Dear Readers,

This morsel of cosiness comes to you courtesy of scan results day, when much cosiness is needed. The scan was clear, but even it it hadn't been, I'd still keep writing. I hope you enjoy it.

Rodney sneezed. And then he sneezed again - a great, shouting, snorting expulsion of breath as well as other things that he preferred not to think about, because that stuff was meat and drink to Carson, but not to a real scientist such as himself. Meat and drink - perhaps not the best metaphor, under the circumstances. He regarded his handkerchief with distaste and threw it in the direction of the laundry basket. God help the laundry staff.

And usually, he thought, with irritation, if you sneezed a few times in a row, you could expect some measure of relief - a temporary reprieve from that itchy, breathless, head-full-of-crap feeling. Or at least you could if you'd been taking your allergy meds, which Rodney always did. This, however, was no common-or-garden pollen-related attack, readily alleviated by an adjustment in dosage of whatever witchdoctor brew he was currently taking. This was a major, misery-inducing disease, a malady that reduced genius super-scientists to shivering, aching, sneezing, snorting shadows of their former selves.

"It's just a wee cold," Rodney mimicked, croakily. "Just a low grade fever, Rodney. You'll be fine with a few tylenol and taking it easy for a couple of days. Huh. Right, then."

He sneezed again, then blew his nose, decimating yet another handkerchief and hurling it into the laundry basket. And that was another ridiculous idea. The amount of detergent that would be required to launder all these handkerchiefs would by far outweigh the packets of paper tissues that the powers that be had blithely struck from the manifest of the Daedalus.

Rodney pulled his comforter around him and then pulled it further, up over his head, so that it made a little cave containing just his own hunched, shivering form and his laptop. "Hmm." He snaked an arm out to one side, letting in an unwelcome draft of cold air, but retrieving his packet of lozenges from the nightstand. And a bar of chocolate, which he wouldn't be able to taste and which would probably end up running in brown, salivary dribbles down his chin because his blocked nose and sore throat left him able to swallow with only an estimated forty percent efficiency.

Of course he wasn't supposed to be working. Although if Carson was so convinced that this was such a minor ailment, why was he simlarly adamant that Rodney should be resting and not continuing his vital-to-the-safety-of-two-galaxies duties? "Huh."

His feet were cold and he already had on two pairs of socks. His chest ached. His nose was sore and peeling in little flakes of skin from all the blowing with nasty, rough, military-issue handkerchiefs. And his back was getting sore from sitting, curled semi-upright in bed for so long. He could lie down, except he'd have to rearrange the whole bed and he didn't have the energy. "Grrr."

What a stupid waste of his precious time being sick was. Why hadn't someone invented a way of not being? Maybe the Ancients had. Maybe it was here on Atlantis and they just hadn't found it yet. And just maybe the Ancients should have catalogued their city in some kind of systematic way. Maybe they should've had, oh I don't know, an index on their database? Some kind of remotely sensible way of searching the damn thing? Hell, even a contents page would have been a start. "Chuh." He grumbled to himself, (mentally, because talking hurt too much) - stupid Ancients systems. Stupid Ancient systems that he had to try to mesh with Earth technology like two grumpy pet rabbits he was trying to bond, without one or both of them losing too much fur. Which reminded him of an email he'd been intending to write.

Dear Madison,

I hope you and your Mom and Dad are well. I am not. I have a cold much worse than that one your Dad had at Christmas and yes, my nose is easily as red as Santa's. In fact, it far surpasses Santa's nose in redness, having reached a value of 5R 9/10 on the Munsell scale.

This might have been thought a little technical for a six-year-old, but they'd recently had a long back and forth of emails regarding spectrophotometry and the thorny issue of whether it was possible for anything to be too pink. Madison had seemed to grasp the concept and system pretty well and had put forth some very convincing arguments and well-presented data. He'd ship her to Atlantis to replace some of his less-skilled minions if he thought he could get away with it.

He continued.

I hope your leporine issues have resolved themselves; that is, that Miss Binky has either embraced the concept of Heisenberga's presence or has at least reconciled herself to the fact. I recently encountered a remarkably rabbit-like animal and was considering bringing one back to Atlantis to keep as a pet. Sadly, however, the fluffy little bastard…

Hmm. Adult-level technical terms he could get away with, but not adult-level swearing. He backspaced.

