"So, you see what I mean now?" Rodney yawned and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked, stiff from hours spent in front of the TV.

"No."

He stopped, but Ronon's long swinging stride continued, so Rodney had to take a few skipping steps to draw alongside him again.

"No? No, what? You seriously can't see the parallel between Kirk and Sheppard?"

Ten episodes, back-to-back - it should have been obvious. Teyla had ducked out half way through the third, but Sheppard would no doubt have stuck it out through all ten if he hadn't got called away to deal with an incursion into Zelenka's so-called secret lair where he kept his still. There'd be some sore heads in the morning, both from the raw alcohol and whatever it took to put down a bunch of knuckleheads high on Radek's happy juice.

"No."

"Oh, come on! How many alien hearts did Captain Twinkle-eyes devastate in that run alone? And I gave you a fair cross-section of episodes - no bias involved!"

Ronon stopped at the intersection, where their ways parted. He folded his arms and his dreads dangled to one side as he tipped his head to regard Rodney with his usual faintly amused inscrutability. "I get what you say about Kirk. But Sheppard's not like that."

Rodney spluttered. "What? How can you say that? I mean, I know you weren't around for the Chaya thing…"

Ronon shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Well, then…"

"How many times has Sheppard hooked up with someone? Coupla times a year? And how d'you know he's seen action any of those times?"

Rodney winced. "'Seen action'? What a delightful turn of phrase. And it's obvious, isn't it?"

"No. It's not obvious. Sheppard's not like that."

"Oh, he so is!"

Ronon grunted and shrugged his shoulders. "Why do you care anyway? You jealous?"

"Jealous? Me? What, as in…?"

"You want him to hook up with you."

"No! Of course not! What a ridiculous idea."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. In the most emphatic terms. In fact, that's not even worthy of my consideration. I'm going to bed." Rodney turned smartly on his heel.

"Sheppard doesn't do the shirt thing either."

He turned back. "What shirt thing?"

There was another shrug and Ronon collapsed sideways to slouch against the wall. "Kirk loses his shirt pretty often. Or it gets torn off. That doesn't happen to Sheppard."

"No. No, I suppose not," Rodney conceded.

The ex-runner's face was in shadow, but two points of light glittered. "So that's two ways he's not like Kirk." He stood for a moment longer and then jerked his body away from the wall, turned and slouched away.

"Huh." Rodney watched the retreating form, the dreadlocks bouncing as he picked up the pace; probably going for a last run before bed. "Well, that was pointless. Why do I bother? Me hook up with Sheppard? As if." He yawned again, thought about heading to his lab to check out a few ongoing diagnostics but, after another jaw-cracking yawn, gave up the idea in favour of sleep.

He shambled his heavy-eyed way toward his quarters.

It was true, what Ronon had said about Kirk's shirt, though - he did lose, or find an excuse to remove the mustard yellow garment at every available opportunity (or occasionally that awful green wraparound number), whereas Sheppard remained resolutely clothed, except for that time with the iratus bug. Rodney shuddered, recalling Carson working frantically to restart John's heart - waiting, watching that monitor, so cold and afraid, as if his own heart had already stopped.

He got ready for bed, Ronon's words running through his head, intermixed with scenes from Star Trek (the original series) and past real life missions, so that when he fell into a restless sleep he dreamt that a shirtless Kirk was fighting an iratus bug, while Sheppard looked on, shouting encouragement. Kirk finished the bug off by mixing up a block of C4 from some kind of special mud and his own spit and tricking the creature into swallowing it. The monster then exploded in a shower of rubbery, unrealistic body parts and Kirk took the welcome opportunity to posture for a bit, the desert sunlight glinting on his sweaty, hairless chest.

Then Kirk kissed John and John kissed him back, which was even more ridiculous than the whole spit-and-mud explosive because everyone knew that John was into hot females and they were almost always into him. Things went from bad to worse when Kirk made John take off his shirt and they compared chests and, really Rodney was totally losing control of this dream because Kirk was trying to persuade Sheppard that hairless was the way to go and offering the use of his shaving kit, which was ridiculous because Sheppard's chest was fine as it was, in its hirsute manliness.

Then Rodney woke up.

He groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes to shut out the laser beams of unwelcome sunlight that were piercing his blinds.

"Stupid dream." He needed coffee, urgently. And something sweet as ballast for said coffee. "Stupid Kirk." And for good measure, "Stupid Ronon," for leading Rodney's train of thought down that particular route. What did he care if Sheppard kept his hairy chest covered up? Or if he shaved it, for that matter? He was still a Kirk, no matter what Ronon said. Even though, if Rodney thought about it, (and he wouldn't), he'd have to acknowledge that John's yearly average of conquests would have made Kirk spit out his Saurian brandy and max out the warp drive all the way to the Pegasus Galaxy to pick up the lamentable slack of unromanced alien females.

Anyway, Rodney didn't care. He just cared about coffee and whether there were any pastries, and if his diagnostics had finished running overnight. Sheppard could do what he wanted, bare chested or otherwise.

oOo

"So, your mission to M3X-217…" Elizabeth glanced down at her datapad and then at Teyla. "What can you tell us about these people, Teyla?"

Rodney took a gulp of his coffee - his fifth, no sixth that day. Probably. This was going to be such a tedious mission.

