Hi there.”

“You and your fucking uniform,” Cam gasps, “you’re going to kill me, John, Jesus, what the fuck, asking me to stand with you, do you have any idea…” And then he’s kissing John as hard as he can, one hand going up to muss John’s for-once-combed hair, the other slipping between them to pull his shirt from the waistband of his pants, getting his hand against skin, and this is all he’s been trying not to think about since John stepped through the Gate.

“You’re not upset?” John asks, sounding a little unsure, and Cam has to backtrack, think about what the hell he could possibly be upset about before it clicks, and he presses his forehead to John’s.

“No,” he assures John. “It’s – John, I had my Daddy stand for me at my ceremony. It’s something you only ask of people you’re close to. Family.”

John’s eyes are uncharacteristically soft. “I know.”

Cam has to close his eyes against the swell of emotion tearing through him. John leans away from the wall and meets his lips gently, drawing Cam back to the present, and they stay there for a while, Cam leaning into John while John wraps his arms snugly around Cam’s waist. All Cam’s been thinking about for hours is getting John back to his apartment and tearing his clothing off, but now it’s slow and sweet and gentle, carefully unbuttoning jacket and shirt and slacks, removing the articles reverently, pressing kisses as soft as prayers into exposed skin, and the only word Cam can come up with is beautiful.

John doesn’t laugh when he says it out loud, breathes it over skin, just pulls him up and kisses him as they move together, and later, they hold each other and don’t say anything at all, and Cam thinks it again.

Beautiful.

--
I totally made up the promotion ceremony. I have no idea what actually goes into one. My research into the subject brought up a lot of different things, so I kind of cobbled the things that I liked together and came up with this. I also don’t know if you get to keep your old insignia or if they take it back, so again with the making it up.

Penguins do, in fact, give pebbles to their mates. It’s for nest-building for their penguin babies.

The ‘someone should write a song’ reference is for ‘It’s My Party’ by Lesley Gore.