...the fluffy little creature turned out to be savagely carnivorous. We were quickly surrounded and, you've guessed it, had to 'retreat, under heavy fire, through the Gate'. Well, no, you're right there - not that gun-toting rabbits isn't an amusing image, but no - 'under heavy nibbling' might be more accurate.

He paused. It was nice that he was able to tell Madison these things. And, though she knew they were true and very secret, she could happily tell her little school friends all about her mad Uncle Rodney's adventures on other planets, because nobody would ever dream that her stories were grounded in cold, hard fact. It was a shame, however, that she was getting a reputation for creative story-telling amongst her teachers. She had a sharp, incisive, and above all scientific mind - it wouldn't do to have her pushed toward the arts.

Rodney waggled his fingers, about to give his niece the benefit of his experience when it came to life-choices and the absolute necessity of focusing on her academic career so that the world (and other worlds) could reap the benefit of her brilliance. But there was a tickle in his chest, and before he could get a soothing lozenge out of the packet, the tickle grew to a rattle, which grew to a painful rasp, and his next wheezing, shuddering breath ended in a paroxysm of choking coughs which brought tears to his eyes and intensified the already stabbing ache in his ribs.

Then suddenly, the comforter was thrown back, there was a hand on his shoulder and a cool touch of glass at his lips. He sipped, coughed water all over himself, sipped again and, soothed by the stroking hand, began to bring his hitching, wheezing breath back under control.

"There you go. Slowly, yeah? In and out. Try another sip."

Rodney took the water in a shaking hand and did as he was told. Then he eased himself back on the pillows.

"Sheppard," he rasped.

"Don't try to talk, Rodney."

Oh, well that was really annoying. Rodney glared at his friend, who'd perched himself on the chest of drawers. There were so many things he wanted to ask and, of course, to tell, not the least of which was a long and detailed account of his sufferings. And obviously, one-sided conversations between himself and John were pretty much the norm, but it was always Rodney doing the actual talking and his friend was the one who took on the burden of meaningful (or meaningless) silences, grunts and assorted grimaces and shrugs. It was what they did, how they communicated, and it worked well, as far as Rodney was concerned; and as far as John was concerned too, or he would have said something. Well, no, he wouldn't have said anything, because that was the point. Oh well.

"So, uh, I guess you know we went to Montaria."

Rodney nodded and tried to look question marky, like John did when his eyebrow did that little twitch and his slouch changed direction.

"They're all fine." John stared into the middle-distance, which was typically uninformative. "Something went down with some escaped livestock - someone got a bit trampled."

Rodney raised both eyebrows.

"Nobody we know. And they were fine."

A drop in both eyebrows and a twirling finger requested further data.

"Oh, uh… It was raining."

Well that was no surprise. It was autumn there. Muddy and cold, wet and windy; but there were always compensations, hospitality being of a simple, but extremely generous nature on that particular planet.

Rodney's blocked nose twitched. He took yet another handkerchief from his bulging sleeve and blew it noisily and comprehensively, making no concessions to John's presence, because he never minded about that kind of thing.

John remained impassive, one leg swinging.

Rodney threw the handkerchief into the laundry basket.

"Good shot."

He acknowledged this praise with a twist of his lips and took advantage of his very temporary nose-clearage to sniff. Yes, there it was. He sniffed again, leaning toward his friend, stretching his neck and drawing his shoulders away from the support of the pillow-stack.

"What?"

Rodney took another long sniff, but it was gone. His nose had returned to its blocked state.

"What? Do I smell or something?"

Rodney nodded.

"I showered! And these are clean on!" John tugged at the hem of his button-down shirt.

Rodney shook his head impatiently. He gestured to John's hair and then wriggled his fingers upward from waist level, spreading them out as they rose.

"What?" John's crumpled expression relaxed into a smile. "Oh, the smoke. Yeah, it always hangs around for a few washes. My hair traps it."

Rodney nodded. John's hair was impervious to most things, but once the smell of woodsmoke penetrated it, it kept hold of the scent for days.

"It was windy. Smoke kept blowing back down the chimney." He cleared his throat, rubbed his nose and pulled down his collar to scratch just beneath one collar bone.