"They are a simple, farming community like many in the Pegasus Galaxy, but the land they farm is rich and they may well have surplus to offer in trade."

Rodney let his attention wander as Teyla went on and on about the unique culture, customs and traditions and all that boring people-stuff. Ronon was picking his fingernails with a knife blade, totally oblivious of the disapproving looks shot his way by Elizabeth. Sheppard's gaze was blank. He had a bruise on one cheek and his knuckles were grazed. Zelenka's supplies of rotgut had taken a serious hammering and the culprits were now in the brig, having themselves given out an equally serious hammering and received one in return, courtesy of Sheppard and Lorne. Sheppard wouldn't hold it against them, though. They'd be punished, sure, by being put on latrine duty for probably the rest of their lives, but for some reason, the thugs that ended up with their commanding officer's knuckle prints on their jaws usually ended up the most loyal, in the end.

"... a bean similar to the tava which can be dried and ground into flour…"

Ronon finished cleaning under his fingernails and slipped the knife back into his hair. One eye flickered in Rodney's direction, but his expression remained impassive. Had that been a wink? And if so, what for? Rodney rubbed a knuckle around the corners of his mouth; he couldn't find any crumbs. He flicked at his laptop, bringing up a camera image of himself: normal, apart from the shadowy bags under his eyes because of those Kirk-mares.

Rodney frowned heavily at Ronon. The ex-runner's lips twitched ever so slightly. Huh. What a wind-up merchant. And it was his fault Rodney hadn't slept well, putting stupid ideas about disappearing shirts into his head.

"John?" Elizabeth's enquiring gaze was bent on the Military Commander.

"Uh, yeah," said John, his eyebrows sloped to suggest earnest agreement. "Yes, of course." He clearly hadn't a clue.

"Okay, then. I'll leave that with you."

Rodney smirked; and he thought Elizabeth might have smirked too, but her smirks were so subtle, having been honed down to almost nothing in the white-hot forge of diplomacy that he wasn't sure.

"There is also the matter of transport," continued Teyla. "The path from the Stargate is very steep and so…"

Sheppard was fiddling with one of his shirt sleeves, which wasn't rolled up as much as the other. He unrolled it, down the length of his arm and then turned the cuff over, once, twice, three times, so that it sat up above his elbow. Except now it was shorter than the other. Rodney watched as John leant forward and set both arms on the table in front of him, linking his fingers and staring blankly at Teyla with an attitude of attention, while his eyes flicked down at his sleeves.

Then he eased himself slowly back, reclining in his chair like it was one of those seriously padded ones with a button to raise your legs, and how the hell he achieved that look of slack comfort, Rodney had no idea. His own back was killing him and his butt was going numb. He wriggled sideways, so that his weight was differently distributed.

Now Sheppard was doing the other sleeve. The muscles on his forearms slid and twisted beneath his tanned skin. He must have a sharp tan-line where those shirtsleeves ended and above that, he'd be as white as Rodney tried to stay, because people who knew as much as he did about all the ways in which solar radiation could damage your skin didn't go anywhere without their very own should-be-patented factor one hundred, thank you very much.

"...could offer to help with the harvest as part of the trade…"

Hmm. Now there was a thought. The small fraction of Rodney's intellect which had been storing up Teyla's words for later perusal had noted that his factor one hundred would be very much needed during this mission. So, if they were to offer manpower in return for a share of the crops, it was possible that shirts might be removed under the heat of the M3X 217-ian sun. If it were Kirk harvesting beans, shirts would definitely be removed.

Would John help with the harvest, though? As CO, he should be above that kind of thing. But no, this was John Sheppard, and his command style tended toward the 'muck in with the troops' end of the spectrum. He'd pick beans with the rest of them, be stupidly competitive about it and use his pilot's razor-sharp hand-eye coordination to break the all-time bean-picking record, thereby attaining heroic status with the locals. And he'd probably get his hands all shredded up on the sharp-edges of beanstalks but carry on anyway, because that was the kind of stupid macho thing he did. So, there he'd be, shirtless and dirty and sweaty and probably streaked with blood and his hair would be everywhere and his chin would be extra stubbly. And then some girl would come along with a pitcher of water or maybe some kind of weird juice for the workers and he'd lift up the rustic cup she filled for him and drain the thing in one, sweat and juice running down his throat and trickling down his naked chest and down and down, running in rivulets over the dark hairs so that they bunched up in little curls.

Rodney cleared his throat and took another gulp of his coffee, now stone cold.

And then, of course, the refreshment girl would bat her eyes at Sheppard and he'd smirk at her and drawl some nonsense that she wouldn't listen to because she was so busy fluttering her eyelashes and sticking her breasts out even further for his approval, which would be a total waste of effort on her part because Sheppard's eyes would already be out on stalks, peering as far down her cleavage as they could get.

"Huh. Typical!"

"Rodney?"

Four pairs of eyes regarded him with varying expressions of amusement, concern and polite threat.

"Oh, um, ha. A glitch. On my… you know." Rodney gestured at his laptop, then rattled away at the keys. "There - all fixed now." He plastered on an attentive expression, steepling his fingers to add to the effect.

Elizabeth turned her attention back to business. "John, we really should have had Master Sergeant Sanchez in on this meeting - do we know if there's enough freezer space for a significant quantity of fresh produce?"

