John was cold. He was cold a lot of the time. Rodney said it was because he didn't have any 'manly meat' on him. John usually just rolled his eyes at that one. Rodney, who tended to faint at the first sign of danger, was lecturing him about 'manliness.'

But he shouldn't be cold . . . not with his parka and his black fleece turtleneck. He'd skied in whiteout conditions before and not been cold. Sure, his toes could get that slightly numb cracked feeling in his boots, but who's didn't?

Now . . . now he couldn't quite feel his toes. Maybe his boots were too tight.

He would take Rodney skiing. That's what he'd do. Rodney had lived all his life in freakin' Canada and had never really been skiing. How was that possible? John was from Santa Monica, and he skied. Granted, LA was a lot closer to skiing than people liked to think - two hours (well, an hour and fifteen, if John was driving) up to Big Bear, maybe less to Waterman. It wasn't the best by far, but it beat the shit out of the narrow trails of the east coast, cutting through the ice until your thighs were sore, the wind scraping your face raw like sandpaper. In California he could ski in a T-shirt.

Maybe Rodney never skied because it was so cold in Canada.

Not that John minded being cold. He'd lived in Antarctica, after all. He'd get his buddies to fly him out to the mountains, drop him into the crusty powder of the Antarctic snow of some glacier and pick him up at the bottom. There still wasn't anything like leaping out the door of a chopper hovering neatly above the ground, the hard impact of untouched snow beneath your feet, the prospect of being the first an only one to carve a mark into this untamed beauty. Perhaps John had been an explorer long before he came to Pegasus.

Yes. He would take Rodney skiing. Not drop him out of helicopter though - he might have a heart attack before he even hit the ground.

John shivered. It wouldn't be this cold.

They would get home. And John would drive them up to Mammoth Mountain, where he used to work as Ski Patrol. John had liked that. Of course they kicked him off when they found out his real age. Still, John was good at it. He was good at rescuing people. And he got to ski.

And they wouldn't notice that he was the same kid they'd given the boot so many years ago. He'd get them a ski-in/ski-out cabin over on the north side, one of the nice ones that he'd always wanted to stay in as a kid. He could teach him on that long practically flat trail that ran down by the cabins. Sure, Rodney could always hit the lift-poles, but John would take good care of him. He couldn't have a Canadian that couldn't ski! It just wasn't acceptable. John thought people who didn't want to ski were crazy.

And Rodney would bitch and moan the entire way up the lift, deconstructing the faulty engineering of the thing and John would ask him if he knew how to make them go faster and Rodney would give him the evil eye and explain, just to annoy him. And John would laugh and pull Rodney too him, making him drop his poles in fright. But it wouldn't matter that he'd have to listen to Rodney's bitching about not being able to ski without them, even though poles didn't do you much good on the bunny-slopes anyhow - except to take the poor person you crash into's eyes out. It wouldn't matter because he'd have Rodney's warm body against him.

Rodney would shield him from this cold. Rodney was always so warm.

And then Rodney would struggle to learn until noon, though they'd spend more time putting Rodney's skis back on from when he'd deliberately sit down to 'avoid' crashing or rolling around in the snow after John had stopped inches from him and coated Rodney head-to-toe with powdery snow then they would actually skiing. And Rodney would get that cute little frown on his face and demand to be taken back to the lodge for a cup of cocoa to quiet his blood sugar.

And John would kiss him on his bright little Rudolph nose and acquiesce, if Rodney could make it down a blue-square run to the Lodge. Rodney would complain that they could eat in their cabin, but John would remind him that their combined cooking skills were probably more hazardous than the slopes. And they would laugh, though Rodney would be nervous and petulant the entire next ride up the lift. And he would take his skis off and walk when he refused to build up enough momentum to navigate the traverse. Then he would come running after John until his boots caught in the snow and he fell.

Not that John wanted Rodney to fall. He wanted to protect Rodney from anything bad that could ever happen to him. He wanted to hold him close and teach him how to ski and cuddle with him besides a warm fire. He just had to tell him first.

But that wouldn't be a problem.

What would be a problem would be dragging Rodney away from the comforts of the warm fire and those little crisscrossed fries they served at the lodge. Not to mention the temptations of Kuroki Coffee. John was looking forward to the taste of Coffee and liquor on those soft kissable lips. And Rodney's breath would be warm and steaming, and it would be all John could do to drag himself away from his soft body in a fluffy gray sweater with reindeer or something on it, in favor of the slopes.

