It was two weeks later, when Sam and Rodney were still on their honeymoon in the Mediterranean, that the bad luck from Rodney’s past two birthdays caught up with him. Only it skipped Rodney, as he was on vacation, and jumped to John instead.

He and Zelenka were with Teal’c and Daniel, negotiating some sort of peace treaty with these really weird people on P4X-094 who wore clothes completely made out of rabbit skin and had a pretty cool temple ornament that happened to look a hell of a lot like a ZPM.

Now, John wasn’t the best of negotiators, but he thought he did pretty damned good when they offered to give it to him for a very rare breed of albino rabbit that he happened to bring with him. It felt like getting Manhattan from the Indians all over again.

Of course, that was before the other tribe of natives, whom the ZPM-toting ones had conveniently failed to mention, showed up straight out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland, wearing nothing at all and claiming that the white rabbit was the forty-second incarnation of their most esteemed god. That was when John started hating Douglas Adams.

That was also when the shooting started. John must’ve taken out at least five of the rabbit-worshiping mother-fuckers, but they just kept coming. They fled through the trees. And even the blasts from Teal’c‘s staff weapon didn’t scare off the attacking horde. They were almost to the Gate when Zelenka went down, an arrow through his chest. John knew he was dead, but went to him anyway. He didn’t leave men behind. He didn’t fucking leave . . .

That’s when he felt it – the arrow. A sharp pain, a sudden warmth, or was it cold? And then a rushing sound and blackness, silent and pure and blissfully pain-free.

He woke to a familiar sound. It was the sound of fingers hitting a keyboard, fast and furious, echoing and distorted by those waves that painkillers tended to send rippling through reality. Dull, a bell echoing. He'd woken up like this more times that he'd like to count. Too many times, opening his eyes to the infirmary ceiling and the sound of Rodney tapping frantically at his keyboard.

John forced his eyes open but was greeted by a bowed blonde head peaking out behind a laptop, instead of a light blue shirt and matching eyes that always seemed to be looking at him before he got it together enough to face the world. "Rodney?" he asked. His voice was raspy, nothing new there. There was numbness. And somewhere there was pain, but it was dulled, like the surf crashing down around him, but not penetrating.

Sam looked up and her eyes were wide and blue but too light. She smiled, standing. "Hey. Good to see you awake, John."

John looked around. Where was Rodney? Had something happened to him? He tried to sit up. Big mistake. One of the waves broke through, a tingling throb at his back, burning through him. He gasped.

"Easy, easy, John. Rodney's in our quarters, sleeping. I'll call him." Why was Rodney sleeping? Was he sick? What was going on? Everything was fuzzy. The world was off. It was shifting, tilting. It was all wrong. Everything was so wrong and he didn't know why. He gave a small panicked gasp and then the wrong world started to fade. He should've fought it. But Rodney wasn't here, and everything was off, and maybe if he let the blackness claim him, he'd wake up to find that it was all a dream.

He was choking. The damn bug was choking him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't taste the sweet flavor of the air. Something was around his neck. The bug. It was still choking him and everything else was all a dream to forget the pain.

And then there were hands, familiar hands on his, holding him down. And that was fine, because those hands could do more than caress, and hell, they could hold him down if they wanted to, but now, with this bug choking him was really not the time and . . .

He gasped but no sound came out. And instead of sounds he saw. A familiar face above him, a familiar worried frown.

"John, John, Colonel! You need to calm down. It's a traech tube. You need it to help you breath."

And Rodney was breathing in deep steady breaths, grounding him. He had to follow, only it was strange, breathing with your mouth closed, not being able to taste the air, only a weird tickle at the back of your throat.

"What?" He wasn't sure if he spoke at all. He was blurry, only Rodney's words were clear and cutting as they ever were.

"There were complications. The arrow was contaminated with a poison. Necrotized some of the tissue in your lungs. They had to extract the dead parts, but you're going to be okay."

Dead parts? Dead. Part of him was dead? Dead. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. The drugs were as cloying as the walls, as the darkness that danced in from the side of his vision to steal his breath.

And there was a warm hand in his, and he couldn't be dead, because he could feel a pulse beating up to meet that warmth. It wasn't a caress, but it was right. He let the darkness dance in, but it was sweeter than the light.

