The gendarmes alternate between pretending not to understand him and laughing at his accent, his clipped, Quebecois French hilariously old-fashioned to their ears. As they hustle him through the building and down a long, dingy corridor towards the cells, Rodney demands a lawyer, a phone-call, his immediate release, an apology from the French president, intervention by Amnesty International—but that just seems to make them laugh harder, joking with one another in rapid-fire French that Rodney just can't follow.
That makes Rodney angrier.
Eventually, the older one, the one with the moustache, says in painstaking English, "for disturbing the peace, yes? One night." He holds up one finger on his right hand to illustrate, as if the fact that Rodney isn't French also makes him painfully slow; then Moustache and his younger, giggling accomplice thrust Rodney into the nearest empty cell, and lock the door on both him and his protests.
"Enjoy, oui?" Moustache says; he seems to find it even funnier when Rodney begins shouting at them once more, asking them what the hell is there to enjoy about being manhandled into a cold, damp, empty cell in the middle of the night on charges that are clearly, clearly trumped up.
They walk off, still laughing, leaving Rodney to his empty cell and the contemplation of all the many, many angry phone-calls he's going to make as soon as he's let out of there. He stares morosely through the bars of the cell, calling out one final, cutting suggestion as to what, exactly, they can do with their truncheon. He doesn't get an answer from the gendarmes, but a voice from somewhere in the darkness at the back of the cell says "You know, I don't think you can actually do that with a truncheon."
Rodney swallows a yelp, because apparently the empty cell isn't so empty after all, and he's apparently been put in with some drunken, idiotic, American tourist, (albeit, Rodney is forced to concede even through his shock, with an impressive knowledge of French sexual vocabulary), but settles on whirling around to say "And what would you know about—uh—"
Said drunken, idiotic American is naked, hot and naked, sprawled out on a bench over by the far wall, all long, lean body and a shock of dark hair.
Rodney averts his eyes, muttering to some god he doesn't believe in, "Oh, great, I suppose this is what passes for French humour, this is worse than mime," before clearing his throat and saying, carefully, "Did you, uh, has it escaped your notice that you're... naked?"
For some reason, this question seems to amuse the naked guy, who leans back and—god, did he just spread his legs?—and says "Nah, I'm just working that emperor's new clothes look."
Rodney makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
"I'm John, by the way," the naked guy says, like that's helpful, like it's something Rodney needs to know. Still, the Canadian politeness kicks in, and Rodney automatically starts, "Rodney McK—" before he regains his higher brain function and doesn't squeak at all, "oh my god, what were you doing? Were you streaking? Did they raid a brothel?"
"Could be," John says. "Maybe I was streaking in a brothel. I've kind of had some wine."
Rodney's eyes go wide, but he's still looking very, very carefully at the wall, "Oh my god, are you a prostitute? Are you on a gap year and paying your way with, with streetwalking? Did they put me in a jail cell with a drunken prostitute exchange student?"
"Yeah," John says, with a leer on his face that's at odds with the irony in his voice, "the Moulin Rouge and the Castro have this great programme worked out, I'm studying advanced twinking."
Rodney starts yelling at the guards again, with a bit more of an edge of desperation, until he swears he can hear laughter coming from up the echoing corridor, and he can definitely hear it from inside the cell, so he slumps back and sulks. "Shut up. You're drunk, this is probably great for you, you're not imprisoned for the night with a naked, inebriated, probably diseased—hey, what? The Castro? The San Francisco Castro? You mean you're—oh, oh, that's great, that's just perfect." Of course he couldn't just be a naked, straight frat boy. This is clearly a huge plot to drive Rodney McKay insane.
"Perfect?" John cocks an eyebrow speculatively. "Are you over here for advanced study, too?"
"No!" snaps Rodney. "That is, I'm, well, not what you're thinking."
"Why?" John says, with a smile that's far too feral for Rodney's liking. "What do you think I'm thinking?"
"It—I—you—it's a physics conference!" splutters Rodney, looking around without thinking and getting a full-colour, high-resolution snapshot of John with his head tilted back, stubble dark on his chin and neck, legs still sprawled apart a little, and Rodney stares for a couple of seconds before he catches himself.