"There's plenty of room," said John. "And if we fill up the storage rooms near the Mess Hall there are others around the city."

He started talking about cubic capacity and suddenly Rodney was riveted. John's calculations were hardly complex, but the streams of numbers spilling out from those casually smirking lips, together with the Colonel's flair for practical application in the form of some remarkably swift and accurate estimates, grabbed and held Rodney's attention. The cool, conditioned air dried out his open mouth. He drained the dregs of his coffee and set the minimal part of his attention that he could spare to keeping his jaw from sagging. It was just the math, really - just the contrast between John's apparent cluelessness and his very occasional incisive numerical competence. If it had been Ronon or Teyla or anyone, Rodney would have been equally fascinated, equally open-mouthed, he was sure.

Strangely, an image of a shirtless Colonel Sheppard solving quadratic equations on a chalkboard popped into his mind. Rodney's mouth watered - because he'd just moistened it with the bitter remains of his coffee and because he was hungry. Of course.

John uttered a pondering hum (which all those hoards of admiring females would call cute, no doubt), and tipped his head to one side. "If the sacks are roughly, say, a hundred by fifty, by around about thirty when they're filled and laid flat…" His lips pouted out in thought and the light shone on the stretched muscles and tendons along one side of his neck. "Then I reckon we could easily fit…"

Rodney followed the line of John's neck down to where it met the seam of his t-shirt and then on, over the collar of his button-down shirt and further down to where a crease and a shadow hinted at the curve of his pecs.

"...which is a good four, five months' supply…"

Elizabeth began to talk again and Rodney went back to dictaphone mode; he'd replay her words later, but for now the large part of his attention could be free to wander.

How many years had he known this unrealistically slouchy soldier? A long time and a lot of missions anyway and, not that Rodney cared either way (of course), it seemed unnatural that the only time he'd ever actually seen what lay beneath the layers of black fabric was when Teyla had cut through John's t-shirt prior to Ford shocking him with the defibrillator.

It would have been different if there'd been communal showers. Not that Rodney wished for such things - God forbid. The idea of getting back off a mission and having to shower with a lot of rowdy, towel-flicking Marines was horrifying; his pale, vulnerable softness contrasting with their hard, muscled physiques. But if there'd been that kind of locker-room set-up here on Atlantis, then there would have been regular takings off of shirts, not to mention other things.

But the Ancients weren't like that. There were showers attached to private rooms, but that was it. And yes, it was inconvenient when everyone had to traipse through the city covered in God-knows-what from God-knows-where, but at least Rodney got to shower in private.

He couldn't imagine Ancients getting all hot and sweaty anyway. They seemed like they'd be clean-freaks. On that ship, the Aurora, they'd all worn pale-coloured clothes like they'd never spill soup down their shirts or absently slop coffee on their pants because they'd had an important thought at that exact moment between tipping the cup and actually drinking the contents. The idea of a group of rowdy Ancients showering together was just ridiculous.

Would John be rowdy in a communal shower or would he be all businesslike efficiency, washing himself with military thoroughness and respect for water conservation? Military types were usually very thorough.

Thorough. Rodney pictured what that word might look like when combined with a bar of soap, plenty of water and a hairy-

"McKay?"

"What? Sorry? Huh?"

"The meeting's finished, Rodney." John looked down at him and jerked his head toward the door. "Coming?"

"Oh. Yes." He shut his laptop. Elizabeth and Teyla had gone, but Ronon was leaning against one of the doorposts, watching him. Rodney ignored the satirical glint in the ex-runner's eye. "So, when's the mission?"

"That was our briefing, McKay. We just went through all that."

"Come off it, Sheppard. You spent most of the meeting in the land where happy Colonels go to dream about unfeasibly large weapons."

A little witty sniping, followed by a full-on slanging match might have been nice to break up the day, but John just narrowed his eyes. "Oh-eight hundred tomorrow. Be there or be left behind."

oOo

"You coulda stayed behind, Rodney."

Rodney dipped again into his factor one hundred and applied another layer to his face and neck. "Why would I do that? I helped negotiate this agreement - it's only natural that I should want to come and view the fruits of my labours."

John paused, and dropped his handful of beans into the basket that hung from a strap across his torso - his still-clothed torso, even though it was really hot and quite a lot of the Marines had taken off their shirts ages ago. "Firstly, it was only last week, so I haven't forgotten that it was Teyla who did all the talking and you just sat there grumbling about the heat. And secondly, we've done loads of trades and you've never come and helped pick stuff before."

"Oh, well." Rodney clipped the lid back on his rapidly-depleting tub of sunscreen. "A change is a good as a rest, they say."

"They might say it." John stretched up to grab a nearly-out-of-reach cluster. "You don't."

Rodney ignored him and half-heartedly plucked a few more beans.

As Teyla had predicted, they'd made a deal for a healthy proportion of the community's surplus - enough to keep them in fresh vegetables for quite a while. And part of the deal had been to help harvest the crops, which included the beans, some kind of tomato-like fruit and also something that was more like an apple.

And Rodney had decided to tag along. For no particular reason.

Ronon marched past, his shirt a distant memory, his muscles gleaming with sweat. "Hey, Sheppard! That's five to me." He dumped his basket of beans into the waiting cart and took an empty one. John shot him an irritated glance and sped up the pace of his picking. As predicted, thought Rodney - a stupid macho competition.