He drifted. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. In fact, it was a wonder he wasn't addicted to opiates by now. Everything was both dull and bright at the same time. Words seemed to flow over and past and motion blurred. Everything was shifting, the pain included, now easily located in his lower back when he stretched his ribs. Breathing was hard sometimes, but that was shifting too. The only constants were Rodney sitting in the chair by his bedside or typing or demanding something he couldn't quite understand from one of the nurses.

Sam was there too, sometimes massaging Rodney's shoulders, asking, but never getting him to leave. Daniel stopped by. And Toderov and Lin. He found himself wondering where Radek was only to stop himself in horror. Radek was dead. And according to Rodney, he had been too. He still sort of was. The traech tube sucked. He wondered when it could come out.

He talked in one word sentences. Much more was too much effort. And it wasn't until he'd lost a week to drugs and a landscape shifting like the sand that he really had the energy to demand they take the damn tube out.

He asked for Carson, which he knew was weak, but he missed the familiar brogue and the gentle teasing. He missed to confidence in knowing that whatever happened, the Doc would take care of him. He liked Doctor Reyes well enough, but it just wasn't the same. What the hell was someone like her doing in medicine anyhow? She must've gotten the whole idea of marrying a surgeon and the idea of becoming one confused.

And, he must've been really bad off, because Carson showed up all the way from Scotland.

"Hey, lad, how're you feeling today?"

"Peachy," John croaked, looking around for Rodney and wondering if he was answering these questions right. He was having trouble thinking. Rodney would know what to say. Rodney always had something to say.

"We're going to start lowering the dose on the painkillers tomorrow."

"When can I get out of here?" Truthfully, he was almost afraid to leave - afraid that he'd take a breath that wouldn't come.

"A few weeks more, I'm afraid." Carson sounded tired, as tired as John felt. Carson'd retired from this stuff, after all. He didn't have to deal with crap like this anymore.

"And then?"

Carson squinted, massaging the bridge of his nose. "God, they bring me in here just to be the bearer of bad news."

"I'm a doctor, not a newscaster?" Rodney chimed in. So Rodney hadn’t left. John sighed in relief.

Carson chuckled. "Something like that. The medical staff here was really able to work miracles. Without Colonel Carter's use of that Goa'uld healing device, I daresay you would've been a goner. But even miracles only go so far."

"How bad?" He could barely hear himself.

"You'll heal, live a relatively normal life."

"But?" John closed his eyes as Rodney said it. He let Rodney speak for him, always had in a way.

"But . . . are you sure you want him here for this?" Carson asked, looking at Rodney with annoyance and maybe a little sympathy.

John nodded. It'd save him having to tell Rodney himself, seeing as how he was a little short on breath these days.

"No more gate travel."

"Flying?"

Carson just shook his head solemnly.

"Fuck," John said. There wasn't anything else to say, even if he’d had the strength to say it.

“You missed the funeral,” Toderov said, leaning against the doorframe as casually as though he were discussing the weather.

“I’m sorry.” He meant it.

“Don’t be. Everyone was wearing black and telling the stories. You know how it gets. It was depressing.”

“Did you cry?” That must’ve been the morphine talking, because he wouldn’t usually ask that kind of question. He wasn’t that rude of a guy.

Toderov shrugged. “I was drunk.”

“That would be a ‘yes’ then.”

“Most likely.” He nodded, not meeting John’s eyes.

“How’s everyone holding up?”

“Katie Brown from Botany is not doing so well. It seems he was seeing some action, yes? Lin is quiet.”

“Isn’t he always?”

“More now.”

“And Rodney?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know. Every time I see him he just looks worried.”

“There you see.”

“I see what?” John coughed. “Could you?” He indicated the mechanism to raise the bed. Toderov complied without even a sarcastic ‘Yes, Sir.’ He fucking hated being like this, hated seeing the cloying sympathy even in Toderov’s dark eyes.

“You do know. He is worried about you, yes?”

Yeah, even Rodney was acting too fucking sympathetic. He hated this. He just wanted to be left alone. Maybe if they just left him alone he’d wake up and this would all just be a bad dream.

“And what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?”

“Get better,” Toderov said and walked out.

"Come and stay with us," Rodney pleaded, grabbing John's hand when he tried to roll over and turn away. He didn't need Rodney's sympathy. He sure as fuck didn't need to be a charity case. He was a burden enough as it was. Sam was in here every day, looking sadly sympathetic every time she demanded that Rodney come home or check on something in the lab. They were newlyweds for Christ sake.

