They spend two days cleaning Atlantis from top to bottom—the parts that they’re currently inhabiting, anyway—and by ‘they’, Rodney of course means ‘people who are not him.’ He has more important things to be doing with his time, after all. Things far more critical to the upkeep of Atlantis than dusting banisters, but when he tells this to John, he phrases it differently.

He says, "I wish I could, Colonel, believe me, but—" and he gestures at a very important looking piece of equipment off to one side of the room, one complete with lots of flashing lights and intermittent beeping noises. He drops phrases like ‘closely monitor’ and ‘months of research down the drain’ and Zelenka, God bless Zelenka with his self-diagnosed allergy to cleaning, stands right beside him, nodding the whole time.

"Is very important," Zelenka agrees, pinching his lips together and looking at the machine worriedly. As if on cue, it lets out a stuttering beep.

John doesn’t buy it for a minute.

He frowns, giving Rodney Look Number 37, the one that says he knows Rodney is talking out of his ass even if he has no way to prove it, and he’d really appreciate it if Rodney would just break, give in, and tell him the truth already, please. It doesn’t work, of course. Rodney stopped falling for that look almost two years ago.

Still, as he watches John leave the lab, he feels a short stab of guilt and so later that night, by way of apology, he spends an extra long time going down on him.

When John returns the favor, he figures that he’s been forgiven.

By the end of day number two, though, Rodney’s glad he made his excuses. Spring cleaning in Atlantis is a scary sort of endeavor, and people, inexplicably, get very, very into it. He spends nearly all of the second day fending off a young marine armed with a dust rag and a spray bottle, intent on making all of his glassware shine and sparkle. He spent the first day insisting to Stackhouse that his floors did not need to be mopped, thank you very much, Sergeant, really, I promise you, now please just leave.

Neither of them actually do leave, though, until Zelenka bares his teeth at them.

Day number three comes, finally, the preparations finished, and at mid-morning, to a full compliment of Atlantis Personnel, the Parsons and the Pedwins arrive in the Gate Room. Although, from what Rodney understands, it’s probably a first in the history of their peoples, they must have stepped through the event horizon together because they’re still glaring at each other when they step out the other side. They’re so busy trying to stare each other down that Rodney doesn’t think they pay any attention to the dust-free banisters on the way to the conference room. As he watches them go, already arguing, he doubts they’d notice if the way were littered with trash.

The meeting is essential personnel only, so as soon as they leave the control room, everyone else in Atlantis is free to go back to their regular duties. He and Zelenka head back to their lab, to their very important machine. They’re still trying to figure out what exactly it does, and Zelenka starts fussing with it again almost immediately, poking one of the buttons on the top. Rodney should join him, he thinks, but the diplomatic proceedings in the conference room are being broadcast on Atlantis’ new closed-circuit television, and he finds it hard not to stare. He watches as the two High Council members sit, as Elizabeth begins trying to bridge the gap between them with words Rodney cannot hear, as John leans back in his chair and supervises, one eyebrow quirked.

"It is better than microphone," Zelenka says from his shoulder, and Rodney glances down at him. Except not down so far, because the other scientist has hopped up onto the desk that Rodney suddenly realizes he’s leaning back against. Zelenka is frowning, the way he does when he knows that he’s gotten the word wrong. "No, speakers. It is better than speakers."

"What?" Rodney asks, because usually he can follow Zelenka’s thought processes pretty well, but here he’s lost.

"The Colonel’s face," Zelenka says, gesturing at the television. "His face does not hide what he is thinking. It is possible to tell what goes on in the room by what expression he wears."

He’s looking to Rodney for confirmation of this, although he knows that Rodney agrees with him. They’ve even discussed it before, though in all fairness to the other scientist, there was alcohol present and large pounding hangovers the next day. It is possible, Rodney supposes, that Zelenka truly does not remember what was said. Doubtful, because he’s a cagey little bastard, but possible.

He decides to nod. He decides to not detail exactly how many different expressions he’s counted on John’s face.

But apparently Zelenka does remember the conversation, because, evil little man that he is, he pokes Rodney and says, "Exactly how many expressions did you say he has? Maybe, watching today, we will find some new ones, as he is stuck in room with bickering, ego-inflated men."

"Fifty," Rodney says, "and you won’t be finding any new ones." Not today, he doesn’t say.

Three years into the expedition and he’s seen John in every imaginable situation, from being captured and tortured and held hostage to being wined and dined and worshiped like a god. It’s been three months since he discovered Number 50, and it was another five before that that he identified Number 49.

