Notes: Written in response to zortified's 'Domestic Bliss' challenge.

Of course Rodney never said anything as cliché as ‘Honey, I’m home!’ when he walked into their quarters, but usually, he never had to. Usually, Carson would be sitting at their dining table, papers spread out in front of him, or maybe he’d be curled up in one of their chairs, reading one of the books that had made its way to Atlantis over the years.

Usually, he’d look up, give Rodney one of his trademark smiles (exhausted, happy, stressed, but always blinding) and he’d say, "Well, welcome back then." He’d sound disinterested, as if he really didn’t care, but when Rodney stalked over to the table or the chair, placed his hands on either side of Carson’s body, and kissed him, Carson was always just as enthusiastic in return. When Carson finally let him pull away, Rodney would have no doubts as to whether or not he’d been missed.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Carson was sitting cross-legged on their couch, his laptop balanced between his jeans-covered thighs, his fingers resting on the keyboard, despite the fact that he wasn’t typing. He had his headphones on, plugged into the base of the laptop, and his eyes were closed, his head resting back against the cushions.

He didn’t even seem to have realized that Rodney had come in.

So, as the door slid shut behind him, Rodney let himself stare. This was a side of Carson that he rarely got to see. Carson at rest. Carson in repose. Carson without needles or patients or journals or twenty things I really should be doing, Rodney, if you’ll just let me up from this chair so that I can go do them. That, of course, was absurd, a case of the Scot playing hard to get (and they both knew it), because six days out of eight, he was home from the infirmary before Rodney had left his lab. But when he said it, Rodney always held onto him just that much tighter. They both liked that.

Quietly, because he could be quiet, thank you very much, no matter what Sheppard liked to say, he moved across their main room to the chair that Carson normally claimed as his own. Still quietly, he sat down.

And still Carson hadn’t opened his eyes.

Coming from the headphones, Rodney could hear the muffled, stringy strains of some classical piece, he wasn’t sure what. Violins, he was pretty sure. Maybe piano. Both, probably, and wind instruments, full orchestral accompaniment, the works. Carson liked that sort of thing, and rap, too. It was usually a tossup as to which he’d listen to, but tonight it was classical, and Rodney was grateful for that, because he was pretty sure that he had the music to thank for giving him this moment.

From this angle, Rodney could see Carson’s hands. He’d assumed that they’d be still on the keys, ready to start moving as soon as his brain figured out what it wanted to type, but he’d been wrong. They were tapping lightly, brushing across the keys of the keyboard in time with the beat of the music, doing little dances, not quite jigs.

He smiled softly. He loved Carson’s hands—more, he loved the things that he could do with his hands. Good things, wonderful things, things that had made him praise Carson’s medical school training simply because he knew where all those muscle groups and pressure points were.

He referred to it as heaven; Carson just laughed.

Carson’s fingers weren’t the only things moving in time with the music, though. He was pressing his lips together with every heavy beat, and on every high note (from what Rodney could hear, anyway) Carson’s nose twitched. Rodney quickly moved his gaze away from that, for one because if he stared for too long, he was pretty sure that he was going to laugh—images of rabbits floating through his head—but also because he knew that Carson wouldn’t remain oblivious to his presence for much longer.

He was too alert, too always on call for that.

He focused on Carson’s lips for another moment, let his gaze travel down the smooth curve of his neck, then urged his eyes down Carson’s body until they were focused on the denim-covered legs, legs which Carson had promised to show him at some point highlighted by a kilt. That was a happy thought, and Rodney let himself close his eyes over it for a moment, picturing, just for a moment.

He opened them again, though, when the music coming from Carson’s headphones swelled. Still muffled, still thin sounding, but approaching its climax. It wouldn’t be long now before the end, and somehow Rodney found himself tempted to close his own eyes, to let himself drift off on the music like Carson had, but then he reminded himself: limited time offer. Could go away at any moment. So, he leaned back in his own chair and let himself take in the whole picture, a Carson as relaxed as Rodney had ever seen him, as attractive as Rodney had ever seen him. He stared, memorizing, drinking it in.

Then the tinny music started in on its final crescendo, making even Rodney nod his head in time with its steady rise, in time with Carson, and then it started winding down again, bringing him back to earth, drawing Carson back to him. One final note sounded, long, drawn out, bringing the piece to a close, and at some point in those last few moments, he’d let his attention wander back to Carson’s hands, which were still again.

He was so focused on them, on those fingers, that he didn’t see Carson open his eyes.

But he felt them open. He felt his stare being returned, and he had to look up.

Wide eyes, as mesmerizing as Carson’s smile, and Rodney couldn’t make himself look away until Carson moved, pulling his headphones down and around his neck. Then he smiled and put the laptop to one side and Rodney had no choice—no choice—but to stand up from his chair and walk across the room. This time it was Carson who reached out first, though, putting his hands at Rodney’s waist, then sliding them farther down so that his fingers were curled in Rodney’s back pockets, holding him near, pulling him closer.

Rodney smiled softly as he succumbed to the inevitable. He put his hands on the cushions on either side of Carson’s head, folded his fingers over the tops, and then leaned down for his nightly kiss.

And when he finally pulled back, running his tongue over slightly swollen lips, when Carson looked up at him and said, slightly breathlessly, "Well, welcome home then," Rodney knew that he’d been missed.