"No." He'd take a lesson from Lin. Never give them anything they could argue with.

"So you're telling me you want to stay in the infirmary? How stupid do you think I am? How many times did I listen to Carson hem and haw about five point restraints? Or what about the time he actually did restrain you and you got out of them? How’d you do that anyhow?"

"I'm flexible." John winked, too tired to hold back the familiar innuendo.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Sheppard the human doughnut. If you can look me in the eyes and say 'Rodney, I want to stay in the infirmary for another month,' then . . ."

"Hey, the Doc said three to four weeks . . ."

Since when do doctors tell you the truth about recovery time? And anyway, I want to hear you say it."

John gritted his teeth. "Rodney, I don't want to go home with you."

"Rodney, I want to stay in the infirmary for another month."

John rolled his eyes. "Rodney, I want to stay . . . shit." He couldn't do it. He was already clawing at the walls. It was bad enough that he was never going to fly again, but being trapped under tons of rock in this claustrophobic concrete prison weren't helping things. And wasn't that the understatement of the century?

"Told you so." Rodney was smug.

"But I can't stay with you. You and Sam just got married two months ago. The honeymoon should still be going strong." John raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Rodney waved his hand in dismissal. "Nothing I haven't seen before. Besides, we're both worried about you. Sam feels guilty. And I'm seriously starting to consider changing my birthday . . ."

"You can't change your birthday."

"So they say. If I ignore it maybe it'll go away."

"That's logical."

"About as logical as the fact that every birthday I get shot at or my dog dies or I almost get struck by lightning or my best friend gets a fucking arrow through his back."

"Fair enough."

"Please, John. It won't be any trouble. To tell you the truth, the guilt and all the worry about you is really getting to Sam. It's annoying and not helping the sex life at all. I mean, we're necking on the couch . . ." They still necked on the couch? "and she stops to say, 'hey, I wonder how John's doing?' It really puts a damper on the mood, if you know what I mean."

Rodney reached out to give his hand a gentle squeeze and something in his look told John that it wasn't Sam that interrupted the necking.

"I don't know, Rodney. Are you sure . . ."

"John, you're my best friend. You know it wouldn't be any trouble."

"Yeah, see what you say when you're hauling my sorry ass to the can in the middle of the night . . ."

"I'll probably call you an asshole, and incompetent enough to get shot by rabbit-worshiping natives with worse fashion sense than Cher, and make fun of your weight, but you know I won't really mind."

"I'll hold you to that," John said. And the smile felt genuine, sort of.

“Oh, and my sister called like twenty thousand times asking about you, you bastard. If you weren’t so pathetic, I’d kick your ass right now. And don’t think I won’t wait until you get better to do it, either.”

“You couldn’t take me, even if . . .” even if he never fully recovered, even if he could never fly again.

“Oh, you think I’m going to wait until you’re all the way better? Hah.”

John smiled slightly, feeling guilty already.

They got John a nice setup on the couch (not half as comfortable as Rodney’s old one) by day and wheeled him into the guest bedroom at night. He felt useless, doing nothing but sleeping and watching ESPN and Oprah (when they showed golf) all day. He felt useless and disgusting. He probably smelled too – sponge baths didn’t quite do it. Of course if he did, Sam and Rodney were doing a pretty good job of not letting it show. The first week, a nurse was with him pretty much all day, but after that, it was just the two of them and a physical therapist whose name he kept forgetting. He hoped it was just the drugs – he was too young to be losing his memory.

Rodney had taken the first part of the week off to make sure John was doing okay. He wasn’t his usual patronizing self about it, but John was embarrassed anyway. He’d always been the one taking care of Rodney – bringing him powerbars and giving him backrubs and making sure he didn’t work himself into a panic attack. Maybe he was just a control freak, but he hated having to let Rodney take care of him, lift him up and help him to the bathroom, bring him food (canned sausages or eggs, usually) and even bathe him once when the nurse didn’t show. It wasn’t like Rodney hadn’t seen him naked before, but it was humiliating anyway.

Of course, now Rush had demanded that Rodney come back to the lab and Sam was home taking care of him this morning. Her cooking was definitely much better and she’d picked him up some DVDs from Blockbuster the day before so he got an Oprah-free morning, but still . . . he was not looking forward to the . . .

“John, I know you have to go.”

“Go where?”

She rolled her eyes.

