Epilogue for Last Man Standing
He couldn’t help thinking that was what Rodney would look like if they were allowed to grow old together. Rumpled, grey, wearing a cardigan that looked like it belonged to John’s grandfather. What would *he* look like, he wondered in the night as he lay next to Rodney, the *real* Rodney, and held him and listened to him breathe, safe and still young within his arms. He’d probably be bald, he decided, like he’d jokingly told Rodney his old self had been. It’d figure he’d pay for having a healthy head of quirky hair all of his youth by losing it in his twilight years. Hair karma or something. That thought made him snort and Rodney stirred against him then rolled over and looked at him.
“What’s so funny at this hour of the night?” he asked, sleepy with a side order of grouch at being woken.
John leaned across and kissed the top of Rodney’s hair. “Just thinking about being old.”
Rodney narrowed his eyes at him. “Me being old? I know you said I had no hair but I’d like to think the fact that I’ve pulled your ass out of the fire more times than Paris Hilton has had sex would make you overlook that in our declining years.”
“Not your hair, Rodney, mine. Or rather, the lack of it. And yes, it would, by the way, even if I didn’t love you.”
Rodney yawned and rolled completely to his side to face John. “I did have hair, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Rodney, you had hair. You also had terrible dress sense. You reminded me of my grandfather.”
Rodney nudged forward with his hips, letting his cock bump gently against John’s. “No mention of grandfathers in this bed, Sheppard.”