But Rodney would want John to ski a little without him. He'd promise to meet him back on the bunny slopes, even though they'd both know that he was really intending to buy a stack of magazines from the bookshop and sit on a couch by the fire reading about all the developments they'd missed on Earth.

And John would take the gondola up to the familiar runs of Scotty's and the Cornis and all those rocky mogul filled shoots where you could fly down the slope, with the wind blowing through your hair and the rocks flying by on either side. And he would look into the clear blue of the winter's sky and breath in the familiar atmosphere of his own planet and get sunburned by his very own sun, feeling the adrenaline rush entirely disconnected from the constant threat of death. There would be nothing but the sun and the wind and the snow and the knowledge that there was a warm body back at the lodge waiting for him.

And he'd ski so hard that his legs would burn, but it would be a relief, because this time the muscles wouldn't ache from running from something. His legs hurt now. Well, only one. It really hurt. He must have been skiing really damn hard.

But at the end of the day, the promise of Rodney's warm smile and they way he always tried to hide it with a frown so that his lips got all folded and squiggly, would draw him in from the slopes by mid-afternoon when the snow was already turning slightly slush down around the base of the mountain, and his skis cut through it like butter, sometimes catching the groves of all the others around him, skiing without a care in the world. And he would smile to himself and think about Teyla once wondered about the freedom in a world that did not live at the mercy of a violent enemy.

But they did live in that world. And this world was so cold.

But then he'd return to the lodge and Rodney would be there waiting for him, flirting with young gold-diggers who'd think that anyone sitting in a ski lodge buried in a pile of news and technology magazines must be a billionaire from silicon valley. And John would pretend to be jealous for just a second to watch Rodney go from satisfied to panicked, and then he'd scare all the little ski-bunnies away by kissing Rodney long and hard and deep until they were the only ones in the room.

And Rodney would be just as flushed and panting as though he had been skiing all day, and then he'd complain about how John's checks were cold and unshaven and make fun of the sunburn he always managed to get on his nose no matter how much sunscreen he put on.

And then John would make Rodney ski back to their little cabin on the far slope. And he would complain about all of the magazines that he'd collected that day, to use it as an excuse. John would just stuff them into his ski jacket until he looked plump and lopsided. And Rodney would make fun of him until John had to chase him out into the slick powder of the melt, splashing through the slush as John poked Rodney in his ample tummy and teased him about 'extra padding.'

And then they'd clean up and go out for a dinner at one of the nice restaurants in town, and Rodney would try to show off what he thought was a classy knowledge of fine wines and chose some horrible import, but refuse to acknowledge it's inferiority to the Californian brands that were the only ones John knew. And then John would order sausage instead of steak just so he could torment Rodney by eating it very suggestively while playing footsie under the table, like they were silly high-schoolers in love. And Rodney would choke on his expensive but disgusting wine and John would gloat the rest of the evening as they walked hand and hand through town, not talking about all of the terrifying things they'd seen in their time together, just enjoying the feel of this artificial winter wonderland.

And by the time they got home, they wouldn't be able to get enough of each other. John would pull off the ridiculous grey-reindeer sweater and maybe his head would get stuck in the neck. So John would have free reign to tickle him into a great big Rodney puddle on the floor and kiss him until he squirmed and screeched.

And after John had tasted his fill of Rodney's perfect pink nipples and had divested him of his pants maybe he help him get the sweater the rest of the way off. And then he'd kiss any complaints away. And Rodney would be so warm. He'd be hot.

He'd make this pervasive cold go away.

And then John would feel Rodney spread out on top of him, stroking fingers though his hair as he thrust against him. The friction would be all they would need. They could save the rest for later. All he wanted now was to press against him, feel his fire. And Rodney's cum would be so warm as it splashed against him, soaking into him and thawing this chill.

John moaned. He loved being touched. He loved the pressure so much that it hurt. He wanted Rodney in him, over him, all around him.

"John. Are you alright?"

Rodney wouldn't ask him that. How could he be anything other than all right with this man in his arms? No. He wasn't just all right. He was wonderful.

"Oh God, John . . ."