“To the bathroom. It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before. I have served on a team with 3 men for more than ten years now.”

John felt his ears turning red. He didn’t care how many times she’d seen O’Neill or Jackson in the buff. She was . . . well, it was the principle that mattered, wasn’t it? He just didn’t know what principle exactly.

“Are you sure I can’t just . . .”

Sam sighed. “John. I care about you. I want to help you. Now, come on.”

She hoisted him up, and despite how many times he’d sparred with her, she was still surprisingly strong for her small frame and her pixie-like features. They made their way cautiously to the bathroom without incident.

He was panting by the time they made it the ten feet. How pathetic. Then she pulled down his sweats and lowered him. It wasn’t as bad as he would’ve thought. Her touches were gentle, almost motherly. It reminded him of that time when he was seven and got the chicken pox and his mom actually stayed home from work to take care of him.

When he was finally back situated comfortably on the couch, panting, but feeling much better, she sat down beside him, wrapped an arm around him, stroked his hair, and put on ‘Independence Day.’

Boy, did he love Will Smith. The man was funny and badass and hot all in one. And Jeff Goldblum was pretty good too. They were like him and Rodney, only way less awesome. They probably never slept together either.

Man, he loved this movie. And now, his favorite part . . .

Except this time, something about the president’s speech reminded him of Elizabeth. He was a damned good speaker, after all – and a pilot. And then he thought about flying, about hiveships and Puddle Jumpers and Atlantis, about aliens and trips through the Stargate to other worlds and how he’d never be able to do any of that ever again.

He wasn’t sure when he started crying, but he remembered Sam cradling his head against her chest and the whispered murmurs that he’d get better, that things would turn out alright. And somehow, he believed her, because Sam was the girl that you could have faith in. She’d saved the galaxy how many times, according to Teal’c? Not even Rodney could tell him that everything would work out with such conviction. His attempts at reassurance usually turned out more sarcastic than sincere, even if John knew he meant well. Sam, on the other hand . . . John could see why O’Neill and Hammond and even Rush trusted Sam. He trusted her. Hell, maybe he even loved her – the way he’d love his mother, of course.

John thought that near-fatal injuries were supposed to put a pause on the libido. That’s certainly what happened with that bullet in Afghanistan, and then after the whole Wraith-bug incident, and even Rodney kissing him that first time hadn’t been enough to overcome the cracked ribs and the wrenched neck. But, apparently, he’d forgotten that lag time when your libido was ready but your body sure as hell wasn’t.

And it was just like Rodney to have some special code to magically reveal the porn on his TV, and just like John to accidentally push it. It was also just like Rodney to have forgotten to make the porn turn off with the power button, and just like John to not be able to stand up and unplug the damned thing.

Oh well. He resigned himself to the inevitable. His dick seemed to really like the creative work Buffy the Vampire Layer was doing against the evil femdraculas and their slavemaster - who was he to argue?

Except he couldn’t quite shift around . . . and the stitching across his back pulled at even the slightest movement . . . and moving even that much made it hard to breathe. He could move a little, but friction, he just couldn’t get enough with this limited range of motion. Yet, in the face of the incredibly flexible Buffy and her leather clad vampire vixens, even the pain wasn’t helping things. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the ache in his back or his dick. The only difference was that there was one he could take care of and another he couldn’t.

And then he heard the kitchen door slam shut. Shit, this was something Sam did not need to see.

“Hey, honey, I’m home!” Rodney, thank god.

Rodney came in, dropping a bag full of canned sausages at John’s feet. “Oooh, ‘Buffy the Vampire Layer!’ I love this one.” He sounded casual, ready to pull out the bowl of popcorn.

John twisted his head to look up at him and glared. He didn’t care how much that hurt.

“Someone’s feeling better, I see,” Rodney sing-songed.

“That’s not funny.” It came out a frustrated half-growl, half-whimper.

Rodney frowned. “You’re not enjoying my secret bootleg porn?”

John sighed, leaning his head back into the pillows. “Rodney, it fucking hurts to move, of course I’m not enjoying the porn with no off switch.”

“Oh.” Of course, instead of just grabbing the remote and turning the damn thing off, like a normal person would have, Rodney just kneeled and sucked John off.

“Better?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

John fell into exhausted sleep without answering.

When he woke, Oprah was on, and he wondered if he’d hallucinated all of it. Until Rodney came home early two days later and did it again.