Fifty-one might be out there, probably is, but he’s sure he won’t be seeing it during a diplomatic session at which Elizabeth and John are doing the moderating.

Zelenka is smirking at him now, and Rodney knows he’s being played. If John weren’t there for the watching, he thinks that he would leave, turn away. Go back to work. He should, but then John looks directly into the camera, as if he can sense Rodney watching him, and he doesn’t.

"Tell me Number 24," Zelenka says.

Also, Zelenka is stubborn, and Rodney knows that once he sets his mind to knowing something, he will not rest until he figures it out. If he leaves, Zelenka will just follow him around the lab all day, badgering him every step of the way. So Rodney rolls his eyes and sighs, to show that he’s doing this under duress.

"Twenty-four," he says slowly, "is the one with the eyebrows." He makes a little squiggly motion with his index finger, showing the paths that John’s eyebrows take. "And also the corner of his mouth goes like this." He makes another sharp motion with his finger.

"And 16?" Zelenka presses.

"He’s annoyed," Rodney answers. "He presses his lips together and his eyes get a little flinty. His forehead goes tense."

"And this one, this one on the screen," Zelenka says, gesturing at the television. On it, John is staring away from the camera again. His lips are slightly parted and his eyebrows are pointing downwards just a bit. It’s his ‘okay, bored now’ look, but Rodney thinks that it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who didn’t know him very well, because the Colonel also looks… intent.

"Tell me," Zelenka continues, "what number is this?"

"Thirty-eight." Tiredly now, because he really doesn’t want to spend his whole day playing this game.

"And Number 50," Zelenka says just a moment later. "Last time we talk about this, I believe there is only 49."

And 50… thinking of 50 makes Rodney smile, which in turn makes Zelenka smirk, but at the same time look even more interested. Fifty, however, is impossible for Rodney to describe, and he tells Zelenka as much.

He says, "You’ll know it if you ever see it," but Zelenka never will, no one else ever will, not if Rodney has anything to say about it. Then he stands up, claps his hands together, and even though it’s just him and Zelenka and two young, new scientists on the other side of the room, he says, "Alright, people. We have work to do."

Also, he turns out to be right: he doesn’t see Number 51 on the television screen that day.

*

John is waiting for him when he gets back to his quarters that night, and he’s already sprawled out on the bed. He’s probably been there for some time, Rodney thinks, because his eyes are closed and he’s got one hand resting at the waistband of his pants, fingers spread out over the black T-shirt. He looks peaceful and Rodney tries hard to be quiet as he undresses, walks to the bathroom, washes up, but when he comes out again, John is watching him.

He looks sleepy, tired in that way he does when he’s had a hard day, but there’s a certain softness in his eyes, a certain glow when he meets Rodney’s gaze, and that’s Number 50 right there. John holds out one of his hands to Rodney, his arm looking as if it weighs a ton, and Rodney goes to him, climbing up on the bed.

He says, "Here, here, roll over," and when John does, he straddles the other man’s back. He can feel the muscles underneath his hands, tense and tight, and he starts rubbing lightly, then with increasing pressure, and then he starts pressing his thumbs into the dips between John’s ribs, in a way he knows that John likes.

Slowly, he feels John start to relax, growing loose and soft beneath his fingers, occasionally pressing into his touch. Then John says, "I could love you forever for this," and the words are so casual that Rodney might just nod and agree and go on, except that when he looks down, he sees Look Number 18. The one that says that there’s more to John’s statement than what’s on the surface.

The one that says John is a little worried about what Rodney’s response will be.

He can feel John’s muscles tightening beneath him again, so Rodney runs his hands softly down John’s back one more time and then he bends over to kiss him, quickly, briefly. He pulls back and says slowly and deliberately, so that his meaning cannot be misunderstood: "I’ll hold you to that."

And in the moment before John flips them over, pins Rodney to the bed and kisses him deeply, bordering on frantically, his mouth already open, Rodney sees a look that he’s never seen before. It’s not Number 5 (absolute bliss), or Number 29 (complete and utter contentment). It's not Numbers 1 (his usual smirk), or 8 (general amusement), or 25 (excitement so strong he can’t sit still), but rather a combination of all of them. It is, Rodney realizes right before he stops thinking all together, the elusive expression that he’s unknowingly been waiting for—Look Number 51: John Sheppard in love.