Rodney smiled, sadly. He'd really wanted to go to Montaria, to the cosy little pub that was the centre of the social scene on that forested planet. There were always roaring fires in both of the downstairs rooms, and there was always good food - cakes and bacon and hearty stews and hot toast and fruit pies. It was true that the bedrooms were a bit cold and drafty, but the food and the company more than made up for that. He wished he was there now. A roaring fire to heat him through and through, right down to his aching bones. Hot, soothing spiced drinks and delicately savoury soups that would slip down easily and settle his over-medicated stomach.

He sighed, his chest rasping.

John sneezed.

Rodney turned a sharp glance of scrutiny on his friend. There was a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, but the rest of his face was a shade lighter than usual and, yes, there were the tell-tale reddened nostrils from fresh-out-of-the packet over-scratchy handkerchiefs.

He raised an accusing finger and aimed it at the offending nose.

"Yeah. Me too. Carson signed me off." John gave a typically careless shrug. "I'm fine, though."

Rodney folded his arms and pressed himself further back into the pillows, his head on one side, exaggerating his look of withering disbelief so that there could be no misinterpretation.

"I'm fine!" The rough extra-whininess of this usually whiny protest gave the Military Commander away completely.

But there go his eyebrows, Rodney noted, disappearing somewhere up under that flopping mop of hair as his lips pooched out just ever-so-slightly, to indicate his absolute innocence of any and all wrong-doing and germ-harbouring..

Then John sneezed again, and then again, into his bent arm. Then he pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, blew his nose, thunderously, rolled it up and promptly missed the laundry basket entirely.

This richly deserved Rodney's slow handclap.

"Yeah, okay. So my aim's a little off."

He slid off the drawers and bent down to pick up the crumpled fabric. But as he straightened up, a choking cough forced its way out, followed by another and another and John curled over again, one hand on his knee, one forearm pressed to his mouth. He coughed and spluttered and his breath became more and more strained.

Rodney dumped his laptop on the nightstand together with the softening bar of chocolate (the lozenges had lost themselves in the bedding). He heaved himself up, and John's wheezing, choking coughs actually blanked out his own weakness and gave him the strength to make it to the bathroom, fill a clean glass and then help his friend in the same way John had helped him.

"Better?"

They had both ended up on the floor, John leaning floppily against Rodney, supported by an arm around his shoulders.

The thicket of dark hair grunted an affirmative. Rodney raised the glass of water again, but another, subtly different grunt, indicated a negative.

He set the glass down and pushed it under the bed so that it wouldn't be in danger of getting knocked over if either of them had another uncontrollably flailing coughing fit.

"Sucks," rasped John.

"Yeah," wheezed Rodney. "Bed?"

"Uh-huh."

They remained on the floor, leaning into each other. Rodney swallowed, painfully and shivered.

"C'mon." John knelt up, holding out his hand.

Rodney took it and, in no very dignified style, unfolded himself from the floor and groaned and shuffled and swore until he was side-by-side with his team leader, the comforter tucked around both of them.

"Sucks," John rasped.

"You said that." Ouch. It hurt even to whisper.

"Cold."

Rodney pulled the comforter up until it was tucked just beneath his chin. John did the same.

"What're we gonna do?"

Stop talking, Rodney thought. Or your throat will soon be as sore as mine. He shrugged in response. And shivered again. So did John.

Rodney pressed his shoulder into John's. Then he wormed his arm between the pillows and John's back until his hand could curl around his friend's far shoulder; and then edged his hips over. Then his legs. Then he hooked one leg over John's. And then the other. And (don't be an idiot), of course he wasn't sitting in his friend's lap, because his ass was still firmly planted on the mattress, so he was quite clearly just sitting on the bed - just a bit closer to John than usual and purely for medical purposes.

But it was nice and John didn't seem to object. Unless he was asleep. No, his eyes were open - kind of puffy and bleary, and more than a little spacey, but definitely open. The only trouble was, because Rodney was angled toward John, and he supposed you might almost describe his position as being 'draped over', having to hold his neck upright while the rest of him was on a slant was making the muscles ache and he could really do without that as well as the pain in his throat. A simple solution presented itself - he leant his head on John's shoulder.

Then he relaxed and closed his eyes.