Rush came himself, wearing his dress uniform and a satisfied smirk, reminiscent of the look on Grant’s face at the hearing that got him shipped out to Antarctica. The only difference was that at that time, John had been pissed. Now he was just resigned. Maybe it was a sign of maturity or some bullshit like that. After all, he had known this day would come for a while, but that didn’t mean he was ready for it.

John shifted himself up a little on the coach, trying to look like he wasn’t going to take this lying down, despite the fact that he was, in fact, lying down.

“Colonel Sheppard,” Rush said, as humorless and pinch-faced as ever.

“Sir. I’d stand at attention, Sir, but . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. How are you feeling, son?” Strangely reminiscent of John’s father. Maybe when he was alive, they got together and practiced that tone of voice – how to belittle your children and subordinates.

“Well, considering that I had a poisoned arrow through my chest, pretty good, Sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” Probably not.

“Thank you, General.”

“Now, I don’t want you to worry much or do anything that might delay your recovery, but I’m afraid that I’m here to present you with you discharge papers.” Yeah, like what the fuck he was going to do with the rest of his life wasn’t something to worry about . . .

“I figured . . . a pilot who can’t fly or go through the Gate isn’t much use to you, is he?”

“I’m afraid not, son. We’ll be sorry to lose you.” His team and the people in the labs would be, but not Rush. Rush had been waiting years for this day.

“I’ll be sorry to go.” That, at least, was sincere.

“You’ll be given full veteran status and benefits, though the cover story, detailed here, is that you were injured by an equipment malfunction. While you’ll no longer be on active duty or eligible to be called up by the reserve, we would strongly encourage you to sign the following releases for medical testing and treatment, DNA analysis, and freelance consulting work at triple pay, should it be required. I trust that your knowledge of our planetary situation is enough to persuade you.”

John was persuaded all right. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do, hadn’t done, for Earth and the SGC. He should’ve said ‘yes, Sir.’ But instead he said. “I’ll think about it.”

Rodney walked in the door, apparently trying to look positive, but coming out a bit more like someone tried to do a Claymation of his face and then accidentally put it in the dishwasher. Apparently, one of the minions had done something incredibly stupid today.

“Hey, sweetheart, how was work?”

“Horrible. Paulson nearly blew up the mountain. Twice. I swear the scientific training at major universities in this country is going downhill. Did I miss Caltech’s decision to recruit blonde bimbos in hopes of copying all the other schools in California and get its ‘undergrads getting laid’ ratio up? If we’re not all dead by the end of the week, it’ll be a miracle.”

“Well, you’re just a regular old bundle of sunshine.”

“You asked. So how was your day of sitting on the coach doing nothing, eh?” Rodney snatched the bag of potato chips John was munching on out of his hands and crashed on the couch beside him.

“Rush tried to discharge me.” John pointed to the still unsigned papers on the coffee table.

Rodney eyed them suspiciously. “Huh, I didn’t even know he’d left.”

“Yeah, because you’d notice him even if he was hanging on the laboratory wall.”

“Well, that would save me having to chew the newbies out for ridiculous stupidity twice . . .”

“C’mon, you know you love it.”

“Only if you confuse complete and utter hatred and frustration with dandelions and walks in the park.”

“You’re allergic to dandelions.”

“That’s completely beside the point. But we’ll talk about this later. Sam’s coming home soon, so we have to hurry,” Rodney whispered, despite the fact that it was only the two of them there.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know,” Rodney whispered. “But it’s pretty kinky.”

John nodded. He really shouldn’t be complaining with Rodney about to blow him and all.

It was quick and dirty and oh so good, like always. John would never get tired of this. In fact, he’d almost be willing to stay out of action to keep it up. He’d missed this so much. He groaned as he came. Then he groaned again watching Rodney wipe the come off his chin. That was so damned sexy . . . it was completely off the sexy-meter.

Rodney grinned.

John grinned stupidly back, even knowing that eventually, this would have to end.

Rodney held his gaze for a lot longer than was strictly necessary then completely switched gears.

“Don’t sign it,” he said, standing creakily. He’d been having problems with his knees.

“I don’t think you quite get how the military works, Rodney. There’s not really such a thing as voluntary.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ll all charge off a cliff at the snap of a finger. I get it. But, there’s no reason why you should have to retire. It’s not like Rush flies or goes through the Gate.”

“Yeah, and he’s really going to give me his job.”