He picked another bean, regarded its contorted shape and over-ripe bulginess and let it fall to the ground. "Hot, isn't it?"

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

He was down to his t-shirt, his uniform shirt sleeves tied around his waist.

"Ronon looked pretty cool, though. Didn't he?"

"Did he?"

"Yes. And he's picking faster than you. Probably because he's not too hot."

John paused briefly. Here it comes. Then he shook his head and carried on picking.

Rodney wrenched off a whole bunch of beans, pulling away a good proportion of the plant.

"Careful, McKay! The locals are expecting another crop off these."

Rodney growled.

"Look, why don't you go sit in the shade? You don't have to do this."

"I told you. I want to do it."

John did that pouty thing with his lips which meant he was going to agree to disagree. "Okay."

More beans fell into the baskets. The planet continued to rotate, so that its sun breached the line of bean plants and fell full on Rodney's exposed head. He should've brought a hat. John carried on picking, with an occasional glance at Ronon's progress. And he kept going when everyone else stopped for lunch, the idiot. And then, having surpassed Ronon's ten baskets by three, he only grabbed a quick bite and a drink before getting a head start on the appley fruit.

They were bigger than apple trees and provided a good deal of shade, for which Rodney was grateful. He had to move when the workers approached his shadeful tree, however, because their harvesting method involved hurling the fruit down through the branches where it was caught by children holding large, flat baskets between them.

Teyla approached him, a bandana tied around her head, her whole face shining with wholesome outdoorsiness.

"They're going to ruin the fruit," he said.

"Medrens are very resilient, Rodney. They are too hard to eat until they are stored for several months." She smiled and then scurried up the trunk of the tree and began hurling fruit down, laughing as the children hurried to move their basket into position. It bounced off the branches as it fell, making its trajectory extremely difficult to predict. Rodney could have had a go at a formula for medren fall patterns, taking into account the size of the fruit and the growth habit of the tree etc. But he couldn't be bothered.

He wandered out from beneath the increasingly dangerous shade, into the hot afternoon sun, and squinted over the sun-bleached grass to where John was doing his own share of fruit-throwing, leaping from branch to branch in a stupidly reckless way, only pausing to dart a glance at Ronon, whose tree was shaking with the vigor of his harvesting. Beneath John's tree lurked, not the usual child-helpers, but a simpering group of girls and young women, their aprons held out to catch the medrens. Why didn't they go and bother Ronon? He was the shirtless one.

A fruit landed in each of the girls' aprons. Oh. That was why. John was aiming his fruit, whereas Ronon's harvesting was characterised by his jovial shouts of apology as small children were walloped by randomly dropped fruits of cricket ball hardness.

Sweat ran down Rodney's forehead and into his eyes. Ronon, Teyla and John were all up trees, scampering about like monkeys, whereas he remained on the ground - hot, overfull with stodgy bread and stinky cheese (which had seemed like a good idea at the time), and lacking the consolation of a reward for his suffering. Not that Sheppard taking his shirt off would have constituted any kind of reward per se. It was more like a bet he had with himself. Just a test, to see if there was any possible cause that might give a certain effect. An effect that was neither desired nor unwanted - just neutral, in the way all the best science was.

A group of monkeys and their attendants abandoned a nearby tree as fully harvested. Rodney stretched himself out in its shade and fell asleep.

oOo

"Where's Sheppard?"

Ronon shrugged and picked up a huge joint of meat by its substantial bone. "Dunno." He bit into the joint, tearing off a large chunk.

Food was certainly plentiful in this community. They should've struck a deal for some of those animals. Or parts of them. Horse-cow things. But meatier-looking. They'd be good in pies. Rodney attacked his plate of meat with his knife and fork, like a civilised person. He looked around as he chewed.

The locals and Atlanteans mingled happily, seated at long trestle-tables around a large bonfire, in the centre of their village of huts-on-stilts. Rodney wasn't sure why they were on stilts. Flash floods? Wild animals? The huts were entered via steep ladders, which the locals (and Ronon and Teyla) walked up without using their hands. John, as leader, had been allocated a whole hut to himself, which wasn't fair and if Ronon's snores grew too loud Rodney was moving in with John, local etiquette be damned. There was no sign of him, though. There didn't seem to be that many girls either.

"Oh. Huh. I know exactly where he'll be!"

"Why d'you ask me, then?" grunted Ronon.

Teyla tore off a scrap of her flatbread and dipped it into some mushy stuff. "Where do you think John is, Rodney?"

A dramatic roll of eyes seemed appropriate. "He'll be Kirking it up with a girl, won't he? One of that eyelash batting, breast-thrusting crowd that were pandering to his every whim earlier. Or all of them. Probably all of them." He grabbed a piece of bread and hovered it over the bowl of mush. Teyla nodded a 'citrus-free' signal and he dunked it in and shoved it in his mouth to give his angry jaw muscles something to bite. Hard.

"Uh-uh." Ronon shook his head and grunted around his gigantic mouthful of horse-leg.

"Excuse me? I didn't quite catch that erudite little quip, Mr Dex."

Ronon continued to chomp, taking his time, grease running down his chin. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't think he'd be up for that. And I told you - he's not like Kirk."