"Well, trips abroad are supposed to be all about experimentation, right? Especially if they're for scientific purposes," John says, stretching a little before standing up, and oh, that's—even out of the corner of his eye, that's—Rodney turns his gaze up to the ceiling.
"Do you think you could, uh," he says, clearing his throat to try and stop his voice sounding higher than it has since he was fourteen, "—cover up a little?"
"Oh, I could, sure," John says—and Rodney can't quite stop himself from saying, "thank God"—"but I'm not gonna," he finishes.
Rodney squeaks a little, outraged, even as John continues speculatively, "Mostly because all my clothes are at the bottom of the Seine. I think."
"Oh, Jesus," Rodney mutters, but he's already struggling out of his sweater, and he can't believe he didn't think of this before, now. He pulls it over his head and stops himself from trying to fix his hair, even though he can feel it sticking up everywhere, because that is totally not a message he wants to give. He flings the sweater in John's approximate direction, then turns around after an appropriate time delay, only to find that John's holding it up against his face and breathing in instead of covering his—himself. "Smells good," John mumbles.
"Oh god," Rodney says again, "Jesus," and he has to step back a little and let the wall of the cell take his weight. "Why aren't you—"
"Why aren't I what?" John says, and he has the audacity, Rodney thinks, to look a little confused.
"Why aren't you—" Rodney makes a complicated gesture with one hand, "I've heard a loincloth is relatively simple to fashion."
John looks at the sweater, then back at Rodney. He must be drunk, Rodney thinks, he must be so, so drunk, even though he's not swaying and that drawl in his voice (oh god) sounds like it might be there naturally and his co-ordination seems fairly good as he brings the sweater back to his face and rubs it against his cheek. "Mmm," he husks, and Rodney knows he's in hell.
Hell, he thinks, one of the good circles, one of the really deep ones, because John's cocking his head now and eyeing him speculatively and not good, not good, danger Meredith Rodney McKay, danger!
"You know," John says slowly, letting the sweater fall away from his face. "If you're here for a physics convention, logically, you are in favour of an experiment, right? And if you're in favour of experimenting, you won't mind if I carry out a little study of my own." John steps forward once, twice. "Like how much of this smell is yours."
Christ, Rodney thinks wildly, how is he not even slurring?
"Hello," Rodney says wildly, backing up against the cell wall, "We're in jail, in case you hadn't noticed, whatever you're implying, and especially if you're implying what I think you're implying, and oh, god, what are you—" He only gets that far before John's across the cell and has his palms pressed against the wall on either side of Rodney's head, and has his face pressed sweetly against the crook of Rodney's neck. Maybe, Rodney thinks wildly, as John breathes deeply, cool and tickling through Rodney's thin t-shirt, he's actually not that drunk.
"I'm not actually that drunk," John mumbles into Rodney's skin, and the tip of his tongue brushes against Rodney's skin, hot and wet.
"Oh," Rodney says, and "Uh," and "Well," before he takes a deep breath and says "Oh, fuck it", grabs at John a little clumsily, a little awkwardly, hands grazing over the stubble on John's cheeks before he kisses him.
John tastes like what Rodney's always thought France would be like but hasn't seen anything of so far, smoky red wine and cigarettes and piano music. His mouth is soft and scratchy, and he licks at Rodney's lip like, almost like he's shy—which is ridiculous, considering— "You're not drunk?" Rodney snaps, tugging his mouth away from John's with a wet sound. "Then what on earth were you—mmph mm."
John shrugs, a lazy, full-body movement that Rodney can feel everywhere. "Seemed like a good idea at the time," he says, before once more devoting his full attention to Rodney's mouth, licking and biting at the crooked, sensitive line of his lower lip.
Rodney decides that there are good ideas and good ideas, and this is simultaneously both and neither of those things. He melts into John and brings up the hand which isn't buried in John's hair to rest on his back, and almost snatches it back at the shock of hot skin, because, Jesus, he's naked. Naked and unbelievably hot and kissing Rodney in a Parisian jail cell at three in the morning, and this just does not happen to him.
