"Oh, god. It hurts. Rodney, it hurts." John was gripping his hand so tight he thought the bones might break. Even slicked in John's blood, those hands held like steal.

He'd never seen John like this, even in that intense moment of vulnerability during orgasm. He never thought he'd hear him defeated, pleading, losing control.

John squirmed, blood splashing out from the gapping wound on his stomach where Rodney held his guts in with a soaked once-khaki jacket.

John's breaths were panted and short. Even if Ford was storming through the gate with Beckett and a jumperfull of equipment not lying lifeless a few meters away. . . . They both knew there was only one way this could end.

John's hazel eyes were startlingly clear, reflecting the pale blue of the sky - imploring. "I love you." The words he'd longed to hear out loud, though he always felt them in a tender caress, a mischievous glance, a secretive smile.

"I love you too."

Rodney smiled, then kissed away the pain.