John seemed relaxed too. Kind of. His shoulders felt a bit tense, both the one beneath Rodney's cheek and the one he had his hand curled around. The muscles were hard and had a hitchy, twitchiness which spoke of suppressed coughs and shivers.

Rodney plucked up courage to squeeze out some rasping words through his red-raw throat. "Do you need some tylenol?"

John made an attempt to clear his throat but winced, his shoulders tightening even more. "Had some."

"Oh."

"Really sucks."

"Yes."

Rodney made another determined attempt to increase his level of proximity and surface contact with his friend, but decided he'd already maxed-out both variables. And no, he was not going to use the term 'snuggling into' because it was unscientific.

He caught a very brief, bittersweet hint of woodsmoke through his throbbing, swollen airways - John's hair again, because he'd been to Montaria and had sat in the pub in one of those padded, springy armchairs, next to a roaring, blazing, comforting fire. He should've stayed there. The landlord and his wife would have looked after John, bringing him spicy, fruity drinks and keeping the fire well stoked up. They would have given him extra cushions and a really cosy blanket and a footstool and some fluffy animal would have jumped up onto him, because even the animals there were empathetic and knew when furriness was an essential requirement to your well-being, which was always.

Rodney sighed and something caught in his chest and he had to pull away from John to indulge in another coughing fit. When he'd finished he found himself being encircled by two long, sinewy arms and held tightly - because John was an experienced soldier who knew a lot about survival situations.

"Wish we were there," whispered Rodney.

"Where?"

"Montaria. Fire."

"Oh."

There was a pause. And even with his muffled, addled senses, Rodney could tell it wasn't a relaxing, going-to-sleep pause, or an I-feel-too-crap-to-do-anything pause, or even a John Sheppard there's-just-nothing-in-particular-going-on-in-my-head pause. It was a thinking pause. Rodney waited, too tired and miserable to nudge his friend into sharing his thoughts.

"Cosy Room."

"What?"

"Cosy Room. 's what we called it." John took a careful breath. "North-west pier. Marked low priority. Went on Radek's to-check list."

"Why cosy?"

"Fireplace. Blocks of fuel. Seats." John released Rodney to clap one hand over his mouth. His eyes bulged, his face went red and his chest heaved, and Rodney was on the verge of grabbing his earpiece and calling Carson. But then John slowly relaxed, took a shaky breath and let his hand fall. "Did I say this sucks?" he wheezed.

"Yes." Rodney waited, and then prompted John by way of a strategic head-nudge "Cosy?"

"Oh. Yeah. Mini transporter. Linked to the kitchens?"

This sounded fascinating. And okay, yes, John and his exploration team were right to have marked it as low priority, because if the Wraith arrived in force they were unlikely to be pacified by offers of warmth and hospitality, but right now cosiness was something that would make a real difference to Rodney's quality of life. A flurry of questions floated up to the surface of his feverish mind, none of which he could express without ripping his throat to further shreds. An actual fireplace? Where did the smoke go? Even if the fuel blocks that John had mentioned were smokeless, the hot air and fumes still needed somewhere to go. One of those many spires must be a chimney. And seats? Rows of lecture-theatre seats, to study the shape and form of flame in a typically ascetic, Ancienty way? No, because John had called it a cosy room, so comfort was implied. And the mini-transporter? If it really was linked to the kitchens, it would be like the replicators on the Enterprise. Maybe you just spoke - "Tea, Earl Grey, hot," and your wish would be its command. Not that he'd ask for Earl Grey. Well, okay, yes he would, but just once, just because it'd be cool to say it.

He raised his head from John's shoulder, met his friend's sidelong glance and observed the twitch of his lips. Rodney would be astonished if the exact same thoughts weren't going through John's head. Did Colonel Always-on-duty-even-when-I've-been-signed-off still have his earpiece in? Rodney pulled John's head around, his fingers on his pale, stubbly, cheek. John slapped his hand down and glared, then removed his earpiece from a pocket. He clumsily fiddled it into place, tapped it and spoke. Except nothing came out of his mouth.

John's lips did that compressed wiggle that meant he was annoyed with himself. Then he cleared his throat, and his watering eyes gave away that it hurt a lot, and tried again.

"Radek."

"Yes? Who is this?"

"Sheppard."

"Ah, Colonel, you have returned from your mission? What can I do for you?"