"You're just deluded, Conan. Up for it. Huh. I'll say he'll be up for it!"

Ronon stared at the platter of meat. "No he won't." He took another horse-leg. "Not after that fall."

"What? What fall?"

"Fell out of a tree." He frowned. "Through a tree. Bounced quite a lot." He bit into the juicy meat.

"He fell? Bounced?"

"Ronon." The hard edge to Teyla's voice could've bitten straight through one of those giant joints of meat. "Is John hurt? Why did you not tell us?"

Ronon shrugged and swallowed his mouthful. "He was fine. Not bleeding much. He got straight up. After a bit."

There would undoubtedly have been a 'you're in serious trouble' eye roll from Teyla at this point, accompanied by a thorough interrogation, but Rodney didn't register anything but the fact that he was on his feet, marching past the happy, feasting harvesters, taking the shortest route toward John's hut-on-stilts. Because unless he'd chosen to hide out in one of the Jumpers, which were both cluttered up with assorted vegetables, that was where he would be.

Of course, even if he wasn't having Kirky fun with his pack of girls, one or more of them would no doubt be tending to his wounds; Rodney didn't care. John was hurt and Ronon might be able to fall out of a tree and blithely continue with his day, but Rodney wasn't putting up with any of that nonsense from John. He would take charge, throw the flirting females out and, if necessary, pack John into the Jumper and fly him back to Atlantis himself. And if John gave him any trouble, well, there were plenty of sacks he could be bundled into for transport.

He approached the hut and yes, there it was, the stifled feminine giggle. Ronon was so blind. How could he say it? And keep saying it? 'He's not like Kirk'. Yeah, right then.

Rodney took a firm grip on the entrance-ladder and began climbing, using both hands and feet like any normal person. There was another giggle and two figures ran out from under the hut and darted beneath one of the other structures - a boy and a girl, both locals. Oh. Well, Sheppard had probably found plenty of ways to stifle any giggling that might come for the hut itself.

Rodney climbed and reached the platform. A curtain made of woven grass hung over the entrance and lines of orange light spilled from both sides and beneath. Should he call out? Warn Sheppard that he was coming in? Give him a chance to pretend they were just playing pat a cake? If John was in any fit state to play games.

He pushed the curtain aside.

The hut was lit by a lamp hanging on a hook on the centre pole. There was grass matting on the floor and a low, wide pallet draped with colourful blankets. There was a bowl of water and the spread contents of a field first aid kit, and there was John Sheppard, kneeling on the floor, a dripping cloth in his hand. His eyes were cast in shadow, but a glint of light revealed that his lower lip was gripped tightly between his teeth. He was alone. And he was shirtless.

"Sheppard?"

"McKay."

Rodney took a step forward and let the curtain fall behind him. John's left arm was raised, his hand curling round the back of his neck, his elbow pointing at the lamp. High up on his left side was a nasty-looking scrape, crusted with dried blood. Lower down, his ribs were red and purple with bruises and the rest of his body was littered with cuts and scrapes and assorted darker patches that might just be shadows or might not.

As Rodney watched, John lowered his arm and his face turned further away from the light.

"What are you doing, Sheppard?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Rodney huffed a weary breath through his nose and rubbed his fingers up and down his forehead. He let his hand fall. "I can see what you're doing. I suppose my question should have been, why?"

John shrugged. "I got a bit banged up is all. I'm just dealing with it."

"On your own."

"Well, yeah." He shrugged again and his breath hitched.

"Unless she's hiding."

"Who?"

"One of your crowd of admirers."

"What, the girls? They're just kids."

"Huh. And I suppose by that you mean you wish they were a few years older." Rodney folded his arms, torn between his urge to search the shadows of the room for the inevitable feminine company and another urge a bit like the feeling he got when there was a problem with Atlantis' systems: his friend had glitches throughout his code and they all needed smoothing and soothing by the deft hands of an expert.

"Not now, McKay." John wrung the damp cloth between his hands. "Just go away and let me deal with this."

Three factors aborted Rodney's potential search and ejection of simpering girls: firstly the slump of John's rounded shoulders, secondly the weariness and pain in his voice and thirdly, and most offensively -

"Do you actually think I'm going to leave you alone in this state? That I'll just go, and let you make some kind of half-assed job of cleaning your own injuries so that they'll get infected and you'll die from alien bacteria? What the hell, Sheppard?"

There was a short silence, broken only by Rodney's heavy breathing and the distant sounds of revelry.

"Uh. You can stay if you wanna," mumbled John.

"Chuh! Of course I want to." Rodney dropped to the reed-strewn floor and began sorting through the first aid supplies.

"Do you?"

"Yes. At least, there isn't a patron saint of idiots, as far as I'm aware, so the job falls to yours truly. Right. Turn toward the light. Let me see the damage."

"I'm pretty sure there is."

"Is what?"

"A patron saint of idiots."

"Hmph. Well, you should find out, and hang an image of him or her around your neck along with your dog tags." The lamplight cast his friend's dishevelled appearance into sharp relief. "For God's sake, Sheppard. You're a total mess. How did you get so filthy?"

John looked down at himself and rubbed ineffectually at a tidemark of dried sweat and dirt on one arm. "I fell out of a tree, Rodney. Onto the ground. Which is kinda dirty."

