by Kass

One of my eight Chanukah ficlets for 5773 / 2012. Sheafrotherdon asked for John and Rodney and a festival of lights.

"It's all pseudo-religious mumbo-jumbo," Rodney complains.

"You're just worried the Grinch is going to put coal in your stocking," John tells him.

"You," Rodney retorts, "are mixing your metaphors." He reaches over to steal a french fry off of John's tray. John manfully refrains from pointing out that Rodney's stealth leaves something to be desired.

"Among the Athosians," Teyla offers, "the lamps are lit on the darkest day of the year, the day which will lead to the longest night."

"We have those traditions too." Radek, walking past their cafeteria table, evidently can't resist joining the conversation. "What else is a Yule log? Or floating little candles in walnut shells?"

"I thought you didn't do those things in the Czech Republic." Yule logs, at least; Rodney always thought of those as vaguely English.

"A generation growing up under Communism does not mean we forget our history," Radek argues. "One who fasts on Christmas Eve will see the golden piglet."

"I don't even want to guess what that means." Golden piglet? Rodney glances at John, who gives a minute shrug: he doesn't know either.

"On Sateda, we lit big flaming torches," Ronon offers. He sounds satisfied, remembering.

"And you probably juggled them or something," Rodney says.

"Why would we do that," Ronon says, deadpan. Teyla tries to conceal her laughter in a cough, but doesn't quite succeed.

"Rodney, you can calculate the shortest day, can't you?" John asks. "Even though we haven't been on this planet through a whole seasonal cycle?"

"Oh, please," Rodney scoffs. "In my sleep."

"Thank you," Teyla says, placing a hand on his arm and smiling at him. "And you are all invited to join me for lamplighting that day at sundown."

"Will there be more of that Athosian homebrew?" Ronon asks.

"Oh God," Rodney says, shuddering. Last time they drank that stuff, he had the worst hangover of his life. He has fuzzy memories of matching Ronon shot for shot, which is possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done. There's no telling how many brain cells he destroyed that night.

"Don't worry," John says, clapping Rodney on the shoulder. "I'll bring some beer."

"None of that insipid American swill," Rodney says, but the complaint is pro forma and they both know it.

"I'll see if the Marines have some Old Milwaukee," John promises, just to needle him.

"I don't know why I put up with you," Rodney grouses.

John smiles at him and slouches back in his chair, leaning back. Which is more or less exactly the position Rodney was in last night when John gave him one of the best blowjobs in human history.

Rodney stands up hastily. He's blushing, he knows it. Teyla's eyes are knowing. Ronon looks amused, too. He is so doomed. "I just thought of -- there's a thing -- I'm going to the lab, see you later."

"Later," John promises.

Rodney's libido burns like an Athosian midwinter lantern the rest of the afternoon.

The End