Rodney waved away the absurdity of it. “Of course not. But there are plenty of things you could do. It’s not like getting shot at is the only thing you’re good at.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard I give pretty good head.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Would you please stop it with the self-pity? You’re worse than the newbies. It’s not very becoming.”

“I’m not . . .”

Rodney draped a large hand over John’s knee and rubbed slightly. It was kind of awkward, but awkward in a familiar Rodney way. “John, you’re so much more than a dumb grunt flyboy. If this is what it takes for you to realize that, then I say, ‘good rabbit-worshiping poisoned-arrow makers.’”

“Thanks . . . I think . . .”

Then they heard the front door slam shut.

“John? Rodney?” It was Sam.

Rodney didn’t move his hand. John kicked his knee a little bit.

“Oh . . . yeah, right . . .” Rodney said, pulling back like he’d been burned.

“How are my two favorite boys today?” Sam asked, dropping a bag of groceries on the table and leaning down to give Rodney a kiss.

“Good,” John said at the same time Rodney said, “Bad.”

Sam frowned. “What’s the matter? Your knee bothering you again, honey?”

“No, it’s just that this idiot won’t get over himself and realize that he doesn’t need to go through the Gate to work with us at the SGC.”

“Rodney, don’t you think you should give John some time to recover before you start insulting him?”

“Oh, he doesn’t mind. He likes it. Because that’s the kind of self-pitying heroic masochist that he is. Anyway, Rush wants him to sign away his career and his life at the same time and he’s about to do it.”

“Isn’t it a little early to . . .”

“He hates me,” John explained.

“I doubt it. Look, I’ll talk to Jack about it, okay? I’m sure there are plenty of things you can do without a discharge.” She patted his knee too, but a lot less awkwardly. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. We’d miss you too much if you left.”

She smiled. John smiled back. Sam had a way of taking care of things, of taking a load off, of making you believe in her. John could see why Rodney chose her over him.

It was a few weeks before John could even sit by himself, proving Rodney right about doctors and their understanding of time. But now he was finally on the upward swing of the recovery curve. Even his pretty new physical therapist, Katie, thought so.

He should be able to get out of here soon. Not that he didn’t love Rodney and Sam or that he didn’t feel welcome, but more that they all needed to be getting on with their lives. Plus he was getting damned tired of Oprah.

John stretched experimentally. His back still hurt, but he didn’t feel like his kidneys were going to tumble out anymore. The bathroom was only about twelve feet away – he could so handle this.

He levered himself up of the couch. So far, so good . . . until he fell over onto his knees. Well, his leg muscles had been getting very little practice recently, so this was understandable, not an insurmountable obstacle. He placed both hands firmly on the floor and . . .

He heard a crash and a crinkle that sounded suspiciously like a bag full of canned sausages tumbling to the floor. Great, just what he needed.

“Colonel! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Nobody told you to get down and give them fifty . . . stupid grunts . . . can never work the training out of them . . . . You should be in bed, John.”

“I had to go to the bathroom.”

“You couldn’t have waited all of five minutes for me to get home?” Rodney was busy fussing now, trying to help John up and being completely counter-productive.

“Rodney, Rodney, lay off for a second, will you? You’re not helping things.”

“I’m not helping things?! I’m not . . . John, you are the one who decided it would be a fine time for an afternoon sortie at risk of collapse and pulmonary failure and ripping your stupid stitches. Jesus, do you want to be stuck here the rest of your life?”

“Maybe if the . . .” No, he wasn’t going to say it. Maybe if he said it out loud then it would become real and then maybe Rodney would stop. And that was the last thing John wanted. “Maybe if the service is good.”

Rodney rolled his eyes, finally helping to get John to his feet. John collapsed against him, panting, but immediately felt Rodney’s hardness through his sweatpants. Rodney was thinking the same thing . . . Rodney’d probably been hard for him before he came in the door. And didn’t that feel damn good?

“Mmmmm,” John purred.

Rodney smiled, wickedly, already dropping to his knees, but John held on tight. He was feeling better now. He owed Rodney more than a quick trip to the bathroom with his right hand after he sucked John off. He reached down to unzip Rodney’s fly.

“What . . . John, what are you doing?”

“Making you feel good . . .”

“Oh,” Rodney said, and he sounded almost disappointed. Yeah, this had all been about helping John out, and now that John could help himself, there was no good excuse for it. John got that. Rodney was married. He wasn’t going to be the other man.