"You're covered in God-knows-what." Rodney picked some bits of twig out of John's hair. His friend's body was an extremely unhygienic mix of blood and dirt as well as painfully blossoming bruises. He wasn't sure where to start. "I should take you back to Carson."

"No."

"Why not? Your ribs might be broken."

"They're not broken. Just bruised."

"How do you know?"

"I know what broken ribs feel like. These are just bruised. And I can breathe, because a punctured lung is always a dead give away."

Rodney swallowed. But John's chest rose and fell with no rasping, burbling noises. "Fine. I'll start at the top and work my way down. Okay?"

"Sure. But, I mean, you don't have to, because I can -"

"No, you can't, so shut up."

John shut up.

Rodney took one look at the water in the bowl and threw it out the door, pouring in some fresh from a pitcher. He dipped the cloth, wrung it out and regarded his shirtless friend.

So, all it took was falling out of a tree. What had happened to John's shirt? Had it got shredded on the descent or did it stay determinedly in place and he just took it off? Either way, here he was, kneeling on the floor, dirt all down one side of his face, the forward curl of his upper body telling Rodney all he needed to know about the pain in his friend's ribs. And if the rips in his pants covered torn skin, they'd have to follow the shirt, thought Rodney.

"Seriously, McKay, you don't have to -"

"Don't make me tell you to shut up again." Rodney began to clean John's face, wiping away the dirt in slow smooth strokes.

"I thought you had an endless supply of shut ups."

"I do." He dipped the cloth and wrung it out again. "But Teyla will know if I go over my daily quota."

John's mouth suddenly tightened and his chest jerked as Rodney's efforts revealed a jagged cut on his forehead. He didn't hiss or pull away, but Rodney steadied his friend's head with his free hand, his fingers sliding through John's hair so that the tip of his pinkie rested in the soft area of his nape.

"I hurt you. Sorry."

"It's fine."

When John spoke his breath ghosted across Rodney's face. 'It' clearly wasn't fine, but Rodney let the lie pass. He focussed on his work, kneeling up slightly to wipe away the dirt, and reaching down to dip the cloth and wring it out into the bowl. As well as the cut on John's forehead there was a wide graze on one cheek. Then the water was dirty so he changed it again.

"I'll get all the dirt off and then go back over with the antiseptic wipes."

"Okay."

It seemed natural to move his hand from John's head down to rest on his shoulder; and natural also to sweep the cloth smoothly and steadily down one side of John's neck and then the other, to leave no area of skin untouched, even when there was no obvious dirt to clean away. He dipped and wrung the cloth again, replaced his hand so that palm and fingers curled around the bony point of John's shoulder and swept the cloth along his collar bone, running a shallow gradient down one side and sloping gently up toward the opposite shoulder. There was a puncture wound surrounded by bruising beneath his left collar bone, probably where a twig had poked him, but John made no sound when the cloth passed over it. Rodney's eyes flicked up to his face. John's gaze was directed into the shadows and his lower lip was drawn in, his jaw tight.

Rodney dipped and wrung the cloth again. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"That thing you do. When you pretend it doesn't hurt. When you act like being injured is just something you have to take, like it's what your body's for."

"I don't do that."

"Yes you do." Rodney took John's left hand and held it, while he drew the cloth over his friend's deltoid, his bicep and down the length of his forearm. "'Oh, it's just a few broken ribs,' or, 'It's just a bullet wound.' Usually topped off with the classic, 'I'm fine'."

He looked up again and this time John's eyes met his. "I've not been shot, Rodney. And I told you - my ribs aren't broken."

"Yes, well, maybe not." Rodney held the cloth in his cupped hand and swept it along John's tricep, his elbow and down to the underside of his wrist. "But you're not 'fine'. And you don't have to pretend to be."

"What d'you want me to do? Yell?"

"If it would make you feel better, yes. Yell, scream, cry - any or all of the above or whatever other reaction takes your fancy."

His friend's gaze fled to a corner of the hut again. Rodney huffed. He started work on the other arm, holding John's wrist, which, he had to admit, was unusual, but just seemed like the right thing to do.

"All I'm saying is," he continued, "that it's just me here, just Rodney. And I'm not expecting anything from you in terms of stoicism or passivity or whatever messed-up idea of so-called 'good behaviour' you've been taught is the only way you'll get l- uh… friends. Get friends."

There was no response. John's hand curled into a fist. Rodney let his wrist go, threw the water out of the door again and poured some fresh.

"Lift up your arm, I need to clean around the scrape on your side."

John lifted his left arm, his hand gripping the back of his neck. The skin below his armpit was puffy and red, the injury progressing from parallel lines of red dots to continuous deeper red stripes of red, bordered by raised ridges of torn flesh. It looked ugly and painful.

Rodney swallowed and hesitated.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

"Something must be wrong." John bent his head down and peered at his injured side. "Doesn't look too bad."

"Well, no, it's not life-threatening, I suppose. Barring rampant infection by alien bacteria, of course." He began cleaning away the surrounding dirt, as gently as he could, breathing deeply to try to stop the trembling in his arm.

"What, then?"

"Nothing. Look, I'm going to get this one disinfected and covered up before I tackle the rest." Rodney snatched up the pack of antiseptic wipes and pulled one out. Then a hand grabbed his wrist.