That was more like it. Only Rodney would say it lest panicy, though just as breathless. He'd moan John's name after he came.

Rodney shifted against him, moved away. John pulled him back in . . . and it hurt. But not as much as it would hurt to be apart. John could stand pain . . . but not the cold. He wanted Rodney to keep him warm. He never wanted to be cold again.

John pulled him down for a sweltering kiss.

He would kiss him like it was the last kiss in all the world. It would go down in the history of great kisses, like it said in The Princess Bride. John liked breaking records. He liked going fast. He used to want to be the fastest man in the world when he ran track. He used to want to ski the fastest. Then he wanted to fly the fastest. He'd already broken a lot of records, but the one he wanted to break the most was to be the man to stay the longest with Rodney McKay. He wanted to stay with him forever.

"Stay." His lips felt dry. It didn't sound as commanding as it should be. He meant it. He wanted Rodney to stay with him forever. He would say it with such conviction.

"I'm not going anywhere." Rodney's voice was distorted and far away, but there were rough fingers in his hair.

John smiled.

They would lie there on the plush white carpeting, staring at the redwood ceiling and inhaling the smell of cedar, and John would snuggle up to Rodney and rest his head on his arm. And Rodney would keep playing with his hair like that. And he would tell John how much he loved him, in his own little way.

And then John would get a little cold and pull Rodney off the floor, and drag him out to the deck where they would have a hot-tube, all the time not releasing his hand.

And Rodney was squeezing his hand. His fingertips tingled.

Rodney would be embarrassed and try to cover up that gorgeous ass of his and pull his hand away so he could cover his front, making some lewd comment about shrinkage and giving his cock a huge post-coital shock, and how that must be bad for his future children - as though he cared. John would laugh and pull his hands away and tell him how beautiful he was - how he shouldn't be ashamed to let the whole world see. And Rodney would snap at him playfully and say that he didn't want the whole world to see. He only wanted John to. And then they'd soak in the tub and look up at the stars. The right stars this time, not the ones they looked up at from the balcony, the first time John had realized that he might love this insufferable scientist.

And it wouldn't matter what stars they were, because they were safe and warm and together.

Then Rodney would massage the tensions from John's taunt body after a hard day's skiing, though he'd protest that he expected John to do the same, because Rodney had spent more time doing unfamiliar contortions than John.

But John was so sore. Everything hurt. And those big gorgeous hands that were roaming over every muscle and rubbing them to life, still caused him pain. But it was good pain. He was too tight. He'd never been this tight before, but he'd never gone so long without skiing before either.

And then John would leap out of the tub and run over to a snowdrift and jump in it and make a snow angel. And Rodney's jaw would drop adorably as John came back to the tub. And then he'd get a lecture on giving himself a heart attack, but John would call it a tradition - something he picked up in Antarctica, though it really was an old family tradition.

It made his skin tingle. His whole body was tingling.

He'd tell Rodney that it cleaned out his pores. Then he'd suggest that Rodney try it and earn himself a splash of water for his effort. But he'd tackle Rodney into submission, finishing in his lap with a tender kiss.

And then he'd light a joint and Rodney would scoff and say it was bad for his asthma, but not really mind the second-hand smoke that John'd pump down his throat in a steamy kiss. Rodney knew how to manufacture cocaine. John had goaded him into it once, by betting him that he couldn't.

But this didn't feel like pot. Pot made everything brighter . . . more vibrant. It slowed time not like the world slowly fading away, but by making each second bigger, better, more full.

It'd make Rodney's wet hair beneath his fingertips like a sea of liquid silk. It'd make the stars dance above him like a Van Gough painting. It'd make him horny as hell, so he'd let Rodney take him right there among the whirling bubbles of the tub.

But time was slowing down. The world was graying. And the pain was fading far away. He knew something that made you feel this way. He remembered when he'd broken his arm playing football. He remembered when Beckett had to pull an arrow out of his shoulder. He remembered that crazy night in Thailand. Wasn't Opium related to Morphine?

He reached out. He didn't want the world to fade. He wanted to stay in cool clear mountain air. He wanted to stay with Rodney's body soft and content beneath him.

But there were those comforting hands on his again.

"Shh . . . John, everything's going to be all right."

Rodney rarely said that. So when he did, John believed him.