Then Rodney’s lips found his neck and his hand cupped the back of John’s head, warm and broad and familiar, and he slid John’s sweats slowly over his hips and John thought that maybe he’d allow himself just this once.

They jerked each other slowly, like they had all the time in the world, like they could make this last. But John was tired and Rodney was so desperate for it, and soon it was all thrusting hips and desperate kisses, and John wasn’t even sure when they crossed the line into kisses, because kisses were for girlfriends and lovers and not for two buddies just helping each other out.

And with kisses like that, deep and passionate and so perfect, you couldn’t lie. There was no way to pretend that this didn’t mean the world and everything else was fading into illusion. John wondered if Rodney kissed Sam this desperately, if Rodney needed Sam the way John needed Rodney. That small romantic part of him, hidden deep beneath the sarcasm and the flyboy and the perpetual bachelor, wanted to believe that there was no way Rodney could look so beautiful whispering someone else’s name over and over as he came. He wanted to believe that Rodney never sagged against anyone else like this, took the care to lay them down and watch them come with such reverence.

But the rational part . . . the strategist, the mathematician, the warrior, the cynic, knew that if John were the only one, then Rodney wouldn’t hesitate for a second to be with him. If Rodney wanted something, he went for it, so, obviously, Rodney didn’t really want John.

John fell into a disquieted slumber as Rodney cleaned them up, too exhausted to dwell, for which he was grateful.

When he woke up, Rodney was sitting in the easy chair opposite him, eating sausages out of the can and studying him. He looked away, ashamed.

“Hey,” John said.

“Hey,” Rodney responded, but his smile said, ‘I’m sorry, John, but we can’t do this anymore.’

John’s eyes said, ‘I know,’ like Han Solo and Jonas Quinn and a thousand lovers that parted as friends and stayed that way, though in this moment, he felt completely and utterly unique in his regret.

They didn’t do it again. At least not for a while.

Sam came back early, wearing her brightest grin and carrying a stack of papers. He hoped she wasn’t smiling because she’d deemed him well enough to start on his paperwork again.

“Good news,” she said.

“Somebody finally shot Oprah? Another Star Wars movie? The second coming of Christ?”

“I’m not sure the coming of Christ is supposed to be good news, John.”

“Oh well, I hear hell is toasty this time of year.” What level did they reserve for atheists and sodomites and adulterers? Probably 13, knowing his luck.

“I’ll keep that in mind. But actually, my news is much better. You’re back in! You can keep your rank and all the associated privileges. No Gate travel or flying, obviously. Rush is doing his best to keep you out of anything strategic or logistical, but he can’t do anything about your usefulness in the lab.”

“So I get to be a light switch with a rank and serial number?”

“Don’t forget the pretty uniform.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s always that.”

“John, I’ve read your file and I know you can do more than just be a light switch if you decide to work at it. Honestly, pick a project. Rodney’ll make sure you get it. Obviously, you should try to be helping out whoever needs the gene, but you could be an integral part of any number of projects. If you want to work with Rodney, you know he always needs help testing things.”

“I thought you said you wanted me to get a chance to think.” If he was working with Rodney, he’d be too busy thinking about Rodney’s lips on his cock to get anything done.

Of course, Sam interpreted it differently. “That’s true. He doesn’t leave a lot of room for his team to do much independent thinking. And the two of you will just distract each other. Come work with me, then. I’m in the field a lot, but I’ve got a pilot project working with an Asgard named Skadi to explore ways of integrating their technology . . .”

“Um . . . aren’t the Asgard the little grey naked guys?”

“Well, that’s one way to describe them.”

“Yeah, no offense to all the cool ships and shields and stuff, but don’t you think they’re a little creepy?”

She shrugged. “They grow on you. Don’t try the food though.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass. What’re Felger and Combs working on?”

“Computer modeling and software design for our attempts at reverse engineering the Puddle Jumpers, I believe.”

“Wow, I wouldn’t be able to help with that at all.”

Sam smiled. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. After all, you are our Jumper expert. I’ll talk to them, though I’m sure that they’d be dying to get your help in whatever way possible. You have a bit of a fanclub, after all.”

“Not as big as yours.”

“Well, I am blonde and beautiful.”

“That you are.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling a smile that would have reminded him of his mother, if she’d cared half as much as Sam did. “Don’t worry, John, everything will work out.”