"McKay. Tell me what's going on in your head."

"Let me go."

"No."

"I can't fix you up if you don't let me go."

"Tell me."

Rodney wrenched at his wrist, but John's grip was like iron, the muscles on his forearm standing out in hard ridges. He couldn't escape.

"Rodney, tell me." John's breath puffed across his cheek, his hazel eyes, dark with intensity, pinning Rodney in place just as surely as the long, calloused fingers that wrapped around his wrist.

Face-to-face, eye-to-eye, far closer than they usually came, Rodney could see the flecks of colour in John's eyes - hazel and tan and a greyish fawn - as well as the lines at the corners of his lids, deeper than usual because he was tired, because he was hurt.

"I don't like seeing you hurt!" The words burst out in a rush. "Okay? I don't like it! Especially when you hold it all in - when you just take the pain and crush it down like it's something to be ashamed of. Like you're ashamed of being a real, vulnerable person with a real, vulnerable body that can be hurt. I don't like it when you think you have to put on an act, even for me. And don't you dare tell me it's not bad and you're fine, because I know it's not that bad really and I know you'll be fine, but that's not the point. And don't tell me to get lost and that you'll manage on your own either, because I know that's where you'll head next. You'll get angry with me and snarl and snap and swear and hope I get angry enough to just walk out on you, so you can prove to yourself that you were right and you don't deserve to be looked after! You don't have to earn it, John! You don't have to be 'good' to be taken care of! You don't have to be good to be... to be loved! There, I've said it! I love you! And no, not just 'in the way a friend loves another friend'! I love you in all the ways you've been taught a man shouldn't love another man - so there! That's why I don't like seeing you hurt! There! Happy? Are you happy with that?"

John's fingers were still tight around his wrist, crushing his bones together. His eyes, raised to Rodney's, were wide, his lips slightly parted, his breaths fast and shallow.

Rodney closed his mouth. The ache in his forehead dissipated as he forced his frowning brows to relax. He breathed in slowly through his nose and pushed the air out through pursed lips. His wrist was going to be badly bruised. He pulled his arm back, just a tiny movement, but John instantly let go.

What the hell had he done? Where had all that come from? It had all just spilled out, and wow, if this was the effect a shirtless Sheppard had on him, it was a damn good thing John had kept himself covered up this long. But now… God, now it would all change, because there was no way John was going to forget what he'd just said. And Rodney didn't want him to, except he did, because that would be for the best.

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I mean, you know, usually I've got a pretty good idea what's going on in my head - a place for every thought and every thought in its place, so to speak. But, uh, I'm not sure where all that came from, so -"

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said, shut up, Rodney."

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry. I mean, you don't want to hear it. You just want to forget it all and pretend I didn't say any of that and that's fine, so, we can just carry on as normal - just friends, just best buds and all that, with the macho stoicism and manly backslaps, on your side at least. I'll just do my usual thing, you know, yelling at the first hint of pain and so on, because, you know me, that's the way I roll, so -"

"And again, shut up, Rodney."

Rodney slumped, his hands clasped together in his lap. He should get up and go before John threw him out.

There were a couple of croaky noises, as if his friend - was he still a friend? - was opening and shutting his mouth. Maybe John would look like a goldfish, if Rodney looked up. But he didn't. He couldn't.

"Uh… that's kind of a lot to process."

The water in the round, earthenware bowl was stained red. He should throw it out. And the antiseptic wipe he'd taken from the packet was lying on the floor, drying up. But John was talking again - he was actually responding to Rodney's flood of pent-up, stewed-up emotions.

"I, uh… You know... some of that stuff… yeah. I know that's what I do. 'Cos 'Sheppard men don't cry' and all that crap. And then the Air Force… well, that's the same, I guess."

A rip in the knee of John's pants flapped open as he shifted, easing out his legs to one side. He stayed sitting, though. He wasn't leaping up and hauling Rodney out and pitching him off the side of the ladder.

"I've, uh, I've never thought about being ashamed, though. Or being good. Good enough maybe, but not good like good behaviour; and having to earn it... having to earn being taken care of." He huffed a long sigh and Rodney didn't look up, but he knew John's hand was in his hair and then rubbing the back of his neck, and then it came back into view, the fingers plucking at the edge of the tear; pulling out threads, making it worse. "Today, though… Yeah, I guess I pretended I was okay and decided to deal with it on my own. I don't know why - that's just what I do. Because… because if it's just me, I don't have to worry about what people think, I don't have to be embarrassed. I dunno…" He tailed into silence.

"You don't have to worry anyway." Rodney's voice rasped. He cleared his throat. "You don't have to be embarrassed."

John's fingers carried on picking away at the rip in his pants.

Rodney watched them. "You don't have to make a joke or hide away or put on an act." He risked letting his gaze trail up past John's belt, over the bruises on his ribs - and even now John was pretending, because it had to hurt to sit like that - and up, between his nipples, up to the hollow between his collar bones. "We're your friends, John."

Rodney swallowed, blinked hard and then let his gaze continue to rise, over the jut of John's unshaven chin, past his lips, the lower one with the tiny little valley in the centre - and that didn't show when he was really pissed off, so…

He looked his friend straight in the eye. There was none of the hard, shut-away blankness that he'd feared, and no part of John's face expressed revulsion - no sneering mouth or lowering brow. His eyes were clear, unguarded and open. His tongue flickered across his lower lip and there was the faintest, twitchiest ghost of a smile.