He believed, so he let the blackness claim him. He'd go without a fight.

His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. And not the nice happy white clouds cotton either. It was the thick disgusting cotton he normally saw in bandages that Carson was removing from him.

And there was this strange silence. A silence made of voices and beeps and awkward shuffling.

He normally associated awkward shuffling with Rodney.

John cracked his eyes open. Maybe it had been pot; the lights certainly were bright. He recognized that ceiling. He knew those light fixtures: the infirmary on Atlantis.

He heaved a sigh.

"You're awake?"

John turned his head, wincing as he did so. He was sore. Everything was still so sore. And there was this incredible pain in his right leg. A numb pain. So it was Morphine.

"Are you in pain? Should I get Beckett?" Rodney was worried.

Why was Rodney worried? John let his eyes focus. He was impatient to see, but he knew he couldn't rush things.

"No." He coughed. His voice was still odd and scratch. He was fine for right now. He didn't want any more drugs. He wanted to see why Rodney was worried.

Rodney was slumped in a chair by his side, a thick fleece blanket wrapped tightly around him, ridiculous plush tiger slippers on his feet. "Where'd you get those?" he whispered. His mouth was so dry. Had he been drinking? There were those beers in the hot-tub, but he didn't have that much.

"Ford." Of course.

Rodney rose stiffly from the chair to shuffle over to the bedside table and grab a cup of water with a straw and move it to John's lips. It tasted sweet, but slightly gritty. Pegasus water.

Weren't they skiing? No. They couldn't have been. Because Rodney would never do all those things. Not with him.

"What happened?" John hated being confused like this. He couldn't strategize if he didn't have all the facts.

"You . . . ah . . . you don't remember?"

"I remember . . . I remember being cold."

Rodney settled himself back into the chair, but scooted it closer so that John could keep him in his line of sight. "We were exploring P-24 . . . well, it's not like that's going to mean anything to you, right? The planet Ford wanted to name Icelandia?"

John closed his eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. He didn't remember that at all. "Please tell me I didn't let him."

Rodney chuckled, but his eyes remained darkened with concerned. "No. You told him he was already banned from naming for ever and always, and that name had just extended that sentence by a few years."

"Praise the lord." John tried to sound upbeat, but he was still confused as hell. "Then what?"

"We approached the glacier where I was getting . . . er . . . interesting readings. You didn't see anything. And you said you were cold and you wanted to go home."

"I did not!" John would never let himself look that bad in front of Rodney.

"Who's the one with the memory here?"

John gave Rodney a hard stare. Even when he was looking all concerned like that, you couldn't give him an inch, or he'd take a mile.

"Oh, fine, you said that this wasn't getting us anywhere, so we'd better get going. And you did look cold. It's because you're too skinny."

John smiled faintly at that. At least he'd hallucinated one thing right. "Am not."

"Are too! Well, anyway, that's not the point. The point is that you wanted us to go, but then I got this weird energy spike that suddenly disappeared. You said the cold was probably just screwing with the palm. I told you the Ancients were advanced enough to compensate for that - which they were, by the way. Did you know that they've actually coated some of their circuitry in . . ."

"Rodney . . . please. Highlight the points I would have chosen to remember if I could."

"Sorry." Rodney looked down at his hands, fiddling with the blanket. And . . . was that a blush? No, he was just regaining the heat to his face. "So after a short while . . ."

"Short while?" God, it was like pulling teeth.

"All right, twenty minutes, you ordered us to head out. Teyla and Ford were already on their way. I wanted to stay because we'd been there for about twenty-five minutes before the first energy spike. You were a little cranky."

"Cranky?"

"Yes cranky! You said you didn't want to waste your time freezing your ass off, even if it did remind you of Antarctica, if you couldn't be skiing or flying a chopper." That sounded more like it. "Then you walked over to me and grabbed my arm to drag me off."

"Then?"

"Then there was another energy spike and the . . . er . . . well, the glacier kind of melted out from under our feet."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.' We fell a good five or six meters. You hit your head . . . broke your leg . . . cracked some ribs."

"I was pretty sore." John shifted, wincing again and feeling the familiar weight of a cast beneath the blankets. Great. Just what he needed, to be confined to a bed for the next few weeks.

"Sore? You're lucky you survived! You could have punctured a lung . . . or cracked your spine . . . or bashed in your skull!"