John rasped something unintelligible.

"I'm sorry?"

"... room with fireplace…"

"Room with…?" There was a pause.

Come on Radek, get a clue. Work it out. Come on…

"Ah, yes, of course. You want to know if it's safe? Yes, yes, yes, all safe and in working order. In fact, I ate my lunch there last Friday… no last Thursday because it was turgeon stew - you know the bird that is like a turkey-sized pigeon, and at first, of course I was reluctant, because pigeons are a passion of mine. To breed and to race, that is, not an actual passion… I am talking too much."

You're damn right, there, Rodney thought.

"But anyway, the transporter link to the kitchens works, and the chimney is safe and intact. I climbed up inside it myself. Would you like to use the room? For a meeting, perhaps?"

John made an attempt at a response, which ended in a coughing fit. He bent over, one hand on his mouth, the other holding the earpiece in place as he heaved and choked. Rodney slid out of the bed and retrieved the water glass from under the bed and once again applied a hand to steady John's shaking shoulders and held the water glass to his lips.

John sipped and choked and sipped again and then sagged back onto the pillows. Rodney put down the glass, hurriedly climbed back into the bed and resumed his former position, to ensure maximum heat transference.

"So?"

"He said yeah."

Rodney would have snorted, but he didn't want to go through the whole coughing fit rigmarole again. Radek may have said he'd checked it out, but what did that actually mean? That the room was stocked up and ready to be cosy? Or just that it wasn't about to blow up in their faces, because that would be typical of Ancients - to create a lovely, welcoming room and then booby-trap it, just in case Wraith really were drawn in by offers of warmth and hospitality.

Anyway did he really want to stagger across the city just to search out a room where they'd have to make up a real fire themselves? And probably the Ancient fuel blocks wouldn't light and the seating would be hard and they were better off here.

He grumbled, deep in his aching chest.

There'd been no response from John. Oh. Because he'd fallen asleep, his head lolling backward on the pillows, his mouth slack. There were shadows under his eyes and his hair looked unhappy, even though he said he'd just showered. Normally, freshly-showered Sheppard-hair was a thing of bounding, enthusiastic fluffiness. But at the moment it was dull and more floppy than it should be. Rodney was reminded of Madison's pet rabbit, Miss Binky, when her friend Popsicle had sadly left the world of the alive-and-hopping, and before Heisenberga had been introduced and the teeth and claws had come out. Fortunately, John's hair never grew teeth or claws, even when he was really angry.

A chirp woke Rodney from his drowsy meanderings. John's head jerked and he smacked dry lips and tapped his earpiece.

"Huh?"

More chirping responded to this eloquence.

"Uh. Thanks."

John's eyes closed again, his hand flopped onto his lap.

Rodney wriggled a full-body question.

"Lorne says... s'ready."

Another wriggle, another question.

"The Cosy Room."

They took the comforter. Getting up from the bed had been hard enough, but there was no way, absolutely no way, that Rodney was relinquishing one fraction of a degree of his carefully hoarded warmth. And who cared if anyone witnessed their staggering progress anyway? Crowds could line the route as far as Rodney was concerned - not that he would be able to see them even if they did, not through the tiny chink he'd left in his wrappings. So if people wanted to watch their Military Commander and Chief Science Officer burritoed together, shuffling their way to the nearest transporter, they could go right ahead. What were they going to do? Laugh? Lose their respect for authority? Not likely. Dr Rodney McKay and Colonel John Sheppard had built up way more than enough credit under the life-saving, world-saving, derring-do column to offset any public displays of huddled weakness, thank you very much.

They made it to the transporter. John extended one finger through the gap in the comforter and slowly and deliberately pressed their destination on the map.

They arrived, they shuffled and staggered and coughed and rasped their way along the corridor. Rodney closed his eyes, because he didn't know where the hell he was going, so he might as well just let himself be tugged along by his wrappings.

Then a set of doors swished aside, and even in his blind, cocooned state, Rodney felt the wave of warmth envelop him. He pulled down the comforter, so that just his eyes and nose poked out over the top. And next to him, John did the same, revealing a tuft of wild hair, two bloodshot hazel eyes and a red-tipped, pointy nose.