"You love me?" he asked.

Rodney held John's gaze, raising his chin, preparing to stake his life as he staked his claim. "Yes. I do." There should be no room for doubt, and he was never one to do anything by half measures. "Very much, in fact. For a long time now. I love you. Yes."

"Oh. Okay." That twitching ghost of a smile achieved a fully corporeal state.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." John's eyes fell as the corners of his lips rose further. "Uh…" The inevitable neck-rubbing resumed. "Me too."

Rodney's fingers twitched to snap so that John's full, direct gaze would fix on him once more, but he resisted. "You love me?"

One shoulder shrugged. The floppy hair waggled in a nod. "Yeah," he whispered. "I love you, Rodney."

"Oh." Warmth slowly flooded Rodney's chest and spread outward in delicious tendrils, a bit like when you had a really good hot chocolate on a snowy day; with whipped cream and marshmallows. His clasped hands released each other and slid along the opposite forearms in a tight, happy, self-hug, and he would, at this point, have been even happier to hug John, but John was hurt. A bubble composed of smug satisfaction and bouncing, joyful authority rose up Rodney's throat and emerged. "Right, then. So, that means I'm in charge of your welfare and there's nothing you can do about it!"

"What?"

"You!" Rodney pointed at John's chest. "Belong to me! And I take good care of my possessions, especially the ones that I love. They have no say in the matter - none! They don't have to do anything to earn it! All they have to do is be my own, personal, precious possessions and that's It. They get looked after to within an inch of their lives!"

"I've seen your quarters, Rodney - your stuff's a mess."

"No! None of that! This is me, telling you how it's going to be. So you don't get to contradict any of my words of wisdom! You're mine now!"

"Yes, sir!" John saluted, a silly grin on his face. But then he suddenly collapsed, folding his arms around his torso, his jaw tense with pain.

"There, you see?" Rodney shuffled forward and put one arm around John's shoulders, while flicking through the medical supplies with the other. "You need me. You need me to look after you and you're soon going to realise that needing me is the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Okay." John's voice was a pained thread, as he curled forward around his injured ribs.

"Here. Take these." Rodney held out two Tylenol and poured some water into a cup. "And well done for not being quite so stoically granite-like as usual."

"Uh, thanks, I guess." John unbent himself enough to take the pills.

"Now," Rodney continued, "I'm going to finish administering to your many and varied injuries as quickly as I can and then I'm going to make you a cosy nest out of these blankets and any others I can lay my hands on. And then I'm going to tempt you with all the tastiest morsels from the harvest banquet - that is, if Ronon hasn't eaten them all."

"Okay," said John, and Rodney was pleased to hear that he said it meekly. Because no, a meek John Sheppard wouldn't be great as a military commander, but Rodney was quite sure any and all meekness would be instantly shed at any time John was in the public eye, so that would be alright. Here, though, with just the two of them, meekly doing as he was told was just what John needed.

As Rodney cleaned and dressed all of the scrapes and cuts on his John's body, he decided there were a few other words that he would need to teach this guarded man, with his harsh, repressive past and his learned response of isolating himself emotionally - leaving himself out in the cold. Words such as cosset and cherish for a start, and definitely caress - that one would need lots of practical demonstration, to make sure Rodney had really got his point across.

"And pamper," said Rodney. "And maybe even mollycoddle."

"What?"

"Never mind. Lie down. I'll be back."

A few sharp words yelled from the top of the ladder yielded the desired extra blankets and pillows and Rodney soon had John installed in relative comfort, and installed himself while he was at it, because of course, a nicely relaxed, happily brilliant scientist was the best support for an injured Colonel. And the large platter of food within arm's reach helped to maintain that support.

"There. Better?"

John's hair tickled Rodney's chin. He smoothed it down, but it pinged straight up again.

"Yeah," said John, drowsily. "'s nice."

"You're damn right it's nice," said Rodney, posting a syrupy delicacy into John's mouth. "And you'd better get used to things being nice, because I'm in charge now." He licked the syrup off his fingers and then stroked down the side of John's shoulder where it rested against his chest - his own, naked chest, because the more shirtless time both of them spent, the better. And pantless too.

"Yeah. You're in charge. You said that. Coupla hundred times."

"Well, it doesn't do to understate these things."

John had finished eating the sweet, coconutty type thing.

"Need any more?"

"No, thanks." His head turned, so that his cheek rested against Rodney's chest and his breath puffed softly against Rodney's skin. "Sometimes I'll be in charge, though. When you need help. When you work too late or too long. When you freak out about stuff."

"Hmm. I suppose I could share authority," Rodney conceded.

"If it's a military issue, I'm in charge," said John. He yawned. "Or a Rodney issue."

"Yes, and I'll do the science and the Sheppard-welfare."

"It's a deal."

Beneath the blankets a warm hand slid over Rodney's thigh. John made a comfortable, well-fed, happy sound.

Rodney smiled and placed a kiss in amongst the springy, tickly hair. "I know you're not like Kirk really," he said.

"No, you were right on the money with that one," contradicted John. There was a sleepy snort of amusement. "'Cos Kirk loved his Science Officer too."