John winced further, but was kind of glad that Rodney was so upset about the possibility of his dying. "But I didn't."

"No, you didn't." Rodney took a deep breath, like he was preparing for a long uphill run.

John tried to keep his voice light, like this was story time. Why couldn't he remember? Oh, yeah, cranial trauma. "Then what happened?"

"Then . . . Teyla and Ford ran back to get Beckett. They told me to keep you warm. You were going into shock. And you were so pale . . . and your leg was all bent at a funny angle . . . and your lips were turning blue . . . I . . . I . . ." Rodney looked away, his eyes shining just slightly with the hint of unshed tears.

John didn't know what to do so he said, "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Rodney said to the far wall.

"So, if you fell 16.4 to 19.7 feet too, how come you weren't just as bad off. Don't tell me 'manly padding.'"

Rodney snorted. "No. I . . . um . . . kind of landed on you."

"Well, that explains all this then."

"Hey! Look, I'm sorry, John."

"Not your fault." Though Rodney had insisted on staying. "So then what happened?"

"I . . . um . . . well, I thought you were going to die. And Ford was yelling at me to do things by the book, as it were. And . . ." Rodney was really blushing now. He must've . . . by the book? John grinned. He couldn't help himself. Rodney was cute when he was embarrassed. "And?"

Rodney gulped. "And I . . . I stripped myself down to my underwear and did the best I could for you and got under all the survival blankets we had and the ones Teyla and Ford tossed down to me. And . . . you were still shivering . . . and I tried to massage some of the blood flow back into you . . . and you . . . I . . . I'm sorry, John."

"Don't apologize for saving my life, Rodney." But it was more than that. Rodney was practically beet-red now. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"You don't . . . I . . . we were practically naked . . . and you must have thought . . . you were really confused . . . you must have thought I was one of your ex-girlfriends . . . or Teyla . . . or Angelina Jolie . . . or someone."

John's eyes widened in horror. He'd kissed Rodney! He wasn't dreaming. But he was. He just . . . he got the dream and reality a little confused. Rodney was there keeping him warm. John brought a hand up to his lips, tugging the IV line along with it. "I kissed you."

"I'm sorry, John . . . I . . ."

"Stop saying that, Rodney! It's getting old." John was the one who'd done the kissing. Luckily Rodney had already assumed John was thinking of someone else. He's been given the out to save their friendship. If only his damn conscience didn't think he should come clean.

Rodney was now busy trying to wring some imaginary water out of his blanket - or make it into a paper flower. "You kissed me under false pretenses and I . . . I took advantage. I'm . . ."

"Don't you dare say you're sorry." Wait! Took advantage? Rodney thought he took advantage? John let a tentative grin creep across his face. "Did you kiss me back?"

Rodney hung his head in shame, mumbling so John could barely hear it. "Yes." "Come here." John extended his hand.

"What?" Rodney raised his head, suspicious. "Why?"

"You used me as a goddamn landing cushion, it's the least you could do."

Rodney stood gingerly, probably a little bit bruised himself and walked to the side of John's bed, letting John take his hand. John gave it firm tug.

"What?"

"Lean down here."

"Why?"

"I want to tell you a secret."

"John, we're the only ones here. Carson went out to get coffee."

"Just shut up and do it."

Rodney rolled his eyes and leaned in close. He was spoiling the romanticism of it, but John didn't care. There was no way he was going to be able to get out of bed to do what he really wanted to do, so he'd have to make Rodney come to him.

Once Rodney had leaned in close enough, John grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in for a slight kiss. Rodney hesitated a first, surprised, but then melted into it, running his fingers through John's hair like he remembered from the glacier.

"Mmmmm." Rodney sighed a sexy little sigh, just as John had imagined. And his lips curved upwards into a bemused smile.

"You know what else?" John was sure he had an identical grin plastered to his face.

"What?"

"I was dreaming about you, not Teyla, or ex-girlfriends, or boyfriends, or Anglina Jolie. What makes you think I like her anyway?"

Rodney shrugged. "She's hot. And she has cool guns."

"Yes she does, but so do you. And I'd like to teach you how to ski."

"What? Where did you get the idea . . ."

John muffled any further protest with a kiss. If they ever did get back to Earth, Rodney would come skiing.