A Hero's Belly

The first time he sees it, Rodney thinks it has to be a trick of the light, a bunching up of fabric, something other than what it looks like.

Because there is no way Colonel Sheppard has a belly.

Obviously he has one. Everyone has one. But he doesn't have a soft, rounded belly, Rodney's sure of it. Colonel Sheppard has a colonel belly, if not hard at least flat.

Except Rodney sees it again. Sheppard leans back in his chair and stretches, and there it is, belly. Rodney leans closer, trying to figure out if it's really a belly or just slouching.

"Rodney," Elizabeth says, pulling his attention back to her.

After that, he starts looking all the time. He knows it's weird and he hopes no one else notices. Why would they? It's not like anyone watches what part of Sheppard he looks at. That would be ridiculous and stupid.

He'd never noticed how often Sheppard stretched, or that he liked to walk with his shoulders back and his front out.

The evidence is increasingly hard to ignore, even though it doesn't make sense. Sheppard shouldn't have a belly, not a sweet little curve of a belly.

Bellies aren't heroic. They don't have crazy ideas about shields and cloaks; they don't fly jumpers; or fire at the bad guys.

Bellies aren't gorgeous. They don't make hearts flutter, or dicks harden.

Rodney knows this because Rodney has a belly.

And so does Sheppard. John is standing next to his desk and his belly is right there in front of Rodney's face.

Rodney pulls in a breath, lifts his eyes from John's belly and smiles.

Because if John has a belly then maybe Rodney has a chance.