But it is happening, and Rodney's feeling reckless, and he splays his hand open on John's back, touching as much as he can, smooth skin over muscle that's working and flexing as John moves against him, slow and unbelievably good. Anything Rodney's done before—which, really, not much, if he's going to be honest here—has been quick, a hurried fumble with some girl who likes him just enough, some other guy who's kind of curious. But John, god, John is going slow, so slowly, like the feeling of Rodney's rib cage curving beneath the palm of his hand, Rodney's breath panting hot against his throat, is pleasure enough for him, too.
Feeling suddenly daring, Rodney strokes down to John's ass and squeezes, and John groans in his ear—loudly, woah, way too loudly. "Shh!" Rodney hisses, and John snickers and moans and squirms up against him, and if Rodney had any breath in his lungs before, he doesn't now. He kisses John again before pulling him against him, and this time he catches the moan in his mouth.
John's mouth opens beneath his willingly, hot and wet, and jesus, Rodney thinks, better than porn, because John's tongue is curling around his, flickering over the roof of Rodney's mouth, and John's hips are moving back and forth, restlessly, between Rodney's own hips and Rodney's hands. "You know," John says eventually, "you are way too over-dressed for Paris in July."
"I think," Rodney says breathlessly, raising his arms as John's cool fingers slide under his shirt and tug it up and over Rodney's head, "you are completely insane. No, no, let me." Rodney undoes his flies with a practised flick of his thumb, then forgets what he's doing as John's teeth sink into where his neck meets his shoulder. "Oh, god."
John grins and does it again, a little harder; laughs against Rodney's skin, runs the tip of his tongue across the spot where Rodney's skin tingles. There'll be a bruise there in the morning, Rodney knows, dark on pale skin, and just the thought is enough to make him moan sharply and arch up against John.
"Shh. Oh, yeah," John mutters against Rodney's neck, and shoves Rodney's jeans and boxers down over his hips, but doesn't bother to push them further than it takes for John to wrap his hand around Rodney's dick. Rodney isn't able to stop his breath coming out in a sharp hiss, but he doesn't make another sound.
It's an effort, though, god such an effort, because Rodney is a talker, he knows he's always been a talker; an attempt, his teacher told his parents, by a gifted child at coming up with an appropriate response to so many different external stimuli—and to this, to John's hot breath on his throat, John's teeth grazing his neck, to John's long, clever fingers wrapped around his cock, all Rodney wants to offer up in response is words, praise, orders, pleas, babble that tells John how hot he is, how fucking, fucking—how close Rodney is, how he just wants to let John—
"Yeah, okay, come on," John groans, husky and quiet, and he tugs Rodney's pants down further so he can move, but before Rodney can even think about that John's back up against him and is rubbing his cock up against Rodney's, holding them together and thrusting against him with sharp, quick jerks, each one like an electric shock up Rodney's spine. "Oh, oh god," he gasps, and John makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and squeezes them tighter together, hips snapping forward.
They fall into a rhythm, quick and syncopated, closer and closer, Rodney thrusting upwards into John's grip, and it's like heat everywhere, coiling at the base of his spine, John sweat-slick against him and "Fuck," he says, oh, he thinks, what did I do to deserve—and then John slides one long finger back to press up behind his balls and Rodney yelps, startled, hips stuttering as he comes and comes in John's hand.
"Oh," John says, then he presses his face against Rodney's neck and shakes, and Rodney can feel the way it shudders through him, stroking John's back while he drinks in heat and aftershocks from his skin. After a few seconds, John shifts and relaxes against him, resting his forehead against Rodney's shoulder. "God," he says huskily, and flicks his tongue down to lick Rodney's nipple. "You're really—"
Rodney waits for whatever John is going to tell him—he's really what?—but then John gets distracted and spends several minutes licking him in ridiculous places until Rodney's unable to formulate any sort of curiosity; and when John says, "Hey," thoughtfully, "you know we can't get arrested again, right?", Rodney decides he doesn't care at all.