The room was circular and the seating was arranged in a horseshoe shape, centring on the fireplace in the far wall. The fireplace was triangular, with an asymmetric, angled hearth. But there was nothing pointily uncomfortable about the room and even if there had been, any hard angles had been softened by more blankets, pillows and throws than Rodney thought existed in the whole of the city. Reds, and browns and golds covered the pale tan of the squishy-looking couches, so that with the flickering yellow-orange light of the flames, the whole space was filled with the colours of the Fall.

John rumbled in surprise and pleasure. Rodney wuffled into the comforter in complete agreement. He edged forward, still retaining his grip on their haven, unwilling yet to give up the known warmth. John was drawn with him.

There was a low table between the seating and the fire and Rodney was disappointed to see that, though it was covered with a friendly orange cloth, there was nothing else awaiting them. And just when a mug of something hot and maybe spicy might have been welcome.

A gentle ping sounded and it was John's turn to steer them both back through the horseshoe of seating, toward a hatch in the wall, like a dumb waiter. Or a mini transporter. It opened as John's hand extended through the gap in the duvets, the door sliding up into the wall. Inside was a tray containing two mugs of the pumpkin-like soup that Rodney recognised as one of the kitchen's specialities. There were also two plates of friendly-looking sandwiches. And by friendly-looking Rodney supposed he meant simple, without too many fillings that would confuse struggling tastebuds or too much relish or mayo that would squirt everywhere. Cheese and tomato-thing, in fact, and tomato-thing was better than tomato, because these alien fruits were always sweet and sharp, not like some Earth tomatoes that look red and tasty but have all the personality of a glass of stale water.

Also on the tray were a teapot, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, two empty mugs and a handwritten note.

John picked the note up and held it between them, because reading aloud wasn't happening.

I hope you like what we've done with the Cosy Room, sir. The kitchen's on stand-by to send whatever you need, and me and the troops are too, in case you want a movie or something - we could carry a TV there or even set up a big screen. I would say, 'just yell', but I'm guessing sending a note might be easier. Feel better soon.

It was signed by Major Lorne, but this formality was mitigated by an actual smiley face complete with eyebrows and hair, because Lorne was an artist after all and probably couldn't help himself.

John's lips curled up. He looked at Rodney and twitched the comforter.

Rodney nodded.

They both let it fall and John kicked it to one side, picked up the tray and carried it to the table.

They sat. They pulled the soft blankets around themselves. And, of course, there were easily enough blankets for them to wrap up separately, but John seemed to be in military survival mode and Rodney knew all kinds of things about conservation of energy and both thermal and thermodynamic efficiency and he was sure sharing blankets must fit under at least one, or possibly more of those headings - anyway, he was sick, so he didn't have to reason it out or prove anything, did he?

They each balanced a plate of sandwiches on their knees and picked up the mugs of soup. John sipped his and smiled. Rodney put his back on the table, ripped up his sandwich into small pieces, deposited all of them in the soup and then proceeded to shovel the mess into his mouth in great, soft, slurping spoonfuls. John copied.

Then Rodney poured the tea and added milk and sugar, which John was getting whether he wanted it or not, because he always lost weight when he was ill and didn't really have any to lose in the first place. Wisely, John didn't protest the three-sugar sweetness. He sipped and stared into the flames and stretched out his legs, which were immediately supported by some kind of automatic-recliner feature. So the Ancients weren't entirely clueless after all.

Rodney drank his tea and activated his own recliner, but not too much because John might be able to drink tea while fully reclined, but Rodney was pretty sure he'd just end up with it all over his face and everywhere else too.

"'s nice," slurred John.

"Mmm," agreed Rodney.

He stared at the flames, leaping and flickering above the ever-so-slowly dwindling blocks of fuel, which would be something he'd have to analyse, although Radek should already have done that because such a slow-burning, high-output fuel might be useful in all kinds of situations. But for now, he could just let his eyes fall half-shut, blurring the flames, letting his body relax from the enveloping warmth and the comforting fullness of spicy soup and friendly sandwiches.

He pressed up close to John and, even though the recliner feature was nice, it wasn't quite right; so he slid first one leg and then the other over John's and wrapped his arms around his friend and, though he definitely, absolutely wasn't sitting in John's lap, he decided he would admit, just this once, just this one time-in-great-need, that he was, in actual fact, snuggling.